Shattered Trident

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.

“Nice landing by Q,” he said proudly.

“Indeed it was, and I said so,” remarked Jerry.

“I figured as much.” Thigpen then pointed over to a young petty officer pacing nervously by a car. “I believe your ride is here, sir.”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” Jerry said with disappointment. “The squadron headquarters isn’t that far,” he protested to no one in particular. “It would have been nice to take a little walk.”

Thigpen chuckled. “I’ve already got a working party standing by to load the supplies the Chop ordered. Is there anything else you need me to take care of, sir?”

“Just one, Bernie. Get the COB off the boat.” Thigpen opened his mouth to protest, but Jerry raised his hand and cut him off. “I know, I know, he’ll complain and spew profanities like his volcanic namesake, but this is his home. We can make do without him for a few hours so he can visit family he hasn’t seen in years.”

“I’ll try, sir. But MP can be quite stubborn when he wants to,” replied Thigpen, smiling. Stern, uncompromising, but fair to a fault, Master Chief Marco Pompei was well respected by everyone on North Dakota. He would back you up without reservation if you were in the right, correct you if you were wrong, but God help you if you were just plain stupid. It was unfortunate that his initials were synonymous with “military police,” an apt nickname that no one, including Jerry, used to his face.

“I hear you,” Jerry said knowingly, then added with emphasis. “Make it an order. Get the whole Goat Locker to help you if necessary, just get his butt on the beach.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper. Enjoy your meeting.”

“Thanks, I’ll try. But you know that it has to be something bigger than the incident we witnessed to haul our boat all the way back to Guam. I’ll let you know what’s going on as soon as I get back.”

Saluting the ensign now flying at the sub’s stern, Jerry walked across the brow toward the awaiting car. Behind him, Jerry heard the loudspeaker announcing, “North Dakota, departing.” Seeing Jerry approaching, the petty officer quickly opened the door for him and saluted.

“Welcome to Guam, Captain. I’m to take you to the meeting with Commodore Simonis.”

“Thank you,” replied Jerry as he returned the salute. Climbing inside, Jerry watched with surprise as the young sailor goosed the car and raced down the road at a speed that easily exceeded the posted limit. The obvious urgency got Jerry wondering again. Just what the hell kind of meeting was he attending?

The Squadron Fifteen headquarters building was barely half a mile away. It wasn’t even two minutes before the car pulled right up to the main entrance. Another petty officer scurried over and opened the door for Jerry. Saluting, he said, “Welcome to Squadron Fifteen, Captain. If you’ll follow me I’ll take you to the conference room.”

Jerry was unceremoniously whisked through the security checkpoint; stopping only long enough to sign the visitor’s log and collect an ID badge. Once through the turnstiles, the petty officer walked briskly down a hallway to a set of large double doors at the end. The red flashing light above the door signified a classified meeting was in session. The sailor snapped one of the doors open and stood at attention while Jerry strode through.

Inside the spacious conference room, he saw a dozen or so individuals gathered into three small groups. He immediately recognized Rear Admiral Wayne Burroughs, Commander, Submarine Force, U.S. Pacific Fleet. Whatever was happening, it had to be big for COMSUBPAC to fly all the way to Guam. To his right was a navy captain, probably Charles Simonis, the squadron commodore, and to his left was Dr. Joanna Patterson.

Surprised, Jerry came to a complete stop just inside the conference room. Joanna’s face lit up when she saw him, and as he feared, she marched right on over and gave him a big hug. Awkwardly, he returned the embrace. Well, so much for first impressions, he thought ruefully.

“Jerry! It is so good to see you!” Joanna exclaimed. “The president sends his warmest regards.”

Jerry groaned inwardly. While he didn’t doubt that the greeting was sincere, or that she meant well, the circumstances couldn’t have been worse. He’d worked hard to downplay his political connections. Unfortunately, his reputation as a naval officer with unusual political pull continued to dog him.

Joanna’s greeting would only serve to reinforce that reputation, one that tended to complicate his relationship with his peers, as well as with senior officers. Jerry also suspected it had something to do with the nervousness of the two petty officers earlier.

