The Elephant Game

by Andrew Watts

  Victoria made small talk with the captain and the other officers at the table. None of her pilots were there yet. Normally they crawled in five minutes before the meal hour ended, their hair embarrassingly disheveled, lines on their faces from just rolling out of their racks.

  They didn’t disappoint this morning.

  First came Plug, then Juan, then Caveman. All in wrinkled green flight suits. Plug’s hair was sticking up, and he needed a shave. Victoria would have to talk to him about that later. She didn’t want to piss off the new captain. First impressions were important, and he’d already screwed the pooch on that. Her pilots grabbed boxes of cereal and any of the leftovers that the CSs would provide. They gave them plates of sausage, toast, and hard-boiled eggs. If there was one group on board the ship that her aviators kept up a good relationship with, it was the cooks.

  It was a bit of an odd relationship between Victoria and Captain Boyle. She had been the acting commanding officer of the USS Farragut for almost a week before he had arrived. She had taken command after the previous captain and XO had been killed in combat. While she would have given anything to bring them back, she had to admit that the thrill of command was everything she had been told about by her father. Admiral Manning had held many commands in his career. And even though he was a naval flight officer, his favorite job had actually been commanding ships. He had been the commanding officer of two deep draft vessels, including once as an aircraft carrier captain.

  Victoria now understood why he had said that. To hold that awesome power and responsibility was unlike anything else in the world. The commanding officer of a ship at sea was all at once a town mayor, county sheriff, restaurant owner, and military commander. Command was the ultimate goal and the ultimate high of many military officers.

  The wardroom began clearing out. The captain excused himself. The place settings were being removed and Victoria’s pilots rushed to finish, shoveling food and gulping down their glasses of juice.

  “You gentlemen plan on staying for OPS Intel?”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  “Good. Next time, please make sure you shave before showing up in front of the captain, okay?”

  Plug gave a sheepish grin. “Sorry, Boss.”

  The petty officer who was running the wardroom said, “Ma’am, gentlemen, would you mind getting up so we can clear off the table before OPS Intel?”

  “Of course. Sorry, CS2.”

  “Oh, it’s no problem, ma’am. I just see the ensign over there in the corner waiting to set up his PowerPoint presentation.”

  The communications officer waved. He was holding a laptop and a bundle of cables, each with a bright red sticker on them that read “Classification: SECRET.” The pilots each went to their staterooms while the room was cleaned up. Victoria washed out her thermos and left it by her sink. She grabbed her notebook and walked back into the wardroom. The seats had been arranged in rows now, and dozens of people had entered the room. Many stood, swaying with the ship’s rolls, not wanting to take the seat of someone who might be of higher rank.

  At exactly 8:15 a.m., the captain and XO walked in.

  “Attention on deck,” one of the senior chiefs called out.

  Most were already standing at attention when they saw him enter. A few tightened up. Plug got up from his seat in the corner, standing at attention a little too slowly for Victoria’s taste.

  “At ease,” replied the captain. Those with seats sat down. All of the off-duty department heads and many of the senior enlisted were present.

  “What have you got for us, COMMO?”

  “Sir, this is the morning OPS Intel brief. First, OS2 will give the weather.”

  “Captain, good morning. The weather is predicted to be in the midseventies and partly cloudy for most of the week. A sea state of two until Friday, when a low-pressure front is moving into the area and we’ll have a sea state of three, and some rain is possible.”

  “Thank you, OS2.”

  The brief went over the schedules for the next few days. Victoria looked at the screen and took note of when the RAS was. The replenishment at sea would bring them their much-needed parts and supplies. With her only helicopter going into a maintenance period, there was always a chance that some unknown problem would pop up. And the only way to solve it might be with a helicopter part that could be picked up on that RAS.

  The operations officer spoke next. His slide showed a map of the Eastern Pacific theater. There were dozens of blue ships with three-letter name identifiers next to them scattered throughout the area.

  Three red ship icons were near Panama City, with an arrow pointing towards the port location.

  “Sir, Third Fleet has informed us that the Chinese ships will be in port, Panama, tomorrow.”

  Grumbles from the crew. The captain didn’t say anything. Perhaps he would have told the crew to quiet down under different circumstances. But he hadn’t been aboard when the Chinese had attacked them, killing some of their shipmates, so he probably was giving the crew a longer leash.

  “The Bush Strike Group is now conducting a training exercise off San Diego.”

  “This early?”

  “Yes, sir. They’ve moved up her deployment schedule by six months. And they’ve moved around some of the escort destroyer and cruiser maintenance schedules to increase the size of her strike group. Also, sir, the VP squadron is sending more P-8s down to El Salvador to work with us here.”

  Victoria had the phrase “too little, too late” in her head. The battle was over. Or was it?

  Was the Pacific Fleet ramping up its operational tempo in response to recent Chinese aggression? Or in preparation for more? She shook off the thought. Three wounded Chinese warships were headed into Panama City. That was not where they would go if further hostilities were on the horizon.

  The captain said, “Okay. Any word on where they want us after this week?”

  “No, sir, but the guys at Desron are breathing down my neck about it. They want us home for our next maintenance inspection.”

