Arctic Gambit

by Larry Bond

  Jerry had a checklist on his smartphone that he used when he packed. He glanced at it one last time, paused, and looked around their bedroom. He grabbed a paperback from the nightstand and stuffed it into the bag before zipping it shut.

  Emily had stood silently for the few moments it had taken him to finish. Jerry came over to where she stood and put his arms around her waist. “I’m sorry about this. If it’s any consolation, I’m not thrilled either.”

  “Like you have a choice,” she responded glumly. She leaned against her husband’s chest, already missing him.

  “Actually, this time they didn’t even ask. But I’m still sorry for the extra work it means for you, and being away from you and Carly. I’ll miss her first day of preschool.”

  Emily did the math and knew he was right. She hadn’t even thought that far ahead. She tried to be supportive. “I’ll take lots of pictures.”

  “Thank you for being a Navy wife.” He kissed her, and added, “And for marrying a sailor like me.”

  “And you can’t tell me anything about where or what.” It was a statement of fact, but she hoped she was wrong, or that Jerry could give her a hint.

  “I really can’t say anything because they didn’t tell me squat. Dylan read the whole message to me, Flash priority by the way, verbatim. ‘Get to Groton ASAP, transport being arranged. Be ready for a three-week underway.’” After a short pause, he added, “You know you can call Dylan if things get crazy here. The whole squadron will come running if you ask.”

  “Hopefully I won’t have to,” she answered, but felt a small tug on her leg.

  Charlotte, plush owl in tow, looked up at her. “You didn’t come back. I almost fell asleep,” she complained.

  Jerry laughed and scooped her up. He announced, “Group hug!”

  After a collective squeeze, Emily stepped back. “Well, it’s definitely your turn to read to Carly tonight. I’ll let you explain where you are going and how long it will be.”

  “To a four-year-old? I’ll do my best,” he said bravely. “The driver is due any time. Please tell him to stand by. I’ll read Goodnight Moon to her at least twice.”

  12

  WORKING AGREEMENT

  25 July 2021

  0420 Eastern Daylight Time

  Graving Dock, Electric Boat Company

  Groton, CT

  * * *

  Lieutenant Commander Joshua Segerson came awake to violent shaking. He couldn’t imagine the source, since they were in dry dock, but the possibilities brought him wide awake instantly. Then the light suddenly came on in the stateroom. Blinking, he saw Petty Officer Bailey stepping back. “Sorry, XO,” she apologized. “You weren’t answering your phone, and the quarterdeck just got a call from the skipper. He’s inbound, ETA about fifteen minutes.”

  Rubbing his face as he sat up, the XO answered, “All right, Tiff. Thank you.”

  Segerson glanced at the clock, squinted, and took a moment to put his glasses on. It still read 4:20 in the morning. It was going to be a very long day, but the captain had been summoned to Washington in one hell of a hurry. Evidently, he was coming back the same way. That meant there might be news, which would be welcome.

  Segerson dressed and washed up quickly. It wasn’t mandatory that he meet the skipper as he came aboard, but it was his policy. He was out of his stateroom in ten minutes, and threaded his way aft toward the forward escape trunk.

  It was cool but clammy as he came topside and crossed the brow to the side of the graving dock. Jimmy Carter’s massive hull was lit by hundreds of work lights on the sides of the dock. More lights clustered around the quarterdeck shack. Ensign Truitt, the duty officer, saluted as the XO approached. “Skipper should be here any time, sir.”

  After the XO returned the salute, Truitt asked, “Sir, do you think he’ll finally have some word on what the f— I mean, what we’re supposed to be doing?”

  “I’m hopeful, Jim. If we do get word, is your division ready?”

  “Twelve hours’ notice, sir. We’ve gotten a lot of stuff done. I’ve scheduled training today for…” He stopped as a pair of headlights appeared. They turned off as the car got closer, and Segerson saw CDR Weiss get out, accompanied by a fortyish man in civilian clothes.

  The watch took care of their luggage while Weiss introduced Dr. Daniel Cavanaugh to the XO. The skipper’s explanation that the civilian was a “subject matter expert” did nothing to satisfy Segerson’s curiosity, but he understood the skipper would tell him what he could, when he could.

