by Cliff Happy
“What about the other seven?” the Foreign Minister asked nervously. Everyone in the room was privy to the grand scheme, and the Foreign Minister was one of the more cautious of the group. Her name was Veronika Puchkov, and at sixty-two she’d been involved in foreign policy longer than anyone else at the table. But she was another trusted councilor who was willing to offer a difference of opinion the President often found refreshing. More importantly, her loyalty was unquestioned.
The Defense Minister explained, “One of their carriers is currently in dry dock at Newport News undergoing a lengthy refit and will not be available for service for at least another eighteen months. That leaves six. The USS Theodore Roosevelt is preparing to leave Norfolk with her escorts. We believe she is heading to the Persian Gulf to fill the gap left in their usual patrol areas after they redirected the Nimitz and George Washington battle groups in response to the crisis on the Korean Peninsula.”
“And how long will it take before they reach the Gulf?” Puchkov asked, knowing the presence of even one American carrier could ruin the carefully laid plans.
“If they left today,” the Defense Minister estimated, “they wouldn’t arrive for at least four weeks.”
“And the rest of their carriers?” the President asked, understanding that it was America’s fleet of nuclear aircraft carriers that allowed them to project military power. Neutralizing their carrier force was absolutely essential to success.
“They maintain five of their carriers on each coast,” the Defense Minister explained. “Normally one from each are forward deployed. The others are involved in either maintenance or training for the next deployment, so the fact they have surged three carriers to Japanese waters to face the crisis on the Korean Peninsula is a significant effort on their part. Two of these carriers are from their Pacific Fleet, leaving three still in port on their west coast. It is believed none of these could be ready for sea in less than three months.”
“And their carriers on the east coast?” The Foreign Minister inquired cautiously.
“The Roosevelt’s battle group is a potential threat to the operation, but if the Iranians move quickly, by the time the Americans arrive, it will be too late,” the Defense Minister assured her.
“And their amphibious groups?” The President inquired, knowing the Americans had a significant force of amphibious assault ships that could deploy—besides land forces—significant air assets to include strike aircraft and helicopters.
Once more, the Defense Minister answered confidently, “As with their strike carriers, the Americans have been forced to scrap their usual patrol pattern to respond to the Korean threat. The two amphibious ready groups they normally have at sea are now both in Japanese waters.”
The President lit a fresh cigarette, knowing he needed to quit. He’d been able to back off the vodka in recent years on advice from his doctor, but he hadn’t been able to go without the nicotine yet. The plan was working. There’d been some problems getting equipment moved. The Iranians were slower than expected, but they also had more time than the North Koreans. On the other hand, the North Koreans had almost played their part too well. War still appeared imminent on the Peninsula. The Americans were still building up their combat power in and around the Sea of Japan, and all indications were that the Western powers still believed war was looming on the Korean Peninsula.
As he took another drag on his cigarette, he looked down the table to the youngest member of his inner circle. A rising star in the government, his name was Vitaliy Shuvalov. Of all his advisors, the President kept the closest eye on this young man in particular. He ran the SVR, the Foreign Intelligence Service, which was quite a feat considering he was only forty-three. “Director Shuvalov, what can you tell us about their submarine deployments?”
The young man didn’t drink or smoke. As far as the President knew, he was faithful to his wife—who he’d married for political reasons. They had two children. He carried no personal debt. His education was exceptional, and he’d gotten a post graduate degree in England. The young man was ambitious, ruthlessly so, and his ruthlessness was one of the things that endeared him to the President. He could count on his Intelligence Director to act without compunction to protect the current regime.
The sharp eyes settled on the President as he formulated his answer. “As expected, the Americans detected our submarine deployment and have responded with a similar surge focused on finding and shadowing our ballistic missile submarines. As with their carriers, this unexpected deployment to match our surge of activity, has strained their ability to project power. The result is their forces are spread very thin along their normal patrol areas. Most of their Los Angeles and Virginia class submarines are under the polar icecap shadowing our Typhoons or searching for them.”
