Mayport Naval Base, Friday, 9 May; 1230
Diane sat in her kitchen, staring at a cooling cup of coffee as she had for most of the morning, squinting against the harsh sunlight streaming through the windows from the beach. Her eyes hurt from the glare and from the fact that she had spent most of the night awake, worrying about what Goldsborough might be facing, what might happen to Mike and his crew if this submarine thing were true after all. The contrast between the peaceful morning routine of the base, the sounds of car doors closing and officers going off to work, the occasional honk of a ship’s horn and the hooting of tugs as they went about their chores in the basin, weighed heavily on her mind every time she thought about Mike out at sea, the hours drawing near when he might have to fight for his life.
Might. That was the rub. As Mike had said more than once, this whole thing might be a fairy tale. Or it might become bloody truth with the roar of torpedoes tearing apart the afternoon’s sunny silence. She could understand Admiral Walker’s reluctance to accept even the possibility, although J.W. had seemed reluctant to discard the notion completely, at least for a while. It was clearly a difficult proposition for the staff. But Commodore Aronson had acted. Eli Aronson was an ambitious, tough, and experienced surface warfare officer of the classic, eat-your-young-if-they-don’t-measure-up school, not an officer to be taken in by fairy tales. He obviously thought that if it were possible for the Libyans to do this thing, then the U.S. Navy ought to go take a look, take some precautions until they were proved wrong. How many times had she heard J.W. talk about the first rule of intelligence: concentrate on capabilities and not on intentions. That’s what they always did when they discussed the Soviet Navy. It’s the politicians’ job to figure out the enemy’s intentions, he would pontificate; it is our job to cast a clear, cold eye on their capabilities, and to be ready to deal with all of those capabilities if
the politicians get it wrong. The conventional wisdom in 1941 had been that the Japanese
would
never attack Pearl Harbor, but every late 1930’s Navy study of their capabilities had shown that they
could
if they wanted to.
She twisted in her chair, absently stirring the muddied coffee. Her instincts told her that there was more to this than met the eye, and her years of marriage to both J.W. and the Navy way of life had taught her to trust her instincts. Something was off the tracks here with this submarine thing. Something that smelled profoundly of Navy peacetime politics, a fear of being the first to take action in an ambiguous situation. No one on the staff wanted to be the first one to broach the possibility that a hostile submarine could be operating in the Navy’s own backyard, or that it might have been there for maybe a couple of weeks.
She recognized that the senior officers at the Group staff, her husband chief among them, were reflexively observing the cardinal rule that one doesn’t make waves until one draws considerable water. The problem with that rule was that by the time they were big enough players in the system, many of them no longer knew how to make waves, having spent too many years pouring oil on the waters to ensure that waves disappeared.
She knew in her heart of hearts that J.W. had a better than even chance of making Admiral. She also knew that he would fit the mold only too well. He was adept at pleasing his superiors, smoothing over problems, and keeping the bright image of his boss of the day intact. But she was also convinced that, if he were to become an Admiral, he would no longer know what to do about a situation like this mysterious submarine other than to take whatever precautions were necessary to keep any potential consequences from splattering on his own reputation. He took the same approach to his marriage, she thought with a sudden stab of bitterness.
The revelation that he had been seeing another woman still hurt. She felt again the venomous surge of anger that had nearly overwhelmed her when she first found out about the Wave Commander in Norfolk. The real insult was that
the son of a bitch took his wife sufficiently for granted that he could afford, emotionally, to be involved with another woman and think absolutely nothing of it. And it wasn’t as if she’d gone to fat or booze. Given the way other men reacted to her, it would never have occurred to her that he would even want to stray, and old J.W. had depended on that hubris to keep her from suspecting. He also depended on other senior officers to look the other way; the rest of the staff had to know about his Norfolk playmate, which made it doubly humiliating. How many times had she endured the endless Navy cocktail parties, putting on a pretty face and being so terribly interested in yet another story of some man’s career triumph, all the while surrounded by staff officers who knew her husband was seeing another woman on a routine basis.
She picked up the coffee cup, and then put it down again. Her hands trembled with anger and apprehension. Now Mike was out there at sea, looking for a terrorist submarine, in an antique destroyer with no help and none likely other than the Commodore’s single radio watch in the harbor, while the routine of the Navy base getting ready for a weekend transpired gently towards 1630 and liberty call. Who was the Commodore going to call if Mike radioed in that he had made contact? The fabulous Group staff?
She glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was nearly 1 p.m. The hot sun outside was directly overhead, casting the shapes of the tropical plants around the house into deep shadow. The house and the quarters area were silent except for the rush of the air conditioners working full time to defeat the sticky heat outside. She took a deep breath. She could no longer just sit there, and do nothing. Three times during the morning she had made her decision, and each time the doubts had pushed her back into her chair. This time, for the first time in her life as Mrs. J.W. Martinson, she was going to go light a fuse.
She got up from her chair and went to J.W.’s study, and sat down at his large desk. She began to go through the neat piles of papers stacked up along the left side of the
desk, looking for the Navy directory for the Norfolk area. She paused when she came across one file marked MFR. Memorandums for the Record, she remembered. The staff officer’s device for covering his backside, as J.W. had described it. If you disagree with a policy or a decision, but are unwilling to challenge or argue with the Boss, or you have been overruled, write an MFR. That way if the issue turns to worms, you can always produce the MFR as proof that you never did agree with the decision. She opened the file, and was surprised to find that the top MFR in the stack dealt with the submarine issue. She read it and felt her face go red with embarrassment as she realized what he was doing.
