Circle William: A Novel - Hardcover

Bill Harlow

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0684850397 ISBN 13: 9780684850399

Publisher: Scribner, 1999

Synopsis

Two brothers -- one a presidential press secretary, the other a maverick captain on a Navy destroyer -- scramble to prevent a Libyan plot to use chemical weapons against Israel and the United States. Jim Schmidt is a master of spin. As White House press secretary, his job is to cajole, sweet-talk, and otherwise persuade the nation's most powerful journalists to play a story the way the White House wants it played. Jim's younger brother, Bill, is equally skillful, but in a different realm. He's the charismatic captain of the USS Winston Churchill, and he leads an able but rambunctious crew with a penchant for causing well-publicized "liberty incidents" around the Mediterranean. Both men instinctively understand their jobs, but more important, they understand power and how it works: He who controls the facts controls the response. So when the United States learns of a Libyan plot to drop a planeload of chemical weapons on the Israeli Knesset, the brothers -- thousands of miles apart -- unexpectedly find themselves working together to defuse the plan. Their first step is to set "Circle William," a Navy phrase meaning to prepare for chemical, germ, or nuclear attack. As Jim huddles with the country's top defense and intelligence officials to plot a viable strategy to prevent the strike, Bill, on the front lines of the crisis, prepares to implement the plan. Complicating their mission is the inconvenient presence of Sue O'Dell, a smart Washington Post Style reporter who wants to write a feature on the commander and his notorious ship. How the brothers counter the Libyan threat and how they spin the story make Circle William as much a story of international terrorism as a contemporary political thriller. Drawing from more than two decades of service in the U.S. Navy, his work inside the Pentagon, and from his tenure as an assistant White House press secretary, Bill Harlow combines the insider's detail of Primary Colors with the technical expertise of The Hunt for Red October. Circle William, as authentic and chilling as any news event, is an impressive debut by a writer with an intimate knowledge of the workings of Washington, the military, and international terrorism.

About this title

About the Author:

Captain Bill Harlow retired from the U.S. Navy in 1997, after twenty-five years of service, to become the chief of public affairs for the Central Intelligence Agency. He has served as the Navy's deputy spokesman in Europe, as special assistant to the secretary of the Navy, and as assistant White House press secretary for national security and foreign affairs. He lives in northern Virginia.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter 1

The captain prepared to jump overboard.

The destroyer USS Winston Churchill drifted slowly south on the warm Mediterranean Sea. Her captain, Commander Bill Schmidt, had ordered the engines stopped an hour earlier and announced a swim call, a very rare occurrence on most ships, but a regular event on Churchill. During swim call, a ship would drift lazily and routine work would come to a halt. It was an impromptu beach party, minus the beach.

As Schmidt turned to head back to the fantail, he saw his second-in-command, Churchill's Executive Officer, coming onto the bridge. Lieutenant Commander Thomas Oliver Ellsworth III looked preoccupied and slightly nervous, as usual. "XO, I'm going to go back aft and jump in. Everything taken care of for the swim call?"

Schmidt saw his XO grimace for a moment. "Yes sir, we've got the shafts locked, a boat in the water, cargo nets up on the sides, and a rifleman standing by in case of sharks. I've also got the Master at Arms bringing up some blankets for the steel beach..." He looked balefully at his commanding officer.

Bill Schmidt was, in every respect, a typical naval officer. He was of average height, and average weight. He bore no unusual scars under his mop of sandy hair. Schmidt had an easy smile which often bordered on a smirk, and rock-solid self-confidence, which sometimes got him in trouble.

"What about the DJ, Tom? Did you set up the big speaker system?"

The XO shuddered slightly. "Sir, do you really want to get into the music today? We can't just drift all afternoon if we're going to make Toulon on time tomorrow morning."

"We can if we go real fast, XO. Get the DJ up. And throw out a couple of cases of that nonalcoholic beer and the sodas we picked up in Rota."

Another darn picnic, thought the XO. Ellsworth was the kind of officer who never swore, even to himself.

What a dipshit, thought schmidt. "Relax, XO. It'll be fine," said the Churchill's captain as he walked away, shaking his head. He said those precise words to his XO at least a dozen times each day. Schmidt was beginning to doubt if Ellsworth, the son of a retired three-star Admiral and a card-carrying member of America's informal naval aristocracy, had the makings of a destroyer captain. Or at least the kind of destroyer captain Bill Schmidt wanted to sail with. During his career, Schmidt had run across dozens of similar flag officer progeny. With rare exception, the navy juniors displayed an expectation of privilege and promotion. Their attitude, he thought, would have been more appropriate for the Royal Navy at the end of the nineteenth century than the U.S. Navy at the beginning of the twenty-first.

