by Larry Bond
Shimko handed him the search plan. “And while you’re doing that, I’ll figure out what to do when we do find him.”
* * *
In the torpedo room, some of the torpedomen were servicing the UUVs. Wolfe and Palmer were having a quiet conversation in another corner, but Wolfe seemed eager to involve Jerry when he saw him.
Lieutenant (j.g.) Palmer asked, “Did the Skipper say anything more about what we’d do once we found the Russian?”
“You sound worried, Jeff.”
“You’d better believe I’m worried. The last Russian we met wasn’t too stable, and I’m wondering how the next batch will react. Imagine their situation: They’ve lost one of their subs, and when they go looking, they find us instead, camped out right over their lost boat. And how did we know where it was? We sank it.”
“We didn’t sink it, we collided,” Jerry stated flatly
“I don’t think they’ll see it that way. We’re still afloat.”
Wolfe shrugged helplessly. Jerry understood why the weapons officer had been so eager to have him join the conversation.
“With a leaky pressure hull and half our sensors gone,” Jerry countered. Impatiently, he cut off Palmer’s response. “Hand-waving isn’t going to help anything. Let’s focus on the job the Skipper gave us. First things first, we need to find the Russian boat. Here’s the area we need to cover and the XO’s first cut at a search plan.”
It took them time to build an efficient search plan. They would use Patty and Maxine in the search, holding LaVerne in reserve. Seawolf would also cover part of the search area. The trick lay in making sure that every area was swept twice, each time by a different unit, and as quickly as possible.
It was after midnight when they finished, and they finished without Wolfe, who left at 2330 to relieve Lavoie as the OOD. While they worked, Palmer tried twice more to raise the issue of the Russians’ reaction, but Jerry kept them focused on their task.
Finally, when they finished, as Jerry turned to leave, Palmer tried again. “I don’t see how the Captain’s going to make contact with the Russians and get us out of there safely.”
“You don’t have to, Jeff. That’s the Captain’s job.” Jerry paused, then asked flatly, “Do you trust the Skipper?”
“Of course I do,” Palmer answered automatically.
“Then trust him to do the right thing when the time comes.”
Jerry left before Palmer could raise any more objections; share more of his fears. The problem was, Jerry understood Palmer’s concerns. He shared them, and more that Palmer hadn’t even considered yet. Every so often, another one would pop up, distracting him, threatening to take over his thoughts. This time, just after midnight, was especially bad, with the boat quiet and his own mind tired and stressed after a long day.
Palmer was letting those worries take over his ability to think clearly. With fear in the driver’s seat, one’s thoughts would only take dark turns.
Jerry fought his fear with reason and faith. Palmer’s concerns about the Russians? They’d be in international waters. Jerry’s own guilt about Rountree’s death because he didn’t recognize the Russian’s misconception about the UUVs lack of a tether? Turns out it wouldn’t have made any difference.
And when he looked over the edge, into the darkness, there were other demons lying in wait, watching for weakness — his lack of confidence, his apparent helplessness whenever disaster struck. There were facts countering these demoralizing feelings as well, good ones.
But fear and guilt are emotions, and emotions don’t need reasons to exist or even thrive. Jerry had found he needed other emotions to hold his own fear in check. His confidence in Seawolf’s crew, his own competitive nature, and now his desire to help the Russian submariners replaced the negative feelings. They gave him reasons to work, something worth taking risks for.
* * *
Jerry’s dreams that night were vivid and frightening. He was back in the Hornet’s cockpit, skimming an ice-covered sea. The canopy was folded back, like a convertible, and icy rain stung his face. He flew over Seawolf on the surface, damaged and listing, smoke coming from her sail. A moment later, the Russian boat flashed by underneath. It was badly damaged as well, the ice-covered steel hull somehow on fire under the water.
He realized that instead of bombs or missiles, he was loaded with life rafts. Jerry tried to turn and make a pass over the crippled vessels, but every time he put the stick over, he turned sharply, but still ended up pointing directly away from the two subs. He tried an Immelman, pulling the nose back and watching the horizon fall away below him, but when he spun level and looked for the subs, they were still dead aft.