“It’s good to see you too, Joanna—Dr. Patterson,” he replied. “But it’s a bit of a surprise. Since you’re here, should I assume that things are worse than I suspected?”

Instantly, Joanna’s jubilant countenance transformed to one of grim concern. Patting his arm lightly, she answered, “Considerably worse, Jerry. Considerably worse.”

Burroughs cleared his throat, grabbing Joanna’s attention. “Dr. Patterson, I hate to interrupt, but we do need to get started.”

“Yes, Admiral. My apologies,” said Joanna, slightly embarrassed. As she stepped aside, Burroughs approached Jerry.

“Good to see you again, Captain.” Burroughs offered his hand as he spoke.

“Thank you, sir,” responded Jerry as he grasped the admiral’s hand firmly.

“I trust you had no difficulties getting here.”

“Other than a strong temptation to find a nice spot to do some sunbathing, no, sir.”

Burroughs chuckled. “I’d be willing to go along with that if I didn’t burn so badly.” The admiral’s hair still had streaks of an intense orange-red color amongst the gray. Gesturing toward the captain, he continued on, “This is Captain Charles Simonis. He’ll be your squadron commodore for the duration of this mission.”

The two shook hands and exchanged greetings. Simonis then directed him to the three commanders standing by the conference table. “Commander Mitchell, these are my squadron COs. Commander Bruce Dobson, USS Oklahoma City.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Dobson said, shaking Jerry’s hand.

“Likewise,” he answered.

“You already know Commander Warren Halsey,” Simonis remarked as he pointed to the second skipper.

“Yes, of course,” replied Jerry warmly. “I wondered if Santa Fe was going to be pulled too, Warren.”

“We’re here,” Halsey responded flatly. “Besides, we weren’t getting a whole lot of action in our area. Not as much as your boat, apparently.”

Jerry wasn’t sure what Halsey meant by that comment, but he didn’t have time to contemplate it as Simonis moved on to the last commanding officer.

“And this is Commander Ian Pascovich, USS Texas.”

“Ian! Good to see you again!” Jerry eagerly grabbed Pascovich’s hand.

“You too, Jerry. How’s North Dakota? Have you had a chance to figure out all the gadgets yet?”

“She’s a fine boat, Ian. And no, I’m still working on it. I learn something new every day, much to my XO’s amusement,” Jerry admitted. Turning toward a curious Simonis, he explained. “Ian and I were in the same PCO class together. We had a friendly rivalry going during the attack trainer phase of the course—he usually won.”

“But it was close,” added Pascovich.

“Ah, I see,” Simonis responded, clearly unimpressed. Sweeping his hand toward the chairs he said, “Gentlemen, please be seated so we can begin the briefing.”

Jerry quickly walked around the table and took a chair next to Pascovich. A yeoman immediately followed with a large binder, a dripping cold bottle of water, and a napkin. The binder was covered with colorful security markings, including TOP SECRET in large, unfriendly letters.

Nodding his thanks, Jerry opened the binder to the first page. The title caused him to stop short—“Potential for Sino-Vietnamese War.” And he wasn’t the only one with wide eyes. Glancing down the line, he saw that each skipper had the same look on his face.

“Gentlemen, we have a severely strained political situation in the South China Sea,” began Admiral Burroughs. “For decades, the People’s Republic of China has had territorial disputes with Vietnam, Taiwan, Malaysia, Brunei, and the Philippines over the Spratly Islands. There have been a number of diplomatic efforts over the years, but no results. Now it looks like the pot may be boiling over. Needless to say, the president’s concern in regard to this matter is considerable.”

Burroughs paused as he pointed toward Patterson. “So much so, that he decided it was necessary to send his deputy national security advisor, Dr. Joanna Patterson, out here to Guam to personally brief you on the political-military situation.”

Jerry looked at the other three sub captains. They were obviously stunned by COMSUBPAC’s blunt introduction. Jerry’s own anxiety quotient was higher as well. If the White House was sending someone to personally brief them, it had to be bad. Like Jerry, the other three officers remained silent, still trying to take it aboard.

