by Larry Bond
“I said, drink!” repeated Washburn forcefully.
Hesitantly, Jerry slowly lifted the bucket to his lips and took a drink. Almost immediately he began to cough and sputter as he gagged on the foul-tasting elixir. He coughed so hard that he nearly spilled the rest of the serum onto the deck. Washburn deftly recovered the bucket from Jerry’s shaking hands and said, “The serum has been administered, My Lord.”
“Very well, Prime Minister. It will take but a few moments for it to take effect.”
A few moments, my ass! thought Jerry as the coughing finally subsided. It’s having one hell of an effect right now. Jerry didn’t know all of what they had mixed together in that bucket, but from that one vile gulp he was certain that soy sauce, vinegar, and some sort of carbonated drink were included. What sick mind had devised this concoction? They should lock him up before he hurts someone, Jerry lamented.
“I ask you again: Are you an aviator, or a mariner?” Reynolds’ voice was louder and firmer than the first time.
More than a little irate with the whole Bluenose business, Jerry replied firmly. “Your majesty, I am now a mariner. I sail on and under the sea, not over it.”
“More lies. It is well known that aviators do not pay their respects to King Boreas. And you were an aviator,” growled Foster.
“That is incorrect, Captain of the Guard,” replied Jerry sternly. “Aviators like myself fly from ships. When the ship crosses the Arctic Circle, we pay proper homage like anyone else.” Foster appeared almost apoplectic, shocked that Jerry would dare challenge him.
“That may be true,” interrupted Reynolds, “but explain to me why those in their flying machines do not pay their respects and violate my domain with wild abandon? Even though I send my fiercest winds, they ignore my challenge and come and go as they please.”
Jerry looked at Reynolds and tried to figure out why he was doing this. It seemed like he was really trying to make a point, but what? And to whom? It should be obvious to Reynolds that this sort of ceremony wouldn’t be possible in a tactical aircraft, and Jerry just didn’t know if the charge Foster was leveling against all aviators was accurate or not. Maybe the aviation community had some kind of ritual that he wasn’t aware of. So, why would Reynolds emphasize the lack of respect by aviators? Was this just one of those legendary trumped-up charges brought against people during these ceremonies to which there was no right answer? Or was Reynolds trying to get him to admit to something under pressure—to someone who needed to hear it. His gut feeling said it was the latter.
Jerry stood as erect as he could and slowly, evenly addressed Reynolds’ question. “Your majesty, I was an aviator. And I was a good one. But due to an accident that was not my fault, I can no longer fly. I wanted to stay in the Navy, but I also wanted to belong to an elite group, a group that had some of the best people in the service. I tried to transfer to submarines, but I was told no. Not because I wasn’t qualified, but because it would cost too much and that the Navy wouldn’t get a good return on its investment.” Jerry found his gaze slowly shifting toward Foster as he continued speaking. “I didn’t like the answer I received; it seemed to me to be arbitrary and capricious. The higher-ups just didn’t want to be bothered by a baby aviator with a broken wing. I forced the issue through family political connections because I don’t believe in giving up on something important just because it’s hard to achieve. And now I’m here.”
Taking a deep breath and returning his attention to Reynolds, Jerry concluded his little speech. “Now Your Highness, as for the disrespect shown by aviators: I can’t speak to the actions of others. I can only speak for myself. In that regard, I am here, now, willingly paying the proper respect and deference due to your exalted position and humbly seeking your permission to enter your realm. These actions should be the point of debate for the Royal Court, not my past status.”
That twinkle in Reynolds’ eyes told Jerry that he had made the right choice. “Well said, lad. I accept your explanation.” Turning toward the Prime Minister and the Captain of the Guard, Reynolds inquired, “Are there any other charges against this warm body?”
“None, sire,” said Washburn with a huge smile. Foster said nothing, but shook his head no.
“Very well, then, young mariner, join the other warm bodies and we shall conclude the ceremony.” Jerry bowed and left the torpedo room.
The baptism was the climax of the Bluenose ceremony. Each warm body stepped into the shower area in the crew’s head and was liberally doused with unheated seawater from one of the small garden-hoselike fire-fighting connections. Jerry watched as Emily was drenched with freezing water. Her screech was so loud, it was picked up by one of the ship’s self-noise monitoring hydrophones. When it was Jerry’s turn, Reynolds himself took the hose and gave him an extra-long soaking. Jerry stood there and endured it, determined to not cry out. Shaking violently, Jerry was led to the auxiliary machinery room, where he was allowed to dry off, and a petty officer painted his nose a very deep shade of blue. He was now a true and trusted, ice- and brine-encrusted Bluenose.
The celebratory feast, in spite of the pomp and circumstance, was really just another excuse to give the new Bluenoses some more grief. The dinner was served cold, naturally, and Jerry thought the menu was about as disgusting as the truth serum. The salad was half-frozen cooked spinach with anchovies, pickled relish, some kind of squishy nut, and spearmint dressing. The main course consisted of sardines in peanut butter sauce, cold mashed potatoes with hideous gelatinous sardine gravy, and frozen snow peas. Dessert was a snow cone made from the water drained from cans of tuna fish. In addition to the chilly and revolting cuisine, the new Bluenoses ate their dinner while sitting on ice held in large sheet cake pans. By the time the ceremony had finally concluded, and King Boreas and his court retired, Jerry’s butt was numb with cold.
