Brown, Dale - Independent 01 (7 page)

           
“Our immediate
priority,” McDonough said, “is a stable, neutral and genuinely moderate regime
in
Iran
. Naval
bases and listening posts may come later.”

           
Alientar
nodded, but his expression showed skepticism. “Of course. So what will you tell
the president?”

           
“Tell him?
Well, I believe I’ll tell him that President Alientar has promised the world.
Again. I’ll offer the opinion that you are in no position to deliver anything,
that you can’t even guarantee your own safe return to
Iran
.”

           
The Iranian
nearly threw the glass of whiskey to the floor. “You are an insulting—”

           
“I’ll also
tell him that the factions inside
Iran
that engineered the terrorist attacks in
Washington
,
D.C.
, still exist and still influence your
actions—the evidence is in your self-imposed exile. I’ll also tell him that you
don’t have the power to stop the on-going Revolutionary Guard speedboat attacks
on neutral shipping in the
Persian Gulf
.
And
that any substantive
deal with you would be a waste of time.”

           
Alientar
appeared ready to go for McDonough’s throat.

           
“
However
, sir, the president disagrees
with my view in this matter. He will ask me what you have offered, and I will
say that you have offered to form a stable, moderate Muslim government friendly
to the West; that you have offered naval bases and air strips; that you
generally feel that the United States is the lesser of two evils and you can
better profit by us than by the Russians. I’ll tell him about your supposed
concern for the strategic balance in the region but also make clear that above
all you are looking out for number one.”

           
Alientar
kept seated, trying to decipher McDonough’s words.

           
“Will that
supply the requisite amount of humility and defiance, Mr. President?”

           
Alientar
managed a smile: a bright man, this McDonough.... “You are indeed insolent,
McDonough, just like the rest of your kinsmen in
Scotland
.
But you have another very annoying attribute—you seem to know what you are
talking about. You are a man I can deal with— for now.”

           
“That’s
real good, Mr. President, because until there’s a noticeable and positive shift
in the political climate in
Iran
,
I will be your only contact with the American government. . . . For now, I’ve
been authorized to deliver to you the following message: The United States
views the evolving political scene in the
Republic
of
Iran
as a necessary and vital
precursor to future stability in the region. Such stability is without question
of major importance to the
United States
.
Outside intervention of any kind would be seen as a destabilizing influence on
this politically sensitive area, and we would view such outside actions as a
potential threat to the security of the
United
States
and her allies.” McDonough took a
deep breath, needing more breath for this diplomatic jargon with its weight of
hot air, which was not especially his style.... “Therefore, the
United
States
will take such actions as it deems
necessary to protect our interests in
Iran
,
the
Persian Gulf
, the
Gulf
of
Oman
and the
Arabian
Sea
region to prevent such destabilizing influences. We ask for the
full cooperation of the government of President Falah Alientar in any future
conflicts where our two governments might be at risk.”

           
Alientar
tossed down the rest of the Scotch. “Your president has just written himself a
blank check, drawn on
our
account.”

 
         
“It’s a matter of public record that
the president supports you and your government. I’d suggest that you nourish
his support. There are others besides myself whoTl be pushing him to have
nothing to do with your government until we have some assurances that you won’t
become an embarrassment.”

           
“And what
would you have me do, Mr. McDonough? You’ve already told me that my promises
mean nothing to you.”

           
“Free
elections, open negotiations, end actions against neutral or nonaligned
shipping in the
Persian Gulf
....”

           
“You think
it is so easy,” Alientar said. “Just stop the fighting. Lay down your weapons;
come out and shake hands, eh?”

           
“Could be.”

           
“Perhaps
you are more naive than I thought, McDonough. From the time when I took control
of the government my weapons have been my survival. If I lay them down... I
will be destroyed, from without as well as within.”

           
“Your
internal fight will be your own.
Washington
won’t interfere. This president feels differently than past presidents—to him
political unrest, even civil war, is another turn of the wheel of social
evolution. Only when outside governments try to influence or intervene is
action dictated.”

           
Alientar
stood and retrieved his coat. “What assurances do I have, McDonough, that your
government will act to protect
Iran
from foreign interference?”

           
“None.
But you understand the workings of the American
government better than most in the
Middle East
. The
president wants to strengthen ties with
Iran
and keep Soviet influence in the region to a minimum. In an election year like
this,
open
commitments to you will be
few if any. But if we’re pushed to protect our interests in the
Persian
Gulf
, we will act. You can take that one to the bank, sir. And you
know about banks, they’re the ones with stuff that makes the world go round.”

 
          
May 1992

 
          
OAKLAND
,
CALIFORNIA

 
          
The crack of the bat reverberated
through the stadium like a shot from a high-powered rifle. It was one of those
unmistakable, instantly recognizable sounds—a good, solid, snapping
thwack
that even those who didn’t follow
baseball knew meant “home run.” The left fielder did not even bother looking up
for the ball, merely hung his head in disbelief, spit on the turf and punched a
fist into his glove as he watched four men orbit the bases and stomp on home
plate. Twenty thousand fans in the Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum groaned as
Reggie Jackson, manager of the Oakland A’s, headed for the mound to give the
pitcher the hook and put in the fourth A’s reliever of the game.

