Larry Bond - Shattered Trident

“And of course, this will ensure that I’ll receive additional guidance from on high. Politically motivated guidance that will complicate my life to no end. God! I wish Mitchell hadn’t been so impulsive!” Simonis moaned.

There it was, at last. The real reason behind Simonis’s objection to Mitchell’s successful interference ploy was based on the commodore’s fear of having to deal with instructions from armchair generals, or admirals in this case, during a significant political crisis. Walker couldn’t help but appreciate the irony of the situation; the micromanager par excellence was worried about being micromanaged. Added to this was Simonis’s own personality type and sense of responsibility that made him duty-bound to report the altercation with Mitchell, even though the commodore was convinced that doing so would result in the undesired guidance he so feared. No circle could have been more vicious.

A loud sigh told Walker that Simonis was finally calming down. The operations officer waited in silence. Nothing he could say would make the bitter pill easier to swallow. After about half a minute, Simonis turned abruptly to Walker and said, “Oh well, there’s no point in delaying the inevitable. Have the CSO contact Admiral Burroughs’s chief of staff, I need to speak with the admiral ASAP!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Walker as he jumped for the door.

31 August 2016

1300 Local Time

USS North Dakota

Off Hainan Island, South China Sea

Jerry plowed through the stack of logs and reports that had been sitting in his inbox for days. In a way, Simonis’s stern rebuttal had refocused Jerry’s mind on the proper execution of all his duties as a commanding officer, including the less than glamorous day-to-day admin. And while it was a bit tedious at times, in the end it was good to get this stuff off his plate. Jerry took a perverse sense of pleasure when he had to start dumping reports on Thigpen’s rack after filling up the XO’s inbox.

Pulling the last folder from his stack, Jerry saw the bare wood beneath and mentally cheered. It would be a short-lived victory, of course. Since Mother Nature abhorred an empty inbox as much as a vacuum, more paperwork would naturally be flowing his way, but for now he was done. Well, almost. The last folder contained the mid-term counseling forms for both his junior lieutenants, Lymburn and Gaffney, and while the comments were of interest to Jerry, he was actually more interested to see how well their department head did in putting them together. It was a career management exercise for all three individuals.

Jerry quickly reviewed the forms, made a few minor changes, and initialed them. Finished, he had just closed the folder when there was a knock at his door. Looking up, Jerry saw his supply officer, Lieutenant Steven Westbrook, in the doorway.

“Excuse me, Captain,” said Westbrook, “but I have next week’s menu ready for your review.”

“Come on in, Steven,” Jerry responded, waving for his “Chop” to enter the stateroom. “You must have sensed that my inbox was empty.”

The supply officer was the only staff corps member on Jerry’s crew. Sometimes called the “Suppo” or “Pork Chop,” a reference to the Supply Corps oak leaf insignia that looked like a pork chop, on submarines they were usually just called the “Chop.” Responsible for everything from spare parts to food stores, the supply officer made sure the boat had everything it needed to go to sea and perform its mission. He or she was also responsible for managing the ship’s checkbook and ensuring the ship’s store was well stocked with ball caps, uniform patches, candy, and other creature comforts. When under way, the daily meals were an important morale booster for the crew, and the CO reviewed and approved the weekly menu.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Jerry said as he reached for the sheet of paper.

Westbrook handed his captain the menu and noted, “We missed you at lunch today, Skipper.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t very hungry,” replied Jerry solemnly as he started reading.

“We had your favorite, fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy.”

Jerry looked up. A tinge of disappointment briefly flashed across his face, then acceptance. “It’s probably for the better that I didn’t have lunch anyway. The scale in sickbay is a blunt, cold-hearted messenger. It said I’d gained four pounds already.”

The supply officer nodded. “I hear you, sir. I added another fifteen minutes on the bike to help keep my expanding borders in check.”

“I hate that accursed device,” Jerry growled with disgust. “I already have enough trouble sitting there for forty-five minutes, going nowhere.” As a runner and hiker, Jerry found the stationary bike to be a thoroughly unpleasant way to burn calories. Staring endlessly at the same pipes and valves was downright demoralizing.

Jerry continued reading, nodding his head on occasion, then stopped when he came to the last entry, the Wednesday dinner for the following week. His right elbow fell to the desk, his hand supporting his head as he groaned, “Aggh! Steven, you are an evil little man!”

“Sir?” questioned Westbrook innocently.

With a scornful voice, Jerry read the entry back to the supply officer. “Wednesday night is Italian night with creamy bacon chicken on penne pasta. Caesar salad, and tiramisu for dessert. What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack!?”

“Absolutely not, sir! But the kickbacks I get from the cardiologists is a sweet gig,” snickered Westbrook.

Jerry hurriedly scribbled his signature and threw the piece of paper at the Chop. As Westbrook snatched it from the deck, Jerry pointed forcefully toward the door and cried, “Get behind me, Satan!”

“Yes, sir. I’m glad you approve, sir,” Westbrook mocked.

“OUT!” thundered Jerry, rolling his eyes.

As Westbrook left the CO’s stateroom, he turned forward, toward the door leading to the control room, and gave Thigpen a thumbs-up. Smiling, the XO retreated back inside and quietly closed the door.

In spite of the wicked menu Westbrook had brought him, Jerry found his spirit buoyed by the exchange. He then recalled a piece of wisdom his XO on Seawolf, Marcus Shimko, had given him. “When you find yourself alone and depressed, tour the ship, talk to the men; it is a curative balm for a troubled soul.”

Jerry realized that he had voluntarily isolated himself from his crew following the dressing-down by Simonis. Sitting in his stateroom alone, stewing silently over his mistakes. True, useful work was accomplished, but in fact he was hiding in his room, pouting like a scolded child. Wrong answer, mister, he thought to himself. Heeding the advice from his old XO, Jerry left his stateroom and headed aft.

He started in the engine room, stopping to talk to the watchstanders, seeing how their day was going. The entire crew knew about the commodore’s rebuke within moments of it ending. In a ship so confined, there were few secrets. Jerry made sure he visited every watch station, and spent a little time with each individual. He had just finished chatting with the torpedo room watch when the 1MC blared.

“CAPTAIN TO CONTROL.”

Jerry quickly scrambled up the ladder to the middle level and ran toward control. A sailor plastered himself against the bulkhead to make way for the captain. As he approached the door, the messenger of the watch opened it for him. Striding up to the command workstation he barked, “CDO, report!”

Sobecki was back on watch and he immediately pointed to the port VLSD. “Skipper, we have three new contacts. All are submarines sortieing from Yalong Bay, two Kilos and one Song. There could be more in the harbor that we just can’t see yet. It looks like the Chinese are starting to flush their boats from their bases.”