“And their ballistic missile boats?” the President inquired.
“We have detected no change in their normal patrol pattern,” the youth answered with certainty. “They could, of course, deploy several of these if they needed to, but apparently they are holding these forces in strategic reserve.”
The President was satisfied thus far, but now got to the most critical point, “And their forces in the Persian Gulf?”
Shuvalov kept his eyes fixed on the President. His eyes were strangely unemotional. The President wondered vaguely if the youth was a sociopath. He certainly gave no indication he cared for anyone else, and the President didn’t doubt that the young man would use whatever means necessary to advance. It was a trait the President admired greatly.
“Since their retreat from Iraq, the Americans have maintained mercenaries in the country, but these forces can in no way interfere with our plans. The American Fifth Fleet headquarters is located at Bahrain, right in the middle of the Gulf. But the command has no offensive assets permanently assigned. It is a paper tiger that can do nothing to check our next move.”
The President already knew this, but wanted to be certain there’d been no change. Satisfied, he looked back at his Foreign Minister. “Minister Puchkov, make an overture through the UN. We need to stabilize the Korean front. Let the Americans know we might be able to exert some influence over our DPRK friends and prevent further escalation. I will contact my counterpart in the DPRK and let him know they have done enough.”
“And the aid shipments to the DPRK?” she asked dutifully.
“They have fulfilled their part of the bargain,” he responded thoughtfully, well aware that several trains filled with coal, food, and fuel oil were already loaded and ready to enter North Korea. “We must fulfill ours.”
Chapter Four
USS Seawolf, Sasebo, Japan
“Are you serious?” Terry asked, caught off guard. He’d phrased the invitation in such a way as to make it sound as innocent as possible, telling her there would be several other officers with them, and they would simply be going as friends. But Terry had made multiple attempts to break through Kristen’s hard, uncompromising exterior since they first met, and he’d been shut down each time.
“Sure,” Kristen replied, “why not? COB and the XO have been trying to get me off the boat anyway.”
“Great,” Terry answered quickly to her unexpected willingness to go out with him. “How about thirty minutes after liberty sounds? We could meet on the pier.”
“Can I bring a friend or two?” she asked innocently enough.
“Uh, sure,” he told her. “The more the merrier,” Terry replied numbly, still recovering from not having been turned down.
That evening, precisely thirty minutes after liberty sounded, Terry stepped onto the pier. He was dressed in casual attire, with a button up shirt—open at the collar—slacks, and jacket. There were a few crewmen from the Seawolf already on the pier waiting for some of their buddies while others were heading toward the wharf where a liberty bus would soon arrive to take sailors out in town. Terry ran his hand carefully over his perfectly combed hair, feeling the slight spikes he liked to put in it with a touch of hair gel. He glanced arou
nd, not seeing Kristen yet, and slipped a breath mint in his mouth just to be safe.
Two SEALs appeared at the foot of the gangplank. The Dry Deck Shelter had been removed earlier in the day, along with the two TLAM-Ns, but the two survivors who’d gone ashore with Kristen were still on board. Terry glanced around at the crowded harbor, seeing a huge Nimitz class carrier and her escorts tied up not far away. It meant there would be thousands of sailors in town, but Terry had already picked out a place for his date with Kristen.
He checked his wristwatch and looked back at the SEALs as one of them reached down through the open hatch and offered a hand to someone coming up. A moment later Terry watched as Hamilton helped Kristen up on deck. She was followed a moment later by Petty Officer Gibbs.
“Oh, you have got to be shitting me,” Terry whispered and chuckled at his own foolishness as, surrounded by the SEALs, Kristen ascended the gangplank to the pier. Her “friends” were dressed in faded jeans, practical shoes, polo shirts, and jackets against the cold. Kristen was dressed similarly with designer jeans, comfortable shoes, a shirt, and her leather flight jacket. Hamilton had an arm in a sling, plus the two SEALs and Kristen still had deep scratches on their faces caused by… he could only guess.
