He recalled when he had commanded his first submarine. It was the USS Nautilus—one of the original nuclear-powered subs. It was his first captain’s chair but the ship’s last tour. Shortly after, she was put on display as a museum in Connecticut.
He remembered standing on the bridge as the captain, giving his first order to dive. He never imagined that he’d be able to capture that excitement again. From there, he skippered a few Los Angeles class attack subs and then moved to the USS Nevada; an Ohio class Trident missile sub. He had done it all. At least he thought he had, until the navy assigned to him a surprise in the spring of 2007.
At that time, Jim knew on that trip back to Groton that he was to take command of another sub. He didn’t know which one, which was uncommon. He remembered how it was all done quietly, in the middle of the night, when Jim formally received the command of the last SSN-21 nuclear submarine. Only three were made before budget cuts terminated the program. All saw the end coming after the Soviet Union collapsed in 1992. The navy went to a smaller Virginia class platform as the monoliths of the deep became unnecessary. There he was, in the middle of the night, standing in a covered dry-dock that seemed longer and wider than the Grand Canyon. Jim’s ship had been constructed in total secrecy. The last of her kind. On the side of the behemoth, written in chalk by a construction worker, were the words WAR EAGLE. As fate would have it, in a ceremony that entailed only the crew, three other navy officers, and one politician, the ship was commissioned and went to work as the USS War Eagle. To Jim, it was perfect.
Very few people knew that he was out with the world’s most advanced ship patrolling the oceans. The exciting feeling he had yearned for so many years ago returned when he gave the order to dive.
He had evolved into a rock-steady captain. He was never hesitant in any situation and always made smart choices. Being on that submarine was special. A few other captains in the fleet figured it out and quietly congratulated him at parties and functions, never really acknowledging what the praise was for but indicating their earnest admiration while secretly wishing it had been them. At times, it was the proverbial elephant in the room as younger officers scratched their heads in wonder at the respect Jim received from his contemporaries. He appreciated the accolades, but it never affected his job. When all was said and done, he was in charge of protecting his country, its citizens, and the safety of his crew, in that order. She was his baby, on loan from Uncle Sam.
“Captain to the bridge. Captain to the bridge,” came across the speaker. Jim hustled down the corridor to the Command Control Center. His XO, Lincoln Dowl, had placed the ship in battle-station readiness. The CCC was packed with anxious men waiting for the order to engage the war machine.
“Contact bearing three-two-four,” blurted his battle station’s fire control officer.
Jim looked upon the electronic glass map as his crew plotted the course and path of the unknown contact, then to the computer monitor, which affirmed the position.
The sonar supervisor poked his head in to give a course correction. “Contact now three-five-eight. She’s coming right. Contact classified as Soviet submarine, Alfa Sir.” Though the Soviet Union officially did not exist, in the US Navy they still considered the vessels of Soviet design and spoke of them in that manner.
“Fifteen left degrees’ rudder,” Jim said coolly. “Let’s stay behind her.”
The sonar supervisor poked his head out. “She’s crossed into British-controlled waters.”
“Ready tubes one and two.” Jim returned to the map and followed the course with his finger. He received confirmation of the loaded tubes in seconds.
“Contact holding course.”
The conflict was that Jim was only supposed to be out testing a new screw on the War Eagle after a computer refit to minimize osculation in the blades. He was not authorized to engage any hostile vessels, but he couldn’t let a Soviet sub snoop all over an ally’s water.
“Distance?” he asked.
“Contact is now three hundred yards off the bow.”
“Close to one hundred, then all stop.”
“Ahead standard,” ordered the XO.
The sonar room relayed the distance until the XO called for “all stop.” There was a slight shift in momentum as the War Eagle began to slow.
Jim went forward and peered at the green screens in the sonar room. “Go from passive to active.”
“Active sonar, aye, sir.”
“Okay. Light him up. Let him know that he’s not alone.”
It sounded like a video game with a thyroid problem when the ping was emitted from the War Eagle.
“She’s making a hard left, sir. Coming around bearing two-one-five.”
“Caught with her hand in the cookie jar.” Lincoln had slipped in behind to observe the play. “The captain probably shit his pants.”
“Helm, ahead one-third. If her bow comes about, give me a hard-left rudder and set up firing sequences.” Jim knew the crisis was over, and the Alfa wouldn’t return. The captain of that sub was too busy trying to get back in concealment.
“Do we want to go after her?” Lincoln loved the game. He looked at it like Native Americans counting coup on their enemy in the Old West.
Jim smiled. “Not this time. We have a schedule. Once she’s out of range, bring her to two hundred and inform the USS John F. Kennedy. She’s on patrol here. Then proceed back on course.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Jim went to the Command Control Center chair. The whole incident took less than ten minutes, but to him, it felt like hours. The last thing he wanted was to take the War Eagle home in less than perfect shape.
Mohsen sat at the opposite end of the great table in the emir’s palace. The emir and his advisers, some of who were cabinet members, filed in. They all were aware of Mohsen’s mission and were eager to hear the results. There was no small talk or unnecessary greetings. The emir would be the only one to ask questions, though his advisers whispered in his ear.