Russell Moran: The Gray Ship

But on the morning of April 10, Ashley didn’t feel like a rising star. She always had a concern, although she never let it show, that she was not up to the task, that she was in over her head, that her station in life had gotten ahead of her. Why couldn’t she be a math professor at a small college in the Midwest, her original career goal? There is a petulant little girl inside of her who wants to be coddled, who wants someone else to make decisions, who just wants to be left alone. She calls this little girl “Splashy,” a nickname given to her when she was eight years old by a little friend missing her front teeth, who found it impossible to pronounce Ashley.

When the ship was 10 miles offshore, Captain Patterson ordered a change in course to head north along the coast and dropped the speed to a modest 10 knots. This was the nautical equivalent of taking a walk around the block to clear one’s head. Take it slow, sort things out.

“Lieutenant Bellamy, take the con,” Captain Patterson said to the Officer of the Deck. “Steer the current course and maintain speed until further orders.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

She also told him to cancel the General Quarters status, thinking it unnecessary to add to everyone’s stress by keeping them at battle stations.

She turned to Commander Philip Bradley, the Executive Officer.

“Phil, gather all department heads in the wardroom right now, please. We’re going to look for answers.”

Answers to what? she wondered. What, precisely, is the question? We’ve gone from reality to science fiction in a matter of minutes and I’m calling a goddam meeting. Get a grip girl. This is your ship, your responsibility, your problem.

The wardroom, the place where the ship’s officers take their meals, is a modest-sized space at 22 by 28 feet. An industrial green carpet covers its deck, complementing the typical gray walls or bulkheads. On the bulkheads hang prints of famous naval battles of World War II. The dining table accommodates 18 people, which works because there are 31 officers on the ship, many of whom would be on watch at mealtimes. Two round tables at the far end can sit an additional 12 diners.

The captain is seated at the far end of the table. Ashley Patterson runs a tight meeting. She asks questions, listens to the answers, and will not tolerate political sideswiping. Over the years she had attended enough gatherings run by pompous assholes that running an efficient meeting is a matter of personal pride. Every attendee has the confidence that he can speak without fear of having a foot shoved in his mouth.

“It’s been 35 minutes since the Daylight Event, as people are starting to call it,” Ashley said. “I think it’s safe to say that everyone in this room is baffled.” Heads nodded. “We went from an uneventful cruise to an amazing event that we can’t explain. But it’s not our job to stand around with our mouths open and scratch our heads, although that may be our inclination.”

The captain’s job, and theirs, is to handle the situation, make rational decisions and, well, do something. But what? What are they up against?

“Phil please bring us up to date.”

Commander Philip Bradley is a mystery to Ashley. He’s been her Executive Officer for just over eight months, but she never felt the bonding that occurs between a commanding officer and the second in command. There’s something in his attitude that she can’t put her finger on. He’s smart, competent, and professional, but she isn’t sure she can trust him, a feeling that she doesn’t like.

Bradley began his briefing. “At 0309 we experienced the Daylight Event . We went from a dark night to a bright day in an instant. We’ve lost all satellite navigation, Internet connection, cell phone reception, and all communication with air, sea and shore. Our two-way radios work but we get no response from the shore or other ships. We know that the USS Ticonderoga was steaming 20 miles from us, and I spoke to the OOD on her bridge a few minutes before the event. She hasn’t answered repeated attempts to raise her. We were also in communication with the Office of Naval Operations at 0230. We can’t raise them either. Since the Daylight Event we’ve received no communication from anyone, including the weather service. We’ve tried to raise the Port of Charleston, our destination, but we’re as cut off from them as we are from everyone else. All of our shipboard systems appear to be working. We have radar, sonar, and communications with every space on the ship. Because we lost satellite navigation we’ve relied on our paper charts and fixes by visual and radar. The problem is that none of the navigational aids, including buoys, are in the right place. The only visual object that conforms to the charts is the flagpole at Fort Sumter at the entrance to the harbor. There’s another problem. The depth readings are way off by as much as 40 feet. To summarize, we appear to be cut off from the world beyond the USS California .”

Captain Patterson took over.

“Thank you, Phil. Folks, it may sound like a hackneyed phrase but we need to think outside the box. We are outside the box, so we may as well think that way. I’ve considered just steaming into Charleston Harbor, but I don’t want to put the ship at risk with depth soundings we can’t count on. Also, I don’t like navigating among buoys that are out of place. If we slip outside the channel we’re aground. I won’t risk it. Any comments?”

“What if we head north and return to port in Norfolk?” said Lieutenant Commander Nick Wartella, the engineering officer.

“Remember, we can’t raise Norfolk either,” Ashley said. “Something’s very wrong, and I don’t think location makes much of a difference.”

Ivan Campbell, the navigator, said, “Why don’t we send in the motor launch, tie up to shore and find out what’s going on?”

“I’ve thought of that Ivan,” said the Captain, “but I have a concern, one that I can’t explain. Maybe one of you can explain it to me. We find ourselves in a very strange situation, and I believe we all agree.” Heads nodded. “Something tells me that stealth is in order. Again, I don’t know why, but it seems the safest choice.”

Lt. Commander John White, the ship’s Communications Officer, spoke. “We have a detachment of SEALs aboard. They not only think outside the box, they trained outside the box. Weird situation management is in their blood. They’re not just tough, they’re smart, and they know a thing or two about stealth. They can hit the ground, recon the area and talk to people. Why don’t we send a SEAL group ashore this evening to see what the hell is going on and report back?” The face of every officer in the wardroom told Ashley Patterson that John White had just nailed the answer.

“Phil, call Lt. Conroy and tell him to come here immediately.”

Lt. Frank Conroy commanded a platoon of 16 SEALs, part of Seal Team 10, headquartered in Little Creek, Virginia. The platoon was assigned to the USS California as part of her deployment to the Middle East. They were scheduled to disembark from the California at a secret location in the Persian Gulf region.

Navy SEALs are legendary as a unique fighting force. SEAL is an acronym for Sea, Air and Land. The training is the most demanding military preparedness in the world, consisting of six months of grueling physical and mental stress. During “hell week,” SEALs spend their time swimming in cold water, crawling through mud, climbing trees and tall obstacles, and jumping out of airplanes from impossible heights like 30,000 feet. All of this is accomplished with little sleep. About 50 percent of those who start SEAL training finish. There is no other way of saying it: SEALs are tough. They are not only professional class athletes, they’re also mentally disciplined and intelligent.