by Larry Bond
Jerry nodded. “Remember when I taught myself Japanese so I could watch all those anime films undubbed? How about when I built that hang glider?”
“You mean the scaring us to death part?” Thorvald asked, smiling.
Jerry laughed, remembering. “No, I mean the part where I met all the FAA safety requirements—and Mom’s. Built it, and paid for it, all by myself, when I was seventeen.”
“Maybe you should have built a minisub,” the senator responded, half-jokingly.
“And I’ve been scuba diving since my senior year in high school.”
Torvald held up his hands in surrender. “All right, Jerry, I remember.”
His voice became firmer. “And I believe you can do anything that’s physically possible.”
So was this physically possible? Jerry felt like the entire crew of Memphis considered him to be either a lightweight or a political hack. He fell asleep wondering if he could win against odds of 134 to 1.
* * * *
Fitting In
The next morning Jerry felt less like an impostor at Quarters. He belonged there, even if Foster didn’t want him. And while Jerry might not like it, he at least knew where he stood.
And knowing, he could plan. Before Quarters started, Jerry told the senior chief that he would to speak to the division before they were dismissed. He’d felt foolish rehearsing it ahead of time, but it was clear that unless he took the right tone, Foster would roll right over him.
After Jerry went over the plan of the day and read a few announcements, he gave “the speech.” It wasn’t the one he’d planned to give the day before, but that may have been for the good. This one was better tuned to Memphis and the division.
He mentioned his background, giving a little more detail than may have been generally known. He admitted this was his first leadership opportunity and made it clear that he depended on their skills, especially those of Senior Chief Foster. The finish was the most important part.
“My only policy change is that from now on, everyone in the division should check in with their supervisor before leaving the ship, just as Senior Chief Foster will check in with me.” That earned him a few curious looks, because that was supposed to be the policy, but Jerry was looking at Senior Chief Foster as he said it. There’d be less chance for a repeat of yesterday.
He’d planned to continue the turnover with Senior Chief Foster, but the IMC loudspeaker announced, “Lieutenant Mitchell, lay topside.” The senior chief gave a small smile as Jerry left.
He stopped to grab his coat and cover, which slowed him down enough to earn another summons from the loudspeaker. He emerged from the forward escape trunk to find the XO waiting for him, along with two women.
“This is Dr. Patterson and Dr. Davis. They’ll be...er, supervising the installation of some special mission equipment for the patrol.” Jerry noticed that Bair’s correction earned him a scathing look from Dr. Patterson, the older of the two women. She looked to be in her early forties, while Davis seemed to be in her late twenties. Neither looked happy, although Davis just looked uncomfortable. Patterson scowled as if she disapproved of Memphis and everyone around her. Jerry wondered how a Navy tech rep functioned with an attitude like that.
“Ladies, this is Lieutenant (j.g.) Mitchell. He’s the Torpedo Division Officer and the Manta operator.” He turned to Jerry. “Show them to the wardroom. The Captain will be joining us there shortly.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” He offered his hand to the ladies and Davis shook it, while Patterson hung back and frowned. “Pleased to meet you both. This way, please.” Recalling his own first time aboard just a few days ago, Jerry followed the two women down the hatch.
As they moved through the narrow passageways, Jerry watched the visitors dodge corners and equipment that encroached into the passageway. Davis looked more at ease, wide-eyed with curiosity, and obviously interested in everything. While she was peeking into the ship’s sickbay, which also held the three-inch countermeasure launchers, she almost missed the turn into the wardroom, but caught up in time. Jerry could see she was full of questions and wondered if he knew enough to answer them.
When they reached the wardroom Jerry took their coats while the mess steward organized coffee and pastries. Nobody could ever accuse Memphis of being a poor host.
“What kind of special equipment will we be receiving?” Jerry asked curiously.
Davis started to speak, but Patterson stopped her. “I’m not sure I can tell you that,” Patterson replied. “It’s classified.”
Jerry felt a little hurt. Security on a submarine was usually tight, and everyone had clearances. Not like they would be able to hide something in such close quarters anyway. Still, if she didn’t think he was cleared to know, so be it.
Captain Hardy came into the wardroom, and Jerry snapped to attention. Bair and Richards followed him, and Richards asked for coffee for all of them.
Mitchell started to excuse himself and leave, but Bair said, “You need to be here, Mr. Mitchell. Have a seat.”
Captain Hardy looked at Jerry and said, “These two ladies are technical reps from Draper Labs. They’ll oversee the installation of a pair of remote operating vehicles (ROVs) and their handling gear in the torpedo room. The equipment will be installed in the starboard tube nest before we leave on patrol. Your people will, of course, assist with the work. Is that clear?”
Jerry felt a little vindicated. So he did have a “need to know.” He glanced over at Patterson, who was frowning.
As Jerry answered, “Yes, sir,” his brain processed the implications of losing the starboard tubes. “So we will have only two operational tubes for the upcoming patrol?”
