The Violent Sea

by Russell Moran

  Meg loves the idea. She thinks it will be fun. I reminded her that if Iran and North Korea find out about the plan, we’re in big trouble. The end-game is intriguing, and a bit scary. We’re going to convince the enemy that we’re on their side. Meanwhile, we will use this plan to learn everything we possibly can about both countries’ nuke programs, and then shut those operations down—hard. And here’s the crazy part. The operation will be the most ultra-secret plan the United States ever pulled off. The only people who will know about it are the President, CIA Director Carlini, Buster, Meg, and me. Maybe I should grow a mustache and wear a fedora pulled down over my eyes.

  Of course, there had to be some more insiders to this top-secret mission. Who would board the ships to search for weapons? I called and asked Buster. All he said was “two SEALs.” Of course, Buster being Buster, he didn’t give me their names, which could make things complicated because the Ford already carries a SEAL detachment of 12 men. I would learn their identities soon enough.

  I received a telegraph that two new SEALs would become part of my crew, Lieutenant Ben Logan, and LTJG Roland Bergold.

  ***

  “A Lieutenant Logan is here to see you, admiral,” my assistant said.

  “Lieutenant Benjamin Logan reporting for duty, sir,” he said as he snapped a salute.

  The guy looked like a SEAL officer from central casting. He stood at attention, straight as a ruler.

  “At ease, lieutenant. This is my wife and chief of staff, Commander Meg Fenton. Please have a seat. Coffee?”

  “No thank you, sir.”

  I don’t know if it’s a stupid prejudice I’ve developed over the years, but I don’t fully trust somebody who doesn’t drink coffee.

  “I want to go over our operation with you, lieutenant, as soon as Lieutenant Bergold arrives this afternoon.”

  “Sir, I’m sorry but we cannot discuss these matters,” Logan said, sitting at attention on the couch.

  “What do you mean that you can’t discuss this with me?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss the matter any further.”

  “Listen, kid, if you don’t open up, I’ll wrap a line around your dick, hitch it to a catapult, and launch your sorry ass off the flight deck. Do I make myself clear?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, my apologies. But when I met with CIA Director Carlini, he emphasized that this operation is absolutely top secret, and even among the personnel in the operation, conversations should be kept to an absolute minimum.”

  “Keep in mind lieutenant, that I’m not only an admiral, but I’m in charge of this operation.”

  “Aye aye, sir. I again offer my apology.”

  “I accept your apology. Now report to your stateroom, organize your stuff, and come back here at 1500 to meet with me, Lt. Bergold, and Commander Fenton. CIA Agent Atkins will be here as well.”

  “My God, hon,” Meg said after Lt. Logan left, “I haven’t seen you so angry in a long time.”

  “I wasn’t angry, babe, I was acting like I was angry. Big difference. When you’re angry, you lose control. When you’re acting like you’re angry, you get the message across, but you’re in total control.”

  “I recall that Japanese Ambassador Yakuri mentioned that you’re a talented ‘mind fucker.’”

  “I try my best. I must admit that I was a bit pissed with Milton Military. I wonder if he sleeps at attention.”

  “No doubt about it,” Meg said. “the guy was ramrod stiff.”

  “I’m not worried about it, hon. They train SEALs well.”

  “They sure do. I love it when they bark and clap their flippers.”

  “Wiseass.”

  ***

  Buster showed up, in his Navy uniform, at 1400. I was glad that Buster is a reserve officer. His uniform helps him to blend in, and his knowledge of the Navy helps keep his cover on tight.

  “Have you met the SEALs yet?” Buster asked.

  “Yes, we met Lt. Ben Logan, the team leader, the team consisting of two. The guy’s a bit too military for my taste, but he’ll do just fine.”

  “Harry threatened to launch him off the flight deck by his dick,” Meg said, laughing.

  Buster cracked up.

  “Never mess with a guy who sank an enemy fleet,” Buster said.

  My assistant showed the two SEALs into my office.

