The captain at the door nearly dropped his pipe.
Green continued. “The intelligence gained from disrupting the Soviets when they are doing these exercises gives us insight into what we can expect to see when the bubble goes up and we have to bomb those commie bastards back into the Stone Age.”
Green paused and took a sip of water from the glass on the lectern. “Commander MacDonald and his crew arrived in the vicinity of the submarine and covertly chased the son of a bitch, eventually catching him on the surface with a member of his wolf pack. Then they chased one of the two submarines for nearly another whole day before losing him.”
He set the glass back on the lectern.
“Let me tell you. If we had wanted to sink those two submarines, we could have done it and it would have been done because of the professionalism of the crew of the Dale. Well done, Commander,” Green finished and clapped his hands.
Applause came from around the room. Captain Smith turned and shook MacDonald’s hand again, his eyes on Kennedy. “As I told you, the admiral is very pleased with the Dale.”
When Smith turned around, the commander sitting on MacDonald’s right shook his hand also, offering congratulatory comments.
When MacDonald turned around, Kennedy reached out and shook his hand and whispered, “Can a young commander eat crow now, or would you prefer it served hot later?”
“Okay, Danny, sit down. You’ve had your moment of glory so now you have to return to the navy leadership mantra of ‘What have you done today for the fleet?’ ”
Several laughed as MacDonald sat down.
Kennedy leaned over and whispered, “Did I ever tell you about my ability to stick my foot in my mouth? My apologies, Skipper.”
MacDonald nodded. Apologies? You can go to hell, my fellow skipper who has no idea what a live ASW operation is really like.
Admiral Green cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I asked you here this morning to discuss Beacon Torch. I know you are aware of some aspects of it, but every one of you, your ship, and your crew are going to be living it, breathing it, and eating it for the next three months. What happens after those three months will be up to the enemy.”
Green nodded at the lieutenant commander, who quickly stepped to the front and pulled down the map behind the admiral, a topographical map of the Vietnams.
“We are heading to Yankee Station.” Green slapped his pointer against the Gulf of Tonkin.
Yankee Station was the notional spot in the Gulf of Tonkin where American aircraft carriers launched and recovered their aircraft. Yankee Station was far enough out to sea to discourage even the most foolhardy of the North Vietnamese ships or fighters from trying to attack.
“When I say ‘we,’ I mean the Kitty Hawk battle group. The Tripoli Amphibious Task Force will head toward Vietnam.” Green moved the pointer away from the map, and while tapping the free end of it on his left palm, he continued, “That’s the simple operational plan, but we all know simple is something applied to what landlubbers do. Nothing is simple about operating a battle group so every element arrives together, steams together, and fights together.”
Green paused with another sip of water, before continuing. “By June 18—two weeks from today—we are going to be providing air support to an operation led by the Marines in the Tripoli Amphibious Task Force to hasten the end of this godforsaken war. We may even drive the communists back across the DMZ and stop the domino-effect commie-bastard leaders in Peking and Moscow want.” He took a deep breath.
“Maybe it means we are going to invade the North?” Kennedy whispered.
MacDonald ignored the comment, keeping his eyes on Green. Kennedy obviously didn’t know the admiral’s reputation.
“No, Commander, it does not mean we are going to invade the North,” Green answered.
MacDonald smiled. Green’s keen sense of hearing was legend in the fleet.
“Yes, sir,” Kennedy answered.
“But then again I have to tell all of you that the administration is under a lot of pressure. Every day in America demonstrators are tearing up our cities, destroying property, and, worst of all, spitting on returning servicemen. The decaying lack of will within America for this war is spreading. You spend four years winning a world war and it takes six to win a regional conflict? You got to ask yourself whose hand is in this pie.”
Green lifted the pointer again and touched the area of the demilitarized zone separating the two Vietnams. “The exact landing area is top secret—as is this briefing, if you get my drift.”
