by Larry Bond
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.”
Ho nodded, then replied, “Good enough. Seats please, gentlemen.”
Lunch was stuffed pork chops and a fresh salad. They hadn’t been lying about the food aboard subs.
“How far along in your training were you when you had your accident?” Cal Richards came straight to the point. Jerry guessed Gunther’s news had spread fast.
“I was in my final cycle,” Jerry answered quietly “I already had orders to a squadron at Oceana. A few more weeks.”
“After how long? A year and a half of training? That’s rough.” Tom Holtzmann’s comment was sympathetic, but reminded Jerry of all the time he’d lost. And he’d never fly again.
“What made you decide to transfer to submarines?” Washburn asked.
An honest question, but one that Jerry had answered a hundred times since the accident, and continued to ask himself. He gave the stock answer, practiced and repeated until it emerged almost automatically.
“They were going to medical me out of the service, but I liked the Navy and wanted to be a part of it. My hand didn’t keep me from normal duties, so I signed up for subs.”
“But it wasn’t your first choice,” prompted Richards.
“No sir. I’d picked aviation, and done well at it. I’ve always liked airplanes, really anything that goes fast, and being outside as well ...”
That prompted a round of hearty laughter from every man in the wardroom. When it died down, Richards commented, still chuckling, “You may want to reexamine your career choice before it’s too late.”
Jerry had no reply, but Ho said. “I remember seeing that crash, and you ejecting, and I followed the story after you got out of the hospital. There was a senator, a relative, who helped you stay in.”
“That’s right. My mom’s brother is Senator Thorvald, from Nebraska. Without him I’d be out on the street.”
“Nice to have friends in high places,” Richards commented. There was an undercurrent to the remark that worried Jerry. Richards wasn’t smiling.
The XO came in and dropped into a seat at the head of the table. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” The other officers all greeted Bair quietly, who seemed tired, almost worn out. The mess attendant poured coffee and made sure the dishes were within his reach.
Bair started to fill his plate and announced, “I’ve just gotten the news from the Captain. There’s been a slight change in plans.” He paused to take a bite and chewed, enjoying everyone’s anticipation. “The decomm’s been delayed. We’re going to make another run north, as far north as we’ve ever gone.”
Bair stopped talking and took another bite, but the silence continued for a few more beats as the officers absorbed the news. Jerry felt some relief. At least his first cruise wouldn’t be to a scrapyard.
Finally Washburn, the Supply Officer, asked, “How long have we got to get ready, sir?
The XO’s answer was vague. “A few weeks, but I don’t have the schedule yet. The Captain says this will be a ‘special’ run, and he’ll brief the crew tomorrow morning, but until then we’re to begin preparations for sea.” Jerry watched their faces. Some of them hurried to finish their meals. “A few weeks” wasn’t much time to turn around a sub and prepare it for a hazardous deployment.
He turned to face Jerry, “And it turns out Mr. Mitchell and the Manta will play a critical role. I’d like you to stay after lunch, Jerry. The rest of you pass the word. Start putting your lists together.”
Several of the officers muttered, “Aye, aye, sir,” and the wardroom quickly cleared, except for Bair, Jerry, and the mess steward, who started to clean up for the second sitting, then saw the XO’s face and disappeared.
“Is there anything about this mission that you’ve forgotten to tell me?”
Jerry, surprised and confused, quickly answered, “No, sir!”
“Captain Hardy indicated you’d been hand-picked for this assignment.”
“Nobody told me if they did.”
Bair didn’t look convinced. “Look, mister, your story is all over the ship. It’s nice to see a man fighting to stay in the Navy, but people with pull aren’t going to impress anyone on this boat.” He leaned forward in his chair, spearing Mitchell with his eyes. “Did you use your pull to get aboard Memphis? Did this ‘special mission’ sound exciting?”
“No, sir, absolutely not! I was supposed to go to another boat, USS Hartford, until my orders were changed to add Manta school. That was just a few weeks ago, and I swear I don’t have a clue about why I was assigned here.”
The XO didn’t look happy, but didn’t press Jerry further. “All right, mister. Finish getting squared away. The Captain will be back aboard this evening, and he wants to talk to me about you,” he said, pointing at Mitchell. “I suspect that he’ll also want a word with you himself.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Jerry got out and took the few steps forward to his stateroom. He shared the space with Lieutenant (j.g.) Berg, the Communications Officer, and Lieutenant Washburn, but right now he had the place to himself. He finished unpacking, organizing his clothes and books in a space that made a closet look roomy.
His right arm was sore, and he absentmindedly picked up a hand exerciser and began squeezing it. It still hurt, maybe a little more than usual, but the action gave him the illusion of doing something constructive.
The pain was okay, according to the docs, even a year and a half after the crash. He smiled. At least it didn’t hurt as much as it did a year and a half ago.
