Monroe motioned for Jerry to answer his XO. “Well, sir, we could have easily turned with Memphis, but in doing so we would have ended up in a disadvantaged position where you would have been able to shoot us. By turning right and crossing astern for the second time, we retained the position of advantage. We knew about where you were and that you were in our weapons envelope. But we were not in yours. When I saw the hard left break, I recognized the situation as being similar to what aviators call a ‘flat scissors’ and I maneuvered accordingly.”
“Are you saying you beat the crap out of us by using dogfighting tactics, mister?” demanded Bair.
“Uh, yes, yes, sir. I guess that is what I’m saying.”
Bair sat back in his chair and shook his head. “No wonder we couldn’t figure out what they were doing. We were expecting them to behave like submariners and planned our attack based on this assumption. But instead, they acted more like fighter pilots. And in this case, they actually had one.”
“Yes, XO, I agree!” Hardy said angrily. “And that is exactly why I object to this whole drill. How can we be expected to fight a small, highly maneuverable vehicle with traditional tactics and weapons?”
“Your point is well taken, Captain,” replied Young icily. “But the last time I heard, the CNO is encouraging exactly this kind of out-of-the-box thinking!” Rising, Young positioned himself so that everyone could hear him. “What we learned today from this exercise was not what we had intended. Instead of ending up with a traditional sub-on-sub encounter that would just test your fire-control party’s skills, we found that a highly maneuverable vehicle with a well-trained operator unexpectedly dominated the scenario. And I submit to you, Captain, that this result is of far greater interest to my staff and me than what we did expect.”
“Since other nations will undoubtedly follow our lead in developing combat UUVs, this exercise has given us some insight into the problems we’ll face in developing future tactics and systems to address the threat. Now, if you will excuse us, Captain, we’ll sit down and determine your final grade for these sea trials. In the meantime, please set a course for home.”
As the members of Memphis’ crew filed out of the wardroom, Jerry received a number of slaps on the back and some words of congratulations—all out of the Captain’s earshot, of course. Even the XO, who had been in charge of the fire control party he and Monroe had so thoroughly bested, winked his approval.
But even more surprising to Jerry was the fact that Hardy was amazingly civil on the trip back to New London. Undoubtedly, the excellent grade Memphis received from the Commodore had done much to salve the Captain’s wounds. But Jerry hoped that maybe the Captain was starting to see that he was worth having on board. Of greater importance to Jerry, though, was his realization that he could be a good sub driver. And for the first time since he started down his new career path, Jerry saw light at the end of the tunnel.
* * * *
Unwelcome Guests
SUBASE, New London
“Reveille, reveille, up all bunks. All hands turn to and commence ship’s work. Quarters to be held on the pier at 0800,” droned the IMC mercilessly. Jerry groaned quietly and muttered, “But I just closed my eyes a minute ago.” Unfortunately, his watch confirmed that he had actually been asleep for four hours. Jerry was still dog-tired and he really wanted to sleep. The rustlings and thumps told him that his roommates were up and getting dressed.
“C’mon, Jerry, rise and shine,” said Berg as he lightly kicked Jerry in the rear.
“Just five more minutes, Mom,” whimpered Jerry.
“Sorry, dear, but you don’t want to miss the school bus,” replied Berg as he kicked Jerry again.
“You’re a cruel man, Lenny. You’re only kicking me because you can,” said Jerry as he slowly slithered out of his rack.
“How true,” responded Berg in a deadpan manner. Then, a little more lightheartedly, “There are some advantages to having the top bunk.”
As Jerry shaved and got dressed, he tried to get his disorganized mental house in order. Today was May 12, and it was going to be another busy day. Dr. Davis and Dr. Patterson would be arriving this morning with the ROVs and Lord knows whatever else Memphis would need for the patrol. Ever since they had returned from sea trials, preparations had reached a breakneck pace all over the boat. Hardy had told them, back in March, that they only had two months to get ready for a lengthy deployment. That had seemed an incredibly short time then. Now, with the reality of tomorrow’s departure date looming like an oncoming express train, everyone was flailing to finish up. Some were more successful than others. Washburn was waiting for critical supplies, and Millunzi’s engineers were still working on cranky machinery. Lenny Berg couldn’t receive the new crypto codes for the upcoming cruise until his COMSEC procedures had been reviewed, and the inspector was behind schedule—by five days. Lenny spent a lot of time on the phone.
As the crew mustered for Quarters, Jerry’s division stood in its normal place on the pier. The weather was kind, a beautiful spring morning, with only an occasional breeze moving the cool morning air. Jerry tried to enjoy it, but weeks of furious activity made it hard for him to stand still. Where the hell is Hardy? he thought. It was already ten minutes past eight o’clock.
Bair kept watching the forward escape trunk, and as Hardy emerged, the XO called, “Attention on deck!” The ship’s company snapped into immobility, then waited as the Captain crossed the brow, walked to where the XO waited in front of the assembled crew, then returned Bair’s salute.
