Dangerous Ground

by Larry Bond

  Jerry spun around and looked over at the sound-powered phone jack. The plug was halfway out of the socket. Reaching over, he angrily screwed the plug back in. “Senior Chief, verify that you are back online with control and then pass on the word that we need a second hose team down here.”

  “Yes sir,” replied Foster smugly.

  No sooner had Jerry turned his attention back to the fire than the XO turned on a white strobe light and pointed it at the team. “It’s extremely hot in here. You can’t stand the heat any longer,” shouted Bair as he pushed Jerry’s team back from the strobe lights.

  Jerry felt frustrated, as there was little he could do without the second hose team. The XO wasn’t cutting them any slack either, and unless Jerry took measures to protect his team from the heat, the XO would start having them pass out on him. With a hard sigh, Jerry ordered the nozzle man to select low-velocity fog. He then ordered the team to start backing away from the advancing fire. Moments later, the IMC announced, “SECURE FROM DRILL. ALL HANDS REMOVE EABS.”

  Jerry stood up and ripped the EAB mask off his face. He was angry, very angry. He looked around to find Foster when Hardy came stomping into the room with Lieutenant Cal Richards in tow. “That was absolutely deplorable,” screamed Hardy. “If this had been a real fire, we’d be in three-section duty on the bottom with Thresher and Scorpion’’—a sarcastic reference to the only U.S. nuclear-powered submarines that had sunk with all hands.

  “Mr. Richards,” ranted the Captain, “this team reacted so slowly to the fire that my grandmother with a garden hose could have done better. If you haven’t realized it yet, there were four warshots with six hundred and sixty pounds of high explosive each sitting in the middle of that fire!”

  Turning toward Jerry, he continued to lash out. “What excuse do you have for your incompetent communication practices? You were out of touch for nearly two minutes! And in that time you let the fire get so bad, so out of hand, that the weapons in the racks cooked off!”

  Shifting back to Richards, Hardy finished his tirade in typical form. “WEPS, I’m holding you personally responsible for this abysmal performance. It’s clear that you have been derelict in your duties as a department head, since these imbeciles are less capable than basic sub school students. I can only assume that you are gundecking your training!” Cal Richards was pasty-white with fright, as Hardy was using words usually reserved for courts-martial offenses.

  “XO, you and the WEPS come with me,” Hardy shot out as he turned to leave. “We need to plan remedial drills for the Weapons Department. The rest of you, clean this mess up.” With that, Hardy and the still silent Richards left the torpedo room.

  Bair let loose with a heavy sigh, looked at Jerry, and said, “Clean up and stow the DC gear, Mr. Mitchell. We’ll discuss the drill later.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” responded Jerry quietly.

  Turning to leave, Bair gave Jerry a friendly slap on the shoulder and then headed off for the CO’s stateroom. As the XO slowly walked out of the torpedo room, Jerry sensed his weariness.

  “Okay, folks, let’s clean up,” Jerry said as he reached down and unplugged the two strobe lights. He then peeled off his fire-fighting gear and gave it to TM3 Lee.

  As the rest of torpedo division started to secure the phones and the rest of the DC gear, Jerry quietly made the rounds to see how his people were doing. Most were downcast, resigned to the inevitable additional drills. Some made jokes that a three-section watch rotation with Thresher and Scorpion would be easier than what they had right now. Bearden looked just plain mad.

  Jerry was furious that the entire department was being forced to suffer because of one man’s bad attitude. While the thought of confronting Foster was not all that appealing, Jerry had to do something before he destroyed what little morale the division had left. Jerry, working hard to keep calm, said, “Senior Chief, can I see you a moment, please?” He held up a clipboard, as if he wanted to speak about some paperwork issue.

  Foster followed Jerry forward to an unoccupied corner of the torpedo room. Speaking softly, Jerry said carefully, “You intentionally broke that phone connection, Senior Chief.”

  “So?” retorted Foster. “I was just imposing another casualty.”

  “After I’d double-checked the connection? And on your own?” He challenged Foster. “The XO decides what drills to run. Did he tell you to impose that particular casualty?”

  “No.” The Senior Chief pointedly did not add “sir.”

  Jerry was direct. “So why did you do it?”

  “To see how you’d handle it. And you didn’t.”

  “To make me look bad in front of the Captain seems a better explanation.”

  “You can do that all by yourself.”

  “But you don’t mind sticking out your foot now and then.”

  “This conversation is over,” Foster announced in a voice loud enough to be overheard.

  “Not yet it isn’t, Senior Chief! Not until I say it’s over,” countered Jerry forcefully.

  “Give me a break.” Foster didn’t even try to speak softly. “You can’t hack it.” He was impatient with the conversation and turned to leave, but Jerry kept talking.

  “I’d have a better chance of hacking it if you were working with me—or at least not against me. And we do have a mission to accomplish,” he reminded Foster.

  “A junket for Broomhilda? This is one mission I want to fail. And why should you get a second chance? It’s just more politics.” Foster sounded disgusted with the word. “The only mission I’ve got is to make sure that you don’t stay in submarines, and better still, to get you out of the Navy altogether.”

