The Monroe Doctrine

by James Rosone

  They had also pushed the Orcas to the Chung-Hoon to control for the sail into Socorro as the control station aboard the Texas had degraded capability due to the spherical array being crushed. The Orcas were traveling in a circular orbit of the submarine and the destroyer at fifteen hundred yards. COMSUBPAC had ordered the Texas to keep them on station as they entered the sub-pen. This didn’t make sense to her, but orders were orders.

  “Conn, Radio. XO, we’ve got an incoming message from Third Fleet, for Commander Helgeson. It’s marked eyes only, ma’am.”

  Evans looked at the COB, who raised an eyebrow. She picked up the mic and took a breath. “Radio, Conn. I’m on my way. Nav, you have the Conn.”

  “Nav has the Conn, aye.”

  She made her way to the communications compartment. When she entered, Lieutenant Riley, the ship’s communications officer, handed her the eyes-only communiqué for Commander Helgeson. He told her it had come in on a new encrypted burst sensor.

  “Luckily for us, XO, when the sail got slammed in the debris field, the position of the AN/BRA-34 OE-538 mast in the back saved it. We were able to get the mast up and we’ve been receiving steady transmissions.”

  “Good work, Comms. I’ll get this to the captain.”

  She left to head to Helgeson’s stateroom. She was about to knock on his door when she heard his voice below. She made her way to the ladder well and looked down. The captain was talking to the chief of the boat, Machinist Mate Submarine Auxiliary Senior Chief Daniel Perry.

  “Are you OK, sir?” she heard the COB ask Helgeson.

  When he replied to say that he was all right, he slurred a bit. It was almost imperceptible, but Evans picked up on it.

  He looked up and she waved the message folder. Helgeson nodded but held up a finger to her so he could finish his conversation with the COB. Perry patted Helgeson on the shoulder and disappeared from view on the lower deck.

  Helgeson climbed the stairs up the ladder well and she handed him the folder. He opened it. As he read, a confused look registered on his face. When he finished reading, he handed the message to her. He started walking toward his stateroom, and she followed, reading the message.

  “Sir, what is this? What does this mean?”

  “XO, your guess is as good as mine. But it appears that there are now two submarines named USS Texas.”

  Evans looked at him, unsure of what to say or what to make of this message.

  “XO, you have the Conn. Ask Eng if we can increase speed safely to twenty-five knots. If it’s possible without risk to the sub, do so. Advise the Chung-Hoon of the speed increase. This speed gets us to Isla Socorro just over twenty-four hours from now.”

  “Aye, sir, will do. Sir?”

  “Yes, XO?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, XO, I’m just a little frazzled. It’s been a long few days. I’m good. I’m going to try to get some sleep. Wake me when we clear the beacons of Isla Socorro.”

  “Yes, sir. Do try and get some rack time.”

  He smiled at her and again told her that he would be a good boy and sleep.

  *******

  29 Hours Later

  Isla Socorro

  The final transit to Isla Socorro was uneventful, despite Lieutenant Grogan cursing up a storm as the Texas made as much noise as two elephants fornicating with the speed increase. The memory of it made Helgeson smile in spite of his headache.

  When the Texas had entered the submarine pen carved into Isla Socorro, the massive steel doors sealed them inside. On disembarking, the crew wasn’t greeted with the pomp and circumstance one might have expected for a ship of war returning from a long patrol. A very intense security crew awaited them, immediately swooping in to separate the officers from the enlisted crew. They rushed the officers down to the bowels of the underground facility.

  Nothing really surprised Helgeson at this point. He had been taken by security to the ranking naval officer of the base. Captain DeMichaels greeted him and welcomed him into his office. Seated there was the COMSUBPAC Actual, Rear Admiral Ishan Patel.

  “Admiral Patel, I wasn’t expecting you, sir.”

  “Commander Helgeson, you received the communiqué?”

