watch and saw it was 12.45 A.M. “Well, I didn’t manage to get fired five hours ago, but I’m damn sure certain I’m going to pull it off now.”
And he dialed the main switchboard of the White House. When they answered, he said, “This is Lieutenant Jimmy Ramshawe, Chief Surveillance Officer Middle and Far East, National Security Agency, Fort Meade. I need to speak to Admiral Arnold Morgan on a matter of extreme urgency. He WILL take the call. Please make it and then patch me through.”
For the second time that evening, the White House interrupted the fearsome Security Chief. He and Kathy were home, sipping a glass of their favorite sauternes, a sweet, silky 1995 dessert wine from the Gironde, before going to bed, when the phone rang.
“ Sir, this is the White House main switchboard. We have a Lieutenant Jimmy Ramshawe on the line, who would like to be connected to you .”
Admiral Morgan raised his eyes heavenward. But he took the call. “Jimmy,” he rasped. “This better be awfully important.”
“It is, sir. There’s a second big tanker crippled in the Hormuz Strait. I just heard a flash on CNN. But I called Dubai, then the Omani Navy, and I got a position on the ship. It’s eighteen miles from the missile site I mentioned, and it’s twelve miles from the Global Bronco . More important, it’s on a dead-straight line linking thetwo ships and the missiles. The odds against that have gotta be a zillion to one. They’ve mined it, sir. Of that I am now very sure.”
Arnold Morgan hissed his breath inward. His thoughts raged through his mind. “Jimmy, where are you?”
“I’m in my apartment, sir. The Watergate.”
“You are? Hell, I used to know an Australian Admiral who lived in there. You any relation?”
“My father, sir. Naval attaché here a few years back.”
“Jesus. This is getting worse and worse. Your dad and I had a few times together. Lives in New York now, right? With Qantas?”
“That’s him, sir.”
“Okay. Now listen. I want you to meet me in my office in the White House in twenty minutes. I’m leaving right now. I’ll have an escort for you at the West Executive Avenue entrance. You know where that is?”
“Yessir.”
“And, Jimmy, speak to no one. Not a sentence. Not a phone call. This is very important. Believe me.”
“Yessir.”
“And, Jimmy, make sure you bring your working chart with you.”
“Yessir.”
Arnold Morgan stood up and walked to the top of the basement stairs in Kathy’s large Chevy Chase home. He yelled instructions to his Secret Service detail, organizing Lt. Ramshawe’s escort at the White House. He kissed Kathy good night, pulled on his coat and headed outside where his car and two agents were waiting.
“Straight to the factory, sir?”
“You gottit.”
It was almost 1 A.M. when the black White House staff car came barreling over the Taft Avenue Bridge, driving swiftly down Connecticut Avenue. It was raining now, and the city was quiet. They crossed Dupont Circle and made their way to Seventeenth Street, swinging into West Executive Avenue from where they could see a Jaguar already being waved through to the West Wing.
Admiral Morgan met Lt. Ramshawe right outside the door, while four duty agents attended to his visitor’s pass and parked his car.
The Admiral stuck out his hand, smiled, and said, “Hello, Lieutenant. Arnold Morgan.”
Jimmy Ramshawe had met a few major men in his life, but this was different. The Admiral exuded power. He was all of seven inches shorter than Jimmy but his gaze was dead straight, his eyes bright blue and his grip strong. The Admiral’s dark gray suit had been tailored somewhere in heaven, and his black lace-up shoes were gleaming. The perfectly knotted tie was that of the Naval Academy, Annapolis, a place and experience that Arnold Morgan had never forgotten, and never would. He made Jimmy Ramshawe feel like a little boy.
And in response to the Admiral’s curt but warm greeting, he just
And he dialed the main switchboard of the White House. When they answered, he said, “This is Lieutenant Jimmy Ramshawe, Chief Surveillance Officer Middle and Far East, National Security Agency, Fort Meade. I need to speak to Admiral Arnold Morgan on a matter of extreme urgency. He WILL take the call. Please make it and then patch me through.”
For the second time that evening, the White House interrupted the fearsome Security Chief. He and Kathy were home, sipping a glass of their favorite sauternes, a sweet, silky 1995 dessert wine from the Gironde, before going to bed, when the phone rang.
“ Sir, this is the White House main switchboard. We have a Lieutenant Jimmy Ramshawe on the line, who would like to be connected to you .”
Admiral Morgan raised his eyes heavenward. But he took the call. “Jimmy,” he rasped. “This better be awfully important.”
“It is, sir. There’s a second big tanker crippled in the Hormuz Strait. I just heard a flash on CNN. But I called Dubai, then the Omani Navy, and I got a position on the ship. It’s eighteen miles from the missile site I mentioned, and it’s twelve miles from the Global Bronco . More important, it’s on a dead-straight line linking thetwo ships and the missiles. The odds against that have gotta be a zillion to one. They’ve mined it, sir. Of that I am now very sure.”
Arnold Morgan hissed his breath inward. His thoughts raged through his mind. “Jimmy, where are you?”
“I’m in my apartment, sir. The Watergate.”
“You are? Hell, I used to know an Australian Admiral who lived in there. You any relation?”
“My father, sir. Naval attaché here a few years back.”
“Jesus. This is getting worse and worse. Your dad and I had a few times together. Lives in New York now, right? With Qantas?”
“That’s him, sir.”
“Okay. Now listen. I want you to meet me in my office in the White House in twenty minutes. I’m leaving right now. I’ll have an escort for you at the West Executive Avenue entrance. You know where that is?”
“Yessir.”
“And, Jimmy, speak to no one. Not a sentence. Not a phone call. This is very important. Believe me.”
“Yessir.”
“And, Jimmy, make sure you bring your working chart with you.”
“Yessir.”
Arnold Morgan stood up and walked to the top of the basement stairs in Kathy’s large Chevy Chase home. He yelled instructions to his Secret Service detail, organizing Lt. Ramshawe’s escort at the White House. He kissed Kathy good night, pulled on his coat and headed outside where his car and two agents were waiting.
“Straight to the factory, sir?”
“You gottit.”
It was almost 1 A.M. when the black White House staff car came barreling over the Taft Avenue Bridge, driving swiftly down Connecticut Avenue. It was raining now, and the city was quiet. They crossed Dupont Circle and made their way to Seventeenth Street, swinging into West Executive Avenue from where they could see a Jaguar already being waved through to the West Wing.
Admiral Morgan met Lt. Ramshawe right outside the door, while four duty agents attended to his visitor’s pass and parked his car.
The Admiral stuck out his hand, smiled, and said, “Hello, Lieutenant. Arnold Morgan.”
Jimmy Ramshawe had met a few major men in his life, but this was different. The Admiral exuded power. He was all of seven inches shorter than Jimmy but his gaze was dead straight, his eyes bright blue and his grip strong. The Admiral’s dark gray suit had been tailored somewhere in heaven, and his black lace-up shoes were gleaming. The perfectly knotted tie was that of the Naval Academy, Annapolis, a place and experience that Arnold Morgan had never forgotten, and never would. He made Jimmy Ramshawe feel like a little boy.
And in response to the Admiral’s curt but warm greeting, he just
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