Shattered Trident

by Larry Bond

  “Yes, sir, he did. But he had his orders in mind when he dropped an antiquated NAE instead of a more modern countermeasure. If I may, Commodore, it appears to me that you’re more upset that Mitchell decided to interfere with the attack in the first place, not necessarily with how he went about doing it,” observed Walker.

  The commodore paused, considering Walker’s last statement. His operations officer was right. He was irritated that Mitchell had become actively involved when their orders had directed them to be passive observers. And while the orders hadn’t explicitly restricted them to that role solely, there was a strong inference to that effect. Simonis inwardly cursed the sloppiness with which the whole operation had been thrown together. Rushed, ill-conceived, a typical Washington solution to a dangerous situation. It was a response that allowed the powers that be to say during an election year campaign that something had been done, while at the same time limiting the United States’ involvement. A response that made little sense from a military perspective, and put his entire squadron potentially in harm’s way.

  “Point taken, Rich,” Simonis granted. “Well, I hope the additional instructions I provided Commander Mitchell will preclude any further shenanigans.”

  Walker noted the reduced volume in his boss’s voice, but there was still something in the background. “Hope, sir? You sound uncertain. Mitchell didn’t strike me as a man who is openly insubordinate or reckless. In fact, everything I’ve heard says he’s an outstanding officer.”

  Simonis shook his head as he plopped back into his seat. “Same here. I’ve even spoken to Rear Admiral Guthrie, and he was effusive with his praise. He said Mitchell was intelligent, innovative, calculating, thorough, and responsible. Everything I would have wanted to hear about a new skipper assigned to my command.”

  Walker was now puzzled. He’d thought the problem had been identified and dealt with, but now he wasn’t so sure. Something else was gnawing at his commodore, something other than Mitchell’s novel tactics. North Dakota’s CO was certainly at the heart of the matter, but he wasn’t the only factor. There was something else, thus far unspoken.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I guess I’m not following you. What is it that has you concerned?” asked Walker with a hint of frustration.

  Simonis grinned warily, surprising Walker. “Washington,” said the commodore bluntly.

  “Washington? I don’t get it.”

  “This operation is a Washington-inspired idea, and Mitchell is their local man on the scene. I’m not sure they’ll take my disciplining of their fair-haired boy very well.”

  Walker struggled to hide his skepticism. He was well aware of Simonis’s aversion to Washington politics, but this was a bit much. How would they even know, unless …

  “Sir, you’re not suggesting Mitchell would contact them directly? Bypassing the entire chain of command?” exclaimed Walker, aghast.

  “Of course not!” Simonis snapped back. “But I have to report this up my chain of command, and Admiral Burroughs will pass it on to PACOM, who will pass it on to the CNO, et cetera, et cetera, until it eventually gets to Patterson.”

  “The deputy national security advisor?”

  “Correct!”

  “Begging your pardon, sir. But why would Dr. Patterson even bother to get involved over such a minor issue? I know she and Mitchell are friends, but she has a lot more important things on her plate right now,” countered Walker.

  “Because, Commander, she has a proven track record of getting her mitts into other people’s business. She and Mitchell are very close, and she has inserted herself into the picture every time he’s gotten into trouble.” Simonis sprang back to his feet and started pacing again.

  “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.”

  It certainly looked that way to Jerry as he evaluated the track data on the large screen. Two of the tracks were angled in their direction, the third to the southeast.

  “CDO,” sang out the sonar supervisor. “There is at least one more boat, probably a Kilo by the sound of it, behind Sierra-nine two.”

  “Very well, Sonar.”

  “There goes the neighborhood,” remarked Covey. “It’s going to get a bit crowded around here.”

  “Mm-hmm,” agreed Jerry. He was considering his options when Thigpen walked up behind him.

  “Now what’s going on?” asked the XO. His voice sounded groggy. He looked like he had been taking a nap.

  “We’ve got company, Bernie, lots of it,” Jerry replied, pointing to the port VLSD.

  Thigpen focused on the large-screen display. It didn’t take him long to assess the situation. “Uh-oh.”

  “That about sums it up.” Jerry turned and spun the trackball on the horizontal display. Thigpen and Sobecki joined him around the console. “Okay, let’s head to the south to give these guys some room. Eng, come to course … one nine zero, and goose us up to ten knots.”

  “Change course to one nine zero, increase speed to ten knots, aye, sir.”

