The Violent Sea

by Russell Moran

  “Hey, hon, CNO arriving.” Maybe I should get a bosun’s pipe.

  I walked upstairs and yelled again. This was totally weird. Meg prides herself on being predictable, especially with me. Maybe she said she was going to run an errand and I didn’t hear her because I’ve been preoccupied lately. No, impossible. The last thing I remembered her saying was that she’d have a drink waiting for me. But she wasn’t there. She wasn’t fucking there. I should call somebody. But who? Ever since Meg and I arrived in Washington we’ve been at the Pentagon non-stop monitoring the blockade. We hadn’t even met any of our neighbors. I called Admiral Jack Kelly, the superintendent of the Navy Yard. He had showed us around when we moved in.

  “Jack, Harry Fenton here. I feel like a jerk for calling you, but I just came home, and my wife isn’t here. If she had to go somewhere she would have called or texted me. I’m sorry to bother you, but I didn’t know who else to call.”

  “Holy shit. Hold on, Harry, don’t hang up. I gotta make a quick call.”

  “It’s me again, Harry. I’m having a car pick you and me up to go to shore patrol headquarters.”

  “Jack, what the hell’s going on?”

  “An unauthorized vehicle was just seen on base. A shore patrol officer pulled it over, and the patrolman was shot and killed. The car took off.”

  “Did we get a plate number?”

  “Yes, the patrolman called it in as he approached the car. It’s from a car that was stolen this morning. The patrolman also called in, as he approached the car, ‘Adult male driver, two adult males in back seat and one blond female between them.’”

  I felt like my life had been drained out of me. Meg, my Meg—kidnapped?

  I called Buster. He’s a great detective as well as a spy.

  “I just heard about Meg,” Buster said. “You’re at the Navy Yard, right? I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

  As expected, Buster showed up within 20 minutes. Langley isn’t far from the Navy Yard.

  “Do you have any idea what’s going on, Buster?”

  “Not that they haven’t done it before, but the jihadis’ latest game is kidnapping. In the past week we’ve seen three, all senior military officers.”

  “Why the hell wasn’t I alerted? Is the CIA keeping secrets?”

  “No, Harry. We were about to contact you. The reason for the delay is that we thought we had narrowed our focus to a particular group, but our focus didn’t show us anything.”

  “What are their demands so far?”

  “That’s the good news, if you can call it good. In the three abductions recently, they were looking for good old-fashioned money. Kidnappers usually fall into one of two groups: dumb and dumber. We simply pay the ransom, make sure the target is safe, and then nail the bastards, usually within a half hour.”

  “Okay, this is probably a stupid question, but do you have any idea who might have grabbed Meg?”

  “No, it isn’t a stupid question, Harry, but the answer is I don’t have any idea yet. I just found out that the Washington police have put out an APB on Meg’s kidnapping, and the CIA and FBI have pulled out all stops. Unless this is something drastically different, I expect that we’ll pick up a trail soon. Hang in there my friend. I know how much Meg means to you.”

  ***

  Now I can add being kidnapped to my life’s accomplishments. Our Navy driver had just dropped me off at the front door of our house. I walked around to the back door because I remembered leaving a package on the rear steps. It’s as if the creeps knew I would walk around back. You would think that the Chief of Naval Operations would have a security detail, but no, it wasn’t called for because we live on a secure military base. Secure?

  I sat in the back of the car taking deep breaths to calm down. When they shot the shore patrolman who approached the car I thought I’d panic. Before they shot the poor guy, I saw him in the rear-view mirror talking into his radio as he approached the car. Maybe he called in a description of the car and its plates. The apparent leader of the three spoke perfect English with a slight Middle-Eastern accent. Neither he nor the other two wore any kind of disguise. They didn’t search me, and therefore they didn’t find my service revolver under my jacket. They didn’t even blindfold me or tell me to keep my head down, so I was able to see where they were taking me. The thought occurred to me that these yokels played hooky from kidnapping school. They didn’t even handcuff me. I saw a sign that read, “Welcome to Alexandria, Virginia.” The car pulled into a long driveway and drove to the back of a small house. The son of a bitch on my left dragged me out of the car, as if I couldn’t walk on my own.

