by Larry Bond
It was well past lunch before the women and their gear arrived. Both Hardy and Foster were seething over the delay, not that Jerry wasn’t irritated as well. In the age of cellular phones and wireless capable PDA’s, it was absolutely incomprehensible that they hadn’t heard from them. Finally the IMC called, “Mr. Mitchell, lay topside.” Jerry hurried to the forward escape hatch and got up on deck in time to see a semi-tractor truck with a canvas-covered flatbed trailer rumble to a stop on the pier. A base security car was in front, and a van labeled CHARLES STARK DRAPER LABORATORY completed the convoy. Patterson and Davis got out of the van and started to pull their luggage from the back.
Jerry told the topside watchstander, “Pass the word to the Captain that they’ve arrived and ask Senior Chief Foster to come topside.”
Hurrying onto the pier, Jerry greeted the two women as they stepped away from the van, but only Dr. Davis returned his “hello.” Patterson simply announced, “There are my bags,” as she passed Jerry and strode toward the brow.
Jerry smiled cynically as he turned back to Davis and asked, “What kept you? You guys are over three hours late.”
“Sorry about that. The traffic out of Boston was hideous.”
“You should’ve called to let us know that you were going to be delayed,” teased Jerry. “It would have been the polite thing to do.”
“You’re right, of course. But simple courtesy is not high on Dr. Patterson’s list of things to do today.”
“So I’ve noticed. She seems to be in her normal foul mood.”
Davis didn’t respond to Jerry’s little quip, but simply looked down at the ground, slightly biting her lower lip. Jerry gathered that the trip down from Boston was more unpleasant then she cared to talk about. Motioning toward the brow, he said, “Come on, Emily, I’ll have someone get your personal gear on board.” The two of them headed toward the submarine.
As Dr. Patterson approached the brow, the messenger of the watch, Seaman Gunther, came to attention and saluted her.
“What the hell is this all about?” she demanded.
“Captain Hardy said that you should be treated as senior officers while you’re aboard, ma’am.”
Patterson still looked puzzled. “Senior?” she asked.
Jerry came over. “Commander and above. Lieutenant commander and below are ‘junior officers,’” he explained.
“Oh.” Patterson looked momentarily pleased at her sudden change in status, but then scowled. “What’s wrong with you people? Don’t you know how to relate to someone who doesn’t have stripes on their arm somewhere?”
Jerry quickly replied, “I’m sure the Captain was . . .”
“I’ll take this up with the Captain myself,” Patterson interrupted, almost huffing. She headed below.
Jerry turned to Gunther. “It’s okay. You don’t have to salute Dr. Patterson or Dr. Davis. They can’t return your salute anyway.”
Gunther, a little confused and embarrassed, nodded. “Yessir.”
“Please make sure that the ladies’ bags are taken to the XO’s cabin.”
Glad for something constructive to do, Gunther nodded and took off.
Senior Chief Foster suddenly emerged from the forward escape hatch. The sour expression he carried made Jerry think that he’d met Patterson going down while he went up.
Jerry asked, “Are we ready to load?”
“Yes, sir.” Foster seemed irritated by the question, but Jerry ignored it. Foster was always irritated by his questions.
While Jerry reviewed the inventory and signed for the equipment, Emily Davis supervised as Foster and his men unloaded the truck. The procedure was similar to the one used for loading torpedoes, and the cargo was handled just as delicately. Although it couldn’t explode, if any of the equipment was damaged, the mission, whatever it was, might be delayed or even aborted.
After removing the canvas, each pallet had four lifting lines and two guidelines attached and was swung over by crane onto the loading tray. Dr. Davis monitored the loading evolution closely, like a mother hen fussing over her chicks, and made sure they were handled gently. The pallets were all wrapped in dark gray plastic and carried no markings except for a large number made of silver tape. The numbers matched a list Davis had, and she referred to it to make sure the pallets were brought aboard in the correct order.
Number Three happened to be first, and Davis hurried across to the sub’s deck, matching the pallet’s progress as it was swung over. The weapons loading hatch was located on the bow, in front of sail. Unlike the two escape hatches aft of the sail, this hatch was angled and matched up with the holes in the decks below. It allowed a torpedo or missile, twenty-one inches in diameter, to be brought aboard and loaded, tail first, into the torpedo room.
Once placed on the loading tray, the downhaul lines were attached, and the crane on the pier lifted the tray to the proper angle. Then the heavy pallet was slowly lowered down inside the hull.
Yesterday, during torpedo loading, Foster and the division had averaged about thirty minutes per weapon. It took almost an hour and a half just to get the first equipment pallet stowed, mostly because of Davis’ constant checking and her entreaties to move slowly and carefully. The second pallet was going a little faster, but Jerry predicted they would be at it well past dinnertime.
Dr. Patterson did nothing to speed the process. She showed up as the second pallet was being lifted across to the sub, and when she saw the pallet swinging in the air, shouted, “Stop!”
Senior Chief Foster, directing the crane, held both arms up, his hands balled into fists. The crane operator immediately halted, and everyone froze in their places, quickly, almost frantically, searching for a problem. “What’s wrong?” someone asked.
