Dangerous Ground

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Dangerous Ground Page 12

by Larry Bond


  Jerry looked again. “The rudder, sir?”

  “Exactly!” shouted Millunzi happily. “Half of the rudder, your control surface, is out of the water flapping in the breeze, where it doesn’t do a damn thing for you. She’s great underwater, but on the surface and at slow speed, Memphis is a pig. She won’t respond quickly to rudder orders, so you have to think way ahead if you are going to effectively maneuver her. That’s the deceptive part of conning a sub on the surface: They move slow enough so that you think you have plenty of time to get out of trouble. In fact, if you don’t react in time, which means early, inertia will take over and ruin your entire day.”

  “Mr. Millunzi, sir,” interrupted Stewart. “The XO reports that the maneuvering watch is set and that the Captain, the Commodore, and the pilot will be up shortly.”

  “Very well,” responded Millunzi. Picking up the microphone and handing it to Jerry, he added, “Okay, Jerry, time to take the conn. You know what needs to be said. Just take a deep breath and let the maneuvering party know who is giving the rudder orders.”

  Reaching for the mike, Jerry actually felt his hand shake a little. “Attention in the maneuvering party. This is Lieutenant (j.g.) Mitchell; I have the conn. Lieutenant Millunzi retains the deck.”

  One by one, the various positions acknowledged the announcement.

  “Helm aye.”

  “Nav aye.”

  “Radio aye.”

  “Contact coordinator aye.”

  “Maneuvering aye.”

  “See? That wasn’t so hard. Ahh, here is our friendly tug to assist us,” said Millunzi.

  Jerry looked up and saw a small red and black tug, with a great big yellow capital T on its black stack, maneuvering into position on Memphis’ port quarter. The handheld radio crackled to life and Millunzi exchanged a communications check and greetings with the master of the tug Paul A. Wronowski—or “Tug Paul” for short. Once Memphis was firmly secured to Tug Paul, Millunzi grabbed the bullhorn and shouted, “On deck, single up all lines!” The linehandlers quickly moved to reduce the number of lines between Memphis’ cleats and the pier’s bollards from two to one.

  Millunzi was getting ready to say something when Hardy, climbing up the ladder, interrupted him. “Captain to the bridge.”

  Both junior officers crammed themselves to one side to make room for Hardy, the commodore, and the pilot to come up from the bridge access trunk. After the three of them were situated on the flying bridge, Hardy asked, “Mr. Millunzi, are we ready?”

  “Just finishing the final arrangements topside, sir.” He nodded to Jerry. “I was instructing Mr. Mitchell on some of the trickier parts of conning a submarine on the surface.”

  “Hmpf,” replied Hardy, turning to face Jerry. “Mr. Mitchell, I agreed with the XO’s recommendation that we make you the conning officer for the maneuvering watch, in spite of the fact that you have only been a member of my crew for a short period of time. This is a required assignment for all junior officers and you need the experience. I wish your first time underway was under different circumstances, but there are no easy underways on my boat.”

  Jerry could only nod. “Yes, sir, I’ll do my best.”

  “What’s the hand signal for a tug to make half speed?”

  “Point with your index finger in the direction you want the tug to push, either ahead or astern.”

  It was the correct answer, but Hardy only frowned. “Will you be using hand signals today?”

  “No, sir. With Tug Paul’s bridge facing aft, it would be better to use the handheld radio to reduce the chance of a misunderstanding.”

  Again, Jerry gave the correct answer. Hardy looked unimpressed. “Very well, make your report.”

  Jerry looked at Millunzi, who nodded slightly, and then began the long and detailed report on the status of Memphis’ preparation for getting underway. This formal, almost ritualistic, approach ensured that the Captain and the Officer of the Deck were both working with the same information. And while a good CO probably already knew everything his OOD was reporting, double checks were never wasted.

