Mission Critical

by Jamie Fredric

  Cupping his hands around his mouth, COB yelled down from the sail to ground control Petty Officer Smith, "Make sure you're grounded, Smitty! There's a lot of static charge there!" Smitty gave a thumb's up and pressed the headphones tighter against his ear.

  The helo crew wouldn't have many chances to put their passenger on the submarine's deck--time wasn't in their favor with the rest of the fleet so close, and except for a handful of people, no one outside the sub's crew were privy to his presence. The motor whined as the wire cable began lowering its cargo.

  Aboard SSN Bluefin

  COB Cal Davis, a Machinist Mate Master Chief, escorted Grant down narrow passageways, through watertight doors, and down ladders to 03 level. As Chief of the Boat, Davis' duties included being master-at-arms when disciplinary action was called for, and he acted as liaison between the CO and enlisted men. Davis was one of the most respected and trusted men aboard the Bluefin.

  COB swung open the watertight door, and Grant stepped into the torpedo room just forward of midships. Davis followed him, putting the 'cocoon' down near one of the torpedoes. "Hope this is awright, sir," he said through an unmistakable Texas twang. "We were informed ya'd only need some temporary space, and the Captain said to stow ya here."

  Grant laughed then gave the Master Chief and torpedoes a quick once-over. He'd seen it before; they all looked alike after a while. He replied with a smile, "This will do fine, Master Chief." Grant had noticed the broad back of his escort, reminding him of his football teammate at the Academy, defensive tackle Chuck Wyneski. "Say, did you ever play football?"

  "No, sir, six years of boxing. In my younger days, I was Navy Golden Gloves, middleweight."

  "Is that right? Sounds like you'd be somebody handy to have around!"

  "Guess I can hold my own, sir," Davis laughed. He walked forward to the watertight door. "The Captain wants to see ya in his quarters after you've settled in, sir."

  Grant walked aft and dropped his gear next to the bulkhead on the port side near one of the cocoons. "I'm ready now. Lead the way."

  As he followed the red-headed Davis back up to the 01 level, Grant had a chance to briefly think about the flights that delivered him to the Bluefin. The F-14 Tomcat, with him sitting in the RIO's seat, took off from a runway at Patuxent Naval Air Station in Maryland at 1300 hours. It refueled in flight over Ohio and Washington State before landing at Elmendorf Air Force Base, Alaska, with an F-4 Phantom fueled and waiting for him on the runway. Somewhere over the North Pacific, the Phantom refueled with a KA-6D tanker from the USS Ranger. Within hours, the Phantom landed at Kyota Air Base in Japan. Grant barely had time to grab an apple and a cup of coffee before the air crewman hustled him off to the helo that would take him on the last leg of his journey. As the Sea King lifted from the tarmac, it rotated slowly to assume its new heading, its nose dipping as the pilot applied power. Grant looked out the window at the last bit of Mother Earth he'd be seeing for awhile.

  "First time aboard a sub, sir?" asked Davis as they started back up to the 01 level.

  "Not hardly, Master Chief, it's just that the air always seems a little...thick," he grinned as he slipped a finger inside the neck of his T-shirt, pulling it away from his throat. It was a strange world to be in, a sealed world for these submariners, one of work, sleep and eat, punctuated with an occasional card game. They shared one common enemy, though...the sea around them.

  Davis laughed. "You'll get used to it, sir."

  "No offense, COB, but I don't think I'll be hanging around long enough!"

  Davis rapped his fist on the bulkhead next to the entrance of the stateroom on 01 level. The cabin was located just forward of the Sonar and Radio Room and the XO's stateroom. Hardly a stateroom one might find on a cruise ship, the cabin was barely 8 x10. The bunk was a foldaway unit, emphasizing the compactness of the cabin. "Captain, Commander Stevens is here," Davis announced.

  A man who looked as if he should have been playing for the L.A. Lakers pushed the curtain aside and extended a large, black hand to Grant. "Commander. Welcome aboard the Bluefin," smiled Captain Reggie Stafford. A graduate of Princeton University, Stafford completed tours at SUBPAC in Hawaii, and Groton, Connecticut, and taught physics at the Naval Academy. He assumed command of the Bluefin's Gold Crew in July, 1974. Each sub has at least two rotating crews assigned to it, a Gold and Blue crew, since seventy days is the max for any one crew to stay submerged.