* * * *
“A compound fracture of the radius and ulna.” They didn’t even need X-rays to diagnose it. And it wasn’t a clean break, either. It had finally taken three operations and three months before they were done with him. And from now on, he’d always know when it was going to rain.
The Navy always taped air operations, in case of accidents, and they’d released the video of Jerry’s crash. It showed his Hornet smoothly accelerating down the runway, jet exhausts filled with blue flame, then a small puff of white appeared by the right wheel. That was the only sign of trouble, but the jet suddenly veered off to the right. The canopy flew off a fraction of a second after the puff, followed by the pilot’s seat (That’s me, thought Jerry) on a pillar of flame and smoke. The chute popped, but didn’t deploy fully before Jerry was slammed onto the concrete surface. It had even made the news.
He’d seen it a dozen times and could look at it now without feeling the pain of the landing—and of failure. Loss of an airplane, loss of a career. The Board had cleared him completely, and he almost believed them.
Between operations, he’d stayed at the squadron, his career on medical hold. He’d hated it, hanging around pilots and airplanes but unable to fly. Commander Casey had given him a boatload of collateral duties to keep him busy, but it hadn’t taken Jerry’s mind off the accident. And then the Navy had started.
It was a fair offer. It wasn’t Jerry’s fault he wasn’t able to fly anymore, so they gave him a choice. He could transfer to the surface fleet or accept an honorable discharge.
Jerry couldn’t abide the idea of a discharge. He’d joined the Navy because he liked what it stood for and what it did. He’d always liked speed, and a challenge, since he’d been old enough to walk. First stunts on skateboards, then motorbikes, and skydiving. His girlfriends had called him an “adrenaline junkie,” usually right before they dumped him, but it wasn’t the danger he loved so much as the rush from succeeding at some difficult task. He was an A student for the same reason.
Now the Navy wanted to take away his latest success, when it was in his hands. Except one of his hands didn’t work so well anymore. But he was all right for surface ships, said the detailer. He could still have a naval career. The medical restr
iction only applied to aviation.
What about subs? Jerry had asked. The detailer had said that yes, he was certainly fit for duty on subs, but the submariners had their own training pipeline, and he was too far along in his training to start. . . .
But Jerry’s mind had suddenly fixed on subs as his goal. If he couldn’t fly, he’d serve in subs instead. He’d need a waiver, the detailer had said, as if that decided the issue.
A “waiver” was Navyspeak for permission to break a rule. The Navy would grant waivers to selected individuals on a case-by-case basis. He’d seen guys too old for flying get waivers because they’d had previous service experience. He’d seen guys with family problems get waivers allowing them to take extra time in the training program. The Navy wrote the rules, and the Navy could break them, too. When it wanted to. Usually, it didn’t want to.
Commander Casey knew Jerry well enough to understand what drove him, and he believed that Jerry would be “. . . an asset to the service. But I’ll have to tell you, kid, that the Navy spends just as much training a submariner as it does an aviator.”
“Why does that matter?”
“They’ve spent as much time and money on you as they want to. It didn’t play out, and that’s nobody’s fault, but now they want to get some work out of you in return for your paycheck. Or stop the paychecks and give you a discharge,” he said sourly. Casey didn’t think much of that idea, either.
“But I can make the grade,” Jerry insisted. “Six months at Nuclear Power School, then six months at prototype. I can do it.”
“Jerry, you could be a brain surgeon if you wanted to,” replied Casey, but then he paused, glancing at his scars. “Well, maybe not that. But this isn’t about whether you’re capable.” He sighed. “It’s about ‘the road not traveled.’ You made your choice when you joined the Fleet. It’s too late to go back and start over.”
“I’m not too old,” Jerry countered.
“Yes, you’re within the age limit, but every time the Navy spends money training a new officer, it takes a risk. He can do well in training, but still make a poor officer. If he’s no good, or even if he’s good but decides he doesn’t like the Navy, and leaves after his first term of service, the Navy loses its investment. If you trained to be a submariner, it would double their financial risk, as well as eating up another year and a half of your first four years. You’d barely have a year left before you could leave the service.”
“But I don’t want to leave! I’ll extend. They can start my four years from when I begin sub school.”
The commander had run out of arguments, but he couldn’t just give Jerry an order. “Jerry, I’ve seen how you apply yourself to any task. This situation’s no different. You have to choose a new path. Apply yourself to making that choice with the same effort you applied to flying an airplane.”
It was good advice, but Jerry hadn’t used it the way Casey had meant it. The next morning Jerry had laid a request for a waiver allowing him to transfer to submarines on the skipper’s desk. Casey had shaken his head, but passed it up the chain. He’d even “strongly recommended” approval, knowing that it wouldn’t make any difference. Jerry had to run with this. Once it had run its course, Jerry could get on with the rest of his life.
Jerry did run with it. He argued and wheedled his way up the chain of command. In between physical therapy sessions, he read every Navy personnel manual he could borrow. He hunted down anyone on the base who had been a submariner, or who had known a submariner, looking for information, angles to play, maybe even a new connection.