“That is exactly what it means,” Hardy replied. He didn’t look happy with either Jerry’s question or the situation.
The Captain continued. “Dr. Davis is here to survey the torpedo room before the actual installation. There is also some special analytical equipment that Dr. Patterson will be in charge of, but that will be installed elsewhere on the boat.”
Jerry asked, “What will the equipment be used for?”
Both Hardy and Patterson started to answer, but Hardy paused, letting the woman speak. “That is classified—for the moment, at least.”
After she stopped, Hardy amplified her comment. “Its presence on this boat is classified. If you draw any conclusions or speculate about the use of the ROVs, keep it to yourself, and tell your men the same thing. You are not to discuss the presence or function of any of the equipment, except as necessary for installation and testing.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Stop any work on the starboard tube nest and have your people stand by to assist Dr. Davis this afternoon with the survey. That is all.”
Jerry left and headed down one deck to the torpedo room. Senior Chief Foster was there, along with several sailors from torpedo division. “Senior Chief, there’s been a change in plans. What’s scheduled for this afternoon?”
“Moran and I and some of the others have to work on the weapons launching console, we’re getting some incorrect signals from the fire-control system.”
“Well, as of now, that’s off. There’s a visitor aboard that we have to .. .”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think we can do that. Mr. Richards was pretty clear about getting this problem fixed.”
Mitchell felt his anger building. Foster’s resistance to even a simple order was unbelievable. “Senior Chief, this takes priority. I just came from a meeting with the CO, XO, and the WEPS.” Working on keeping calm, he repeated, “Plans have changed.”
“They didn’t tell me about it.” Foster remarked.
That did it. Mitchell looked at the other torpedo gang sailors and said, “Give us a minute, please.”
The others left, quickly. Senior Chief Foster watched them go with a small smile, as if he knew what was coming and enjoyed the idea.
“Senior Chief, I want to know what your problem is.”
“Sir, I don’t unde
rstand what you mean.” Jerry felt his irritation grow and fought to control it. Foster had donned an “innocent” expression so classic that under other circumstances it might have made Jerry laugh. Now it only emphasized how much Foster was playing with him.
“I want it perfectly clear that I am . . .” Jerry stopped himself, and took a breath. Asserting his authority was pointless. Not only was the senior chief already ignoring his rank, he seemed to take pleasure in frustrating him. And what was he supposed to do? Take him up to captain’s mast? Right.
Jerry could see Foster watching him as he thought, studying him.
Jerry started again. “Senior Chief, if you don’t want to talk about this, that’s your choice, but I’m just trying to get the job done. If you don’t like me, I think I can live with that. But whether you like it or not, I am the Torpedo Officer and if I give you an order, I expect you to follow it.”
Foster’s face became a mask. “Yes, sir.”
Mitchell pressed his point. “As the division officer, it’s my job to deal with the WEPS. If I say something needs to be done, you do not have to check with Mr. Richards. I will have already done that.”
“If you say so, sir.” Foster pronounced the last word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.
“All right, then. Stop any maintenance on the starboard tube nest and have the division ready this afternoon to assist with a pre-installation survey. This is for some special equipment that we’ll be loading later for the patrol. We probably won’t need everyone, but it will be easier to have the men return to their work if they aren’t necessary than to try and bring them in at the last minute. Any questions?” Mitchell saw a flash of curiosity pass over Foster’s face, but he knew the man would not give Jerry the satisfaction of asking for more information. Foster just shook his head.
“Very well, then, Senior Chief, carry on.” Jerry left, with bridges burning behind him. He was unhappy, almost despairing, about his confrontation with Foster. He’d hoped to resolve whatever conflict there was, but instead had formalized it. On the other hand, Foster now knew where Jerry stood.
He headed back to the wardroom, intending to get more information from Richards or the two women about what was going to be done. He found the lieutenant in the passageway, but didn’t get a chance to ask about the ROV. Instead, the WEPS called him into his stateroom.
“How is your qualification program coming, mister?”
Mentally, Jerry shifted gears, hesitating for a moment before answering. He knew Richards would want to hear something positive. “I’ve been studying the ship’s data book.”
“Really? Good for you.” Richards’ cold tone did not match the praise. “Have you talked to the qualifications officer yet?”
“No, sir. I don’t know who that is.”
“It’s me, and it’s time you got busy.” Richards turned in his chair, reached into a drawer, and pulled out a fat notebook. “Here’s your qualification book. Frankly, I don’t see how you can do this, but it won’t be my fault if you fail. Figuring for the time you’re going to be aboard and the amount of material you’ve got to cover”—he pulled out a sheet of paper—”I’ve made up a schedule.” He handed it to Jerry, shaking his head as he did. “The clock is ticking, Mr. Mitchell. Good luck.” Richards almost sounded like he meant it.
