Dangerous Ground

by Larry Bond

  Jerry waited until they were all present and close by, so he didn’t have to raise his voice. He suddenly realized he should have rehearsed his talk a little, but he knew what he had to say.

  “I’ve just come from Captain Hardy.” He could almost see everyone, especially Moran, tense. “There will not be any disciplinary action, and I want to personally commend everyone for the way they acted.”

  There were a few audible sighs, and Jerry did feel the division relax. “Everyone did exactly what they were supposed to do, and we helped to save the boat and the mission. But we can do better.”

  Jerry stopped for a moment, then spoke carefully. “We had a small leak that grew to a big one and ultimately became a fire. The casualty could have been stopped earlier, but the watchstander”—he avoided using Moran’s name—”was unsure of what do. He didn’t want to make a mistake.” Jerry carefully did not look at Moran, but he did see some others in the division nodding, and Jobin silently mouthed, “Damn straight.” Foster looked thoughtful.

  “We don’t always have that much time during a casualty, and we almost didn’t have it today.” Trying to speak to the entire division, he continued, “I trust your judgment, and if any of you see a problem, I want you to deal with it. Immediately. Call for help, but from now on, don’t wait for it.

  “Whatever happens, right or wrong, as long as you’re acting in the best interests of Memphis, I’ll do my best to protect you.” It was a strong statement, but he’d kept Hardy from persecuting Moran, and could only hope he could do it again.

  “That’s all I’ve got. Do your best, and I’ll back you up.” He nodded to Senior Chief Foster, who ordered, “All right, everyone, back at it! We’ve still got a lot of work to do to get this place squared away.”

  Jerry watched as the torpedo gang returned to work. He turned to Foster, reluctant to ask what should have been a routine question, but he was the man to ask. “Senior Chief, what’s our status?”

  “I’ve got the FTs working on the panel, of course, and Moran, Greer, and Boyd are working on the ROVs. Everyone else is giving the space a field day, sir.” Foster paused and then added. “As soon as Bearden and I have checked out the console, I’ll find you and fill you in.”

  “Thank you, Senior Chief.” Jerry responded automatically, and Foster turned to go back to the badly damaged console.

  Jerry was surprised by Foster’s complete, polite report. It was the last thing he’d expected. He was so used to Foster’s hostility that its lack confused Jerry, and he looked for some hidden trick on insult, but he couldn’t find one.

  * * * *

  Growing Pains

  Jerry awoke late the next morning, stiff and sore, his aching body reacted poorly to his movements as he extracted himself from his rack and stood up. He hadn’t felt this out of shape since his days at the Academy, when he first started running track. I really need to hit the gym more often, Jerry thought to himself as he shuffled his way to the head. After getting dressed, a process that took longer and was more uncomfortable than usual, Jerry slowly walked to the wardroom.

  “It’s alive! It’s alive!” wailed Lenny, as Jerry stiffly closed the door.

  “That, sir, is a matter of debate,” Jerry lamented, wincing as he sat down. “Right now, I’d settle for the ability to perform basic functions without pain.”

  “A bit sore, are we?”

  “No, a lot sore. I didn’t think pushing an ROV around would be so taxing, but it had a mind of its own and we had to wrestle the damn thing into position so the arm could grab it. I’m really glad the COB was out there with me. He did most of the work.”

  “He is a rather large fellow,” remarked Lenny as he made a cup of hot cocoa. “I hear he moonlights as a tow truck during the winter. ‘Reynolds Wrecking Service’ has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

  Jerry couldn’t help but laugh. However, it was cut short by the sharp pain he felt across his chest. Nearly doubling over, he looked over toward Berg and said, “Lenny, please don’t do that again. It really doesn’t feel good.”

  “Only hurts when you laugh, huh?” asked Lenny as he set the cup in front of Jerry.

  “No, it hurts more when I laugh, you twit!”

  “Yes, I know,” responded Lenny innocently as he opened the door to leave. “Have a nice day.”

  Jerry watched as his friend left and chuckled. Despite his sometimes-loony humor, Lenny’s heart was in the right place. Sipping his cocoa, Jerry looked at the clock on the bulkhead and realized that he only had a few minutes until his next-to-last systems checkout. Ironically, it was on the ship’s air-conditioning chilled water system. And while humans may not need a lot of air-conditioning this far north, many of the ship’s systems, particularly the electronics, would start to fail without the cooling water this system provided. Rising slowly, Jerry went over to one of the cupboards and grabbed the bottle of ibuprofen tablets and dumped three into his palm. He swilled the pills down with the rest of his hot cocoa and traveled as fast as his body would move to his stateroom to get his qual book. If he was lucky, he might make lunch before his next watch in control at noon.

  He wasn’t lucky. The checkout was a grueling two hours long, and Jerry had a dozen lookups to answer. With only five minutes before he had to begin the pre-watch tour of the boat with Richards, Jerry hurried to his stateroom and snatched a package of peanut butter crackers and his notebook.

  Before going on watch, the oncoming OOD makes a complete tour of the boat and conducts a general inspection of the equipment. He also learns what maintenance work is going to be done during his watch and annotates in his notebook those items, if any, that will require the Captain’s permission to begin.

