Dangerous Ground jm-1

by Larry Bond

  FT2 Boswell answered the phone. “Hello. Yes, Mr. Mitchell, what can I do for you?”

  “Any progress?” Jerry asked.

  “Ah, sir, Petty Officer Bearden would like to talk to you.” Boswell’s tone was not encouraging.

  Bearden came on the line. “Mr. Mitchell?”

  “What can you tell me? Any good news?”

  “Well, sir, it’s kind of a good news, bad news situation.”

  “Give me the bad news first.”

  “Sir, we’ve been at that console for more than six hours so far. The Senior Chief’s got half the division in here and we’re not making any progress. The only thing we’ve found out so far is just how fried it really is.”

  “I see,” replied Jerry despondently. “And the good news?”

  “Moran’s pretty sure they’ve figured out what happened with tube three and that it can be fixed. They’re working on it now.”

  “Very well, keep at it. I’ll be down as soon as my watch is over.”

  “Yes, sir, we’ll keep you informed if we make any breakthroughs,” replied Bearden.

  Jerry said thank you and hung up the phone.

  Master Chief Reynolds wandered into the torpedo room shortly after Jerry’s call. Foster and Bearden had the launch panel stripped down to its underwear while other ratings worked with tech manuals or test equipment. Tools and bits of circuitry littered the deck. Moran and his TMs were huddled around torpedo tube number three. They seemed to be in better spirits than the FTs.

  Senior Chief Foster looked up from his work when Reynolds came down the portside aisle, but didn’t stop working. His “Good afternoon, Sam” had a strained sound.

  “Is it, Bob?” Reynolds asked.

  Foster shook his head emphatically. “It’s a hard fight with a short stick.” He stood up. “Too much has been damaged and we don’t have anywhere near the spare parts. Many of the control relays are charcoal briquettes, and those that I can still recognize are completely fused. Most of the circuit boards have either melted or are so warped that they won’t fit in their slots, and there are several inches of vaporized cabling. In short, Sam, this console is Tango Uniform.”

  “I hear Mr. Mitchell had a talk with the division yesterday,” Reynolds commented matter-of-factly, as if he hadn’t even heard what Foster had just said.

  “Yeah, he did,” answered Foster with a pained look. “And before you say you were right, I will. You were right. But I still can’t stand the way he used his political connections to get here.”

  Reynolds asked, “Has he mentioned them once since he came aboard?”

  “No,” Foster admitted.

  “Did they help him with all the extra hoops he has had to jump through?”

  “No.”

  “Is he asking for anything special now?”

  “No.”

  “So he abused the system. Once. We’ve all done that.” Reynolds pressed his point. “And I don’t think that’s the real issue here, is it? This isn’t about bending or even breaking the rules, especially Navy rules.”

  Foster sighed. “But he used his pull…”

  “Which you would have done in a heartbeat,” interrupted Reynolds. “If you’d had any. You’re just pissed because you didn’t have his connections.”

  The senior chief nodded slowly, finally acknowledging the real issue between him and Jerry Mitchell. “You’re right — again. I guess I am envious of him getting a second chance.”

  “But he’s doing a good job with it. He’s working his ass off, and he’s taking care of his people — like a good officer should.”

  “All right, COB, I hear you. You don’t have to hit me over the head with a hammer.”

  Smiling broadly, Reynolds reached over, grabbed Foster’s shoulder, and said, “As my sea daddy once told me, Bob, always use the right tool for the right job.”

  * * *

  At 1800, as soon as he’d finished his watch, Jerry blitzed down to the torpedo room. He found Foster and Bearden still hunched over the weapons launching console.

  They both looked up as Jerry hurried down the aisle. Foster straightened up, shaking his head.

  “Can it be fixed?” asked Jerry simply.

  “No, sir, not at sea,” Foster replied. “In port, with a tender or repair shop helping, it would take us a week. And we’d have to gut the thing before we could even begin repairs. In my opinion, it would be easier to replace the whole unit than fix it.” He picked up a circuit board. Part of it was blackened. “Almost every board is like this, or worse. Even the ones that aren’t charred have suffered heat stress and saltwater damage.”