  “Well, Senior Chief, my mission is to obey the orders of a duly elected Commander in Chief and the chain of command, even if I think they are politically motivated. And if you do anything like this again, I’ll drag your ass in front of the XO personally. Is that absolutely, positively, crystal clear, Foster?” replied Jerry loudly and sternly.

  Momentarily taken aback by the vehemence Jerry displayed, Foster smiled and said, “You don’t have the guts, flyboy.”

  Foster threw that last sentence over his shoulder as he walked away from Jerry, past the rest of the division, and out of the room.

  After the senior chief’s abrupt departure, the men busied themselves with their assigned duties silently. Jerry remained isolated and tried to understand what had just happened—and why. He had never seen such open insubordination before, and he certainly didn’t know how to handle it - short of officially putting Foster on report, of course. Jerry was pretty sure the XO would back him up, but given Richards’ present state of mind, he would almost certainly support Foster. Regardless, it would be very messy if Jerry tried to bring charges against Foster. And how would Captain Hardy react? Very likely negatively, and that would end his second chance for a naval career for sure. “Damned if I do, damned if I don’t,” muttered Jerry to himself. A sudden movement caught Jerry’s eye, breaking his concentration. It was FT1 Bearden.

  “Sir, the guys have finished cleaning up and all the DC gear has been properly stored. May I dismiss the men who are not on watch?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” said Jerry with a slight smile. “Thank you, FT1.”

  Bearden fidgeted about for a moment, reluctant to speak, and then quietly he said, “Mr. Mitchell, I never should have let Senior. . .” Jerry sharply raised his hand, silencing the petty officer.

  “It’s not your fault, Petty Officer Bearden,” stated Jerry sincerely “It’s not your fault. Understood?”

  Bearden nodded stiffly as Jerry clasped his shoulder.

  Drained physically and emotionally, Jerry started to make his way back to his stateroom. As he walked, he wondered if he had done the right thing. Well, he thought, that’s behind me now. For good or ill, the conflict between him and Foster was now out in the open. Right now, Jerry could only hope and pray that Foster wouldn’t call his bluff.

  * * * *

  Using the Sy
stem

  The drills continued unrelentingly throughout the next day. Hardy did let the crew have lunch, although he used the time to critique each drill in detail over the IMC. The Captain was unsparing in his remarks.

  “. .. and Petty Officer Gregory didn’t remember to align the valves on the drain pump manifold properly, so the trim pump was unable to dewater the engine room. Progressive flooding drove us below our crush depth, killing everyone aboard. Mr. Lopez, it’s your responsibility to properly train Petty Officer Gregory, so those deaths are on your head, as well as his.

  “Also, Mr. Lopez, there were serious training deficiencies noted during the fire drill we held this morning. As the Damage Control Assistant, you are to ensure that every member of this crew has adequate knowledge of the DC gear on this boat—and that includes the EAB system. During the fire drill, several of the crew didn’t properly seal their EAB masks after hooking them up. Toxic gas leaked in and they all died.”

  Hardy paused for a moment. “In the four drills we held since breakfast, everyone aboard this boat has died at least twice. You are supposed to be professional submariners and I’m not going to throw softballs at you. We will continue to conduct emergency drills until you get it right. That is all.”

  Jerry sat in the wardroom and half-listened to Hardy’s lecture as he tried to eat. He felt really bad for Frank Lopez as Hardy went on and on about his lack of professionalism. Looking down the table at Lopez, with his shoulders slumped over his meal, Jerry could empathize with him. He himself had earned similar treatments from Hardy—as had every officer present. But right now, Jerry had a bigger problem than the Captain.

  Foster’s animosity and insubordination would be a crisis on any ship, but right now, on this boat, it was an unmitigated disaster. Bringing it into the open hadn’t clarified the problem or given him anything that would help him solve the conflict.

  The rest of the wardroom looked upset, worried, or just plain scared. Hardy’s leadership style got results, but at a very high price. He ruled Memphis by fear, and he wasn’t afraid to name names over the IMC. Jerry had been taught to praise in public and chastise in private, but Hardy seemed to reverse the procedure. Then Jerry corrected himself. He’d never seen Hardy praising anyone, so with that kind of policy it didn’t really matter what the order was.

  Of course, Jerry had heard about “screamers” in the aviation community and throughout the Navy at the Academy. As long as their units produced, the higher-ups didn’t intervene. Their view was that a captain had the right to run his command as he saw fit. But it was awfully hard on the help.

  After he finished his harangue, Hardy came into the wardroom, followed closely by Bair, who looked torn. The junior officers started to rise, but Hardy stopped them with a curt “As you were.” Hardy and Bair took their seats at the table, and it seemed to Jerry that the wardroom was even quieter than before. As he was served lunch, Hardy cast an icy gaze over the officers. Some actually hunkered down farther as he looked at them.

