Seawolf Mask of Command

Cliff Happy

T
he Seawolf represents over ten years of work, and the number of people who have helped me over the years is legion. First of all, I must thank my bride, Georgia, for nearly twenty-five years of love and support. She has always been there for me through the successes and the failures, always with steadfast confidence and support. I am very appreciative of Donna for her wisdom, editor’s pen and friendship, and Anne for her timely suggestions and humor. Next, I would be remiss if I did not thank my family for their love and good cheer. Lieutenant Commander Stephen Strayer who patiently consented to answer my numerous questions on what it’s like to serve on board a submarine. Finally, I would like to thank you, the reader, who have given me your time and trust.

Vladivostok, the Russian Federation

T
he dacha was hidden from
direct observation
in a remote wood outside the city, protected by layers of electronic and physical security to ensure the discussions conducted within were secret. Outside the walls of the building, no one knew that monumental consequences would result from the decisions made during the week-long meeting. Participants were whisked under tight security, at night, from the airport to the dacha in limousines with blackout windows. Back in their home countries, subterfuge concealed the fact that the leaders were absent.

The Iranian President, according to the Republic’s news broadcast, was recovering from the flu. The North Korean’s regime was far more restrictive as a matter of course, and the people knew little about their leader’s comings and goings. But even in Pyongyang, deception concealed from possible spies the fact that the Supreme Leader was out of the country. The Russian President, a far more public figure than either of his counterparts, was on an inspection tour in Siberia. Prior to the covert meeting, carefully coordinated photo ops had been staged suggesting the President was doing just that. These photos had then been released periodically to the news media during the week to help keep those watching his movements unaware of his actual activities.

Satellite patterns that routinely overflew Vladivostok had been studied and accounted for. American electronic eavesdropping by aircraft off the coast monitoring the Russian naval base had also been factored into the security precautions. The compound around the dacha was, for all intents and purposes, electronically cut off from the rest of the world. Protected hard lines of communication were the only channels of information flowing in or out of the dacha.

Only the most trusted advisors of each principal had been allowed to attend the meeting. The necessary translators had been meticulously investigated, their families placed under close watch to guard against treason. The security personnel guarding the compound had been equally screened and were considered trustworthy. Few of these guards knew who was attending the meeting. Regardless, they would each be closely watched, as would their families until the decisions made during the meeting were allowed to play out.

Despite the elaborate precautions, the Russian President was apprehensive. More than most, he understood the colossal gamble he was now a part of. Of course, he reminded himself, life was a gamble, and the greater the stakes, the greater the prize. And this was, after all, the greatest prize of all.

There were times in his life when his own self-confidence had been shaken. As a KGB officer, he’d witnessed firsthand the disintegration of the Soviet Union and the demise of the Communist Party that had, since his earliest days, been the sole path to power. But he’d managed the transition from intelligence officer to politician using many of the same tools of the trade that had been his first. Deception, misdirection, assassination, bribery, they’d all transitioned nicely from the clandestine world to the political arena.

The Russian Constitution had been an obstacle, but over the years he’d slowly marginalized its restrictions on his power. The Federal Assembly had been another obstacle he’d faced on the path to real power, but with the manipulation of election law, modifications to the presidential appointment power, and outright political assassination, he’d slowly filled the Federation Council and the Duma with loyal party lackeys who would nod their heads obediently. The Prime Minister—the titular head of government—was now a puppet. The Courts—another potential check on his growing power—had been systematically reduced to obedient lap dogs. Yes, he’d consolidated power throughout the Russian Federation, but the power he craved still eluded him.

He recalled with fondness the might of the Soviet Union. Lesser nations had cowered before the Red Bear. The vaunted United States had quivered behind the porous shield provided by NATO. The United Nations had been powerless to prevent the Soviet State from exercising its will anywhere. A superpower, Russia’s undeniable destiny. Only one man had the vision and power to orchestrate its rise back to the pinnacle of power. His challengers, either dead or marginalized to the fringe of political power and the Constitution thwarted, the President knew exactly who that one man was.

It was unfortunate he needed the assistance of the Iranians and the North Koreans. They were peasants, hardly capable of greatness, but they would be well compensated for their risks. North Korea would gain what it always wanted: domination over the South and a powerful ally in a new Russia. The Iranians? He thought little of religion, finding it a useful tool to control people, but little else. But the Iranians, too, would be well rewarded for their part in the grand scheme. In many ways, the Islamic Republic was taking the greatest risk. Of course, their goal of a new Persian Empire was a just reward.

