by Larry Bond
“As you all know, President Huber’s recent mandate was based in large part on his support of environmental causes, and his concern for the damage to the environment…”
Actually, Hardy hadn’t known that, or didn’t care to know it. He’d voted for Coleman, for all the good it had done. He personally regarded Huber as a nitwit, although as the Commander-in-Chief, he’d faithfully execute any lawful orders the freshly inaugurated nitwit issued.
Prescott’s speech was carefully worded, rehearsed, and Hardy suspected he loved the sound of his own voice. “…wants to be seen as an environmental champion, not only here at home but abroad as well.”
“At the upcoming World Environmental Congress in Sao Paulo, Brazil, the President has decided to bring the Russians to task for their many ecological abuses, especially relating to nuclear waste disposal.”
Good for Huber, thought Hardy. Maybe he’s not a nitwit. The Soviets had been legendary for their disregard of even common-sense management of nuclear materials. The Russians had been only slightly better and had done little in the past fifteen years to deal with the messes left by their predecessors.
“The Russian government has ignored repeated calls to deal with the crisis, in spite of evidence provided by international organizations.” Get to the point, man, Hardy thought.
“The U.S. Navy has long operated subs near the Soviet and Russian coasts to gather intelligence on its potential enemy. Well, we now want the Navy to enter those same waters to collect environmental intelligence.” Prescott smiled broadly, and Hardy knew just who had come up with that buzzword.
Prescott looked over at Vice Admiral Barber, who nodded to Rear Admiral Masters. “Captain Hardy, you will prepare Memphis for deployment, and as soon as you are ready for sea, proceed to the Russian coast off the eastern side of Novaya Zemlaya. Using the Manta and other special equipment that will be provided, make a detailed environmental survey of the seabed there.” Masters sounded like he’d also rehearsed his speech, but it was couched in the language of the service and didn’t grate as badly as the civilian’s platitudes. Then Hardy realized what the orders meant.
Prescott smiled, an almost predatory expression. “The samples and photographs of what we expect you to obtain will give President Huber the ammunition he needs at the conference. He will be able to reveal the true extent of Russian environmental abuse and secure his position as the leader of the environmental cause worldwide.”
Hardy didn’t reply immediately. His first response, which he fought back, was to say that Memphis wasn’t ready for a mission. They’d already started to defer maintenance in anticipation of the boat’s decommissioning. Several rather important items of equipment needed either a thorough refit or outright replacement. As the testing platform for the Manta prototype, they’d been involved in a lot of short, intense cruises, with lots of inport time to keep the old girl running. But telling the admiral that Memphis wasn’t ready would be professional suicide. Besides, Masters had to know the state of his boat. Hardy was required to send in regular reports on his material condition, and nobody could ever accuse him of gundecking a report.
Hardy searched for something intelligent to ask. “How specialized is this equipment, sir? How long will I have to train my crew in its use?” Months, he hoped.
“The equipment consists of two remotely-operated vehicles, their support equipment, and an environmental test lab.” The seated woman stood as she addressed Hardy. Her tone and manner were coldly formal.
“This is Doctor Joanna Patterson, Captain.” The admiral hurriedly introduced her. “She’s from the President’s Science Advisory Board and a specialist on nuclear waste disposal.” Standing, Dr. Patterson was almost as tall as Hardy’s six feet, with a pale complexion, ash-blonde hair, and blue eyes.
Hardy started to step forward and offer his hand, but she made no move to respond, and he quickly stopped himself. “You’ll be the one training my crew?” he asked.
Masters explained, “Dr. Patterson will oversee the installation, yes. She’s also in overall charge of the mission.” The admiral had an odd expression, and Hardy suddenly had a hollow feeling in his stomach.
“As in mission commander?” Hardy asked carefully.
“Both Dr. Patterson and Dr. Davis will accompany Memphis on this mission,” Masters explained.
The other woman, who’d stood beside and behind Patterson’s chair, stepped forward and offered her hand. “I’m Emily Davis, sir. I’m with Draper Labs.” Davis was a shorter woman, especially standing next to Patterson, with straight black hair and round glasses. She was dressed practically, if not stylishly. She seemed uncomfortable and glanced at Patterson nervously, as if looking for permission to speak.