  “I did, sir, I…”

  Helgeson’s eyes teared up as the pain in his head came back in a rush. He tried blinking the tears away and realized that several moments had gone by.

  “Sorry, sir, I did read it. I’m uncertain what to make of it.”

  “Commander, are you OK?” Patel asked with genuine concern in his voice. Captain DeMichaels went to the minifridge and grabbed a bottle of water and handed it to Helgeson. He twisted off the cap and drank the whole thing down in large gulps.

  “I’m good, sir, just a headache. I haven’t slept much since the engagement.”

  Helgeson noticed Patel and DeMichaels exchange a glance.

  “It’s nothing, sir. There was much to do aboard the Texas. With all the damage, we had to limp her back and keep her afloat. After the fight, it took a toll on the ship and the men; we nearly sank on a few occasions.”

  Patel regarded him for a long moment. He then stood from his leather chair, withdrew a card from his pocket and handed it to Helgeson.

  “You are familiar with Dr. Susan Bunch, I believe?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “Good, you will call her after this meeting. It’s not a request, Commander. Go back to your quarters, make the secure call, then get some sleep. Meet us tomorrow morning for a new set of orders.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.” Helgeson snapped to attention and left the room. A new set of orders? What the hell is going on? he wondered.

  Helgeson walked the quarter mile to his room. Once again, he felt slightly dizzy and his head continued to pound. Reaching into his pocket, he fished out a bottle of Tylenol, opened it and emptied a couple into his mouth. He chewed them and swallowed the bitter powder down. At his door, he fished in his pockets for a key, then remembered that the band on his left wrist was a digital key for every space he was authorized to enter. When Helgeson waved the band in front of the lock, he heard a slight click as the magnetic lock released the latch. He entered the room, and the motion sensors turned on the lights in the hallway and above his desk.

  Helgeson passed by the bed, which he could swear was calling to him, and sat down at his desk. He depressed the power button on his laptop and waited for it to boot itself up before he entered his credentials. Then he opened a secure video call app.

  Nervously, he checked the time and said a silent prayer that Dr. Bunch wouldn’t answer. He entered the number for the call and pressed enter. After a brief moment of static as the connections went secure on both ends, a familiar face appeared. She always looked the same to him—no matter what time of day or night it was.

  Dr. Susan Bunch was a naval psychologist he had been referred to by a colleague four years prior, after a sudden breakup with the one that got away had started to affect his sleep. She was a specialist in post-traumatic stress disorder and had been sought out by the Navy to work with Special Warfare Operators, aviators and submariners.

  Due to the intense nature of their work and the unique stresses placed on them, Dr. Bunch had been hired by Naval Psychiatry to develop a program to mitigate catastrophe, manage stress, and keep these sailors “in the fight.” After the initial three years she’d spent developing a groundbreaking treatment program for the Navy, it had become so successful that the Department of Defense had sent her to SOCOM to replicate the program across the Special Operations tiers of the military.

  It was as she was preparing to move that they had met. At that time, Helgeson had compartmentalized his emotional heartache and suppressed it to such a degree that it had begun to creep into his work as the navigator of the USS Tucson. He had rarely let anyone into his heart, and he’d never let anyone into his mind. Dr. Bunch had so effortlessly managed to get him to open up to her he had been convinced for their first several meetings that she was a trai
ned interrogator.

  His world was black-and-white. To the submariner, there was only life and death. She existed in a world that was as foreign to him as submarines were to her. Yet to his constant amazement, she was always able to help him course-correct and get his mind where it needed to be.

  As she came on screen, he saw her eyes widen for the briefest of moments, then she sat back in her chair and adjusted the camera so he could see her clearly.

  “Commander Helgeson. It’s good to see you.”

  “Counselor Troi, it’s good to see you too,” he said flatly.

  He saw the corners of her mouth curl into a smile. It had been a game of sorts between them since their first session. She had pointed out that him calling her by the name of the counselor on the starship Enterprise was a method of deflection wherein he wasn’t really a participant in the therapy she provided but an observer to the story—not unlike Captain Willard from Apocalypse Now.

