Shattered Trident

7. CONSEQUENCES

31 August 2016

0800 Local Time

USS North Dakota

Off Hainan Island, South China Sea

Jerry couldn’t have been more wrong. Simonis was absolutely furious with his new commanding officer, and he wasted no time in saying so.

“What were you thinking, Captain? Your orders were to remain undetected, observe and report! Not to reveal yourself by interfering!”

Jerry swallowed hard; the severe dressing-down had caught him by surprise. Simonis’s reaction was immediate, almost visceral. Jerry had badly misjudged his new boss’s risk tolerance.

“Commodore, I am confident neither side knew a U.S. submarine was in the vicinity. My approach made the best use of the tactical situation and the environment; the other two submarines have inferior sensors and were too engrossed in what they were doing to notice our presence.” Jerry’s attempts at explaining his actions only succeeded in making Simonis angrier.

“Notice your presence!? Even if they didn’t pick up your boat, they couldn’t help but notice the countermeasure!” screamed Simonis. “How can you possibly defend this flagrant violation of your orders?”

Jerry took a deep breath, calming himself. He would have only one chance to get his point across. Responding with an angry tone would simply make matters worse. “Sir, as I stated in my report, an NAE is virtually identical to the Russian MG-24 countermeasure that both Vietnam and China have on their submarines. I took special care to make sure the NAE was placed between the two subs; their first impression would be that the other guy popped the decoy. The mutual evasion conducted by both boats, with no attempt to follow up and acquire me, proves that assumption was correct.”

“And if they recorded the acoustic signature, they’ll be able to discover the countermeasure’s identity after conducting post-processing,” Simonis countered.

“Commodore, if they recorded the signal, with a calibrated system, and a competent ACINT analyst processed the data, they might be able to make a distinction. But Vietnam doesn’t have that capability, and China’s ACINT program is still in the early stages of development, their people only have a few years of experience. Their first inclination, if they find a difference, is that the Russians provided a modified version of the MG-24 to the Vietnamese with their more recent Kilo purchase.”

Thigpen bumped lightly into his captain as he finished up his argument, and subtly pointed to a scrap of paper on the control panel. Written on the paper was a single sentence. You may win the battle, but you’ll lose the war. Jerry gave his XO a slight nod, acknowledging the message.

Simonis’s nostrils visibly flared on the radio room display. His patience was all but gone. In a voice that was carefully metered and forceful, he said, “I am not interested in theoretical discussions, Commander Mitchell. And I am very well aware of your academic credentials. But this isn’t a laboratory; it’s the real world, and it’s not as forgiving or controllable. You’re in a war zone, Captain, and you need to begin acting accordingly. Now, are you going to start following your orders, or do I have to pull you off station and replace you with someone who will?”

It was an empty threat, or at least Jerry thought it was. There was no way Simonis would get permission to yank North Dakota off station, not now, not with a war starting. But, the message behind the words was quite clear. Jerry had lost the collar check and needed to toe the line. Simonis’s absolute hostility to Jerry’s actions had badly shaken his confidence. Jerry thought they had walked right up to the edge, but still turned away in time. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Simonis and his own XO believed differently, that he had exceeded the limits of his orders. Regardless, Simonis was the squadron commodore, his superior; there really was only one correct answer to his question.

“No, sir. That won’t be necessary. I will conform to my orders as instructed.”

“Good,” replied Simonis, satisfied. Then in a lighter tone he added, “I’ve found your reports to be most valuable, Captain. I’d hate to lose the insight you’re providing.”

“We’ll keep you apprised of the situation as it evolves, sir.”

“Very well. Squadron Fifteen out.”

As the screen went dark, Thigpen whistled softly. “Your reports are most valuable. Man, talk about faint praise!”

“So much for ‘I will listen carefully to any recommendations you make,’” whispered Jerry to himself.

“Come again, Skipper?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, XO.” Jerry looked up at Thigpen and smiled. “Looks like you were right. I got a little too cocky.”

“If I remember correctly, sir, I said I thought you were a little too smart for your own good. I never said anything about being cocky.”

