Seawolf Class

5

Commander Tom Garrett, like many naval officers, was a student of history, especially naval history. He was thinking now about a certain old naval tradition— one involving a court-martialed officer's sword.

"Commander Garrett? They're ready for you now, sir."

"Thank you." Rising, his hat with its scrambled-eggs-laden bill in hand, Garrett smoothed the creases from his dress whites as best he could and followed the Marine back to the high, double wooden doors leading to the hearing chamber. Inside, the chair he'd sat in for the past few days had been taken away. He came to attention in front of the long, broad desk. The five senior officers who'd made up the Board of Inquiry — four captains and a rear admiral — sat behind the table, watching him impassively.

Is the sword hilt toward me, he wondered, or the point? He couldn't tell from the carefully shuttered expressions… but the shuttering itself gave him an ominous premonition. And they'd taken so long — over three hours — to reach a decision…

"Commander Thomas Frederick Garrett," the man at the center of the panel said, glancing down at a sheaf of papers in his hands. He was Rear Admiral Kenneth Bainbridge, commanding officer of Submarine Squadron 11, and Garrett's ultimate boss in the chain of command in San Diego. He wore the golden dolphins of a submarine officer, as did all of the men at the table.

Whatever they'd decided, it would be as fair as possible, as fair, at least, as the current political situation could manage. While they wouldn't play favorites here, at least he knew that all five of these officers had been there at one time or another, commanding a hundred or so men within the claustrophobic confines of a steel coffin deep beneath the ocean's surface.

Bainbridge hesitated a moment, then went on without further preamble. "Regarding the events of the early morning hours of September twenty-third, 1999, during Operation Buster, this Board of Inquiry does not find sufficient evidence concerning your part in that incident to warrant convening a court-martial.

"However, we do find you negligent in your official duties as commanding officer of the nuclear attack submarine Pittsburgh.

"First. Upon detecting the presence of a potentially hostile foreign-national submarine within your area of operations, you did fail to notify both the requisite higher command authority and the SEAL element then embarked aboard the operation objective, the PRC merchant vessel Kuei Mei. Such a warning would have enabled the SEAL element to disengage from the mission, possibly without engaging in the subsequent firefight. By submerging below periscope depth, as you did, you prevented the SEAL element from contacting higher authority for clarification of their operational orders, thereby endangering the mission.

"Second. Your decision to follow the submarine contact at close range resulted in the grazing collision of the USS Pittsburgh with said foreign-national submarine, resulting in minor damage to the vessel under your command. This board acknowledges that the collision was instigated by the foreign submarine's sudden and unexpected maneuver to starboard but notes that you should have been more cognizant of the possibility of collision should the target vessel change course or speed.

"Third. Your decision to surface was in direct violation of your operational orders, which required you to remain unseen for the duration of a covert mission, operating under conditions of high security. This board acknowledges that by so surfacing, you probably saved the lives of at least some of the SEALs then embarked on the operation, one of whom was injured and unable to use closed-circuit scuba gear to reach the submarine escape trunk at depth. However, you could not have been aware of the injury before surfacing, and your decision to surface potentially jeopardized both the mission and your command.

"Fourth. By surfacing and revealing your vessel's presence to foreign national forces present, said forces then operating under emergency conditions, you did fail to render aid to those foreign forces — specifically to the Chinese merchant vessel Kuei Mei, which was at the time heavily damaged and sinking. As a result, our government has received an official protest from the government of the People's Republic of China decrying our nation's, I quote, piratical activities, unquote, and condemning our failure to render timely aid to a vessel in distress in international waters. This has resulted in considerable embarrassment to this nation, to the current administration, and to the naval service."

Garrett was having trouble believing he was hearing what he was hearing. My God, they're out to scuttle me!

"It is the recommendation of this board," Admiral Bainbridge continued, "that a formal letter of reprimand be issued by the convening authority for inclusion in your personnel records in lieu of further disciplinary action. Commander Garrett, you may, of course, appeal this decision by requesting a formal court-martial. You are strongly advised, however, that such an appeal will only serve to further jeopardize your career in the naval service…."