           
“It’s about
time
Jackson
took that guy out,”
veteran battleship commander Captain Matthew Page, age fifty, said, his face a
deep crimson. “Three innings, five earned runs.
Great.
Just great.”
He took a gulp of beer.

           
His wife
shook her head at him. “Matt, your blood pressure. .. .”

           
“My blood
pressure would be a damn sight better if
Jackson
would learn how to tell when a reliever is starting to miss the strike zone.
Kelly has a split-finger, a curve, and a slider. In the sixth inning he came
out and pitched ninety percent split-fingers. His one slider went straight in
the dirt. The man was in
trouble
. In
the seventh he shook his right arm before he went into his motion and everyone was
surprised when he walked two guys and allowed two base hits. Now Wade Boggs...
God, isn’t that guy ever going to retire
?...
Nails a half-assed curve for a grand slam.
I would’ve had a
guy warming up in the bullpen the minute I saw—”

           
Captain
Page’s daughter, Ann, reached over to her right and picked up the wall phone in
the U.S. Navy’s officer’s Coliseum skybox and handed the receiver to her
father.

           
“What’s
this?”

           
“It’s for
you.” The other navy commanders and their families in the skybox strained to listen.
“It’s Reggie Jackson. He wants you to be quiet and stop annoying your family.”

           
Captain
Page’s ears reddened beneath his sandy salt-and-pepper hair.

           
“You’re
right about his blood pressure, Mother,” Ann said, tweaking one of the
battleship commander’s ears. “He looks like he’s ready to pop any second.”

           
Amanda Page
couldn’t suppress a smile.

           
“Very damn
funny, missy,” Page said, but he allowed a smile through the gruffness. He
leaned over his daughter. “Big deal, Spaceman—oh, I’m sorry, Spac
eperson.
Well, you’re not so fancy your
old man can’t still pop you one.”

           
Ann held up
her fists in mock-defense as the other navy men cheered her on. As the action
on the field resumed, however, her father ruled himself the winner and ordered
Ann to get him another beer.

           
On her way
back from the skybox wet bar, sixteen-ounce beer in hand, Ann caught a glimpse
of her mother gloomily leaning on the concourse railing.

           
“Mom?
Everything okay?”

           
“Of course,
sure, dear,” Amanda Page said, the tone of her voice denying the words.

           
Ann moved
closer to her mother, who was staring out beyond the Coliseum Auditorium and
across to
San Francisco
Bay
and the hazy
San Francisco
skyline.
Ann followed her gaze. One of the hundreds of towers, cranes, buildings, and
other structures along the waterfront, Ann knew
,
was
the massive gray steel superstructure of the USS
California,
secured at the Oakland-Alameda Naval Station. The
fifty-eight-thousand-ton Iowa-class nuclear-powered battleship was the main
escort ship in the fifteen-ship carrier battle group of the USS
Nimitz,
which would pass under the
Golden
Gate
Bridge
in
four days to begin an eight-month cruise to the
Indian Ocean
.

           
Ann touched
her mother’s arm. “You still have three days with him....”

           
Amanda
shook her head. “He’s already gone, Ann. He’s been gone for a week now.”

           
She turned
to her daughter. “Can’t you see it? You’ve been home for a week now. He may be
on terra firma but his mind, his heart, has been on the bridge of the
California
for
days. That skybox is the ship’s wardroom.
Officer’s country.
He’s listening to the game on Armed Forces Radio or on the TV rebroadcast from
Manila
,
surrounded by his senior officers.” She managed a strained laugh. “I don’t know
why it should bother me so. After all, I’ve been a navy wife for twenty-one
years. This is your father’s twelfth cruise. It’s just... well, all that news
about
Iran
, the
counterrevolution business, the
Persian Gulf
—”

           
“Dad isn’t
going to the
Persian
Gulf
,
he’s going to the
Philippines
.”

           
“I don’t
think so,” Amanda said quietly. “I overheard a conversation last week. I think
they might be sending the
Nimitz
to
the
Persian Gulf
.”

           
“If all
these rumors were true, Mom, the
Persian Gulf
would be
clogged with
U.S.
ships. You can’t make yourself crazy over Officer’s Wives Club gossip.”

           
“That’s not
it.” She paused, looking for the words. “It’s just that ... it’s different this
time. It’s not only your father leaving... it’s you,too....”

           
“Me? Mom, I
haven’t been home in eleven years. You’ve been by yourself—”

           
“For too
damn long, for too damn long. But that’s not the problem. You’ve been away but
at least I’ve known where you were—Harvard, MIT, Stanford, Houston. I knew if
something... happened to your father that you’d be back and we’d be together no
matter how far away you were.” She turned back to the railing. “I can look out
there and see your father’s ship and I know that he’s surrounded and protected
by the best men and the best equipment in the world. But when I think of where
you’re
going and the risks you'll be
taking, well, it’s hard for me even to comprehend it. I don't think I've ever
felt this scared before. I admit it. .. .”

           
Ann didn’t
have an answer, and now it was Amanda trying to reassure her daughter, which
she did by giving her a quick hug.