The subs were sinking, men jumping from the open hatches, when the alarm saved him.
* * *
Jerry was still washing up when the door popped open. The XO said quickly, “The Captain’s cabin, as soon as you dry off.” He left without waiting for a reply.
Hurrying, Jerry ran a towel over his face and grabbed his coveralls. He was still fastening his belt when he reached Rudel’s cabin. A small crowd was gathered outside, including Lieutenant Commander Lavoie and an embarrassed-looking second-class, one of the engineers.
They made a hole for Jerry, who saw the XO and the captain examining what looked like an oversized cell phone.
The XO spoke the moment he saw Jerry “Jerry, get an OPREP-3 Pinnacle message written. I need it five minutes ago.”
Jerry answered “Yes, sir,” automatically, but didn’t understand why the XO wanted it. An OPREP-3 Pinnacle message was a special incident report that was sent to inform a senior authority that an incident of high national interest had occurred involving a U.S. Navy ship. Instead of being sent to just its immediate superior, in this case commander, Submarine Development Squadron Twelve, it was sent to the entire chain of command at once, to the chief of naval operations and all the steps in between. It was almost always bad news, but it was designed to get that news to everyone as quickly as possible.
By rights, Seawolf should have sent out a Pinnacle within minutes after she’d collided with the Russian sub, but with all her transmitters down, it had been impossible.
Trying to grasp the XO’s reasoning, Jerry asked, “Did we get one of the transmitters on line?” He should have heard the news from Chandler, though, before the XO and the skipper.
Shimko pointed to the enlisted man, Petty Officer Moreau. “Thanks to Moreau here, we don’t need to get a transmitter back on line. He’s loaned us his personal satellite phone.”
“And it will work out here.” Jerry didn’t state it as a question. He was just working through the implications. “I’ll have it for you ASAP, sir.”
Jerry didn’t run back to his stateroom, but he didn’t waste any time pulling out a message blank and the manual from his bookshelf. The manual had instructions for each part of the message. It even included an example report, a hypothetical collision. Jerry marched through the fields quickly.
Date and time of the message, sender and addressees.
“Except that he’ll just dial someone,” Jerry thought. “Probably the squadron commander.”
He felt the deck angle up slightly. They weren’t all that deep, and he realized they were going to surface. To use the phone, the caller would have to stand in the bridge cockpit.
Precedence.
“Flash, never mind the fact that it’s overdue by about two days.”
Classification.
“Secret, which is kind of silly because we’re going to tell the Russians about it.”
The deck was moving now, side to side. His stomach began moving in time with the deck, and Jerry was glad he hadn’t had breakfast yet. Huddled in his cabin writing a message was not the best way to ward off seasickness. Focus, Jerry.
Subject.
“Collision. No,” he corrected himself. “Submerged collision.”
Narrative. The instruction said to “include all salient facts.”
“Right,” Jerry m
uttered. He started with the facts, the date and time, latitude and longitude, depth course, and speed and what they were doing when the unknown submarine appeared and.
Jerry looked up to find Shimko watching him work. If the XO wanted to read over your shoulder, you just nodded and kept writing.
The second paragraph was harder. He turned eleven minutes of confused maneuvers into an understandable narrative by stating only the broadest generalities. He looked back at the XO for approval, who nodded but also tapped his watch.
Jerry sighed. The next paragraph listed damage to the originating unit, including casualties. Jerry finally had to look up a fact: Denny Rountree’s Social Security number and date of birth. The rest of it, the details of the collision, personally experienced and then hashed over for two days, might as well be encoded in his DNA.
The final paragraph was damage to the other unit. He paused only for a moment, but it was no time to mince words. “Heavily damaged, may be down.”
“Add this at the end,” Shimko dictated. “Performing search at location of collision, will coordinate with rescue forces when they arrive.”
As Jerry wrote, he muttered, “Yeah, Russian rescue forces.”
