The Shark Mutiny (52 page)

“I intend, CNO,” he said, “to stand before the Navy Board of Inquiry and to tell the absolute truth about the events that took place in the Bay of Bengal. And I shall demand the court-martial of the ringleader of the mutineers. With respect, sir, you must know I am entitled to that.”

“You may be so entitled,” said Admiral Dixon wearily, “but we are asking you to reconsider, in the interests of the greater good of the United States Navy, and its image before the public.”

“Then your request, with the greatest respect, is declined,” he replied firmly. And then Commander Reid shook his head and spoke almost in a mutter, as if speaking only to himself: “
This is not my fault, not my fault at all…I told him over and over the planet was in retrograde…. If he had just had the sense to listen to me
…”

“I’m sorry, Commander,” said the CNO. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Oh, nothing, sir. Nothing at all. I was just thinking and wishing things could be different. But I’m afraid they cannot.”

All three of the Admirals realized there was no point in pursuing this. Reid’s mind was made up. And nobody was going to change it for him.

Commander Reid had no grasp whatsoever of the evidence that would be given on behalf of Lt. Commander Headley, and he had no interest in it. He knew only one thing: He had wished to play it safe, to keep his submarine out of harm’s way, and he had been thwarted by the reckless actions of some damned two-and-a-half, who had never commanded a warship in his life.

On the flight back to San Diego, Donald Reid sat separately and silently, all the way, several seats behind the two Admirals. In contrast, they had much to talk about, because they were both struggling to find a way out of this particular mess. But there was no way out. Not unless Reid reconsidered his position.

And judging by his demeanor in the office of the CNO,
Shark
’s former CO had a very private agenda of his own, an agenda that would not easily be intruded upon.

“He’s a strange kind of a guy, don’t you think?” said Admiral Curran, quietly. “He has that confidence some people have. As if they could never be wrong. By the way, what did you make of that last stuff he was muttering? I couldn’t really hear it.”

“No. I couldn’t either,” replied Dick Greening. “But I seemed to catch the word
retrograde
. Tell the truth, I’m not really sure what the word means.”

“It means going backwards, doesn’t it?”

“Beats the hell outta me. But if it does mean that, he must have been referring to our conversation. That sure as hell was going backwards.”

Eight days later
.
0900. Wednesday, July 4
.
San Diego Naval Base
.

America’s national summer holiday was still in beach-bound progress on this bright sunlit California morning. The temperature was a near-perfect 78 degrees, and a light southwester off the Pacific promised to keep the sun worshipers relatively cool before the fireworks in the evening.

In the shaded gloom of the big office he always used in San Diego, Admiral Dick Greening felt almost sick with worry. He had before him a memorandum, signed by Captain Stewart Goodwin, who was presiding over the Board of Inquiry.

It read: “
After three days hearing evidence in the USS
Shark
case, it is clear there was indeed a mutiny on board the submarine while on patrol in the Bay of Bengal. The facts are not in dispute. There was great sympathy for Lt. Commander Headley, whose actions were courageous in the extreme. However, Commander Reid is demanding the court-martial of his Executive Officer for making a mutiny on the high seas. And Naval regulations permit a Commanding Officer to make such a demand
.

“
With reluctance I, and my fellow members of the board, believe there is a prima facie case for a court-martial, and we are sending our findings to the Trial Service Office. The Judge Advocate General will then decide whether Lt. Commander Headley should indeed stand trial
.”

Admiral Greening stood up and walked across the office to a wide computer screen on the wall, and he punched up the numbers 16.00N 94.01E. And there before him was the exact stretch of ocean where this terrible drama had been played out. He could see the island of Haing Gyi, the swamp, the little creek running through it. He could see the Haing Gyi Shoal marked
clearly, the shallow water across which the fleeing SEALs had raced in their fast but tiny outboards. He could see the low marshy headland of Mawdin Point, and in his mind he pictured the scene.

The Chinese helicopters mercilessly machine-gunning the Americans as they tried to get away. Catfish Jones dead, Bobby Allensworth dead, Buster Townsend badly wounded, Rick Hunter pouring blood, still firing, all of them helpless sitting targets in the open boats. He imagined the terror. Imagined the courage. And then he imagined the sudden appearance of the
Shark
, lambasting the choppers with their Stingers, saving the eight survivors of this awesome SEAL mission.

And now they want me to approve the court-martial of the man who commanded the submarine
?

“Jesus Christ,” said the Pacific Fleet Commander. And it was as well there was no one in the room to see him so upset, as he stared at the screen, hearing again in his mind the staccato rattle of the murderous Chinese guns.

1500 (local). Same day
.
Office of the National Security Adviser
.
The White House. Washington, D.C.

Admiral Morgan was displeased in the extreme. “Alan,” he said, “there’s gotta be some way we can stop this. You want me to get the President to intervene?”

“I don’t know,” replied Admiral Dixon. “The trouble with the damned Navy is that certain things are just like presidential elections—ain’t nothing anyone can do to stop ’em. They just happen.”

