On reflection he decided four weeks loading time might be closer to the mark than two, and he began to assume that the submarines would be out of Nizhny and on their way north some time around the first week in June. The ex-Carrier Battle Group Commander frowned and wondered whether the Chinese and the Russians had yet decided that the loss of K-4 and K-5 was no accident, and that the culprits were probably operating under the flag of the United States.
He noted the almost 750-mile distance between Nizhny and the White Sea, and he deliberated about the strength of the Chinese escort. He wondered whether the submarines would travel under their own power, as the last Kilos from the North had done. Or whether they would make the journey on freighters, like China’s first three. One thing, however, was certain: there was no way the USA was going to allow the submarines to arrive in China.
George Morris was uncertain about the best course of action for the USA. As far as he could guess, if the Kilos were to make the transit under their own power, they would be given a strong Russian escort force. They would be fully armed, and there was no way a covert US operation could remove all three. Not that he could see. Not without a sizable support force. And George Morris knew SUBLANT would be reluctant to employ its Los Angeles Class boats in any other capacity than that of the lone hunter-killer.
To destroy the three Kilos traveling under heavy Russian escort…well, as far as George could see, you’d be talking about a US Navy Task Group stalking three brand-new Russian submarines, plus another couple of ex-Soviet hunter-killers, not to mention several frigates…“Jesus Christ!” he muttered. “This is beginning to sound like the Battle of Midway. We can’t do anything like that. I guess it’s Arnold’s problem.”
The Admiral walked over to his desk. It was 0515. His duty was clear. Admiral Morgan had insisted he be informed the instant there was any development with the Kilos currently under construction. He picked up the telephone and dialed Admiral Morgan’s home number in Montpelier. The ex-Intelligence chief had been awake for fifteen minutes and picked up the phone immediately, answering in the refined manner that had endeared him to so many high-ranking politicians and officers.
“Morgan. Speak.”
“Good morning, Admiral. George Morris. Sorry about the time.”
“If I was, or ever had been, worried about the goddamned time, George,” growled Morgan, “the world would doubtless be a more dangerous place. Shoot.”
“Your three friends, Admiral. I have some pictures I know you’ll want to see right away. Your place or mine.”
“I’ll be with you in fifteen,” snapped Morgan, and he slammed down the phone, leaving Admiral Morris standing awkwardly in a roomful of people, with the phone still to his ear.
The Admiral did what many other people had done in similar situations with his irascible predecessor, who rarely if ever hung around for telephonic etiquette once he had heard what he wanted to hear and hung up.
“Yes, okay then, Admiral,” he said, speaking into the dead phone. “See you then. ’Bye.”
By which time Arnold Morgan was burning rubber on his own driveway, driving himself from home directly to Fort Meade. He arrived at the National Security Agency in near-record time. His steely presence galvanized the night staff into action, and a two-man escort accompanied him to Admiral Morris’s office, where the resident Director had already ordered coffee for them both. “Black with buckshot” for the Big Man, which at least alerted the entire building as to the forthcoming arrival of their former boss. George Morris vacated his desk for Arnold Morgan, who now sat quietly studying the picture taken from space. “Yup,” he said. “Yup, George. You got it. These babies are on their way, real soon.”
Admiral Morris explained his fears about a serious confrontation in the Atlantic, with a small flotilla of American ships effectively doing battle with the Russians.
Morgan waited. He did not wish to betray the fact that his plans had been in place for several weeks. Nor did he wish to tell anyone about them. “Don’t worry about the details, George,” Morgan said. “I’ve had this in hand since the day we found out the Russians had put the Chinese right at the front of the Kilo build-stream.”
He turned and stared at the Fort Meade Director and said grimly, “I want to thank you and your team for your vigilance in this matter. Right now there’s no need for you to know more. Just keep me posted every inch of the way.”
Then he lightened, just a shade. “George, old buddy, as you well know, we each have to sit in our own chairs in this game. You in yours and I in mine.” The fact that Arnold Morgan was actually sitting in George’s chair at George’s desk, at that precise moment, was regarded by both men as irrelevant.
The bells of the watch tolled for 0800 on the Director’s maritime clock as the Admiral left Fort Meade. He decided not to stop at home but to press on for the White House. He arrived at 0930, turned the engine off, and told someone to take care of his car, and to tell Charlie, his chauffeur, to call him on the telephone.
He arrived at his office in the West Wing just as the chauffeur was put through from the garage. “Charlie,” he said, “go get my car from wherever the hell it’s parked, and get it back to my home in Montpelier. Then return here with the office car and be on parade by 1230. I could be moving in a lot of directions.”
“Yessir. But sir, how do I get back here from your house in Montpelier?”
“Charlie.” Admiral Morgan spoke kindly and patiently. “Right now I’m tackling two or three very minor matters at once — I’m trying to ensure the northwestern area of the Pacific stays safe and secure for world shipping; I’m trying to retain our dominance over the Taiwan Strait; and I may have to kick a few Chinese butts…Just get my car down here, now!
“Charlie…Charlie…I know your problems are many… BUT WOULD YOU JUST GET MY FUCKING CAR TO MONTPELIER? AND THEN GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE ON THE DOUBLE, BEARING IN MIND THAT I DO NOT GIVE A FLYING FUCK IF YOU NEED TO HIRE THE SPACE SHUTTLE IN ORDER TO ACHIEVE IT.”
Charlie was about to drop the phone in terror when the Admiral softened again. “Try your best, Charlie,” he said as he hung up the phone. “It is only because of these immense problems that men such as yourself are hired.”
He replaced the phone, grinning at a new degree of wit that he found himself increasingly utilizing. Life at the White House was smoothing away the rougher edges of his choleric personality. Nearly.
He picked up the phone again and asked the operator to connect him to the Director’s office at Fort Meade. He was told that Admiral Morris had left for the Pentagon and would not be back before lunch. He could be located with Admiral Joe Mulligan. Not wanting to alert the entire Navy about the developing Kilo situation, Arnold Morgan elected not to interrupt the meeting in the office of the CNO, even though the Admiral himself would not have hesitated to interrupt a conversation between God and the Pope if he believed that it fell within the military interests of his beloved United States.
He glanced at his watch. It was now 0945, which meant it was 0645 in California. No good. Admiral John Bergstrom would not yet be at his desk. “Lazy prick,” snarled Morgan impatiently. “Have to give him another hour.”
He gazed at his map, absentmindedly picking up a jade-handled magnifying glass. He found himself looking closely at the waters of Russia’s enormous Lake Onega, the 120-mile stretch through which the Kilos would have to travel on their way to the Belomorski Canal. He had asked Fort Meade to run through their records, through all of their recorded photographic evidence, to try to find a pattern in the outlandish inland waterway journeys of the Russian submarines.