  The three went aboard and down the escape trunk, then forward. Weiss led the way, then Cavanaugh, following clumsily, and Segerson in trail to keep the newcomer from making a wrong turn. Reluctant to slow down the two submariners, Cavanaugh tried to move too quickly at first, and paid for it by connecting solidly with a valve at shin level, then collected what had to be a bruised shoulder from a junction box. The second hit was enough to make him slow down and look carefully before taking each step.

  When they reached officer’s country, Weiss disappeared into his stateroom, while Segerson helped the civilian get settled in the XO’s cabin next door. This involved moving stacks of papers off the extra upper bunk while Cavanaugh unpacked. Segerson mixed instructions about life on the sub with general questions. The civilian seemed pleasant enough. The last thing Segerson needed was a finicky or abrasive roommate.

  Weiss rapped on the open door, and simply said, “When you can, XO,” then went back in his stateroom. After making sure that Cavanaugh knew where everything was, including the head between their stateroom and the CO’s, Segerson closed his door, took three steps, and knocked lightly on the captain’s stateroom door.

  He heard “Enter,” and then as he came in, “Close the door.” Weiss motioned to an empty chair. As the XO sat, the captain announced, “We’re getting underway tonight. There’s a six-hour window when there are no Russian or Chinese imagery satellites overhead. They’ll begin flooding the dock at 2115 tonight, and not a moment before. The shipyard will recover the dock, and pump it back down after we leave. If we do it smoothly, we’ll be gone with no one the wiser.”

  Segerson grasped the plan’s intent instantly. “How long does the deception have to last?”

  “As long as possible,” Weiss answered. “A week would be nice, two would be ideal.”

  The XO nodded his understanding and Weiss continued, “The crew will find out about the destination after we’re underway. It’s close enough to reveille now that we’ll give all hands the word about the sailing at officer’s call and quarters. Make sure everyone hears two things: when everyone is to be onboard, and that nobody outside this graving dock should know we’ve left. Nobody talks to anyone outside EB, no social media, no phone calls home, no e-mails, no nothing. The rest of the world needs to believe we are still high and dry in this dock.”

  Weiss handed his XO an envelope. “This is where we’re going and what we’ll do when we get there. For the moment, just concentrate on getting us headed in the right direction.”

  He gestured toward the XO stateroom. “Dr. Cavanaugh is completely briefed about our mission, so we can speak freely around him. I’ll give you the details about his role later.”

  Segerson nodded. “Aye, aye, sir.” He didn’t know where they were going, but knowing they were going somewhere lifted his spirits. He was impatient to look at the material the captain had given him, and one part of his mind was already trying to remember where the tide would be late tonight.

  “There’s one more thing, XO.” Weiss’s tone remained serious, almost grim. “Commodore Mitchell has been assigned as mission commander. He’s en route, and will arrive sometime this morning.”

  The XO stifled his first reaction, an incredulous “What?” but really couldn’t think of what to say. There was a small chance he’d misunderstood the skipper, and he asked, “COMDEVRON Five is going with us?”

  “Yes,” Weiss replied, then explained. “This mission is huge, Josh. I was briefed with Pres
ident Hardy sitting next to me. He’s the one who decided Mitchell should be in charge.”

  Segerson’s mind followed several tracks at once. The first thought to leave the station was Where the hell are we going? Pulling out shortly after that was He couldn’t say “No” to the Big Skipper. Finally, This sucks brought up the rear.

  Lieutenant Commander Joshua Segerson had been aboard longer than Weiss, and comparing his current skipper with CDR Prindell, the last captain, he’d already decided that Weiss was the better officer, and the better leader. Prindell had been competent, methodical, and easy to work for. Just do whatever the book said. But he’d been cautious, and a little withdrawn. Weiss was outgoing, wanting to know everything, and had nerves of steel. He wasn’t reckless, but on the last two patrols he’d shown a keen ability to know when to take risks, and then ride out the results, good or bad.

  But both of them paled in comparison with their squadron commander, Captain Jerry Mitchell, a legend in the flesh. The stories about what he’d done to earn several Navy Crosses would fill a book, and there were reliable eyewitness reports that he had some very ugly bullet scars. That he’d been in the thick of it was clear. He hadn’t been squadron commander all that long, but he’d done a good job. And by the way, he was best buds with POTUS.

