Cold Choices - [Jerry Mitchell 02]

by Larry Bond

  “OOD, call away a fire drill. Make it in the auxiliary machinery room, third level.”

  Jerry smiled. It was going to be a good watch.

  ~ * ~

  5

  TRIALS

  20 September 2008

  Atlantic Ocean, Lat 58°25’N, Long 035°50’W

  Course 015° true, speed 16 knots

  Jerry’s alarm clock went off at 0530. The recorded bird songs and the wind rustling through trees gradually grew louder, drawing him gently from his semicomatose state. He’d spent quite a bit of money on it, and it was worth every penny. Not only did it show the day and date, but it could display multiple time zones and it gave him a choice of “gentle environmental noises” designed to wake him slowly. He’d bypassed the “ocean surf” in favor of forest sounds.

  Jerry spent a moment looking at the clock’s digital display, fixing the day and date in his mind; like the ship’s ordered course and speed, it helped him to orient himself. It was Saturday, the 20th of September. They’d been at sea five days. Seawolf would reach the op area in the Barents in four more days.

  Jerry needed the clock. The unchanging hum of machinery gave no clue to time of day or season. On top of that was the submarine force’s unorthodox watch rotation of six hours on and twelve hours off, which threw any normal human being’s circadian rhythm into chaos. In the berthing spaces, the lights were turned to red at night, but in the control room and other working spaces, the white lights were almost always on. There were no windows, and even if there had been one, it would have showed only dark water.

  One clue to the time of day was the sound of quiet movement in the passageway outside his stateroom. And Jerry could smell breakfast in the wardroom, just a few feet down the passageway.

  Jerry shared his stateroom with Lieutenant Chandler, who occupied the lower bunk, and Ensign Tim Miller, who had the top rack. Being a department head, Jerry had the middle bunk—the easiest one to get in and out of. Still, Jerry was always careful to make sure of Chandler’s location before getting out of his bunk. He remembered the perils of being in the lower bunk during his tour on Memphis when Lenny Berg nearly jumped on him once or twice. Space management becomes very important when three people occupy the floor space of a walk-in closet—a small closet.

  Chandler and Miller were gone, already risen and dressed, much to Jerry’s relief. It wasn’t just the extra floor space. Ever since Jeff Chandler’s promotion, there’d been friction.

  There used to be four lieutenants aboard Seawolf, and then there were five. Jerry was competitive. He understood the natural drive, not to reach some goal, but to beat someone or something.

  But he didn’t understand Chandler. His roommate, subordinate officer, and shipmate was doing everything he could to get ranked as the best lieutenant aboard Seawolf, and that “everything” went far beyond just doing a stellar job.

  Every officer was evaluated annually on a standard fitness report form. It was filed in his jacket and used to decide if he merited promotion. It was also used by the Bureau of Personnel to see if an officer was a good fit for their next duty station. A “bad” fitness report, even as a junior officer, could haunt someone throughout their entire career. And bad, in the highly competitive, small-town community of submarine officers, could be interpreted as anything less than perfection.

  Shortly after Chandler’s promotion, they’d both been doing paperwork in their stateroom. Chandler had to leave and offered to take a stack of Jerry’s finished paperwork to the XO on his way. Jerry had of course agreed, but later the XO asked him about some of the documents. Several were missing, and had to be redone. Jerry was sure he’d done them—pretty sure, at any rate.

  And Chandler had started finding reasons to talk to the XO and the skipper. A division officer like Chandler was supposed to check with his department head, Jerry, before seeing the XO, and then he was supposed to check with the XO before seeing the captain. It was part of the chain of command. Your juniors weren’t supposed to deal directly with a senior officer without your knowledge and permission. Sure there were social occasions, even while at sea, when the CO would spend time with his junior officers to watch a movie, play games, or just talk. That helped to build camaraderie and a tight wardroom.

  But Jerry had recently seen Chandler speaking with the XO and even the captain—never for long, and about trivial matters, as far as Jerry knew, but what was he after? More face time? You couldn’t help but get face time on a submarine, but that seemed to be his goal.