  Jerry heard the frustration and fatigue in his senior chief’s voice. They had worked over nine hours just to come to the conclusion that there was nothing they could do to repair the badly damaged console. “Senior, you and Bearden did your best. I can’t ask for more than that. But what I don’t understand is how did seawater get inside the console in the first place? It’s supposed to be splash-proof.”

  “We haven’t been able to figure that out, Mr. Mitchell. First, we thought it could have been the gasket around the tube control panels. The FTs replaced it before we left New London, but it’s clear that the fire started at the bottom of the console.” Reynolds pointed toward the lower portion of the console, which was almost completely charred. The buttons used to control the torpedo tube functions were several feet higher. “There is no obvious path for the water to get inside like it did.”

  Jerry asked, “Can we still set and launch weapons manually?”

  “Yes, we can work the tubes manually without any problems, and the emergency preset circuits still seem to be working,” assured Foster, “but it’ll be slow, and of course the weapon inputs won’t be as precise.”

  “Then we’ll have to be very polite to everyone we meet,” Jerry answered lightly. Looking over at the starboard tube nest, he motioned his head toward tube three. “Bearden said that TM1 figured out what the deal was with tube three.”

  “Yeah,” snarled Foster with contempt. “The rubber gasket material was old and should never had been installed in the first place.”

  Intrigued, Jerry raised an eyebrow and said, “Really. How old?”

  “We can’t be certain. There wasn’t much of the gasket left for us to recover. And since we didn’t install the gasket assembly, we don’t know how old it was, but I found these two replacement kits in our spares locker.” Foster tossed the two gasket assemblies, one at a time, to his division officer. Jerry caught them deftly and then looked at the manufacturing date: February 1999. That was way too old. Any spare part with rubber that was five years old or more was to be viewed with extreme suspicion and returned through the supply system. The part was not to be installed under normal circumstances, because the rubber would have hardened to the point where it was no longer safe to use. This was particularly true if the system in question operated under any sort of pressure.

  As Jerry examined the gasket assemblies, and thought back to the casualty, a perplexed frown formed on his face. “Senior Chief, if the part was defective, then why didn’t it fail during our earlier trials after we left New London?”

  Foster smiled. But this time it was the normal Cheshire catlike grin that a chief displayed before explaining the obvious to an inexperienced junior officer. “Well, sir, for one thing, it’s hard to predict when and how a part will fail. It’s even harder when the part is defective or old. But I think the water outside of New London being some twenty-odd degrees warmer had something to do with it.”

  A look of embarrassment flashed across Jerry’s face as he soon as he heard Foster’s answer. “Okay, so much for the dumb question.”

  “Don’t feel too bad, sir. It took us a while to figure it out,” said Bearden with a chuckle in his voice.

  “So, the cold water made the rubber more brittle and it cracked under the pressure,” said Jerry.

  “Yes, sir, it also made the rubber harder,” replied Foster as he handed Jerry a
piece of the fiber-optic cabling. “If you’ll look at this end, you can see where the two halves of the cracked gasket gnawed on the cable. I guess the flow of water in the tube caused the gasket to expand and contract rhythmically, which in turn caused the hard rubber to literally chew through the cable.”

  As Jerry listened to Foster’s explanation and viewed the available evidence, he couldn’t help but be impressed with his guys’ work and he said as much. “That was a nice piece of detective work, Senior Chief, you two and Moran are to be commended. But this still leaves the $64,000 question. Can the tube be repaired?”

  The grin returned again as Foster said, “Already done, Mr. Mitchell. Petty Officer Moran and the others installed an acceptable replacement this afternoon. All we need is the Captain’s permission to do a hydrostatic test of the tube. If it passes — and I’m pretty sure it will — we’ll be ready to conduct ROV ops immediately.”