J.W. had outlined the background of the submarine problem in three neat paragraphs, and then concluded that the proper course of action was to dispatch a three ship ASW force to the area for a period of time longer than the submarine’s estimated capacity to stay submerged without snorkeling. He acknowledged the problem of limited budgetary assets, but concluded that the Navy ought to look into the possibility that there was something there. He further concluded that the decision not to forward what information they had on to Naval headquarters in Norfolk was an error, and that he had advised the Admiral in the strongest possible terms that they should tell headquarters.
Diane snorted out loud. I’ll just bet! She could not visualize her dear husband “advising in the strongest possible terms” for or against anything, and especially not to an old hardcase like Admiral Walker. But the memo carried his signature block, was machine date-stamped, and his signature was scrawled through the date and signature block to prove that it had been written on the date in question. J.W. had covered himself neatly in case something happened to the Coral Sea. She suspected that a copy was in the files at Group, and the original here at home for safekeeping. Well done, J.W. She wondered if he knew what Eli Aronson was up to. She wouldn’t put it past him to let that game play out; either way, he was protected from any career consequences.
Well, screw that. Finding the MFR had made up her mind.
She dug through the rest of the stack until she found the Navy phone book for Norfolk. She leafed through the directory until she found the section for the Atlantic Fleet Command. She ran a pencil along the listings until she found the Atlantic Fleet Commander’s office, and wrote down the number for his Executive Assistant. She picked up the handset on J.W.’s Navy secure telephone console, and dialed the number.
“CincLantFleet headquarters, Admiral Denniston’s office, Yeoman first class Michaelson speaking, this is a non-secure line, may I help you, Sir?” intoned a faintly bored male voice on the other end.
Diane took a deep breath. “I need to speak to the EA,” she said, with as much authority as she could muster.
“And may I ask who is calling, Ma’am?”
“Yes. This is Diane Martinson. My husband is Chief of Staff to Group Twelve in Mayport.”
“Uh, yes, Ma’am, and the subject, please?” The voice not bored now, but curious, cautious.
“I’ll tell that to the EA,” she said haughtily. “And this is fairly urgent.”
“Uh, yes, Ma’am,” replied the yeoman. “I’ll see if he’s available. Please hold.”
Silence. No music, no cute little advertisements for careers in the Navy, not even the clicking, you’re-on-hold sound. Silence. Diane began to wonder if she’d have the nerve to tell them what was going on. Mike had confided in her, told her everything, and she would probably have to use it all. Including, ultimately, she realized with a sudden chill, the source of her information. She wondered how Mike would react if he knew. She took a deep breath, and let it out as the line opened again. An exceptionally smooth, baritone voice came on the line.
“Mrs. Martinson, this is Captain St. Claire. What can I do for you?”
The voice projected a sincere interest in what Diane had to say, and enough warmth to imply that they were old
friends, overlaid by the faintest suggestion that her calling instead of her husband was somewhat peculiar. She took another deep breath.
“I realize this is unusual, Captain St. Claire, but this is an unusual situation. How do you make this telephone secure?”
“You’re calling from a STU-III?” he asked, the surprise evident in his voice.
“Yes, I think so. They put a secure telephone in the quarters when J.W., er, my husband, took the job as Chief of Staff.”
“Right. And you want to go secure. Very well. See the red button at the top left of the telephone? Push that down and hold it for two seconds, then let go. When the word ‘secure’ shows up in the data readout panel, we’re secure. Push it—now.”
Diane did so, and heard a faint trilling sound like a facsimile machine in the earpiece, and then Captain St. Claire was back on the line. The requisite word showed up in the display above the dial panel. His voice was no longer quite so clear, but otherwise there was no difference.
“Are you there, Mrs. Martinson?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Very good. Now, how can I help you?”
His tone of voice inferred now that he thought he was about to become embroiled in a domestic dispute or some other tawdry personal matter, but was ready to do his manful duty.
“Yes. Well, I’ll get right to the point: this is about a submarine, a Libyan submarine, as a matter of fact, that has apparently been operating in American waters off Jacksonville for a month, waiting to ambush the Coral Sea in revenge for the bombing of Libya three years ago. The Coral Sea is due home from Puerto Rico this afternoon, so an attack is probably going to happen this afternoon, and the only thing between the Coral Sea and the submarine is an old training destroyer, the Goldsborough, who has been sent out by his Commodore to prevent the ambush. And
apparently nobody else in Mayport or anywhere else, for that matter, even knows that all this is going on.”
She ran out of words suddenly, and felt a slow burn of embarrassment rising up her face as the silence on the other end of the line grew, an incredulous, I must be talking to a drunk or a psycho case silence from the other end.
“Captain St. Claire?”
“Uh, yes, Mrs. Martinson. I’m afraid you’ve caught me somewhat flat-footed. This is most—”
“I know,” interrupted Diane. “You think you’ve got a nut or a drunk wife on -the phone. Let me walk you through what I know about it, and then you can call COMDESRON Twelve’s office, that’s Commodore Aronson, and simply ask him what’s all this about Goldsborough and a Libyan submarine, OK? I’ve been awake all night trying to decide whether or not to make this call, so I’m only going to give it to you once, and then it’s all yours, all right? Can you tape this line?”
“Uh, well, actually, yes we can, but—”
“Get your tape running, Captain. Time is shorter than you know.”
There was a one minute delay while someone set up the tape, and then Captain St. Claire came back on the line.
“Mrs. Martinson? We’re taping now, all right? Is it possible that we can talk to Captain Martinson? I don’t mean to imply anything by that, but it—”
“Forget it,” said Diane. “He’s on the Coral Sea; that’s one of the reasons I’m making this call. Now, I want you to listen without interrupting me.”
“Mrs. Martinson,—”
“Just let me talk, Captain St. Clair, and whoever else is on the line. You really don’t have much time.”