Dangerous Ground

by Larry Bond

  Davis continued. “The support equipment will be fitted on seven pallets. There will also be a retrieval arm assembly placed into tube number one to help properly position the ROV so that it can be recovered.”

  Turning toward Hardy, Davis said, “This will require disabling the starboard tubes nesting interlock,” the safety device she’d asked Foster about that morning. Both Hardy and Richards nodded their understanding.

  “Finally, two much smaller instrumentation kits will be installed in the engine room.” This last statement generated some questioning looks from virtually everyone present, but no further explanation was forthcoming.

  Davis then asked if anyone had previous NMRS experience. No one, not even Foster, raised his hand. She went on to explain that just about everything concerning NMRS vehicle operations was done in the best of Polish traditions. After the laughter died down, Davis went on to explain that a NMRS ROV is loaded into a torpedo tube backward and upside down. When it deploys, the vehicle pulls itself out of the tube and then swings about, righting itself. This will also affect how a ROV is loaded on board, as the orientation of the vehicle will be backward from how torpedoes are loaded.

  With the end of the formal presentation by Davis, questions from both sides flew across the room. LTJG Frank Lopez, Memphis’ Damage Control Assistant and the ship’s diving officer, needed the weights of all the equipment for his initial dive compensation calculations. Foster wanted to know what type of batteries the ROVs used and how they were to be recharged. Davis asked about storage space for her equipment. The give-and-take continued for an hour. At this point, Jerry asked a crucial question, one that had been neglected throughout the technical discussions.

  “Dr. Davis, none of my people have any experience on the ROV. How much time will we have to train?”

  Davis hesitated, glanced at Patterson, and said, “Due to security constraints, Mr. Mitchell, the ROVs and their equipment will only be loaded the day before you depart. Furthermore, there is only time and consumables available for four training launches and recoveries—essentially, two for each ROV as a final system check before performing mission-related work.”

  Jerry was dumbstruck by Davis’ reply—and he wasn’t the only one. Everyone from Memphis’ crew, except the Captain and the XO, was just as dumbfounded. Shaking his head vigorously, Jerry said, “Only two checkout runs each? Dr. Davis, that is completely inadequate. There is no way we can become proficient with these vehicles in only four test runs.”

  Before Davis could respond, Patterson spoke up, “I understand your concerns Lieutenant Mitchell, but there is nothing that can be done. We have a very tight window for this mission. I’ve discussed this at length with SUBLANT and the CNO’s staff, and they have assured me that this crew can fulfill all mission objectives with minimal training.”

  Jerry looked to Richards for support, but his department head only looked at the deck. The Captain and XO were also both silent, but it was clear from the look on their faces that they weren’t happy with this at all.

  Then it dawned on Jerry that this was probably what caused this morning’s blowout. Both Hardy and Bair had likely argued vehemently that more training was needed and Patterson simply pulled a “collar check” on them, stating that the submarine admirals had “said” it could be done. Both also understood that the lack of training could very well doom this mission to failure and end both their careers. Hell indeed, thought Jerry, remembering the XO’s words from lunch.

  “All right, people, if there are no more questions, let me sum up what needs to be done,” said Bair. “By my count, Dr. Davis will need nine torpedo stows for the two ROVs and the seven supporting pallets, correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” responded Foster.

  “Very well. Mr. Mitchell, you will coordinate with SUBASE to get us everything we need on the NMRS ROVs. If you have to say anything to justify the request, the cover story is that we are going to AUTEC, the acoustic test range in the Bahamas with a NMRS vehicle in July, and we’ll need the documentation. You’ll also have to get the starboard tubes ready to support ROV operations. I want you to stay on top of this. I don’t want to have any surprises. Mr. Richards, you will put in a request for ten torpedoes with SUBASE. And Mr. Lopez, you need to get the weight information for the compensation calculations from Dr. Davis. Did I miss anything?”

  No one spoke.

  “All right, then, gentlemen, we’ve got work to do.” Bair then turned to Patterson and Davis and asked, “Will you ladies be joining us for dinner?”

  “No, Commander. Emily and I must return to Washington this evening. We also have work to do,” replied Patterson.

  “Understood. Mr. Mitchell, please escort our guests off the boat. Goodbye, Dr. Patterson, Dr. Davis.”

  Jerry acknowledged the order and took the women back to the wardroom to retrieve their gear. Once topside, Patterson quickly walked onto the pier and headed toward the car. Davis held back, handed Jerry a business card, and said, “If you need any additional information, I’ll do what I can to help.”

  Jerry pocketed the card. “Emily, you know that we don’t have sufficient training time for this mission. Is whatever we are about to do so damned critical that we can’t take the time to do it right?”

  “I’m sorry, Jerry, but it’s not my decision. For what it’s worth, I raised the same concerns and got the same reply.” She lowered her voice a little. “All I can say is that the timing’s very tight.”

  “Okay,” said Jerry with a sigh.

  “I’ll see you in about a month, then. When it’s time to load my babies on your sub.”

  “Until then,” said Jerry, bowing slightly. Smiling, Davis walked down the gangplank to the pier. Jerry watched her walk all the way down to the car before he went down below.