  While Sobecki turned North Dakota around, Jerry and Thigpen started discussing how they should deal with the rapid influx of PLAN submarines. Suddenly the WLY-1 acoustic intercept receiver started whooping an alarm.

  “CDO! Two new active sonars, bearing zero one five and three five zero. High-frequency systems, probably helicopter dipping sonars.”

  Jerry turned and saw the two datums on the port large screen. They were still over sixteen thousand yards away, but things were definitely getting out of hand. The situation wasn’t immediately dangerous, but it could get that way if he didn’t do something soon. Simonis’s voice echoed in Jerry’s mind, “You’re in a war zone, Captain, and you need to begin acting accordingly.”

  “Mr. Sobecki, sound general quarters.”

  8

  ESCALATION

  31 August 2016

  1400 Local Time

  August 1st Building, Ministry of National Defense Compound

  Beijing, People’s Republic of China

  The Central Military Commission usually received a carefully polished and rehearsed intelligence brief before each meeting in their posh conference room. This time, though, they’d assembled in the operations center, below ground level.

  Admiral Wei Zi’en watched the near-chaos of the intelligence staff as they updated the screens and plotted what little data they had on the attackers. He appreciated what they were going through, and knew what they had to work with. The data was pathetically thin and conflicting; he shared their frustration. This was his problem, his fight, his responsibility, and he felt as helpless as the workers updating the master plot. Maybe more so. At least they had useful work to do.

  Colonel Xi Ping, one of the deputy commanders of the intelligence service for the General Staff, was the senior officer currently in charge of the operations room. Xi explained, “General Bao regrets not being here to brief you personally. Unfortunately, he is still heavily involved in counterintelligence issues. I have just spoken with him, he sends his apologies and asks your indulgence in allowing me to brief you.”

  Wei could hardly complain. Normally, the brief was presented by a major or an ambitious captain. But the general’s absence had been noted by several members of the commission.

  The operations room walls were crowded with maps and flat-screen displays, as well as the obligatory portraits. The staff paid little attention to the visitors crowded in the back, although they must have noticed that some of them matched the pictures on the wall.

  “The status boards there, and there,” Ping said, pointing to the opposite wall, “display merchant traffic and the movements of all known foreign naval vessels, including submarines. The white symbols on each board show where our merchant ships, all tankers, have been attacked.”

  Admiral Wei barely listened to the brief. He’d already received the bad news over the course of the day, and in more detail than it was being presented here. He knew the real reason the intelligence staff had brought them to the operations center. It was to show the Central Military Commission that the intelligence section, so surprised by the earlier Vietnamese mining of Liaoning, was now making every effort to avoid further embarrassments. And if there was so much bad news, it wasn’t their fault.

  After an unsatisfying report, the council’s twelve members, including the president and the entire General Staff, elected to stay below ground level, and trooped across the hall. There was no point in going back up five floors just to have a meeting.

  Th
e utilitarian conference room was less opulent than their normal meeting place. It was large enough, and obviously well used. Posters on the walls showed comparisons of Chinese and foreign military hardware. The classroom-like setting seemed to encourage the colonel to use a more casual manner than he might have otherwise.

  “Please, ask your questions,” Xi prompted.

  General Shi was head of the political department. He said, “During the brief, you continually referred to the ‘unknown attackers.’ Why can’t you tell us who is sinking our tankers?” Shi’s frustration was clear.

  The colonel answered, “As long as they only attack unescorted merchant ships, we have no way of detecting them, making identification impossible. Passive sonar could pick up a submarine’s acoustic signal, enabling us to identify the class, and thus the nationality of the attacker. But they have avoided our warships so far. It’s a clever strategy.”

  “So you approve.” Shi’s tone was almost threatening.

  “Only of their tactics,” Xi quickly responded. “They attack anonymously with no risk to themselves. We don’t know where to strike back.”

  “There is one obvious choice,” Shi replied.

  “If we attack Vietnam now, without proof, we become the villain,” Vice Chairman Li Ju countered.

  “They’re behind it,” Shi affirmed.

  “If it is the Vietnamese,” Xi was careful to say, “they cannot be acting alone. They only have three Project 636 subs in service. It’s physically impossible for only three submarines to cause this much destruction over such a wide area.”

  “More than one nation? Has Vietnam shared its information with others? Is it the Americans?” Wei could hear genuine fear in Shi’s voice. He wasn’t as concerned as Shi, but American naval superiority was still a fact of life for China. If they threw their full weight against his PLAN, the outcome might be grim. Just their submarine forces alone …