The captain at the door stepped inside and gently pulled the door shut behind him.
“The Tripoli will close the coast under air protection of the Kitty Hawk battle group.” Green pointed toward MacDonald. “We will detach a surface action group, led by Commander MacDonald, to provide naval gunfire support and antisubmarine protection.”
MacDonald’s head lifted slightly. This was a first-heard for him. Not only was Green known for his keen sense of hearing, slight paranoia, and love of the sea, but he was also known for enjoying the thrill of springing surprises on subordinates. And for being on his third wife.
The news of commanding a SAG was a surprise MacDonald appreciated. So the Dale would have another chance in a different venue to prove as effective in it as it had in ASW.
“Congratulations,” Kennedy whispered.
“Commander, you sure talk a lot,” Green said with a tilt of the head. Every head in the room turned toward where the admiral was looking.
MacDonald was surprised to see everyone looking at him. He was going to throttle this Kennedy before the briefing was finished.
“Aye, sir,” Kennedy replied.
The stares shifted slightly, much to MacDonald’s relief.
“Earlier the same talkative officer offered Commander MacDonald . . .”
Yes, he was going to throttle this Kennedy.
“. . . the opinion that maybe we were going to invade the North.” Green shook his head. “To the best of my current information, which is in the top secret portion of your Beacon Torch operations message, is that we are not, but we want them to think we are. That means we mention nothing of our destination.”
The door to the conference room opened and two sailors entered pushing a small cart filled with pastries. Another two entered through the rear door with a large unplugged coffee urn.
Green smiled. “Even an admiral has to stop for morning coffee.” He looked at his watch. “Let’s take a ten-minute break and then we’ll continue. Gentlemen, I do not see this being a short briefing, if you get my drift.”
MacDonald glanced at his watch as the noise of moving chairs and standing bodies blocked his hearing and view of the admiral. Another pet peeve of the mercurial flag officer was “clock watchers.” Green’s time was their time, so don’t piss him off by being caught looking at a clock or your watch. He had been known to order all watches tossed into the center of a table if he caught more than two men glancing at their wrists.
“My apologies for being such an asshole earlier,” Kennedy said in a soft voice. “It’s the Irish in me. Can’t keep dumb thoughts to myself.”
MacDonald smiled. “That’s all right,” he said as calmly as possible.
“But you should know, with an Irish name like MacDonald.”
“It’s Scottish,” he said sharply. Lord, don’t put the Coghlan in my SAG. I might sink it instead of hitting the targets ashore.
MacDonald stood. “Excuse me, Commander. I need to call my ship.”
Kennedy stood also. “Guess if we want any sticky buns and hot coffee we should push our way to the front.”
“I think I’ll pass,” MacDonald said, as it seemed Kennedy was not going to move until he did.
Kennedy nodded. “I would like to talk with you after this meeting to get a feel for how you want to do the surface action group . . .”
“Sorry. It’s much too soon to discuss how we’ll split up the duties, and definitely too early to determine
how the operations will be divided.”
“I just thought—”
MacDonald nodded sharply. “You have to understand Admiral Green. He enjoys surprising folks with their assignment; more so when there is an audience to enjoy the surprise with him.”
“I understand. By the way, the name is Ron.”
“Plus, I have to sit down with my operations team and work up a plan. The good thing is the Coghlan and the Dale have the five-inch guns we’ll need to support the troops when they go ashore.”
“Just want to make sure you recognize that the Coghlan is smaller—less trim—than the Dale. Means we have more flexibility to do some innovative things such as dashing up the river for close-in naval gunfire support.”
MacDonald cocked his head to the side. “River?”
“Mekong or one of the other large ones in Vietnam.”
MacDonald smiled. “I think we both need to review the charts once we are sure where the Marines are going to land. But I will remember that, Commander.”
Kennedy nodded and then started weaving his way to the coffee.
