Dangerous Ground

by Larry Bond

  “Thank you, Your Officerness,” replied Washburn with an equally exaggerated hand gesture. “You see, while the Captain was busy winding himself into the overhead and yelling at me about how poorly trained my people were, the Commodore stepped out of galley behind him and just stood there listening. When the Captain demanded an explanation for the abysmal performance of my people, what pitiful excuse did I have for my MS2 not activating the fire-suppression system installed in the deep-fat fryer’s exhaust hood, the Commodore butted in and said, ‘Because I told him he was dead.’ Oh Lord!” sputtered Washburn as both he and Berg struggled valiantly not to break out in loud laughter. “The look on CO’s face was absolutely priceless!”

  Jerry gasped and winced, “Ouch! Talk about being hoisted on one’s own petard.” The thought of Hardy being publicly embarrassed by his boss was both appalling and delightful. Given Hardy’s predilection for public criticism, the concept of him getting a little dose of his own medicine from the Commodore was very satisfying. And yet, it flew in the face of everything Jerry had been taught at the Academy, and at the squadron, on the basic principles of leadership. Praise in public, correct in private was supposed to be a good officer’s modus operandi. He hadn’t seen too much of that on Memphis.

  Still chuckling, Berg kicked off his shoes and climbed into his rack. “I don’t know about you guys, but after thirteen drills in the last day and a half, I’m pooped.”

  “Hang in there, Lenny, my sources tell me there is only one drill left,” said Washburn.

  “And how would you know this?” asked Berg sarcastically.

  “Do not underestimate the power of hot coffee and fresh chocolate chip cookies, young Jedi,” Washburn replied. “The squadron staff has received both in large quantities, which gave my guys a number of opportunities to peek over their shoulder. According to their schedule, there is only one more drill after the interviews.”

  “Ah yes, caffeine and sugar, the Dark Side, are they,” rasped Berg in his best Yoda-like voice. “Do you have any idea what the drill will be, Bill?”

  “I think it is either a fire in the torpedo room or another approach and attack scenario.”

  “Oh boy, Jerry! Another one for you, you lucky dog,” exclaimed Berg. “By the way, have you recovered from that dreadful Otto fuel spill drill they ran yesterday?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” said Jerry as he plopped back into his chair. “I just don’t understand how we could have screwed up that casualty drill so badly. It’s not like we haven’t done similar drills before. We just seemed to always be running behind the power curve in responding to the casualty.”

  This was a bald-faced lie. Jerry was convinced that Senior Chief Foster had deliberately interfered with the division’s response to the drill. According to TM3 Lee, the torpedo room watchstander, and one of the drill monitors, Foster appeared to have intentionally distracted Lee as the squadron staff member came into the room and dumped liquid orange Jell-O on the deck by the port storage rack. The Jell-O simulated a spill of Otto fuel, the mono-propellant used by Mk48 ADCAP torpedoes.

  While Otto fuel in and of itself is chemically hazardous, it is much worse if it catches fire. Because the fuel and oxygen are mixed together in a thick syrup-like fluid, an Otto fuel fire is extremely difficult to extinguish. If a hot fire was allowed to develop in close proximity to warshot torpedoes, it would likely lead to a catastrophic explosion and the loss of the sub. That kind of accident had destroyed the Russian guided-missile submarine Kursk.

  Furthermore, the fumes from an Otto fuel fire are extremely toxic. So, even if the torpedo warheads didn’t cook off, a lot of people would still get hurt or killed from the poisonous fumes. Hence, timely response to an Otto fuel spill is absolutely critical. By keeping the watchstander’s attention away from his duties, Foster made sure that there was a significant delay in discovering the problem and getting the word out.

  Then, during the actual casualty response, the drill schedule had Foster designated as the sound-powered phone talker for the casualty assistance team. As the man-in-charge at the scene, Jerry recalled all the problems he had communicating with control on the status of the cleanup. On several occasions, he had to repeat his report, two or even three times, before Foster would relay them to the OOD. By delaying the flow of information, the ship’s crew took longer than it should have to respond to the simulated problem and their grade suffered because of it. The chewing out Jerry and his division received from Hardy was very unpleasant and humiliating. Foster’s wicked grin only made it worse.

  “Hellooo! Earth to Jerry, come in, please!” shouted Berg.

  “Huh? Oh—sorry, Lenny. I was just going over the Otto fuel spill in my head again. I guess I’m still trying to figure out what went wrong.”

  “What’s to figure out, you had bad comms with control and that will always screw you during a graded drill. Senior Chief Foster should have known better, but even the best of us have off days. So stop with the self-recriminations and get over it. You’ll do better next time.”

  Jerry became a little angry at Berg’s cavalier response. It was clear he had no idea that Foster had almost certainly sabotaged the drill, and it would be hard to do better next time if Foster continued to interfere. As Jerry considered correcting Berg’s ignorance, Bair stuck his head into the room.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I gather you are enjoying yourselves, given all this laughter.”

  “No, sir, XO,” said Berg soberly. “We’re just a little punchy after so many drills, and I guess we got a little silly.”