There was more to the litany, but Garrett scarcely heard the words. They were out to scuttle him…to sink his career, at least. Technically, and in a rather backhanded way, they'd been lenient, letting him off with a slap on the wrist rather than condemning him to the more formal — and serious — arena of a general court-martial. But by letting stand charges that he'd mishandled his command and his part of Operation Buster — worse, by including those charges in a letter of reprimand that would follow him throughout the rest of his naval career — they were guaranteeing that he would never hold a command again… indeed, that the promotion boards would pass him by and he would never make captain.

He would never be allowed to command a submarine again, and that simple fact twisted in his gut like a knife.

Bainbridge had stopped talking, and the five men were watching him with something like academic interest. He was expected to say something.

"I understand, sir."

"Do you feel at this time that you will want to appeal this decision, Commander?" Captain Frank Gordon asked.

"I… " He stopped. Did he? At the moment, it felt as though he were supporting some titanic weight on his shoulders and could hardly stand. Could he fight the decision?

Could he win?

A court-martial was the only way for him to clear his name now, and he would have to win if he didn't want to see his career slamming into a brick-walled dead end. The "convening authority" — and that meant Bainbridge and SUBRON 11—would fight with every trick at its command. Hell, he might find himself fighting this thing all the way up to the Pentagon, and that wouldn't do his career any good either. The Navy Department would not want to see this affair dragged out into the light of publicity and the evening news.

And promotion boards only favored those officers they considered "team players," those who didn't rock the figurative boat.

"Sir, I will need to consider my options."

Politics. Damn it all, he hated military politics! You could devote your entire life to the service of your country, but once you reached the rank of commander, every promotion, every position of authority, depended on who you knew in the old boys' network, and who you'd managed to piss off on your way up.

"You are dismissed." The words were like a final pronouncement of doom.

"Aye aye, sir."

Retaining as much composure and dignity as possible, he about-faced and walked out of the room. Down a passageway, left past the front desk, out the big glass doors into the California sunlight, and down the concrete steps beyond…

A ship's horn mourned in the bay, out beyond a row of palms. A Ticonderoga-class CG was rounding North Island on her way to Navy Pier.

Garrett's thoughts blurred and shifted. It was tough to concentrate. Seventeen years of service. He was thirty-nine years old, Annapolis-trained. All his life he'd wanted nothing more than the submarine service. Seventeen years of military life, of training, of duty… and now he might as well retire.

Could he fight it?

"Tom! Hey, Tom!"

He turned, aware that someone had been calling his name for several seconds. It was Captain Gordon, trotting down the steps in front of the headquarters building after him.

He came to attention and saluted. Gordon returned it but made a face. "Damn it, Tom, hold up a sec! We need to talk."

"What is there to talk about?" He tried not to let the words carry his bitterness but knew he'd failed.

"I know you feel like you're being railroaded…."

"Oh, is that what I'm feeling now?" He started walking again, not sure where. "Thank you, sir. I wasn't sure."

"Can the attitude, Commander. You need to work on your target identification. I'm not the enemy."

Garrett stopped, sagged a bit, and turned to face his friend. He'd known Frank Gordon for twelve years.

"I'm sorry, Captain. I guess… I'm a little keyed up still."

"Let's head for the O-Club. You look like you could use a drink."

Garrett let the older man steer him toward the Officers Club, where the two took a booth in the rear and gave their orders — bourbon on the rocks for Garrett, a rum and Coke for Gordon — to the civilian waitress. It was almost empty this early in the afternoon, and they had the back of the place to themselves.

Garrett's mind was still racing. What was Gordon's stake in this?

When Garrett had first met Gordon, back in 1987, he'd been a fresh-faced lieutenant j.g. on his first sea tour, and Frank Gordon had been the commanding officer of the USS Pittsburgh, his CO. His tour of duty aboard the 'Burgh had only lasted a year, until his promotion to lieutenant, but Gordon had taken a special interest in the career paths and studies of all of the junior officers under his command. Even after he'd switched career paths to Naval Intelligence and been assigned to shore duty, Gordon had remained one of his chief mentors as he'd worked his way up the promotion ladder, recommending him for Submarine Officer Advanced Course with a glowing letter, and helping him land a billet as SSN XO aboard the Portsmouth in '94. He wasn't sure, but he'd always suspected that Frank Gordon had a hand in getting him selected for command of the Pittsburgh once he'd made commander. The coincidence, if that was what it was, was too bizarre otherwise.

It had come as a shock as cold and bitter as the north Pacific Ocean to find Gordon on the Board of Inquiry convened to investigate his actions during Operation Buster.