Bair stepped to one side, and Hardy stood for a moment, looking up and down the line of sailors. Along with the rest of them, Jerry waited as patiently as he could. Rumor had it Hardy would give them more details about the mission, and beyond normal curiosity, Jerry would like to know just what he was going to be doing for the next few months.
It might also put to rest some of the rumors flying around the boat. “Guess the mission” had become Memphis’ most popular game. The special equipment was rumored to be a new weapon, a new propulsion system, or remote controls that would turn the sub into a giant UUV. Their destination was Greenland, South Africa, or possibly Havana harbor in Cuba. To their credit, Jerry’s division had been as silent as stones. Foster would have dealt harshly with any leak—and the division knew it.
Hardy seemed reluctant to start, or at least, in no hurry to speak. Jerry noticed Bair to one side, fidgeting. The Captain’s expression was grimmer than usual.
“Our orders send us far north,” Hardy finally announced. Jerry knew that meant north of the Arctic Circle, into Russia’s backyard. “We will be gone for several months, which should be no surprise to anyone here. Due to security concerns, I won’t be able to tell you exactly where and exactly what we’ll be doing until after we’re under way.”
“You all know that we will be loading some special equipment today. The civilian tech reps who install it will also be accompanying us.” That started a low buzz of conversation. “That’s right. The two ladies, Dr. Patterson and Dr. Davis, will ride the boat on this next patrol.”
Jerry tried to absorb the news. Women on the sub? Although females routinely served on surface ships and on aircraft, they’d never been part of any submarine’s crew. Space was too tight. There was no privacy. No wonder the President’s name kept coming up. He was the only one with the clout to overrule Navy policy.
And those two women? Emily Davis was all right; he could deal with her, but Dr. “I work for the President” Patterson? Jerry’s heart sank to his shoes. She hated the Navy. Why was she going along? Not willingly, Jerry assumed. Had the President ordered her to go? Mitchell was suddenly glad he’d voted for the other guy.
Hardy’s voice hardened as he continued. “I want it thoroughly understood that our two guests will be treated not only as ladies, but as senior officers while they are aboard. Any disrespect or any attempt at fraternization will make the offender wish he’d never been born.” He paused for a moment and added a theatrical glare that included the entire ship’s company.
Adopting a more matter-of-fact tone, he explained, “The ladies will berth in the XO’s cabin and eat in the wardroom. The ship will be rigged for female visitors throughout the entire deployment. I don’t want to see one piece of inappropriate literature out in the open. The speech and decorum of the entire crew, including the officers, will also be under the closest scrutiny during this patrol.”
Thanks for that ringing vote of confidence, Jerry mused. From the sour expressions on the faces of some of the crew, they felt the same way, either about having women aboard the sub, about Patterson, or about the CO’s lack of trust. Jerry wondered how many of the other sailors were just better at hiding their feelings.
Hardy left and the XO dismissed the crew from Quarters. Jerry immediately hurried down to the torpedo room, to make sure it was ready for the special equipment’s arrival. It had been last night, when he made his rounds, but double-checking never hurt.
His division had just finished loading torpedoes yesterday. The torpedo room looked incomplete with only eight weapons stowed instead of twenty-two, but the empty racks would be filled today with the ROVs and support gear and who knew what else.
The torpedo division, under Foster’s direction, had already started to set up the loading tray and rig the downhauls. Most of the loading gear had to be stowed after loading the torpedoes yesterday, especially since some of the parts were deck plates from in front of the Captain’s stateroom and by the crew berthing. The Captain and the crew would have missed those sections last night.
Looking up from between the torpedo tubes, Jerry saw that the plates from the two decks above had already been removed. The loading tray itself was being hoisted out the weapons shipping hatch and guide rails from the torpedo room deck were being put in place. Once done, there would be a complete path from the hatch to the centerline stowage rack in the torpedo room. Everything seemed to be moving along just fine. The only things missing now were the equipment and the tech reps. Unfortunately for Jerry and his division, they stayed missing for several hours.
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 escape 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 winch. 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.
For convenience, they all ate together in the crew’s mess, with Jerry and Davis seated at their own table and the rest of the torpedo division filling two others. Foster sat at the head of the enlisted group.
The men ate quietly, so quietly that Jerry noticed the silence. No grumbling, but no joking either. Jerry was tired and was sure his men were as well, but he wasn’t so exhausted he couldn’t talk. Emily kept up her customary stream of questions, about the boat, the living and eating arrangements for the enlisted men, what the food would be like after they’d been at sea for a month.
Jerry couldn’t answer all of her questions completely, so Emily moved over to the enlisted table and asked to join them. The conversation picked up, and with a feminine audience, the torpedomen shared some of their stories about “life on a boat.”
After dinner, they headed back to the torpedo room. It took two more hours for the torpedomen to finish their tasks, and they were almost as quiet as they were at dinner. In other circumstances, Jerry would have taken the Senior Chief aside and asked him what was wrong, but that wouldn’t work with Foster.