  The skipper must be feeling completely crushed. Segerson knew Weiss looked up to Mitchell, but Jimmy was Weiss’s boat. Nobody did this job entirely for glory, or pluses on fitness reports, but whatever the mission was, when they did it, it would not be Weiss’s mission. And understanding that didn’t help Segerson know what to do or say.

  He finally shoved all his feelings into a corner labeled “pending.” His job was to take care of the boat and its captain. “Skipper, I’ll run this any way you want.”

  Weiss smiled, and the XO realized how sad his expression had been. “Thanks, Josh. I’m still sorting out how I want to run it, but then I realize it’s not really my call. It’s how he wants to run it.” There was anger and frustration in his tone. “It all makes perfect sense when you think about it, but damn it! This was my mission until President Hardy got that bright idea to stick the commodore aboard! This is one of the few times I wish the Navy Way was something other than a smart salute and a cheery ‘aye, aye, sir.’”

  The XO couldn’t think of a reply, but just listened.

  “But the president said the mission has to come first, and I completely agree with that. So I’m going to set my personal feelings aside, and focus on making sure Jimmy’s as good as she can get.” After a short pause, he affirmed, “And we’ll let the commodore call the shots.” Then Weiss added, “This will make a little more sense after you read what’s in that envelope.”

  Weiss let out a frustrated sigh, and then shrugged. “I think we should go do our own stuff for a while. Why don’t you look at that”—he pointed at the envelope—“and let’s get together just before breakfast, at 0615.”

  Segerson nodded and stood. “Aye, aye, Captain.” He was reluctant to leave Weiss alone. He didn’t think the skipper was a suicide risk, but wanted to help his captain. He was just unsure of what to do. Finally, he left, closing the door to the CO’s stateroom behind him, thinking about “the loneliness of command.”

  * * *

  Dan Cavanaugh watched the executive officer leave, and focused on organizing his possessions into a very limited space. He was reluctant to explore the room too thoroughly, since it was Segerson’s personal stateroom, but the XO had made sure that the civilian knew what parts of the room were his to use.

  Still, he was curious about his new roommate, the second in command of a nuclear submarine. The bulletin board behind his fold-up desk had a few clues: family man with three young kids, a purple-and-gold “Geaux Tigers” miniature banner, and a handwritten list of restaurants in Groton. He hoped Segerson didn’t mind snoring.

  He didn’t sleep well on airplanes, and it had been an awkward flight with CDR Weiss, who obviously had a lot on his mind. Luckily, the military version of the civilian bizjet was designed to carry ten passengers, so he was able to give the disappointed officer some physical space.

  The upper bunk called to him, but by the time he had everything properly “stowed,” it was after five, and they said “reveille” was at 6:00 A.M. He wanted to explore, but didn’t think that was wise. He’d probably trigger some sort of security alarm. Finally, he pulled out some notes he’d made during the flight, intending to organize them, opened the second desk, and sat down.

  * * *

  Cavanaugh awoke with a start to find a young officer standing next to him. The ensign offered his hand, and as the civilian groggily shook it, explained, “I’m Jim Truitt, the chemistry and radiation control assistant. The XO asked me to check whether you wanted any breakfast.”

  Even half-asleep, that was an easy answer, and Cavanaugh let Truitt lead him a short distance down a passageway aft to the wardroom. It was full, almost to capacity, but Truitt led him to a side table with juice, fruit, and fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. Their aroma completed the revival process, and while the two collected plates, Truitt ordered eggs and ham from the galley. Cavanaugh followed his example.

  Truitt led him to two empty seats, explaining, “Underway, we’ll eat in shifts, so it won’t be quite this crowded.” They were surrounded by animated conversation, and to Cavanaugh’s ears, it had an excited tone. Word of getting underway had already spread, and he was sure that at least one conversation was about whether they’d be going home. He remembered that Carter was based in Washington State, and had been away for some time.

  He spotted the executive officer approaching, and after making sure the civilian was being properly cared for, Segerson broke into the buzz of conversation to introduce their guest. “He will be with us for the patrol, and is new to submarines, so be gentle.” There were several laughs, and Cavanaugh felt a non-specific uneasiness.