Motion caught MacDonald’s eye from the front of the room. It was Admiral Green gesturing for him. A minute later of congratulatory handshakes and pats of the back, MacDonald stood near the admiral.
Green pointed at his mouth as he chewed. “One moment,” he mumbled. A second later he swallowed. “Sorry about that. Carrier food is good and it is always plentiful, but nothing beats an Olongapo cinnamon bun.” The admiral wiped his hands on the paper napkin, wadded it up, and tossed it into the nearby waste can.
“Danny, me boy, that was not bullshit about you and your crew with those two Echo submarines. You did more in two days than the rest of the navy has done against the Soviet submarine threat all year.” Green laughed. “Would not surprise me to see the KGB take the captains of those two boats and shoot them both. Wouldn’t surprise me in the least. At least all our navy does is write you a letter of reprimand. Any submarine captain worth his salt would never get caught on the surface.”
Captain Smith walked up.
Admiral Green turned. “Joe, have you met Danny MacDonald?”
They shook hands again. “Yes, we have, Admiral.”
“Danny, Captain Smith was recently selected for admiral.
He’s going to fleet up in a month to be vice commander Cruiser-Destroyer Group One.”
“Congratulations, sir,” MacDonald said.
Smith waved it off. “And don’t pay attention to what Kennedy said. He’s a lot more like you than his comments showed. Just a little younger.”
“Yeah,” Green said. “Deep selected for lieutenant commander and now commander. He’s about two years ahead of his year group.” Year groups identified the officers by their year of commissioning.
“Must be doing something right,” MacDonald said.
“I wonder if the navy knows he’s from a different Kennedy family,” Smith offered.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” Green snapped. “If he can handle the Coghlan as well as Danny commands the Dale, then we’ll have a hell of an ASW team.” He faced MacDonald. “We got a problem, Danny,” Green said softly.
MacDonald’s attention was piqued.
“The Soviets are convinced we are going to invade North Vietnam.” He motioned forward the captain in the doorway. “This is Captain Norton. Alexander Norton is an intelligence officer being detached to my staff. Alex, give Commander MacDonald a quick dump on what you told me this morning.”
Norton groaned. “Sir, we should do this in a special compartmented intelligence facility—a SCIF.”
“Captain, I’m the admiral and this is my intelligence compartment.” Green waved his hand around himself drawing the outline of an umbrella over their heads. Tell him.”
“Yes, sir.” Norton faced MacDonald. “The two submarines following the Kitty Hawk—”
“Are we sure there were only two?” Green interrupted.
“Yes, sir, we are pretty sure. We keep track of all the Soviet warships, so the process of elimination and knowing where the others are operating tell us not only how many could have been out there, but which ones also.”
“Anything else we need to know, Alex?” Green asked.
Norton shook his head; wavy black hair, about an inch too long by navy standards, fell out of place. “The only other crisis continues to be the Middle East one.”
“Shouldn’t bother us; we’re half a world away.”
“Shouldn’t, Admiral, but, the Soviet Navy views the Middle East as one of their growing spheres of influence. Anything we do there, they will react here.”
“Let’s hope they keep their guns in their holsters or the Kitty Hawk will blast them back into the nineteenth century.”
“Yes, sir. That we could definitely do,” Norton replied calmly, and then he cleared his throat. “With Egypt ordering the United Nations to withdraw its peacekeepers and then closing the Gulf of Aqaba to Israeli shipping earlier last week, things are going downhill rapidly.”
“What’s the latest?” Captain Smith asked.
“We received a report this morning from the Office of Naval Intelligence saying the Jordanian Army is massing along Jordan’s border with Israel. That brings to three the number of Arab armies—Egypt, Syria, and Jordan—surrounding Israel.”
Smith’s eyes narrowed. “Do we think they are going to attack Israel?”