So instead, Jerry listened and watched, and practiced making himself as invisible as circumstances allowed. As the torpedomen became involved in their tasks, Jerry eventually heard TM2 Boyd and TM3 Lee talking as they worked on a cable connection from the control pallet to a switch box for tube one. Boyd complimented Davis. “She’s a pretty good tech. And she’s got a good attitude.” Jerry recalled that Boyd had been answering a lot of Emily’s questions about life aboard a sub.
“She’s okay, but that other one!” Lee shuddered. “I just re-upped so I could get a boat on the West Coast. Right now I wish I’d just gotten out.”
“You and the rest of this division,” Boyd agreed. “If everyone shows up for Quarters tomorrow morning, it’ll be a miracle.”
* * * *
Underway
SUBASE, New London
The shutting of a locker door brought Jerry to consciousness a few minutes before his alarm went off. It was just before six, with Quarters an hour away but from the sounds in the passageway, half the crew must already be up. Jerry took a deep breath and stretched as much as the confines of his rack would allow. He could smell the enticing scents of breakfast from the wardroom next door, and that ended any further thoughts of lounging in his bunk. Getting up, Jerry dressed. Both Washburn and Berg were already gone and likely in the wardroom. Remembering that there were now ladies aboard, Jerry made sure he was respectable before stepping into the passageway.
The wardroom was crowded, with most of the junior officers either eating breakfast, or waiting their turn to sit down. Sitting on the couch was Emily Davis. Even in a beige-colored shirt and Dockers, Emily stood out among the khaki-clad officers. Dr. Patterson was nowhere in sight.
“Good morning, Emily. Is our boss sleeping in?” Jerry asked her, half-joking. Both of them knew he wasn’t asking about Hardy.
“Dr. Patterson said she wasn’t getting up until it stopped being so crowded,” Davis replied seriously.
Almost everyone, including Jerry, laughed and Tom Holtzmann immediately remarked, “That won’t be for quite a while.” Lenny Berg then asked, “Is that a promise?”
The laughter died suddenly and Jerry turned to see Patterson at the door, scowling at Berg. Silently, she moved toward the coffeepot as several officers scrambled out of her path. She poured a cup, added two sugars, and left, leaving an uncomfortable silence behind.
Berg looked at Jerry and shrugged. “What can she do, send me to sea?”
Lenny’s quip failed to revive the wardroom’s atmosphere and they ate silently, the mood clinging to the wardroom as officers ate their breakfast, left, and others took their place at the table. Jerry was glad to finish and headed for the torpedo room. The unfamiliar equipment they installed last night seemed to be in order, but Jerry couldn’t shake his discomfort.
It wasn’t the technology. As a pilot, Jerry had lived with complex equipment, had depended on it for his life. It was one characteristic that aviators and submariners had in common. Both trusted machines because they thoroughly understood them—how they worked, what their limits were, and exactly what to do if any of a hundred things went wrong. That kind of competence didn’t come without long hours of drills, study, and more drills. It took time to obtain that level of competence—time that they didn’t have.
Tomorrow, on a politician’s say-so, they would get one chance with each ROV, and if they didn’t work, that was it: the patrol would be scrubbed, and possibly, Jerry’s new career along with it. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe in third chances. Jerry knew he should care more about the mission than his career, but he still didn’t have a clue what they were going to do with all this stuff.
* * * *
Quarters on the pier were mostly for show. Families were allowed to watch and the crew was given a few minutes for good-byes before the maneuvering watch was set. Jerry watched from the bridge, already at his station, as fathers and husbands hugged, waved, and promised their wives and children things they couldn’t control. The single guys, like Jerry, had fewer connections. He’d remembered to send a letter to his sister Clarice in Minnesota, asking her to make sure Mom didn’t worry too much. The cold drizzle that started to fall mirrored the somber mood of the families and crew.
Jerry felt eager to get underway, in spite of all the obstacles he faced. Now he’d finally get the chance to prove himself. And when they returned, it would be resolved, one way or another.
He spotted Emily Davis on deck as she stumbled on a fitting and almost fell into the water. The contrast between her and Patterson was never more apparent. Davis was down among the men, asking questions and finding out everything she could. She was interested in what they did and how they did it, which came across to the crew as a professional compliment. The last time he’d seen Patterson, she’d been in the wardroom, typing on her laptop, doing her best to shut out everything and everybody.
By 0730, all stations were manned, the tug was secured alongside, and Jerry gave the order to single up all lines. The wind helped this time, setting Memphis off the pier, and Jerry almost felt at home as he conned the sub away from the base.
* * * *
Jerry was kept busy throughout the surface transit, but even with a patch, Jerry’s unhappy stomach constantly threatened to betray him. It took almost three hours to reach the gap between Block Island and Montauk Point and another three before they could submerge.
The diving alarm was a welcome sound. He could feel the boat’s side-to-side motion fade as their depth increased. It also got him off the exposed bridge, which was cold and wet. Although he’d only been aboard a relatively short time, the sounds and sensations of Memphis submerging were familiar now. This was where she was supposed to be.
