Garrett was beginning to get into the flow of things, describing the redesigned Ohio boat and how she might be used in Operation Sea Hammer, to an attentive audience. He noticed several in the room were scribbling in notepads as he spoke. Myers, at the head of the table, leaned back in his swivel chair, elbow on the edge of the table, his head propped up on two fingers as he listened with an unreadable expression.
As he completed his presentation, he could feel an almost electric excitement throughout the room.
"… and so it is my considered opinion," he concluded, "that the best platform for this operation by far is the SSGN Ohio. She has just completed her postcon-version sea trials out of the Bangor Trident base. She is scheduled for deployment to Pearl Harbor to take part in a training exercise — Freeboard '08—with a sailing date set for two weeks from yesterday. However, her skipper informs me that she could be ready for departure as early as this coming Saturday, three days from now. She would need to take on board a SEAL unit plus the experimental Manta at Pearl, but allowing for a two-day layover there, she could be in the Gulf of Oman and ready to commence operations by Wednesday, June 25. All that is needed is for me to give the order." He looked at the oval of attentive faces. "Questions?"
"Captain Garrett," a Navy admiral said. His name tag read scofield, and he was CONAVSPECWAR— the commanding officer of all Naval Special Warfare units, including the Navy SEALs.
"Yes, sir."
"Just how close can this submarine get to the coast in that region?" Scofield asked with a pronounced mid-western twang. "The water is damned shallow in there, and you have Bandar Abbas right up the coast. Iranian waters will be mined, and the Straits of Hormuz have a nasty reputation for shoals and tight corners."
"As close as we need to, Admiral. The final decision will be up to the SEAL Team leader, and the captain of the Ohio, of course."
"That's my point, Captain. Sub drivers always want the SEALs to go in over the horizon. SEALs want the sub to put them on the beach."
Garrett nodded. This was an old and familiar tactical discussion within both the SF and submarine communities. "That's one reason for the Ohio conversion, Admiral. The Ohio is big, and won't be able to enter waters much shallower than a hundred feet and still stay submerged, but she can carry a lot of special equipment — including a couple of ASDVs. Those have an operational range of over one hundred nautical miles, and can carry eight SEALs apiece. The idea is to give the striking force as much flexibility — as many options — as possible."
"Well, now, correct me if I'm wrong… but an Ohio-class boomer is about as maneuverable as an eighteen-wheeler on the Beltway at rush hour. We've already lost a PBC in there; why the hell should we risk a nuclear sub?"
"Fair question, sir." Garrett didn't add that no naval officer of his acquaintance would consider it a career-positive move to correct an admiral… even if he was wrong. "I think the best answer I can give you is that submarines are designed to be sneaky. An Ohio-class boat is quiet. Even with the ASDS on her afterdeck, she's damned tough to pick up on sonar, and shallow waters make sonar detection even more challenging. Her skipper might take a couple of days to maneuver in as close as he needs to go, but she won't make a sound and the enemy will never know she's there. Patrol boats are surface craft, they are noisy, and they are easy to spot, visually and by radar." He hesitated, then took a deep breath. "Admiral, in my considered opinion, it was a serious tactical error sending Black Stallion in on board PCBs. That's what submarines are for."
"Captain Garrett," Myers said. "Why not deploy off of a Los Angeles boat? Or the Seawolf? We've used them for Special Forces missions in the past."
"Yes, sir, we have. And they've done well in that capacity. However, SSNs are attack boats. With SEALs on board, they're damned crowded, and they can't haul as much equipment along. The Ohio conversion is designed to serve as an advance operational base, remember. Attack boats are not.
"There's also the difference in firepower to consider. A Los Angeles Flight III boat has twelve vertical launch tubes for TLAMs. In addition, she can carry up to twenty-six tube-launched weapons… so, theoretically, she could carry thirty-eight Tomahawk missiles, though in practice, of course, some of her tube-launched weapons will be torpedoes or Harpoon antiship missiles.
"Even shy a couple of tubes for the ASDV and a Manta experimental fighter, as she is now, the Ohio can carry 140 Tomahawk missiles. That, sir, is one hell of a punch."
Myers nodded. "You've made your point, Captain. Thank you for your presentation." Garrett took his seat.
But had he made his point? Decisions at the Pentagon, so often, seemed to be made by committee. Concepts went in through one door, but what came out was rarely recognizable even to their creators.
It would have been humorous if men's lives weren't so often riding on the outcome.
4
Sonar technician second class Roger Caswell wasn't entirely sure what he was getting into. His buddies had told him they were just going out on the town, and asked if he would like to come along. But after a few drinks at the Torpedo Tube outside the main gate, they'd brought him here — to "round out the evening," as Doc Kettering had put it.
He'd never been inside a strip club.
Technically, EM1 Rodriguez had told him, it was a pasty club, but apparently in this neighborhood "pasty" meant tiny flecks of metallic glitter artfully enhancing — rather than concealing — the nipple. Besides the glitter, the dancers wore dental floss G-strings and the most ungainly shoes he'd ever seen: great, clunky plastic things with nine-inch heels that the girls wielded like deadly weapons when they lay on their backs and swung their legs about in something approximating time to the music.
The music. God, the music! It pounded and hammered, the beat so heavy Caswell wasn't even sure there was a tune to it. As a Navy sonar man, he was proud of his hearing, of the keen discernment of his hearing, and he much preferred classical music and light jazz to this… this noise.
"Oww… dig it!" Moone cried as they walked inside. "Now that's what I mean! They got music here, not that elevator mu-zak you can't even feel!"
"You mean the stuff that's all beat and no harmony?" Caswell replied. He had to raise his voice, and even then he doubted that Moone had heard him over the racket.
BJ's was a popular watering hole and ogling spot for enlisted men stationed in the Bremerton area. Half of the room was taken up by the bar, which featured a large-screen TV hanging from the ceiling, while the other half was devoted to a big, kidney-shaped stage on which the girls did their routines, complete with pole and trapeze. The big game between the Dodgers and the Angels was playing on the TV.