  When he finally broke the silence, Hardy spoke calmly, but his voice seemed deafening, and although calm, his tone was harsh. “Since we’ve got people dying when they use damage control equipment, after lunch I want all departments and divisions to review EAB mask procedures. Mr. Lopez, you will personally conduct the training with each man aboard. That may take a while, but I’m sure all of you have other casualty procedures you may want to practice.”

  He got up suddenly and left the wardroom without eating a bite. A few moments passed, then everyone let out their breath all at once. Jerry started eating again, although quietly. Like him, the other officers seemed to be preoccupied.

  Finally Bill Washburn, the Supply Officer, spoke. Tentatively, he asked, “XO, sir, do you think you could ask the Captain to guarantee us a few drill-free hours? My people need to be able to work and right now ...”

  “I’m sorry, Bill, I’ve already brought that up with the Captain. He is insistent that the crew be ready to drop everything at a moment’s notice, at any time, day or night.”

  “But at sea, we don’t face nonstop emergencies. And I’m not talking about missing sleep. My people need to move stores, to cook. I can’t plan menus because I don’t know when my people will be called away. If this goes on for much longer, I’ll have to start feeding the crew battle rations.”

  “Then that’s what you’d better do,” Bair replied bluntly.

  “It’s not just the cooks, sir.” Jeff Ho, the Engineer, was more forceful. “I’ve got a lot of cranky machinery to take care of. My men could work full-time just keeping the plant from flying apart.”

  “Are there any big problems?” Bair asked.

  “No, sir, nothing major yet.”

  “This isn’t our first deployment,” the XO reminded them. “We always have drills our first few days at sea.” He waved down a few who started to protest. “I know they’ve never been this frequent or this difficult, but that is his call. If you want the drills to stop, give him what he wants.”

  Bair pushed his plate away. “Let’s get organized for that shipwide training session. Muster everyone in their spaces as soon as the meal is finished, and I don’t want to hear that Mr. Lopez is kept waiting. He’s got a lot of ground to cover, and this cannot take all afternoon.”

  A chorus of “Aye, ayes” followed him out of the wardroom as the XO left and Jerry automatically started to head for the torpedo room. He had to make sure. . . .

  He paused. Of what? That Foster would still follow his orders? That the torpedomen and fire-control technicians would? They’d all seen Foster tell him off. It was impossible to go about business as usual when his own division chief had said he wanted the mission to fail, that he wanted Jerry to fail.

  This conflict was way out of control. Jerry needed help, desperately, but from whom he couldn’t say. Not from the Captain, certainly, and even the XO couldn’t do much to adjust Foster’s attitude.

  The chief petty officer, is, by tradition, “the backbone of the fleet.” The typical CPO had a ton of experience and was often the most competent technician in his field onboard. But chiefs also wore the khaki uniform, making them a critical part of the leadership structure. It was the chiefs who made things work. Pairing a junior officer with an experienced chief was a good system; practical, effective, and enshrined in naval tradition.

  Which folded like wet Kleenex when the chief in question didn’t go along with the plan. None of the officers could help, and he couldn’t go to his division. They looked to him to fix this problem. He couldn’t possibly ask another chief for help—or could he?

  Master Chief Reynolds was the Chief of the Boat, the senior enlisted man aboard. As the COB, he was the official, sanctioned, box-in-the-org chart link between the officers and the crew. In sub school, they told him that a junior officer couldn’t go wrong if he asked the COB for help. It was worth a try.

  Reynolds worked for the XO, but he often helped the nonnuclear machinist mates, or auxiliarymen, under Lopez, and Jerry was pretty sure he’d be in their spaces. As he hoped, Jerry found Reynolds in the auxiliary machinery room in forward compartment lower level, aft of the torpedo room. He was reviewing the maintenance records on the emergency diesel generator.

  “Master Chief, do you have a few minutes?”

  Reynolds straightened up. He was a huge man, seeming to fill the space, although he, Jerry, and the watchstander were the only ones in it. In spite of his size, he was not intimidating, and Reynolds’ weather-beaten face was relaxed and friendly. His tone was friendly as well. “Of course, Mr. Mitchell.” He turned to the auxiliaryman watchstander and said, “I’ve got it for ten minutes. Go get some coffee.” The young sailor quickly left.

  He settled down on top of a pump housing, offering Jerry the only chair in the space. “I have a hunch I know what you want to talk about,” he said as Jerry sat down. “Or ‘who,’ actually,” Reynolds added.

  Jerry was a little surprised. “Exactly what have you heard?” he asked carefu
lly.

  “Everything,” replied Reynolds matter-of-factly. “There aren’t any secrets on a submarine. Well, not for more than thirty seconds anyway. And Senior Chief Foster hasn’t been secretive.”

  “Master Chief, I’ve tried talking to him in private, and he blows me off. He sabotages my work, and now the division’s work. He has intentionally caused us to fail in two drills, and he’s destroying what little is left of my division’s morale. He says he wants the boat’s mission to fail and he wants to make sure I don’t get my dolphins.”