“The president has ordered our full cooperation with those nations who have offered assistance to stop this rogue boat. Let me repeat, full cooperation, and it was he who told the Navy to put the two captains on North Dakota. Given the circumstances, Commodore, are you that surprised the security manual just got tossed into the bilge? You can place whatever reasonable restrictions you believe are necessary to limit access to the more sensitive areas on North Dakota, but your orders are to get those men on board and Mitchell out to sea, expeditiously. I suggest you carry them out.”
Jacobs had felt bad watching his boss get smacked by another senior official. Once was bad enough, but twice! In the same day — ouch!
Ironically, the CSO completely understood where Simonis was coming from. The commodore was a strictly “by the book” naval officer. He knew exactly what had to be done, and how to meet the incredible amount of bureaucratic bookkeeping required by a peacetime navy. The problem was, the squadron wasn’t exactly operating in a peacetime mode right now, and one of Simonis’s precious books had just been cast aside. And while the CNO’s decision might have been influenced by political expediency, Admiral Hughes was an acknowledged “horse trader” within Washington circles. The truth of the matter was, it just made good sense, and the risk of compromise had been deemed acceptable by a competent authority.
Simonis’s main problem was that he was risk-averse, and he wanted to play it safe. But Jacobs also knew that his commodore would follow his orders regardless of whether or not he liked them. The combination had made for interesting times at the squadron headquarters during the Sino — Littoral Alliance War, and now that round two was just getting started, there would be more to follow. The best thing Jacobs could do for his boss was to get Samant and Petrov on North Dakota, and have Mitchell get his butt to sea. Once all the three boats were on their way to their assigned patrol areas, the squadron headquarters could get into a steady routine — establishing a sustainable battle rhythm was high on Jacobs’s list of things to do.
The aircraft slowly taxied to the parking apron, coming to a complete stop only when the marshaler crossed his batons. The airman then gave the hand signals for the pilot to cut the engines and for the ground crew to move in with the chocks for the landing gear wheels. Before the engines had even wound down, the forward fuselage door opened and a folding ladder was extended. As soon as the legs hit the ground, two men emerged from the aircraft and hustled down the ladder. Jacobs quickly moved forward to greet them.
“Captain Petrov, Captain Samant, I’m Glenn Jacobs, welcome to Guam. This way, please,” he said hurriedly.
Two airmen grabbed the men’s seabags from the Indian flight crew and tossed them into the car’s trunk. The moment it was closed, the car sped off toward the submarine piers. A military police escort accompanied them, clearing the traffic ahead.
“My apologies for the abrupt welcome, but I have to get you two down to North Dakota immediately. We’ve held her for almost twenty-fours hours while we waited for you to get here, and I really need to get that boat to sea,” explained Jacobs as the car took off. His words were polite, but his tone was stern.
“Completely understandable, Captain Jacobs,” Petrov replied. “Although, I was very surprised that your government offered to allow us to go out on Jerry’s boat. I’m certain my government didn’t make that a condition for my assistance.”
“They didn’t, but the knowledge the two of you have argued strongly that you belong on North Dakota. Your relationship with the national security advisor didn’t hurt, either. She’s the one who came up with the idea.” Jacobs was frowning as he spoke.
“I take it you’re not entirely pleased with this arrangement,” noted Samant bluntly.
Jacobs smiled thinly. “Whether or not I’m happy about this plan is irrelevant, Captain. Personally, I agree with Dr. Patterson’s reasoning. My boss, however, does not, and he’s the man I have to work for. I’m sure you can understand the complicated position I’m in. Nothing personal, but the sooner I get you two out of his hair, the better.”
Petrov and Samant nodded; they’d both experienced similar situations sometime during their careers. “Any news on the patrol aircraft search?” asked Samant.
Jacobs shook his head. “Your navy has put up almost a dozen Bear F sorties so far, and they haven’t found or heard a blessed thing. What I don’t understand is why it’s taking so long to get the P-8 Poseidon squadron involved in the hunt.”
“The 312th Squadron is under the Eastern Naval Command, the same one that Chakra belongs to. The flag officer in charge, Vice Admiral Dhankhar, is the leader of this wretched plot and he ordered our brand-new P-8I squadron, the only one we have, to stand down.” Samant glared with anger as he spoke.
“Most of the squadron’s officers, including the pilots and mission commanders, were sent to an ASW training symposium in Mumbai. At the same time, many of the aircraft were scheduled for maintenance on their engines and acoustic systems. We’re scrambling to get the planes up and running, but it will be at least two more days before the next one’s ready to fly. All that was available for immediate service were six elderly Tu-142s with outdated sensors.”
“How inconvenient for us,” grumbled Jacobs. Samant shrugged apologetically; there wasn’t anything he could say in response to the sarcastic remark. Suddenly, Jacobs’s cell phone rang. He noted the caller’s identity. “Excuse me while I take this call.” Samant and Petrov nodded their consent.
“CSO,” said Jacobs, answering the phone. After a short pause, he continued, “Yes, sir, I’ve picked up our guests and we are en route to the squadron piers. We should arrive in about fifteen minutes.”
Jerry found it a bit strange scanning the road leading up to the wharf with his binoculars. Usually he would look for contacts at sea or in the air; concentrating his search landward was definitely not the norm. Then, in the distance, Jerry saw the flashing lights of a police car. Followed close behind by another vehicle. Leaning over the flying bridge, he raised the bullhorn and shouted down to Thigpen. “XO! Incoming!”
Thigpen signaled his response by waving his ball cap and sent two sailors quickly across the brow to help with their riders’ gear. Turning to Lieutenant Covey, the officer of the deck, Jerry ordered, “Dave, get us under way the moment our guests are aboard.” The junior officer acknowledged the order, and radioed the tug to stand by.
A minute later the two cars pulled up to Wharf B and came to a screeching stop just short of the small crane that was ready to remove the gangplank. Jerry saw the squadron CSO jump out, call over to the two sailors, and point to the opening trunk. As the men ran over to grab the seabags, Jerry saw Petrov and Samant getting out of the car. Thigpen rushed toward the two and rendered a smart salute. Gesturing toward the brow, he urged them to board. Jerry waved a quick greeting when they looked up at the sail. Once the two sailors with the seabags were clear of the gangplank, the small crane lifted it off the hull.
“On deck,” announced Covey through the bullhorn. “Take in all lines!” As soon as the last line came over from the pier, a loud prolonged blast blared from the ship’s horn: North Dakota was leaving port. The deep throbbing of a diesel engine abruptly roared to life as tug Goliath started to pull the submarine from the wharf. Down on the pier, Jacobs was walking along the edge, repeatedly motioning with his right arm for the sub to leave. Jerry tipped his cap in deference to the squadron’s second-in-command, and then saluted. Jacobs returned the honor and waved good-bye. His face wore a broad smile of relief.