Larry Bond - Shattered Trident

“Hoollyy Shit!” the XO had said as he started reading the new orders in Jerry’s stateroom. “Are they frickin’ serious?”

“It would seem so,” Jerry answered nonchalantly.

Thigpen’s eyes peeked over the orders. “You know, this is your fault,” he stated frankly, an accusatory expression on his face.

“Yesss, it would seem so,” replied Jerry with a sheepish look.

The XO kept reading. As he worked his way down the message, his facial features underwent dramatic change. First, his left eyebrow cocked up, then his mouth fell open, finally his face transformed into a visage of utter disbelief. Thigpen’s eyes darted back and forth from the message to his CO. His face screamed, “This just can’t be right!” Shocked, he began reading the text aloud.

“‘You are authorized to use any means at your disposal, with the exception of launching weapons, to interfere, frustrate, or spoil attacks by Littoral Alliance or Chinese submarines. The previous requirement to maintain absolute stealth is rescinded. It is expected that overt actions will be required during the execution of these orders that will reveal your presence to the belligerent parties.’”

Thigpen slowly placed the message on the desk, his awestruck face staring into space. “This is just plain crazy!” exclaimed Thigpen. Then, focusing on Jerry, he added, “You’ve created a monster!”

Jerry raised his hands and shrugged, admitting his guilt. “It would seem so.”

“Can you please say something other than that?” wailed a frustrated Thigpen.

“Like what, Bernie!?” Jerry replied, discouraged. “I had no idea the president would take that one event, with circumstances hugely in our favor, and turn it into the linchpin of a campaign!”

“Yeah, one that’s going to get our ass shot off.”

“That’s a distinct possibility,” agreed Jerry quietly.

“I… I don’t get it,” mumbled a resigned Thigpen, sitting down. “How does a lowly commander, no disrespect intended, sir, have such a significant influence on the president of the United States?” He paused and leaned forward, confused and uncertain. “Why does what you think matter so much to him? It makes me wonder, Skipper, what kind of man am I working for?”

Jerry initially remained silent. His brain raced while he ran his fingers through his hair. The questions, though uncomfortable, were nonetheless valid. And his XO deserved answers. Hesitantly, he began, “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors.”

“Of course, sir. Who on this boat hasn’t?” responded Thigpen. “But I’ve also seen the nickel-sized scar on your shoulder.”

“It’s not that large!” Jerry protested.

“Fine, dime-size then, but that was still a damn big bullet that hit you!”

Jerry sighed and rubbed his face; disobeying a direct order from the CNO not to discuss the Iran mission with anyone who wasn’t properly cleared wasn’t something Jerry wanted to do. And his XO most certainly wasn’t cleared. But if he was going to violate that order to restore his XO’s confidence, then it was a worthy cause.

“All right, then, but nothing I say leaves this stateroom, understood?” he warned sternly. “Or I’ll make you walk home!”

“Cross my heart,” said Thigpen eagerly, adding the gesture for good measure.

“Okay. Yes, I was stranded in Iran with four SEALs when the ASDS self-immolated. And yes, we got into several firefights. Two were absolutely, unbelievably intense, something I’d never want to repeat. The only reason I’m here is because those SEALs are incredible warriors. I hope we have some SEALs embark with us sometime down the road. Then you’ll see what I mean.

“Anyway, towards the end of our ‘visit’ we were hunkered down in a grove of trees, surrounded by IRGC units. And I mean completely surrounded, both landward and seaward. I, uh, had a disagreement with the SEAL platoon leader about our next course of action, and I basically pulled rank and ordered an escape by sea. We stole a fast boat and hightailed it across the Persian Gulf.”

“No shit,” whispered Thigpen with rapt attention.

“Oh, it gets better. While we were making our getaway, the Iranians sent three boats after us. There was no way we could outrun them, and Michigan couldn’t help us because she was busy playing tag with an Iranian Kilo. One of the SEALs, the leading petty officer, took out one of the boats with the luckiest shot I’m ever likely to see in my lifetime, but another one worked us over pretty badly with machine-gun fire. In short order, the platoon leader, the LPO, and myself were all hit. It felt like someone had swung a bat hard against my shoulder, and then my left arm just stopped working.”

Thigpen’s face scrunched up into a grimace as Jerry described the sensation. “I bet that hurt like a son-of-a-bitch,” he commented.

Jerry paused as he mentally replayed the events after being struck. “Actually, XO, I don’t remember it hurting all that much. Oh sure, I was in shock. A 30-caliber bullet had just blown through my shoulder blade, for God’s sake. But I don’t recall feeling a lot of pain. That came later when I went through physical therapy. Now that was painful.”

The laughter in Thigpen’s voice was a welcome sound to Jerry’s ears. His XO was finding his feet again, his attitude getting back into battery.

“So there we were, down two shooters and I’m trying to steer the boat with one hand. The two remaining Iranian boats are closing in to finish us off, when out of nowhere there was this loud whoosh . The next thing I know, one of the boats just evaporates. Woof ! Gone! There, off to our right, is a MH-60R, coming in low and fast. A split second later he shoots another Hellfire and that was it. I think I passed out right after that, because I don’t remember a blessed thing until I woke up in USS Decatur ’s sickbay.”

Thigpen shook his head, marveling at his CO’s tale. “Now that is one hell of a sea story!”

“Yeah, one that I’m not supposed to tell anyone.” Jerry chuckled lightly. “But to answer your real question, I need to tell you what happened at the award ceremony. During the reception, the president made it clear that he believed I made several critical decisions that enabled him to keep our country out of a war with Iran. I tried to politely dissuade him from that notion. It was very much a team effort, and I thought he seriously overplayed my part in the whole operation. So here we are with a similar situation: a war has started, one that involves longtime allies and threatens to drag the U.S. in, and he thinks, ‘That Mitchell guy is out there. He’s pulled rabbits out of the hat before…’”

Thigpen’s face lit up with revelation. “And your unusual tactics only reinforced his belief!”

“That’s how I see it,” Jerry answered flatly.

“It makes sense,” replied Thigpen, nodding. Suddenly, a cynical grin popped up on his face. “Did I ever mention that I think you may be too smart for your own good?”

Jerry sighed. “Yes, XO, I believe you’ve said that before.”

“So what do we do now?” asked Thigpen.

Jerry was encouraged by his XO’s emphasis on “we”—Bernie Thigpen was back on an even keel again. “ We, XO, are going to start contingency planning. If there is one thing I learned from the SEALs, it is that one can hope for the best, but should still plan for the worst. We’ll start looking at possible scenarios, come up with a set of tactics to deal with each one, and then try to break it, find the holes in our thinking and plug them. That’s what we’re going to do.”

The radio room display showed the Squadron Fifteen headquarters conference room in the center, with the four submarine COs and XOs along the bottom. None of the participants looked very happy.