“I believe the distinction was lost on our commodore. He certainly was… annoyed with me,” lamented Jerry.

“Annoyed!? Is that what you call it?” cried Thigpen, amazed. “Did you see the muscles in his neck? They were throbbing like that guy in the first Star Wars movie…”

Jerry raised his hand and cut his XO off. “Bernie, please.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry,” Thigpen said apologetically.

“Well, now that we’ve had our orders clarified for us, we’ll continue to observe and report—nothing more, nothing less. If you need me, I’ll be in my stateroom working on all that paperwork you keep giving me.” Jerry gave his XO a quick smile as he spoke, but it was forced, and it showed.

As Jerry headed out of the control room, Lieutenant Iwahashi and Ensign Jacqueline Kane walked over to Thigpen.

“We couldn’t help but overhear, XO. The commodore was sure pissed at the skipper,” commented Iwahashi quietly.

Thigpen frowned as he tried to find the right words. There was no way to whitewash the ass-chewing his boss had received, but at the same time he had to be supportive. “Yeah, well, that happens from time to time with COs that get creative. And one thing’s for certain, our captain is a very creative guy.”

The vague allusion to Jerry’s past prompted Kane to ask, “Sir, I’ve heard the rumors about the skipper, just like everyone else. Did he really fight his way out of Iran?”

Thigpen suppressed the desire to groan. How many times had he been asked that question? And why did everybody think he knew the answer? Sighing, he replied, “Jacques, I honestly don’t know for sure. The skipper has never said a word to me. But you can take this to the bank; you don’t get a Navy Cross and a Purple Heart from the president of the United States for just being a damn good executive officer—however wonderfully you performed your duties. No, our skipper did something very unusual and very important to merit those awards.”

He neglected to mention the circular scar he’d seen on Jerry’s left shoulder after he had showered. In such close quarters, where even the two seniormost officers shared a common head, it was nearly impossible to hide something so obvious, and yet so personal.

“He looked really depressed,” empathized Kane. “Will he be all right?”

“He’ll be fine,” insisted Thigpen confidently. “A little flame-spraying every now and then is good for the soul, builds character. He’s a big boy. He’ll get over it.” Left unspoken were the words, “I hope.”

Squadron Fifteen Headquarters

Guam

Commander Walker stood by the information systems technician as he logged out of the VTC system and turned off the video camera and large flat-panel display. The young man then quickly departed, leaving Walker alone with the commodore. The chief staff officer and the rest of the staff had also vacated the conference room within moments of the VTC ending. Walker completely understood why the others wanted to clear datum; Simonis was still fuming. Wonderful. His commodore was going to be very cranky for the rest of the day.

“You don’t approve,” Simonis spurted without warning.

Walker wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a question, but either way it was a loaded comment. One that he had to tread carefully around. “Excuse me, sir,” he said.

“My handling of Mitchell. I can read body language fairly well, Commander. I take it most of my staff thought I was being too harsh on our new captain.”

“Commodore, it isn’t my place to say one way or the other. This is your command…”

“Damn it, Rich! Stop dancing and tell me what you think!” roared Simonis.

Trapped, Walker gestured toward a chair. Simonis nodded, and the operations officer tossed his notebook onto the table as he sat down.

“Well?” Simonis demanded impatiently.

“In a nutshell, yes, sir. I think you were a bit hard.”

“Why?”

Walker took a deep breath; he had to carefully phrase his words. Simonis wasn’t a bad commodore; on the contrary, he was quite successful. He ran a tight squadron at the end of a long logistics train and kept things moving on track, on schedule. No, a better description of Simonis would be that he was tough and demanding. He wanted everything done at the right time, the right way, for the right reason. Deviating from the approved plan was not advisable or tolerated. His rigid, almost legalistic interpretation of rules and regulations always brought him into conflict with those individuals who regarded official edicts as being somewhat elastic, having a little give, depending on the situation.

“Commodore, while he may have not followed the exact letter of the law in regard to his orders, he did follow its spirit. What Mitchell did was well thought out and perfectly executed. And I agree it’s likely neither the Vietnamese nor the Chinese will conclude that a U.S. submarine broke up the attack.”

