Larry Bond - Shattered Trident

His question went straight to her heart, and although Patterson tried to hide her reaction, the effort may have given her feelings away. She’d been ready for this, though. Lowell had taught her.

“Captain, you have your orders. I expect you to do your best to carry them out.”

3 September 2016

0445 Local Time

Squadron Fifteen Headquarters

Guam

Simonis sat motionless; he simply stared at the now-blank screen. The staff members present, amazed by the orders Patterson had just given them, were likewise stunned. They looked hesitantly back and forth between each other and their commodore in awkward silence. The only discernable noise was the whirling blades of the cooling fan on the VTC computer.

Everyone in the room waited anxiously for the other shoe to drop. The commodore’s temper was a fact of life in Squadron Fifteen, and collectively the group couldn’t decide whether to beat a hasty retreat, or stay and watch the fireworks.

After an uncomfortable length of time, Simonis’s head slowly began to fall. He took a deep breath, the expected prelude to a monumental rant. But when he finally spoke, his voice was calm, emotionless, the volume restrained.

“Captain Jacobs, I want a draft message ordering the four boats to break away and establish a SATCOM link with squadron headquarters at…” Simonis paused as he looked at his watch. “… 0600 their local time. Flash precedence. You have seven minutes.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” responded the chief staff officer. Rising, the CSO pointed to an information technician to follow him. Both quickly left the conference room.

Simonis took another deep breath, then looked around the room. Struggling, he said, “With the exception of Commander Walker, everyone else is dismissed.”

As the staff filed out of the room, Walker moved up to the main table and gestured for the last man out to close the door. Pulling a chair away from the table, he quietly sat down, pen and notebook at the ready. By the time Walker had situated himself, Simonis’s face was crimson, his body shaking visibly.

“Rich, I have never, throughout my entire career, ever considered disobeying a lawful order from a superior, until now,” Simonis rasped through clenched teeth. Suddenly he lashed out with his right arm, striking a wooden chair next to him. A sharp snap and flying splinters testified to the force of the blow. Rising abruptly, he kicked the damaged chair out of his way. Stomping angrily around the table, he slammed the top with his fist and bellowed, “What is the president thinking!? Does he even have a clue as to what he’s telling me to do!?”

Walker shook his head ruefully. “The CNO and COMSUBPAC didn’t look thrilled at all. Neither did Dr. Patterson, for that matter.”

“Any sentient human being could see there is no way that four attack submarines, by themselves, can stop a war between five nations even if they expended every Mark 48 in their torpedo rooms!”

Simonis spun and paced, raising his arms in frustration. “And yet, we’ve been ordered to insert ourselves into a shooting war, under a ‘weapons hold’ provision, with the stated goal of interfering and frustrating the attacks by both sides! Is it just me? Or is this manifest insanity!?”

“Sir, Dr. Patterson didn’t say we had to ‘stop the war,’ just slow it down a bit to give the president a chance to force this Littoral Alliance to engage and resolve the crisis diplomatically,” Walker responded carefully.

The enraged commodore turned and thumped both of his hands on the table. “ELECTION YEAR BULLSHIT, COMMANDER!” howled Simonis. “To execute these orders, we not only have to give up our stealth advantage, but our boats will also have to get far closer to the hostile submarines if they are going to pull this off. Which means they will be far more vulnerable to hostile fire, and I’m not talking about shitty TEST-71 torpedoes either. The Indians have the UGST, Japan the Type 89, China has the Yu-6, and South Korea the White Shark—all top-of-the-line weapons.”

Simonis had placed both hands firmly on his head, holding it tightly between them, as if trying to contain an explosion from inside his skull. Suddenly, he stopped and threw his hands in the air. A resigned sigh escaped from his lips, followed by his head and shoulders drooping over. Looking toward Walker, he uttered tersely, “I tell you, Rich. If we don’t lose a boat over this fool’s errand, it will be a miracle.”

The operations officer remained silent; there was really no way to argue with his boss. From a military perspective, Simonis was absolutely correct. But a decision by a president was almost always based on political considerations; internal, external, or both. Sometimes, those political considerations required military forces to be deliberately placed in harm’s way, doing things they would normally not do. As a staff officer Walker could look at the situation dispassionately. He was thankful he wasn’t in the commodore’s shoes.

A knock on the door broke the uncomfortable silence. Captain Jacobs opened it and marched over to Simonis with a single sheet of paper. Taking it, the commodore leaned against the large table and read the draft message. A facial twitch showed he’d read something he didn’t like; he made some quick annotations to the draft. Thrusting it to Jacobs, Simonis ordered, “Send it, CSO. You have two minutes.”

Jacobs grabbed the message and literally ran from the room. Walker struggled to contain a smile as he watched his CSO sprint down the hallway. Even in this situation, conflicted as he was, Simonis would get a “Flash” precedence message out within the recommended ten minutes. The man was totally obsessed with following procedures to the letter.

“Well, that’s that,” exclaimed a depressed Simonis. “In a couple of hours we’ll discuss this change in orders with our four COs and then send them off to play referee.”

Walker chuckled lightly. “I don’t think that’s a very good analogy, sir. At least referees are protected by the rules of the game. Last time I checked, rules are a little hard to come by in war.”

“True. But that is exactly what the president has told us to become, referees in a fight where there are no rules,” countered Simonis sternly. “And for the near future, those four crews are going to feel very lonely.”

“But Commodore, Dr. Patterson mentioned that additional boats had been ordered to reinforce us,” said Walker, reading from his notes. “She said North Carolina was already en route.”

Simonis smiled cynically. “Yes, she did. But do the math, Rich. There are thirty attack submarines in the Pacific Fleet. Assuming eighty percent availability, that means twenty-four can go to sea. Of those, about eight boats are currently at sea, based on one deployed submarine for every three available boats. Thus, this squadron already has about half of the deployed submarines in the entire fleet!

“ North Carolina left Pearl yesterday. Even at flank speed she’ll need about six days to get to the South China Sea. It would take a deployed submarine in the CENTCOM AOR another day or two to get there. The boats in port will take even longer. And you did notice that no one said a word about a carrier strike group? No, for most of the coming week, we are on our own. This mission is ours to execute, whether we like it or not.”

3 September 2016

0600 Local Time

USS North Dakota

South China Sea

Jerry, Bernie Thigpen, and the IT senior chief were the only ones allowed in the radio room during the video conference with Squadron Fifteen. Simonis wanted to keep the audience to an absolute minimum, thus only the top leadership and one tech from each boat were permitted to participate. Jerry certainly could understand why. The new orders they had received an hour earlier initially had the caveat, “Commanding Officer’s Eyes Only.” It was only after Jerry had read them that he was allowed to clue Thigpen in.