The Shark Mutiny (2001)

by Patrick Robinson

  “Guess we could do with a few more like him around here,” said Admiral Greening. “Guys with the courage of their convictions, guys prepared to operate with no thoughts whatsoever for their own self-interest.”

  “Guys like Dan Headley,” said Arnold Morgan, softly.

  Two weeks later.

  Friday, June 24. San Diego.

  Admiral John Bergstrom paced the inner sanctum of the offices of SPECWARCOM. Before him sat the silent figures of the professional heads of America’s Pacific Strike Force, Admirals Freddie Curran and Dick Greening.

  “You realize that my ultimate successor in this chair, Commander Rick Hunter, is quite prepared to put his entire career on the line and resign his commission over this, do you not?”

  “Of course we do, John,” replied Dick Greening. “I am just trying to ask you if you feel just as strongly. Will you also resign if Dan Headley is court-martialed and found guilty?”

  “Right now it is not necessary for the United States Navy to know whether I will resign. However, you should bear in mind that I have not yet decided not to.”

  “John, I know how bad you all feel about this,” said Admiral Greening. “But I am afraid you have to inform the appropriate authorities if you intend to announce your retirement, if the Navy board recommends the court-martial of Lieutenant Commander Headley.”

  “Listen, you guys,” said Admiral Bergstrom, slipping into the easy informality this particular High Command had always enjoyed. “We’ve all known each other for a lot of years, and I think we all know the pros and cons of this case.

  “But I am here to tell you I have never known such intense feelings of betrayal by the SEALs. It is common knowledge that this nutcase captain of yours refused to help the guys coming out of Iran. Indeed, he left one of my men to die. And he would have left all my men to die coming out of the Bassein Delta. You guys somehow appointed a fucking psychopath to take my SEALs in and out of an area of operations. Twice. And there’s no way we’re gonna sit still for that.

  “Anyway, my position here would be untenable if you decided to jail Lieutenant Commander Headley for making a mutiny. I’d never be taken seriously again. Not by the Special Forces. I would have to resign, because I’d be a standing joke—the SEAL chief who sent the guys in, put ’em in the hands of a rule-book shit, who everyone knew was fucking crazy. Do you have any idea what that would do to the morale of this place?

  “Guys, somehow you have to stop this bullshit; you have to award Dan Headley a high decoration, and somehow get this fuckwit Reid the hell out of the United States Navy. Quietly, if possible.”

  Admiral Greening nodded in agreement. “If it were that damned simple, we wouldn’t be sitting in this room, John,” he said. “But it isn’t. These things develop a life of their own. We have, right here, a ten-year veteran of a nuclear submarine command who was arrested on the high seas by his own XO and fellow officers, relieved of command of his own ship, locked up and told to shut up, while his orders were flagrantly contravened. Those actions plainly give the right to be heard, at least. The right to request a full Naval Board of Inquiry. The right to defend himself in front of his peers.”

  “Okay, okay, I get it,” replied the SEAL boss. “But let me ask one question: In this specific case, who was right, Headley or Reid? And I mean both morally and in terms of war-fighting expertise? And even gallantry, concern for others? Headley or Reid?”

  “Headley. Plainly. Headley was right,” replied Admiral Greening. “But I’m afraid that’s irrelevant. Being right gets you off the hook, as long as no one cares to push the case. But here we have an antagonist, who has been wronged in his own eyes and does not give a flying fuck whether Headley was right or not.

  “We have a CO, who is brandishing the goddamned official book of rules, and saying loudly, I’m the injured party, and it says so, right here between these sacred covers…. Well, Admiral Bergstrom, right here we got a problem. A real, live problem. And we gotta deal with it. And if you don’t like it, Johnny, baby, I’m afraid that’s show business.”

  Admiral Bergstrom chuckled. “You want me to get a couple of guys to take him out, nice and quiet?”

  It was of course only a joke, a black, macabre joke. But the sheer simplicity of the solution was not lost on the two visiting Admirals, and neither of them laughed.

  Admiral Freddie Curran just said, “Precisely the kind of solution one would expect from the SEALs…What’s that motto of theirs?…Oh, yes…‘There are very few of the world’s problems that cannot be solved with high explosives.’ Isn’t that it?”

  “Guess so, and it’s mostly right.” The SEAL Chief looked grim now, because the consequences of this impending Board of Inquiry were beginning to look so far-reaching, they were out there beyond the horizon.

  “When do you want to initiate the inquiry?”

  “Oh, right away, John. Here in San Diego, as soon as Shark arrives back. She’s due Tuesday night. We’ll aim for Thursday. Most of the men are entitled to leave, so we’ll get under way while they are all right here at the base.”

  “Will it take long?”

  “I’m not sure. If the board is in any way compliant they’ll agree to make a firm decision, one way or another, as soon as they have ascertained the facts. They are not sitting in judgment on the case. They are just being asked to establish the simple truth, and most of that’s not in dispute:

  “One. Was there a mutiny on board the submarine?

  “Two. Was Commander Reid relieved of his command and placed under arrest?

  “Three. Who was responsible?

  “Four. Did that officer have the support of the senior officers?