  “So, what can I do for you?” Dr. Bunch asked.

  Helgeson glanced at the screen to ensure that the connection was in fact secure. “I can’t sleep again,” he admitted.

  “I am aware of the engagement your submarine went through.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair, aware that she was watching him. He realized that he did this as a delaying tactic when he was trying to think of what to say or do. She steepled her hands. This was what she did when she watched him stall. It made him chuckle, and in turn she too chuckled.

  “You know I just killed thousands of people, right?” he asked. “They were sailors much like us.”

  “And? We are at war.”

  The coldness of her statement gave him pause. He hadn’t expected that from her at all.

  “And…really? How can you say that so nonchalantly?” he pressed. “All of those sailors…I killed them, and I nearly got my own men killed as well.”

  She leaned forward in her chair and seemed to stare into him—no, through him. She took a few long moments before she spoke.

  “In our past discussions, you have mentioned your fondness for Stoicism. You said it has saved you in the past. It helped you make rational, dispassionate decisions. How is this different?”

  He closed his eyes and in an instant, he relived the entire engagement with the Chinese fleet. He could hear the sonar pings, the explosions, and the ships breaking up. He could feel the Texas getting hit with the debris of the sinking ships. His heart began to race, and he felt sweat beading on his forehead. His eyes snapped open and he realized several minutes had gone by. He blinked, only to realize sweat was dripping into his eyes, and he wiped his brow with his sleeve.

  “Kurt, what is really going on with you?” asked Dr. Bunch. “You’ve trained for this your whole career.”

  Helgeson took note that she had called him by his first name; he couldn’t recall if she’d ever done that before.

  “We are at war. I fired the first shots in what could become World War III.”

  “The Chinese were given fair warning by the President,” she countered. “They chose to ignore that. The blood is on their hands, not yours.”

  Without thinking, he looked down at his hands. Clenching them into fists, he began to knead his thighs. In his mind, he had visions of Chinese sailors drowning in flooded and locked compartments, sinking to the watery depths. It was his doing. It was war and he knew it, but he simply could not shake the guilt that was plaguing him. He needed sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, the battle raged in his head in IMAX stereo surround sound.

  When Helgeson looked up at the screen, he saw that Dr. Bunch was simply staring at him. For some reason, this made him feel flush with anger—this, too, perplexed him. His emotions were all over the place.

  “How are you feeling, Kurt?”

  “Feeling?”

  “Yes. Right now, how are you feeling?”

  “Drained.”

  They locked eyes, and despite her being thousands of miles away, he could feel her glare boring into him as if she were sitting in the next room.

  “Drained isn’t really a feeling,” she asserted. “Although, I can only imagine how tired you must be after that ordeal. However, it was you that brought your submarine and her crew out to the other side.”

  “Yes, I know. My evaluations and ratings my whole career have led me to that moment. It was like I was watching myself. I wasn’t really there, or it wasn’t really me. I just went into autopilot. I didn’t think. I just acted and reacted to the situation.”

  “That was your years of training kicking in,” she stated. “That, Commander Helgeson, is what you were meant to do.”

  Her statement seemed odd to him. He cocked his head and looked at her, then at the room around her in the background. He leaned into the screen and began to look at the edges.

  “What is it?” she asked, and he noticed a slight flutter in her voice.

  “Doctor, I have to go. Thank you.”

  “Commander, if you need me…I’m here for you.”

  He looked at her intensely for a moment before replying. “I know…and I really do appreciate that. Again, thank you.”

  *******

  Dr. Bunch made sure the secure connection was severed from Commander Helgeson before she looked up from the screen on her desk and at the man sitting in her office. Staring back at her with a look of concern and hope was Rear Admiral Ishan Patel.

  “Professional opinion, Dr. Bunch?”