“You’re so wrong for this,” he told her lightheartedly as she reached the pier and flashed him a playful smile.
“You’ve met my friends, haven’t you?” she asked.
“Good evening, Lieutenant,” Hoover smiled at him and offered Kristen a hand down from the gangplank.
“Thank you, Mister Hoover,” Kristen replied and gave Terry a knowing smile. “I promised the boys I’d treat them to a steak and a beer. I hope you don’t mind?”
“I’m gonna get you back for this,” he warned her, slightly concerned by the growing affection he was gaining for her. Terry had been a skirt chaser for years, enjoying the pursuit of his chosen prey almost as much as the capture. But with Kristen, he was feeling things for her he’d never experienced. Unlike all the others he’d pursued in the past, Kristen had so far been immune to his charm, forcing him to work harder than usual. This had led to many sleepless nights thinking about her. She was unlike any other woman he’d ever known, and her self-disciplined nature, combined with a prim and proper appearance, intimidated and intrigued him at the same time.
They went to a dance club with a reputation for a mean Japanese steak. Terry, despite being a little uncomfortable around the SEALs, soon learned that once he got past the frosty persona they worked hard to maintain, they were pretty normal guys. Gibbs didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable around the two trained killers and chatted nonstop with Hoover. The club was hopping by the time they arrived, and they had to wait a few minutes at the bar where Kristen bought her “friends” each a beer, reminding them that the limit for the evening was just “a few beers each.”
“You’re not drinking?” Terry asked, seeing she didn’t order anything for herself.
The music was loud and she had to almost shout to be heard as she shook her head. “I don’t do well on alcohol,” Kristen admitted.
But the SEALs, who’d been about to raise a toast, paused. Hoover noticed Kristen was empty handed. “Hey, Ell-Tee, what’s up with that?” he asked. “We’re good enough to fight with, but not drink with?”
Kristen shook her head defensively. “You know better than that,” she tried to explain. “I just don’t drink.”
But a few seconds later, Hamilton placed a tall red drink in her hand.
“No, guys. Please,” she pleaded, but they were already raising their glass.
Hoover offered the first toast, “To Chief Grogan, the best team leader anyone ever had.”
Hardly able to resist, Kristen raised her glass and took a sip. “What’s this?” she asked Hamilton.
“I don’t know what the Japs call ’em,” Hamilton told her as he handed her a second one before she’d even taken a second sip of the first, “but back home we call them hurricanes.”
“They aren’t ‘Japs’, Trip.” Kristen pointed out waving away the second drink, “They’re Japanese.” She took a second sip and asked, “Is it strong?”
“Nah!” Hamilton replied and motioned for her to drink up. “Come on, Ell-Tee. You gotta drink one for the Chief. It’s tradition.”
She did as instructed, draining the drink in a couple of minutes. “That’s really good,” she admitted. “It tastes like fruit punch.”
Hamilton directed her to drink the second one.
“No, no, no,” she shook her head. “I already have one tattoo too many.”
“Come on, Ell-Tee,” Hoover chimed in, already having finished his second beer and encouraging her to take another sip. The powerfully built sailor raised his third beer and Hamilton joined him as they faced Kristen. “To Alvarez,” Hoover said solemnly.
Again, unable to refuse, Kristen drank. She paused after a few seconds as Hamilton and Hoover slammed their empty beer mugs on the bar. “Drink up, Ell-Tee. We’ve gotta send our shipmates off properly.”
Terry was drinking with each toast as well, but like Gibbs, he was more of an observer. Neither of them were a part of the tiny clique Kristen was now a part of. As he watched, Terry noticed another patron move up to the bar alongside of Kristen. The man was clearly interested in her, but before he could introduce himself, Hoover interjected himself between Kristen and the interloper. The SEAL corpsman then explained, “Trip and I figured once we tie one on here, we’ll find an ink shop and get you branded.” Hoover flexed his right arm and showed off a SEAL tattoo, “You need a trident.”