"What the hell is going on, Captain?" he asked. "Did you hear them in there? Did you?"

"I heard."

"All of those charges and specifications. It's bullshit! I couldn't report that Kilo right away without revealing my position. Besides, there was nothing in the orders about checking every detail with Washington! I was well within my command discretion!"

"Agreed."

"I surfaced because I knew the SEALs had been in a firefight, a long one. Damn it, we could hear the shooting, underwater! I didn't know they had casualties, sure, but it was a good guess. And a damned lucky one!"

"Also agreed. Keep your voice down."

"I deliberately surfaced on the far side of that freighter from the Kilo and far enough out that they couldn't get a good look at us."

"Intelligence reports that they didn't see you. At least, that Kilo didn't make a report to that effect. They're sure they hit a sub out there — hell, the SEALs had to come from somewhere—but they think they sank you when they collided with you." He gave a grim smile. "The way they tell it, they won."

"I did run into them," Garrett said. "But it couldn't be avoided! I was doing my job, damn it. I was right where I was supposed to be. You know how fuzzy passive sonar range is. And if I'd gone active, they would have heard the pinging and known I was there. Damn it, Captain, what else was I supposed to do?"

"Take it easy, son." Their drinks arrived and Gordon lifted his glass. "It ain't over till it's over. Right?"

Garrett sipped his drink and scowled at the bite. "Bainbridge was out to nail my hide to a tree."

"Bainbridge had an agenda."

"What agenda?"

"To make sure that nothing endangers the current diplomatic negotiations with Beijing. The administration has a lot riding on favored nation trade status for the People's Republic. That means being nice to the Chinese, apologizing for an unfortunate 'incident,' and making sure that nothing, no one, rocks the boat."

"That sucks."

"Agreed. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"It's your right to demand a court."

"I know. And their right to squash me like a bug. Damn it, Captain, no matter what I do I'll never have my own command again. I might as well take early retirement!"

"That would be a waste, Tom, and you know it. You have too much invested in your career right now."

"My career." The word was bitter in his mouth. "Claire wouldn't mind seeing me get out. She's been on about it for a couple of years. And it sure as hell doesn't look like I'm going anywhere now."

"That may be your perception now, Tom. It's not necessarily accurate. A lot of it has to do with what you decide. You're not adrift, you know. You can make active choices. Take charge of your own life."

"Look, Frank," Garrett said. It was a sign of his agitation that he'd called Gordon by his given name. They'd been on a comfortable, first-name basis since Garrett had made commander, but never when they were both in uniform. "I'm flattered. I really am. But just what is your interest in this… in me?"

"What do you mean?"

"You've been my fairy godmother ever since I came aboard the 'Burgh, when you were her skipper. And I've appreciated it. But why me?"

Gordon shrugged. "You're a good officer. Talented.

Good potential. I saw that, as you say, when you came aboard in 'eighty-seven. I believe in encouraging talent wherever it's found."

"Yeah? Then… don't get me wrong, but why did you sign on with Bainbridge's little crusade this week?"

"I didn't 'sign on,' as you put it. I was volunteered."

"By who?"

"My bosses at ONI." He made a face. "Let's leave it at that."

Gordon rarely talked about his work with the Office of Naval Intelligence. Garrett had the impression that he was a senior analyst with the California branch of the department. "You spooks can never give a straight answer," he said.

"Don't start, Tom. As it happens, us spooks need good, steady people where we can tap them for reliable information. Sources. And sometimes we need sources in our own camp as much as we need them behind enemy lines."

"Are you saying I'm one of your sources?" Garrett was startled. But then, it did make a kind of sense. He remembered now that it was Gordon who'd asked a favor of him several months ago, in finding a radio shack billet for another of his proteges — a radioman first class named DiGiorgio.

"You're a friend," Gordon insisted.

"And a part of your personal spy network?"

"More like an old boys' network. I do you a favor, you do me a favor…. "

"In other words, manipulation. I don't like it, Captain."

Gordon scowled. "That manipulation, as you call it, just might save your ass. Unless you fold your cards now and get out of the military. You're… what? Sixteen, seventeen years in? Three more and you could be out with twenty."

"Is that what you suggest?"

"Negative. I suggest you ride this out. Don't try to fight that letter of reprimand with a court-martial. You'll just dig the hole deeper, and you might not be able to climb out."

