Shattered Trident (6 page)

“But who, and why?” Myles demanded.

Joanna shot a quick glance toward Kirkpatrick, who motioned for her to go on. “I can only come up with one possible suspect—Vietnam.”

“Vietnam!?” exclaimed Myles. “That’s absurd, Joanna! Why would they intentionally antagonize China?”

“Vietnam has a budding submarine force with three modified Kilo-class submarines. The Russian export package included advanced bottom influence mines.”

“What about India?” countered Myles. “Or South Korea, or Taiwan? All those navies have subs with a mining capability.” The president looked over at Kirkpatrick, who nodded, confirming the fact. “And they all have significant disputes with China.”

“I checked on submarine deployments throughout the region. We have good information on South Korea, Japan, and Taiwan, because they are U.S. allies. Nothing matches there. India’s nuclear subs are accounted for, and their diesel subs don’t have the endurance. We can’t confirm the movements of the Vietnamese Kilos, particularly when the distance between their homeport and Yalong Bay is so short. When you add the deliberate sinking of a Vietnamese merchant ship, which was acting suspiciously, by a Chinese submarine, it all but clinches it.” Joanna sat back and watched the president as he got up and started pacing.

He walked quickly, clearly agitated by the possibility. “That still doesn’t answer why,” Myles reminded her.

“I don’t know, sir,” Joanna admitted. “I suspect the Vietnamese were worried about the upcoming exercise in some way.
Liaoning
was going to be the flagship, after all. These two events, the mining and the sinking, happened too close to each other to be a coincidence.”

Myles paced about in silence, worry clearly visible on his face. After about thirty seconds, he turned abruptly toward Kirkpatrick. “What do you think, Ray?”

“Sir, I recommend that you increase surveillance in the region. We don’t know enough about what’s behind this, and that makes me nervous. You’ll need more eyes if we are going to get adequate warning, and more data so we can react properly.”

Kirkpatrick handed Myles a sheet of paper. “I recommend moving some satellites, revising the deployments of our reconnaissance aircraft in the area, and increasing the number of submarines. The South China Sea is too big for just two subs. We can brief the squadron commodore and the commanding officers by video-teleconference, and then deploy the remaining Squadron Fifteen submarines. This will give you a total of four boats on station.”

“Very good, Ray. We’ll go with your recommendation, but with a slight twist.”

“Sir?” asked Kirkpatrick, confused.

“Have the two boats already in the South China Sea head for Guam. I want the commanding officers to be briefed personally.”

Surprised, Kirkpatrick was about to protest when the president cut him short. “I know there’s a risk with this decision, Ray. But if Joanna is right, we have time to coordinate this properly. Besides, I’ve become sensitive to having a submarine exposed for long periods of time doing a VTC at sea. Only this time, it’s two subs in a potentially hostile environment. I want those commanding officers to have all the time they need to ask questions. Besides, sending someone out will reinforce the seriousness of the situation. Pull them back and have Joanna go out and brief them.”

“Me, sir?” Patterson was surprised by the president’s order, but she quickly composed herself. “I mean … yes, sir.”

“It’s okay, Joanna, I know it’s a bit of a surprise. I have to send one of you, but I can’t send Ray. Sending the national security advisor out to Guam would draw far too much attention; you’re less conspicuous. Give those captains everything you can and emphasize our need for more information. Get them out there and probe, but for God’s sake tell them to be careful. If people are getting ready to shoot at each other, our subs should not be in the way.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll leave immediately.”

“Give the commanding officers my personal best wishes for a safe and successful mission, and while you’re out there, pass on my regards to Commander Mitchell.”

3

THE SUMMONS

22 August 2016

USS
North Dakota

Apra Harbor, Guam

It was an absolutely glorious bright summer day. Jerry basked in the warm sun as
North Dakota
cleared the entrance to Apra Harbor at Guam Island. He noted with satisfaction that Lieutenant Junior Grade Quela Lymburn had “split the uprights,” passing the channel marker buoys right down the middle. One of three female officers in his wardroom, “Q,” as she was dubbed, was one of his best ship handlers. His XO said she was a natural and strongly recommend she conn the boat in, as the passage to Guam’s inner harbor was even narrower than the channel out of Pearl Harbor. So while Q and the harbor pilot shared the confined space of the cockpit, Jerry and the lookouts enjoyed the more luxurious accommodations of the flying bridge.

