by Larry Bond
The civilian did his best to listen as he followed the young officer, who moved easily through the passage, barely wide enough for two people to pass each other if they turned sideways. The “bulkheads” and “overhead” were cluttered with boxes and cabling, with faux wood paneling and green-painted metal underneath. Truitt smoothly dodged people and obstructions, while Cavanaugh seemed to mutter “Excuse me” to everyone he met. For their part, the crewmen often answered with, “Welcome aboard!”
Past the control room was the “hab” area, with berthing, the galley, and the wardroom, then the “Ocean Interface Hull Module,” the special one-hundred-foot section that was added during Carter’s construction. It could launch and recover remote vehicles or underwater swimmers, although Truitt said there were no SEALs embarked right now. “I wonder if any will show up before we leave tonight,” he mused aloud, with a sidelong look at Carter’s guest. Cavanaugh remained silent.
Next was a short section of passageway with comparatively empty sides, but strangely enough, a heavily framed glass port in the deck. Truitt invited him to look through it. “This is the tunnel. It connects the ocean interface module with the engine room. That’s the reactor under us. This space is heavily shielded, of course, but don’t lounge around in here if you can help it.” Cavanaugh looked through the yellow-tinted window and saw several large shapes surrounded by pipes. It wasn’t obvious which blob was the reactor. Truitt quickly pointed out the various components. The army engineer still wasn’t certain what he was looking at, but appreciated Truitt’s attempt to identify the bits and pieces. He led Cavanaugh toward the other end of the passage, which opened out into a space three stories high and just as wide. They stood on a grating on the upper level, looking down.
Truitt gestured, pointing aft toward the tangle of piping and machinery. “Everything from here back to the pumpjet belongs to engineering, and has something to do with making us move or keeping the lights on.” He pointed out different parts of the “steam cycle,” starting with two huge valves that sent steam from the reactor compartment, or RC, to the massive turbines, the condensers that converted the steam back into water, and dozens of pumps that tied it all together.
Cavanaugh asked, “Can I come back here when we’re at sea?” He found himself fascinated with seeing an actual nuclear reactor and the machinery that drove this steel monster.
“No problem, Doctor. I’m sure the Engineer will give you permission. And now that we’re back here, let’s visit the aft DC locker and get you acquainted with an EAB.” Responding to the civilian’s blank look, Truitt said, “It means ‘damage control,’ and EAB stands for the emergency air breathing system, a respirator mask that you put on if the atmosphere inside the boat becomes toxic.”
He now looked worried as well as confused, and as they went down the stairs—ladder, Cavanaugh corrected himself—Truitt explained, “Even a small fire puts out lots of smoke, and in a closed environment there’s nowhere for the smoke to go.”
They reached a locker labeled “EAB Storage” and Truitt reached inside, returning immediately with a bag that had what looked like a gas mask in it, except for the rubber hose trailing from it. Truitt explained about the emergency air supply piping that ran through the sub, with quick-connect fittings. He showed the civilian how to get the mask on, test to make sure it was tight, and then find and hook up to one of the fittings. “I’m still memorizing where all these fittings are. It’s one of the things I have to know before I can get my dolphins.” He tapped the empty spot over his right shirt pocket.
“How many are there?” Cavanaugh asked.
“There are 204 manifolds with four or five connections each,” Truitt replied instantly. “I also have to be able to draw the piping network from memory, know where the air comes from, and what to do if we need to isolate a manifold.” He handed Cavanaugh the bag and helped him stow the mask properly—another thing for the newcomer to practice. “Each space has EABs in it, including your stateroom. It’s really a good idea to know where the masks and manifolds are in each space—even if you’re not getting qualified in submarines. And don’t be surprised if the XO makes you grab a mask and show him you know how to use it,” Truitt warned.
It was now almost eleven o’clock, and Truitt got Cavanaugh headed back toward officer’s country before taking his leave. He jokingly warned the civilian, “If you see daylight, you’ve made a wrong turn.”
