Collateral (Tier One #6)
: Part 2 – Chapter 22

USS Donald Cook (DDG-75)

135 Nautical Miles South of Odessa

The Black Sea

1702 Local Time

Commander Dustin Townsend loved his ship.

He loved her design. He loved her capabilities. He loved her hull number, her crest and shield, and her motto: Faith without Fear. But most of all, he loved her crew—and he bragged on them every chance he got.

“The Donald Cook has the finest crew in the United States Navy,” he’d said, addressing the ship before this underway to the Black Sea. “And do you want to know why? Because you have pride. Not the overconfident, dangerous kind of pride. Not the conceited, we’re better than you kind of pride. No, I’m talking about the pride that comes from knowing you can count on each other—for support, for encouragement, for help, and most importantly, to do the right thing when the right thing is not the easy thing. Every day that we’re forward deployed, each and every one of us is putting our lives in our shipmates’ hands. That takes an incredible amount of trust. As your commanding officer, I want you to know that I do not, and will not, ever take that trust for granted.”

After the speech, the ship’s Command Master Chief had come to see him in his stateroom and asked him if he’d meant what he’d said. Did he really think the Cook had the finest crew in the Navy, or had that just been a pep talk? Dusty had simply smiled at the CMC and said, “I meant every word of it.” Now, three weeks later, the Navy was asking him to lead the ship he loved, and the crew he loved even more, on a mission that some—and quite possibly all—of the crew might not survive. His words about trust echoed in his head. The two hundred and eighty-one souls aboard the Cook trusted him to keep them safe. They also trusted him to do the right thing. But what was a captain to do when keeping his crew safe and doing the right thing were mutually exclusive?

This, he thought, is what they mean by the “burden of command.”

He exhaled as he pushed open the door to the wardroom. He’d assembled his senior staff—both officers and chiefs—for a strategic brief and tactical planning session. Despite the propaganda campaign the Kremlin was running claiming otherwise, Russia was invading Ukraine, and it was up to the United States to stop them. Admiral Greer, the Strike Group Commander presently on the aircraft carrier USS Gerald R. Ford, had called their tasking “escort duty,” and technically that was true. And yet, it was also the understatement of the year. The Donald Cook’s tasking was to steam north, rendezvous with the USS Oak Hill off the coast of Odessa, then escort the Oak Hill south and out of the hornet’s nest. The rub, however, was that in order to do so, Donald Cook would need to cross the forty-fifth parallel and enter the bogus Economic Exclusion Zone that Russia had declared. Yes, Russia’s EEZ violated international maritime law, but when had international law ever stopped Russia? According to satellite imagery, the Russian Navy had blockaded a thirty-thousand-square-mile chunk of water boxed in by Crimea on the east, Ukraine on the north, and Romania on the west—stopping all traffic in and out of Ukraine’s largest and most important seaport. The Oak Hill, along with four hundred Marines, had been docked in Odessa at the time the Russian blockade was established.

“Captain, I don’t get it,” said the ship’s Operations Officer. “Why not just leave the Oak Hill in port? If she stays at the pier, then she’s not going to provoke a response from the Russians. Leaving port violates the blockade and provokes a response. Us steaming to Odessa to escort her out also violates the blockade and provokes a response. Why poke the bear?”

“Because the blockade is fucking illegal,” the ship’s Combat Systems Officer, Lieutenant Commander Brewster, quipped. “Since when do we let the Russians decide where we can go and when we’re allowed to go there? C’mon, dude, did you forget your balls in your stateroom? The Russians don’t own the Black Sea. I say fuck them and their blockade.”