Slowly waddling back to his stateroom, Jerry was congratulated on surviving his initiation. He acknowledged their greetings with a stiff nod, but all he cared for right now was a hot shower. Grabbing a towel from his stateroom, he headed for the officer’s head. Once at the shower stall, he turned on the water and waited for it to warm up—it didn’t. Jerry moaned and cursed the general unfairness of it all, as the XO had secured the hot water until further notice. He had to get the salt off his body, so with a deep, resigned sigh, Jerry jumped into the cold fresh water.
Up in their stateroom, Patterson and Davis were desperately trying to warm up from their ordeal. Emily was still shaking uncontrollably, despite being wrapped up in two blankets. Patterson walked around their tiny room, shivering, upset, and annoyed that there was no hot water. Suddenly there was a knock at their door.
“Yes!” yelled Patterson, “Who is it?”
“Messenger of the Watch, ma’am, with a gift from Master Chief Reynolds.”
Patterson flung open the door, poised to tell the messenger just what he could do with the master chief’s gifts, when she saw the sailor holding a tray containing two large steaming mugs. “What is this?” she asked.
The sailor smiled. “Hot tea fortified with a little depth charge medicine, ma’am. COB said you two earned it.”
Patterson grabbed one of the mugs and took a sip, “Oh, my God! A Hot Toddy! Bless you.” She grabbed the other mug and handed it to Emily, who seemed more content to just hold the hot ceramic in her hands.
“Where on earth did you find brandy?” questioned Patterson through sips of the prized beverage. “I thought the Navy didn’t allow alcohol to be consumed on board ships.”
“That’s true, ma’am. But we do carry some alcohol for medicinal purposes, and as the COB pointed out, you two aren’t Navy, so the rules don’t apply to you.”
“Well, thank you for the hot drinks. We do appreciate them,” replied a grateful Patterson.
“Oh, ma’am, one more thing.” The messenger moved a little closer and whispered in a hushed voice, “The XO wishes to convey his compliments and says that by the time you are done with your tea, the hot w
ater will be back on line.”
Patterson thanked the messenger for the news and shut the door. Shuffling over to the desk, she sat down and slowly sipped her drink. As the warmth poured back into her body, Patterson looked over at the huddled mass on the bunk and said, “You know, Emily, for military types, these guys are okay. Criminally insane, but okay.”
Davis could only nod her assent.
* * * *
The Casualty
May 21,2005
Norwegian Sea, Near Jan Mayen Island
Jerry stood at the sink in the officer’s head, fiercely scrubbing his nose. And yet despite his efforts of the past two days, it was still a very noticeable shade of blue. Only now it was sore as well.
“Hey, Jerry, go easy on that weather vane of yours,” quipped Berg as he stepped into the head. “You might as well get used to it. Your nose is going to be blue for a while.”
“How long?” asked Jerry testily. “And what the hell kind of paint did you guys use, anyway?”
“No, no, nooo, Jerry, my man. We didn’t use paint at all.” Berg dramatically paused as he started shaving.
“And!?!” said Jerry. He was in no mood for Lenny’s usual riddles this morning. His nose hurt, he was tired, and he had to hurry up if he wanted to eat breakfast before the second ROV test prebrief.
“Huh? Oh yes. Let me see now,” Berg’s façade of temporary forgetfulness only annoyed Jerry further. “We used tried-and-true Prussian blue dye on the noses of the warm bodies. You know, the dye we use for checking valve bodies and stems.”
Jerry vaguely recalled the maintenance procedure, but he didn’t initially catch Berg’s key word: dye. When he finally did, his eyes opened wide and he gasped, “You used a permanent dye? How long will the color last?”
“It’s not just any dye,” protested Berg. “Prussian blue is one of the first synthetic colors ever made. It has a very honorable history in the textile industry and art since the early 1700s. Its name is derived from one of its earliest uses: the dyeing of Prussian military uniforms.”
“How long?” growled Jerry
“Don’t worry, it’ll fade.” Berg hesitated as he applied his aftershave and then added, “Eventually.”
“Eventually. Could you be a wee bit more precise than that?”
“Sure. How about a couple of weeks?”
“Arrgh!” snarled Jerry as he marched back to his stateroom.
“Hey, shipmate, chill,” admonished Berg as Jerry left.
Jerry regretted snapping at Lenny. He knew he shouldn’t take his frustration out on him. Lenny had played only a minor role in his Bluenose initiation, as did Washburn. But what bothered Jerry more was the way the COB went after him. Between the trim party and the extra attention during the ceremony, he felt like Reynolds was doing everything in his power to make him look like an idiot. On the other hand, the COB had certainly made good on his promise to help him with his qualifications. Jerry had already completed his Diving Officer requirements and was ready for his qual board. Reynolds’ mentoring had gone a long way toward speeding up the process. That and the extra watches he stood didn’t hurt, either. Still, Jerry was getting mixed signals and he no longer understood just what Reynolds was doing, or why.