But the main passageway was fairly straight, and once he spotted the wardroom, Cavanaugh’s uncertainty vanished. Navigating his way back to “his” stateroom, he opened the door and walked in to find someone else in the middle of changing from a white uniform into the dark blue coveralls Truitt said were called “poopie suits.”
Confused, Cavanaugh started to back out, saying, “Excuse me,” but then he saw his own belongings, confirming that he was in the right stateroom. Even more confused, he noticed a puckered, circular scar on the other’s shoulder.
“No, you’re good,” the stranger barked as he straightened up, pulling on the coveralls and zipping them closed, and turned to offer his hand. “I’m Jerry Mitchell.”
Cavanaugh saw silver eagles on the collar tabs of Mitchell’s coveralls. Mitchell. This is the guy that President Hardy put aboard to run the mission. “Captain—I mean Commodore…”
“Either will suffice, but just Jerry is fine when we’re in a private setting. And you’re Dr. Daniel Cavanaugh. Carter’s captain has already briefed me on your role. I have some questions for you, but there’s time for that later.”
“Of course—Jerry, anything I can do…”
As Mitchell was pocketing different items, Cavanaugh looked for the third bunk.
Jerry saw his confusion, and explained. “I’ve taken over the XO’s stateroom, but you’re staying here. I think the XO will be bunking with the engineer on this trip. Rank does have some perks. The only stateroom with more space is the captain’s.”
“But then shouldn’t I move?”
“No. Not only are you a guest on board Carter, but your civil service pay grade makes you roughly equivalent to a captain. Not that you’d give him any orders, but technically, you outrank Captain Weiss.” He grinned. “So you and I get to split the extra two square feet of floor space in the XO’s stateroom.”
Mitchell grabbed a clipboard from what was now his desk and said, “I’ve got to run now, but I would like to get together. Can we meet after dinner?”
“Of course,” Cavanaugh answered, and Jerry was out the door.
Cavanaugh nodded as Jerry left, then grabbing the chair by his desk, he sat down, his brain overloaded with all the new information that had just been crammed into it. He tried to organize what he’d learned, where everything was, and sort out who he’d met. It was very different from what he’d expected. His impressions were all of people and technology packed into tight quarters. It was at odds with his first sight of Carter’s massive black hull in the dry dock.
As he sat, the excitement faded, and a wave of fatigue washed over him. The morning would have worn him out even if he’d been well rested.
Climbing into the upper bunk was another challenge, but he made it. Truitt said that they started serving lunch in the wardroom at twelve o’clock, which gave him just under an hour for a quick nap.
He missed lunch.
* * *
Jerry headed aft to the mission spaces, specifically the UUV bay, passing through the berthing area as unobtrusively as possible. He greeted those he knew by name. There were even a few of Jimmy Carter’s crew who had served with him on other boats, including Carter’s chief of the boat, or COB. Jerry would chat for a moment with his former shipmates, but always excused himself as soon as possible. Everybody had more than enough work to do, getting ready for the undocking, but more importantly, he didn’t want to answer any questions about why he was aboard. The best way to do that was to not give the crew any chances to ask them. Jerry knew he’d have to sit down with Master Chief Paul Gibson eventually
and explain what was going on, but that would have to wait. Although, Jerry was confident Gibson already knew he was coming along on the mission.
Carter was doubly familiar to him. Not only had he been aboard as the squadron commander, but he’d also served as navigator aboard Seawolf, the first boat of the class. Jimmy Carter was the third and last boat of the same class, and differed from her sisters only in having an extra hundred feet hull section added amidships.
The multi-mission bay held, among other things, the UUV hangar and control center. Climbing down the ladder into the hangar, Jerry saw the two UUVs in their cradles. Looking at the blunt, rounded nose, Jerry was sometimes reminded of a loaf of bread; it was eighteen feet long, four feet wide, and painted blue-black. It had an almost square cross-section, which allowed more internal space for batteries and other equipment. The back end was sharply tapered, with a stubby x-tail and a simple five-bladed propeller. In many respects, they were similar to the UUVs he had on North Dakota.