“But he revealed himself when he dropped that NAE!” Simonis insisted angrily.

“Sir, you’re implicitly assuming that revelation automatically becomes useful, incriminating knowledge. In this case, I think that’s a bit of a stretch.”

Simonis stood up abruptly and started pacing. Everything about Jerry Mitchell seemed to annoy him, grated his sensibilities. “I still believe he overstepped his bounds,” he grumbled.

“Yes, sir, he did. But he had his orders in mind when he dropped an antiquated NAE instead of a more modern countermeasure. If I may, Commodore, it appears to me that you’re more upset that Mitchell decided to interfere with the attack in the first place, not necessarily with how he went about doing it,” observed Walker.

The commodore paused, considering Walker’s last statement. His operations officer was right. He was irritated that Mitchell had become actively involved when their orders had directed them to be passive observers. And while the orders hadn’t explicitly restricted them to that role solely, there was a strong inference to that effect. Simonis inwardly cursed the sloppiness with which the whole operation had been thrown together. Rushed, ill-conceived, a typical Washington solution to a dangerous situation. It was a response that allowed the powers that be to say during an election year campaign that something had been done, while at the same time limiting the United States’ involvement. A response that made little sense from a military perspective, and put his entire squadron potentially in harm’s way.

“Point taken, Rich,” Simonis granted. “Well, I hope the additional instructions I provided Commander Mitchell will preclude any further shenanigans.”

Walker noted the reduced volume in his boss’s voice, but there was still something in the background. “Hope, sir? You sound uncertain. Mitchell didn’t strike me as a man who is openly insubordinate or reckless. In fact, everything I’ve heard says he’s an outstanding officer.”

Simonis shook his head as he plopped back into his seat. “Same here. I’ve even spoken to Rear Admiral Guthrie, and he was effusive with his praise. He said Mitchell was intelligent, innovative, calculating, thorough, and responsible. Everything I would have wanted to hear about a new skipper assigned to my command.”

Walker was now puzzled. He’d thought the problem had been identified and dealt with, but now he wasn’t so sure. Something else was gnawing at his commodore, something other than Mitchell’s novel tactics. North Dakota’s CO was certainly at the heart of the matter, but he wasn’t the only factor. There was something else, thus far unspoken.

“I’m sorry, sir. I guess I’m not following you. What is it that has you concerned?” asked Walker with a hint of frustration.

Simonis grinned warily, surprising Walker. “Washington,” said the commodore bluntly.

“Washington? I don’t get it.”

“This operation is a Washington-inspired idea, and Mitchell is their local man on the scene. I’m not sure they’ll take my disciplining of their fair-haired boy very well.”

Walker struggled to hide his skepticism. He was well aware of Simonis’s aversion to Washington politics, but this was a bit much. How would they even know, unless…

“Sir, you’re not suggesting Mitchell would contact them directly? Bypassing the entire chain of command?” exclaimed Walker, aghast.

“Of course not!” Simonis snapped back. “But I have to report this up my chain of command, and Admiral Burroughs will pass it on to PACOM, who will pass it on to the CNO, et cetera, et cetera, until it eventually gets to Patterson.”

“The deputy national security advisor?”

“Correct!”

“Begging your pardon, sir. But why would Dr. Patterson even bother to get involved over such a minor issue? I know she and Mitchell are friends, but she has a lot more important things on her plate right now,” countered Walker.

“Because, Commander, she has a proven track record of getting her mitts into other people’s business. She and Mitchell are very close, and she has inserted herself into the picture every time he’s gotten into trouble.” Simonis sprang back to his feet and started pacing again.

“And of course, this will ensure that I’ll receive additional guidance from on high. Politically motivated guidance that will complicate my life to no end. God! I wish Mitchell hadn’t been so impulsive!” Simonis moaned.