  “I see. Well, get unsilly, as the inspection interviews will begin shortly. The Commodore has decided to only talk to the younger JOs. That means you and Jerry here. The Chop has been excused.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” replied Berg.

  “They’ll call you when it’s your turn,” said Bair. “Oh—and one more thing. Try to be confident when you answer his questions. Nothing is worse than appearing to be uncertain of your answer, and regardless of whether you’re right or wrong, the interview can only go downhill from there. If you are uncertain, stick to the first one. At least be wrong with conviction. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Jerry and Berg in unison.

  No sooner had the Executive Officer departed than the Dialex in the stateroom rang. Washburn answered the phone, listened for a moment, and said, “Yes, sir, I’ll let him know you’re waiting for him.” Hanging up, Washburn pointed at Berg and motioned toward the passageway. “Your turn, Lenny. The Spanish Inquisition awaits your presence in the wardroom.”

  Sighing, Berg once again crawled out of his rack and put on his shoes. “I really didn’t want to take a short nap anyway,” he said as he tied the laces. Berg then stood up, straightened his poopy suit, and marched out of the stateroom, executing a sharp square turn at the passageway. As he departed, Jerry and Washburn heard him utter in an English accent, “Alas, poor Leonard. I knew him well.”

  Jerry and Washburn looked at each other as their roommate left, both wondering whether Lenny Berg was slightly insane. Washburn then shrugged his shoulders and said, “Actors. You gotta love ‘em.”

  As the Supply Officer settled into his rack, Jerry sincerely asked, “Bill, how did a theater major ever get into the nuclear power pipeline in the first place?”

  “Only God and Naval Reactors know, Jerry,” responded Washburn as he reached for the novel he had been reading. “Either Lenny is a really good actor or the Navy was really that desperate. Still, it’s good to have the guy on board.”

  “Absolutely,” replied Jerry as he sat down and opened his qual book to the diving officer section. He had just started reviewing some of the casualty procedures when Jerry heard a muffled snore. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that Washburn had fallen asleep before he had even finished a single page of the book. I know how you feel, thought Jerry. Stifling a yawn, he returned to his studies.

  Jerry must have dozed off as well, for he found himself being lightly shaken by
Berg who whispered, “Your turn, old boy.” Jerry rose, stretched and headed for the wardroom. He knocked on the door and then entered. Captain Young was the only other person in the room.

  “Reporting as ordered, sir,” said Jerry while standing at attention.

  “At ease, Mr. Mitchell. Please sit down,” replied Young. Jerry quickly moved over to a chair and seated himself across from the commodore. “In my discussions with your XO,” Young continued, “he tells me he is very pleased with the progress you’ve made on your qualifications thus far. He also says your pace to date is one of the fastest he’s seen. I don’t know whether you realize it or not, but that is high praise from Bob Bair. Especially since he qualified under me in record time on Batfish back in the mid-nineties.”

  “I’ve been fortunate, sir. The XO has been very supportive of my efforts and the Captain has given me numerous opportunities to get my drill requirements completed.” Jerry winced internally and hoped that didn’t sound too much like a backhanded compliment.

  “I’m sure he has,” replied Young matter-of-factly. “Still, you had to do the work necessary to capitalize on those opportunities and that is what has impressed your XO.” Leaning back in his chair, Young opened a folder in front of him and examined its contents for a moment.

  He then looked up at Jerry and said, “In reviewing your record, Lieutenant, I have to admit that I’m pleasantly surprised myself. I’ll be frank with you. I was opposed to your transfer from aviation to submarines. I didn’t like how you went about using family political ties to force the issue. But your performance to date has met or exceeded all the requirements placed on you. You graduated in the top twenty-five percent of your class at Nuclear Power School. You were the first officer to qualify as Engineering Officer of the Watch on your crew at prototype, as well as graduating third in your class overall. And you finished fourth in your class at the Officer’s Basic course at Submarine School. I can’t help but draw the conclusion that you are trying to prove a few flag officers wrong.”

  Jerry was getting more uncomfortable as Captain Young went on. He had been expecting questions on system specifications and procedures, not an overall evaluation of his past performance coupled with a statement that could be interpreted as an accusation, even if it was an accurate one.

  “Sir, I made a promise to do my utmost if they approved my transfer. I’m just trying to hold up my end of the bargain.”

  “Relax, Lieutenant. I’m not accusing you of anything. Part of that deal you made required that your progress be reported up the chain at each phase. Since you’ve been assigned to my squadron, you’re my responsibility now. I just thought you’d want to know the gist of my report.”

  “My apologies, sir. I guess I misunderstood what you meant by proving senior officers wrong,” replied Jerry sheepishly. “And I do appreciate your comments, sir.”

  “Well, I suppose I better ask you at least one question before we move on to the next topic. I can’t let you out of here with just a pep talk, now, can I?”

  “Sir?” responded Jerry, curious as to what the commodore meant by the “next topic.”

  “How many EAB connections are there on this ship?”

  Initially startled by the Commodore’s question, Jerry quickly recovered and answered, “Approximately eight hundred sixty, sir.”

