“Dwight, Bill, this is your top priority. Pitch the theory to the intel community, get them to give it a thorough scrub, take it apart if they can. But do not, I repeat, do not, say whose theory it is. I need some good, old-fashioned, impartial analysis of this assessment, not a bunch of ‘yes sir, brilliant theory,’ understood?”
USS Jimmy Carter rested high and dry on the keel blocks inside the floating dry dock. Out of the water, its true bulk was revealed — and Carter was a big boat. The Electric Boat dry dock supervisor made it a habit to inspect all submarines in his dry dock at least three times a day, but this was his fourth walkabout in as many hours. The U.S. Navy may own Shippingport, but it was Chad Sheridan’s people that did the actual work. The problem was, he had no idea what work had to be done. There was nothing in the work breakdown section of the contract. Zip. Nil. Nada.
The submarine had been in the dry dock for twenty-four hours, and no one had a clue as to what had to be repaired, replaced, patched up, or painted. Sheridan had spent most of the day wandering from one senior executive to another at the Electric Boat shipyard main office only to get the same response, a shrug along with an aggravated “I don’t know.” It wasn’t until Sheridan caught up with the vice president for Groton Operations that he got any useful information.
“Look, Chad, it’s the Navy’s dry dock. They can put anything they want in there. We just do the work.”
“Which is backing up very nicely right now, sir. I don’t have a problem with the Navy shifting priorities; I just need to know what work is required.”
The executive was sympathetic to Sheridan’s frustration, but this was outside his purview. Sighing, he said, “Why don’t you find the boat’s commanding officer? He has to know what repairs are needed.”
It took a couple of hours to find Carter’s skipper and get on his schedule, but he was right on time. Walking toward the EB engineer along the wing wall, he was quick to introduce himself.
“Lou Weiss,” he said while extending his hand. Sheridan accepted the handshake but got straight to business.
“Chad Sheridan, Captain, EB dry dock supervisor. I’m a little puzzled as to what your boat needs. The contract is woefully lacking in any specifics. I’ve checked your main propulsion shaft bearings and they’re just fine, thank you. So what am I supposed to be doing?”
Weiss was visibly uncomfortable discussing his boat in the open. Looking around to see if anyone was watching, he asked, “Do you have a quiet place where we can discuss this, Mr. Sheridan?”
Bewildered, he replied, “Sure, my office is right over there.” Sheridan turned and started walking over to the building when Weiss shouted, “Would you like to get some coffee first?”
“Coffee? Whose coffee?”
“My culinary specialists make a fine brew. I can have two mugs up here in a minute.”
“Bilge water,” declared Sheridan.
“Excuse me?”
“I said ‘bilge water.’ If you want a real cup of coffee, then come with me.” Sheridan spun about and resumed his steady pace. Confused, Weiss followed the stocky engineer. Once inside the foreman’s office, Weiss was offered a large mug.
“This is my personal stock, Captain. I purchase green coffee beans and roast them myself; these are from Sumatra.”
While Sheridan filled the mug, Weiss scanned the office. It was small, but neat and well organized. The wall behind Sheridan’s desk was covered with a large Oakland Raiders flag. On the desk was a parrot figurine with a similar eye patch. Once Weiss’s mug was full, he thanked his host and raised it to take his first sip. The aroma was amazing, heady; the taste was rich, earthy, with just a hint of sweetness. It went down smooth, with no trace of bitterness or an acidic bite. He’d never had a cup of coffee like this before. “This is incredible!” praised Weiss.
“I thought you’d like it. Have a seat, Captain.”
Once both men were comfortable, and after another sip or two, Sheridan got back to the issue at hand. “Captain, I don’t know why the Navy had your boat put in the dry dock. Your shaft bearings are in perfect order, your hull is very clean, and I can’t find any evidence of grease leakage from your torpedo tubes, control surfaces, or masts. So what the hell am I supposed to be looking for? I really don’t mind a blank check, but a blank work order is very troubling. I have a lot of work to do on other submarines, and that’s not a parking garage out there!”
Weiss took a deep breath; he had been equally surprised by the order to put Carter into the dry dock, but understood completely after he was told why. The problem was the EB engineer wasn’t cleared to know why.
“I understand your frustration, Mr. Sheridan, but I’m not authorized to say why my boat was placed in the dock. But let’s just say that this is more of a show than an honest-to-God maintenance period.”
“I see. So you want it to appear that repairs are being done, when in reality we’re to do nothing.”
Weiss nodded, “Basically, yes.”
“Well, Captain, the show would be more convincing if we had something real to work on. I just can’t have welders cutting scrap metal in the basin; it would raise a lot of questions. And workers like to talk about strange occurrences at the bar after their shift.”
Weiss sighed; the man had a point, a good one. “Okay, get with my chief engineer and see what small jobs we can have your people do. Oh, and you could give the ocean interface doors a thorough check. I have a hunch I’ll be needing them.”
“So besides making sure HAL can open the pod bay doors, you really don’t have any exterior work?”
“That’s correct. But whatever you can do to make it look like a lot of work is going on would be greatly appreciated.”
Sheridan closed his eyes and took a deep breath; it wasn’t much, but he could at least work with it. “All right, I’ll get my folks busy. Maybe I can come up with a few odd jobs that we need to do on the dry dock itself.”
Weiss thanked Sheridan for his understanding, and the coffee. As the Carter’s CO rose and headed for the door, Sheridan called out to him. Weiss turned just in time to catch a small bag that Sheridan had thrown at him. “A little of my special roast. No man should go into harm’s way without a good cup of joe to sustain him.”
10
READINESS
A commission formed after the 9/11 attacks found that the numerous U.S. intelligence agencies and organizations really didn’t talk to each other in a useful way. Legal barriers, turf rivalries, and the demands of day-to-day operations all prevented effective sharing of information. Technically, the director of central intelligence, the “DCI,” was supposed to collect information from everyone else and keep the president informed. In practice, it rarely happened.
The 9/11 commission recommended a new über agency, the Director of National Intelligence, whose sole purpose would be to collect intelligence information from other agencies and centers and present the president with an integrated intelligence picture. The “Office of the Director of National Intelligence” had no collection resources, and no ability to gather information itself.