Once I achieved the rank
of Petty Officer Third Class (PO3),
every ship I was assigned to
had the capacity
to carry nuclear weapons.

And when I was on active duty,
capacity meant presence.
We didn’t need official confirmation—
we saw it in the shift
from blue-painted training rounds to
brass-jacketed ammunition.

We saw it in the way
our superiors briefed us:
not with facts,
but with phrases.

On the USS McKee (AS-41),
before commissioning,
we trained with inert rounds.
Blue bullets.
Harmless in color,
symbolic in tone.

But once the McKee
passed her tests
and was commissioned,
the rounds turned brass—
and we knew.

Our superiors
knew we knew.
So they taught us the script:

• If asked whether
  nuclear weapons
  were aboard,
  and there were none,
  say “No.”
• If they were aboard,
  say:
  “I can neither
  confirm nor deny
  the presence
  of nuclear weapons
  aboard the USS McKee.”

How bright does one have to be
to decode that?
If the answer isn’t “no,”
then it’s clearly “yes.”

This Orwellian doublespeak
wasn’t just policy—
it was posture.
A way to carry silence
like a shield.

And that silence echoes still.

In the early 1980s,
during the U.S. incursion
into Grenada—

Operation Urgent Fury—
a SEAL team was lost.
A raft capsized.
Four SEALs drowned.

That was the full team
aboard that night.
The official explanation
was rough seas.
But I’ve always struggled
with that simplistic account.

SEALs are trained to endure
the harshest conditions.
If I, an untrained sailor,
could swim to shore

within sight of land,
how could four
elite commandos
perish together?

I don’t question their training.
I question the story.
Because the story
doesn’t add up.
And the truth,
evidently,
is classified.

I only hope
I’m still living
when it’s declassified.
Because knowing
what really happened
is on my bucket list—
not for curiosity,
but for covenant.

For the sake
of those who served,
and those
who still carry the silence.

To the men with gold epaulets
gleaming on
their shoulder boards

or the suits
in dark rooms
in the haunting glow
of their monitors.

Who composed
this implausible account
of that honorable
SEAL team’s demise.

Excuse me, Sir.
You may tell me
that this elite commando squad
was surprised
by the Grenadian defense force
and died by enemy fire.

I might accept that.
But to say that four
of our most elite fighters—
SEALs trained to endure
the harshest conditions—
died to the sea?
Is that the best you can do?

I do not question their valor.
I question the story.
Because that story
does not add up;

That story
is inadequate
and the truth,
evidently,
is classified.

For those who served,
and those who
still carry the silence—
may truth find
its way to shore.

If this offering stirred something in you—
a memory,
a question,
a flicker of light—
you are welcome to share
your reflection below.
No need for eloquence.
No need for certainty.
Just a lantern,
gently placed.