  “Admiral, I think he’s been through a significant trauma, clearly. However, when his XO briefed him about an issue with his submarine, she said that his entire demeanor changed. She noted that he seemed tired and had complained of a headache, but when the submarine was in trouble, he put the needs of the Texas and her crew above his own—in battle and after. It is indicative of his character; he places his duty above all else.”

  “So you believe that he’s the right officer for the job?” Patel pressed.

  “Sir, it is my professional opinion that Commander Helgeson is without a doubt the only man in the fast-attack force that can do this in the time constraint that you’ll be putting on the Texas.”

  “Very well, Doctor. Thank you.”

  The admiral stood, shook her hand and excused himself, leaving Dr. Bunch alone with her thoughts. She knew that Helgeson was the right man for this. She just hoped and prayed that he could find it within himself to believe it as well.

  Chapter Four

  Behind Enemy Lines

  Bunker Hill Drag Strip

  Bunker Hill, Indiana

  It was dark out as the utility van pulled into the parking lot of the drag strip. The driver parked the van not far from the main building, doing his best to obscure their activities from anyone that might happen to drive by. When the van parked, Major Fan Changlong stepped out of the vehicle and surveyed the area.

  One of the soldiers got out of the back of the van. Using a special flashlight, he searched for the marking on the pavement. Another teammate had marked a spot in advance where they should place their mortar tubes. According to their orders, they were supposed to place the tubes at a precise spot, then use a set of elevation degrees and fire off three rounds. Then the instructions called for them to change the elevation and degrees and fire another set of three rounds. They’d repeat that process four times for each of the four tubes and then get the heck out of Dodge.

  “Found them all,” called out of the men.

  The operators pulled the four mortar tubes out of the vans and assembled them. Before they began firing their rounds, they unpacked all the mortars from their sealed cases and got them ready to go. They didn’t want to hang around the area any longer than necessary. Once they had completed their fire mission, the Special Forces soldiers would drive across the country to the next air base and repeat the process.

  “We’re ready, Major,” the senior NCO announced.

  Major Fan smiled. “Fire!” he ordered.

  The eight operators went to work. One operator hung the roun
d above the tube for just a second, then he dropped it. Once the round hit the bottom, it ignited the propellant charge that hurled the 82mm projectile some five kilometers away. When the operator had fired three rounds, they changed to the next elevation and degrees for their specific tube and proceeded to fire another three rounds.

  In the distance, Fan heard the first explosion. Then he heard another. Then a much louder secondary explosion erupted. Standing on the roof of the van, Fan was just barely able to make out the lights of the Grissom Air Reserve Base. He saw small flashes of light, which he knew was likely from the mortars. When they scored a hit on one of the KC-135 Stratotankers, the sky would light up.

  Whoever came up with these pre-sighted positions did an exceptional job, Fan realized. Their mortars were scoring hit after hit on the refueling tankers the base operated.

  “Rounds complete, sir,” the senior NCO called out to him.

  “Very well. Let’s get everything packed back up and out of here. I want to be gone in the next three minutes. We have a long drive ahead of us to get to the next base,” Major Fan ordered.

  *******

  ODA 7322, Bravo Company

  Sierra del Rosario Mountains, Cuba

  It was cloudy and a slight mist descended through the tropical forest to the men below. Sergeant First Class Rusten Currie sipped on some water after finishing his high-energy protein bar. Currie had to admit, these were a lot tastier to eat than an MRE, and a hell of a lot smaller to carry around than the bulkier meals ready-to-eat packages.

  Looking over to the downed F-22 pilot they had picked up a few days ago, Currie asked, “Major Ryan, how’d they come up with your call sign, Racer?”

  Currie thought that Major Ian “Racer” Ryan had turned out to be a real fighter. The bullet that had struck him had gone clean through his shoulder—it was probably the only reason he hadn’t died already. But Currie and Dawson both knew they needed to get him to a hospital.