  Completing his report, Jerry requested permission to get underway. Hardy took a quick look around, and once satisfied that his JOOD had made an accurate report, said, “Permission granted.”

  Picking up the radio, Jerry called over to the tug, “Tug Paul, this is U.S. Navy submarine, stand by for tug orders.”

  “Roger,” squawked the radio.

  “On deck,” Jerry yelled through the bullhorn. “Take in all lines!” The line handlers below started pulling frantically on the mooring lines to get them all on board as quickly as possible. As the last line came over, Jerry pulled the lever for the ship’s horn and let loose a prolonged blast. This told everyone in the harbor that a boat was getting underway. At the same time, Stewart hoisted a large U.S. flag on a pole behind the flying bridge.

  “Tug Paul, back one third,” Jerry commanded. As the diesel engines on the tug roared to life, Memphis began to slowly pull away from the pier. Jerry watched as the distance between them increased. Turing toward Millunzi, Jerry asked, “Enough?”

  “Wait. Give it a few more seconds,” replied Millunzi. “Okay, now.”

  “Tug Paul, all stop.” Picking up the mike, Jerry issued his first conning order. “Helm, bridge, back one third, left full rudder.”

  “Bridge, helm, maneuvering answers back one third, my rudder is left full with no ordered course.”

  “Very well, helm.”

  Jerry immediately looked aft to make sure the rudder had been turned in the correct direction, but with so many people on the bridge he had a hard time seeing the rudder. When it took him a little too long to do this, Millunzi prompted him, “Don’t forget the tug, Jerry. You need her horsepower to get us out properly.”

  Fumbling for the radio, Jerry ordered the tug ahead one third. As Memphis moved slowly into the Thames River, Millunzi leaned over and said, “Watch the stern and make sure it swings to port. A submarine with stern way on is very unpredictable. It’s easier with a tug, but you still need to keep a close eye on it. There! Do you see it? The stern is starting to swing.”

  Jerry didn’t see it at first, but after a moment, he also spotted the slight swing to the left. Millunzi is very good at this, thought Jerry. As the sub continued its slow arc into the river, Jerry watched the compass repeater on the suitcase and digital map display. Once Memphis came within thirty degrees of the channel course, Millunzi whispered, “Let inertia work for you now.” Jerry ordered the rudder amidships and all stop. He then ordered Tug Paul to answer all stop, and then to take in all lines. Jerry politely thanked the tug master over the radio for his services.

  Once the tug was clear, Memphis was free to begin moving downriver. Jerry felt the deck begin to vibrate as Memphis’ screw bit into the river. It felt a little like his fighter at full military power, but once the sub’s backward motion was countered, and she started moving forward, the vibrations subsided.

  As they left the area of the sub base, Jerry Mitchell, an aviator by first choice, was now finally on his way to becoming a submariner. The sounds and smells of the river and especially the sights of the historic Thames filled his senses. The well-settled, cluttered shoreline testified to how long men and ships had been here. As they passed the Submarine Museum, Jerry saw the Nautilus moored to her quay. A little over fifty years ago, he thought, she would have taken this same route out to sea. Memphis passed under the 1-95 and railroad bridges within two minutes of the planned time. The initial part of Jerry’s underway had gone remarkably smoothly. The Navigator would be pleased.

  As they came up on the Electric Boat construction yard, the boat for the pilot pulled alongside and he bid farewell to the Captain and expressed his best wishes for a successful sea trial.

  But before he went below, the pilot slapped Jerry on the back and said, “That was a very reasonable underway, Lieutenant. You made a few minor mistakes here and there, of which I’m sure Mr. Millunzi here will tell y
ou all about in fine detail. However, for a first time out you did well. Good luck on the rest of your qualifications.” A few minutes later, with the pilot gone, the topside rigged for dive, and the last man down, Jerry increased speed to eight knots.