Schmidt's trip aft was interrupted by the blare of the ship's announcing system, known as the "1 MC." "Commanding Officer, please dial one-zero-zero-two."

Schmidt's call to the bridge was answered by Ensign Marshall Madison, a newly commissioned and very inexperienced Junior Officer of the Deck. "Captain, there's an unidentified submarine on the surface heading straight toward us at over twenty knots. We've tried calling her on bridge-to-bridge but she doesn't answer." Unless they were emitting some sort of electronic signals, the identity of approaching submarines at sea was nearly impossible to discern.

"Unidentified? What's her CPA?"

"CPA?" There was a long pause. Schmidt guessed that Madison was trying to figure out why his commanding officer wanted to know the name of the submarine's accountant.

"Marshall, please put the Officer of the Deck on the phone." Schmidt heard the crisp voice of Lieutenant Debbie Smith, Churchill's Antisubmarine Warfare Officer and one of his best bridge watch standers. "Officer of the Deck, sir."

"What is the CPA, Debbie?" Schmidt quickly asked again.

"The submarine's closest point of approach is...let me recheck on the radar...CBDR."

Constant Bearing Decreasing Range. Collision course. Christ, thought Schmidt, here I am with both shafts locked, about half the crew in the water, an XO trying to set up a disco on the fantail and a submarine bearing down on me.

Perfect.

At six feet tall, Debbie Smith was a full two inches taller than her commanding officer. She moved about the bridge briskly, with an athleticism that had served her well in her days as a volleyball player in college.

"Looks like the submarine is picking up speed, sir. CPA is dead on the bow. I'm trying to get the crew back aboard."

"Break out some flares, and have the signalmen flash her continuously. We need to know a nationality. I'm on my way up."

When Schmidt stepped into the pilot house, the Boatswain's Mate gave the traditional call, "Captain's on the bridge." Schmidt got a quick update from the OOD and walked straight to the radio.

"Surfaced submarine, this is United States naval destroyer Winston Churchill, channel sixteen, over."

Silence. The submarine's sail was clearly visible cutting through the water, perhaps four miles away. There was a big wake behind them. Man, they are clipping, thought Schmidt, and coming right for me.

"Submarine, submarine, dead ahead on my bow, this is U.S. naval destroyer Winston Churchill, channel sixteen. Request you alter course immediately. I am dead in the water and cannot maneuver. Request you alter course."

Nothing. Schmidt tried channels sixteen, thirteen, and twelve. The sub was closing fast. Inside of three miles. The more alert members of Churchill's crew were starting to climb the cargo nets to get up the side of the destroyer. Eric Clapton's "Layla" was blasting out of the fantail speakers.

Ellsworth, who had been standing and fidgeting next to the captain throughout the radio calls, began imagining how a collision with a submarine would end his career. I can't believe I'm steaming around the Med with this idiot cowboy CO, he thought. If my dad knew how many swim calls we've had in the last month, he'd roll over in his crypt at the Naval Academy cemetery.

Schmidt was getting slightly nervous. Who is this bozo? he wondered. The Russians hadn't been deploying to the Med much in recent years. The Syrians and the Israelis didn't venture this far east. Maybe the Libyans had finally figured out how to operate those Kilo-class subs they bought from the Soviets a decade ago.

Schmidt turned to the quartermaster. "Sound six blasts on the ship's whistle."

The few crew members who heard the horn blasts over the music began scrambling on board in earnest. The Master at Arms, Chief Petty Officer John Browner, tried to get the attention of the rest of the crew with a whistle he always carried around his neck like a badge of office. Unfortunately, he was largely drowned out by Peter Gabriel's "Sledgehammer."

Back on the bridge, a crackle on the radio...static...a burst of white noise, then "Churchill, this is American submarine. Is your Charlie Oscar available?"

No shit I'm available, thought Schmidt as he grabbed the radio. In the phonetic alphabet Charlie Oscar, the letters C and O indicated commanding officer. U.S. submarines rarely identified themselves on open circuits, even when everyone knew who they were. Secrecy carried to idiotic lengths, thought Schmidt. But he had to play the sub's game.

"Submarine on my bow, this is Churchill, Charlie Oscar. I am conducting hydrographic investigation in this area and have my shafts locked and divers in the water. Request you maintain at least a two-mile clearance from me, over."

The bridge team exchanged glances and smiles. Several didn't know exactly what "hydrographic investigation" was, but they knew Churchill wasn't doing it.

Static. A buzzing sound. The submarine slowed perceptibly, her range about four thousand yards. Her bow slowly swept away from Churchill and pointed west. Someone on th

About this edition

• Publisher: Scribner
• Publication date: 1999
• ISBN 10: 0684850397
• ISBN 13: 9780684850399
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 315