           
“I’m sorry,
Mom. I guess I’ve been so wrapped up in this thing, so preoccupied with my
research that I never thought about how it would affect you.”

           
Amanda
shook her head. “Nor should you. You’re like your father. He’s said how sorry
he is to be leaving me alone hundreds of times but it would take the guns of
all his battleships to keep him from going. I admire you both so much; I wish I
had more of your drive, I wish there was more time for the three of us to be
together. Years pass quicker than any of us realize, you know. It’s easy to
take things for granted— not to mention feel sorry for myself. I’m sorry....”

           
Ann held
her mother close, then lifted the cup of beer she was holding in her hands.
“The captain will be getting powerfully parched,” she said.

           
Her mother
gave her a knowing smile. “I heard some more Officer’s Wives Club gossip,” she
said as they walked past two young boys selling
Oakland
A’s pennants. “About that space station,
Silver
Tower
... and how the Russians hate
it.
And
how
vulnerable it is.
But I suppose I’m being an alarmist about that, too?”

           
Ann was
about to reply but stopped abruptly. What could she say that would really help?
As a diversion, a welcome one, she pointed to a man with a portable video
camera standing in front of the officers in the skybox. She guided her mother
back to the box, where they took their seats at either side of Captain Page.

           
“Smile,”
the cameraman said. “You’re on Diamond Vision!”

           
The family
surrounded by the other men and their families waved at the camera. As they
did, Ann glanced at the huge scoreboard in center field: Her father’s image was
flashed, displaying his gold- trimmed hat with the words “DLGN-36 USS
CALIFORNIA
”
on the peak and his
Oakland
A’s
T-shirt. A caption under his picture on the full-color scoreboard screen read
“Captain Matt Page, Commander,
USS
California
”
Ann’s picture was on the screen too:
“Dr. Ann Page, Mission Specialist, Space Shuttle
Enterprise
,”
the legend underneath it read. A
ripple of applause came from the crowd.

           
“We’re
famous, babe!” Matt Page said to his wife, hugging her close. Amanda Page
looked at her daughter, forced a smile, waving with restraint into the camera.

           
It turned
out the only possible way to stay clear of the dozens of sailors tramping in and
out of the bridge of the USS
California
was to stand behind the captain’s high-backed seat, which was what Ann Page
found herself doing one week after the baseball game. On the bridge was sheer
bedlam: volleys of shouted orders, ringing phones, and a hodepodge of engine
and equipment sounds.

           
Through it
all, Ann noticed, Captain Page was very much in control. No comparison to the
overaged boy at the ballgame.

           
It was
actually exhilarating to watch. He seemed to know just when a man would be in
arm’s reach or earshot when he needed him. The phone mystically stopped ringing
when he needed to use it. His coffee mug never grew cold or was less than half
full—in spite of the activity, a steward would somehow make his way to the
captain’s chair to refill the short, stubby mug labeled “The Boss of the Boat,”
and of course it never dared slide down a table or spill one drop onto the
boss’ plywood-starched khakis.

           
“Are you
sure it’s okay for me to be here?” Ann asked at a relatively quiet moment. Her
father waved his coffee mug around the bridge.

           
“Of course
it is.” He turned to a young officer. “Dammit, Cogley, out of the way, if you
please. I’m trying to talk to my daughter.... No, I’m glad you wanted to come
aboard. Your mother, as you know, doesn’t feel right coming on board before a
cruise. She never has, not in all our years of marriage. Not once. She stays on
the dock until the ship passes under the
Golden Gate
or
wherever, but she never comes on board.”

           
“Yes, I
know.” Half her response was blocked out by a thick clipboard of papers that
Cogley had thrust between her and the captain, every sheet of which Page
impatiently initialed at the comer.

           
“Okay, now
weigh anchor, Cogley. . . . I’m sorry, Ann. No, your mother doesn’t seem to
like it on board the
California
.”

           
Ann tried
to tell him he must know why, but a horn blaring from just outside the bridge
drowned out her words, followed by “All ashore, all guests ashore.”

           
“I’ve got
to go, Dad,” Ann said, but he didn’t hear, his attention elsewhere. She
followed the outstretched arm of a gray-and-blue-uni- formed Marine escort and
headed for the exit.

           
She had
just reached the top of the steel ladder that led down to the main deck when
she felt a hand on her shoulder, turned and found her father standing in front of
her.

           
“You
weren’t going to leave without saying good-bye, were you?”

           
“I didn’t
know if I’d get a chance, and I really think I’m in the way.”

 
         
The harried petty officer, Cogley,
came up to the captain with still another clipboard. “Excuse me, sir—”

           
“Cogley,
dammit, shove off with that stuff. Tell the officer of the deck to stand by
until I’m ready.” Cogley hurried off.

           
“You’re
convincing me,” Ann said, “that that guy’s name is ‘Cogley Dammit’ or ‘Dammit
Cogley.’”

           
“I know, I
know_____ ” Matthew Page steered his daughter away from the head of the
stairway. “Listen, honey, I wanted you to come with me on board so we could
have a little chat—”