  “Ben, Rolly, (I thought it was important to get on a first-name basis, another effort to get Logan to loosen up) I’m going to ask our friend, Agent Atkins here, to review our plans. He answers to the name, Buster. As you see, he wears commander’s stripes. Buster really is a commander in the naval reserve.”

  “Okay folks, this operation is, as you well know, top secret,” Buster said. “The only people who know about the operation are the president, the director of the CIA, both Admiral and Commander Fenton, you two SEAL gentlemen, and myself. The first part of the program is done already, letting Iran know that they have insiders, specifically Admiral Fenton and Commander Fenton. My inside guy in Tehran leaked that misinformation last week. The cover story is that the Fentons were paid five million dollars to defect.”

  “So, when do we see the money?” I asked.

  “Very funny, Harry.”

  “The next part of the operation starts today. All press outlets are being informed that Carrier Strike Group 14 is the sole inspector of suspect ships at sea. We’re putting the word out that only CSG-14 will be involved because of the expertise required to do an inspection. It makes sense, if you think about it, and we want it to make sense. I hope you see the irony of a major press release announcing our operation, and at the same time, the operation being top secret.”

  “What happens if a suspect ship is steaming, say, off the coast of Norway or someplace?” Meg asked. “How can we slip over a few oceans to get to the target ship?”

  “Good question, Meg. The answer is that we’re only interested in ships going to or from Iran and North Korea.”

  “We’ve gotten word from our mole that the Iranians are changing the appearance of the warheads. Lieutenants Logan and Bergold have been thoroughly trained on what to look for. The key part of the plan is for our SEALs to insert a tiny wire transmitter into a seam on the weapon, and to coat it with special glue. Once done, we can track the warhead wherever it goes.”

  “So, this plan is for us to allow warhead-carrying ships to get to their destinations,” I said. “But isn’t the overall objective to stop those warheads from ever being used? I mean, what’s the endgame after we allow a bunch of warheads to go to places where they don’t belong?”

  “The answer to that question, Harry, is that only President Blake knows, and presumably Bill Carlini, my boss at the CIA. Okay folks, let’s go warhead hunting.”

  Chapter 42

  Our satellites kept careful track of any ships sailing to or from Iran and North Korea. Once we determined that a course would take a ship to one of those countries, our job was to intercept the ship and inspect the cargo. Our most important job was to enable the SEALs to place a tracker on the warheads. Although our double spies alerted Iran to the disinformation that I was hooked up with them, they kept it from North Korea. These two “friends’ love each other, about as much as a couple of scorpions in a bottle.

  The Ford was steaming off the coast of southern Japan. It was somewhat boring duty, just steaming around in circles awaiting word that a satellite picked up a ship heading to North Korea. I couldn’t shake the thought that a short time ago, I was hammering the Japanese fleet at Leyte Gulf.

  I sat in my office reading security briefings. The officer of the deck was none other than Commander Meg Fenton, her first full watch in that position. Meg convinced me that she wanted to qualify as an OOD, better to help me in her position as my aide, which had now become my chief of staff. She was right, of course. Meg needs to know everything about standing watch as an OOD. Knowing her, I figured she would master the job after two hours of a four-hour watch.

  “Admiral Fenton, this is t
he OOD,” Meg said over the intercom. “We have a possible hostile three miles off our port bow.”

  I passed that information to Logan and Bergold in the SEAL area. Then I went to the bridge.

  “Shall I launch the helicopters, sir?” Meg asked. We were making a big effort to be appropriate when in the presence of other people, calling each other “sir,” or “ma’am.”

  “Yes, I’ve alerted Logan and Bergold. They’re going to the helicopter launch area now.”

  “Are you going to hail the ship, honey, I mean admiral?”

  “No, commander, you do the honors. I think these people should learn how far women have come in our Navy.”

  “Iranian cargo ship Arya Naz, this is American aircraft carrier USS Gerald R. Ford, come in please.” She repeated the message three times.