He’d just changed into dry clothes and stepped into the passageway when he saw Emily Davis leaving the wardroom. She looked nervous and tense, clearly upset.
“Emily, are you all right?”
She noticed Jerry and nodded hesitantly. “I’m fine. I’m just being foolish.”
Jerry’s face must have shown his confusion. “It’s the first time I’ve ever been aboard a submerged submarine,” she explained. She looked around, then stepped back into the wardroom, motioning for Jerry to follow. As soon as he stepped in, she closed the door. Jerry was suddenly—and acutely— conscious of the CO’s orders against “fraternization” and how little slack Hardy would give if he were found alone with Emily.
“I feel like an idiot,” Emily confessed. Her tone was measured, almost controlled, but she was visibly shaking. “I’m an engineer, and I know what pressure this boat can stand, but as soon as we submerged, I could sense all the water above us, tons of it. Hundreds of feet of it.” She paused as fear flashed on her face. “How deep are we right now?”
“Two hundred and fifty feet.” Jerry answered, pointing to the depth gauge on the bulkhead. He tried to keep his voice calm and steady, but knowing the exact number only increased her distress. Emily was on the verge of panicking. Great, thought Jerry, just great. She’s claustrophobic. “Don’t you work with submarines all the time?”
“Yes, but I specialized in ROVs. And being a woman, as well as a junior employee at the lab, I was never picked for any of the at sea trials. I’ve only been to sea once before and that was on the research ship Knorr back in ‘98.” She paused, then almost started crying. “And I had no idea I’d feel like this! It never crossed my mind that I’d be so afraid! I should know better.”
“You do know better, Emily, but this isn’t a rational thing. It’s pure emotion.”
“So what do I do about it?” At this point, with her anxiety out in the open, facing her new fear, she was trembling and pale.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. He was too new to submarines himself to have ever dealt with anything like this. Besides, the Navy’s psychological screening process weeded out any applicants for subs who showed even the slightest signs of claustrophobia. “Does Dr. Patterson know?”
“No!” She shook her head violently.
Ill-equipped to handle the situation, Jerry tried to think of whom he should hand over this delicate problem to. There weren’t too many sympathetic ears on this boat. In the end, Jerry went with his training. “Would you like to talk to the XO?”
“All right,” said Emily. The idea seemed to calm her a bit, and Jerry realized that talking about her fear might be the best therapy.
“Okay, then, why don’t you go to your stateroom and I’ll go find the XO and ask him to come and see you,” replied Jerry. Emily nodded and wiped her eyes with her shirtsleeve.
Hoping nobody was watching, the two ducked out of the wardroom and Jerry headed to control in search of the XO. He found him near the plotting tables talking to one of the quartermasters. Jerry waited until Bair had finished his conversation before approaching. “Sir, Dr. Davis would like to talk to you.”
Bair nodded and said, “Fine. Where is she?” he asked, looking around.
“In your, I mean her, stateroom.”
“And why is she there instead of here?” Bair asked.
“She needs to speak to you privately,” Jerry answered softy.
“This can’t be good.” Bair observed and left, heading forward to his old stateroom. Relieved, Jerry felt absolutely no guilt about passing the buck to the XO.
* * * *
It was a late lunch, scheduled after Memphis had submerged. Apparently, Jerry wasn’t the only one aboard with a queasy stomach. He ate in the second sitting, which was fine with him. Not only did it give him a few more minutes for his appetite to return, but he could also pick out a good spot for the mission brief. All the junior officers ate quickly, so that the mess stewards could clean up by 1500. That’s when the Captain and Patterson had promised to finally brief the crew on their destination and what they would do when they got there.
The chiefs started showing up before the JOs had even finished eating, and by 1500, the tiny wardroom was jammed with all the officers not on watch and most of the chiefs.
Hardy entered, followed by the two ladies, and everyone did their best in the cramped space to come to attention. The Captain let them stand for a moment, then said, “Seats.” Emily Davis looked nervous, but that could have been for several reasons. Neither Hardy nor Patterson looked pleased.
The XO spread out a nautical chart and taped it to the bulkhead. A thick, dark black line stood out against the light blue and gray contours. It showed their track from New London, past Newfoundland, through the Denmark Strait between Iceland and Greenland, then past Jan Mayen Island and Spitsbergen, and finally across the Barents Sea. It almost touched Novaya Zemlaya, a barren finger of land that reached up from the far northern coast of Russia. The Barents Sea lay on its western side, the smaller Kara Sea to the east. Novaya Zemlaya was part of the Russian Federation.
Hardy let everyone study the chart for a few moments, then stood.
“At the direction of the President, this boat has been assigned a special mission.” He pointed to the chart. “This is our route for the next twelve days. We will approach the eastern coast of Novaya Zemlaya, survey several environmentally sensitive sites, collect water and sediment samples, as well as other information, then return.”