Jerry scarfed down breakfast like a tornado going through a trailer park. And just in time, too. As soon as his dishes had been cleared away, the wardroom door opened and Emily, Patterson, Foster, and others started pouring in. Hardy and Bair brought up the rear, and they squeezed into their places.
Jerry was relieved to see that several others had the same shade of blue nose as he did. Until he’d seen them, his nose had seemed as big as the bow array. Emily’s and Patterson’s appeared more subdued, but he suspected they may have used makeup.
Emily’s briefing was much shorter than the previous one, as it was mostly a review of the procedures. There were a few questions on ROV limitations and handling issues, but Davis dealt with them quickly. After less than half an hour, when everything had been covered, the XO spoke up.
“All right, everyone, that last piece of business to go over is the watch rotation for the two test runs. Mr. Richards, do you have your teams lined up?”
“Yes, sir,” responded the Weapons Officer. “Team one will handle the first test run and will switch with team two as soon as the first ROV is recovered and secured. Also, each team will be assigned to the same ROV for the duration of the patrol.”
Jerry saw that both Emily and Patterson looked confused, and it didn’t take long for Patterson to interrupt. “Excuse me, Commander, I don’t understand why we need teams. During our first two test runs, Mr. Mitchell employed all of his people and they handled the tests very well. Why do we have to split them up into two teams?”
“It’s a simple matter of logistics, Doctor,” replied Bair matter-of-factly. “After reviewing the plan of operations that you and the Navigator submitted, it became clear that we’d have to go to port and starboard sections just to conduct all the ROV missions you want. If we stood the whole torpedo division up for each run, they’d be exhausted in only a few days. Tired men make too many mistakes.”
Hardy nodded his head in agreement and added, “Dr. Patterson, you’ve planned a very aggressive schedule with over two dozen missions within a three-week period. If we’re going to be successful, we must pace ourselves. Even so, this will be a hard rate to maintain.”
Jerry watched and listened as Hardy and Patterson went back and forth over the mission details. It was remarkable to see them being so civil, when only a week ago they were screaming at each other. There was still some tension, to be sure, but it seemed to be held in check. Patterson was very goal-oriented, and as long as she believed that Hardy was helping her toward her goal, things went smoothly. But if she felt he was being obstructive, she could become a holy terror in a heartbeat.
It struck Jerry that Dr. Patterson was one of those people who was good at visualizing what needed to be done. But for all her knowledge and political savvy, she wasn’t very good at figuring out how to do it. One might say that she was process-impaired. This was, however, Hardy’s forte. Give him an objective and he’d get you there. Just don’t tell him how to do it.
Jerry’s amateur psychoanalysis came to an abrupt end when the XO addressed a question to him. “Mr. Mitchell, how are the maintenance arrangements coming along?”
“Huh? Oh, excuse me, sir. I’ve discussed our maintenance support needs with all of the department heads and they have specialists in sonar, navigation, and electric propulsion ready to assist my division as necessary.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“Ahh, yes, sir. I have one concern,” said Jerry hesitantly.
“And what is that?” said Hardy and Patterson in unison. Both momentarily looked at each other, more surprised than annoyed, and then they returned their attention to Jerry.
“Well, Captain, ma’am, my guys can perform the routine maintenance between the runs—that shouldn’t be a problem—but I don’t know if we’ll be able to do much if something major breaks. I mean, we’ve only had a week to study the plans and there has been no formal training on these vehicles. And what little we do have on emergency repair procedures is not exactly up to Navy standards. No offense, Dr. Davis.”
“None taken, Mr. Mitchell,” replied Emily politely. “But if something does break down, then it’s my job to fix it. I designed and supervised the modification of the ROVs, and I’m responsible for their health and well-being; with your division’s help, of course.”
“I appreciate your candor, Mr. Mitchell,” said Patterson firmly, “but Emily has gone over the mission requirements and determined that the probability of a mission critical failure is quite low.”
This pronouncement caught all the Navy people off guard, and Jerry had to resist the urge to sigh. Assuming the odds of a major failure was low based on calculations with little or no operating history was risky business. He had seen an early draft of the mission plan, and the proposed R
OV operations tempo was harsh. With little time for maintenance between each run, the whole concept of operations begged for a major problem to occur. By the look of several other crew members, it was clear that they shared his skepticism.
“Final item,” Bair declared suddenly, breaking the awkward silence. “During the second ROV test, Mr. Mitchell will observe the evolution from the control room.”
“Sir?” asked Jerry, slightly perplexed.
“It’s important that you see what goes on in control during a ROV deployment. It will give you an appreciation for what the ship control party has to do to support a launch and recovery. This will also improve your understanding of our information needs.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hardy then stood up and spoke firmly, “If there are no further questions, we’ll man ROV stations in half an hour.” It was not a request, and by definition there were no other questions. “Very well, then. Dismissed.”