“Dr. Davis will operate the ROVs and Dr. Patterson will analyze the results.” Masters explained. “There’s no way to teach your crew what they need to know in the time available.”
“In any amount of time,” added Patterson caustically, and Hardy’s feelings of unease sharpened into intense dislike. Professional suicide be damned.
“Sir, I’m sure you’ve recalled Navy policy regarding women and especially civilians. ”
Prescott interrupted Hardy smoothly, his tone reassuring. “We’ve already discussed this matter with the Secretary of the Navy, the CNO, and the Joint Chiefs. Navy policy has been waived before when necessary, and in view of the special needs of this mission… Well, I’m sure arrangements can be made.”
Waived, hell. Overridden is more like it, Hardy thought. And what arrangements? Where in hell am I going to put two females on my boat?
“And Dr. Patterson is more than just a mission specialist, Captain. She is the President’s personal representative, and as you correctly recognized, mission commander.” Prescott’s tone was harder.
It started to sink in. A civilian woman with some sort of political scientific agenda would look over his shoulder while he took Memphis, due for decommissioning, into Russian waters so they could count barrels of nuclear waste. And she would decide what kind of a job he’d done. And she had the ear of the President. This was insane. There were things worse than purgatory.
“Sir, my only qualified Manta operator’s already been detached, along with some of my crew. He’s left the Navy.” Hardy tried not to sound like a kid looking for an excuse to skip class, although that’s what he felt like.
“That’s already been taken care of, Captain. We checked into your personnel status several weeks ago when we started putting this mission together. You’ve got a new arrival who’s just finished the Manta operator course at the Naval Underwater Warfare Center.”
“New arrival?” asked Hardy, knowing he sounded dense. Since Memphis was slated for decommissioning, they weren’t supposed to be getting any new personnel.
“A special case, Captain, but one that fits well with your needs,” Masters answered. “According to our information, and your record, Memphis is more than capable of handling this assignment.”
“Yes, sir, she is,” answered Hardy, straightening. He knew when to shut up and salute. “When will the equipment arrive?”
“The two ladies will arrive in New London in a few days,” replied Masters. “Captain Young will give your boat priority in any matter relating to this mission.” He handed Hardy a thick manila envelope covered with classification markings. “This is for the trip back. It should tell you everything you need to know.”
Hardy took a step back, came to attention, and said, “Thank you, sir.” He turned to face Patterson and Davis. “I’ll see you in a few days, then, ladies. By the way, you may want to pack your bathing suits. After all, this will be a Bluenose run.”
The puzzled look on their faces gave him some pleasure, and taking that small victory, Hardy left.
USS Memphis, SSN 691
SUBASE, New London
The ship’s duty officer emerged from the hatch as Jerry returned the watchstander’s salute. He was an ensign and saluted as Jerry explained: “I’m Jerry Mitchell.
I’ve been assigned to Memphis.” The confused officer accepted the manila envelope from Jerry and examined the enclosed orders. As duty officer, he wouldn’t allow anyone aboard who didn’t have explicit business there.
The ensign’s reply was friendly, if puzzled. “Are you part of the decomm crew, then?”
Jerry was now puzzled. “What decomm? All I know is, I’m supposed to report to Memphis. I just finished Manta school at NUWC.”
“And we’ve got the Manta prototype. I’m Tom Holtzmann, by the way. Reactor Officer. XO’s aboard, but the Captain’s off the boat, due back tonight.” Holtzmann had a square, friendly face, with dark hair and eyes. He was a little taller than Jerry, but Mitchell was used to that.
“Captain Hardy?” asked Jerry.
“You’ve heard of him, then?” asked Holtzmann. There was a dark edge to the question, but Jerry didn’t want to follow that up right now.
“No, just checking to see if I’d gotten the right gouge,” replied Jerry. “I’ve still got my gear in the car, but I’ll go below and report in, if that’s okay.”
“Right. I’ll have the petty officer take you forward. This is ET2 Anderson, by the way, one of my guys.” He turned to the petty officer. “Please take Mr. Mitchell forward to the XO’s stateroom.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” He turned briefly to Mitchell. “Follow me, please.”