  Dinner was less severe than lunch. Although the crew of the Memphis had a hard task ahead of them, they could at least get started. Even Berg had regained some of his sense of humor and cracked a few jokes during the meal. Jerry actually saw the XO laugh for the first time, although he still looked stressed. The Captain had left the boat for the evening, which might have contributed to the more relaxed atmosphere.

  Jerry worked late sorting the division’s unfamiliar paperwork and finding places to put it.

  With the passageway lights rigged for red and the IMC loudspeaker stilled, the boat settled in for the night. Jerry thought about sleep. Then he remembered Richards’ schedule and his own qualification process. He’d shoved his qualification book onto the bookrack to make room for the paperwork he’d just managed to put away. His rack looked terribly inviting, but instead of turning in, he grabbed the ship’s data and qualification books and headed for the wardroom.

  He spread out his books on the table, got a cup of not-too-stale coffee and a few cookies from the pantry, and settled in. The setting, as well as the subject matter, reminded him of being on the old USS Sam Rayburn, SSBN 635, berthed at Charleston, South Carolina. Formerly a ballistic missile submarine, or SSBN, she had been converted into a moored training ship, or MTS. The old girl was now a floating prototype, where students from Nuclear Power School went and put their theoretical knowledge to work running a real reactor. Sans missile tubes and heavily modified for her training role, the MTS 635 prototype trainer had a nuclear reactor and a complete submarine engineering plant bolted to South Carolina. Everything worked, except that no matter how much steam the plant made, they never went anywhere. Many nuclear submarine officers went through that school, the last step in their nuclear power training.

  And Jerry had loved it. He knew exactly what to do, how to study, how to pace himself, how not to be intimidated by what seemed like an overwhelming task. He’d learned to fly that way as well, and he could learn this boat too. It took energy, a steady stream of effort over a long time. It came from his desire to succeed—and his desire to prove the admirals wrong. And it was something he could do. Foster might hate him, the other officers might think he was a lightweight, but this he could
do without interference. He wasn’t sure about the rest of his job, but this would be all right.

  Jerry was in the process of drawing the boat’s trim system in his notebook when the wardroom door opened and Bair walked in. Seeing Jerry at the table studying, the XO approached and said, “Good evening, Mr. Mitchell. Mind if I join you?”

  “No, sir, not at all.”

  Bair pulled up a chair next to Jerry and sort of fell into it. The paperwork he had been carrying hit the table with a dull thump. He looked dog-tired.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear the Captain’s welcome the other day,” said Bair with a touch of sarcasm. “But I haven’t been much better myself. It’s clear from the mission orders and our meetings today with Patterson that you aren’t to blame for this extra patrol, and I apologize for accusing you of arranging it just to prove yourself.”

  “Uh, thank you, sir” was all that Jerry could muster in reply.

  “Your record is quite good, for an aviator,” teased Bair. More seriously, he added, “But Memphis isn’t a fighter. She’s an old, worn-out submarine, and she gets cranky from time to time.” The XO then leaned forward a little and pointed at the dolphins on his shirt. “To earn these, you need to not only understand her individual systems, but you need to learn about her mood swings as well. And the only way you can do that is to throw yourself into learning absolutely everything about her.”

  Jerry was surprised to hear Bair speak in such a reverent tone as he talked about Memphis. This boat meant something to him. While it seemed a little weird, Jerry knew that he had to have a similar relationship with this “cranky” old sub if he was to make the grade.

  “Now, the Navy and the Captain are demanding a very aggressive qualification schedule from you,” Bair continued. “And I agree. You need to catch up with your peers if you are going to make a career in submarines. I also agree that there can be no special dispensation. You must earn your dolphins,” the XO placed extra emphasis on the word “earn.”

  “However, one of my responsibilities is to make sure that junior officers assigned to this boat are properly trained. And in that regard, I will do everything I can to see that you have the opportunity to complete your qualifications. The rest is up to you, Jerry.”

  For the first time since coming on board, Jerry actually felt welcomed, and sensed that the XO was sincere in his offer. “Sir, I appreciate your advice and I will work my tail off to not disappoint you.”

  “The only one who will be truly disappointed, Jerry, should you fail, is you,” said Bair. “However, Mr. Mitchell, judging by your past performance as a fighter pilot and the dogged pursuit of your transfer to submarines, I have a feeling that it won’t happen.” The XO stifled a yawn and looked at his watch. “It’s getting late. Jerry, why don’t you hit the rack and get some sleep? You can start off fresh on your qualifications in the morning.”

  “Aye, aye, sir! And thank you, XO,” Jerry said. “Good night, sir.”

  “Good night, Jerry.” And with that the XO stuck the load of paperwork under his arm and headed toward his stateroom.

  Jerry made his way back to his stateroom and leaned against the bunks. He didn’t realize just how tired he really was, until he started undressing. As Jerry settled into bed, he paused to reflect on the events of the day and was confident that tomorrow would be better. Yes, tomorrow would see him start the process of becoming a dolphin-wearing submariner. And with that pleasant thought, Jerry fell asleep.