He’d also called Uncle Jim, or Senator James G. Thorvald, Republican senator from Nebraska. His mother’s oldest brother, they still saw him at family gatherings. He’d been delighted to hear from Jerry. His mother had been keeping the senator informed after the accident, but it was still good to hear his voice. Jerry had felt strange asking his uncle for help, but he needed every friend he could get.
“I think it’s great that you want to stay in the Navy, Jerry. It’s foolish for the Navy to get rid of someone as capable as you, who wants to serve. Didn’t this get some media play? Can you send me a copy of any news stories? That’ll help a lot. Makes it personal.”
Uncle Jim had called “a few friends on the Hill.” His timing had been perfect, because Jerry’s request had just reached the Chief of Naval Personnel. Jerry had been ordered out to Washington, D.C. to explain to the U.S. Navy exactly why Ensign Jeremy N. Mitchell should get a special break.
Casey had flown Jerry out personally in a two-seat Hornet. It was one last flight for Jerry, and the only support he could give his former pupil. He’d also accompanied Jerry to his 0900 appointment with the admiral.
They’d skipped the green tablecloth, but it still felt a lot like a court-martial. Three captains, two admirals, Jerry, and his skipper, all seated at a long table. The brass looked irritated, and impatient.
“Mr. Mitchell, you’re asking a lot of the Navy.”.
“I understand that, sir, but I also want to give a lot to the Navy.”
“You could do that by serving in surface ships, without the Navy losing anywhere near as much money.”
“I’d do a better job serving in subs, and I’d be more likely to stay in beyond my obligated service.” He knew there was a threat buried in that statement, but it was also the truth. If they sent him to the surface fleet, he’d be gone at the end of his required four years.
“Even if we agreed to extend your obligation, there would have to be other conditions.” The admiral had a sour look, and it took a moment for Jerry to realize they’d already decided. Well, shoot, they could paint him red and use him for a harbor buoy it they wanted to.
“First, we are going to extend your obligated service. Second, we want to make sure that if you do enter the submarine program, you’ll make a good officer. The normal requirement for passing any Navy school is a grade of two point five, the lower quarter of those that make it. In your case, you will have to be in the upper quarter of your nuke school, prototype, and sub school classes. If you fail to excel, you will be reassigned according to the needs of the Navy.”
Jerry nodded. He could do it. He had to, or he’d be counting blankets in Adak for years.
“Finally, there’s the issue of your seniority. You’ll be promoted to lieutenant (j.g.) while you’re in prototype, and you’ll be halfway to lieutenant by the time you arrive at your first ship. That three-year delay has to be made up or it will plague you throughout the rest of your career.”
The admiral continued, “We’re going to shorten your first tour as a division officer so that you can get your career track back in line with your contemporaries. You’ll have to qualify on submarines quickly, though—within a year.”
Jerry bit back his immediate reply. He considered offering the harbor buoy option as an alternative. “Qualifying in submarines,” earning the coveted gold dolphins of a nuclear submarine officer, was an important, maybe the most important part of being a division officer.
An officer reporting to a boat was required to learn its systems—not just in a general way, but every pipe and valve, what they did, and what to do if they didn’t work. Reactors and propulsion, high-pressure air, low-pressure air, electrical, hydraulics—all had to be studied until you could march through the ship blindfolded, correctly naming any item you encountered. On an officer’s first boat, working hard, it normally took over a year to qualify.
Failing to qualify in submarines was reason for separation from the submarine service. Jerry naturally rose to a challenge, but this would be rough.
“Of course, sir, I’ll do my best.”
“I’m sure you will do well,” replied the admiral, and Jerry knew he was lying. The brass might have their arms twisted into giving him subs, but they’d be damned if they had to let him stay there.
And now Jerry was willing to bet that his assignment to Memphis was supposed to be the final nail in his coffin. An older boat, a hurried-up deployment, and he�
�s the man with the critical skills?
* * * *
First Impressions
March 15, 2005
USS Memphis, SSN 691
SUBASE, New London
Jerry met the rest of the wardroom at dinner that evening, essentially all twelve officers except for Hardy. Most had families in the area and would normally have gone home at the end of the working day, but Bair’s announcement had changed everyone’s plans. To a man, they were working late, furiously compiling their lists of things that had to be ordered or done to prepare the boat for one more patrol.
Their conversation centered on preparations for the as-yet-undefined mission. Even without the details, many of the routine items could be done, and Jerry was impressed with the energy behind their efforts. Washburn, the Supply Officer, was moving heaven and earth to get stores and parts delivered, and the engineers had already started tearing down some auxiliary pumps that needed repair. Lieutenant Commander Ho and Lieutenant Millunzi, the Main Propulsion Assistant, gave Bair an extremely detailed report on exactly why the pumps needed the work done, and what steps they’d taken to make sure it could be done without interfering with the rest of the ship’s preparations.