Jerry dumped the notebook in his stateroom and went looking for Davis. He found her in the wardroom, sitting alone with her coffee, looking bored.
“Dr. Davis?”
“Please call me Emily.”
“And I’m Jerry,” he said automatically. “I was hoping I could get some more information about the gear and what’s going to happen in my torpedo room, if that’s not classified.” He grinned, and Davis smiled back.
“Well, could we start the survey now? I’ve been trying to work from drawings, and I’m having some trouble visualizing where everything needs to go. And, if you haven’t already noticed, I’ve never been aboard a submarine before.”
Jerry shook his head, “I’m sorry, Dr.,... I mean Emily, but my men won’t be ready until this afternoon.”
Jerry could tell by the look on Davis’ face that she was disappointed. Sighing, Jerry smiled and suggested, “We could go down and have a quick look around. We’ll just have to keep out of the way of my men while they work.”
Davis’ face quickly transformed from gloomy to beaming. “Oh! That would be great! Thank you.”
“We’re just one deck up. It’s almost directly below us.” Jerry then looked around for Dr. Patterson.
“Will your partner want to come with us?”
Davis’ expression at his use of the word “partner” made him realize that Patterson must be the boss.
“No.” Davis shook her head sharply. “She’s working with the Captain and the Executive Officer.”
“Then let’s go for a quick tour.”
Jerry led Davis out of the wardroom and toward the ladder by the crew’s berthing. Jerry belatedly hoped that the crew had been informed that there were female visitors on board, otherwise this could get interesting. Entering into the torpedo room, Jerry and Davis found it buzzing with activity. A number of the TMs and FTs were huddled around the launching console and several of the access panels were open. TM1 Moran looked up from the panel and saw Jerry and Dr. Davis in the back of the room. Grabbing a rag, he walked over to his division officer and the visitor.
“Mr. Mitchell, I thought the survey was this afternoon,” Moran seemed nervous and surprised by Jerry’s arrival with Davis.
“Not to worry, Petty Officer Moran, I haven’t changed anything. I’m just letting Dr. Davis have a quick look around.” Moran visibly relaxed after Jerry had replied.
“Dr. Emily Davis, this is Torpedoman’s Mate First Class Moran. Petty Officer Moran, Dr. Davis.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Davis as she extended her hand.
“You’ll excuse me if I don’t shake your hand, ma’am. Mine are covered in grease. I’ve been doing some maintenance on the port tubes and this stuff doesn’t come off very easily.”
“Have you tried gasoline? I’ve always found that it works pretty well in removing marine grease,” suggested Davis.
Moran stared at her with amusement.
“What? What’s wrong with what I said? It does work!” replied Davis defensively.
Moran looked at Jerry, who motioned to him, as if to tell him to explain. “I’m sure it does work, ma’am,” said Moran. “But you can’t bring gasoline onto a sub. There’s nowhere for the vapors to go. They would collect and become toxic, in addition to being very flammable.”
Davis suddenly became wide-eyed and momentarily covered her mouth in embarrassment, “That was stupid of me! I guess I’m too used to working in a well-ventilated lab.”
“That’s okay, ma’am. Most people don’t realize that we can’t use a lot of things on board a submarine for safety reasons. Take deodorant, for example. We can’t use aerosols on board because the propellants are bad for our atmosphere, so we all use stick deodorant,” said Moran.
“Thank you, Mr. Moran. I’ll try to remember that in the future.”
“You’re welcome, and ma’am, its ‘Petty Officer Moran’ or ‘TM1.’ That’s a mister,” stated Moran as he pointed at Jerry.
When Davis looked at Jerry with confusion, he said, “Never mind, I’ll explain later.” Turning back toward Moran, Jerry said, “We’ll try to keep out of your way, Petty Officer Moran. By the way, where’s the Senior Chief?”
“He went back to the chiefs’ quarters, sir. He, umm, said he had to unload a bunch of paperwork. He should be back soon,” replied Moran, again with some apprehension.
“Thanks, TM1. We won’t keep you any longer.” Moran nodded and returned to his work.
“All right, what did I do wrong this time?” asked Davis with a note of frustration.
“Hmmm? Oh nothing. However, the title ‘mister’ is usually reserved for addressing officers junior to you in rank. While it’s not in
appropriate for a civilian to address an enlisted man as ‘mister,’ it’s not customary aboard ship and some enlisted don’t like to be addressed that way. Shall we proceed with the tour?”
Jerry escorted Davis over to the starboard tube nest and began to discuss the features of the Mk67 torpedo tubes on Memphis while Davis listened with rapt attention. Jerry was beginning to enjoy himself, feeling more confident about his abilities, and it didn’t hurt that this young woman seemed to hang on every word he said.
But after about twenty minutes, Jerry’s confidence began to waver as he started to run out of things to say, and as Davis’ questions became increasingly more technical. Jerry loathed the idea of calling Moran over to help, particularly since he and the other TMs were still troubleshooting the launching console.
