The Gray Ship

by Russell Moran

  "Part two involves you, Jack, on specific recommendation from the Secretary of the Navy. You must have made quite an impression on him."

  "It will be your mission, Jack, to write a series of newspaper articles describing the 20 ships of the Gray Fleet, where they were sighted, what they look like, and what they're capable of. These stories will be fed to all of the major Union newspapers. The Administration feels that it's not necessary to try to leak these articles to the Confederacy because Southern spies will take care of that. The whole idea is to strike fear into the hearts of the Confederate government. As one of our salty officers in Engineering puts it, our job is to 'fuck with their heads.' "

  Jack put down his coffee. He rubbed his face with his hands. He then picked up the coffee and took another sip.

  "Ashl...Captain, you're asking me to do something that rubs against every rule I've made for myself as a writer. At Columbia Journalism, if there is one thing they pounded into our heads, it's that you simply don't lie. If there's a story, interview the people involved, and get two back-up sources before you go to press. I've done the same in my books. Nothing went in until I made sure it was accurate. Now you're asking me to sit down and pound out lies."

  "I expected that you would have problems with this, Jack, because you're a man of integrity." Which is one of the things I love about you. Stop, stop. Stay focused.

  "May I ask you to consider a few things?" said Ashley.

  "Of course, Captain," said Jack, the recipient of a full Ashley Patterson Eye Job.

  "First, you will not write the articles over your own byline. With all due respects, my celebrity friend, nobody in the nineteenth-century has the foggiest idea who you are. You will essentially be a ghost writer. Second, you've written a few novels, yes?"

  "Yes, I've written three novels."

  "Is fiction a lie, or is it just telling a story?" Ashley asked. Jack raised his coffee cup and nodded his head to Ashley as if to ask if she wanted another. Ashley shook her head, while Jack bought some time by going to the coffee pot. This woman would make a great lawyer, Jack thought. "Well, yes, Captain, fiction is storytelling, but fiction never disguises itself as truth."

  Ashley then fired the broadside.

  "Jack, my job is to kill the enemy. Your job is to confuse them. The more you confuse them, the fewer I have to kill. The fewer I have to kill, the quicker we can get the hell out of here and go back to where we came from. Is that really an ethical problem?"

  "When do I start, Captain?"

  Chapter 40

  "Captain, a moment of your time, Ma'am?" Bradley said.

  "Yes, please come up to my office, Commander."

  Since the incident in the wardroom when he had confronted the captain in public, Bradley felt ostracized. His feeling was accurate. To any observer, and there were a lot of them, it was obvious that Captain Patterson had unofficially appointed the navigator, Ivan Campbell, as the executive officer. Campbell had led the first delegation to the Navy Department, conducted the tour of the ship, and accompanied the captain on her visit with Lincoln. The only thing that tempered Bradley's seething resentment was his plan to defect to the Confederacy. Don't get mad, get even, Bradley recalled the old saying. It's time to calm down, suck it up and get the job done, Bradley thought.

  "What is it, Commander?" Ashley asked. She no longer called him by his first name, the common way a captain addresses her senior officers.

  "Captain, I just wanted you to know that I've prepared a detailed project flow diagram with what I know about Operation Gray Ships. It occurred to me that there's a lot of moveable parts and I thought that a detailed timeline would be useful." He handed her the spreadsheet that he had prepared, with blanks representing the details he didn't know. He didn't know a lot because he was effectively left outside of the command loop.

  "Thank you, Commander. This will be very useful."

  Bradley then said, "Captain, I never formally apologized for making an ass of myself in the wardroom a few days ago, and I want you to know that I am sorry for getting totally out of line. I'll make this public in the wardroom if you wish, Ma'am."

  "Well, thank you, Commander. I accept your apology. A public apology won't be necessary."

  Every synapse in Ashley's brain fired. Can I trust this guy, she thought, or does he have something up his sleeve? She hated not being able to trust a senior officer, especially one who is technically second in command. But Operation Gray Ships was an open secret, she thought, and Bradley does have excellent organizational skills.

