The Shark Mutiny

Admiral Dixon pulled out a personal notebook, which detailed all of the five currently operational U.S. Carrier Battle Groups. The 55 ships that surrounded the huge carriers were just a little too much to commit to memory. And the highly methodical Boston-born Alan Dixon never went anywhere without that little notebook.

“Okay, sir,” he said. “We’re pretty well placed. The Constellation Group’s stationed up at the north end of the Gulf off Iraq. We got John C. Stennis with nine guided-missile ships and two nuclear boats exercising in the Arabian Sea, probably a day and a half from the strait.

“Harry S Truman’s battle ready at Diego Garcia. She’s got a full complement of escorts, one cruiser, two destroyers, six frigates, two nuclear submarines, an LA and a Sturgeon, plus a complete Under Way Replenishment Group. John F. Kennedy has a full operational group just about ready to leave from Pearl at any time, certainly in the next three days.

“Back in San Diego the Ronald Reagan’s almost finished a major overhaul. Her Group can be ready inside two months, if we need it.”

“That’s great, Alan. I guess we ought to have one right in the southern approaches to the strait and one inside the gulf, spread across the exit, with a lotta muscle concentrated south of Bandar Abbas. There’s been a couple of pretty heavy Chinese destroyers prowling around there these past few weeks. Once the Indian minesweepers get in there, we’ll get the President to issue a private warning to the Iranians…any ship attempting any kind of interference will be sunk. By us. No bullshit. Right?”

“Right, sir. Meantime I’ll order the Constellation Group to proceed south toward Bandar, and the Stennis to close the strait. We’ll put the Harry Truman on twenty-four hours battle notice to sail north from DG. It’s getting pretty damned hot out there right now, and it’s hard to keep guys out there on station for more than a couple of months without sending ’em all crazy.

“If I order the Kennedy to leave Pearl in the next couple of days, she can go straight to DG. That’ll give us a four-group roulement, keeping two of them comfortably on station all the time. We can keep that up for a year if we have to.”

“Good. How’s the Kennedy doing? Christ, Alan, she’s damn near forty years old.”

“No problem, sir. She had that complete complex overhaul in 1995, made her just about brand-new. There’s nothing wrong with her. No, sir. Old number sixty-seven, a little smaller than the Nimitz-Class boats, but she still holds nearly six thousand tons of aviation fuel. Seen a lot of service. She’s like Senator Ted — indestructible. And just as bloody-minded when she feels like it.”

Admiral Morgan chuckled. The language of the Navy. He still loved it. Still felt pride swell in his chest when the big U.S. ships prepared to flex their muscles. He’d felt it during his first nuclear submarine command more than 20 years ago, and the feeling had never diminished. Arnold Morgan’s soul was essentially held together with dark blue cord, and gold braid.

Monday morning. April 30.

Officers’ Mess. U.S. Naval Base.

Diego Garcia, Indian Ocean.

Lieutenant Commander Dan Headley was just one tour of duty short of promotion to Commander in the U.S. Navy’s Pacific Submarine Fleet. At age 35, he was very proud of that. Right now he was generally regarded as one of the best submarine Executive Officers in the entire Navy. Experienced, a lifelong submariner, weapons and sonar expert, he had just flown to Diego Garcia to take up the number-two spot on the aging Sturgeon-Class nuclear boat, USS Shark.

This was one of the Navy’s underwater warhorses, probably on her last tour of duty, since she had been due for decommission in 2005. Shark was the newest of the Navy’s four Sturgeon attack submarines, and probably the best. The 5,000-tonner could make 30 knots through the water dived, she carried 23 weapons, Harpoon and Tomahawk missiles, plus torpedoes. On her deck, forward of the sail, there were two twin dry-deck shelters designed for the transport of a deep-submergence rescue vehicle (DSRV), an Advanced Swimmer Delivery Vehicle (ASDV) or a dry garage for three, even four, high-powered outboard inflatables.

Shark was quiet, extensively fitted with acoustic tiles, with anechoic coatings. She had the capacity to fire nuclear-warhead weapons, and she was capable of operating under the ice, though Dan Headley doubted that would be needed on her next journey.

He had been at the base for only three hours when word began to spread that there was something happening up in the Strait of Hormuz. Everyone knew the CVBGs of USS Constitution and John C. Stennis were already in the area. The issue was, how soon would the massive 100,000-ton Nimitz-Class Harry Truman and her consorts head north to join them in the narrow waters that guard Arabia’s landlocked Sea of Oil?

No one knew that, but senior officers considered it more likely to be hours than days. It was 2,600 miles up to Bandar Abbas, and the Truman Group could steam at 30 knots, making 700 miles a day. If they cleared DG by first light tomorrow (Tuesday), they’d be in the area before dark on Friday afternoon.

Lieutenant Commander Headley had a lot of people to meet in the next 24 hours, and from each of them he had a minor secret to conceal. SUBPAC was not really happy with the veteran Commander Donald Reid, Shark’s commanding officer, and they had specifically appointed Dan Headley to assist him in every way possible.

As far as Dan was concerned it was just a wink and a nudge, because no one would tell him what, if anything, was wrong with Commander Reid, only that he was, well, “kinda eccentric.” No one actually said “weird.” But he’d been in the submarine service a lot of years and according to observers had shown “very occasional signs of stress.”

In the modern Navy these matters are taken extremely seriously, unlike in the past when any sign of weakness or wavering was put down immediately as “shell shock” or “cowardice.” It was not unusual for the offender to be cashiered, or, for the latter transgression, in the Royal Navy on one occasion, shot.

Dan Headley was looking forward to meeting the boss with rather mixed anticipation. But before he met anyone he had a letter to write, so he parked himself in a corner of the mess with a cup of coffee, and, following the habit of a lifetime, addressed the envelope before he wrote the letter: Commander Rick Hunter, U.S. Navy Pacific Command, Coronado, California 92118.

Dear Rick,

Just a short note to congratulate you on your promotion. Well deserved, I’m sure, even in that crazy outfit that employs you. All those years ago, when we set off together for Annapolis, I always thought we’d both end up commanding U.S. warships — rather than just me (I hope!), while you roll around in the mud with a dagger between your teeth and a pocketful of explosives.

Anyway I’m here in Diego Garcia waiting to take up my new position as XO on USS Shark. My last, I’m told, before they make me up to Commander. Sometime in the next 24 hours we’re due to sail north, to guess where? Anyway, by the time you read this the Kentucky Derby will be over. Hey, what a blast if White Rajah wins it. I guess your dad will forever regret selling him as a yearling, and my dad will forever keep reminding him that he told him not to! Still, victory would be sweet, since Bart still owns the dam, and two full sisters. That would be a real lock on a major American classic family — make you guys even richer.

Funny, isn’t it, to look back at that wicked old bastard Red Rajah, and think he might be the grandsire of a Derby winner, rather than an automatic selection for a lead role in Natural Born Killers. Jeez, every time I think about him, my arm hurts!

I have to go now, meet my new crew, hope to catch a glimpse of you, certainly at Christmas, if not before.

Best always and love to Bart,

Danny

He folded the letter and sealed the envelope. Then he walked out to the front desk and asked the security