Patterson ignored the question and turned to the nearest sailor, TM1 Moran. He was holding one of the lines that steadied the pallet while it was swung over. “How can you let that pallet swing about like that? Are those cables strong enough to hold the pallet when you let it swing all over the place?” she demanded.
Moran looked at her in puzzlement, then turned toward the Senior Chief, pleading in his expression. Both Foster and Jerry hurried over, while Patterson continued ranting. “Why isn’t the pallet properly supported?”
Foster overheard the last question and quickly asked, “What’s wrong with the rig, ma’am?”
“It’s only suspended by a single cable! What if it breaks?” she demanded. “When we loaded the pallets on the trailer, we used a crane with two cables!”
“Ma’am, that cable’s rated for five tons, and the pallet weighs less than two tons.”
She wasn’t satisfied. “How do you know that one cable won’t break? When was it last inspected?”
“The crane is inspected monthly by SUBASE and I checked it myself this morning, ma’am.”
“And what do you know about cables?” she retorted contemptuously. She turned to toward the topside watch, a short distance away, and called, “Tell the Captain to come up here now. I need to see him immediately!”
She wasn’t facing Jerry, which was good, because his face must have mirrored his surprise. Who did this woman think she was? Only the Captain’s “senior officer” admonition prevented Jerry from countermanding her order. Nobody “tells” the Captain anything. You may inform him of certain facts, but you don’t tell him what to do—especially Captain Hardy.
Jerry also watched Foster, struggling to control his anger. “Dr. Patterson,” Foster began slowly. “This is the exact same crane and rig we used to bring ten torpedoes aboard yesterday, and they weigh thirty-seven hundred pounds each. I’ve been in subs for. ..”
“Yes, but these pallets are worth millions of dollars each!”
Jerry almost burst out laughing. Mark 48 torpedoes cost about one and a half million each. Submarine sailors and officers handle costly high-tech equipment every day. Hell, they lived inside one of the most complex and expensive machines ever built.
Captain Hardy appeared at the esca
pe trunk, almost running as he climbed onto the deck and crossed the brow. He hurriedly returned the topside watch’s salute as he strode toward the group. Emily Davis followed closely behind.
Patterson was careful to get in the first word. “These men are not handling the equipment pallets carefully enough. It’s unsafe,” she announced with a tone of authority.
“Mr. Mitchell?” Hardy’s question was obvious as he returned Jerry’s salute.
“The rig is the same one . . .” Jerry started.
Patterson interrupted again. “Look at the crane! They only have a single cable supporting the pallet! My God,” she realized, “it’s still in the air. Get it down!” she ordered. “Now!” She looked at the Captain.
So did everyone else. Hardy nodded. “Bring it down,” he repeated and walked to one side, allowing the torpedo gang to gently bring it down to the pier. Patterson, Davis, Jerry, and Foster followed, formed a small group away from the others.
“Dr. Patterson,” Hardy began. “I’m sure the rig is correct.”
“I’m not interested in your opinion,” she countered. “Make it safe or these pallets are not going aboard.” Her tone was absolute.
Hardy looked at her, then the torpedo gang. There was a strange twinkle in his eye. “Fine then. We’ll stop loading. I’m sure we can find a mobile crane with your desired overcapacity in a few days.”
“A few days!” screamed Patterson. “We’re supposed to leave tomorrow! This delay is absolutely unacceptable!”
“Excuse me, Captain,” interrupted Davis. “Could I have a word with Dr. Patterson, please?”
Hardy nodded and Davis and Patterson stepped away from the three Memphis crewmembers.
“Emily, what is the meaning of this?” asked Patterson once they were out of earshot. “We have a huge problem here and these clowns aren’t capable of solving it.”
“Dr. Patterson, I went over the crane’s latest inspection results with Lieutenant Mitchell and Senior Chief Foster before we started, and they are within specifications. I then gave them my permission to start loading. If there is a problem, it’s not their fault.”
“I see,” responded Patterson coolly. Then, in a less tense tone, she asked, “Is that crane safe enough to load your equipment?”
“Absolutely,” replied Davis. Without another word, Patterson and Davis rejoined Captain Hardy and his two subordinates.
“Dr. Davis has informed me that this crane is acceptable,” declared Patterson. “But I insist that your people exercise better control of the pallets as they are transferred. Don’t let them swing around so much.”
“As you wish,” responded Hardy. Then, looking at Jerry, he said, “Mr. Mitchell, double the number of guidelines and slow the crane down to keep the pallet’s swing to a minimum.” He looked at Patterson, who still looked unhappy. “And don’t lift the pallet any higher than you have to when you swing it across,” he said, sighing. He looked back again at Patterson, who nodded, still frowning. He walked away quickly.
Patterson also left, leaving Jerry, Foster, Davis, and the others all looking at each other. As little as Jerry knew, he thought the rig had worked fine yesterday. Foster, shaking his head, started barking orders to rig the extra guidelines. They had lost thirty minutes from Patterson’s tiff, but finally resumed bringing the pallets aboard “safely.”