"Then what—"

"Trust me, Tom. There's a way to get around Bainbridge and his reprimand, believe me."

"How? By becoming a spook?"

"Would that be so bad?"

Garrett sighed. "I don't know. I don't like desk work, I know that much. I've wanted to be a submariner ever since… hell, I don't know since when. Since I was a kid, I guess. Watching The Enemy Below and Das Boote. I always rooted for the Germans in those."

"Hunt for Red October? That was my favorite."

"That, too, though I was already in the Navy when that came out. Sean Connery made a hell of a Russian submarine captain."

"Better than Kurt Jurgens."

"Hell, yeah!"

Gordon nodded. "It's important. How we're portrayed on the big screen."

"Maybe. I always thought we tried to stay out of the limelight, y'know?"

"Sure. That's the way it has to be. But it helps if the public thinks of us as heroic figures. More to the point, it helps if Congress thinks of us as heroic figures."

"Amen to that, Captain."

How had Gordon done that? Garrett wondered. Somehow, he'd deflected his anger and gotten him talking about submarine movies and Hollywood stars. The guy was slick, that was sure.

"Look, Captain," he said, "I can't promise anything. I don't know if I have it in me to fight this thing."

"I don't want you to fight it, son. I want you to roll with the punch. Just keep your head down and your nose clean. You'll lose the Pittsburgh, of course…but there might be another command in your future. If you play it cool."

"What, a diesel boat? An SS?" Garrett snorted. "That's a lieutenant commander's billet." He shook his head. "I guess I could skipper a sub tender."

"A minute ago you were telling me you would never have another command and you might as well quit. Now you're telling me what you will or will not accept?"

"No. No, sir, I'm not."

"Good. This is a big navy, and there are lots of opportunities. Just don't go burning your bridges before you've crossed 'em!"

"Aye aye, sir."

"Oh, by the way… "

"Yes?"

"Thought you might like to hear. That request you radioed back for information on Chinese sub tenders in the area… it paid off."

Despite his mood, Garrett was interested. "Yeah?

What did they have?"

"The J503. Dalang class. She was loitering about maybe three hundred miles southeast of where you ran into the Kilo." He stopped when he saw Garrett wince, then recognized the unintended pun. "Ouch. Sorry about that. You know what I mean."

"Stands to reason," Garrett said. "A Kilo couldn't make it clear across the Pacific without refueling."

"Exactly. The question, of course, is why they sent a

Kilo. They have nukes. Their Han-class attack boats are pretty good, even by our standards."

"They only have five of those, at last count," Garrett replied. "And Kilos… This must be something new."

"Word is the PRC is taking delivery each year on more and more Kilos being built by the Russians up in Komsomolsk-na-Amur. Special order, just for Beijing."

"How many?"

"We're not sure."

"Why? Why the big buildup on diesel boats?"

"Believe me, there are people at ONI spending some very sleepless nights over just that question."

"Why are you telling me?"

Gordon shrugged. "I thought you'd be interested. As a friend."

Garrett wasn't sure he was ready to accept anything Gordon told him at face value. The man always seemed to have wheels going within the wheels.

"Yeah, well, I may not have a need to know anymore, Captain. Not if I'm going to lose the 'Burgh." The thought brought with it a cold tug of depression. He was trying to fight it, but…

The waitress appeared beside the table. "You boys be having anything else?"

"Actually, no," Gordon said. "I have to get back to the office."

"Same here," Garrett said. "For a little while, anyway."

For Garrett, "the office" was the Pittsburgh, high and dry now in a submarine dry dock. They'd pulled her out of the water almost as soon as she'd limped back to San Diego after Operation Buster. The damage was relatively light — she was getting a new set of periscopes in her refurbished sail, and there'd been some work on the sail-mounted diving planes — but the powers-that-were had decided to take advantage of the opportunity to give the boat a thorough going-over, installing new pumps and a quieter shaft, replacing the screw, which was starting to show signs of wear, as well as the TB-23 towed sonar array that had been jettisoned during the encounter with the Chinese Kilo. All told, the Pittsburgh would be in dry dock for a total of four weeks, which meant she would be kissing the water again in another six to eight days.

Garrett wasn't sure how long he would stay in command of the boat. He was half expecting new orders when he arrived aboard…then wondered if they would be giving him time to decide to resign first and save them the trouble of finding him a new billet.