Jerry heard a buzz of conversation, with the word “environmental” repeated several times, always with a questioning tone. Mitchell was more puzzled at the general reaction than Hardy’s announcement. He guessed this was not a typical mission.
“Dr. Patterson will now explain exactly what we’re going to do.” Hardy motioned to Patterson, who was sitting to his right. She stood up quickly and glanced at a pad of paper.
“President Huber has been a champion of the environment since his days as governor of Arizona. Even before that, as a state senator, he had led the drive for the cleanup of the San Sebastian waste site, as well as . . .”
Jerry fought the urge to tune her out completely. There was always the chance she might say something useful.
Patterson droned on for another five minutes about Huber’s environmental consciousness, managing to work in how essential her expertise had been to the President during the election, and now as part of the President’s Science Advisory Board. “It’s vital that the President do well with this issue. The environmental vote is one of his core constituencies. It’s never too early to start thinking about the next election.”
Maybe she thought the silence in the room was polite attentiveness. Jerry, proudly apolitical, was repelled by the entire concept. A patrol to further a president’s reelection chances?
She handed a second chart to Davis, who taped it up over the first one. A detailed chart of the Novaya Zemlaya’s east coast, it was marked top secret, and was covered with angular shapes, crosshatched in several colors.
“These are locations that we know have been used by the Soviets—and now the Russians—as dumps for everything from toxic waste to fueled nuclear reactors. Red marks radioactive waste, orange is machinery, yellow toxic material, and purple is unknown. We are going to collect photographs and samples from these sites, enough evidence to convince any objective observer that the waste is leaking into the environment on a massive scale. They’ve denied it, of course.”
She looked out at the officers and chiefs, as if expecting an answer—or at least agreement. For the first time since she’d come aboard, Patterson was smiling, her manner animated. It was clear to Jerry that she cared deeply about this, although he wasn’t sure if it was the environment or the President’s political agenda.
“In two months, at the World Environmental Congress in Sao Paulo, Brazil, the President will confront the Russian delegation with the evidence we collect. He’ll discredit them and gain stature with every country there. And then there’s the domestic audience. This has the potential to add at least ten points to his approval rating.”
She said the last sentence with so much enthusiasm Jerry almost laughed. She obviously expected her audience to react to this happy possibility. When they didn’t, she stood silently for a moment, then seemed to shrug it off.
She turned to Hardy. “I want to talk about the ship’s speed. Your ‘transit speed’ is fifteen knots.” She consulted her notes to make sure she used the proper term.
Looking at the list, she asked, “Who is Lieutenant Commander Ho?”
The Engineer raised his hand. “Yes, ma’am?”
“As soon as we’re done with the ROV trials this afternoon, change our speed to twenty-five knots.” She saw surprise in the Engineer’s face and paused. “This sub can move at least twenty-five knots, can’t it? I looked up your speed. We can reach our destination in about half the time.”
Hardy spoke up. “Standard transit speed is fifteen knots, because at higher speeds, we become more detectable...”
“By whom?” Patterson asked. “We’re not at war.”
“The Russians will still try to detect us, and the higher speed will also put a strain on the engineering plant,” he explained.
“Oh, so this thing really is a nuclear-powered junk pile.” She smiled, almost triumphant.
Hardy bristled. “We were scheduled for decommissioning until they slapped us with this junket. We didn’t ask for this mission.”
“Look, your job is simple,” she countered. “Just drive Dr. Davis and myself north and we’ll do all the work.”
She handed out papers to the Captain and XO. “See, I’ve already set up a survey plan.” She taped one copy of the plan to the bulkhead. It was the same chart of the waste sites, marked with a route between the areas.
Bair stood to study the map, and Hardy turned in his seat to look at Lieutenant Commander O’Connell, the Navigator. “Did you help her with this?” Hardy’s tone and expression were both stern, almost angry. He didn’t like surprises.
O’Connell quickly shook his head. “No, sir. I’ve never seen this.”
Hardy said, “Ma’am, our charts of that area are poor. Normally the Navigator develops a track and the XO and I approve it.”
The XO, who had been studying the track, chimed in. “Sir, she’s got us moving through some pretty shallow water.” Hardy quickly stood up and examined Patterson’s track.
Patterson refused to budge. “This plan will work. It’s perfectly all right.”
Hardy, studying the chart, said, “No, ma’am, it’s not. You’ve just drawn lines connecting these different sites. We pass too close to some known wrecks, over an explosive dumping area, through very shallow water, and in some of these locations it’s almost impossible to get out of if we’re detected. The Navigator will review your plan. He will make sure to show you any changes and get your approval,” he offered.
Patterson agreed reluctantly. “As long as it doesn’t add a lot of time to the mission. We have to be back with the samples by the end of June. The Sao Paulo congress starts on July 8. If we’re too late, then the whole mission will be wasted.”
“I won’t risk the ship’s machinery breaking down in the middle of the Atlantic or running aground on the Russian coast for some political boondoggle.”
“You’ll do whatever’s required to accomplish the mission. Those are the President’s orders.” Her tone was preemptory. Jerry certainly didn’t like Captain Hardy, but he resented her speaking to his captain that way.