Shimko shrugged. “Wise man says, ‘Man with burning mustache happy whoever shaves him.’”
Jerry handed him the message form. “Is the Captain going to send this?”
“Hell, no. He’s on the horn with the squadron commander right now. As soon as he’s finished, I’ll show this to him and get his approval. Have one of your ITs standing by to go topside and read it over the phone.”
“Aye, sir.” Shimko disappeared, heading for ops first level. Jerry made a quick call to radio, then followed him.
Rudel was coming down the ladder from the bridge access trunk. His foul weather gear was dripping wet, and a blast of cold air swirled down with him.
The XO handed the skipper a towel, meanwhile yelling up the ladder for “you knuckleheads” to “shut the damn hatch.” He was rewarded with a heavy clunk.
Rudel stripped off the wet gear and handed it to the watch, then accepted the message from the XO. He read it quickly, ignoring the sailor mopping the water around him.
Lieutenant Chandler showed up with IT2 Solomon, one of the radiomen, in tow. “I heard about the sat phone,” Chandler told Jerry. “We’ll send Solomon up whenever you’re ready.”
“The Skipper’s reviewing the OPREP-3 message right now. I know we’ve got a pile of outgoing messages that haven’t been sent, to include a detailed casualty report. Pull out any important ones and get them to Solomon.”
“You mean like the list of repair parts for the SATCOM transmitters?” Chandler asked.
“That’s the second message to go out.” Shimko had listened to their conversation. “We’ll keep the boat surfaced for ten minutes. Then we’re pulling the plug.”
Rudel had heard them as well. “And send another man up there with Solomon to keep the rain off, or he’ll never be able to work.”
Chandler and Jerry both said, “Understood,” and Chandler disappeared. The captain, XO and Jerry waddled down to control; the rough seas made even walking an exercise. Jerry checked his watch and reassured his digestive system that it only had to hang on for another ten minutes.
Once in control, he braced himself against the chart table and listened as the XO asked Rudel about his conversation with the squadron commander. He wasn’t eavesdropping. As one of the more senior officers on the boat, he was being included.
Shimko prompted Rudel by asking, “Did Captain Jackson have any orders for us?”
Rudel almost laughed, but he didn’t sound happy. “Orders? By the time I’d finished briefing him, he could barely speak.” He stopped briefly, then said, “Imagine your kid calls and tells you that he’s been in an accident, that he’s wrecked the car and hurt someone, and that it was his fault.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Skipper,” Shimko stated softly.
Chandler and another radioman showed up with a plastic binder. Both enlisted men hurriedly pulled on their foul-weather gear, and armed with the phone number of the Atlantic Fleet Message Center, proceeded up to the first deck to the bridge access trunk.
“Jackson says he’ll arrange to get us transmitter parts and anything else we need, possibly through the Russians.”
“So they’ll tell the Russians we’re here?” Jerry spoke without thinking, out of habit. It felt weird, like the Navy was betraying their presence, but then they weren’t covert now.
Rudel was understanding. “It goes against my grain, too, but the Navy’s got almost a day to bring the Russians up to speed. Knowing that we’re in the area will help prevent an incident.” Then Rudel corrected himself, “. another incident.”
“He’s also endorsing my decision to return to the collision site. He agrees it’s the right thing to do, but he also feels that it will open up the biggest can of worms since Vincennes shot down that Iranian airliner in 1988.”
Jerry tried to imagine the reaction back home. Crippled U.S. sub. Missing Russian sub. CNN. State Department. International relations. Media feeding frenzy. His sister Clarice in Minnesota. His uncle the senator. What would they think?
The two ITs scrambled down the ladder, and one of Jerry’s quartermasters went up to disconnect the suitcase. They were submerging; thank Neptune and all the other gods of the sea.
They’d found a way to report, to tell the Navy what was happening, and that was a good thing. But part of him was very sad, a strange feeling considering the circumstances. He thought about it for a while, and realized it was because of the special incident report. He remembered a half-formed thought pushed aside while he was writing the message, but now he had the time to consider it fully.