  “Maybe they don’t like to talk to girls,” Meg said, looking pissed off.

  “Maybe they’d prefer to talk to a helicopter,” I said.

  “Foxtrot Golf One, see if you can get a response from the freighter,” Meg said.

  “Roger, commander.”

  “Any answer?”

  “They responded, ma’am, and I told them to stand by to be boarded.”

  Lieutenants Logan and Bergold boarded the Arya Naz escorted by two other SEALs armed with M-16s. They were taken to the ship’s hold, where they inspected any box large enough to house a warhead. As they had trained, each of them inserted a thin wire transmitter into a seam on the weapon and hit it with a dab of glue. They found and tagged a total of eight warheads.

  Logan and Bergold reported to my office.

  “It’s hard to believe, sir, but we found eight warheads,” Logan said. “Looks like they’re ramping up production. We only found four on the first inspection prior to this operation.”

  “And you inserted a transmitter on each warhead?”

  “Yes, sir. That glue is amazing. It hardens like a rock after a couple of minutes in contact with metal, but it doesn’t stick to our fingers.”

  “The CIA thinks of everything,” I said. “Well done, gentlemen. You two have a hell of a tough job, and so far, you’re performing up to the standards we expect, not that we have any book to follow with this nuke tracking business.”

  “I’m just worried that something will go wrong, sir,” Logan said.

  “So am I Ben, so am I.”

  Chapter 43

  We steamed back to Pearl Harbor at the end of the first week in November. The ships in the group required some minor upkeep, but my main concern was for the crews. They sure as hell needed a break, and getting them home for Thanksgiving would do the trick. Even those who pulled duty on the holiday could get to see their families, who were invited aboard. One problem, and I made everybody aware of it—we may need to cast off lines and head out to sea on a moment’s notice. Neither NavOps nor myself had much control over scheduling. It all depended on a ship that may be carrying warheads. The Iranians may be crazy, but they’re not stupid. They kept their warhead moving to a minimum.

  “Honey,” Meg said as she poured me another cup of coffee. I know you’ve thought of this, and I’m sure Buster, the CIA director, and the president have all thought the same thing. But I’m going to ask my dumb question anyway. What about cargo planes? Last I checked there’s no law that says you need to transport nukes on a ship.”

  “No, it’s not a dumb question. Buster spoke to me about it. He hates the answer to the question about air transportation. The answer is that some of his best inside spies are stationed at every major airport in Iran. So, these guys will report to Buster if they see a nuke being loaded aboard a flight. The reason Buster hates the answer is that as soon as the plane is intercepted—I mean shot down—the Iranians will put two and two together and arrest every baggage handler at the airport. If they can’t figure out who blew the whistle, they’ll just kill them all. Buster may be a spook, but he’s a spook with a lot of heart. He doesn’t like to see his people whacked.”

  “Oh, my God. But besides those brave men losing their lives, won’t the Iranians know they have to put an iron chain around their airport security?”

  “Yes, the airport mole program will work with only the first plane loaded with nukes.”

  “What then?”

  “Then we shoot down every plane heading from Iran to North Korea. Once we find the track and speed, we shoot the bastard down. Hey, hon, we’re in a shooting war. Oh, to change the subject to something more pleasant, Bill Dexter, the Pacific Fleet Commander, wants to eat Thanksgiving dinner with his wife in the Ford’s enlisted mess hall. I think we should join them. It would mean a lot to the crew.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Harry. I’ll bet President Blake and Dee will be having Thanksgiving in Iraq or Afghanistan.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “My parents will understand,” Meg said.

  “Oh shit, I forgot we invited your parents. Hey, no problem. We’ll only have a skeleton crew aboard, so there will be plenty of room for them. I hope they don’t mind helping themselves to Thanksgiving dinner on a chow line.”