There it was, at last. The real reason behind Simonis’s objection to Mitchell’s successful interference ploy was based on the commodore’s fear of having to deal with instructions from armchair generals, or admirals in this case, during a significant political crisis. Walker couldn’t help but appreciate the irony of the situation; the micromanager par excellence was worried about being micromanaged. Added to this was Simonis’s own personality type and sense of responsibility that made him duty-bound to report the altercation with Mitchell, even though the commodore was convinced that doing so would result in the undesired guidance he so feared. No circle could have been more vicious.

A loud sigh told Walker that Simonis was finally calming down. The operations officer waited in silence. Nothing he could say would make the bitter pill easier to swallow. After about half a minute, Simonis turned abruptly to Walker and said, “Oh well, there’s no point in delaying the inevitable. Have the CSO contact Admiral Burroughs’s chief of staff, I need to speak with the admiral ASAP!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Walker as he jumped for the door.

31 August 2016

1300 Local Time

USS North Dakota

Off Hainan Island, South China Sea

Jerry plowed through the stack of logs and reports that had been sitting in his inbox for days. In a way, Simonis’s stern rebuttal had refocused Jerry’s mind on the proper execution of all his duties as a commanding officer, including the less than glamorous day-to-day admin. And while it was a bit tedious at times, in the end it was good to get this stuff off his plate. Jerry took a perverse sense of pleasure when he had to start dumping reports on Thigpen’s rack after filling up the XO’s inbox.

Pulling the last folder from his stack, Jerry saw the bare wood beneath and mentally cheered. It would be a short-lived victory, of course. Since Mother Nature abhorred an empty inbox as much as a vacuum, more paperwork would naturally be flowing his way, but for now he was done. Well, almost. The last folder contained the mid-term counseling forms for both his junior lieutenants, Lymburn and Gaffney, and while the comments were of interest to Jerry, he was actually more interested to see how well their department head did in putting them together. It was a career management exercise for all three individuals.

Jerry quickly reviewed the forms, made a few minor changes, and initialed them. Finished, he had just closed the folder when there was a knock at his door. Looking up, Jerry saw his supply officer, Lieutenant Steven Westbrook, in the doorway.

“Excuse me, Captain,” said Westbrook, “but I have next week’s menu ready for your review.”

“Come on in, Steven,” Jerry responded, waving for his “Chop” to enter the stateroom. “You must have sensed that my inbox was empty.”

The supply officer was the only staff corps member on Jerry’s crew. Sometimes called the “Suppo” or “Pork Chop,” a reference to the Supply Corps oak leaf insignia that looked like a pork chop, on submarines they were usually just called the “Chop.” Responsible for everything from spare parts to food stores, the supply officer made sure the boat had everything it needed to go to sea and perform its mission. He or she was also responsible for managing the ship’s checkbook and ensuring the ship’s store was well stocked with ball caps, uniform patches, candy, and other creature comforts. When under way, the daily meals were an important morale booster for the crew, and the CO reviewed and approved the weekly menu.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Jerry said as he reached for the sheet of paper.

Westbrook handed his captain the menu and noted, “We missed you at lunch today, Skipper.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t very hungry,” replied Jerry solemnly as he started reading.

“We had your favorite, fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy.”

Jerry looked up. A tinge of disappointment briefly flashed across his face, then acceptance. “It’s probably for the better that I didn’t have lunch anyway. The scale in sickbay is a blunt, cold-hearted messenger. It said I’d gained four pounds already.”

The supply officer nodded. “I hear you, sir. I added another fifteen minutes on the bike to help keep my expanding borders in check.”

“I hate that accursed device,” Jerry growled with disgust. “I already have enough trouble sitting there for forty-five minutes, going nowhere.” As a runner and hiker, Jerry found the stationary bike to be a thoroughly unpleasant way to burn calories. Staring endlessly at the same pipes and valves was downright demoralizing.

Jerry continued reading, nodding his head on occasion, then stopped when he came to the last entry, the Wednesday dinner for the following week. His right elbow fell to the desk, his hand supporting his head as he groaned, “Aggh! Steven, you are an evil little man!”

“Sir?” questioned Westbrook innocently.

With a scornful voice, Jerry read the entry back to the supply officer. “Wednesday night is Italian night with creamy bacon chicken on penne pasta. Caesar salad, and tiramisu for dessert. What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack!?”