Hardy, angry and defensive, started to reply, then stopped himself, fighting for control. Jerry watched emotions play over his face, and then the Captain sighed. “We’ll get back by the end of June.”
Patterson smiled, almost triumphantly, but she tried to make it just a pleasant expression. She picked up her pad and studied it, trying to get the brief back to business. “I just have one more question. How can I send and receive e-mail while I’m aboard? I’m sure there are already several urgent messages waiting for me.”
Hardy, for once surprised, didn’t answer immediately, and Bair spoke up. “Ma’am, we can receive the Fleet broadcast three times a day. Any messages to you will be added to that. The crew receives personal messages the same way.”
“No, no,” she countered. “I asked about this before I left. They said that all Navy ships can send and receive e-mail these days.”
“Navy surface ships, yes, through a commercial satellite system. We can’t transmit while submerged, and even when we come up for the Fleet broadcasts, we usually only receive. Transmitting any radio signal is like waving a big ‘We’re over here’ sign. Our mission orders specifically cite security as having a high priority.”
Patterson became alarmed. “But that means I’ll be out of touch for weeks. You don’t understand. I work for the President. I deal with crises every day. If I can’t communicate...” she paused, as she tried to imagine being incommunicado for months. Finally she faced Hardy and said, “This is simply unacceptable. You have to let me read my e-mail,” she announced.
Hardy had trouble hiding his enjoyment. “I’m sorry, Doctor. It’s impossible.”
“It’s entirely possible. I’m the mission commander and I need to stay in close touch with my office and with the President.”
His expression hardened. “And I’m the captain of this vessel. I will not do anything that so grossly compromises our security. And the mission, I might add.”
“You’re a glorified bus driver who needs to remember who’s in charge!”
“And you need a lesson on the chain of command,” Hardy stormed. He started to say something else, then stopped himself again and quickly left the wardroom.
Patterson, also fuming, followed.
A few moments later, Jerry heard the door to the Captain’s cabin slam shut, and after a pause, open, and slam again. Considering that Hardy’s stateroom was one deck up, Jerry wondered if it was still on its hinges.
Bair, finding himself suddenly in charge of the briefing, looked at the charts for a minute, then turned to the assembled officers and chiefs. “The briefing’s over. I’m sure everyone has duties elsewhere,” he said firmly.
The wardroom quickly emptied. Jerry grabbed his qualification book and headed aft—and almost got caught in the crush of everyone else with the same idea. A small part of Jerry wanted to be a fly on the wall in the Captain’s stateroom, but most of him wanted to be as far away from forward compartment upper level as possible. Nothing good would come of the Captain’s fight with Patterson and Jerry wanted to be long gone when they came out.
And at that moment, Jerry really wanted to be somewhere else, far away from Memphis. They’d just started out on the mission and already they seemed headed for disaster. With Hardy and Patterson at each other’s throats over who was in charge, it seemed unlikely that the rest of the crew would be able to function properly. The thought of an antagonistic command element combined with the unfamiliar equipment, gave Jerry little hope for success. Searching for distraction, he fortified his resolve with a cup of hot cocoa from the galley and marched off to the engine room to delve into the mysteries of the lube oil system.
Dinner that night in the wardroom was silent, tense, and uncomfortable. While Patterson wasn’t at the first sitting, Hardy was, and it was obvious to everyone that he was still in a foul mood. Jerry noticed that Emily was still a little pale and ate sparingly. Whether this was due to her claustrophobia or embarrassment over Patterson’s behavior, he didn’t know. Regardless, she retired to her stateroom immediately after dinner. Jerry did likewise, but he spent most of the evening preparing for his next checkout and turned in late. Sleep came surprisingly easily.
Early the next morning the mood on board had improved somewhat. At least some of the junior officers talked with each other during breakfast. But if Patterson or Hardy entered the wardroom, all conversation immediately ceased and everyone stared intently at their meal, careful to avoid direct eye contact with either of them. Neither seemed to care that their ongoing feud was adversely affecting everyone else on board.
And Jerry’s musings made him lose track of the time. He had to get up to control for his first watch as Diving Officer under instruction. Jerry wolfed down a sticky bun and some cereal, grabbed his qual book, and literally ran up to control. For the next six hours, Jerry started applying some of the basic concepts necessary to keep Memphis at its ordered depth with a balanced trim. Lenny Berg was the OOD on the 0600 to 1200 watch and he passed on a few tricks as well.
Before they went to the wardroom for lunch, both Jerry and Lenny went to the stateroom to grab their notebooks. There would be little time after lunch before Davis would give her presentation on the capabilities of the ROVs and go over the launch and retrieval procedures. Rustling around his disorganized desk, Lenny looked over his shoulder at Jerry and asked, “So, who do you think is going to win round two? Yesterday was a bit of a draw.”
Sighing, Jerry replied, “I’m entertaining the fleeting hope that both will act like civilized human beings this afternoon.”