Jerry overheard Seaman Jobin and TM3 Lee talking as they lashed the extra guidelines to the pallet. Troylor Jobin was a Virginia boy and his Southern drawl wrapped around his words like a blanket. “Did you see the way Hardy hopped when she hollered?”
“He certainly didn’t fight her very hard,” Lee agreed.
“All this extra work and time wasted, just on her say-so,” Jobin grumbled. “And we’ve got to put up with that witch for the whole patrol?” He sounded incredulous.
Lee remarked. “I don’t think she’s just a tech rep.”
Jobin nodded agreement. “Bearden says she bragged how she worked for the President. Ah’m thinking she’s calling all the shots.”
Moran walked over, and pretended to check the lashings. “Stow it. Here comes Broomhilda,” he stage-whispered.
Jerry looked over to see Patterson climbing onto the deck. She didn’t bother crossing over to the pier, but seemed to be checking to see if the torpedo gang was following Hardy’s recent orders. When she saw the pallet being rigged with the extra lines, she went back below.
Once she was safely gone, Jobin laughed. “Broomhilda. I like it.”
Hardy, Bair, Richards, and Patterson continued to check on the division’s progress during the day. Jerry took to keeping one eye on the forward escape trunk, or when he was below, on the door to the torpedo room. As soon as Patterson or one of the senior officers approached, he’d intercept them and deliver a quick, cheerful report on how smoothly things were going. The tactic worked about half the time.
Jerry spent the rest of his time dealing with the paperwork and answering Davis’ questions. He also tried to keep track of Foster. While Jerry believed that the Senior Chief would not sabotage the loading operation or the equipment, he wouldn’t pass up a chance to make Jerry look foolish or create a mistake that could be blamed on the officer.
One of the documents Jerry was working with was the Weapon Stowage Record Book. It tallied, by type and serial number, what torpedoes or missiles were stowed where in the torpedo room. He was using it for the mission equipment as well. Jerry had added two of the equipment pallets to the record, but when he went to make an entry for the third, he couldn’t find the book. It was a black three-ring binder and was clearly labeled. He’d parked it on top of the centerline torpedo storage rack, a reasonably flat spot in the middle of the compartment.
He looked around, thinking that it might have been knocked onto the deck, but there was so little deck space in the torpedo room that someone, most likely Jerry, would have tripped over it immediately. He was about to ask for a general search when he stopped himself. He didn’t want to interrupt the loading to look for the record book, and he was sure he’d left it right on top of the console.
Jerry then remembered Foster standing near the aft end of the compartment, away from the loading activity, for several minutes. The senior chief was gone right now. On an impulse, Jerry walked aft and noticed several shadowed crevices among the torpedo racks and other equipment. The third one he checked held the missing notebook.
Jerry had barely retrieved it and begun making his next entry when Foster returned, along with Hardy. Jerry wondered what excuse Foster had used to get the Captain there. A progress report? A question? As he watched Foster, Jerry might have imagined a momentary flash of surprise on the Senior Chief’s face.
Jerry reported their progress to Hardy, who quickly lost interest when he saw that there weren’t any problems. The Senior Chief’s face became a stoic mask. Jerry’s small feeling of triumph was mixed with disappointment at having to waste mental energy on bull like this.
Despite the delays and constant “supervision” by Hardy or Patterson, the torpedomen managed to find their rhythm and the pallets started to come across in a regular fashion. As the support pallets, essentially crates full of supplies, came aboard, they were stowed in spaces normally reserved for torpedoes on the upper centerline rack. Finally the control and display pallet, filled with computers, displays, and power supplies needed to control the ROVs, was lowered into the torpedo room and stored near the Manta control console. The ROVs themselves were placed in the starboard stowage racks along with the winch and maintenance pallets, although putting them in place did not mean they were “installed.” Boxes of cabling and miscellaneous equipment filled corners of the torpedo room. Davis assured Jerry and Foster that the clutter would be gone once everything was hooked up.
Although they’d started at 1330, it was nearly 2000 (eight in the evening) by the time the torpedo division finished bringing the last pallet aboard. By that time, Davis had methodically checked the support pallets and had started on the retrieval w
inch. Leads had to be run to power the winch, the controls had to be hooked up, and everything had to be tested until it was rock-solid reliable. There were no Radio Shacks where they were going.
Even after the last of the pallets were aboard, the division had a lot of work to do. All the loading gear had to be struck below and stowed. The torpedo loading tray had to be turned back into deck plates, and the weapons shipping hatch closed and inspected. Jerry’s division performed a dozen tasks carefully, using checklists, all under Foster’s careful eye.
They’d broken for dinner, with Lieutenant Washburn, the Supply Officer, checking with Jerry when his men would be able to stop and eat. It was well after the normal mealtime, but Washburn had kept the mess cooks standing by until the torpedo gang could be fed. He’d laid on a good meal for the crew’s last night in port, with roast chicken and mashed potatoes and two kinds of pie for dessert. Jerry was starving by the time they all sat down, and even Emily Davis was ready to stop for a decent meal.