  First Underway

  April 18, 2005

  SUBASE, New London

  Jerry climbed out of the bridge access trunk into the cockpit atop Memphis’ sail. He was greeted by dazzling sunlight and it took his eyes a minute to adjust to the brightness. It was a glorious spring day, not a cloud in the sky, warm, and with a moderate breeze. It was a perfect day to go to sea. And Jerry was excited. Excited and nervous, because the XO had suggested to the Navigator that Jerry conn the boat out as Junior Officer of the Deck. Being the senior watch officer, as well as the ship’s Navigator, Lieutenant Commander Harry O’Connell assigned officers to their watch stations and oversaw their qualifications and “professional development.” Training junior officers in the fine art of shiphandling definitely fell into both categories, and he completely concurred with the XO’s suggestion. Even though the scheduled departure was still a couple of hours away, Jerry already had a good case of the butterflies. Smiling, he fondly remembered that the last time he felt this way was just before his first training flight in an F-18.

  Looking out over the sail, Jerry could see members of the crew working to finish the preparations for going to sea. Some were loading the last of the provisions, removing the lifelines, and disconnecting the shore power cables. While everyone was busy, Jerry knew that most of the work was done. Thinking back, Jerry wondered where the past month and a half had gone. It seemed to have passed by him in a blink of an eye. On the other hand, there were moments when he felt as if he were in suspended animation.

  He had made excellent progress on his qualifications, having completed most of the system checkouts and a number of the procedural ones as well. But that progress had come at a price: Jerry didn’t have a life outside of Memphis. While his shipmates got off as often as they could, Jerry stayed aboard almost every night studying for the next signature in his qual book. After about five straight days, the XO would track him down and order him to go home.

  Jerry remembered the first time the XO threw him off the boat. He came into the wardroom after Jerry had remained onboard for the entire first week. Grabbing the ship’s data book that Jerry was trying to study, the XO slammed it shut as hard as he could. The loud thud made Jerry jump, the effect enhanced considerably by his semiconscious state. The XO then sat down, looked Jerry straight in the eye, and said, “Mr. Mitchell, go home.”

  “Sir?” Jerry stammered as his eyes tried to focus. “I, uh, can’t. XO. I really need to study for my ventilation system checkout.”

  “I don’t recall giving you a choice in the matter, mister,” replied Bair sternly. Then, in a less severe tone, he said, “Jerry, your dedication is commendable and you’ve made a good start on your quals. But after many days of very long hours and very little sleep, your brain WILL turn into tomato paste and you WILL be worthless.” Bair covered the closed book with his hand. “I’ve been peeking in on you over the past hour and you have been staring at the same page the whole time. I bet you don’t even know what ventilation lineup you were looking at.”

  Jerry smiled weakly and looked down at the closed book in front of him. “No bet, sir.”

  “All right, then. I want you to go home, take a long hot shower, and then get some sleep in a bed that is larger than a coffin. You’ll feel a lot better and you’ll be more alert in the morning.”

  Of course, the XO was right—again. Even though Jerry felt like he had to be working virtually every hour of every day, it just wasn’t practical. Jerry then came to the realization that the race he was running was a marathon, not the hundred-yard dash. He had to learn to pace himself if he was going to complete all that he had set out to do. Once Jerry had accepted that idea, it was a little easier to take some personal time off, but every now and then he still needed a gentle reminder from the XO to hit the beach. Jerry also realized an unexpected benefit from Bair’s nagging. Some of the other officers and chiefs noticed the considerable effort that Jerry applied to all his duties, including his qualifications, and that the XO often had to tell him to get off the boat.

  Word also started to get around from those who gave Jerry his checkouts that he came prepared and usually did very well. Hard work and competence is a winning combination in the submarine force and it often earns respect. It took some time, but the chill in the wardroom toward him started to thaw. And while things were still strained between him and Cal Richards, at least the WEPS wasn’t quite so cutting with the sarcasm now. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of Senior Chief Foster.

  If anything, Foste
r had become harder to deal with. When they were alone, Foster was borderline insubordinate and only a little more civilized when they were in the company of others. Jerry just couldn’t figure out what was wrong between them.

  He tried hard to iron things out, but Jerry’s attempts at reconciling their problems only made things worse. Jerry found that he could work with Foster only by being extremely specific in his orders and following up to make sure that Foster hadn’t left him hanging with the job half-done. It took a lot of energy, attention, and time he didn’t have.

  It wasn’t the best way of doing business, and Jerry certainly wasn’t happy with the situation, but he’d have to make it work for now. Thinking about the dysfunctional relationship with his leading chief only made Jerry tense, and he took a couple of deep breaths to ease his stress. As he let out a big sigh, a voice from below broke his moment of silent reflection.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said the voice. “We need to rig the bridge for the surface transit and it’s going to be tight with you up here. Would you mind going below until we’re finished? It should only take about twenty minutes.”

  Jerry looked down as a petty officer emerged from the shadows of the bridge access trunk. There were hints of another man below, along with the sounds of gear being hauled up. Jerry watched as the sailor climbed up into the cockpit, squinting hard as he emerged into the sunlight.