  “Five. Why? What had the CO done wrong?”

  “Dick, we’re talking real basics then, at this stage?”

  “Absolutely. And those basics should be established very quickly. Which will allow the board to arrive at one of two conclusions: A) There was a mutiny, and the ringleader MUST be court-martialed under Navy regulations. B) There was no mutiny, the CO was under psychological stress and Lieutenant Commander Headley was well within his rights to assume command of the ship under Navy Regulation one-zero-eight-eight.”

  “Yeah,” said Admiral Bergstrom, “but B requires the CO to agree he was under stress, and that Headley was correct to take over.”

  “Afraid so,” said Admiral Greening. “And my forecast is that he will do no such thing. We will talk to Commander Reid at the highest level. Admiral Dixon will have him into the Pentagon, maybe even to Admiral Morgan’s office in the White House. They’ll pressure him, but I cannot see him agreeing to accept the most complete humiliation any CO can suffer. Just can’t see it.”

  “Well, I’ve got another curve for you,” replied Admiral Bergstrom. “Tonight, at approximately twenty-one hundred, Commander Rusty Bennett is arriving back here from Diego Garcia, and he has a major problem with your Captain Reid, leaving that young combat SEAL to die out there in the gulf. To my certain knowledge he is filing a formal complaint about the conduct of Shark’s CO during the time the guys were trying to get out of Iran.

  “He’s alleging that the seas were clear of any potential foreign warships, and the skies were clear of foreign fighter aircraft. And he’s alleging cowardice of the very worst kind against your Captain Reid. I’ve seen the preliminary, and it ain’t pretty reading. Rusty, you know, was in the submarine at the time.”

  “I think that may be rather helpful,” said Admiral Curran. “Even Captain Reid may not relish the idea of appearing at a court-martial and having to listen to two counts of cowardice against him, by two different officers, from two different but connected areas of operations.”

  “The problem there is Commander Reid’s degree of wackiness,” replied Admiral Greening. “Let’s face it—not to go beyond this room at this moment—he must be a wacko. You don’t get guys like this hitherto outstanding XO Dan Headley and two proven SEAL combat Commanders, Hunter and Bennett, all thinking he’s a complete jerk, alon
g with a lot of other senior submarine officers, unless there’s something the matter with him.

  “And it’s been my experience that the more of a wacko a guy is, the more he’s likely to adopt a firm, unyielding defensive position. If he were normal, he might say, ‘Okay, I’ll back down, you guys save my career, I’ll go for a little psychological help and I’ll leave the Navy with honor, and a full pension. No courts-martial, no trouble.’

  “Unhappily, that is not the way of the greater-crested common wacko. He is apt to see the world from a very narrow perspective. His own. The psychologists call it Loss of Insight. It means that you can no longer grasp the views of anyone else.

  “How many major murderers appear sorry? Full of regret? Very few. They try to justify their actions. Remember Son of Sam, in New York. Wasn’t his fault, was it? There was a voice telling him to get out there and start killing. And what about that fucking dingbat they had in England, the Yorkshire Ripper who murdered all those women? He was just cleaning up the streets, right? He wasn’t sorry, despite battering innocent women, students, to death. He went to jail mystified that society had turned against him. Pleaded not guilty, I think.

  “Plainly, I’m not saying Commander Reid is a criminal. But I’d bet he’s a wacko. And wackos never make life easy. They defend. To the death.”

  Tuesday evening. June 26.

  San Diego Navy Base.

  The journey back from the Indian Ocean had been fraught with tension. Shark’s original CO being confined to his cabin was a constant reminder to the entire crew that they were steaming back into big trouble. In the beginning, a lot of the younger crew, anxious to see wives and girlfriends, wished to hell that Commander Reid could be reinstated in order to free them up to go home as soon as they docked.

  They anticipated a very formal welcome, which might even see certain popular and trusted members of the crew placed under arrest. Everyone knew they had been to some degree a party to a mutiny. However, the presence of the wounded SEALs on board was a vivid reminder of the supreme heroism of the Shark’s XO and his fellow officers.

  Everyone was in awe of Commander Hunter and “his guys,” and rumors of their success and bravery swept through the submarine. The four body bags stored in the torpedo room were also a chilling reminder of the SEALs’ desperate battle for the Chinese base, and by the time the submarine approached California’s coastal waters, opinion was hardening. Opinion that they, the Sharks, were a part of this great and selfless campaign, and more and more of them began to stand four-square behind the Exec who had saved the Special Forces.

  It was 2030 when USS Shark came in sight of the coast. She was making 20 knots through a warm evening, on a calm surface, which rose with the long Pacific swells but offered no discernible chop. On the bridge stood Lt. Commander Dan Headley, the Navigation Officer, Lt. Shawn Pearson, and the Officer of the Deck, Lt. Matt Singer. Directly below them in the control room, Lt. Commander Jack Cressend had the ship, with Master Chief Drew Fisher at the conn.

  They rounded Point Loma, heading up into the narrow channel that leads both to the U.S. Naval stronghold of San Diego and to the headquarters of SPECWARCOM. Above them, to their port side, on the heights, was the Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery, where Buster Townsend and Bobby Allensworth would both be laid to rest this week. The bodies of Catfish Jones and his colleague were being flown to their home states.