The hell with that noise, he thought. His talk with Gordon had stiffened his resolve. He would see the thing through, and he wouldn't allow them to railroad him out of the service.

That night he had his last fight with Claire.

At the end of the work day, Garrett drove home in his aging Skylark. He and Claire rented a modest ranch out in La Mesa, a few miles inland from San Diego. He stayed there with her when the 'Burgh was in port, and she lived there alone when he was at sea, or sometimes stayed instead with her mother up in Bakersfield.

He joined Claire in the kitchen as she finished making dinner, and told her about both the conclusion of the inquiry and his interesting talk with Gordon.

"So… what are you saying?" she asked, wooden spoon in hand. "That you're going to stay?"

"I know you'd rather I quit," he told her. "But I can't do that. We've discussed this…."

"No. You've told me. We haven't discussed it. I tell you why I don't like the Navy, and you just ignore me."

She returned the spoon to the spaghetti, stirring hard. "I don't think you even hear me!"

"I do hear you, hon."

"Don't 'hon' me! Look at us! We're barely getting by on your paycheck, even with sea pay and hazardous duty! Now you tell me you probably won't even make captain! When I married you, you were a poor j.g., but you told me you were going to be an admiral someday, and I believed you! O-5 pay just doesn't cut it!"

"I'm thirty-nine years old, Claire. It's a little early to retire, and a little late to start over!"

"Bullshit! Al Jaffey got out in 'ninety-seven, and he's making ninety thousand a year now. And Fred Lee—"

"Fred Lee is—was—an aviator, Claire. A Hornet driver. United probably had headhunters jump him the day he set foot off-base as a civilian. And Al is a programmer. Of course he landed something in Silicon Valley. What am I good for on the outside? Driving the submarine ride at Disneyland?"

"You have all that training in nuclear reactors."

"In case you hadn't noticed, Claire, nuclear energy's pretty much a dead issue in this country. Nobody's building 'em anymore."

"Well, you're an officer, for chrissakes!" she shouted. "A manager! You could get a job at any company as an office manager, a department head, a director of—"

"I don't want any job, Claire. I'm a submariner. You knew that when you married me!"

"And maybe I didn't know what a bum ride I was signing on for," she told him, bitter. "You're gone more than you're here. Sea duty three, four months at a stretch. And you just keep smiling and taking all the shit they give you, with a 'please, sir,' and a 'thank you, sir,' and an 'aye aye, sir.' I'm sick of it!"

"Claire, it's not like that, and you know it! Frank said today that—"

"Frank says! Frank says! I'm sick to death of what Frank says! Was he or was he not on that kangaroo-court board of inquiry?"

"He was, but—"

"Some friend! He's using you, using your friendship, and he couldn't even pull one of those strings of his you're always boasting about to get you out of trouble with SUBRON! He's a goddamn spy! You know it, and I know it! I never did trust him!"

"What does his being in Navy Intelligence have to do with it?" Garrett asked, on the defensive. Sometimes, when Claire got into one of her moods…

"It means that he's working with the CIA or whoever, and as soon as something goes wrong with one of their little plots with some dictator somewhere, he'll find someone to blame, like you! It means he uses you, takes advantage of you, and he'll discard you like that if it's convenient! The Cold War's over! He should come in from the cold already!"

"You're not making any sense!"

"Neither are you! Damn it, Tom, I'm sick of this life, sick of not having enough money, sick of not having kids, sick of having you gone all the time, sick of worrying about you…." She turned, looking up at him. "I've had it, Tom. I really have. I wasn't cut out to be a Navy wife. I want better. I deserve better! Either you leave the Navy… or I leave!"

"That's not fair! You can't ask me to just ditch my career on a whim—"

"This isn't a whim! I've been thinking this over for a long time. Mom agrees with me. Make something better of yourself, for once in your life! Or find yourself someone else who can put up with this nonsense! Like a dog who doesn't mind going to the kennel when you have sea duty!"

He tried to smooth things over, as he'd done in times past, but dinner was eaten in sullen silence, and that night he found the bedroom door locked, with blanket and pillow piled on the sofa. He left the next morning without saying good-bye… and she was gone when he returned.

For Garrett, who'd loved Claire deeply — once, at least — it was like a small but intensely bitter ending of the world….