Norton took a draw on his pipe as he nodded. “Why would you spend the money, rhetoric, and ego on sword rattling unless you intended to do just that? Nasser is leading the rhetoric. Egypt has always been the strength, power, and key to controlling the Middle East. When Egypt snaps its fingers, the other Arab nations jump in line.”
“If they are going to attack, when do we think they will?” Green asked.
“Good question, Admiral. I would expect something this week, but not later than a week from today. Not on a Friday—that’s their Sabbath, and Saturday is the Jewish Sabbath. If I were the Arabs, I would do it next Saturday, if Israel waits that long.”
“You think they’ll do something?” MacDonald asked.
“Who?” Green questioned.
“The Israelis,” MacDonald replied.
Norton shrugged. “The Israelis are surrounded. We are the only ally they truly have. They will weigh what they do with what we will support.”
“Do we know what President Johnson will do?” MacDonald asked.
“He won’t support them,” Green said adamantly. “The president has his hands full with Vietnam, the riots, and the demonstrations. I don’t think the American people would support a new war.”
“We can’t stand by and watch the Arabs destroy Israel,” Smith said.
Green let out a deep breath. “We have our own war here in the Pacific. We’ll have to hope the French mission to Egypt is able to defuse the situation.”
“French mission?” Smith asked.
“The French have sent a delegation to meet with Nasser. To try to defuse the situation and get the Egyptians to pull back from the border with Israel,” Norton answered.
“And if they fail?” Green asked.
“If our mercurial French ally fails, then we’ll have to wait and see if the Israelis can pull another surprise victory.”
“The Syrian and Egyptian armies are Soviet-trained,” MacDonald said.
“If I were the Israelis, I’d be more concerned about the Jordanian Army,” Norton added.
“Why’s that?” Smith asked.
“They are British-trained. Until a few years ago, the Jordanians always hired a retiring British general to be their chief of the army. The Jordanians are well trained, well educated—in comparison to the Egyptian and Syrian soldiers—with high morale, extreme professionalism, and confidence. The key for Israel will be keeping the Jordanians contained. The good news for the Israelis is the Jordanian Army is the smallest of the Arab armies.”
“Seems everywhere you look in this modern age of 1967, there’s something
propelling us toward a nuclear war with the Soviets,” Green said. “Regardless of what President Johnson may or may not do—and, regardless of what I think—I cannot see America standing by and letting Israel lose.”
The three officers nodded in agreement.
“Do you think there is a chance they may divert the Kitty Hawk and Tripoli to the Middle East?” MacDonald asked.
“There is always a chance,” Green replied. He looked at Captain Smith. “Joe, we should check our supplies to see what we have if such an order came down.”
“Aye, sir, will do that after the briefing.”
“Meanwhile, we need to get back to our own piece of the geopolitical show called Beacon Torch,” Green said. “We will have to let the Sixth Fleet worry about Israel.” He turned to Smith. “Joe, when we get back to the carrier, take a look at our emission control status. Let’s see how we can curtail our radars and communications to reduce detection by those commie bastards.”
BOCHARKOV stepped into the control room. The sound of the pumps operating quietly on the deck below kept a soft vibration constantly permeating the K-122. He made a mental note to have this vibration quieted when the K-122 went back into the shipyard.
“Captain in control room,” Chief Diemchuk, the chief of the watch, announced. Near the hatch where Bocharkov entered, a young starshina made a notation in a green logbook.
“Status?” Bocharkov asked, looking at Ignatova standing near the periscope.
Near Ignatova stood Lieutenants Golovastov and Dolinski.
Just what he needed to take a tense operation inside the U.S. Navy bastion of Subic Bay and make it better. Both the GRU Special Forces gung-ho “kill and take no prisoners” Spetsnaz and the Party-political “working together for a Socialist tomorrow” zampolit.
God, how he hated to have to see the zampolit before lunch. There ought to be a Soviet Navy directive forbidding zampolits to talk to their skippers until after lunch—No! Make it dinner.
“We remain at one hundred meters depth, speed zero.”
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