Dangerous Ground jm-1

by Larry Bond

“I’m. I’m sorry Dr. Patterson. Lieutenant Mitchell was giving me a quick tour of the torpedo room. I thought it would help speed things up to get some of my questions out of the way.” Jerry noticed that Davis looked very uncomfortable and embarrassed by Patterson’s unexpected hostility. For that matter, no one in the wardroom looked at all comfortable with Dr. Patterson. Even Captain Hardy, whose face was crimson, suffered in silence, even though he looked like he was going to erupt at any moment.

  “Fine, fine, Emily, get your coat and let’s go,” replied Patterson in a patronizing tone. As Patterson and Davis collected their coats and other belongings, the mess steward emerged from the pantry with a set of plates. He set them down on the table and walked up to Hardy and asked, “Excuse me, sir. Will our guests be staying for lunch?”

  Before Hardy could say a word, Patterson looked menacingly at the mess steward and said, “I’m not spending any more time on this rust bucket than I absolutely have to.” She then turned toward Jerry and pointed a finger at him. “You! Show me how to get off this piece of junk.”

  Jerry quickly looked at Bair, who stiffly nodded his head in the direction of the door. Jerry then motioned to the door and said, “This way. Dr. Patterson.” In her haste to leave the wardroom, she pushed Jerry out of the way and stomped down the passageway toward the forward escape trunk.

  As Davis passed by Captain Hardy, she uttered a barely audible “Thank you” and proceeded out into the passageway. Jerry followed the two women toward the escape trunk, but Patterson seemed to remember the way. By the time he was topside, Patterson was already storming off the boat, with Davis running behind to catch up. He shrugged and went below.

  When Jerry returned to the wardroom, he found it incredibly quiet and even tenser than before. Hardy ate little and said not a word, although it was obvious that something really bad had happened. Bair’s expression matched Hardy’s. Lunch was eaten in absolute silence, and only after Hardy had left did any of the other officers even dare to ask the XO about what had happened.

  Bair pushed himself away from the table, rose, and said, “Gentlemen, believe me, you don’t want to know. And even if for some insane reason you did, I couldn’t tell you. All I can say is this mission will be closest thing to hell that I have ever seen in this man’s Navy.”

  As Bair left, the remaining officers looked at each other with astonishment and dread. A sense of despair seemed to descend on all in the wardroom. Jerry was also confused by what the XO had said and couldn’t understand what had brought him so far down. Lenny Berg saw the questioning look on Jerry’s face and tried to explain.

  “Jerry, the XO has always been one of the few bright lights on this boat. He is the man who has served directly under Hardy for almost two years and he has been our BS filter from day one. Believe me, he’s taken a lot of hits for this crew. If being this Captain’s personal whipping boy isn’t hell, then I do not want to find out what hell is really like.”

  The other officers murmured their assent and slowly filed out of the room. Jerry stayed behind, trying to comprehend the enormity of what Berg had said. The normally jovial Lenny Berg had been cast into the pit of depression by the XO’s three sentences. And while Jerry didn’t understand the exact ramifications of those words, he knew that things on board Memphis had taken a turn for the worse.

  Jerry looked up at the clock and realized that he only had about an hour and a half before the ladies returned for the survey. Remembering the thick qualification book and schedule he received from Richards, Jerry decided to go to his stateroom and see just how much work he faced in his quest for the gold dolphins.

  As he entered his stateroom, Jerry saw a stack of documents and three-ring binders over a foot tall sitting on his desk. In awe, Jerry investigated the mountain of paper. After looking at a few pages, it soon became apparent that these were the division’s records. Maintenance logs, calibration logs, training and readiness records, various inventories, and more, a lot more. Jerry remembered Moran’s comment about the senior chief “unloading” some paperwork. Well, thought Jerry, I guess Senior Chief Foster has officially turned over the division. He looked around his cramped stateroom. Now where the hell am I going to put all this stuff?

  Jerry spent the next hour segregating and organizing the division’s records. He skimmed each packet of paper and placed it in one of four piles— maintenance, personnel, training, or supply — on his bunk. He vowed to look at everything in more detail later, but right now he just wanted to get a handle on his job as a division officer. As daunting as the huge pile looked at first, from what Jerry could tell, the senior chief seemed to have run a pretty tight division. Once again, Jerry was impressed with the man’s abilities. If only we could get along, he thought ruefully.

  Looking down by his pillow, Jerry saw his qual book. He picked it up and saw that it was well over an inch thick. He began to wonder if he could finish in time. Flipping through the book, Jerry noticed all the signatures he needed to obtain before he would be awarded his dolphins. There were watches to stand under instruction, tens of system checkouts and practical exercises to perform, and dozens of standard operating and emergency procedures to memorize. Setting it aside, Jerry picked up the schedule that Richards had recommended and started looking at what he should be doing first. The list was oppressively long and the pace demanding.