  After another fifteen minutes, Memphis passed New London Ledge Light, the square redbricked lighthouse that marked the mouth of the Thames River. As Jerry ordered the speed increased to ahead standard, about twelve knots, the commodore climbed down from the flying bridge. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I’m going below.” Turning toward Jerry, Captain Young said, “Mr. Mitchell, my compliments on a fine first underway. Keep up the good work.”

  “Thank you, sir,” replied Jerry.

  The commodore then looked up at Hardy, “Captain, I suggest we meet in your stateroom to go over the drill schedule for the next two days. Say, in fifteen minutes?”

  Hardy looked pained by the commodore’s “suggestion,” but acknowledged the order with a perfunctory “Aye, aye, sir.”

  For the next ten minutes, all that could be heard on the bridge was the wind and waves flowing past the submarine’s hull. Visibly disgusted that he had to leave the bridge, Hardy climbed down into the cockpit and addressed Millunzi. “MPA, strike down and stow the flying bridge and then get us to the dive point as quickly as you can. If you need me, I’ll be in my stateroom.”

  Millunzi acknowledged the Captain’s order and had Stewart relay the order to control for two sailors to come up and disassemble the flying bridge. As Hardy was about to go below, he turned toward Jerry and said, “Don’t let the commodore’s comment go to your head, Mitchell. By my standards, your performance was adequate. Nothing more.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Jerry, more surprised than hurt. As soon as Hardy had disappeared into the bridge access trunk, Millunzi shook his head and issued a short snicker.

  “Away the morale suppression team,” cried Millunzi. “The floggings will continue until morale improves.”

  Both Jerry and Stewart laughed softly at the MPA’s sarcastic comment, and a lot of the tension Jerry had felt seemed to wash away. He was also relieved that the senior officers had departed the bridge. Now he could freely ask Millunzi for an honest critique of his performance.

  As if he were reading Jerry’s mind, Millunzi said, “We’ll go over the mistakes the pilot mentioned once we get out of the channel. Then we can open her up and have some real fun.”

  “Sounds good to me, sir,” Jerry replied. “For the record, how many did I make?”

  “Five minor ones, that’s all. And despite the Captain’s views, you done good for your first time out.”

  Five! Thought Jerry. He was having a hard time thinking of more than three. Still, he was pleased with Millunzi’s compliment. The two sailors summoned to the bridge now arrived. They immediately began to take the flying bridge down, handing sections of piping that made up the frame to Stewart, who passed them below. Millunzi urged them to work quickly, but not to skip on safety.

  “What’s the rush, sir?” asked Jerry.

  Millunzi pointed to two buoy symbols on the map display and then to a pair of red and green flashing buoys a couple of miles in the distance. “Those are buoys two and three. They mark the mouth of the channel. Once we pass them, we can rev this puppy up to flank speed. Provided these turkeys get their act together and get the flying bridge taken apart.” Millunzi grinned while jerking his thumb in the general direction of the two sailors up on the sail.

  “In the meantime, Jerry we need to crank up the RCPs soon.”

  “Yes, sir!” Jerry looked back and saw that the last of the frame was just about detached from the sail. Reaching down, Jerry picked up the mike and said, “Maneuvering, bridge, shift reactor coolant pumps to fast speed.”

  “Shift reactor coolant pumps to fast speed, bridge, maneuvering aye.”

  A few moments later the suitcase speaker blared, “Bridge, maneuvering, reactor coolant pumps are in fast speed.”

  “Maneuvering, bridge aye.”

  The buoys were clearly visible and they would soon be passing them. The two sailors reported that they were done and the flying bridge had been stowed for sea. Millunzi acknowledged their report and the two went below. A few minutes later the suitcase speaker blared again, “Bridge, Navigator, two hundred yards to the turn point. New course, one six five.”

  “Navigator, bridge aye,” replied Jerry.

  “Okay, Jerry, this is a small course change, so what are you going to do?”

  “Just order the helmsman to use ten degrees left rudder and steady on the new course,” answered Jerry confidently.

  “Correct.”