  Jerry detested politics, especially petty office politics. It was a drain, a distraction, and it destroyed trust. He’d seen a lot of this self-promoting posturing in his career already, and had hoped to avoid it on Seawolf. Chandler’s shenanigans could also affect Jerry’s fitness report, simply because part of Jerry’s evaluation covered his ability to lead those under him in the chain of command.

  By 0545, Jerry was dressed. He stopped in the wardroom just long enough to grab some coffee, then headed for control. The watch was changing as he reviewed the charts and the planned course for the day. As usual, Seawolf was where she should be and on schedule. He inspected the chart and the logs and found them being properly maintained. He hadn’t expected anything else, but he couldn’t sit down to breakfast until he’d satisfied himself that everything was in order.

  The weather report showed a storm overhead. Winds gusted to forty knots, with waves up to twenty-five feet high. It was an early winter storm, but not too early. The weather would get worse as they sailed farther north, but Seawolf might as well be on blocks for all the motion Jerry felt. His sensitive stomach appreciated their isolation from the surface. Submarines were not designed to ride the waves, and Jerry turned a pale gray-green every time Seawolf ran on the surface in a rough sea.

  And Jerry hated to lose his appetite. Food on a sub was always good. The cooks regularly served pancakes or French toast, eggs and hot and cold cereal, along with bacon, sausage, and lots of fruit. And then there were the hot, fresh cinnamon sticky buns—the bane of every waistline on board. Jerry could easily make breakfast a big meal, but he’d disciplined himself early on to eat lightly. There was almost no room to exercise aboard a sub, although there was an exercise bike and some free weights crammed into one of the auxiliary machinery rooms. A lot of submariners joined the jogging circuit after they returned from patrol.

  A stack of angled-in boxes on the bulkhead held each officer’s message traffic, and Jerry picked at his fruit salad as he read a mix of news summaries and administrative traffic.

  At sea, the XO never held morning officers’ call. There was little room in the cramped spaces, and too many of the officers were on duty throughout the ship. Besides, it really wasn’t necessary; Jerry and the other department heads spoke with Shimko at breakfast or immediately after the meal, trading information about the day’s activities.

  When Jerry found the XO this morning, his greeting was “On track, sir. No adjustment required until the next course change at 0700 tomorrow.”

  Finishing a bite of eggs, Shimko nodded, unsmiling. Swallowing, he asked, “And the other checkpoint?” He managed to sound conversational.

  “Also on schedule, sir.”

  “Good. See me later.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  ~ * ~

  Jerry toured his spaces quickly, finding everything in order. The ITs were dealing with a bad display in the radio room, but they expected to have it up in an hour, “no prob.” Chandler was in radio as well, working with Chief Morrison on the rate training schedule for the next advancement exam. Jerry headed back to officers’ country, pleased to find the passageway empty.

  Shimko answered Jerry’s soft knock, and urged him inside. “Shut the door.” Jerry eased the door closed, and held the knob so it wouldn’t make a noise.

  “Sir, I recommend a small speed change when we change course tomorrow so that we’ll cross the Arctic Circle at 1400 hours tomorrow afternoon,” Jerry reported.

  �
��Do it. Then it’s still tomorrow after lunch, eh? Excellent. You’ll be secretary,” Shimko informed Jerry.

  “Aye, sir. Who’s going to be Boreas?”

  Shimko grinned broadly.

  “Uh, XO, weren’t you Boreas last year?” Jerry’s tone was mildly accusatory.

  “Yeah,” replied Shimko defensively. “Do you have a problem with that, Mr. Mitchell?”

  “No sir! Absolutely not!” Jerry exclaimed, wisely recognizing the right answer when told. “But from the rumors I heard, you had way too much fun last time.”

  “And that’s why I want to do it again. XO’s prerogative.” Shimko was still smiling. “COB still has the props from last time.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. I mean, Your Majesty. I’ll need the list of candidates.”