It would take a little time to go through channels, but sometime tomorrow, Denny Rountree’s parents in Florida were going to get the terrible news that their son was dead.
13. HOME FRONT
6 October 2008 10:55 AM
OPNAV N77 Director, Submarine Warfare Division Main Office, Fourth Floor, A Ring, the Pentagon
“Yes, sir. I’m watching the news as well. No, sir. I have no idea how they found out so quickly. My staff and I only got the word late last night from Norfolk.”
Captain William Richardson, USN, spun in his chair at a knock and waved the yeoman into his office. Petty Officer Second Class Michaels walked in and held up a binder with a colorful title page and CD in a plastic case, smiling.
Richardson smiled back and gave him a thumbs-up even as he continued the conversation. “Admiral Keller is due to land in about an hour and a half. We have a briefing scheduled for him at 1400. I understand, sir. I’m sure he would want you there as well. Yes, sir. Of course not, sir. Someone will meet your plane and bring you straight here. Thank you, sir.”
Richardson slammed the phone down, stood and grabbed his service dress blue uniform blouse. “We’ll need another car at Andrews in half an hour. SUBGRU Two will be landing at 1125 from New London and he will join the admiral for the brief.”
Michaels handed over the combined package with one hand and reached for Richardson’s phone with the other. “He didn’t give us a lot of warning.”
“We’re lucky he called to complain about the television coverage. Someone in New London was supposed to phone ahead.”
Michaels nodded as he punched the buttons.
Richardson finished buttoning his coat and quickly flipped through the hard copy of the presentation. “And this has the stuff from BUPERS, the shots of Rudel and his service record?”
“Third slide. This is OPNAV N77 at the Pentagon. The executive assistant needs a driver to meet Rear Admiral Jeffrey Sloan, Commander Submarine Group Two, at Andrews at 1125. No, I’m not kidding. Our extension is 4257, and it’s room 4A720. Thank you.”
While Michaels ordered the car, Richardson hurriedly stuffed the binder, a stack of papers, and a laptop into his briefcase. He finished as the YN2 hung up. “Hernandez is at the Mall E
ntrance waiting for you. And Lieutenant Meeks has already left to meet Rear Admiral Keller.”
“Good.” Richardson headed for the door. “And now we’ll need two flag-rank reservations for tonight instead of one.”
“I’ll see to it, sir. Good luck at the White House.”
Richardson stopped to check his uniform and reflexively glanced at the television mounted in the corner. It showed a black-and-white video image of a submarine plowing through the water. The legend below said “USS Thresher.” He shuddered, grabbed his uniform cover, and yanked on the doorknob.
He hadn’t taken three steps down the hallway when a woman’s voice behind him called out, “Captain Bill! I just heard the news.”
He turned to see a tall woman walking quickly to catch up. Her expensive dark-colored suit made her ash-blond hair look all the brighter. Richardson waited the few moments it took for her to catch up. “Dr. Patterson, it’s good to see you.”
Richardson turned back and resumed walking. If he hurried, he’d make the briefing on time.
Patterson matched his stride easily. She was half an inch taller. “I just came from the CNO Intel Plot. They brought me up to speed on Seawolf’s mission and the incident.”
“What? Oh, of course.” Richardson corrected his initial reaction. Seawolf’s mission was highly classified, but Dr. Patterson certainly had the necessary clearances.
“Pardon me if I hurry, Doctor, but I have a briefing at the White House.”
“Yes, the NSC meeting at 1130. I won’t slow you down.”
“Thank you. I’ve got to get there early. I’ll be presenting. ” Richardson actually stopped walking. “Are you going to be at the meeting?”
“I think the Navy would want me to be there,” Patterson answered matter-of-factly.
Richardson started walking again, maybe a little faster than before, and thinking faster still. He was due to brief the National Security Council in less than an hour about the Seawolf crisis. He’d been invited as the navy’s senior submarine representative, since the director and deputy director were both on travel. He’d reviewed Seawolf’s mission, what they knew of her damage, and what the Navy’s options were for dealing with the crisis.