“Absolutely not, sir! But the kickbacks I get from the cardiologists is a sweet gig,” snickered Westbrook.

Jerry hurriedly scribbled his signature and threw the piece of paper at the Chop. As Westbrook snatched it from the deck, Jerry pointed forcefully toward the door and cried, “Get behind me, Satan!”

“Yes, sir. I’m glad you approve, sir,” Westbrook mocked.

“OUT!” thundered Jerry, rolling his eyes.

As Westbrook left the CO’s stateroom, he turned forward, toward the door leading to the control room, and gave Thigpen a thumbs-up. Smiling, the XO retreated back inside and quietly closed the door.

In spite of the wicked menu Westbrook had brought him, Jerry found his spirit buoyed by the exchange. He then recalled a piece of wisdom his XO on Seawolf, Marcus Shimko, had given him. “When you find yourself alone and depressed, tour the ship, talk to the men; it is a curative balm for a troubled soul.”

Jerry realized that he had voluntarily isolated himself from his crew following the dressing-down by Simonis. Sitting in his stateroom alone, stewing silently over his mistakes. True, useful work was accomplished, but in fact he was hiding in his room, pouting like a scolded child. Wrong answer, mister, he thought to himself. Heeding the advice from his old XO, Jerry left his stateroom and headed aft.

He started in the engine room, stopping to talk to the watchstanders, seeing how their day was going. The entire crew knew about the commodore’s rebuke within moments of it ending. In a ship so confined, there were few secrets. Jerry made sure he visited every watch station, and spent a little time with each individual. He had just finished chatting with the torpedo room watch when the 1MC blared.

“CAPTAIN TO CONTROL.”

Jerry quickly scrambled up the ladder to the middle level and ran toward control. A sailor plastered himself against the bulkhead to make way for the captain. As he approached the door, the messenger of the watch opened it for him. Striding up to the command workstation he barked, “CDO, report!”

Sobecki was back on watch and he immediately pointed to the port VLSD. “Skipper, we have three new contacts. All are submarines sortieing from Yalong Bay, two Kilos and one Song. There could be more in the harbor that we just can’t see yet. It looks like the Chinese are starting to flush their boats from their bases.”

It certainly looked that way to Jerry as he evaluated the track data on the large screen. Two of the tracks were angled in their direction, the third to the southeast.

“CDO,” sang out the sonar supervisor. “There is at least one more boat, probably a Kilo by the sound of it, behind Sierra-nine two.”

“Very well, Sonar.”

“There goes the neighborhood,” remarked Covey. “It’s going to get a bit crowded around here.”

“Mm-hmm,” agreed Jerry. He was considering his options when Thigpen walked up behind him.

“Now what’s going on?” asked the XO. His voice sounded groggy. He looked like he had been taking a nap.

“We’ve got company, Bernie, lots of it,” Jerry replied, pointing to the port VLSD.

Thigpen focused on the large-screen display. It didn’t take him long to assess the situation. “Uh-oh.”

“That about sums it up.” Jerry turned and spun the trackball on the horizontal display. Thigpen and Sobecki joined him around the console. “Okay, let’s head to the south to give these guys some room. Eng, come to course… one nine zero, and goose us up to ten knots.”

“Change course to one nine zero, increase speed to ten knots, aye, sir.”

While Sobecki turned North Dakota around, Jerry and Thigpen started discussing how they should deal with the rapid influx of PLAN submarines. Suddenly the WLY-1 acoustic intercept receiver started whooping an alarm.

“CDO! Two new active sonars, bearing zero one five and three five zero. High-frequency systems, probably helicopter dipping sonars.”

Jerry turned and saw the two datums on the port large screen. They were still over sixteen thousand yards away, but things were definitely getting out of hand. The situation wasn’t immediately dangerous, but it could get that way if he didn’t do something soon. Simonis’s voice echoed in Jerry’s mind, “You’re in a war zone, Captain, and you need to begin acting accordingly.”

“Mr. Sobecki, sound general quarters.”