  Ensign Truitt spent their meal explaining some basic submarining rules and nomenclature. The first imperative was “if you don’t know what it’s for, don’t touch it.” Jimmy Carter was a “boat,” not a ship, in spite of her size and commissioned status. Hatches were in the deck, doors allowed passage through bulkheads. There were no stairs between decks, just ladders. He was cautioned to follow all the posted directions, in the order listed, when using the head. Failing to do so would have adverse and unpleasant consequences.

  They would check in with the yeoman after the sub’s office opened, and he would get a dosimeter, which was Truitt’s department. The ensign explained mealtimes, General Quarters, and other “evolutions.” Cavanaugh did his best to take it aboard, but accepted that even if he remembered everything perfectly, he was still the “New Guy.”

  Breakfast ended at 0700, with quarters on the dock’s wing wall at 0715. Per Truitt’s instruction, Cavanaugh retreated back to the XO’s—his—stateroom, where Segerson collected him and led him back outside. He’d only been aboard the sub for a few hours, but coming back out into the open air had a novelty he’d never felt before. He was not claustrophobic, but open space had a new value.

  Drawn up in neat rows, grouped by division, the crew cheered and clapped at the XO’s announcement they were getting underway. They listened as Segerson warned them about concealing their departure. Any hopes of a homeward-bound course were scuttled when he introduced Cavanaugh, who would be accompanying them on their “mission.”

  After quarters, Cavanaugh stood back, waiting while a long line of sailors filed back aboard. Truitt found him. “The XO wants to get you checked in ASAP. I’ll take you to the office, and then maybe on a short tour.” Cavanaugh nodded his agreement.

  Then Truitt asked, “You came aboard with the captain this morning. Do you know why the commodore will be going with us?”

  That surprised Cavanaugh. The XO hadn’t mentioned Commodore Mitchell’s name, or that anyone else would be going with them. Evidently, submarines had a well-developed grapevine. “It has to do with the mission,” he answered as car
efully as possible. That should have been a good way to politely end the conversation, but Truitt pressed his point.

  “But don’t they think our skipper can cut it?” Truitt sounded almost personally offended. “This is my first boat, so I can’t say anything, but I’ve been thanking my lucky stars I got Captain Weiss as my first commanding officer. I know they’re not all this good. Mitchell is the commodore, and way more experienced, but it’s the skipper’s boat. Why put the commodore in charge?”

  Cavanaugh couldn’t say anything.

  25 July 2021

  0750 Eastern Daylight Time

  Subbase New London Navy Lodge

  New London, CT

  * * *

  The car was early, which was fine, because so was Jerry. The civilian driver was already taking care of the paperwork when Jerry arrived in the lobby at ten minutes to eight. He was a little jet-lagged, but he was functional. A small, pale woman with jet-black hair approached and offered her hand.

  “Commodore, good morning. I’m Valerie Adams, one of Mr. Sellers’s assistants. Are you ready to go?”

  “Yes.” As instructed, he’d brought everything with him, and as the driver smoothly took his carry-on and sea bag, Ms. Adams guided him outside. A black, imposing-looking limousine with dark-tinted windows waited at the curb.

  Once inside, she pulled out a hard-sided briefcase, unlocked it, and handed Jerry a manila envelope. It wasn’t sealed shut, but it was vividly marked with several security warnings. “Chief of Staff Sellers asked that you read this material on the way, to save time. We have about twenty-five minutes until we’re at Pendleton. The car is screened, so we’re secure.”

  He opened the envelope and pulled out a dozen-or-so-page document. The first one repeated the security warnings, and was titled “Overcharge.” The second page was a map of the Kara Sea and Arctic Ocean. He started reading.

  * * *

  The Secret Service had instantly turned down President-Elect Hardy’s first choice for a presidential residence, a five-acre estate right on the Thames River. Not only were they concerned about water access to the site, but the security perimeter would have to extend well offshore, and would interfere with traffic on the river. Besides, while the house was grand enough to entertain distinguished guests, five acres was simply not enough room. For example, there was no good place for the helipad.