  Shark slowed as she reached the narrows. She stood fair up the channel leaving the North Island Naval Air Station to starboard. Then she made her hard right turn toward the towering stilts of the Coronado Bridge, and into the sheltered waters of San Diego Bay.

  Lieutenant Commander Headley brought her alongside at 2120, and the mooring lines were attached. On the dock stood the resolute figure of Commander Rusty Bennett, in company with Admiral Bergstrom. The Pacific submarine boss, Admiral Freddie Curran, was also there. And there were eight Naval guards on duty, along with a throng of wives, girlfriends and colleagues from the base.

  As Shark was made fast and the men began to file out onto the deck, there was a spontaneous burst of cheering from the crowd. The figure of Lt. Commander Dan Headley stood motionless, unsmiling, on the bridge, watching the scene below as families looked forward to being reunited after months and months apart.

  It did not seem that much different from any other submarine homecoming in San Diego. But it was different. No ship had ever returned here after a mutiny on the high seas. And there were certain protocols that had to be observed. Plainly Commander Reid would be escorted immediately to the offices of the Submarine Fleet HQ in San Diego, and, probably separately, Lt. Commander Headley would also be required to attend a debriefing.

  Admiral Curran had made it quite clear that no one was to be arrested. There was not to be a semblance of authoritarian action, just a formal welcome, and a routine conference among senior officers. The less anyone knew about the events in the Bay of Bengal, the better. Meanwhile, the two conflicting signals sent from a distant ocean by Shark’s Captain and XO were not much short of nuclear meltdown in Admiral Greening’s private filing system.

  Commander Reid was the first officer to leave the ship, and he was greeted by Admiral Curran. The two men left immediately in a staff car for the central office complex. Thirty minutes later, Lt. Commander Headley, in company with the limping Commander Rick Hunter, crossed from the submarine to the shore, where Commander Rusty Bennett and Admiral Bergstrom awaited them. They shook hands and separated, the two SEALs boarding a staff car with the Admiral, Dan Headley boarding another car alone with a staff driver.

  Curiously, there was little for the XO to say. His defense of his actions would be unwavering, scarcely varying from the short signal he had already sent. The problem was Commander Reid. Could he be persuaded to agree he was not in a proper frame of mind to conduct the SEAL rescue and that he had willingly handed over command of the ship to his number two?

  Within a half hour, the answer to that was obvious. No. And with Admirals Greening and Curran, Shark’s former CO boarded a military jet for Washington at first light on Monday morning, June 27.

  They arrived at the Pentagon from Andrews Air Base at 1500, and were escorted immediately to the office of the CNO, Admiral Alan Dixon. And there, for the next four hours, the head of the United States Navy, the head of the Pacific Fleet, and the head of the Pacific Submarine Fleet attempted to persuade Commander Donald Reid that there was nothing to be gained from the court-martial of his XO, save the worst publicity the Navy would ever suffer.

  The Commander did not agree. He felt there was something else to be gained: the salvaging of his own personal reputation. And he was damned if he was going to condone in any way the actions of a group of mutineers who had seized his ship and contravened his perfectly reasonable orders not to put a nuclear submarine in the path of anti-submarine-warfare Chinese helicopters with long-range capacity.

  Nothing that any of the Admirals said made even the slightest impression on him. Commander Reid knew his rights, he knew the regulations of the United States Navy and he was going to play those rights by the book, the way he had always conducted his career.

  “I intend, CNO,” he said, “to stand before the Navy Board of Inquiry and to tell the absolute truth about the events that took place in the Bay of Bengal. And I shall demand the court-martial of the ringleader of the mutineers. With respect, sir, you must know I am entitled to that.”

  “You may be so entitled,” said Admiral Dixon wearily, “but we are asking you to reconsider, in the interests of the greater good of the United States Navy, and its image before the public.”

  “Then your request, with the greatest respect, is declined,” he replied firmly. And then Commander Reid shook his head and spoke almost in a mutter, as if speaking only to himself: “This is not my fault, not my fault at all…I told him over and over the planet was in retrograde…. If he had just had the sense to listen to me…”

  “I’m sorry, Commander,” said the CNO. “I didn�
�t quite catch that.”

  “Oh, nothing, sir. Nothing at all. I was just thinking and wishing things could be different. But I’m afraid they cannot.”

  All three of the Admirals realized there was no point in pursuing this. Reid’s mind was made up. And nobody was going to change it for him.

  Commander Reid had no grasp whatsoever of the evidence that would be given on behalf of Lt. Commander Headley, and he had no interest in it. He knew only one thing: He had wished to play it safe, to keep his submarine out of harm’s way, and he had been thwarted by the reckless actions of some damned two-and-a-half, who had never commanded a warship in his life.

  On the flight back to San Diego, Donald Reid sat separately and silently, all the way, several seats behind the two Admirals. In contrast, they had much to talk about, because they were both struggling to find a way out of this particular mess. But there was no way out. Not unless Reid reconsidered his position.