In the Footsteps of Tocqueville (Part IV)
Headed for Virginia, and for Norfolk, which is, if I'm not mistaken, one of the oldest towns in a state that was one of the original thirteen in the Union.
It's the stopover town, halfway between Florida and New York, where, after Tocqueville had decided to skip Charleston for lack of time, he arrived on January 15, 1832, and boarded the ship that would take him to Washington.
Today, along with San Diego, it's home to one of the biggest naval bases in the country, and it's also the headquarters of the United States Joint Forces Command, from which the coordination of American forces throughout the world is directed. It's also—almost more important—the heart of the new Allied Command Transformation, the strategic structure that since the Prague nato summit of 2002 has been in charge of research and development geared toward the overhaul of the Atlantic Alliance.
When you think of the American Army, you think of GIs and land forces.
When you think of American power, or the so-called American empire, you think of the human—all too human—troops of the expeditionary corps in Iraq. Or, if you are a European, you think of the Portuguese, Italian, or Belgian NATO bases that, it should be stressed, no longer frighten anybody very much.
Well, here in Norfolk it is hard to be so blasé.
The power is palpable.
It is in this research center in Norfolk, ultra high-tech, almost ethereal, that the strategic plans for the future are worked out.
It is in this science-fiction port, tacked on to the old town of traditional southern houses, where cruisers, battleships, colossal aircraft carriers, SSN attack submarines, SSBN strategic submarines, all lie at anchor.
And it is in this particular submarine, the USS Scranton (SSN 756), 360 feet long, 7,000 tons, one of the most modern submarines in the fleet, where I have the opportunity to spend half a day—escorted by a young ensign with shoulder-length blonde hair, so surprisingly charming that if not for her apparel, the military cap cleverly tilted over her ear, nothing would give her away as a sailor on assignment.
It's a fragile power, of course.
I can't prevent myself from thinking, while the ensign shows me this concentrated intelligence at the heart of the submarine, that so little is needed (think of the Kursk, but also of the Thresher and the Scorpion, which were American) to transform this admirably buoyant capsule into a coffin.
And when I visit the microscopic cabins into which they've managed to cram as many as twelve bunk beds; when I see the hundreds of cans of food that for lack of space have been lined up on the floor, on which people are standing and which in some places cause the tallest men to walk bent over, I can't prevent myself, as I imagine this closed world, so perfectly silent, where soon no daylight will penetrate, from realizing that of all the prisons I've visited, this one may be the most terrifying of all.
But when it comes down to it, there really is immense power here.
The wonder of high technology, of precision, of force.
These nuclear-powered turbines …
This engine room in the stern, which looks like the second stage of a rocket …
These diving controls fore and aft, incredibly complex, which govern the trim or the immersion of the submarine …
These ballast tanks that, depending on whether they're filled with seawater or air, allow the submarine to dive or stay on the surface …
These diabolical thermal pressures that make the walls of the ship expand, contract, or, at worst, break apart, depending on the location …
These heating and cooling systems …
These sonars …
These antennae that are passive (able to capture the slightest noise, the least vibration outside) or active (emitting a sonar pulse that enables one to calculate, by measuring the time it takes for the echo to bounce back, the distance from a target or a reef, or to gauge the depth of ice or water) …
These consoles and instrument panels—I'm not sure if they're used to control the reactor or the weapons (maybe both) …
These missile-launch tubes and these jamming systems capable of tricking the enemy's torpedoes and making them explode in the open sea.
And then the missiles themselves—these tools of death, some of which, like the Trident II, on other submarines, can be equipped with multiple nuclear warheads, giving just one of these submarines a firepower many times that used on Hiroshima …
These torpedoes with magnetic sensors—summit of the art of destruction—which explode not on contact but beneath the targeted ship, and give off an energy from the blast comparable to a tidal wave, the result of which is that the hull, regardless of the solidity of the steel with which it is made, is inevitably torn in half.
The extreme sophistication of all this. Dizzying strategy, technology, logic. The conjoined dread and admiration that I feel when faced with these manifestations of American power.
I leave Norfolk wondering if such a visit would be possible in my country.
I think not, since it's hard to envision a foreign visitor's being offered such a comprehensive tour on a French nuclear-submarine base. So I wonder about the motivations of my guides.
American democracy again? The taste for transparency that Tocqueville, before many others, noted as a basic component of its ethos?
A different relationship with secrecy? An open-society aspect even in these zones that tend to be closed everywhere else?
Or else it is this other hypothesis that crosses my mind when I think I can detect a fleeting gleam of irony in the eyes of the pretty ensign, who is telling me for the umpteenth time about the force of a cumulative strike of the MK-48 torpedoes and Tomahawk missiles stored in the ship: Maybe this open-door operation is, in its way, a demonstration of force. Maybe this kind of guided tour is an integral part of the program of the largest military in the world when it has to deal with a representative (who, moreover, is French) of a country that is in principle an ally. Maybe it's just a case of Mars parading before Venus and telling her, offhandedly, in the good-natured, frank tone suitable to friendly relationships, "This is who we are, and what we are capable of. Take note of the force of your ally before you claim to be its rival, or even its partner. In the era of a multilateralist ideal that has reached an impasse, that, dear Frenchmen, would be wise policy …"
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Bernard-Henri Lévy is a writer and philosopher who lives in Paris. He is the author of many books, including Barbarism With a Human Face, Who Killed Daniel Pearl?, and War, Evil, and the End of History. This is the fourth of several articles.
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