“Dr. Patterson, the floor is yours.”

“Thank you, Admiral Burroughs. Gentlemen, it is the collective judgment of the intelligence community and the National Security Council that a war between the Socialist Republic of Vietnam and the People’s Republic of China is likely. Indeed, it may have already begun. We do not understand why one, or both, nations felt compelled to adopt hostile measures, but indications of large-scale military action are growing.”

Okay, this adequately constitutes “considerably worse,” Jerry thought to himself, as he remembered Joanna’s earlier dire statement.

“But to understand the current state of affairs,” Patterson clicked her remote, moving to her next slide, “you’ll need a little historical background. The South China Sea has been a contentious area for nearly eighty years, but the current dispute started in 1968, when petroleum deposits were discovered in the Spratly Island archipelago. Since then, there have been claims and counterclaims by over half a dozen nations, none of which can be justified under the UN Convention on the Law of the Sea.

“Military action in the Spratlys had been rare, with only one real engagement. That battle was over the Johnson South Reef in the spring of 1988. China won handily, seizing the reef, sinking three Vietnamese ships, and killing seventy-two Vietnamese sailors and soldiers, most of whom were gunned down while up to their knees in water. Johnson South Reef, like many in the Spratly chain, is underwater at high tide.

“For the most part, the ‘fighting’ over the Spratlys has been done with words and the occasional raid to raise a flag on a claimed, but unmanned reef. However, the harassment of oil exploration ships, oceanographic research ships, and fishing vessels has been steadily increasing. In 2011, China and Vietnam started holding regular naval exercises in the Spratly Islands, often with live-fire drills. This has led to both nations beefing up the defenses of their outposts. Other South China Sea littoral nations followed suit.

“The situation really started to go downhill in late 2014 when a Vietnamese warship collided with, and sank, a Chinese fishing vessel. The nationalistic furor that followed this incident led to the Chinese Communist Party’s announcement in the spring of 2015 that the Spratly Islands were a ‘core national interest’ to China. The shockwaves from that declaration sent every nation in the region to a higher state of alert.”

This was huge. Between the upgrading of outpost defenses and the strong political rhetoric, the entire South China Sea was now a powder keg. All that was needed for war was for someone to light the fuze, something Jerry guessed had already happened.

“Eleven days ago, the Chinese aircraft carrier Liaoning triggered a bottom influence mine as she departed Yalong Bay. The damage was severe, rendering her starboard propulsion shafts and rudder useless, and causing significant shock damage to her engine rooms. The ship managed to get back to the pier, but it took the crew hours to finally contain the flooding. An official press release stated that Liaoning had suffered an unspecified engineering casualty.

“Exhaustive analysis by the intelligence community reveals there is only one possible mining platform—a Vietnamese Kilo-class submarine.”

Jerry was as awestruck as the others by Patterson’s claim. He simply could not comprehend why Vietnam would even consider attacking her much larger, and considerably more powerful neighbor. It certainly did much to explain the attack on the merchant.

“Four days ago a Type 093 SSN torpedoed the Vietnamese merchant vessel Vinaship Sea. Commander Mitchell’s submarine witnessed the attack and his report is in your briefing binders.”

All eyes seemed to focus on Jerry as Patterson continued speaking. Pascovich nudged him, his facial expression begging for details. Jerry mouthed the word, “Later.”

“In his report, Commander Mitchell’s noted a large secondary explosion after the Vinaship Sea was torpedoed. Such a strong blast was inconsistent with her listed cargo of coal. In addition, he also reported that the ship was significantly off course for her claimed destination.” Patterson smiled as she advanced the slide.

“Your observations were correct, Jerry. The merchant ship was actually heading toward the Vietnamese-held island of Southwest Cay in the northern Spratlys. Her cargo, based on COMINT information, was advanced surface-to-air missile systems, radars, anti-aircraft artillery, munitions, food, and fuel for the garrison—enough for the defenders to hold out for several weeks.”

Jerry heard Pascovich whistle softly and say, “Hoollyy shit!”