“What is it with you guys and the tattoos?” she asked as she took another sip.
“Show her, Trip,” Hoover encouraged Hamilton, who promptly pulled his arm from the sling and stripped down to his bare chest right there in the bar.
Terry could see that the two SEALs, now off duty, were out of control. Or at least not under the control of Kristen. In fact, he was beginning to get quite the opposite feeling as Hoover surreptitiously removed her half empty glass and placed a fresh hurricane next to her. Kristen, who was focused on Hamilton’s antics as he—besides showing off the most impressive set of pecs and abs Terry had ever seen—pointed out his various tattoos.
The SEAL showed several tombstone tattoos which he explained represented friends he’d lost in Afghanistan and Iraq. He then pointed at a clear spot, “And here’s where the Chief and Al are gonna go.”
Joining in, Hoover raised his own shirt and pointed out a couple of other tattoos on his own torso that represented particular qualifications or training programs they’d gone through.
“So basically, you two are walking record books?” Gibbs asked as he studied several of Hoover’s tattoos more closely.
“Something like that,” Hoover admitted.
Terry stayed quiet, a bit amused by the way the SEALs were handling her. While on the Seawolf, Kristen was always so stiff, so proper. He’d never seen her relax, but Hoover and Hamilton seemed to be managing the feat, especially after they managed to slip yet another drink onto the bar without her notice.
After several more drinks, they were led to the table where they ordered and the good-natured camaraderie continued. Steaks were brought as well as another drink for Kristen who was clearly beginning to feel the alcohol. Her usual controlled demeanor was slipping away. Around her though, Terry noticed the two commandos had all but stopped drinking and were now nursing their beers. Gibbs had also cut back, and Terry realized he was overlooking something.
After her fourth hurricane, Hoover managed to get Kristen out on the dance floor, and Terry felt a little uncomfortable as he watched her dancing with her “friend.” Hamilton joined them a few minutes later, and between Hoover and the broad-shouldered Hamilton, they created a cordon of sorts around her. Occasionally, a man on the dance floor would move closer, wanting to join in, but the two commandos kept them back.
“You fellas planned this, didn’t you?” Terry asked Gibbs who was sipping a
cosmopolitan.
Gibbs replied with a thin smile.
“Was it your idea, or did the XO put you up to it?” Terry asked the tightlipped petty officer.
“She needed a break,” Gibbs admitted, “and COB figured we could keep her out of trouble.”
It made perfect sense. It was no secret that Gibbs had adopted Kristen as one of his favorites, and there was no chance he would allow too much harm to come to her. The SEALs appeared to have the situation well in hand and would prevent any would be suitor interfering with her letting her hair down, and—Terry admitted—if anyone needed to relax, it was Kristen.
After about twenty minutes, Hoover returned to the table to finish his beer, but he kept his eyes on Hamilton and Kristen who remained on the dance floor.
Terry watched them dancing. Her normally perfect coiffure had come loose, and her hair now seemed alive as it flowed about her, creating an intoxicating image as she moved with the music. The alcohol, as the SEALs intended, had relaxed her. “Wow,” he murmured, “I wouldn’t have believed it.” Her normal stoic and cold façade had disintegrated as she let the music take her.
“What do you mean, Lieutenant?” Hoover asked. The pretty-boy SEAL was seated across the table next to Gibbs.
Terry wasn’t sure how to phrase it, but said, “She just always acts so prim and proper. You know, totally in control…”
“You can’t judge a book by its cover, Lieutenant,” Gibbs reminded Terry.
Terry looked over at the two men. They were both looking back at him with amused expressions. Again Terry had the feeling he was missing something, then Gibbs looked at Hoover oddly and said, “Isn’t that right?”