No SSBN had ever been tasked to go that far south on a ‘deterrent patrol’, not even in transit. The Polaris boats of SUBRON Fifteen operated in the waters of the North Pacific.
Theoretically, the patrol orders and targeting co-ordinates for the USS Sam Houston’s missiles must have passed through many pairs of hands, authorised at each stage, rubber-stamped all the way up the line to senior COMSUBPAC staffers at Pearl Harbour. In that chain of command Rear Admiral Jackson Braithwaite was de facto, the man who physically signed off on the sealed orders issued to each submarine captain. However, it was inconceivable that COMSUBPAC, Rear Admiral Clarey, or COMSUBRON Fifteen, Jackson Braithwaite had ever seen, let alone authorised the USS Sam Houston’s designated patrol area or targeting orders.
The logic of the situation was as chilling as it was compelling; there must be traitors within the Navy and the premature return of the USS Sam Houston had almost certainly alerted the traitors that their attempt to subvert the chain of command had been uncovered.
“Why didn’t Admiral Braithwaite hit the alarm button, sir?” Walter Brenckmann asked.
“Because he didn’t know who to trust, Lieutenant.” Troy Simms stood up, threw back his broad shoulders. “You and I are the only men in SUBRON Fifteen who know about this. Admiral Braithwaite had already sent a report via back channels to people he trusts in the Navy Department. We have no way of knowing if that report was intercepted by an unauthorised third party. It is our duty to ensure that the people who matter know about this.”
An ignoble part — albeit a small part — of Walter Brenckmann rather wished Troy Simms had kept this secret to himself. Notwithstanding, the pressing imperative was no longer secrecy but to alert Rear Admiral Clarey, COMSUBPAC, that there had been a systemic failure of security and that it was horribly likely that the United States Navy had lost control of elements of its nuclear arsenal.
“We have to talk to COMSUBPAC, sir.” He said, voicing the patently obvious.
“Yes,” Troy Simms concurred. “Can you get me onboard the Roosevelt?”
Walter did not ask the commander of the USS Sam Houston why he wanted to communicate with Rear Admiral Clarey at Pearl Harbour via his old boat’s radio room. When a skipper did not know who he could trust on his own boat the World was in a bad way.
He reached for his desk phone.
Commander Troy Simms gave him an interrogative look.
“To get to the Theodore Roosevelt,” Walter explained, “we need to cross deck the USS Sam Houston, sir. I’d feel a lot happier having an armed escort waiting to meet us when we go over to the Hunley, and to have somebody I trust alerted on the Roosevelt who knows that we’re coming.” The skipper of the Gold crew of the USS Sam Houston did not shoot him down in flames. “Master Chief Petty Officer Erickson and several of Blue crew’s senior non-commissioned officers are still onboard the Hunley in training roles, sir. I’ll also speak to Lieutenant Tom Clark, my Gold crew counterpart on the Roosevelt before we board the launch out to the Hunley.”
Troy Simms waited patiently, smoking a cigarette while Walter put through the calls to the big submarine tender, the USS Hunley, and to the USS Theodore Roosevelt. On both vessels he spoke to the Officer of the Deck.
He invented a plausible white lie to explain his visit to both ships, not mentioning he would be in company with the Gold crew skipper of the USS Sam Houston. He explained that he had been detailed to fly east ahead of Admiral Braithwaite’s funeral to report to the Navy Department in Washington DC; and that before he departed he wanted to say goodbye to Master Chief Petty Officer Erickson, and his opposite number on the Roosevelt.
Putting down the handset he hesitated.
“May I ask you something, sir?” He inquired, his expression one of a man who was going to ask the question whether he was given leave to or not.
“Yes,” Troy Simms nodded brusquely.
“Is it your understanding that Admiral Braithwaite took it upon himself to contact the appropriate people in Washington, sir? But that he did not confide in you who he planned to communicate with?”
Again, a nod of the head.
“He ordered me to ensure that the USS Sam Houston was ‘locked down’. When I heard the news of his death I had no way of knowing if he had successfully communicated his fears, well, our suspicions to anybody. I waited twenty-four hours and when nothing happened, I decided that you, given your current anomalous position of unusual authority at Alameda as the master of ceremonies responsible for planning the funeral arrangements, would be in a position to assist me to make sure COMPUBPAC and the Navy Department are aware that we have a problem out here.”
Walter Brenckmann smiled without conviction.
If somebody was so desperate to keep this breakdown of security ‘secret’ that they would murder a Rear Admiral and his wife in broad daylight, what price his or any other man’s life?
“If it is all the same with you, sir. I won’t thank you for your confidence in me.”
Chapter 22
“They’ve gone, dear,” Joanne Brenckmann announced cheerfully as she came back into the kitchen of the newly repaired timber-framed house next to the campus of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
Gretchen Betancourt smiled lamely. Nothing had prepared her for how awful the last few days would turn out to be. She felt utterly humiliated; a little as if she had failed the first great test of her adult life. Things had gone so badly that she had been forced to accept the protection of her alleged boyfriend’s family hundreds of miles away from Washington DC. What made it ten times worse was that Dan’s mother was possibly the sweetest, calmest person she had ever met in her life.
Grey and slim, Dan’s fifty-eight year old mother settled opposite the younger woman at the kitchen table and picked up her neglected coffee.
“Cheer up, Gretchen,” she suggested sympathetically. “This will all blow over, you’ll see. You’ve done exactly the right thing refusing to say a word to anybody. Your boss will know he can trust you in the future. And so will Mr Katzenbach’s colleagues. Treat this unpleasantness as an investment.”
“You haven’t asked me if the stories are true, Mrs Brenckmann?” It irritated Gretchen that Dan’s mother had not asked her the question.
Joanne smiled seraphically.
“Would it make you feel any better if I did?”
“I don’t know!” Gretchen remembered her manners. “I’m sorry; you’ve been so kind…”
Gretchen’s host would have none of this.
“You have absolutely nothing to apologise for,” she declared. “In a couple of days you’ll be able to go back to Washington. In the meantime it will be lovely to have your company in this old house.”
Just every now and again a flicker of pain crossed Joanne Brenckmann’s face. She thought about her dead daughter Tabatha all the time. Time did not heal; time could not heal some wounds. Joanne had decided to carry on for the sake of her husband and her boys and because not going on, giving in, would have been to submit to the darkness. She had been a more spiritual person once and in years gone by rather liked the idea of living in the sight of a merciful God. However, plainly, there was no God, and His mercy had been a cruel illusion.
Her husband was thousands of miles away in England, her sons were free spirits. Only Dan, her middle boy, had remained a constant in her life this last year. He had helped her make the house habitable again in the spring, and tried to pick up the wreckage of his father’s law practice. Although she had guessed that there was a guiding hand in Dan’s career, somebody watching over him and doling out well-paid pieces of work; she had not guessed it was Gretchen’s father, Claude Betancourt until the old man had rung her on Saturday.