Confident that his boat was in capable hands, Jerry leaned against the railing and took in the sights; this was his first visit to the U.S. territory. It was everything he expected from a South Pacific island. The water was a deep bright blue. The surface was barely rippling from the light wind, marred only by the occasional splash from one of the escorting dolphins as it leapt ahead. The cliffs of Orote Point to his right were covered with lush, thick green bushes and protruding palm trees. He strained through his binoculars to see if he could pick out any remnants of Fort Santiago, a nineteenth-century Spanish fort, or a more recent Japanese pillbox.

Down on the deck, the XO and the chief of the boat were busy with the line handlers as they prepared the fittings to moor the sub. Master Chief Electrician’s Mate Marco Pompei moved with ease along the still-wet deck as he carefully checked each cleat to make sure it was secure. The diminutive figure literally sprang from one cleat to the next, his movements betraying his excitement. Pompei was coming home, and it had been a long time.

Everyone was where they should be, doing what they were supposed to in a diligent and professional manner. Jerry felt pride well up within him, as well as a sense of fulfillment. It was then that he realized this was the “feeling” that Senator Hardy had spoken about during the change of command ceremony.

*   *   *

It had been a typically mild Hawaiian spring day, with abundant sunshine and a light breeze. Jerry was all decked out in his dress whites, complete with several rows of medals. They clinked with his every move, and he was sure everyone would know just how nervous he really was by all the jingling. Looking toward the audience, Jerry saw his wife, Emily, his sister Clarice flown in from Minnesota, and Joanna Patterson sitting in the front row. All were brightly dressed with huge smiles on their faces—beaming the pride they all felt. He considered himself a very blessed man.

Jerry had asked his former skipper to be the keynote speaker, not because Lowell Hardy had been a particularly good commanding officer, but during a stressful combat situation he’d risen to the occasion and showed true leadership. He was also, now, a close friend and mentor.

Addressing the crowd, Hardy explained that “taking command of a submarine will be one of the most exhilarating things Jerry will ever do during his lifetime; it will also be one of the most terrifying.

“Just think about it,” Hardy instructed them. “When you take command, you are responsible for over two billion dollars’ worth of hardware, including a nuclear reactor, and the lives of over a hundred people. You have to make sure they have what they need to do their jobs. You have to train them, get them promoted, if you decide they deserve it, and sometimes discipline them. Their well-being is your charge; and not just the members of your crew, but their families as well.

“And you’ll be surprised that even with one hundred and fifteen or so people crammed into exceptionally tight quarters, at just how lonely you will be. Every eye will be on you, superiors and subordinates alike, watching your every move, your every decision. In times of adversity, you can turn to no one else. Your chiefs and officers can provide wise counsel, but in the end, the decision rests with you, the captain.
You are where the buck stops.
”

Hardy paused to let the point sink in, and then added bluntly, “If that doesn’t scare the hell out of you, then you are either not human or insane.

“Now, I have to confess that I wasn’t the ideal commanding officer. I let the terrifying aspect of the job dominate my thoughts, and it had an adverse effect on my behavior. But more importantly, it had an adverse effect on my crew.”

Jerry was flabbergasted. Did Hardy really just publicly admit to his shortcomings as a captain? Stunned by what he had just heard, Jerry sat in total amazement. Then the other shoe dropped.

“Stop looking so shocked, Mr. Mitchell!” Hardy commented casually. “You’re not showing proper deference to your former skipper.”

The audience burst into laughter, while Jerry’s face flushed with embarrassment. Hardy hadn’t even turned around while at the podium.

“Now, where was I?” the senator asked whimsically. “Oh yes, the fear thing. You can’t get away from it. It’s an integral part of the responsibility that an individual bears as a commanding officer. And though it does force you to think your decisions through, a good skipper doesn’t let it dominate his thoughts and actions. A good skipper focuses on the positive aspects of command, which inevitably means focusing on the crew.