  "Glad to be here, sir," Grant replied.

  A laugh from deep within Captain Stafford exploded in the small stateroom. "Are you sure about that? I've seen the orders, remember?"

  Grant smiled. "Would you believe me if I told you my boss talked me into it?"

  Stafford shook his head. "Morelli and I go back a long way, Grant. May I call you 'Grant'?"

  "By all means, sir."

  "As I was going to say, that wouldn't surprise me at all, except..." He stared at Grant through deep-set brown eyes, moving his ruler-length finger in a slow arc. "I've heard about you, Commander Stevens...oh, yes I have."

  "Good or bad, sir?" Grant asked with a mischievous grin.

  "I've heard about you and some of the stories behind those five rows of ribbons. Why don't we just leave it at that?" he laughed.

  "Fair enough, Captain."

  Rotating the combination lock, Stafford opened the small safe above his desk and removed a large, brown envelope, its seal already broken. He withdrew the papers, and then turned slowly in his swivel chair to face Grant, scrutinizing Grant's chest ribbons and pins. Pointing at one pin in particular, he asked inquisitively, "Before we get down to business, answer me one question."

  "Sir?"

  "Well, I understand they call that SEAL pin a 'Budweiser.' Can you explain why, or would that be a breach of SEAL security?"

  Grant shook his head and grinned. "No, sir, it's no secret. After graduation from BUD/S, new SEALs celebrate by ordering a round of Bud boilermakers, then they drop in the pins, drink till the glass is empty, and then catch the 'Budweiser' with their teeth. And it looks like the Bud emblem a little, don't you think, sir?"

  Stafford laughed. "It certainly does! I guess this is just another fine tradition to be carried on in typical Navy fashion!"

  He motioned to two seats attached to the bulkhead and separated by a table. "Now have a seat, and let's discuss these orders of yours." The two men sat at the desk, and Stafford noticed Grant's hands. There were old scars on the back of both hands. Stafford's immediate impression was they were very strong hands. "Are you into martial arts, Grant?"

  Somewhat surprised by the sudden change in conversation and the Captain's astute observation, Grant rubbed his hands together as if trying to conceal secrets, then he responded, "I...I've been known to break a few...uh, shall we say, boards, sir." Maintaining a deadpan expression, he added, "Tried a piece of granite once, but it didn't work out. Now I only pick on Cool Whip and pillows."

  Stafford roared again. As their eyes met, Stafford detected the moment as being uncomfortable for Grant, and he hastily changed the subject. "This operation is going to get a little dicey. Are you sure you can count on your contact being prepared? He better be squared away and ready for you. You've got to agree that timing is going to be everything on this one."

  "Yes, sir, very true, but I know Joe Adler. I can vouch for him," he replied emphatically, "and I know I can depend on him throughout this assignment, sir. That's the way it has to be...for both of us."

  "I see." Stafford's brow wrinkled as he centered his stare on Grant, thinking the younger officer a bit cocky. Well, for the line of work he's in, maybe that's what it takes to survive the tough ones. "I'm sure you're right, Grant," he said, nodding his head. "According to Morelli, you and this Adler have a working history."

  "Yes, sir, we do," Grant answered simply.

  Stafford knew it was time to get on to business. He placed the papers on the table. "Now, give me all the details."

  The two officers sat in the stateroom for another hour, re
viewing, calculating, and planning. They had fourteen hours to prepare, and nothing could be left to chance.

  USS Preston

  1025 Hours

  Senior Chief Boatswain's Mate Joe Adler of the EOD team stepped into the EOD locker and slammed the steel vault-like door behind him. Lieutenant John Britley turned around from the desk, and asked, "How's it going topside?" Britley ran the tip of the eraser along the one inch scar above his right eyebrow, the result of his first wrestling match while a sophomore at the University of Wisconsin.