  As Jerry and Cal Richards walked into the torpedo room, Jerry was pleasantly surprised to see that the cleanup from the fire was largely done and that both Huey and Duey had been washed down and were back in their normal storage positions. He then saw Moran and three of the TMs working on tube three, while Foster, Bearden, and a number of the FTs were stripping down the weapons launching console. Richards was also impressed and uttered a rare compliment. Unfortunately, Foster had nothing new to report on the status of the console. But he did promise to inform them of the findings as soon as he completed his survey of the damage.

  After finishing their tour of the rest of the forward compartment, Jerry and Richards finally entered control and began their turnover with the Navigator, Harry O’Connell. It had been a quiet morning with no drills, and the only major evolution on the books during their watch was the “field day” the XO had scheduled. Field day, sometimes more formally referred to as Janitorial Ops, was a stem-to-stern cleaning of the boat.

  Since cleaning tended to make more noise than the usual day-to-day operations, the XO wanted the boat scrubbed down before they entered the Kara Sea. After only a few questions, Lieutenant Commander O’Connell was relieved of the watch. Once the noon report had been made and the new watch section had settled in, Richards asked Jerry for his qual book and they took stock of what items were to be done next.

  A little over an hour later, Bair strolled into control wearing camouflage BDUs and armed with the longest screwdriver Jerry had ever seen. “OOD, I would appreciate it if you would announce over the IMC that field day is to commence.”

  “Of course, XO,” replied Richards. “Chief of the Watch, over the IMC, commence field day.”

  “Commence field day, aye, sir.” Raising the mike toward his face, the Chief of the Watch called for the start of the boat-wide cleaning. As the announcement was made, Bair’s face radiated contentment.

  “Sir, may I ask where you will be hunting today?” Richards asked frankly. Jerry just stood there, staring, completely confused by his XO’s attire.

  “Certainly! I shall be in control over behind the ballast control panel,” replied Blair excitedly, pointing toward the panel with his screwdriver. “I will, of course, endeavor to not interfere with the Chief of the Watch’s duties.” Looking over t
oward Jerry, the XO frowned and then poked him with the screwdriver, saying, “Don’t stare, boy! It’s impolite.”

  “Y-yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” stammered Jerry.

  The wide grin reappeared on Bair’s face as he made his way over to the ballast control panel (BCP). Politely, he asked the Chief of the Watch to move aside and Jerry watched in amazement as Bair turned on a flashlight with a long articulating neck and then dove under the ballast control panel. It wasn’t long before only his boots could be seen projecting out from the space where the Chief of the Watch’s legs would normally go.

  The dazed expression on Jerry’s faced caused Richards to burst out in laughter. “I see that you hadn’t seen the XO in his dustbuster outfit before.”

  “No, sir, I haven’t.”

  “Well, then, Jerry, let me fill you in on a piece of true Memphis eccentricity,” began Richards. “The XO is on a sacred quest to find commissioning dirt. He wants to dig up a scrap of paper or any other form of trash that can be positively traced back to the boat’s commissioning in 1977. It’s sort of his own personal Holy Grail, which he pursues with considerable vigor.”

  Jerry had heard about the aggressive tendency of nuke boat XOs toward cleanliness, but this was so over the top that he had a hard time believing what he had just seen with his own eyes. It all seemed so silly that a grown man would behave so ludicrously about dirt and other refuse. As curiosity won out over awe, Jerry asked, “What’s with the oversized screwdriver?”

  “Ah, yes, the XO-Matic,” replied Richards with a smile, as he leaned up against the periscope stand desk. “It’s a modified deck plate screwdriver that has had its blade machined down into a small scoop. About the same size as a baby’s spoon. It is designed to get at dirt deposits that are outside the reach of most primates, let alone normal human beings.” Richards then winked at Jerry and held his index finger up to his lips, motioning Jerry to be silent. Stepping quietly over toward the BCP, Richards then loudly said, “But alas, even with his special tools, the XO has failed to find that elusive and perhaps legendary prey over these past two years.”

  A sound, best described as a low growl, emanated from behind the panel, “Enough of your blasphemy, Mr. Richards! I will prove to you and the rest of those heretics you associate with that commissioning dirt does exist. Furthermore, since you firmly believe that it is a figment of your Executive Officer’s imagination, I shall enjoy watching you clean it up after I find it!”

  Laughter erupted from the entire ship’s control party as the XO continued to mutter something about the growing insubordination of the crew. As the laughing died down, Jerry felt the strained atmosphere that had existed since he had reported on board easing. The camaraderie that he had missed so much from his squadron days was slowly coming to life on Memphis. It was a good feeling.

  The watch progressed with little diversion. There were no drills. Memphis was on a steady course and speed, and there were few contacts. Those they did hold on the towed arrays were all distant, and were classified as merchants. In fact, for the first time since he could remember, Jerry was downright bored. The only thing that broke the monotony was when Hardy came into control looking for Bair. All hands not holding a control stick pointed to the BCP, the XO’s right foot waving about in the air. Hardy stopped dead in his tracks. He closed his eyes, put his forehead in his right hand, and slowly shook his head. Muttering something about a straight-jacket, he returned to his stateroom without even speaking to the XO.