  "Please check with Nick Wartella in Engineering. He'll our plans for appearance changes. This is a project that needs careful tracking." Ashley knew that with Wartella and the two officers in charge of the project there was nothing to worry about, but another set of eyes wasn't a bad idea. But something in the part of Ashley's brain that controlled trust was not functioning properly with this guy.

  "Aye aye, Captain," said Bradley.

  Bradley thought Ashley was easy to manipulate.

  Ashley thought Bradley was a snake.

  Chapter 41

  Within moments of the California's disappearance, Frank Orzo, Duty Officer at NavOps, had addressed everyone in the room, reminding them that the information about the California's disappearance was secret. It would be up to the Department of Defense or the White House when and if it would be announced to the press.

  Petty Officer Third Class Toby Miller was on duty at NavOps. His job was to monitor one of the screens showing the position of ships and report to Orzo. He nonchalantly took out his IPhone, and, in complete violation of policy, texted his sister-in-law Janet Miller, who had just landed a job in the marketing department of The New York Times: "One of our ships, USS California, is missing. GFF (go fucking figure)." He thought this wasn't a problem because she wasn't a reporter. He just loved to impress her with his important job at the Pentagon.

  ***

  Captain Vera Esposito, aide to Chief of Naval Operations, answered the phone. Ray Cohen, a reporter with The New York Times was on the line. Admiral Roughead told her to stall while he called Secretary of Defense. Gates put him on hold while he patched through a conference call to the White House. Chief of Staff Bill Daley picked up and patched in Press Secretary Jay Carney. Everyone on the conference call knew one thing – if you try to put a cat back in the bag, you will get scratched and bitten. Bill Daley said to Gates, "I think Admiral Roughead should tell the Times what's going on." All agreed.

  White House staffers, especially the Chief of Staff and the Press Secretary, hate to see breaking news of national security on TV. But you can't unleak a leak, they all knew. Daley ended the call by saying, "I want the name of the turd who leaked this."

  Admiral Roughead picked up reporter Cohen's call and told him what they knew. The California was missing, and a massive sea rescue operation was underway. Within minutes of The New York Times exclusive being posted to its online edition, every major news outlet in the world had picked up on the story.

  Janet Miller, marketing assistant at The New York Times and Petty Officer Miller's sister-in-law, was surprised when she got a major promotion to the newsroom within two days.

  The California has been missing for 25 minutes

  Chapter 42

  Commander Bradley walked through the compartment where the SEALs were just finishing their morning exercises. He approached Lieutenant Conroy and said good morning.

  "Good morning, Sir," said Conroy.

  "I'd like a few minutes of your time in my office, Lieutenant."

  After he showered and changed, Conroy reported to Bradley's office. "We have some concerns, Lieutenant, about our upcoming engagements." Conroy assumed the "we" meant the top brass on the ship, including Captain Patterson, although Bradley had not discussed what he was about to reveal with anyone. "As I'm sure you've been told, Lieutenant, the California is going to assist in the Battle of Bull Run in July. The SEALs' involvement hasn't been officially determined yet, but we know that yo
u will have an important role in the operation."

  "I've assumed that, Sir. That's why I've ordered extra physical training and weapons readiness drills."

  "Weapons readiness is a big concern, Lieutenant. When the battle begins, the California will be at sea, many miles from the scene, and there's no way we can get a ship this large up Bull Run Creek. We need to come up with a plan to get a weapons cache ashore way in advance of the battle. I've checked with the weapons department and they showed me how many weapons and ammo can fit in a couple of Zodiacs and rafts. We can set up a camouflaged weapons depot with a hardened perimeter and a small security force consisting of SEALs and some sailors to help with moving the weapons. We have no idea what sea conditions will be like on the eve of battle, so if we wait until then to load up the Zodiacs, we'll risk compromising the mission. Besides, I'm sure that part of your objective will be to plant lasers to guide in the missiles and bombs. That will take advance preparation."

