Dangerous Ground jm-1

by Larry Bond

  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.

  5. 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 s
tarted 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, Foster 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.

  “Bright enough for you, Petty Officer Stewart?” asked Jerry.

  “Certainly is, sir,” said Stewart as he stood there blinking. “Please disregard the dull klunks, sir. It’s only my pupils slamming shut.”

  Jerry grinned and maneuvered out of the way as a Plexiglas windscreen appeared from below. Stewart grabbed the screen and set it down on the top of the sail behind him. The cockpit was nothing more than a small opening, four feet by three feet, in the forward part of the sail. Normally, it would be cramped with just three men in the cockpit, but trying to install all the gear with that many people would be very difficult indeed.

  “I’ll get out of your way, Petty Officer Stewart. Enjoy the nice weather,” said Jerry.

  “Thank you, sir. Hey, Jack, hold on a second, Mr. Mitchell is coming down.”

  Jerry ducked under the sail and worked his way around the other sailor, who he could barely see in the dim light. When he got to the top of the bridge access trunk itself, Jerry yelled, “Down ladder.” After making sure no one was below him, he climbed down the ladder into control. Once down, he reported to the duty petty officer that he was no longer on the bridge. The sailor acknowledged the report and wiped Jerry’s grease-penciled name off the status board.

  With that taken care of, Jerry headed toward the torpedo room for one final inspection. After that, he would meet with the Navigator and the scheduled Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant Millunzi, to go over the boat’s departure route one more time. As Jerry descended the ladder to forward compartment lower level, the IMC crackled to life, “There are men working in the sail. Do not raise or lower any mast or antenna. Do not rotate, radiate, or energize any electronic equipment while men are working in the sail.”

  Glancing at his watch, Jerry marked the time and toyed with the idea of testing Stewart’s estimated time to rig the bridge. Anything to get back topside and get underway, eh? Jerry thought. There was no doubt in his mind that he was eager to go to sea. It had been nearly four years since his last Midshipman cruise and that had been on a large-deck amphibious assault ship. His total time underway on a submarine could be measured in hours, single digits at that, and the thought of being at sea for three whole days sounded absolutely wonderful. Jerry recalled hinting at this during Quarters that morning and how most of the division laughed at his naïveté.

  “Worst case of Newbeeitis I’ve seen in all my years on subs,” joked Bearden.

  “Seems to be resistant to treatment too,” added TM2 Tom Boyd. “You’d think Fast Cruise would have cured him!” This comment brought more laughter, as the counterintuitive three-day, in-port drill period had been grueling and anything but fun.

  “Can the levity. We still have work to do before we get underway, so turn to,” barked a scowling Foster.

  Jerry remembered the tension that descended immediately on the group and that only TM1 Moran had walked away before Jerry dismissed his division. The glare from Foster was intense, and only hinted at his anger. Jerry ignored it. The senior chief seemed to be angry a lot lately, probably because Foster sensed that Jerry was slowly gaining the trust of his men, and for some reason this threatened him. Work began in the torpedo room in near silence.

  Making his way back to the torpedo room, Jerry saw that the atmosphere had improved and that his guys were just finishing up the odds and ends. A number of the TMs and FTs were standing around talking and appeared to have relaxed some. Jerry nodded as they acknowledged his presence and walked over to the Manta control station and looked over the results of the system diagnostics he had started after Quarters. Everything looked good and he powered down the console.

  The NUWC reps had worked on the prototype the week before, stripped the vehicle to parade rest, and performed every maintenance procedure known to mankind. After replacing the main and auxiliary batteries and a number of circuit cards, the Manta was issued a clean bill of health. Just as Jerry was pulling the Naugahyde cover over the control console, Richards walked into the room and quickly approached him. The WEPS seemed to be more harried than usual.

  “Mr. Mitchell, what is the status of your division?” demanded Richards. Jerry was momentarily confused, as he had already given the WEPS his report earlier. Once again, Cal Richards had his sweat pumps in high speed and anything but a repeat of his earlier report would only add to the WEPS’ consternation.

  “Sir, the torpedo room and fire-control system are ready for sea. Repairs to the Mk19 weapons launching console have been completed. We have five Mk48 Mod 5 torpedoes on board; one is loaded in tube two and the remaining four are secured in the port storage racks. Tube one has the NMRS retrieval arm installed and is not capable of firing weapons. The Manta prototype has been cleared for at-sea operations and two runs of the daily diagnostics have been completed satisfactorily.”

  “Very well,” responded Richards with a calmer voice. “Has the OOD’s status board been updated?”

  “Yes, sir. Senior Chief Foster is doing that as we speak,” answered Jerry confidently.

  “Good. Now move along or you’ll be late for the last pre-underway brief with the NAV and MPA.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” replied Jerry with eagerness.

  The brief was short, to the point, and very professional. The Navigator went over all the points where course changes were needed to keep Memphis in the center of the channel and all the associated turn bearings and landmarks. He also reviewed the procedures for getting underway. Lieutenant Al Millunzi listened carefully as he studied the projected track on the New London harbor chart and asked questions about which tug they’d have, who was the pilot, and what was the updated weather forecast for the Long Island and Block Island sounds.

  As the Main Propulsion Assistant (MPA), Millunzi was responsible for the boat’s main mechanical systems. Tom Holtzmann’s reactor made the steam, but it was Millunzi’s systems that put it to work. Driving not only the main propulsion turbines that turned the screw, but also the ship’s service turbine generators that provided electricity. He was also the next most senior officer in the Engineering Department, after the Engineer himself, and was completely qualified to stand in for him if necessary. Millunzi a
lso had the reputation on the waterfront as being one of the best shiphandlers in the squadron. Hence his pairing with the very inexperienced Jerry Mitchell.

  In his late twenties, Millunzi had a big, square face and a nose that could have belonged to Julius Caesar. He had a frame that matched and had to carefully work to fit his way through the many narrow hatches and passageways on Memphis. Although Jerry knew where he stood with many of the ship’s officers, for good or ill, he hadn’t had to deal with Millunzi much during his month and a half aboard. Their respective responsibilities kept them pretty much apart. Fortunately, the MPA was all business, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Jerry, before you give any order, I want you to tell me what you want to do and what you’re going to say. If I agree, I’ll say so, and you can go ahead. If I’ve got a problem, and there’s time, I’ll give you a chance to rethink your plan. If there isn’t, I’ll take the conn and sort things out. I will also ask you questions during our run to the dive point. And they won’t be academic. Is this all clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jerry answered. In a way, Jerry felt a little relieved. Millunzi wasn’t going to let him make any big mistakes. And Millunzi wouldn’t take over unless Jerry was really messing up; in which case Jerry wanted the MPA to take over. But that wasn’t going to happen, Jerry thought. Not on his watch.

  After the brief, both O’Connell and Millunzi quizzed Jerry on the conning orders he would have to give to get Memphis away from the pier, down the Thames River, and out to the Atlantic Ocean. Jerry answered the questions correctly, but he was not always confident of his response. Despite this, the Navigator seemed satisfied that Jerry had a reasonable idea of what to do and how to do it.

  “All right, Mr. Mitchell, report to the bridge in fifteen minutes,” said O’Connell looking at his watch. “I want an on-time departure at 1100.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” responded Jerry. But just as he was about to head down to his stateroom, Captain Hardy came bounding up the ladder screaming at Lieutenant Commander Ho, Memphis’ Engineer.