Anderson dropped smoothly through the hatch, and Jerry followed, slower and with much more care. Submarines were designed to have as few holes in their pressure hulls as possible, and this was one of the biggest, a twenty-five-inch circular opening that looked like the door to a bank vault, if banks put their vaults in the floor.
Technically, it was the Forward Escape Trunk. Everything that the sub needed, except for torpedoes, had to fit through that hatch. Food, repair parts, tools, and appliances all came through that two-foot hole or they didn’t go in at all.
Two vertical ladders brought him down to the middle level of the forward compartment, one of the three decks in the sub. Although he’d been aboard other subs during his training, he still wasn’t used to the jumble of green- and gray-painted metal shapes, which only grudgingly allowed humans to pass between them. Everywhere he looked, Jerry saw machinery, cables, and pipes, all systematically labeled. Part of his job would be to learn every inch of them.
He spotted Anderson’s receding form, headed forward, and hurried to follow, removing his cap and bulky bridge coat. Instinctively, he pulled in his elbows and crouched slightly, in spite of his short stature. He passed the crew’s mess, the galley, and sickbay. Climbing a short ladder, Jerry found himself in the control room. If the reactor was her heart, the control room was Memphis’ brain.
Immediately forward of the control room, right in the bow, were the CO’s and XO’s staterooms, both on the port side of the passageway. The only thing forward of them was a room full of switchboards and beyond that the sub’s massive bow sonar sphere, outside the pressure hull but inside a streamlined fairing. The sonar shack, both the eyes and ears of this underwater animal, was on the right side of the passageway.
The XO’s stateroom had an honest-to-God door with a small sign that read “Executive Officer.” The petty officer knocked twice, lightly, and waited for a muffled “Come” before turning the knob. Anderson then backed up, giving Jerry room in the narrow passageway to go through the door.
The Executive Officer was Lieutenant Commander Robert Bair, at least according to Memphis’ web page. There was no photo, but Jerry saw a man in khakis with gold oak leaves on his shirt collar. He didn’t look very old, but his hair was almost completely white, and the front of his uniform bulged just a little. He was seated at the fold-down desk in his stateroom, which was covered with neat bundles of folders and paperwork. Jerry noticed three baskets fastened to the right side of the desk, labeled load, shoot, and check fire.
Automatically, Jerry straightened to attention and offered the envelope he’d been carrying. “Lieutenant (j.g.) Jerry Mitchell, reporting, sir.” He didn’t salute, since naval officers don’t salute uncovered.
Bair took the envelope without immediately responding and examined the address on the outside before reading the enclosed orders. He sighed tiredly, and gave Mitchell a small smile. “Well, mister, these orders are correct, and you’re supposed to be here, but I can’t imagine why. Our captain’s in Norfolk getting orders to decommission this boat. Can you explain what you’re supposed to be doing here?”
Then Bair’s eyes spotted the golden wings on Jerry’s uniform coat. “And why in hell did they send us an aviator?”
“Not an aviator anymore, sir. I medicaled out of the training program.” Jerry held up his right hand. The sleeve slid back far enough to show a road map of scars over his wrist and lower arm.
“Well, those wings have no place on this boat. You can wear your diver’s pin, but leave the wings off while you’re here.” The XO’s preemptory order disappointed Jerry. He’d worked a long time to get those wings, and technically, they were part of his uniform. But the XO was right. They really didn’t matter here.
“I see you’ve even been to Manta school,” Bair remarked.
“Yes, sir. That’s when they told me I was coming to Memphis, when I received orders to the school.”
“Well, I wish they’d told us at the same time,” muttered the XO sourly. “Look, Captain Hardy’s due back later today. Just go ahead and get your paperwork started, and we’ll sort out what to do with you later.”
He handed the orders back to Jerry. “Take these down to the yeoman. He’ll get you checked in.” He pointed to a stairway just across from his stateroom, at the end of the passageway. “Just use that ladder.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Jerry turned to leave, but the XO called after him.