  "No problems since Lieutenant Hall's Tomcat came in with the hung Phoenix, sir." Adler pushed up the sleeve of his red jersey, glancing at his watch. "Uh, sir, it's about time for--"

  Britley dropped the pencil and shoved the chair back. "Say no more, Senior Chief. I'll see if I can get into trouble topside." He smoothed back a lock of black hair from his forehead, and then grabbed his hat. "Report to the flight deck when you're through."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  The EOD locker was located in the aft part of the hangar bay one level below the flight deck. It was one of the most secure areas on the carrier, save the nuclear storage magazines, which only Britley, his team and the Gunners Mate techs had access to. The security was necessary not only because of all their gear, but because of nuclear weapons documentation that required extra security. The notebooks and papers were stored in special metal trunks that only EOD Officer Lieutenant John Britley and Adler had the combination for.

  The 10 x 18 compartment had four bunk beds, along with a small 'head' and shower. The shower doubled as their personal "rain locker", and in case of decontamination, an emergency wash-down station, with a disposable drain where the water washed into sealable fifty-five gallon drums. But depending on which way the drain valve lever was pushed, the water could also flow into the ship's waste system. The locker was also equipped with dedicated electrical wiring with a battery powered lantern backup for emergencies. Should the carrier lose power, for any reason, the battery would kick in, lighting up the "battle" lanterns and keep the electronic combination vault door operable.

  Considering the EOD team was only five to six men and could make an entire cruise with little or no attention paid to them--no inspections, no watches, and no shore duty--it was the perfect cover, with total seclusion whenever necessary. The team members had been told of Grant's plan. They'd be making themselves scarce, only using the locker during work hours, and only after Adler had been informed. Within their tight-knit community, they didn't worry about leaks, their own line of work calling for total security, individual safety forcing them to depend on one another. The exhaustive security clearance procedures they had passed ensured their 'zipper' mouth demeanor. Besides, the special warfare camaraderie forbid throwing any team member under the bus for any reason. Whenever instructed on the importance of security measures, their standard, flip reply would be: "Don't worry...we're cleared for stupid and ridiculous."

  Adler dropped his starched, green EOD hat, called a “barracks cover”, on the desk, then went to the sink and splashed some cold water on his face. Clear, soft blue eyes stared back at him from the mirror as he wiped the towel over his chin. His weathered face exhibited more creases and more lines these days, a far cry from the face of a sixteen year-old who'd run away from an orphanage in St. Paul to join the Navy. Twenty-two years he'd given Uncle Sam, the first fourteen as UDT, the last eight as EOD.

  Stashed away in his brain were instructions for disarming every known type of ordnance in the world. Like his team members, it wasn't the known ordnance they feared, it was the so-called 'hippie bombs', IEDs, the unknowns. How ironic, he thought. Here I am disarming bombs, and while I was UDT, I was blowing them up--intentionally. But it was these assignments and duties that cost him a marriage, the one regret of his long career. Otherwise, there wasn't a minute he would have changed. He smiled thinking about the bumper sticker on the rear of his red 1967 Mustang: EOD--WHAT A BLAST.

  Putting on his MK6 transceiver headset, he adjusted the miniature mouth mike. The small unit would be powerful enough since his contact was only about a mile away from the carrier. He looked at his battered, matte gray Benrus diving watch. Right on time...1030 hours. He flipped the switch. "Adler here."

  "How ya doing, Joe?"

  "Good, sir." Adler could hear the smile in Grant's voice. They'd been through the shit and sticks together not all that long ago with the Libyan raids.

  "Did you get the info?"

  "Roger that, sir. Scheduled time is 2030 hours. I'll call and nail down a confirmation."

  "Very well."

  "I'll be lookin' for you, 'Panther'." It'd been a long time since he had used the code name Grant once used in the field.

  "Roger. See you tonight! Out."

  Adler locked the door and said quietly, "This is gonna be good!" As he made his way across the hangar deck, an instant snapshot of a past incident flashed through his mind, causing him to remember his friend and how impressed he'd been with him during one of those raids in the Libyan desert. While he set the shaped charges on the terrorist training camp's ammo supply, Grant managed to hold off ten or twelve Libyans and then pulled a wounded British SAS operator out of the shit storm, carrying him 400 meters back to the LZ (Landing Zone).

