TW3
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TW3 There was a marvelous television show that aired when dinosaurs ruled the world. It was a sort of faux news show collided with the black-out humor of Ernie Kovaks. They called it That Was the Week That Was. It was fairly popular, and became known as TW3. This week could qualify for that. I started out the week sitting by the roadside in my late model rental Mustang, wondering if the Trooper was going to write me up for more than 15mph over the speed limit. He could have, after all, but I still had a local driver’s license from my days on active duty, and as a local, he cut me some slack and gave me a ticket for 5 mph over. That is considerable better than reckless driving, and I should have been thankful that I did not have a Virginia permit. I might have spent the night in the slammer. Instead, I was just irritated. I was supposed to be at 10,000 feet and halfway down Lake Michigan to Chicago , and instead I was getting my first ticket in 28 years. Don’t drive mad, I suppose is the lesson, even if the airlines are incompetent. In the background was the unfolding saga of the home-grown British terrorists. I was deeply affected by the young cricketeers-cum-jihadi killers in London . We certainly have our share of local loons here, Islamic and other, and the prospects of the bombing beginning here filled me with a certain dread and resignation. It forced me back into a world I understand, one of ancient evil, but one with rules of a sort. The U-Boat thing got me going after reading “Shadow Divers,” a gripping tale of testosterone-charged sports divers who find a sunken submarine that no one will acknowledge. That story was muffled by the trip, but caused dreams, the ones of something operational going horribly wrong, since no one sank the U-869; it was a maiden voyage, and the acoustic torpedo it fired- first war shot- apparently acquired it’s mother. Suicide, in a way. The Captain received a name after nearly six years of diving (the identifying tags with the U-Boat’s designation once would have been made of brass. This U-869 was late production, and everything nonessential was made of pot-metal and disintegrated quickly). The control room was the point of impact and his remains were probably pulverized on impact. That was not the case in the forward and aft compartments, which remained intact and were described by the divers as “boneyards.” I have strong opinions about those who disturb the dead at their rest, at their stations, and was horrified a few years back in a Stuttgart cafe on the Artist’s walk by the revelations of young “Clubber” Lang who gleefully described unearthing a battalion aid station on the field at Verdun . In addition to the bones and watches, all stopped at the same moment, they found a rusted machine gun. But the divers had a certain code of honor. They resolved not to disturb the silt around the bones, looking for wristwatches or jewelry that might be distinctive. There was a knife with the chief radioman’s name carved on it- but his boat, the 869, had been confirmed lost off Morocco . His could well be the skull that one of the divers thought might have been the bottom of a bowl, and after picking it up in one of those alas, Yorick moments, was set so that the empty sockets could survey the bones of his mates. It was a conundrum, and three of the divers died in the attempt to scavenge something unique that would identify the boat. Apparently the boat missed a message instructing it to change course and patrol off Africa , and thus until positive identification was acquired, it remained the U-Who. It was an interesting story, with a suitably dramatic moment, and I won’t spoil it for you in case you run across it. Having had access to the programs we did back in the spook world, I waxed sentimental about saturation diving and anti-submarine warfare in general. It got me into a reverie, of a sort, thinking about what is out there on the floor of the ocean. Lots of plain trash. And 700-odd unterseeboots, of course, and all their victims. And all the Japanese and American subs still on patrol, Thresher and Scorpion included, and the odd warship. That led logically to the nightmare of the U-864, which holds, or held, the precious mercury that is poisoning the water off Bergen , and the U-534 that went down in the Skaw , in brackish water, and still had coalscuttle helmets in the ready-rack when they brought her up. And a full load of everything else a combat cruise of indefinite duration might require; munitions, Iron Crosses and bottles of wine. Anyhow, that occupied my week as I contemplate whether any of my job applications will rouse interest in HHS or OSD or DIA. I have three of them out there for job announcements that closed in late June or early July. Lucent has been great fun, and I have never had as freewheeling an assignment with less supervision. Truly independent duty. But there is trouble in paradise. Our Extended Government Team’s boy President went out on a limb to become his own Profit and Loss Center ahead of schedule, and it looks like he went out on a limb that was not mature enough to take his weight. Imagine our surprise to discover that 14-months into this adventure, our new start is not profitable yet! Oops. There was a small wave of lay-offs last week, since Lucent is quite good at vertically shedding people (they fired or spun off 100,000 before the “turn-around”). There is supposed to be another next week, and possible a big one if some of the Iraq money does not come through by the end of the corporate fiscal year. Management seems to like me a lot and I have no particular fear of being one of the sacrificial cadre (I pointed out to them that a 10% “refresh” rate in the workforce (recommended by the renowned business theorists at GE) could also be considered, in the context of the Roman Legions, “decimation.” Getting the pink slip would also come with six weeks, with pay, and I would enjoy a real vacation for the first time in several years. But that would mean taking a job not necessarily of my own choosing, since I can’t miss a paycheck for very long. Kid in college and all that. But it has crossed my mind that things happen for reasons, so I am serene. It occurs to me that analytic tradecraft in the homeland security business will have to adapt into something as pervasive as the office grapevine to be effective against those home-grown terrorists who are sure to come. Unquestionably there will be a bombing here, or in New York or somewhere else where the trains are important. I am not sure that the separation of law enforcement and the military- the doctrine of posse comitatus- will survive that, so who knows what we will see in the way of all new opportunities to know things about our fellow citizens. I have new digs (the little place is an office now) and I need to get to work moving things so I can sit down. I would not be Director Muller of the FBI on a bet, though if asked, of course I would go. Thankfully, a ten year tour as the head of the FBI is not a gauntlet anyone will throw down in front of me. I imagine it was a hell of a week that was for him, too. Copyright 2005 Vic Socotra |