  “Bridge, Navigator, mark the turn!”

  “Helm, bridge, left ten degrees rudder, steady course one six five.”

  “Left ten degrees rudder, steady course one six zero, bridge, helm aye.”

  As Memphis started turning, Jerry could feel the difference that eight knots of speed made in her response. She quickly came up on her new course and settled in for the long run through the Long Island and Block Island sounds out to the Atlantic Ocean.

  “All right, Jerry, let’s pick up the pace, shall we?” said Millunzi with a gleam in his eye.

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Keying the mike again, Jerry spoke, “Helm, bridge, all ahead flank!”

  “All ahead flank, bridge, helm aye. Sir, maneuvering answers all ahead flank.”

  “Very well, helm.”

  As Memphis began to surge ahead, the bow wave grew larger and larger until it was crashing against the base of the sail. The roar of the water as it flowed over the hull was deafening. Jerry felt as if he was at the base of Niagara Falls as tons of water came crashing down. The deck trembled as the main propulsion turbines slammed 35,000 shaft horsepower into the screw, which chewed up the water like a blender. Memphis’ wake was frothy and huge and could be seen for miles in the bright sunlight. Salt spray was thrown high into the air as the bow plowed through the slight rolling waves. And even with the protection of the Plexiglas windscreen, Jerry and the others were still occasionally hit in the face with cold seawater.

  Jerry looked over at Al Millunzi and saw that he had removed his ball cap, his black hair streaming in the stiff wind. Meeting Jerry’s gaze, Millunzi leaned over and yelled, “I defy you to find a better mode of transportation than this!”

  “Honestly, sir, I don’t think I can!” Jerry yelled back—and he meant every word. True, flying at supersonic speeds, yanking and banking, was a surefire way to get an incredible rush. But what he was feeling now was even stronger. In fact, he probably had so much adrenaline running in his system right now that it was making his stomach a little bit queasy. As the wind and spray whipped by his face, Jerry was finally able to let go of his precious F-18E Super Hornet. His heart and soul now belonged to another: Memphis.

  For the next hour, Jerry reveled in his new love. Millunzi quizzed Jerry on various situations they might encounter and pointed out the major landmarks as they sped past them. Of particular interest was Race Rock, the wave-lashed lighthouse on a bunch of rocks at the westernmost tip of Fishers Island. This lighthouse marked the northern end of the passage known as “The Race,” the boundary between Long Island Sound and Block Island Sound.

  Traffic was very light, with only a single contact, a long black barge pushed by a tug. It was coming up from the south and appeared to be heading straight for the entrance to the New London harbor channel. It was several miles distant and drawing away, designated “Master Two” by the Contact Coordinator. Since it was held both visually and on radar, it wasn’t a navigation hazard.

  Finally Memphis passed between Block Island and Montauk Point on Long Island and entered the Atlantic Ocean proper. As soon as they cleared Long Island, the seas became rougher and the boat started to pitch and roll a little.

  “We are now out of the lee of Long Island, so we are no longer being protected from the wind. This means the ride will be rougher for the rest of our run to the dive point,” commented
Millunzi.

  Now Memphis was heading for the open sea. Instead of land on both sides of them or filling one side of the horizon, it was just a small dark line behind them, growing thinner with each minute. The broad horizon was as novel to Jerry as everything else, but it was unchanging. Within a few minutes, he’d worked out a routine of checking the compass, the radar repeater, the map display, then scanning the horizon with his binoculars. There was no other surface traffic in sight.

  “How much longer?” asked Jerry.

  “About three hours until we’re past the hundred-fathom curve. About here.” Millunzi tapped the map display.

  As Jerry looked down at the instruments, the bow rose a little more steeply than before and fell back to the sea with a noticeable drop. Jerry automatically tightened his grip on the edge of the cockpit and shifted his weight.

  Millunzi grinned. “Nothing like this in a fighter, is there?”

 

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