  As the time passed slowly, Jerry kept looking up at the clock, waiting and wondering when he would hear something—anything—from Foster. Halfway through his watch, Jerry couldn’t stand it any longer and he called down to for a progress report.

  FT2 Boswell answered the phone. “Hello. Yes, Mr. Mitchell, what can I do for you?”

  “Any progress?” Jerry asked.

  “Ah, sir, Petty Officer Bearden would like to talk to you.” Boswell’s tone was not encouraging.

  Bearden came on the line. “Mr. Mitchell?”

  “What can you tell me? Any good news?”

  “Well, sir, it’s kind of a good news, bad news situation.”

  “Give me the bad news first.”

  “Sir, we’ve been at that console for more than six hours so far. The Senior Chief’s got half the division in here and we’re not making any progress. The only thing we’ve found out so far is just how fried it really is.”

  “I see,” replied Jerry despondently. “And the good news?”

  “Moran’s pretty sure they’ve figured out what happened with tube three and that it can be fixed. They’re working on it now.”

  “Very well, keep at it. I’ll be down as soon as my watch is over.”

  “Yes, sir, we’ll keep you informed if we make any breakthroughs,” replied Bearden.

  Jerry said thank you and hung up the phone.

  Master Chief Reynolds wandered into the torpedo room shortly after Jerry’s call. Foster and Bearden had the launch panel stripped down to its underwear while other ratings worked with tech manuals or test equipment. Tools and bits of circuitry littered the deck. Moran and his TMs were huddled around torpedo tube number three. They seemed to be in better spirits than the FTs.

  Senior Chief Foster looked up from his work when Reynolds came down the portside aisle, but didn’t stop working. His “Good afternoon, Sam” had a strained sound.

  “Is it, Bob?” Reynolds asked.

  Foster shook his head emphatically. “It’s a hard fight with a short stick.” He stood up. “Too much has been damaged and we don’t have anywhere near the spare parts. Many of the control relays are charcoal briquettes, and those that I can still recognize are completely fused. Most of the circuit boards have either melted or are so warped that they won’t fit in their slots, and there are several inches of vaporized cabling. In short, Sam, this console is Tango Uniform.”

  “I hear Mr. Mitchell had a talk with the division yesterday,” Reynolds commented matter-of-factly, as if he hadn’t even heard what Foster had just said.

  “Yeah, he did,” answered Foster with a pained look. “And before you say you were right, I will. You were right. But I still can’t stand the way he used his political connections to get here.”

  Reynolds asked, “Has he mentioned them once since he came aboard?”

  “No,” Foster admitted.

  “Did they help him with all the extra hoops he has had to jump through?”

  “No.”

  “Is he asking for anything special now?”

  “No.”

  “So he abused the system. Once. We’ve all done that.” Reynolds pressed his point. “And I don’t think that’s the real issue here, is it? This isn’t about bending or even breaking the rules, especially Navy rules.”

  Foster sighed. “But he used his pull. ..”

  “Which you would have done in a heartbeat,” interrupted Reynolds. “If you’d had any. You’re just pissed because you didn’t have his connections.”

  The senior chief nodded slowly, finally acknowledging the real issue between him and Jerry Mitchell. “You’re right—again. I guess I am envious of him getting a second chance.”

  “But he’s doing a good job with it. He’s working his ass off, and he’s taking care of his people—like a good officer should.”

  “All right, COB, I hear you. You don’t have to hit me over the head with a hammer.”

  Smiling broadly, Reynolds reached over, grabbed Foster’s shoulder, and said, “As my sea daddy once told me, Bob, always use the right tool for the right job.”

  * * * *

  At 1800, as soon as he’d finished his watch, Jerry blitzed down to the torpedo room. He found Foster and Bearden still hunched over the weapons launching console.

  They both looked up as Jerry hurried down the aisle. Foster straightened up, shaking his head.

  “Can it be fixed?” asked Jerry simply.

  “No, sir, not at sea,” Foster replied. “In port, with a tender or rep
air shop helping, it would take us a week. And we’d have to gut the thing before we could even begin repairs. In my opinion, it would be easier to replace the whole unit than fix it.” He picked up a circuit board. Part of it was blackened. “Almost every board is like this, or worse. Even the ones that aren’t charred have suffered heat stress and saltwater damage.”

  Jerry heard the frustration and fatigue in his senior chief’s voice. They had worked over nine hours just to come to the conclusion that there was nothing they could do to repair the badly damaged console. “Senior, you and Bearden did your best. I can’t ask for more than that. But what I don’t understand is how did seawater get inside the console in the first place? It’s supposed to be splash-proof.”

  “We haven’t been able to figure that out, Mr. Mitchell. First, we thought it could have been the gasket around the tube control panels. The FTs replaced it before we left New London, but it’s clear that the fire started at the bottom of the console.” Reynolds pointed toward the lower portion of the console, which was almost completely charred. The buttons used to control the torpedo tube functions were several feet higher. “There is no obvious path for the water to get inside like it did.”