  “Which Desron?”

  “Not the one on the carrier, sir. The one in Mayport.”

  “They’re actually called Surfron now,” someone said.

  “What the hell is a Surfron?” someone else said, and a few people laughed.

  “The staffer who’s giving you trouble at Surfron can go to hell,” the captain said. “We’ve got more important things to worry about out here. This is a combat-ready warship. Our maintenance inspection will happen when it happens.”

  Pleased nods from the crew. The captain would win them over with that attitude. It made it appear as though he was sticking up for the crew in the face of “the man.”

  The captain looked around and held up his hands. “Well, now, don’t tell anyone I told Surfron to go to hell or anything. He’s still my boss when we get back to Mayport.”

  A few chuckles.

  The captain pointed at the map on the display screen. “The Navy wants us here, patrolling the Eastern Pacific. An aggressor nation just launched an attack on us. So, this is where we should be. Our reason for being isn’t so that we can pass maintenance inspections. We do maintenance and training so that we can effectively defend our country.”

  “Yes, sir,” said OPS.

  “That being said, if they do extend us here, let’s look at the impact that will have on personnel, training, and maintenance. CHENG, OPS, please identify any risks you see and present your findings to the XO.”

  “Yes, sir,” the two officers echoed. The XO nodded, acknowledging the request. Like the captain, he was also a new arrival.

  The captain said, “Alright, now what about this mystery boat that the helo crew found last night?”

  “Sir, it’s about fifteen miles away now. Our VBSS team is standing by in case we need to go over there.”

  The captain nodded his approval. “Good. Anything from Third Fleet?”

  “We don’t yet have permission to conduct a security inspection, sir. I think the
y have their hands full with the Chinese stuff and they’ve been slow to get back to our requests. But we did see a message about some sort of signals intelligence in this area. Supposedly the office of naval intelligence is involved now. They want us to report on anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Well, I would say our mystery boat counts.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Alright, please ask again. I want permission to board this sucker by the time we get there.”

  They went through a few more slides. Meeting schedules, training for the week, and the joke of the day, something that the communications officer—who was also the Bull Ensign—had put together. The Bull Ensign was the most senior of the ensigns. As ensigns were the lowest-ranking officers, it wasn’t much of a distinction. But it was a position of humor and tradition beloved by wardrooms around the world. His gold collar devices were oversized, and he was expected to mentor his junior peers.

  “Alright, Bull Ensign, what have you got for us?”

  “Sir, I just want to say that this joke excludes the Airboss.”

  The pilots all perked up at that. Plug was smiling. “Bring it, COMMO.”

  The ensign went red.

  The captain said, “Let’s go, COMMO.”

  “Sir, what’s the difference between a pilot and their helicopter, sir?”

  “What?”

  “The helicopter stops whining when you shut down the engines.”

  Laughter and several “Oh’s!” throughout the wardroom.

  The Airboss kept a straight face. “COMMO, please see me for counseling later, even if you did exclude me from the punchline.”

  The captain stifled a laugh and stood to leave.

  “Attention on deck,” said someone from the back of the room.

  The captain left, and the officers and crew of the USS Farragut began their day. As everyone was leaving, Victoria tapped Plug on the shoulder. “Got a minute?”

  “Sure, what’s up, Boss?”

  “Let’s get coffee.”

  The junior pilots, eavesdropping as always, echoed comments of “Uht-oh” and the like. Victoria headed over to the far end of the now-empty wardroom, taking an empty mug. She filled it up with a thick black version of coffee that she was pretty sure could only be served aboard Navy ships and administered to animals in scientific experiments—outside the US, of course.

  Plug filled up an obligatory cup and sat at the cleared table, waterproof blue fitted cover on top with the ship’s emblem in the center.

  “What’s wrong?” Plug turned his head slightly as he said it and had the tone of “What did I do now?”

  “Nothing. Well—this is going to be a difficult conversation.”

  “For who?”

  “Mostly for you.” She put on a serious face. “You weren’t chosen to be a RAG instructor.” The Replacement Air Group was technically a retired term. The acronym “RAG” was deemed less politically correct as more and more women filled the ranks of naval aviation. The unit that Plug had applied for was now known as the FRS—the Fleet Replacement Squadron. But everyone still called it the RAG. Old habits died hard.

  The RAG was the squadron that trained young nuggets fresh out of flight school on how to fly their fleet aircraft—in this case, the MH-60R Seahawk helicopter. Only the top pilots from each fleet squadron were selected for this assignment, which was seen as the first step along the “golden path” towards someday becoming a commanding officer.

  Victoria watched his face closely. This was a job that he’d really wanted, and he would be very disappointed. The good thing about Plug was that he was what she liked to call emotionally expedient—he went through all five stages of grief at once.

  He let out a big sigh. “Fuck.”

  “Yeah. Sorry, man,” she said.

  He looked back up at his boss. “You weren’t a RAG instructor, right?”

  “That’s correct. I was an HT instructor.” The HTs were the squadrons in flight school where student naval aviators learned to fly helicopters for the first time and earned their wings of gold. HT was the Navy designator for Helicopter Training Squadron.