“Tell me about it. How about a presidential pardon for Lieutenant Commander Headley? The man in the Oval Office, as Commander-in-Chief, has to be able to do at least that.”

“Well, I guess he could. Somehow. But that’s not re
ally the issue, is it, Arnie, old buddy? The press will want to know if the Navy has gone off its trolley, court-martialing such a man as Dan Headley. As you pointed out, it’s the very act of court-martial that is going to bring this whole thing right out into the open, where we don’t want it to be.”

“Who’s the Judge Advocate General in this case?”

“Veteran surface-ship commander, former lawyer, Sam Scott from Oregon. About as rigid a man as you could find. He’ll play this case right by the book. He’ll look at the recommendations of the board, check his goddamned law books and then decide that Lieutenant Commander Headley should stand trial as charged.”

“Could we reason with him?”

“No chance. He’ll just ask, What happens if the CO resigns and goes public, in a book, which will inevitably detail what he thinks is a cover-up.”

“Well, I guess it would be.”

“Sure would.”

“Well, what can we do?”

“We can put in a massive effort to help Dan Headley beat the rap.”

“But that’ll mean we have to prove Reid is insane.”

“Correct. And then the media will jump all over us for putting in charge of submarines men who ought rightly to be in an institution for the seriously nerve-wracked.”

“Damned if we do. Damned if we don’t.”

“This case was always thus, Arnie. Either we talked Reid into a complete capitulation, which we couldn’t, or we were going to find ourselves in the deepest possible shit. Where we now are.”

“Yeah. But it’s not quite over.”

“Enlighten me, NSA.”

“We owe it to this Lieutenant Commander Headley to help him prove his boss was both nuts and a fucking coward. And the press can go fuck ’emselves.”

“Yessir.”

0900. Wednesday, July 18
.
Office of CINCPACFLT
.
Pearl Harbor
.

The Judge Advocate General’s decision took two more weeks to arrive. And now it lay smoldering on the sunlit desk of Admiral Dick Greening, just as it lay smoldering on the desk of Admiral Alan Dixon in faraway Washington, D.C.:

It was not unexpected, but the reality of the situation suddenly loomed before the Pacific Fleet Commander. This was it, the court-martial of a U.S. Navy hero, whose actions were witnessed not only by a crew of 107 completely supportive, very talkative seamen on board a fighting nuclear submarine, but also by eight highly regarded
members of the U.S. Navy’s Special Forces, all of whom owed their lives to the actions of Lt. Commander Headley.

Their story was already well on its way around the SEAL bastions of neighboring Coronado and Little Creek in Virginia. Offhand it was difficult for Admiral Greening to think of any member of the service who would not know at least a vague version of this melodrama by nightfall.

As Commander of the Pacific Fleet, he was required to “sign off” on the court-martial, as indeed was the CNO in the Pentagon. And Dick Greening was going to hate doing that. But he had no choice.

Admiral Greening picked up the phone to Admiral Dixon, who was already on the line to Arnold Morgan. It was merely a matter of waiting for the press to get hold of the details, from any one of the hundreds of Navy men, and women, who now knew all about it. But the media would not be looking, and it might take them a while. Though they’d sure as hell make up for their lateness when they did find out.

Admiral Morgan’s wishes were very clear: Lt. Commander Headley and his lawyer were to be given every assistance in their case to prove that Commander Reid was in no fit state to run the SEAL escape and rescue from the Burmese island. It was the only way out of a scandal that would surely engulf not only the senior service, but also, possibly, the administration itself.

In fact it took five days, and even then only half of the story was published. On its front page, the
San Diego Telegraph
ran a double-column item, toward the top of columns four and five, under the two-deck headline
MYSTERY OF NAVY SEAL RESCUE OFF BURMA
.

To the connoisseur of such matters, it was plain the writer knew more than he dared print. But the newspaper printed enough:

Accompanying the story was a single-column picture of Commander Reid, under which was the caption “Unreachable.” There was also a picture of Lt. Commander Dan Headley, beneath which was the caption, “I carried out my duties.”

The story was just signed
Geoff Levy, staff writer
. But he had plainly been briefed about the entire scenario, either by a member of the submarine’s crew or by a San Diego resident SEAL. However, young Geoff had been unable to obtain any official confirmation, and he wrote only what he thought was more or less safe, given the fact that he was trespassing in a top-secret military area.

The Navy’s high command, in Pearl Harbor, San Diego and Washington, glowered at the report as the e-mails were downloaded from computers all over the fleet and its executive offices. The media’s high command, almost shrieking with glee, set about pinning the story down. But they made little headway, because essentially reporters needed to be in San Diego where most of the crew and SEALs were stationed.

And once more Geoff Levy’s source delivered and on Wednesday night, July 25, the
San Diego Telegraph
went to bed with end-of-the-world-size type stacked in two decks, clear across the top of its front page:
NAVY COURT-MARTIALS SUBMARINE EXECUTIVE OFFICER FOR MUTINY ON THE HIGH SEAS
. Beneath the headline was the subhead “Heroic U.S. Officer Who Saved the SEALS Is Accused.”