  ***

  On Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, Meg’s parents flew in from New York. I’ve liked them since we first met. They’re both in their early 60s. Meg’s dad, Boyd Johnson, ran a successful hedge fund for many years and sold it years ago for a few billion. He now runs a foundation that provides college tuition money for kids who lost a parent serving in the military. Boyd wore his old Marine uniform that still fitted him perfectly. Her mother, Holly Johnson is a full professor of history at Columbia University. Just like Meg, Holly has an explosive enthusiasm about everything.

  Because Meg’s dad is a member of the Navy League, a retired Marine, and current Marine reserve officer, NavOps didn’t give me a hassle putting them up on the Ford. They would occupy the captain’s suite, which was still vacant.

  It was the day before Thanksgiving, and Meg gave them a tour of the Ford. That evening we sat in the living room of the flag suite and had drinks before a light dinner. Tomorrow was the big feast. Meg’s parents prattled on nonstop about how proud they are of her new Navy career.

  “I loved that Meg was a big executive on Wall Street,” Boyd said, “but we hated the weird college professor she dated. After I sold the company I created a trust in Meg’s name after she broke up with that jerk.”

  Meg put her hands over her ears.

  “I don’t want to know how much,” she said.

  “Sixty-five million,” Boyd said. “I can’t imagine a finer lady to have it, as well as her wonderful husband.”

  Holy shit, I thought. I knew Meg had a few bucks, but I never imagined that much. I should pay more attention to our banking.

  “We’re both happy as hell that Meg married a great guy like you, Harry. I think you know that I served in Vietnam. I left the service with the rank of major, a lower grade than my daughter.”

  “So, you’re the guy who taught Meg how to fire a weapon,” I said. “She’s the most accurate shooter I’ve ever seen. She flies a fighter jet pretty well too.”

  “We’re amazed what we’ve read in the papers about you two, and your time travel adventure,” Holly said. “My God, Harry, you changed the history of World War II.”

  “Well, the Pacific Theater anyway, but it wasn’t just me,” I said. “Your lovely daughter here sank the largest battleship ever built.”

  We also talked about The Maltese Incident, the time travel event that made Meg and me famous. We had a great time, soaking up all the attention from Meg’s parents.

  The squawk box sounded.

  “Sorry to interrupt you admiral,” the OOD said,” but you told me to keep you informed. I just got word that a suspicious ship is approaching North Korea. The USS Nimitz, our stand-in while we’re at Pearl, is on station.”

  “Very well, lieutenant, keep me advised.”

  The next day we enjoyed Thanksgiving Dinner in the crew’s mess. Meg and I wanted to serve her parents, but they ins
isted that they walk down the chow line with everybody else. The meal was excellent, the traditional serving of turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, brussels sprouts, and turnips. There’s common misconception that Navy food is bad. It’s anything but the truth, and the fare in the enlisted mess hall beats the ward room.

  The four of us walked along the flight deck for some post-feast exercise, and then went to my suite for some after dinner drinks. The squawk box intervened.

  Chapter 44

  “Admiral, this is Lt. Finnegan, the OOD. Please turn on your TV for some breaking news.”

  “Martha MacCallum reporting from Fox News, ladies and gentlemen. Yet another explosion on yet another Navy ship. The USS Burton, a destroyer, was steaming about 200 miles from Pearl Harbor, heading to the Navy base. The blast ripped off the ship’s superstructure, including the bridge from which the ship is commanded. This time it wasn’t an incident of sabotage committed by a crewmember, but an attack by another vessel.”

  “Bridge, this is the flag bridge,” I said. “Send out the standard announcement to clear the ship of all non-military personnel. Our communications people just put out a text to all personnel ashore, to tell them that their Thanksgiving Day has been shortened. I’ll be on the bridge in a couple of minutes.”

  “Mom, dad, because dad is a member of the Navy League, you don’t have to leave the ship, but I warn you that it could be dangerous.”

  “Well, if it’s okay with you, Harry, mom and I want to see you two in action.”

  I walked over to a locker against a bulkhead. “Here are a couple of helmets and life jackets. You’ll need to wear them when we go to battle stations.”