  “Do not attempt to run, Commander Fenton, or you will be shot,” the head man said.

  My dad, a former Marine, taught me how to shoot. That, combined with the courses on close-in combat that the Navy sent me to, gave me a bit of confidence that I may live through this. I also attended a course on how to handle a situation like the one I found myself in—being taken prisoner. The main point of that course was to be calm, be still, and wait for an opening.

  They led me through the rear door of the house. Two men were in front of me and one behind. They didn’t ask me, but I would have recommended that two men should walk behind me, not in front. This was definitely an amateur performance.

  They led me to a dining room table and told me to sit. All three sat across from me. They were actually facing me. Bozos.

  “Who are you people, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “We will do the questioning and you will provide the answers,” the head guy said. It was like a poorly written cop movie.

  The lead man sat in the middle with his arms folded across his chest. He was not holding a gun. The other two put their guns on the table. I could not believe it—they put their guns on the table. I was presented with what is known as An Opening.

  As I had been trained in one of the courses I took, I looked over their heads and screamed, “Oh my God.”

  Instinctively, the three men turned their heads.

  Instinctively, I reached under my jacket and took out my service revolver, which was a Colt 45—a hand-held cannon. I shot each man in the chest. The impact of the bullets threw each of them back three feet. Landing on a carrier deck is a lot scarier than being kidnapped by assholes.

  I took out my cell phone—no, they hadn’t taken it away from me—and dialed 911. As the phone rang, I walked to the front of the house to look at the address. 2325 were the numbers. I had noticed that the street was Sycamore Road when we pulled into the house.

  Within two minutes, which I thought was a pretty impressive police response, I heard the siren in front of the house. I walked out the front door with my hands in the air. Crime scenes can be confusing, I’ve been told, and the last thing I wanted was confused cops with their guns drawn.

  “Who are you and what the hell happened?” one of the officers asked in a loud voice. Cops like to get to the point, I guess.

  “I’m Commander Meghan Fenton, Chief of Staff to the Chief of Naval Operations. I was kidnapped by three males. Their bodies are in the dining room. I should inform you that I’m wearing a pistol, my service revolver, on my left waist.”

  Two more patrol cars pulled up, sirens blaring.

  “Commander Fenton, I’m required to confiscate your weapon,” a woman police officer said. Are you okay, honey?”

  “I’ve been better. Please make sure to give my gun back later. It came in handy tonight.”

  Having taken care of the necessary police details I called Harry.

  “Hi, baby, I’m okay.”

  “Meg, oh my God, where are you?”

  After I gave him the address, he said, “Buster and I will be there in a few minutes.”

  “Buster?”

  “Yeah, Buster, Mr. Super Spook himself.”

  A detective was about to take my statement at the kitchen table when Harry and Buster walked in. Harry and I didn’t salute—we hugged. Harry and Buster sat down to listen to my stat
ement as I gave it to the detective. Buster had already gotten the men’s identifications from one of the cops. My God, Buster moves fast.

  After I wrapped up, the detective looked at me and said, “I can’t believe this incident ended in a gun fight.”

  “Well, it wasn’t much of a fight,” I said. My Clint Eastwood persona was starting to wear off. I felt like crying, but held it in.

  Buster had just gotten off the phone. “These three guys were on our watch list. Iranian spies. I guess they never got the memo about the coup and the change in power. We still don’t know what they wanted from you but thank God you had your gun and knew how to use it.”

  “And thank God they were stupid enough not to search me.”

  Chapter 52

  Harry and I got home at 9:30 after my kidnapping adventure.

  “You know commander, I’m disappointed with you for leaving your duty station without notice.”

  “Shut up and give me a kiss, wiseass.”

  Why was I being so calm and glib? With Harry holding me, my defenses broke down. I buried my face in his chest and balled my brains out.

  After I stopped crying I said, “I need a shower, if only to get the smell of gunpowder off my hands. And, yes, I wouldn’t mind a martini.”