  Shimko handed him a single sheet with a list of names. “There are thirty-seven unrepentant warm bodies for you to keep track of.”

  Jerry took the paper, read it, and whistled. “This is over a quarter of the crew.”

  “It’ll take a while,” Shimko agreed. “But it will be fun. That I promise.”

  Jerry winced, remembering his own trials and tribulations during the initiation into the Royal Order of the Bluenose. He was grateful he wouldn’t have to do that again.

  ~ * ~

  Over that day and the next, Jerry watched the plot as Seawolf drove steadily north beneath dark gray waves. The seawater turned colder, there were few surface contacts, and the sound of clinking ice floes appeared on the sonar displays. Seawolf was crossing into the Marginal Ice Zone, an area where sea ice covered the ocean’s surface. This was to be their cover for the rest of the approach north. Jerry could visualize the northern wilderness in front of them, civilization and all it offered falling away behind.

  Electrician’s Mate Master Chief Hess was chief of the boat, the senior enlisted man on board. He was also one of the key conspirators, having crossed the Arctic Circle so often he’d worn a bare spot on the chart. Immediately after lunch, he and Jerry met by one of the auxilary machinery spaces, midships fourth deck.

  The storage room’s door was locked, but the master chief had a key. No one saw the COB and Jerry quickly slip inside. The space held racks of spare electronic equipment and other supplies. It also contained the ship’s small stock of holiday decorations. A narrow strip of linoleum-covered deck provided the only room to pull out the well-organized boxes. Hess, taller than Jerry, hunched over, since the overhead was not only low, but covered with brackets and cables.

  A gray-painted metal box, labeled “D. Jones,” sat at one end of the space. The master chief unlocked it and began passing bizarre items back to Jerry: a quill pen, a green eyeshade, a leather-bound book, and a silver cloak covered with gold-colored paper letters.

  Jerry couldn’t help grinning. This was only his second Bluenose ceremony, and his first as a member of the Royal Court. His first had been aboard Memphis. When she had crossed the Arctic Circle, the vessel had been visited by King Boreas, Lord of the Northern Waters, and his Royal Court. They had sensed the presence of warm-blooded intruders to their icy realm, and demanded they be transformed into proper Bluenoses.

  The navy took this seriously. At the end of a Bluenose ceremony, each initiate received a Bluenose certificate, and an entry was made in his service record so that on future voyages, he could prove to future King Boreases that he was cold-blooded enough to safely enter his realm.

  ~ * ~

  Besides his own regalia as Royal Secretary, Jerry collected a garish crown dotted with snowflakes, a barber pole-striped scepter, and a rather nice fur-trimmed purple cloak. This was the XO’s costume as Boreas. The COB also dug out a sheaf of blank certificates. Part of Jerry’s job as Royal Secretary was to fill them out. More paperwork.

  ~ * ~

  At 1345 on Sunday afternoon, as soon as lunch had been cleared away, the 1MC came to life. It was not routinely used under way, and the sound boomed down the narrow passageways. “NOW HEAR THIS. ALL WARM BODIES AND ALL THOSE SEEKING AUDIENCE BEFORE KING BOREAS, LORD OF THE NORTHERN REALM, MUSTER IN THE CREW’S MESS. HONOR GUARD, MUSTER BY THE FORWARD ESCAPE TRUNK.”

  While the initiates, forewarned and dressed in swim trunks, gathered in the mess, Boreas and his Royal Court assembled in the forward passageway. There was a strict order for the procession.

  Davy Jones was played by MM1 Bryan. He carried an oversized scroll that had been colorfully lettered with Magic Marker. A costume made of fake seaweed and plastic fish covered him from head to toe. Davy was the herald, preceding and announcing the king’s arrival.

  Shimko came next as King Boreas. In addition to his crown, cape, and battery-powered scepter, the XO had fashioned a beard from string, or possibly a mop. Jerry couldn’t decide.