  *

  Aboard the SSN Bluefin

  Grant left the sub's Sonar and Radio Room, returning to the torpedo room on 03 level. He and Adler made a good team. Adler had one of the coolest heads and steadiest hands for anyone he'd ever seen around explosives. He had responded to Captain Stafford's question that he could count on his contact. There wasn't a doubt in his military mind. Joe Adler was as good as they came.

  He pulled his luggage, known as “cocoons”, away from the bulkhead and knelt down to check everything one more time. The two black fiberglass, waterproof cocoons looked more like 250 pound bombs but weighed only 25 pounds each, and once in the water had neutral buoyancy. One held his clothes and weapons, the other his diving gear and the makings for a variety of IED's. Adler would provide whatever else he'd need from the EOD 'cookbook', depending on the type of IED required.

  Throughout the rest of the day he stayed pretty much to himself, considering there weren't too many places a visitor could go on a submerged submarine. Shortly after lunch, he slipped on his Navy shorts and T-shirt and went to the port side, aft of the torpedo racks, carving out a small niche to use as his personal fitness center. Sweat poured from his face, his muscles ached. For 45 solid minutes, all out, non-stop, he pushed himself through his ritualistic sit-ups, pushups and flutterkicks. His breathing was deep, heavy, the acrid smell of oil and grease creeping into his senses. But he kept his mind focused on reviewing and formulating events for that evening and the time beyond that, when all his energy and intelligence would come into play. Few were aware of his assignment--millions would never know.

  At 1815 hours he walked aft to the crew's mess. He already had an early light dinner in the cramped Wardroom with Stafford and his officers, but this would be just a snack to tide him over. He'd need the extra protein and carbohydrates because it was going to be a long evening, with his work cut out for him. It would take a lot of fuel for the body.

  The crew's mess hall had many uses, not excluding emergency sickbay and auditorium. It was a gathering place for the enlisted men, to get the latest scuttlebutt, play cards, or just read. A mass of overhead fluorescent lights illuminated the room, in sharp contrast to the brown paneling covering the bulkheads. Various plaques and awards won by past and present crews were displayed throughout.

  Heads turned when he walked in. An officer getting food in the enlisted mess? Creating a stir for the second time since he'd come aboard, Grant acknowledged the submariners with a nod and smile. His reason for coming aboard was pretty hush-hush, even the boat's Radioman, Sparky Johnson, known as the "1MC of scuttlebutt", hadn't a clue, at least that's what he claimed. The crew had only been informed they'd be receiving a passenger.

  Other than that, th
e Bluefin's orders were standard. They'd be going through the routine of firing solutions on the fleet that night, keeping in practice. And that much was correct, but there would be a slight interruption, a slight variation in the routine.

  Grant grabbed a tray and started through the chow line, ordering a cold, turkey sandwich with extra white meat and mayo on whole wheat bread. He slid the food tray along the metal rack and reached for a plain baked potato, and a banana, not completely ripe. He took the last piece of apple pie, just because it looked good. The ice cubes “clinked” as they bounced against each other on the bottom of the glass, then he poured some "bug juice" from the juice machine. Watching the strawberry-colored liquid flowing into the clear plastic glass, he wondered who the hell came up with the name "bug juice" for Kool-Aid.

  While he waited for his sandwich to be made, he spotted a copy of the latest issue of All Hands on one of the tables close to the end of the chow line. One side of the magazine was folded under, exposing an article that caught his eye. Very curious, he sat on the edge of the bench, reading the title "Fastest Ship in the Fleet". Immediately, he thought of the Bronson and her classified status. But it was just a review of the new Surface Effect Ship, a hydrofoil with speeds of over 75 knots that was being tested in Panama City, Florida. On his way out of the mess hall, carrying his tray full of food, he felt the stares of the few remaining submariners sitting at the tables.

  For ten minutes Grant waited alone in the sub's Radio Room, a headset hanging around his neck, one leg propped up against the wall. Sparky Johnson was somewhat reluctant to turn the communication's gear over to him again and did so only after some reassurance from Master Chief Davis. Tossing the crumbled Snicker's candy wrapper into the trash, he finished the last mouthful of cold milk.