Larry Bond - Shattered Trident

The commodore was speaking directly to him, but kept shifting his gaze downward. Jerry wondered if he’d skipped a button on his shirt, and automatically checked, thankfully not finding anything, but his hand brushed against the “fruit salad,” the rows of ribbons on the left side of his shirt, under his dolphins. He was understandably proud of his decorations: the Navy Cross and Purple Heart he wore drew attention, and then mystery when people found out that he couldn’t talk about what he’d done to earn them.

Simonis perched on the corner of his desk. “I’ve given you the hot spot, right off Yulin and Yalong Bay, because you’ve got the best boat and…” He paused for a moment, then said, “I’ve heard some stories, and I won’t ask which ones are true, but I have high expectations.”

Jerry wondered just what the commodore had heard. The submarine force might still be nicknamed the “silent service,” but that only applied to outsiders. Inside the community, sea stories spread faster than the speed of truth. Jerry had heard accounts of his own exploits that he hardly recognized.

“There’s no time to go over my command policies, but I encourage open discussion with my boat captains, and Jerry, I promise I will listen carefully to any recommendations you make—about your boat’s capabilities, the tactical situation, anything that you think I need to know.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jerry acknowledged. He had wondered what type of squadron commander Simonis was. He’d heard little before coming to Guam, and obviously there’d been no time to sound out the other skippers. But this was a good start.

“There’s one other matter.” Simonis’s tone had an uneasy note in it. Again, he didn’t meet Jerry’s eyes, his attention still fixed on his ribbons.

Simonis sighed, then walked back and sat down behind his desk. “I’m like most of the fleet. Politics is something you read about in the newspapers. Getting a squadron command meant learning a new skill set. I keep abreast of Asian politics. I have to, or I can’t effectively implement U.S. policy out here. I get a lot of guidance from PACOM and others, but it’s no different from knowing the acoustic environment around your boat.”

Jerry nodded and prompted, “Of course.” Was this fatherly advice? Jerry might command a squadron someday.

“This Dr. Patterson. You know her well. That’s very valuable to me, Jerry. I may be up to date about Asia, but I don’t understand Washington. You’re an insider. Your old skipper’s a senator, and his wife, the deputy national security advisor, has shown up here to give us a personal briefing on our mission. I’ll be honest. I’m not comfortable with this level of attention.”

Jerry wasn’t surprised. Some people enjoyed being in the spotlight, but many did not. Evidently, the commodore liked to keep a low profile. Maybe he wasn’t the type to take risks, or he might have doubts about his own abilities. What kind of boat captain had he been? Jerry was also a little irritated. Simonis wasn’t the first officer to think he had a hotline straight to Washington, but it always rubbed him the wrong way.

When Jerry didn’t respond immediately, the commodore continued, “Let me say this clearly. This is an important mission, and I’m worried that she hasn’t told us everything.”

He saw Jerry begin to react, and quickly added. “No, not in that sense. Of course Dr. Patterson isn’t deliberately sandbagging us, but what’s the background? Is there an agenda that we need to know about?”

Now Jerry looked confused, as well as a little irritated, and the commodore asked, “Do you think she could be looking for us to prove or disprove something? When you spoke with her, did she say ‘We’re looking for this,’ or ‘I need you to find out if this is true’?”

Jerry sighed. The commodore was asking an honest question, even if it implied an ugly truth. Still, Jerry resented being asked, and it was a question he never would have thought of.

“I understand, sir. No, I don’t believe so. She hasn’t shared anything special with me. I’ve known Dr. Patterson for a long time and she isn’t one to grind axes.” Not anymore, anyway, Jerry added to himself. He stated flatly, “In my opinion, sir, they’re looking to us for information, to help them understand what is going on. They don’t know enough yet to have an agenda—or shouldn’t, anyway.”

Simonis didn’t answer right away. Jerry realized that the commodore was now evaluating his credibility. In his mind, anything touched by Washington was suspect until proven otherwise.

Four days out from Guam, Jerry kept going over the conversation in his mind. He thought about Simonis’s worries, not about armed conflict between China and Vietnam, but about what his bosses wanted to hear. He was driven, at least in part, by fear, and Jerry resolved to remember that, both while he commanded North Dakota, and if he ever got a squadron. Fear replaced more useful motivations.

“Five minutes to launch, Skipper.” Lieutenant Kurt Franklin, the boat’s communications officer and current officer of the deck, had given him periodic updates, and Jerry acknowledged the report that began the launch sequence. Jerry wouldn’t say a word unless Franklin made some mistake. “Command by negation” was all about letting your officers practice their trade and become independent thinkers. It was ironic that one of Jerry’s most important duties as captain was to teach his people how to work without him being there.

Franklin ordered, “Pilot, all stop, prepare to hover.”

A senior petty officer automatically repeated the command, and changed the speed setting. “Officer of the Deck, Maneuvering answers, all stop, indicated speed is four knots.”

The UUVs could be launched at low speeds, less than five knots, but the smoothest launches occurred when the boat was stationary, or “dead in the water.” Jerry didn’t like the latter term, and discouraged its use, one of the prerogatives of command.

Franklin keyed the intercom. “Torpedo Room, Conn, we’re slowing. Flood payload tube one.”

“Flood payload tube one, Conn, Torpedo Room, aye.” The trick was to spend as little time at a standstill as possible. Jerry had emphasized that the evolution didn’t need to be done quickly, just smoothly. “Conn, Torpedo Room. Payload tube one is flood and equalized with sea pressure. Minot is ready for launch. All indications green.”

“Speed two knots and falling,” reported the pilot.

“Torpedo Room, Conn. Speed is two knots, unlock and open the hatch on payload tube one.”

“Unlock and open the hatch on payload tube one, aye. Payload tube one hatch indicates open.”

The two payload tube hatches in North Dakota ’s bow were big, about seven feet in diameter, but tube one’s now-open hatch was edge-on to the flow. It wouldn’t cause much drag. The Virginia s were big boats, with a lot of momentum, and it took a few minutes to coast to a stop.

“Sonar?” Franklin’s question wasn’t shouted, but the operator heard it clearly in the quiet control room. Unlike earlier U.S. subs, the sonar operators on Virginia -class boats were no longer sequestered in their own little space, but located in control. A controversial design change, it was done to improve the flow of information to the captain and fire control team.

“Three contacts, the closest is Sierra-three three, bears one seven zero, range eleven nautical miles and opening, course one nine zero at twelve knots.” That matched the information displayed on the big screen. They’d set up their UUV deployment box with some flexibility, so they could pick a spot with the thinnest merchant traffic.