by Larry Bond
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 s
ubmarine 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. An
d 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.