“Ha! Little chance of that, I’m afraid,” chortled Berg. “But, as much as I hate to admit it, the Captain has every right to be pissed off. Patterson is way out of line.”
“She certainly knows all the right buttons to push, doesn’t she?”
“Well, since they are both control freaks, it doesn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to see that they have the same buttons,” stated Lenny firmly. “Ah, there’s my notebook. What say we go and enjoy a quiet lunch at Chez Memphis before this afternoon’s festivities.”
Lunch was indeed quiet, with only four at second sitting. Jerry, Lenny, Al Millunzi, and Jim Porter had all just come off watch and they enjoyed their temporary isolation from the rest of the boat. During the meal, they talked, joked, and generally enjoyed each other’s company. For a brief moment, Jerry saw the wardroom atmosphere he appreciated so much during his days at the squadron. He was glad to see that the camaraderie he missed wasn’t completely dead on Memphis, just buried under the oppressive cloud cast by Hardy’s command style.
Just as the dishes were being cleared away, Emily Davis walked in with her laptop. The four officers rose to greet her and then helped her hook up the computer to the flat panel display on the forward bulkhead. The mood remained pleasant and the banter lighthearted. It included the predictable joke by Berg on how many engineers did it take to screw in a light bulb. No sooner had the groans died down when Patterson burst into the wardroom.
The change in the room was palpable. Instantly everyone, including Emily, became tense and silent. Everywhere she went, Jerry thought, her sour, cold disposition dragged everyone down. Jerry found himself deeply resenting Patterson’s influence.
After briefly conferring with Emily about the afternoon’s presentation, Patterson poured a cup of coffee and sat down at the wardroom table. The room was now so quiet that her sipping could easily be heard. Ten minutes later, the wardroom was full to capacity, but it remained just as quiet. Hardy finally entered and motioned for those that had them to take their seats. He didn’t even look at Patterson.
“Dr. Davis is going to brief us on the capabilities of the ROVs. Since very few of us have NMRS experience, I expect you all to give her your undivided attention. In an hour and a half, we’ll slow down and give each ROV a shakedown test. We’ll resume our transit north once the tests have been completed,” declared Hardy. “These ROVs are crucial to the success of our mission and I expect a flawless performance from everyone involved. Dr. Davis, the floor is yours.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Emily nervously. “As the Captain has already mentioned, the Draper Environmental Survey ROVs are based on Near Term Mine Reconnaissance System vehicles. However, they have been heavily modified to collect environmental data from undersea sites that are suspected to contain radiological contamination.”
Emily was fidgety, tense, and definitely uncomfortable giving the briefing as she moved through the introductory material very quickly. As hard as he tried, Jerry just couldn’t keep up with all the new information as Emily flew from one slide to the next. From the frustrated expression on a number of the crew’s faces, he wasn’t the only one, and Hardy was starting to get that impatient look. Fortunately, the XO piped up and asked Davis to go back a slide and clarify a point she had just made. As she looked at Bair to provide further explanation, Jerry saw him mouth the words: “Slow down.” Emily nodded and her pace noticeably slowed.
It was only after she got to the detailed technical specifications of the ROVs that she seemed to reach her comfort zone. Slowly and deliberately, she went over every system and explained its function in detail. She also went over each step in the launch and recovery processes with the same degree of detail.
Jerry was furiously writing notes as he listened, and he couldn’t help but be impressed with Emily’s technical competence. Every question posed by a crew member was answered thoroughly and professionally. Even Hardy was getting into the briefing, leaning forward in his chair as Emily highlighted the various features of her vehicles. Patterson, on the other hand, seemed bored with the whole thing. Toward the end of the presentation, there was a lot of discussion on the sampling system and how it operated.
“Dr. Davis, since many of the sediment and water samples may be radioactive, how do we safely get them back to nucleonics, where the analysis equipment is installed?” asked Ho. “I’m concerned about the risk of spreading contamination throughout a good chunk of this boat.”
“I understand your concern,” replied Emily. “The sediment and water sampling systems are encased in individual watertight containment modules and are removed from the ROV as complete assemblies. They’ve been pressure-tested to four hundred pounds per square inch. The test pressure is greater than the ROV’s maximum design depth.”
“Good,” said Hardy. Then, turning toward Jeff Ho, he continued, “Engineer, only your people will be allowed to transport the sample modules from the torpedo room to Nucleonics. And I expect radiation surveys to be made along the entire route to verify that there was no leakage.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” responded Ho.
“Any other questions?” demanded Hardy. When none were forthcoming, he said, “All right, then, we’ll man ROV launch stations in half an hour. Dr. Davis, make sure the XO has a copy of your brief so it can be uploaded to the network for reference by the crew. Dismissed.”
As people filed out of the wardroom, a number of the officers and chiefs paused to compliment Davis on her presentation. Patterson appeared annoyed by the attention that Emily was getting and left in a huff, nearly running over Cal Richards in the process.