  Conroy looked at the desk and scratched his head. "That sounds like a workable plan, Sir. I'm just worried about setting up a large weapons cache in hostile territory. We have the better weapons, that's for sure, but if they send a cavalry brigade against us we could have a big problem."

  "You will have support from the Apache attack helicopter as well as the helicopter drones. I wouldn't worry about it."

  The idea had a lot going for it, Conroy had to admit. "I'll prepare a written plan and submit it to you, Sir."

  "Don't worry about the sailors who will accompany the SEAL squad, Lieutenant. I will hand pick them myself."

  Chapter 43

  Father Rick stood in the chow line preparing for lunch with the crew. He looked up to see Supply Officer Valente's sign of the day. It read:

  "If Any of Our Culinary Selections Don't Meet with Your Complete Approval, JOIN THE ARMY!"

  As he walked across the mess hall he met Dominic Valente.

  "Dom, I have to tell you how much I love your little daily food announcements. This crew needs a few laughs."

  "Yes, Padre, they do need laughs. What I'm hearing from the crew isn't good. These people want to go home. I can't say I blame them. Please keep coming to the mess hall. These sailors love to see you. I'll personally serve you an extra dessert."

  Fr. Rick laughed. "Thanks for the input, Dom, and keep up with the great signs. How are we doing with supplies?"

  "It's becoming a problem, Father. A Union supply ship pulled alongside the last time we were outside of Washington. What I have on my normal list of items doesn't square with what they have to offer. Come July I think my Selection of the Day sign will read, "Wormhole Road Kill."

  Father Rick laughed. "I can't wait."

  Sampson made it a rule to sit with a different group of sailors at each meal. He spotted a group he hadn't dined with before and walked toward the table. "Please have a seat, Padre," said Petty Officer Tyrone Jones. Jones introduced the chaplain to each of the eight sailors at the table, although Father Rick already knew their names. "So what's new, Padre?" asked Jones.

  "Well, a horse walks into a bar and the bartender says 'Why the Long Face'?" The uproarious laughter told the chaplain that they had never heard the old joke before. "Haven't you guys ever heard of Henny Youngman?" asked Father Rick. Confused looks. Either I'm getting older or they're getting younger, thought Father Rick.

  "So how's everything going with you guys?" Father Rick asked. He braced himself for another bunch of sad stories about sailors missing their loved ones. He expected tears, and readied himself to be the shoulder to cry on. What he heard startled him. It wasn't sadness that he heard but frustration, bordering on anger.

  Tyrone Jones led off. "Well, Padre, you ask how everything is going. It's weird, Sir. Here we are, a bunch of sailors from the twenty-first century, and we're fixing to pick a fight with people we whupped over 150 years ago. Hey, I'm a black man. If I lived in 1861 and my people were in chains, I'd be looking to do some ass kicking. But we're from 2013. Our president is a black guy, my brother just married a white girl, my next door neighbor is a Filipino, and my captain is a black woman. This war was over a long time ago. Why don't we just go home?"

  The table appeared to be in total agreement, with "amens," "right-ons" and fist pumping. Seaman Bobby Curtis leaned over and looked down the table toward Father Rick. "Yes, Bobby?" said the chaplain.

  "When I signed up," said Curtis, "we were fighting a bunch of people who wanted to kill us. These Southerners don't even know who we are."

  Petty Officer Pete Mosely weighed in. "Padre, when the shooting starts, people are going to get hurt and killed, at sea or on land. If one of us gets popped in this stupid war, it will make no more sense than a drive-by in Detroit. We should bag ass out of here and get back to fighting real bad guys."

  Petty Officer Ike Ivey had graduated from junior college before joining the Navy. He intended to get his bachelor's degree when his stint was up. A history buff, he hoped to become a high school history teacher some day. "Father, I've been reading a lot about the Civil War. In four years there were 620,000 casualties." Almost everyone at the table said the same thing, "What?"