  ***

  “Director Carlini will see you folks now,” his aide said.

  Carlini and Buster were waiting for us.

  “Meg, I can’t tell you how great it is to see you—alive,” Carlini said. “I don’t know if Buster told you, but the recent kidnappings have started to get out of hand. There have been two incidents where the kidnappers shot their victims before negotiations even started. Obviously, the bastards who snatched you didn’t know who they were dealing with.”

  “Thanks for your kind words, Bill. I’m happy to be back to my administrative duties as Harry’s chief of staff. I’ve had enough gunplay to last me a lifetime.”

  “This afternoon, you and Harry are going to meet with the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

  “I know, sir. I’ve already arranged for the meeting room and communicated with the Chairman.”

  Carlini and Buster chuckled. Meg was getting to be like Buster, thinking 10 moves ahead.

  “Buster and I wanted to meet with you two first to give you a heads-up on what’s going to happen. That’s because the Navy will play the major role in what’s ahead with North Korea. The coup in Iran was heaven sent. It came about because the Fenton Doctrine worked once again.”

  “The Fenton Doctrine?” We asked in unison.

  “Yes, that’s what we’re calling it. The Fenton Doctrine, simply put, means take away the enemy’s options. You’ve done that brilliantly in the past, Harry, and we’re now going to exercise the doctrine on North Korea. This time, it will involve a lot more than you and Meg. President Blake himself is going to put it into effect, by careful diplomacy with none other than China. We’ve learned that the Chinese are as fond of that little nut, Kim Jon-un, as most people are fond of rats. The Chinese realize, with their huge economic output, that they don’t need the chaos caused by a crazy dictator. They may be dictators as well, but they’re not crazy. As we speak, Chinese President Xi Jinping is talking reality to the fat boy. Without China’s aid, North Korea is an economic basket case. As President Blake will soon tell you, we want two Carrier Strike Groups in the Sea of Japan. China has basically agreed not only to look the other way, but to hold our jacket in the event of a fight.”

  “What about South Korea, Mr. Director?” Meg asked. “Last I checked it’s only 105 miles from Pyongyang to Seoul. How do they feel about the plan?”

  “President Xi Jinping, as he discussed with President Blake, has informed North Korea that an attack on South Korea will result in war with the United States and our allies. Our carriers will rain hell on Pyongyang. It will be the end of North Korea as a country. Our ultimate goal is a reunification of North and South Korea. China isn’t against the idea, but wants a treaty between the new Korea and China. But reunification isn’t the objective of the operation. Our objective is a treaty that will stop North Korean nuclear ambitions, a treaty backed by the threat of crippling sanctions, and possibly rockets and bombs.”

  “As soon as I clear it through the Navy and Defense Secretaries, I’ll have my ships on station,” I said.

  My God, they named this hard-nosed doctrine after me. I just hope we don’t get our nose broken. Take away the enemy’s options. Sounds easy. I’ve done it before, but not with an enemy that is a few miles away from a close ally.

  “Buster,” I said, “I don’t expect you to give me a direct answer, but I’ll ask anyway. Are any of your hand-selected moles on location in North Korea?”

  “I will give you a direct answer, Harry, but without names, of course. Yes, 25 people are inside, some of the toughest bastards we’ve ever employed. What they really help us with is intelligence, which is the most important thing. And the most encouraging tidbit we’ve gotten recently is that Kim Jong-un is as popular with his people as he is with us. Simply put, the average starving person in North Korea hates that little prick. He’s surrounded himself with loyal robots, military people whose lives and livelihoods depend on him. But if a war breaks out, expect to see a lot of North Koreans aligned with the West. Also, we’ve learned that he doesn’t have any nukes, not one. The most important piece of intelligence we have is this—we know exactly where the Supreme Leader is at all times. We’re that deep inside. If war starts, we take him out. It’s that simple.”

  “It seems to me that he doesn’t have any real options,” I said.