“You see, a successful command tour rests with the crew, not with a single individual, regardless of how talented he or she may be. So here is my one piece of advice, Jerry: take good care of your crew, and they will take care of you. And you’ll know when you’ve done it right. There will be an indescribable feeling of peaceful satisfaction.

“A fortunate commanding officer will experience this feeling as his tour draws to a close. A truly noteworthy one will experience it early on. Given my knowledge of Commander Mitchell’s character, I’m confident he falls into the latter category.”

*   *   *

The crackle of the radio brought Jerry back into the here and now. Raising his binoculars, Jerry spotted the two tugs assigned to assist
North Dakota
with her landing. Tugs
Goliath
and
Qupuha
were powerful, stout little vessels. While not much to look at, they were vital in executing a good landing; particularly in tricky waterways like Guam’s inner harbor. As much as Jerry loved subs, he had to admit they were pigs on the surface.

Jerry dropped to one knee and squinted at the flat-panel display. Shading his eyes with his hands, he finally made out that they were on course zero eight three and, according to the display, were right on track. Rising, he looked through his binoculars toward the Drydock Point range. A range is a natural, or more often artificial, pair of landmarks that when lined up correctly, provided a visual reference that a ship was on a specific course. The two flashing yellow lights were squarely in line, one directly over the other—Q was dead on track. Jerry smiled.

“Captain, buoy three is just off the starboard bow,” announced Lymburn.

“Very well, OOD.” Shifting to his right, Jerry spotted the green channel buoy; it marked the location for their first turn. Just to the right of the buoy was the turquoise-colored water over Western Shoal. It still amazed him that in less than twenty-five yards, the water depth went from more than one hundred feet deep to two feet or less. They could literally drive right up next to the shoal and still have plenty of water beneath them. The harbor pilot, of course, would keep them at a safe distance.

As
North Dakota
slowly approached the channel marker, Jerry could see another red buoy farther behind, with the greenish waters of Jade Shoal nearby. A minute later the bridge speaker squawked to life. “Bridge, Navigator. Buoy three abeam to starboard, stand by to mark the turn.”

Lymburn acknowledged the report and leaned over the starboard side of the cockpit. Constantly shifting her view from fore to aft, she watched as the buoy slid past the boat’s rudder. On cue, Rothwell’s voice came over the speaker, “Bridge, Navigator. Mark the turn.”

The harbor pilot nodded his approval and Lymburn keyed the mike. “Pilot, Bridge. Right standard rudder, steady course one four one.”

“Right standard rudder, steady course one four one, Pilot, aye. Bridge, my rudder is right standard.”

North Dakota
settled smartly onto her new course. Jerry saw the two tugs fall into line as the trio threaded their way through the shoals on both sides. With another slight turn to starboard, his boat was lined up with the inner harbor entrance. Up ahead, a small yard craft moved the boom of the barrier gate, clearing their path.

The concrete walls that lined the inner harbor entrance were even closer than the shoals, but they had good water right up to the edge, and Lymburn had no problems getting the boat through. She slowed
North Dakota
to bare steerageway as they passed Polaris Point to port. The two tugs split and moved to opposite sides of the submarine, positioning themselves to turn her completely around. Jerry saw the submarine tender, USS
Frank Cable,
jutting out stern first from Wharf A. Tied up along her starboard side were two subs, both Improved
Los Angeles
-class boats. To the left of the tender, along the channel entrance wall, was Wharf B, their designated berth. Ten minutes and one tug repositioning later,
North Dakota
gently kissed the camels along the seawall.

As the lines were tossed over to the sailors on land, Jerry handed his binoculars to one of the lookouts and said, “Well done, Q. That was an excellent approach and landing, and in a new harbor to boot.”

“Thank you, sir,” replied the young woman. Her face was full of pride, as well as a little relief.

Jerry thanked the harbor pilot for his assistance, and slid over the side of the cockpit onto the suspended rope ladder dangling along the sail’s starboard side. Carefully, he climbed down to the deck and headed aft. The lines were just being doubled up, and a small crane was placing the brow over to the seawall onto the hull. Jerry waved to get his XO’s attention. Seeing his skipper’s signal, Thigpen walked over to him, gingerly avoiding the line handlers.