  Ivey continued. "These nineteenth-century people are out of their minds. They think it's a noble thing to march into cannon fire shoulder to shoulder. Now here we are, about to go shoulder to shoulder with these maniacs. We don't belong here, Padre."

  Petty officer William Tyson spoke. "I'm from Mississippi, about as southern as southern gets. I'm a black guy and my neighbor's a white guy. We play softball together. Our kids go to school together. My father is the mayor of my town. He ran against a white man in a town where 80 percent of the voters are white. My dad won in a landslide. This fucking, excuse me, friggin' war was over a long time ago. It's like waking up dead guys and killing them all over again."

  Father Rick realized it was time to talk, not just listen. "So I take it you guys are a bit angry." The head nodding was unanimous. "I'm going to ask you to consider something. Our involvement in this war is going to be very limited. The purpose, from what I understand, is to cut down on the killing by convincing the South that it's a terrible idea to continue. It's not top secret that this ship is going to go through some daily changes in appearance. The idea is to make the Confederacy think that there's more than one of us. If we do get into actual combat, the idea is the same, to convince the South to give it up, and save a few hundred thousand lives. Then, we steam for home."

  Father Rick realized that it was important to shore up support for the captain, which is part of the chaplain's job. "I want you folks to know something, and I'm speaking from the bottom of my heart. Captain Ashley Patterson is the finest officer I have ever served with. I meet with her often. And get this: she cares about you people – a lot. She wants to go back to where we came from as much as you and I do."

  Chapter 44

  Chief Ray knocked on Bradley's office door. "Enter," Bradley said. Ray walked into the office, closing the door behind him. He hadn't noticed how small the office was before, about nine feet by twelve. This was another thing that preyed on Bradley's nerves. Dashing Ashley had an expansive office while his couldn't be a quarter the size of hers. "Have a seat, Chief," said Bradley, "if you can find the room."

  "The Captain sure has given you some cozy quarters, Commander." Bradley just waved his hand dismissively.

  "Chief, I've come up with an idea to make our weapons moving plan a lot easier. Not only easier, but it will kill two birds with one stone. The SEALs are going to move the weapons for us." Ray's eyes widened. He couldn't believe what he just heard.

  "I don't get it, Commander."

  "Here's the idea Chief. I've already spoken to Conroy, the SEAL honcho, and he agrees. I told him that I worried about the riskiness of moving two Zodiacs and two rafts full of weapons on the eve of battle. I said that we don't know what sea conditions will be like and the danger of losing the cache of weapons is too great. I convinced him that we should move the weapons way in advance of the ba
ttle, and set up a defensive perimeter around them."

  "But if the SEALs are in charge of the weapons what happens to the big plan, the plan to join the Confederacy?"

  Bradley stared into Ray's eyes. "The SEALs will only look like they're in charge. We need to have at least six of our people with them."

  The Chief smiled. "Our people, Commander?"

  "Yes, our people. Chief, we have to expand our strength to accomplish our mission. We need at least 10 sailors who will want to join us in the Confederacy."

  "Commander, you'll be happy to know your old friend has been thinking down the road. There's a group of good ole' boys aboard, rebels to the soles of their feet. There are twelve of them, four first class and eight second class petty officers. These are tough dudes, Commander. They even have a name they call themselves, although they keep it quiet: the Confederate Navy. Maybe they'd like to make that name official."

  "You haven't said anything to them have you?" asked Bradley, concerned about the security of their plan.

  "Of course not, Sir. I've just asked a simple question of each of them. I wanted to see where their minds are on our upcoming operations." Ray leaned closer and said, "I just asked each of 'em how they felt about our upcoming war against the South?"

  "And what were their responses?"

  "Commander, these ole' boys are spittin' mad. I got the clear impression that they're fixing on doing something. What it is I don't know, but it's something. I guess you're thinking, like I am, that we can give these boys something to do, something for Ole Dixie."

  "Tell me a little more about these guys, Chief."