The Shark Mutiny

was not in a proper frame of mind to conduct the SEAL rescue and that he had willingly handed over command of the ship to his number two?

Within a half hour, the answer to that was obvious. No. And with Admirals Greening and Curran, Shark’s former CO boarded a military jet for Washington at first light on Monday morning, June 27.

They arrived at the Pentagon from Andrews Air Base at 1500, and were escorted immediately to the office of the CNO, Admiral Alan Dixon. And there, for the next four hours, the head of the United States Navy, the head of the Pacific Fleet, and the head of the Pacific Submarine Fleet attempted to persuade Commander Donald Reid that there was nothing to be gained from the court-martial of his XO, save the worst publicity the Navy would ever suffer.

The Commander did not agree. He felt there was something else to be gained: the salvaging of his own personal reputation. And he was damned if he was going to condone in any way the actions of a group of mutineers who had seized his ship and contravened his perfectly reasonable orders not to put a nuclear submarine in the path of anti-submarine-warfare Chinese helicopters with long-range capacity.

Nothing that any of the Admirals said made even the slightest impression on him. Commander Reid knew his rights, he knew the regulations of the United States Navy and he was going to play those rights by the book, the way he had always conducted his career.

“I intend, CNO,” he said, “to stand before the Navy Board of Inquiry and to tell the absolute truth about the events that took place in the Bay of Bengal. And I shall demand the court-martial of the ringleader of the mutineers. With respect, sir, you must know I am entitled to that.”

“You may be so entitled,” said Admiral Dixon wearily, “but we are asking you to reconsider, in the interests of the greater good of the United States Navy, and its image before the public.”

“Then your request, with the greatest respect, is declined,” he replied firmly. And then Commander Reid shook his head and spoke almost in a mutter, as if speaking only to himself: “This is not my fault, not my fault at all…I told him over and over the planet was in retrograde…. If he had just had the sense to listen to me…”

“I’m sorry, Commander,” said the CNO. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Oh, nothing, sir. Nothing at all. I was just thinking and wishing things could be different. But I’m afraid they cannot.”

All three of the Admirals realized there was no point in pursuing this. Reid’s mind was made up. And nobody was going to change it for him.

Commander Reid had no grasp whatsoever of the evidence that would be given on behalf of Lt. Commander Headley, and he had no interest in it. He knew only one thing: He had wished to play it safe, to keep his submarine out of harm’s way, and he had been thwarted by the reckless actions of some damned two-and-a-half, who had never commanded a warship in his life.

On the flight back to San Diego, Donald Reid sat separately and silently, all the way, several seats behind the two Admirals. In contrast, they had much to talk about, because they were both struggling to find a way out of this particular mess. But there was no way out. Not unless Reid reconsidered his position.

And judging by his demeanor in the office of the CNO, Shark’s former CO had a very private agenda of his own, an agenda that would not easily be intruded upon.

“He’s a strange kind of a guy, don’t you think?” said Admiral Curran, quietly. “He has that confidence some people have. As if they could never be wrong. By the way, what did you make of that last stuff he was muttering? I couldn’t really hear it.”

“No. I couldn’t either,” replied Dick Greening. “But I seemed to catch the word retrograde. Tell the truth, I’m not really sure what the word means.”

“It means going backwards, doesn’t it?”

“Beats the hell outta me. But if it does mean that, he must have been referring to our conversation. That sure as hell was going backwards.”

Eight days later.

0900. Wednesday, July 4.

San Diego Naval Base.

America’s national summer holiday was still in beach-bound progress on this bright sunlit California morning. The temperature was a near-perfect 78 degrees, and a light southwester off the Pacific promised to keep the sun worshipers relatively cool before the fireworks in the evening.

In the shaded gloom of the big office he always used in San Diego, Admiral Dick Greening felt almost sick with worry. He had before him a memorandum, signed by Captain Stewart Goodwin, who was presiding over the Board of Inquiry.

It read: “After three days hearing evidence in the USS Shark case, it is clear there was indeed a mutiny on board the submarine while on patrol in the Bay of Bengal. The facts are not in dispute. There was great sympathy for Lt. Commander Headley, whose actions were courageous in the extreme. However, Commander Reid is demanding the court-martial of his Executive Officer for making a mutiny on the high seas. And Naval regulations permit a Commanding Officer to make such a demand.

“With reluctance I, and my fellow members of the board, believe there is a prima facie case for a court-martial, and we are sending our findings to the Trial Service Office. The Judge Advocate General will then decide whether Lt. Commander Headley should indeed stand trial.”

Admiral Greening stood up and walked across the office to a wide computer screen on the wall, and he punched up the numbers 16.00N 94.01E. And there before him was the exact stretch of ocean where this terrible drama had been played out. He could see the island of Haing Gyi, the swamp, the little creek running through it. He could see the Haing Gyi Shoal marked clearly, the shallow water across which the fleeing SEALs had raced in their fast but tiny outboards. He could see the low marshy headland of Mawdin Point, and in his mind he pictured the scene.

The Chinese helicopters mercilessly machine-gunning the Americans as they tried to get away. Catfish Jones dead, Bobby Allensworth dead, Buster Townsend badly wounded, Rick Hunter pouring blood, still firing, all of them helpless sitting targets in the open boats. He imagined the terror. Imagined the courage. And then he imagined the sudden appearance of the Shark, lambasting the choppers with their Stingers, saving the eight survivors of this awesome SEAL mission.

And now they want me to approve the court-martial of the man who commanded the submarine?

“Jesus Christ,” said the Pacific Fleet Commander. And it was as well there was no one in the room to see him so upset, as he stared at the screen, hearing again in his mind the staccato rattle of the murderous Chinese guns.

1500 (local). Same day.

Office of the National Security Adviser.

The White House. Washington, D.C.

Admiral Morgan was displeased in the extreme. “Alan,” he said, “there’s gotta be some way we can stop this. You want me to get the President to intervene?”

“I don’t know,” replied Admiral Dixon. “The trouble with the damned Navy is that certain things are just like presidential elections — ain’t nothing anyone can do to stop ’em. They just happen.”

“Tell me about it. How about a presidential pardon for Lieutenant Commander Headley? The man in the Oval Office, as Commander-in-Chief, has to be able to do at least that.”

“Well, I guess he could. Somehow. But that’s not really the issue, is it, Arnie, old buddy? The press will want to know if the Navy has gone off its trolley, court-martialing such a man as Dan Headley. As you pointed out, it’s the very act of court-martial that is going to bring this whole thing right out into the open, where we don’t want it to be.”

“Who’s the Judge Advocate General in this case?”

“Veteran surface-ship commander, former lawyer, Sam Scott from Oregon. About as rigid a man as you could find. He’ll play this case right by the book. He’ll look at the recommendations of the board, check his goddamned law books and then decide that Lieutenant Commander Headley should stand trial as charged.”

“Could we reason with him?”