  The more Jerry looked at his qualification requirements, the more apprehensive he became. He then lifted his eyes over the schedule to the four mounds of paper on his bunk and tried to figure out how he was going to juggle his qualification needs with his responsibilities as a division officer.

  Then it dawned on him that as the Manta operator, he was probably going to be in the torpedo room manning the UUV control console for a lot of the time once they got on station. As the fear of failure started growing, Jerry recalled the aura of pessimism in the wardroom over lunch and that fear started to give way to panic. “Whoa,” Jerry said to himself. “Don’t try to swallow an elephant whole. Take this one bite at a time.”

  It was almost time for the good doctors to return, and the thought of dealing with Patterson again was not particularly a pleasant one. However, this time Jerry wanted to be topside to greet them. Besides, a little fresh air sounded really good right now. Before he grabbed his coat and ball cap, Jerry took out a pen and wrote his name on the cover of the qual book. This is now my book, he thought, and I’ll finish it one signature at a time. He then placed the book on his bunk and headed for the forward escape trunk.

  It was windy topside, but the wind was from the south, so it wasn’t bitingly cold. The sun occasionally shone through the streaks of gray clouds. All in all, not a bad March afternoon. Jerry took a few deep breaths, relishing the outside air. There was a momentary flash down at the end of the pier and Jerry saw Dr. Patterson getting out of a car. Emily appeared a few seconds later. Jerry allowed himself a smug moment. Those 20/10 fighter pilot eyes of his were still working to spec. Patterson was now past the pier guard and was moving quickly toward the brow. Emily, with her shorter gait, was struggling to keep up. As Patterson approached, Jerry could swear he heard her stomping on the concrete pier. Okaaay, Jerry thought, she is still pissed off from this morning. This should make for a lovely afternoon — NOT.

  “Good afternoon Dr. Patterson, Emily. I trust you had a good lunch,” said Jerry as he pointed to a number of breadcrumbs on Davis’ coat.

  “Oh yes,” replied Davis as she brushed the crumbs off. “We had grinders at a very nice restaurant called Spiros.”

  “Yes, I’m familiar with it. It’s a popular haunt for submariners.”

  “So I noticed,” interrupted Patterson. “Can we skip the unnecessary pleasantries and get this survey over and done? Now, take us to the torpedo room, Lieutenant.”

  Patterson’s rude remark caused something inside Jerry to pop.

  Jerry walked up and looked Patterson straight in the eye and said, “Dr. Patterson, might I make a slight suggestion? Since it’s obviou
s that this morning’s meeting with the Captain and the XO didn’t go very well, exercising a little common courtesy might make this afternoon’s evolution less painful.”

  Patterson stared at Jerry in utter amazement. Recovering quickly, she gave Jerry a “Who are you to question me, little man?” look, then said, “I don’t have to, Mr. Mitchell, because I work for the President.” And with that, she tried to push Jerry back so she could get to the hatch. But he was ready for her this time, and he held his ground.

  “Interesting,” responded Jerry. “So do we.” He then stepped away from the hatch and motioned for Patterson to proceed. She did so in silence.

  The survey in the torpedo room began with a strict warning from Hardy that anything heard during the meeting was not to be discussed with anyone outside of the present group. Furthermore, any speculations about the nature of the mission were to be kept strictly to oneself. The Captain spelled out in detail exactly how the restrictions were to be applied, assuming nothing. It was so detailed that Jerry began to get a little insulted. This wasn’t the first security briefing he’d ever attended. He watched the torpedo gang for a similar reaction, but they endured it in patient silence.

  Finishing with another stern warning about the penalties facing anyone who disclosed classified information, Hardy then turned over the meeting to the XO, who introduced Dr. Patterson and Dr. Davis. Patterson reemphasized the Captain’s admonition for strict security and explained that the orders for this mission came from the President himself. This drew a low murmur from the TMs and FTs, which the XO quickly silenced.

  Emily Davis then took over and started telling Jerry and his men what they needed to do to prepare Memphis for the patrol. They would be loading two ROVs and their support equipment. Everything was loaded on pallets sized to fit through the weapons shipping hatch, the same one used to load torpedoes.

  “The ROVs are modified Near Term Mine Reconnaissance System (NMRS) vehicles,” she explained. “They were used as early mine clearance vehicles, but we’ve adapted them for this mission.

  “The changes include a different sensor package and a thrust vector axial pump jet for precision navigation. Each vehicle has its own cradle, which is compatible with the torpedo storage rack’s tie-down arrangements. All of the launching and recovery operations, and most of the maintenance work, will be done using Navy-approved NMRS procedures.” Jerry made a quick note to himself to make sure that they obtained a full set of manuals from SUBASE.

  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.