The two vehicles sat in large cradles that allowed the crew to service them and then move them to what the U.S. Navy had designated the “Ocean Interface Module.” Carter’s crew called it the “Hatch.” Besides being used to launch a UUV while submerged, it could also be used as a lockout chamber for combat swimmers.
As Jerry entered the space, officers and enlisted men were clustered around the UUV named José. A stack of metal cylinders, the acoustic beacons, lay to one side. LT Kathy Owens, Carter’s weapons officer, stopped what she was doing and came to attention as he came in. She didn’t salute, of course, since they were indoors. The others kept working. A chief petty officer held a tablet that was connected by a cable to José. As he typed commands with the tablet, a petty officer lying underneath the vehicle’s payload bay reported the results.
“We’re making good progress with the beacons, Commodore,” Owens reported brightly. She was short, even for submariners, with curly hair that threatened to explode out from under a blue ball cap. “I’ve still got my techs working on them. The beacons all work, of course, but my guys are making doubly sure they’re watertight, programming in the unique ID codes, and disabling the ‘pinger’ mode. Transponder only.”
“Good. How about the fit?” Jerry asked, looking at the group working on the UUV.
“No problem, sir. The target transponders are the same diameter as the positioning beacons the UUV is designed to use, but they’re just a bit longer. Each vehicle will carry six. We’re testing the entire sequence soon, from loading to deployment; if there’s any problems, we’ll know by this afternoon,” she announced confidently.
Jerry nodded approvingly. “That’s good. If we need anything else to make this work, it would be nice to know before we’re underway. I came looking for a manual, if you’ve got a spare.”
“Of course, sir,” she answered and walked past the two vehicles to a cabinet. She pulled out a loose-leaf binder and handed it to Jerry. “This one is up to date, Commodore.”
“Thanks. I can have it back to you this evening.”
“We have several, sir. Please keep it for as long as you need.”
Jerry nodded and headed back the way he came. He settled down in the wardroom to work, after grabbing a fresh cup of coffee. There were few places on a sub for quiet study, and with the civilian in his cabin, the wardroom between meals was an acceptable alternative. The mess stewards were setting up for lunch, so he sat at the side table.
It felt familiar to him, even comfortable. Not only was the wardroom’s layout almost identical to the one aboard his earlier boat Seawolf, it had the same sounds and even smells as all the other subs he’d ever been aboard. It was an environment he knew so well, and thrived in.
Jerry could never tell Emily how much he loved serving aboard subs. To do so would imply that he didn’t miss his family. He did miss them, especially at meals, and in the evening, before going to bed—the times when he wasn’t practicing his chosen craft. Even this, poring through a UUV manual for obscure facts, was rewarding, even enjoyable.
* * *
After lunch, Captain Weiss had scheduled a meeting to review preparations for the undocking that evening. Jerry debated not even showing up. He wasn’t technically part of the evolution, and didn’t want to be a distraction. But he wanted to watch Lou at work, and it wouldn’t be proper for him to pretend he didn’t care.
Counting the sixteen officers and eight chief petty officers crammed into the wardroom, Jerry didn’t so much watch Carter’s captain at work as listen to him, as well as the reports from the sub’s leadership. Weiss marched everyone through the timeline, with everything starting at exactly 2115, when the last Russian satellite disappeared below the horizon.
In dry dock, out of the water, the sub’s reactor was of course completely shut down. Weiss spent some time with LCDR Norris, the chief engineer, and LT Hilario, the main propulsion assistant, going over what could be done before they were floated out to shorten the startup process, but there wasn’t much they could do. “We’ve already begun warming up the primary system, but the fact is, we don’t have enough time to get us to the normal startup temperature. So, we’ll use the emergency diesel and the EPM to get us moving down the river while we finish heating up, and then bring the reactor critical.”