“In conclusion,” said Patterson, highlighting the bullets with her laser pointer, “both sides have taken shots at each other. However, it is significant to note that only submarines have been used to date. And while we believe the likelihood for continued hostilities is high, we simply don’t understand the nature of this conflict. What triggered the Vietnamese attack? Is the upcoming PLAN exercise part of the puzzle? There are just too many unknowns right now. This is why the president is asking for your help. He needs more information if he is to respond appropriately to this crisis. The goal is to defuse it diplomatically; hopefully before a full-scale war starts. Are there any questions?”

There were plenty. Dr. Patterson went over many of the possible causes: the Chinese diversion of river water from Vietnam, significantly reducing the latter’s rice crops. There were arguments over the rights to fishing grounds, and of course, China’s ever-growing need for oil. The bottom line, as Jerry saw it, be it water, fish, or oil, China needed more resources to support its population and economy. In the past, they’d relied on diplomacy, and occasional bullying, to get their way. Could their need be so great that they had to up the ante?

Jerry asked, “Dr. Patterson, is there any evidence of China facing some sort of major economic problem?”

“Not that we know of, Jerry. They’ve had problems, but have weathered them, possibly better than we have.”

“Dr. Patterson,” interrupted Halsey. “In my opinion, there has to be a link between the events you discussed and the exercise. Is there a chance that the Chinese are using the exercise to hide an attack?”

“There’s always a possibility, Commander Halsey. However, the Chinese have been far more open about this exercise because of its magnitude and location. Based on past exercises, with the exception of its size, there doesn’t appear to be anything unusual about this one. But that’s why you and Jerry were assigned to monitor the exercise, to see if their actions match their words.”

“Are you suggesting that the Vietnamese are just being paranoid?” pushed Halsey.

“I’m not suggesting anything of the sort,” Patterson responded tersely. “It is certainly a possibility that the Vietnamese could view the exercise as a significant threat. Whether or not that perception is real or imaginary, I can’t say. But Vietnam would only act if it felt it had no other option, which inevitably leads back to the assumption of a Chinese first strike. We’ve looked into this premise hard, and we just can’t find a good motivation for China to want to go to war. The repercussions would be huge, the damage to their economy significant.”

“And yet, the Vietnamese have done poked the dragon in the eye,” remarked Dobson sarcastically. “The Vietnamese may be paranoid, but they aren’t stupid. Something is missing from this picture.”

“Correct, Captain, and it’s your job to find out,” boomed Simonis. “Gentlemen, you each have detailed orders for your boat in your binder. But it comes down to this. You are to probe, watch, and report any movements of PLAN and Vietnamese naval vessels, and in particular submarines. Collect signals intelligence in your respective areas, with an emphasis on command and control communications. And you are to remain undetected at all times.”

“Captains, I must emphasize the need for absolute stealth on this mission,” echoed Burroughs as he rose. “For now, it appears that neither side is aware that we know and understand the significance of these events. That’s an advantage we need to retain. Do your snooping, learn what you can, but use your good judgment when it comes to communicating your findings. I know I’m preaching to the choir, but this comes from high up the chain. You cannot be detected. Clear?”

“Yes, sir!” replied the four skippers.

Simonis walked up to the podium and brought up another slide with a chart of the Chinese coastline. “Your patrol areas are as follows. North Dakota will position herself off Hainan Island, monitoring the naval bases at Yulin and Yalong Bay. Commander Mitchell, you’ll send one of your reconnaissance UUVs to the west to monitor the approaches from the Vietnamese submarine base at Nha Trang.”

“Understood, sir,” Jerry replied as he wrote down some notes. The orders would have all the details, but he needed a few cryptic reminders to make sure he covered the basics when he briefed Thigpen.

The commodore continued. Santa Fe would be stationed off Zhanjiang, the South Sea Fleet’s main port. Texas was to watch Guangzhou, as well as picking up any ships coming down from the East Sea Fleet. Oklahoma City was to be placed off Ningbo, the East Sea Fleet’s main base. She was to provide a heads-up for any ships coming from either the East or North Sea Fleets and heading down the coast. It was a lot of real estate for four submarines to cover, but Jerry approved of the deployment.