He stood in the biting cold. Novembers in Russia were merciless, and especially so this evening as he watched his counterpart from North Korea slide into the back seat of the black limousine for the drive to the airport. Beside him, the Iranian said a few words in his native gibberish, and then turned to face him. They shook hands a final time.

They wouldn’t see one another again until it was all over and the new world order had been created with Russia returned to her former, prominent position. The little, pudgy Korean’s limousine pulled away and the next limousine pulled up. The Iranian climbed into his car.

The Russian President watched them depart before quietly walking back into the warmth of the dacha. He withdrew to his private office where his personal secretary was finishing up some last minute packing. Accompanying him back into his office was his Minister of Defense and member of the Security Council, the real power in Russia.

“Leave us,” the President said to his secretary. The woman nodded and exited without a word, closing the doors behind her.

Once alone, the President leaned against his desk, as his Defense Minister poured a drink. “Your orders, Vladimir?” They had been together a long time, and he was one of the few who dared use the President’s Christian name.

“Commence the shipments of equipment at once. The Iranians will need time to get organized, so they are a priority. The North Koreans part is just as vital, but they won’t need our assistance like the Iranians will,” he explained, as he mulled the plan over once more. Audacious just didn’t sound like a big enough word to describe it.

“And the fleet?” the Defense Minister reminded him. “We’re risking the might of our Navy.”

This was true. What was left of the once vaunted Soviet Navy had fallen on hard times with decreasing funding. But not all of it. “Issue the orders. By the time the Iranian President lands back in Tehran, I want his intelligence minister reporting that our submarines are at sea.” It was vital that the Iranians feel confident the power of Russia was behind their action; otherwise, the Persians might show their true colors and fold.

The Defense Minister paused long enough to drain a glass of vodka. The President recognized his longtime friend’s angst. “It’ll be all right,” the President said softly.

“We could lose it all,” the nervous minister reminded Vladimir.

The President had decided and wouldn’t change his mind. “Better to lose it all in a gambit for greatness than watch it slowly rust into oblivion.” He watched his friend place the empty glass back on the serving tray, adjust his suit coat, and then nod in agreement.

Headquarters Submarine Forces Pacific, Pearl Harbor, Hawaii

R
ear Admiral Mark Beagler didn’t normally deliver messages around his headquarters building. As the commanding officer for all of the US Navy’s submarine forces in the Pacific, he was normally far too busy to be troubled with anything so mundane. But on occasion, when news presented itself that was particularly significant to a member of his command, he often tried to deliver the news personally. At times it was good news, such as the birth of a child, although quite often it was the reverse, and he would personally deliver the sad news of the loss of a loved one. Most commanders of his rank didn’t trouble themselves with such things, but Beagler had always believed it was his people that made the difference, and he’d spent a career seeking out the exceptional and cultivating loyalty.

Because of the sensitive nature of the submarine service, the security at his headquarters was especially tight, with identification badges needed to access many office spaces and armed security in the building. Not that Beagler had to concern himself with access anywhere in the building. His position allowed him access anywhere at any time. He descended the steps to the basement level. Just who thought a basement was a good idea at Pearl Harbor, Beagler could only guess. The close proximity to the ocean and the elevation made a basement all but uninhabitable. A relic of the Cold War, it had been intended as a fallout shelter in the event of nuclear war. As if anything might have been left of his headquarters if there ever had been such a calamity. Intelligence estimates varied on just how many nuclear-tipped ICBMs had been designated to rain down on Pearl Harbor in the event of war with the—now defunct—Soviet Union, but one thing everyone had agreed upon was that there would have been enough to turn this part of Hawaii into a radioactive wasteland. But with the Cold War long over, the basement was now mostly used for storage and smelled of mold and mildew despite dedicated dehumidifiers that fought a losing battle to keep the basement level moisture free.

There was a patch of standing water on the concrete floor, and the light in the hall was poor, giving the basement level a dark, gloomy feel. Beagler had toured the basement once, eighteen months earlier when he’d first taken command, and hadn’t returned. “We have her down here?” he grumbled, more to himself than anyone else.

Beside him, his ever-present aide, Lieutenant Parson nodded, “She was assigned here last year, sir. It was the only space available.”

“Not fit for man or beast,” Beagler grumbled, knowing that he should have taken a closer interest in this particular officer’s assignment. She’d been through a lot—even he wasn’t sure just how much. He’d been supportive; he’d sympathized and tried to help her. But the fact she’d been relegated to a dungeon for the last twelve months was his fault. An oversight for certain, and something other officers should have made certain didn’t happen. After all, he was an Admiral who had an entire fleet of submarines to run and didn’t take a direct hand in the assigning of office space.