  His consort, Aurora, Queen of the Snows, looked extremely uncomfortable, since the one dress in the costume locker was a little tight for Petty Officer Hoague. He was the right height, at least, but didn’t dare bend over. A blond wing and makeup that looked more like war paint completed his ensemble.

  Behind “her” came the Royal Baby. The bulk of Chief McCord’s attire consisted of an extremely large, baggy diaper. He had been allowed to keep his socks on, but the oversized bonnet and bib weren’t keeping him warm. He shivered, not for the first time.

  As Royal Secretary, Jerry was next. He was loaded with paper, some of it props, most of it not. Chandler was the Master-at-Arms and brought up the rear.

  A line of chief petty officers in their dress blues filled up the ladder from the chief’s quarters. They took position behind Davy Jones as the King’s honor guard. Master Chief Hess, at the head of the line and looking back at the XO, asked, “Are we ready, sir?”

  Captain Rudel had already gone up to the mess decks. He would welcome the Royal Court to Seawolf, and it was not a good thing to make the captain wait. Shimko paused and looked back down the crowded corridor, counting noses. All the players were present and patiently waiting to make their grand entrance. “We’re good to go, COB. Royal Court, forward march.”

  Proceeding at a stately pace, the procession threaded its way aft and up to the crew’s mess on the second deck. Davy Jones ran ahead to fulfill his heraldic duties, and as the Royal Court reached the galley passageway, the 1MC boomed again. First came eight bells, which signaled the arrival of a person of high rank, then, “ALL HAIL HIS MAJESTY KING BOREAS, LORD OF THE NORTHERN REALMS, AND HIS ROYAL COURT!”

  The XO timed it perfectly, arriving at the door to the mess as the announcement ended. Davy Jones called “Attention on deck!” and thirty-seven members of the crew snapped straight and tall. They were formed in ranks, but their military bearing was adversely affected by the swimsuits. Others of the crew, already having “experienced” the ritual, crowded into the rear of the mess to watch.

  Shimko laid it on with a trowel. “Captain Rudel, I am delighted to have such an excellent sub as Seawolf enter my realm. Surely it is a smart and well-found vessel. But Captain, I am disappointed. Did you think you could sneak these unworthy warm-blooded wretches across my border without notice?”

  Rudel played his part as well, placating the august monarch. “Of course not, Your Highness. These supplicants for admission are assembled here to plead their case. They are ready for your examination.”

  Boreas appeared to be mollified. “In truth, Captain, we had observed your coming for some time, and noted these hot-blooded sailors. They have much to answer for before they can be admitted to my kingdom. Royal Secretary!”

  That was Jerry’s cue. He stepped forward and opened up his ornate ledger book. He made a production of going through the book, as if sorting though a great number of documents, then handed Boreas a large sheet of parchment. “Here it is, Your Majesty, the list of charges.” Jerry made the last three words sound ominous.

  Boreas made a great affair of studying the document, saying “Tsk, tsk,” and “I can’t believe it!” as he examined the charges. Finally he handed the list back to Jerry. “Seaman John In
glis, front and center!”

  Inglis was one of those pale-skinned, freckle-ladened redheads, with hair that almost glowed in the dark. He nervously approached the king, with a little assist from the Master-at-Arms.

  “Seaman Inglis, you are accused of having red hair. Is this true?”

  Inglis was but the first victim. Each penitent that was called before Boreas faced similarly absurd charges, such as “having overly large feet,” or “having too pretty a girlfriend.” Boreas then meted out punishment, with the assistance of the court. It could be ridiculous, humiliating, and possibly uncomfortable. Sometimes it was all three.

  Jerry had drawn up the list of charges the day before, with some assistance from others in the wardroom and the chief’s mess. Shimko and the COB had devised most of the punishment themselves.

  Living and working in such close quarters, the crew knew each other well. Jerry had easily figured out most of the “charges.” In fact, the only difficult candidate was one of Jerry’s own men—Rountree, who’d reported to the sub just days before sailing. They’d learned a great deal about him, but not the kind of quirks one could poke fun at. Jerry had puzzled for some time before finding an appropriate offense.