“Lieutenant Mitchell, one more thing.” He smiled again, the same tired smile he’d given Jerry earlier. “Welcome aboard.”
* * *
Yeoman First Class Glover, a slim, dark-haired man with an incredibly neat office, seemed unsurprised by Mitchell’s appearance. He greeted Jerry with a broad smile and handshake. “Welcome aboard, sir. I’ve started your checklist,” he remarked, neatly taking the orders from Jerry’s hand.
“I’ve also asked the messenger of the watch to meet you topside. He’ll help you get your gear aboard. I’ve put you in Mr. Adelman’s bunk. He was our Manta specialist, but he left last week.”
A little nonplussed by Glover’s brisk efficiency, Jerry retraced his steps to the forward escape hatch and met a young seaman, so young Jerry wasn’t sure he was old enough to drive, much less enlist in the Navy. His sandy blond hair stuck out from under a “dixie cup” sailor’s hat. He stiffened and saluted when he saw Jerry climb out of the hatch. “Seaman Gunther, sir.” Jerry returned the salute, then offered his hand, which seemed to surprise the enlisted man.
“Glad to know you, Gunther.” He motioned to the pier. “My car’s in a lot a couple of blocks from here.”
Gunther nodded and buttoned up his peacoat, following Jerry down the brow, saluting the flag and the duty officer as they stepped off onto the pier. They trudged in silence, the wind at their backs hurrying them along.
Gunther whistled at the red ‘02 Porsche when he first saw it, then whistled again when he realized that it was Jerry’s car. “That’s a sweet car, sir.” Gunther remarked as Jerry opened the trunk.
“Thanks, Gunther, and before you ask, I bought it used,” Mitchell answered. He handed the sailor a suitcase, then picked up his briefcase and garment bag.
Gunther noticed a set of golden wings on the briefcase and a fly high sticker on the Porsche’s rear bumper. “Are you an aviator, sir?”
Jerry answered honestly, if incompletely. “I was, for a while, but I had some medical problems and they let me transfer to submarines.”
During the mercifully short walk back, Gunther pelted Jerry with questions about the aircraft he’d flown, especially how fast they could fly. Jerry had occasionally flown pas
t Mach 1, but disappointed the sailor when he insisted he’d never come close to Mach 2.
As they approached Memphis again, Gunther exclaimed, “I remember now! You were on the news a while back. They had a video of your crash and then they wanted to kick you out of the Navy…”
Mitchell nodded. “That was me. I convinced them to let me stay.”
“Cool. That was an amazing crash, sir.” Gunther was even more animated now as he helped pass the bags through the hatch and manhandle them forward to the officers’ berthing area. He was reluctant to leave Jerry, even as the officer started to unpack, but remembered he had other duties and left after one last question about the ejection seat.
The rest of the morning passed quickly as Jerry filled out forms, received his dosimeter or “TLD” (regulation on all nuclear subs) and tried to find his way around. He met or passed by most of the ship’s 130-odd crew in the crowded passageways. He’d left his wings off when he’d changed into his khaki work uniform, which left his shirt uncomfortably bare. Eventually, he’d pin on his gold dolphins, a qualification process as difficult and as lengthy as getting his wings.
The wardroom was directly aft of the officers’ berthing, starboard side, and already crowded with officers when he stepped in a few minutes after twelve. Some stood at places around the small table, but most were milling around. Jerry had hurriedly met most of the officers during the morning, but now he took the time for proper introductions. Two of the department heads, Lieutenant Commander Jeff Ho, the ship’s Engineer, and Lieutenant Cal Richards, the Weapons Officer, were the senior officers present. Tom Holtzmann, the Reactor Officer, and Ensign Jim Porter, the Electrical Officer, were both division officers under Ho, a big Hawaiian, certainly too big to be comfortable in a sub’s confined environment. One other officer, Lenny Berg, in charge of the radiomen and a lieutenant (junior grade) like Jerry, was present for the first seating.
They were still finishing introductions when another officer entered. He introduced himself to Jerry as Bill Washburn, the Supply Officer, then turned to Ho, the senior officer in the room. “The XO says to save him a place, but start without him.” He frowned a little. “He just got a call from the CO.”