  “Bravo Zulu, Senior!” exclaimed Jerry, using the Navy expression for “Well done.” “I’m sure this will make Doctor Patterson very happy.” Then Jerry looked back over at the remains of the weapons launching console, and his enthusiasm waned. “That, however, will not go over well with the Captain.”

  “No, sir, he isn’t going to like that at all,” admitted Foster.

  Handing the defective gaskets back to Foster, Jerry let out a deep sigh and turned toward the starboard side aisle. “I guess it’s time to tell him, then,” he announced darkly.

  “Do you want me come along, sir?” asked Foster sincerely.

  Heartened by the unexpected show of support, Jerry quickly agreed. “Yes, Senior Chief, I would. Thank you.”

  * * *

  Hardy took their report in the wardroom, with the XO, the department heads, and the two ladies present. The atmosphere in the room had a court-martial-like feel to it, with Hardy sitting motionless at the opposite end, a stony expression on his face. Jerry stood stiffly before the audience and summarized the damage from the casualty, the repairs that could be made and those that couldn’t, and their effects.

  He started with the status of the ROVs and the torpedo tubes, primarily because they were the only good news he had to offer. Patterson listened intently as Jerry reported that the ROVs were both in fine shape. While this was encouraging, Patterson appeared edgy, shifting about in her seat as though she had sat on a burr.

  “Mr. Mitchell, I’m sure Emily appreciates all you have done for her ROVs, but this doesn’t help us much if the torpedo tube used to deploy them doesn’t work. Were you able to repair the tube?” demanded Patterson nervously.

  Jerry let a small, satisfied smile form on his face as he said, “Yes, ma’am. My guys have already completed the repairs to tube three. All I need is the Captain’s permission for a pressure test to make sure everything is squared away. If the test is satisfactory, we should be able to launch and recover the ROVs without any problems.”

  “Splendid!” exclaimed Patterson, much relieved.

  “Just a moment, Dr. Patterson,” interrupted Hardy, tapping the table with two fingers. “Before I authorize any test, I need to know what caused the leak in the first place and who is responsible.” The look of joy on Patterson’s face immediately gave way to one of frustration. For a brief moment, it looked like she was going to protest, but Hardy cut her off with a curt wave of his hand and a stern, uncompromising stare.

  Looking back at Jerry, Hardy repeated himself. “What caused the casualty, Mr. Mitchell? And who is responsible?”

  “Sir,” said Jerry firmly, “the casualty occurred because the fiber-optic penetration gasket failed catastrophically. And the reason why it failed is because it was very likely beyond its shelf life.” He motioned for Foster to hand to the Captain a piece of the failed gasket and one of the outdated spares.

  “If you’ll look at the remnant of the failed gasket, sir, you’ll note that rubber is hard and brittle, similar to the replacement part that Senior Chief Foster just gave you. We found that gasket assembly in the spare parts we were issued.” Hardy briefly examined the two parts and quietly handed them over to Bair as Jerry continued his explanation.

  “We believe that the colder water made the old rubber in the gasket assembly more susceptible to cracking, and after it had chewed through the cable, it blew apart and allowed seawater to leak into the torpedo room. And Captain, all modifications to tube three, including the installation of the gasket, were performed by SUBASE maintenance personnel.” Jerry forced himself not to sound triumphant as he drove the last part home.

  Hardy’s jaw was firmly clenched and Jerry swore he could hear his captain’s teeth grinding at the other end of the table. Jerry knew Hardy was angry and embarrassed, particularly given his tirade in the torpedo room in front of Patterson and Davis. But he had little sympathy for the man. Hardy just wanted a body to make an example of, and he naturally assumed the culprit had to be a member of his crew. Well, now he would have to carry his little witch-hunt back to New London.

  Bair cleared his throat, diverting everyone’s attention from Hardy, and asked a crucial question. “Jerry, you’ve explained how the leak started, but why did it result in a fire?”

  “The short answer XO is, we don’t know,” stated Jerry bluntly. “After over nine hours of investigating, Senior Chief Foster and Petty Officer Bearden were unable to find out how the water got inside the weapons launching console. All they were able to find was that the fire started very low in the console, near the deck, and that it was devastatingly hot.”