Simonis finished up the overview of the patrol orders with the sortie schedule. “While the Chinese may or may not be aware there are four boats here at Guam right now, I don’t plan on making it easy for them. As far as their imagery satellites are concerned, there is only one boat here. I intend for them to see only one on their next pass. Therefore, North Dakota departs first, tonight, at 2100. Three hours later Texas will leave. Three hours after that Oklahoma City will sortie, followed by Santa Fe tomorrow afternoon.”

Dobson’s head popped up; he appeared confused. Simonis saw his reaction. “I switched yours and Halsey’s departure around, Bruce. Santa Fe has some repairs that require tender support, so she’ll leave last.” Halsey looked annoyed with the commodore’s comment.

“Okay, people, that about wraps this pre-patrol briefing up,” declared Simonis. “Are there any other questions? Last chance.”

“Yes, sir, I have one,” Dobson replied. “What are my rules of engagement?”

“I believe the order ‘do not get detected’ addresses that, Captain.” Simonis’s voice had an edge to it.

“Commodore, we are taking our boats into a potential war zone. I’ll do my damnedest not to be seen or heard, but in the unlikely event I’m picked up, and somebody starts shooting at me, what are my options, sir?”

Jerry wanted to hear Simonis’s answer to the question as well, as it was at the top of his list. There was an awkward silence; Simonis was visibly tight and glanced over toward Rear Admiral Burroughs. It was the admiral that finally answered.

“The situation is very precarious, Captain. We don’t want to accidentally start a war because one of our actions was misinterpreted. There are individuals who are concerned that a loosely defined ROE would increase that risk. However, a hyperconservative one doesn’t work either.”

Burroughs left his chair and walked over to the conference table. Resting his weight on the table, he leaned forward, an intense look on his face.

“If after every possible measure has been taken to avoid detection, or to break contact if detected, if there is absolutely no other way to evade a hostile unit that is firing at you, you may defend yourselves. I will trust your judgment; you’ve been vetted and trained for independent command, and I’m not about to hold your hand. But shooting back has to be the very last course of action, and only to protect your boat. Understood?”

“Absolutely, Admiral,” replied Dobson. The other three COs nodded their acknowledgment.

“Gentlemen, this concludes the briefing. Please see my operations officer, Commander Walker, in the back to get your binders wrapped for you to take back to your boats,” ordered Simonis.

Jerry shook his fellow captains’ hands and wished them good luck. While Dobson, Halsey, and Pascovich headed to the back of the conference room, Jerry walked up to Patterson. She was standing alone; Burroughs and Simonis were off to the side talking intensely about something.

“Joanna, one last question.”

“Yes, Jerry, what is it?”

“Isn’t it kind of a contradiction to say there is a high probability of war, and at the same time say there is no rational reason for said war?”

Patterson took a deep breath; she looked worn and perhaps a bit irritated. “Welcome to my world, Jerry. But yes, it’s a bit of a mystery. One that we’re hoping you can help answer.”

Joanna looked over his shoulder, making sure no one would hear her but Jerry. “We’re still working the problem, Jerry. Trust me, four submarines are not the only collection assets we are putting on this crisis. What I told you is what we know, what we don’t know, and what we think. I didn’t say it would make sense.”

Jerry caught her slight smile at the end. Chuckling, he said, “Touché. Well, when you do figure it out, don’t forget us minions in the trenches.”

“You’ll be kept informed. I’ll make sure of that.”

“Thanks, Joanna. Oh, and one thing to pass on if you think it’s appropriate. My time with the SEALs beat it into me that there better be at least a Plan B, if not a Plan C. The president needs to be thinking about what he’ll do if this doesn’t work. Because my crew will be on the firing line, dealing with the results, regardless of whether or not there is a backup plan. It would be good to know if we can expect any help.”

“I can assure you, Jerry. The president is well aware, and we are looking into contingency planning.”

“That’s all I need to hear,” replied Jerry. “Give my best to Lowell, and you’ll be hearing from me.”

“Be careful, Jerry,” Joanna croaked as she gave him another hug.