Hostler found it particularly satisfying to be in command of the 1st Armored Division. His dad served in the Air Force, stationed at Birkenfeld Air Base in West Germany. There was a playground adjacent to the base’s military housing complex and he fondly remembered the times he’d be playing outside with the other kids, their games interrupted by a deep rumble coming from the adjacent road, which disappeared into the forested hills. They’d run to the street to catch a sight to behold — a tank convoy leaving the Baumholder Troop Drilling Ground; tanks from the 1st Armored Division when the unit was stationed in West Germany.
His life had come full circle, from a kid watching 1st Division tanks alongside the road to a major general commanding America’s only armored division.
As Hostler shrugged his suit jacket on, the doorbell rang. He opened the front door, surprised to see his aide, Captain Kurt Wise, on the doorstep, carrying a classified courier pouch.
“I apologize for interrupting, General, but this just came in, IMMEDIATE priority.”
Hostler ushered Wise into the foyer, where the captain extracted the classified message and handed it to the general.
After reading the message, Hostler said, “Cancel all leave. Get everyone back on base and get the division packing.”
“Where to?”
“Nowhere at the moment.”
Hostler’s thoughts drifted to his first few months in the Army, when he’d learned a basic Army practice, something every soldier first experienced in boot camp. Drill instructors ran recruits in formation from one event to another, only to have them wait for a half-hour once arriving. It was almost an inviolate Army principle.
Hurry up and wait.
They weren’t shipping out yet, but when they did, it looked like 1st Armored Division would return to Europe.
28
USS MICHIGAN
“Raising Number Two scope.”
Standing on the Conn, Lieutenant Carolyn Cody lifted her hands in the darkness, grabbing the periscope ring above her head, rotating it clockwise. As the periscope slid silently up from its well, she held her hands out beside the scope barrel. When the folded periscope handles hit her hands, she snapped them down and pressed her face against the eyepiece.
Cody called out to the microphone in the overhead, “All stations, Conn. Proceeding to periscope depth. Dive, make your depth eight-zero feet.”
The Diving Officer directed the two watchstanders seated in front of him, “Ten up. Full rise, fairwater planes.”
The Lee Helm complied, pulling the yoke back, and five hundred feet behind them, the stern planes — large flat hydrodynamic control surfaces — rotated, pushing the stern down until the submarine was tilted ten degrees up. The Helm also pulled the yoke back, pitching the sail planes to full rise.
“Passing one-five-zero feet,” the Dive announced.
Cody peered into the periscope, looking up through the dark water, scanning for evidence of ships above, their navigation lights reflecting on the water’s surface.
As Michigan ascended, it was silent in Control aside from the Dive’s reports. There would be no conversation until the periscope broke the surface and the Officer of the Deck called out No close contacts or Emergency Deep.
Submarines were vulnerable during their ascent to periscope depth, with the surface contact picture only an estimate. Occasionally, ships were closer than the algorithms calculated and collisions occurred. The surface ships, oblivious to the threat rising from below, plowed on, while the submarine, operating at slow speed during the ascent, couldn’t move out of the way fast enough. Even the smallest U.S. fast attacks in service, the Los Angeles class, were over a football field long, displacing seven thousand tons. USS Michigan, on the other hand, was almost two football fields long—560 feet, displacing eighteen thousand tons.
Sitting on the Conn in the Captain’s chair, Murray Wilson monitored his submarine’s ascent. As Cody peered through the dark water, the Dive called out the submarine’s depth in ten-foot increments, and Cody gradually tilted the scope optics down toward the horizon. As the Dive called out eight-zero feet, the scope rose above the water’s surface. Cody performed several rapid circular sweeps, searching for nearby contacts bearing down on them.
After scanning the horizon, Cody called out the report everyone was hoping for.
“No close contacts!”
Conversation in Control resumed, and a moment later Radio reported over the speaker, “Conn, Radio. Download in progress.”
The Quartermaster followed with his expected report, “GPS fix received.”
After the usual two-minute wait, Radio confirmed Michigan had received the latest round of naval messages. “Conn, Radio. Download complete.”
They had accomplished the two objectives for their trip to periscope depth, so Cody ordered Michigan’s descent. “All stations, Conn. Going deep. Helm, ahead two-thirds. Dive, make your depth two hundred feet.”
Each station acknowledged as Michigan tilted downward.
“Scope’s under,” Cody announced, then lowered the periscope into its well.
The lights in Control flicked on, shifting from Rig for Black to Gray, allowing everyone’s eyes to adjust, then shifted to White. As Michigan leveled off at two hundred feet, a radioman entered Control, message board in hand, delivering the clipboard to the submarine’s Commanding Officer. Wilson reviewed the messages, scrutinizing one message in particular. When he finished, he turned to the Officer of the Deck.
“Have the XO and Commander McNeil meet me in the Battle Management Center.”
Cody ordered a Messenger to inform the two men as Wilson headed behind Control into the Battle Management Center. A fire team of four SEALs, plus one of the two platoon leaders, Lieutenant Jake Harrison, were clustered around a console, reviewing mission plans. Harrison was much older than the standard SEAL lieutenant; the prior enlisted man had reached the rank of chief before receiving his commission as an officer. Even though he was over forty now, he was still the prototypical SEAL: tall, lean, and muscular.
The submarine’s Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander Al Patzke, arrived shortly after Wilson, followed by Commander John McNeil, head of the SEAL detachment aboard Michigan. With the arrival of the three senior officers aboard the submarine, Lieutenant Harrison pulled away from the fire team and approached the three men.
“New orders,” Wilson said, handing the message board to McNeil. “The Russians are trying to annex parts of Ukraine and Lithuania again.”
“What’s our mission?” Patzke asked.
“We’ve been directed to reposition off the coast of Odessa, putting additional targets within range of our Tomahawk missiles.”
“Anything for us?” McNeil asked as he flipped through the message.
“Not yet. But we’ll be off Ukraine’s coast not far from the Dnieper River. I imagine there are a few potential scenarios.”
McNeil nodded as he passed the board to Patzke.
“Also,” Wilson said, “the three Kilo submarines stationed at Novorossiysk have sortied to sea. The Russians know we’re in the Black Sea due to our transit up the Turkish Straits, so I want to shift to a modified battle stations watch rotation, effective on the next watch relief.” To his Executive Officer, Wilson said, “Until further notice, one of us will be in Control at all times.”