  Plug sipped some of the black coffee in his mug and tried to make a joke. “And you’ve already been a CO.”

  Victoria smiled. “Technically. Although I was relieved after a week, so…” They were referring to her brief stint as CO of the destroyer after the former captain and XO were both killed in a missile strike. She grew more serious. “Listen, I checked, and this slate of instructor pilots was already selected for the HTs.”

  His face fell in a second defeat in as many minutes. “Okay, Boss. What’s next?”

  “We’ll keep looking. I’ve got a draft email typed up that I’ll send to the skipper. We have a few other options lined up. But if you really want to get one of those instructor pilot slots, you may want to consider extending in the squadron, or taking a different set of orders for a short period of time.”

  Plug shook his head. “Dammit. Okay. Thanks for letting me know. Just tell me what I need to do.”

  “Just keep worrying about your mission out here for now. And keep having a good attitude. We’ll figure something out for your orders.”

  A few minutes later, Victoria stood on the bridge wing next to the captain and the officer of the deck. The captain and OOD were looking at the fishing boat through binoculars.

  “Ti-bu-ron Panama.” The OOD turned to the captain. “What’s tiburon mean? Is that Greek mythology or something?”

  The petty officer next to him said, “Uh, sir, it’s Spanish for shark.”

  “Ah. Thanks.”

  The captain said, “The helicopter crew said that they saw someone laying out on the deck last night. I don’t see anyone. At all.”

  Victoria said, “It’s been about eight hours since they overflew it. Maybe they’re down below?”

  The captain handed her his binoculars. Plug’s instincts had been correct. Something was off about this boat. About one hundred miles from shore. No personnel on deck. Dead in the water. Looked to be about sixty feet long.

  The voice of the TAO came over the radio buckled to the captain’s uniform. “She’s registered in Panama City, sir. We just looked it up.”

  He unclipped his handset. “Understood, thanks. Tell the VBSS team to conduct a safety inspection.”

  “Roger, sir.”

  The captain looked at Victoria. “Your helicopter already taken apart?”

  “They’ve probably started that process, yes, sir. Sorry about that. If I’d known that we might be doing this today, I would have tried to hold off the maintenance for another day.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Airboss.” He began walking into the bridge. “Come on. Let’s go to combat and start prodding Third Fleet to let us do our jobs.”

  Ensign Adam Kidd, like everyone on board a Navy ship, had several duties. His primary job was to be the USS Farragut’s communications officer. So just about everyone on board called him COMMO. But one of his collateral assignments was as a Visit Board Search and Seizure team leader. The VBSS team was essentially the US Navy’s shipboard version of a SWAT team. This role was his favorite part of being in the Navy.

  Ensign Kidd looked over his team. They were decked out in black tactical gear, snuggly fitted over their uniforms. Black Kevlar chest protectors and helmets. Thin waterproof communications headsets and protective eyewear. They carried a mix of M-4 carbines and M-9 handguns.

  One by one, all seven of them climbed down the rope ladder extending from the USS Farragut’s boat deck down to the rigid-hull inflatable boat below. The RHIB was tied to the destroyer, its engine rumbling, the two personnel who were part of the boat team already on board.

  “Careful. Watch out,” the driver of the RHIB called out as his small vessel heaved in the ocean, the rope ladder swaying. Within two minutes, all members of the VBSS team were being driven towards the fishing trawler, pitching and rolling over the deep blue ocean. White splashes of salt water whipped in their faces.
A small American flag waved on the aft end of the RHIB.

  “We already got permission to board?”

  “Yes, sir. Combat just confirmed.” The OS1—Operations Specialist First Class—was the most experienced member of his team.

  “Any reply from the fishing vessel yet?”

  “No, sir. Nobody over there is answering.”

  All eyes were ahead as they clutched their weapons and held on to the RHIB. They sat on the inflatable outer rim of the watercraft, and their black helmets bounced up and down as it traversed the waves.

  The six men and one woman on Ensign Kidd’s VBSS team were well trained. They had done two of these on their deployment already—although the other times had been to inspect suspected narcotics traffickers. While this boat might very well be a smuggler mothership, the fact that no one was aboard or responding was very odd. Still, he was confident that his team could handle it. Many of his men had been on multiple deployments and conducted boardings around the world for piracy and security inspections. Their training and capabilities weren’t anything close to Navy SEALs or other special operations units, but the VBSS teams were typically made up of some of the best sailors on board Navy ships. And they took their job seriously.

  As soon as the RHIB made contact with the Tiburon Panama, the team rushed onto the deck, weapons pointed outward. The vessel wasn’t very large.

  It didn’t take them long to find the bloodstains…or the body.

  “Sir, come check this out!”

  Kidd headed forward into the small bridge.

  “Guy doesn’t have a pulse. He’s cold. But the bloodstains look like he’s crawled all over the ship. Must have been looking for something.”

  COMMO nodded and reached for his radio. “Captain, this is Ensign Kidd, sir.”

  The radio blared, “Go ahead, Kidd. What’s your status?”

  “Sir…there’s one dead body on board. But there are bloodstains on the main deck and in the berthing area. It’s pretty bad.”