  “Really. Are you sure of that, mister?” demanded Young.

  “Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir,” replied Jerry.

  “Very well, then. How do you justify that number?”

  “There are one hundred sixty-nine EAB manifolds on this boat, and each manifold has four connections. That makes for a total of six hundred seventy-six connections in the EAB system itself. However, assuming a normal complement of one hundred thirty men and a one hundred and forty percent load out of EAB masks, and each mask has a connection on it, that gives another one hundred and eighty-two. This brings the grand total to eight hundred fifty-eight connections, sir.”

  “Am I to understand that you’ve personally counted each and every EAB mask?” pressed Young.

  “No, sir. I looked up the EAB loadout in the ship’s data book and then asked the DCA what Memphis had on his last inventory. He said he didn’t remember the exact number, but he was very confident we had at least that many masks on board, he thought we might even have a few extra as well. I never verified the actual number, hence my answer of approximately eight hundred sixty.”

  Jerry felt strangely calm after his little dissertation to the commodore, who simply sat there and looked at him. Silently, Jerry thanked Chief Gilson for being so thorough during his damage control checkout. While a long and painful ordeal, with numerous lookups that Jerry had to answer afterward, he now knew his DC equipment cold and that little extra detail on the EAB connections had just come in very handy.

  A slight smile broke out on Young’s face as he said, “I would have been happy with the number of connections on the manifolds, but you are quite correct, Mr. Mitchell. Well done.” Young opened the folder again and quickly wrote a few notes down. Probably something along the lines of “Mr. Mitchell is a smart-ass,” thought Jerry.

  “Umm, sir, you mentioned another topic?” asked Jerry, trying to move the interview to a rapid conclusion.

  “Yes, yes, I did,” replied Young as he closed the folder. “We have one more drill to run, a battle stations torpedo drill, and I’m going to need your help in conducting the exercise. How much time do you need to prepare the Manta for launch?”

  “About thirty minutes, sir. May I ask what you want me to do?”

  “I want you to pilot the Manta as a hostile submarine in a mock attack against Memphis.” answered Young.

  Jerry felt a cold sweat forming on his forehead. “Y-you, you want me to fight against the Captain and the rest of my crew?”

  “Not exactly, Lieutenant. One of my staff will tell you what to do. I just need you to guide the Manta accordingly.”

  I am royally screwed, thought Jerry. Hardy won’t bother with the commodore’s little distinction if Memphis does badly during the drill—the CO would place the fault squarely on him and would chew on his butt all the way back to New London. And with a staff rider looking over his shoulder the whole time, Jerry couldn’t intentionally make it easier for his crew. Frantically, Jerry tried to think of a way out of this dilemma.

  “Sir, I must inform you that I’ve never flown the prototype off of Memphis. I have lots of simulator time and some hours with the smaller prototype at Newport, but none with the UUV we are carrying right now.”

  “Yes, I was aware of that,” responded Young. “All the more reason to conduct this exercise, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Jerry desperately wanted to say, “Hell no, sir!” but he couldn’t say that to the man who was sending a progress report on him to those reluctant flag officers. Besides, his Navy training had drilled into him that there was only one correct answer.

  “Yes, sir. When do you want to launch?” Jerry tried to sound more confident than he felt. And right now he felt like a trapped animal, with nowhere to go.

  “Excellent!” exclaimed Young jubilantly. “Report to the torpedo room in fifteen minutes. Lieutenant Commander Monroe will meet you there. And Mr. Mitchell, not a word to any other member of your crew.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said Jerry as he stood up and left the wardroom.

  Once he was out in the passageway, Jerry leaned up against the bulkhead and tried to reduce the knot he felt in his gut. He really wanted to talk to Lenny. He needed Berg’s unique insight to help him with this one, but he was under explicit orders not to speak to anyone about the drill. Fearing that his resolve wouldn’t hold up if he returned to his stateroom, Jerry headed aft toward the torpedo room.

  Breaking out into almost a jog, Jerry reached the torpedo room quickly and immediately sought out the duty watchstander. He found TM2 Boyd at the weapons launching console, making his quarterly hour log entries.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” said Boyd, greeting his d
ivision officer. “Is there something I can do for your”

  “Yes, Petty Officer Boyd, I have a question. Who would man the Manta launch stations during this watch?”

  “The offgoing torpedo room and fire-control watchstanders would normally do that. That would be Greer and Davidson. Do you want me to find them, sir?”

  “Yes, please. I need them here in ten minutes,” replied Jerry somewhat nervously.

  “Anything wrong, sir?” inquired Boyd. “You don’t look so good.”

  “I’ll be all right, but thanks for asking. Just ask the Chief of the Watch to get them here ASAP.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” nodded Boyd, who picked up the sound-powered phone handset and called control.

  Jerry went back to the Manta control area, lifted up the Naugahyde cover, and powered up the control console. After the initial system diagnostics were completed, Jerry started a full system check. As expected, the ten-minute automatic test showed no problems. Jerry logged the time of the check and the results and then waited for Lieutenant Commander Monroe to show up.