  “How bad is the damage?” questioned Bair hesitantly.

  Taking a deep breath, Jerry looked squarely at Hardy and said, “The console is totaled, sir. And there is no way we can repair it at sea. We can still operate the tubes manually and the emergency preset circuits are intact, but we’ve lost all remote tube functions, including those associated with the fire-control system.”

  A collective groan came from the naval officers present. Bair put his head in his hands and simply muttered, “Oh shit!” Hardy remarkably remained silent as Patterson and Davis looked on with puzzlement.

  Tapping his fingers on the table again, Hardy motioned for everyone to become silent. “Senior Chief?” Hardy said, demanding his confirmation of Jerry’s report. He simply would not take Jerry’s word that the weapons launching console was kaput. He had to hear it from Foster directly.

  “Sir, the console is gone,” replied Foster frankly. “A shipyard would just swap out the whole thing. With a tender’s help, I could replace every circuit board and relay and rebuild the console in a week or two. But out here, we just don’t have the parts, and I can’t scrounge or make them, either.”

  Hardy listened with a sour expression, the kind of expression a sub captain would be expected to have when hearing that the two working tubes he’d started with were now crippled. But then it softened, and Jerry thought that for a moment, he’d almost looked pleased.

  The XO and the other department heads asked Foster, Jerry, and Cal Richards questions about the torpedoes and their ability to launch them, but the Captain remained silent. It didn’t take long for them to run out of questions. The console was down hard and nothing they could do would bring it back.

  Hardy’s announcement filled the eerie silence. “With almost no weapons capability, the ability of this boat to perform its mission has been seriously affected.” Jerry agreed with that statement, but was completely unready for what the Captain said next. “I believe we should abort the mission.”

  Dr. Patterson stood up abruptly, her seat tipping back with a crash. “What?” The others in the wardroom looked just as surprised, but remained silent out of deference for Hardy’s rank. Patterson felt no such limitation.

  “We can’t go home because of a problem with the other torpedo tubes!” she exclaimed.

  “Doctor,” the Captain said carefully, “Memphis is a warship with no teeth. We can’t defend ourselves effectively. You don’t understand how important that console is. In a fast-moving fight. ”


  “And what’s the chance of that happening? Are we at war? Are we likely to begin one while we’re at sea?” Jerry could tell that Patterson was afraid as well as angry. If Hardy turned around and went home, she’d never get the evidence she hoped to find, and her boss, the President, wouldn’t get his coup at the conference.

  And Hardy had the perfect excuse. A naval vessel that couldn’t fight was a liability.

  Hardy stood his ground. “Dr. Patterson, this mission requires that we operate in close proximity to the Russian coast. ”

  She interrupted him again “And are we going to shoot our way in?” she demanded. “I’ve read our rules of engagement. You aren’t allowed to shoot at anyone unless they attack you in international waters, and even then, only if you can’t evade or escape. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Only in extreme self-defense.”

  “And when those admirals approved this mission, they said the threat was low, that the Russian Navy was a basket case, and that this would be a ‘milk run.’”

  “Both the CNO and SUBLANT,” Hardy clarified, “would completely understand the risks of proceeding on with the mission with a crippled weapons system.”

  “But the CNO and SUBLANT,” Patterson echoed, “work for my boss, the President. And what he’s going to hear is what I put in my report.”

  She paused and Hardy didn’t immediately respond. Her threat was obvious and her tone made it more than clear that she would carry it out.

  Finally, he said softly, “Doctor, I am ultimately responsible for the safety of this boat and everyone on board.”

  She spoke just as softly. “And this submarine can still do the job that we have set out to do. The accident hasn’t affected our engines, the sonar works, we can still deploy the ROVs, and the chances of us actually having to shoot anyone are nil. We will continue.”

  Hardy looked at her for a minute, then repeated, “We will continue.” He made it sound like a sigh.