  “True,” Bill Carlini said, “but for the Fenton Doctrine to work it’s necessary that he knows he has no options. That’s where China comes in. This afternoon, President Xi Jinping is going to deliver an ultimatum, although not in those words. President Blake has gotten Xi Jinping to agree to tell Kim Jong-un that one more ICBM test or an attack on South Korea, and he’s fucking toast. I don’t know how you say that in Chinese or Korean, but the message will be delivered. I assume that every fighter and bomber pilot on our carriers has his Pyongyang targets selected for him.”

  “Yes, they do, Mr. Director,” I said. “An attack on Pyongyang is something our planners have worked on for a long time.”

  Chapter 53

  Defense Secretary Jamison and Navy Secretary Johnston are my superiors, and the law requires me to consult with them before making combat decisions. But both these guys are aware that I know what I’m doing with fleet operations. Their orders were for me to keep them informed, but they both let me run the show.

  Carrier Strike Group 14, my old command, is under Admiral Spencer Tompkins, and Carrier Strike Group 26 is under Admiral Fred Nicoletti. They steamed through the Sea of Japan a couple of hundred miles off the coast of North Korea. I gave them strict orders to coordinate any possible attack on Pyongyang through me. If shooting starts, the Fenton Doctrine (which to me is just common sense) requires that we remove Kim Jong-un’s options. I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t nervous.

  Meg poured us another cup of (decaffeinated) coffee. We were at our desk in the Pentagon War Room. Meg took out her notebook and reviewed with me the status of every ship in both strike groups, including details on a jet’s landing gear problems on the Ford. Meg is like my portable mainframe computer, an extremely pretty mainframe computer.

  “So, President Xi Jinping delivered the message to Kim Jong-un yesterday afternoon,” Meg said. “Do you think he’ll cave in or act like the goddam lunatic he is?”

  “He’s a hard guy to read, hon, as a few of our past presidents have discovered. I’ve got my finger on the trigger, but the last thing I want to do is open fire. So, turn your amazing brain loose. What do you think happens next?”

  “That little squirt wants one thing more than anything else—power. China has let him know that not only is his power in check, but he’ll lose it completely if he pulls anything. My prediction is that we’ll soon hear from the State Department that
Kim wants to talk, but that will be preceded, of course, by some bellicose public statements. Maybe I’m being overly optimistic, but I think that our diplomacy will work—without a war.”

  “I think you’re right, Meg. I just can’t believe that he’ll launch another ICBM test or open fire on South Korea. It would be like putting a gun to his head and squeezing the trigger.”

  “I think our government was smart to call our maneuvers The Fenton Doctrine, Harry. We’re saying to North Korea—Here’s reality. No shit.”

  “Is that what the doctrine means?”

  “Something like that.”

  ***

  A day went by, then two. Although we live nearby, Meg and I took up residence in my apartment at the Pentagon. Must be hot in here, I thought. I was sweating like hell.

  “Admiral Fenton, it’s the White House on the phone.”

  I almost spit my coffee across the table. Could this be the call I’ve been waiting for?

  “Fenton here.”

  “Harry, it’s Jake Arnold,” the president’s chief of staff said. “You’ll be happy to know we just got a call from the State Department. North Korea wants to sit down. To quote President Blake as he just said, ‘This Fenton Doctrine really works.’ Don’t relax yet, Harry. I just wanted you to know the good news. Soon we’ll see just how good it is.”

  Chapter 54

  Meg and I sipped coffee after a light breakfast on the rear patio of the Tingey House. We were served by our maid and butler, which I found unbelievable. As CNO I rate a maid and butler, but Meg was kidnapped because I don’t rate a secret service detail since we live on a supposedly secure military base.

  It was a warm late April Sunday with a cloudless sky. We were both relaxed, more relaxed than we’ve been in a long time. Kim Jong-un, Supreme Leader of North Korea, that weird little creep, in a rare display of rationality, agreed to back down. He would test no more ICBMs and he also agreed to abandon North Korea’s small but budding nuclear weapons program. The Fenton Doctrine worked again. I was more than a bit embarrassed to have a major foreign policy named after me, but Meg thought it was cool, and her mother, Holly, went absolutely batshit when she heard about it.