“Does it say that in our orders?” asked the XO.
“It doesn’t say not to,” said the captain. “And I’ll be damned if I ask these men to destroy a US submarine without even telling them what the hell they’re doing.”
“But their clearance level…” said the XO.
“XO, this is it for me. This is the thing my career has led to, the thing I’ll be remembered for in the submarine force, if I’m remembered for anything. And in addition to following orders, I have to be concerned about the judgment of history. About right and wrong.”
“Ok,” said the XO quietly. “When do you want to tell them?”
The captain thought it over for a minute. “Let’s have officer training after dinner, right here. I’ll tell the wardroom in person. After that I’ll get on the 1MC and tell the whole crew.”
The mood of the crew was festive, as everyone knew they had done the impossible: they’d tracked a Los Angeles class submarine. The cooks, in response, cooked steak and giant crab legs that extended past the edge of every man’s plate. For dessert, the supply officer had held back a few five gallon buckets of real ice cream for a special occasion, and he brought them all out, three in crew’s mess and one in the wardroom.
The mood in the wardroom, too, was festive, the officers’ spirits soaring with the success of the exercise and the quality of their food. The cooks had even laid out a white linen table cloth to enhance the atmosphere.
But Danny couldn’t enjoy the food, he knew what they were going to do in the morning. The XO, too, seemed to share his somber mood, although few seemed to notice because he was always so dour. But Danny was surprised by the captain. While not exactly light-hearted, he did seem to be in a good mood. He seemed happy but not ebullient, jovial in a reflective kind of way. He always liked telling sea stories, but his stories that night were less bawdy than normal, more reminiscences of a long, successful career. To Danny, it felt vaguely like a retirement ceremony.
“You guys ever hear of Captain Wreford-Brown?” he asked when the conversation paused. “I met him once.”
Everyone nodded their heads.
“No? Never heard of him? Shame on you, submariners. He should be a hero of yours. How about the HMS Conqueror?”
Again, no one knew the reference.
“Okay, I’ve got an easy one. How about the General Belgrano? Just you JO’s — everybody know it?”
Every junior officer nodded his head.
“Go ahead, tell us Bannick.”
He laughed nervously and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Sir, I believe the General Belgrano was an Argentinian warship sunk by a British submarine during the Falklands War.”
“Very good Bannick. And you know the significance of that to us?”
“It’s the only ship ever sunk by a nuclear submarine at war.”
“Absolutely correct,” said the Captain. “And she was sunk by the HMS Conqueror, commanded by Chris Wreford-Brown.”
“You met him, sir?”
“I did,” said the captain. “He spoke at the Pentagon when I was there on my shore tour. He’s retired now — manages a zoo in Devon, England.”
There was laughter around the table, and the captain joined in. “Hey, that’s part of our charter here — create good citizens that can contribute to society when they get off these boats. That’s something to keep in mind, apply what you’ve learned here on the outside.”
The captain cleared his throat. The wardroom grew quiet waiting to hear what was next.
“A lot of us submariners know the name of the Conqueror, and the ship she sunk,” he said. “But what a lot of people don’t realize is that the General Belgrano began her life as a United State Ship: the USS Phoenix. She was a Brooklyn-class light cruiser, commissioned in 1938. She was stationed in Pearl Harbor, was present during the Japanese attack on December 7, 1941. After that, she was in combat almost continuously, supporting General MacArthur and his island hopping campaign, as we took back the Pacific, one tiny scrap of land at a time. Bataan, Corregidor, Leyte Gulf: she was there for all of them, dodging torpedoes and kamikazes. Nine battle stars in all. By any measure, she was a tested combat vessel, and served our country well.”
Danny wondered where the captain was going with his story. Like many Naval officers, the captain was a history buff, and Danny wondered if he was lost in this story, or delaying the revelation about the Boise.
“We decommissioned her, along with hundreds of other good ships, at the end of the war. In 1951 we gave her to our friend Juan Peron in Argentina, and he named her Diecisiete de Octubre, the date of “Peoples’ Loyalty Day,” a holiday he created to honor himself. When a coup threw his ass out of office in 1955, they changed her name to General Belgrano, to honor one of their founding fathers.”
He paused for a moment, and looked over the room. “So most of us had heard of the General Belgrano, right?” They all nodded their heads. “But no one knew that was a US ship, right?”
They all nodded again. “That’s because she wasn’t a US ship anymore. When men and officers like all of us, from the cities and towns of the United States, left her and stopped caring for her, she stopped being a United States Ship.”
He ran his hand across his smooth scalp. “Gentleman, I guess all of us in the military at one point hope that we’re going to make history. Or at least participate in history. Tomorrow morning, we’re going to do that, although not in a way any of us thought we ever would. Tomorrow morning at 0600, we’re going to sink the USS Boise.”
A murmur went through the room. Jabo made eye contact with V-12, who didn’t seem surprised. The captain continued.
“The Boise left port shortly before we did. Soon after, she dropped out of contact, but, as we have seen, she has continued her journey, presumably on autopilot. The exercise we just participated in was designed to prove that no one is onboard, that she is a ghost ship, with no one alive. And she is continuing to steam westward, toward both friendly and not-so-friendly nations in Asia, and we have to stop her. Just like some of our comrades in arms might have to someday shoot down a passenger plane that is heading toward a populated target, out of control, we have to stop the Boise.”
“What’s wrong with her, captain?” It was Perez.
“We don’t know for sure. Or at least we didn’t when they briefed us in Pearl. Could have been a massive atmospheric problem, a radiation casualty, who knows. But the powers that be have decided that she has to be stopped, and we’re the ones to do it. I’ll be telling the crew as soon as I’m done here.”
The faces around the table were stunned and quiet. “We expect to go to battle stations tomorrow, just like we did this morning, and this time, instead of shooting waterslugs, we’ll shoot Mark 48 torpedoes.”
Jabo knew what they were going to do, and even so hearing the words, and seeing their effect on the wardroom gave him pause. Especially since he would be the OOD — he would be the one with his finger on the trigger.
But not really, he thought. Shooting a torpedo was not like firing a missile from a fighter jet, or throwing a hand grenade — it was a group effort. A complete team effort, with every man on the boat doing his part. Sonar would acquire the target, Jabo would give the order, a team of men in the torpedo room would align the valves that actually shot the weapon. If necessary, a fire control tech in the control room would steer the weapon toward the target. A dozen men, easily, would be able to rightfully tell their grandkids that they sunk the Boise. And that, thought Jabo, was why the captain was right for telling them all. They did have a right to know.