Jerry heard a few soft groans. The emergency propulsion motor wasn’t very powerful, and that meant slow slogging, but Weiss continued. “Yes, I’m aware this will be a slow egress. Three knots, max. We can’t go much faster than five knots down the river anyway, at first, and our top priority is to be well away from this dock by 0220, when the next Russian satellite makes its appearance. If we’re out of the dock by 2345 as planned, and the boat can answer a flank bell two hours later, that will put us over thirty miles away, counting the current. This gets us through the Block Island Sound and out into the Atlantic before the next imaging satellite gets a chance to take a peek.”
Jerry agreed with Weiss’s plan of action. It wasn’t the most auspicious way to start a patrol, but it would work.
In the end, Jerry didn’t say a word until the very end of the meeting, when Weiss asked him, “Commodore, would you like to join me on the bridge during the undocking?”
“That would be fine, Captain.”
* * *
Jerry stayed busy in his stateroom until just before it was time. He wanted to avoid joggling Lou Weiss’s elbow, and was sure that was the right thing to do, but he did feel a little out of touch.
A few minutes after 2100, Jerry left officer’s country and headed forward to control. It was fully manned now, although most of the workstations were dark. They would stay dark for a while, too, even after they were in the water and underway.
While in the dry dock, Carter’s electricity came from “shore power.” That cable would have to be disconnected once they started flooding the dock. Her reactor normally drove two steam-powered generators that provided all the electricity the sub needed, but until it was online, the emergency generator, a large diesel engine, would have to serve. It not only had to power the electric propulsion motor that would move the boat, but the control systems that steered her, cooling water for the diesel and the reactor plant monitoring circuits, as well as continuing to heat up the primary plant. Nonessential systems would stay secured until the reactor could take over.
Jerry went up a deck to the bridge access trunk and climbed up the ladder inside the sail. He was just near the hatch when Maneuvering passed the word over the intercom, “Bridge, Maneuvering. The electric plant is in a half-power lineup on the diesel.” Weiss acknowledged the report, and although he didn’t sound relieved, Jerry knew that a problem with the diesel generator right now would have shut down the entire evolution.
“Permission to come up?” Jerry asked.
Weiss answered “Granted” almost automatically, as the bridge intercom reported shore power had been secured and the cables were being removed. They would continue to receive cooling water from shore until the water level in the dock wa
s deep enough to cover the auxiliary seawater suction ports. Carter’s captain was following a checklist even more detailed than Jerry would have used. A phone talker passed other reports, and a walkie-talkie buzzed and chirped with reports from the graving dock workers. Lou was fielding the information smoothly, and everything was going according to plan.
Maybe he really didn’t need to be here, Jerry thought, but that would be the best of all possible outcomes. He always tried to be ready for the worst.
A hundred feet below the bridge, the dry dock floor was already hidden by swirling white-frothed water. Floodlights illuminated the streams pouring into the basin from six-foot square sluice valves opened in the dock’s floating caisson gate. The level still hadn’t reached the keel. Carter sat on sturdy wooden blocks about six feet off the bottom of the dock, and it would take almost two hours for the sub to float off the blocks.
Normally after coming out of dry dock, a sub, still not much more than an inert mass of metal, would be towed to a nearby dock to finish lighting off its reactor. After that, it would prepare for sea, and leave a day or so later. This time, all the preparations for sea were being done at the same time as the undocking.
“Commodore, thank you again for these nifty PRC-148 secure radio hand sets,” exclaimed Weiss in between the stream of reports. “They’re much appreciated. Any way we can hang on to these for future use?”
“You’re welcome, Captain. But I’m afraid the radios are on loan from a SEAL team. I’m probably just overreacting, but if we’re striving to keep this departure as covert as possible, then we need to eliminate the possibility of someone listening in as you give orders to the tug. However, I will have to return them.”