When Dusty didn’t say anything, both department heads looked at him to adjudicate. “As usual, the two of you are on opposite sides of the issue, and as usual, you both make good points,” he said, wishing he could somehow magically merge the two officers into a single person who would have all the characteristics of a great future CO. As it was, neither man was ready for that next step. But that was okay; they still had time. He glanced at his XO, and she nodded at him to keep going. “Ops makes a good point, one I made to the Admiral when he gave us this tasking. It would be irresponsible not to consider leaving the Oak Hill in port, because make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen, tensions are at an all-time high in the Black Sea. One miscommunication, one misconstrued intention, one itchy trigger finger and this mission could spiral out of control, drawing both nations into a war that makes Iraq look like child’s play.”

“Which is why I think that antagonizing the Russians out of the gate isn’t the smartest idea,” Ops pressed. “They have eight Kilo-class submarines homeported in Sevastopol. Last satellite imagery had seven of them at sea. We’d be lucky to track one of them operating on battery, let alone seven! They have a squadron of Su-30s and two squadrons of Su-24s, all of which are undoubtedly on standby and all of which carry antiship missiles. And on top of that, their Admiral Grigorovich frigates each carry eight Oniks-M supersonic antiship cruise missiles.”

“Dude, we’re on an Arleigh fucking Burke,” Brewster replied. “The most badass, capable warship in the world. We have enough firepower on this ship alone to sink every surface ship in Russia’s Black Sea fleet and enough Tomahawks to obliterate Sevastopol.”

“Even if every missile hits its mark, they will retaliate. All it takes is one torpedo or one supersonic Russian cruise missile, and we’re on the bottom of the Black Sea. The Oak Hill is safer in Odessa than it is out here with us. If we get in a shooting match, the Russians will sink both ships! I don’t understand why we have to risk our lives—”

“Enough,” Dusty said, summoning his command voice. “The reason why is simple. The Oak Hill and her crew are trapped behind enemy lines. And you’re right, the chances of the Russians sinking her at the pier are small. But the chances of the Russians seizing her and taking her crew hostage are not. As your captain, I am responsible for your safety and the safety of this ship, and I am not going to lie to you—the risks we are about to take are grave. I do not make this decision lightly. I was up all night thinking about it, and the conclusion I ultimately came to is this—we don’t leave our shipmates behind. Period. If I confine my sphere of concern to only the hull of this ship, then the decision is easy. We should definitely play it safe and not cross the forty-fifth parallel. But, if I extend that sphere to include the sailors and marines on the Oak Hill, if I accept responsibility for their safety and welfare, then suddenly, playing it safe is not an option. I’m not leaving them behind, just like I would never leave any of you behind. And if that means we have to swim into a school of sharks to get them out, then by God that’s what we’re going to do.”

“No man left behind,” the CMC said, with perfect timing.

“No man left behind,” the XO repeated.

“No man left behind,” a chorus of voices echoed around the table.

Dusty nodded with approval at his team while a swell of pride blossomed in his chest. “Now that we’re all on the same page, I’d just like to point out that the irony of this situation is not lost on me—that of all the Arleigh Burkes in the fleet, it is the Donald Cook at the tip of the spear, going toe-to-toe, or bow-to-bow, rather, with the Russians. In two thousand fourteen, when Russia seized Crimea, it was this ship standing watch in the Black Sea . . . this ship that fended off two Su-24s. And in two thousand sixteen, while in the Baltic projecting power off the coast of Kaliningrad, the Cook once again faced down a pair of Russian fighters. I expect this time around will be no different. And I know it might sound a little hokey, but I don’t believe in coincidences. This ship’s namesake, Captain Donald Cook, was a Marine awarded the Medal of Honor for putting the welfare of his men before his own. This ship’s motto, Faith without Fear, could not be more fitting . . . more prophetic . . . more ironic. We are going to go rescue our brothers, with the faith that it is the right thing to do, and navigate whatever threats the Russian Navy throws at us without fear.”

For a long moment, no one spoke, the power and poignancy of his words hanging in the air like the ghost of Donald Cook himself. Finally, the XO said, “We’re with you, Captain. Whatever the challenge, whatever the risk, you can count on us.”