Jerry stayed behind in the wardroom and waited for an opportunity to talk to Emily. It took a few minutes before he was able to get near enough to speak without having to raise his voice. “Great presentation, Emily. Even the Captain seemed to like it. I’d interpret that as a rare compliment.”
“Thanks, it did seem to go well. Still, I’m just glad it’s over.”
“How are you doing with your little issue that we talked about yesterday?”
“Better, thank you. I’m still somewhat nervous, but the XO was very helpful in talking me through it. Thanks again for all your help,” replied Emily sincerely.
“Glad to be of service, ma’am.” Jerry said with a mock bow. He then took a quick look around the wardroom to make sure Patterson wasn’t within earshot. “Switching topics, I noticed that Dr. Patterson didn’t look too thrilled during your presentation. You’d think she would be more interested, seeing as these ROVs of yours are key to the success of this mission.”
“Well, Jerry, in her defense, she has seen this brief over a dozen times,” said Emily apologetically. “I’m sure it starts to get a bit stale after the fourth time.”
“Yeah . . . well, I see your point. I guess I’m just reacting to her sandpaper approach to interpersonal relationships. She damn near ran over Mr. Richards getting out of the wardroom.”
“She’s still upset with Captain Hardy. They had a terrible fight after the meeting yesterday and apparently Hardy read her the riot act on what she can and cannot do in regard to this mission. From what little she has told me, she’d turn this sub around right now if she hadn’t committed herself in front of the President.” Emily paused while she finished putting her laptop away. She then looked Jerry in the eye and said, “Dr. Patterson doesn’t take it well when people oppose her. She’s used to being in charge and she’s used to getting her way.”
“Sounds vaguely like my commanding officer,” remarked Jerry sympathetically. “But if we are going to pull this mission off, we all need to learn to play nice.”
“Teamwork is not something Joanna Patterson is good at. Just ask about a half dozen former White House staffers,” replied Emily with a slight hint of humor.
“Wonderful! And Captain Hardy’s afraid of joining them.”
“That’s about how I see it, Mr. Mitchell.”
“Well, then, with that cheery thought in mind, Dr. Davis, shall we head off to the torpedo room and prepare your vehicles for their test runs?”
“Certainly.” She brightened as Jerry changed the subject. “But I need to get something to drink. My throat is dry after all that talking.” The hoarseness of Emily’s voice reinforced her statement.
“Sure thing. We can swing by the galley and grab a cup of bug juice on the way,” said Jerry.
“Ewwww, that sounds disgusting! Why do you guys have to be so gross?” complained Emily.
“Sorry, Navy tradition. How about we grab you a cup of cheap Kool-Aid? I believe they are serving green and purple today.”
“Huh? What’s with the colors? Don’t you Navy types believe in flavors like the rest of the us?”
“In theory, there are flavors. I think the green is supposed to be lime and the purple is grape. But they pretty much taste the same, so we go by colors. That’s what you get when you buy from the lowest bidder.”
Making their way to the galley, Jerry and Emily picked up their drinks and then headed forward to the ladder that led to forward compartment lower level and the torpedo room. Since the ladder ended up in the twenty-one-man bunkroom, Jerry went down first to make sure no one would be “surprised” by Emily’s appearance. With the coast clear, Emily quickly made her descent and the two of them entered the torpedo room.
Senior Chief Foster already had the entire torpedo division assembled when Jerry and Emily arrived. Foster was reviewing the ROV launch procedures with the men and paid little attention to the two as they headed over to the ROV control area.
Emily sat down at the control and display pallet and powered up the computer systems. Jerry looked around the space as she went through the initial system checks. He focused on the two ROVs in their support cradles and his eye caught the stenciled H and D on the vehicles. He asked, “Emily, I have a question for you. What do the ‘H’ and ‘D’ stand for on the ROVs?”
“Oh, that’s just my way of telling them apart. The ‘H’ stands for Huey and the ‘D’ stands for Duey.”
Jerry just stood there and stared. The quizzical look on his face made Emily chuckle.
“You mean to tell me you named those two vehicles after Donald Duck’s nephews?”
“Ahh, well, uh . . . yes .. . and no,” answered Emily, whose face started to blush.
“Okay, that was as clear as mud,” replied Jerry sarcastically. “C’mon, what do the letters really stand for?”
“I told you,” said Emily defensively. “My babies are named after two of the maintenance robots from the 1971 science fiction movie Silent Running. The robots were named after Donald’s nephews.”
“Silent Running.?” asked a befuddled Jerry. “Isn’t that a submarine movie?”
“Oh, no! It’s classic sci-fi!” Emily’s face brightened, and she became more animated as she described the movie to Jerry. “There were these three spaceships carrying the last existing forests in domes, awaiting the message to return to Earth and renew the world following a devastating nuclear war. And on each ship there were three maintenance robots, and on the Valley Forge the three robots were named Huey, Duey, and Louie.”
Jerry could only stare in utter amazement as Emily just kept babbling on about this movie. She had the same unrestrained zeal for science fiction that his sisters had for shoes, jewelry, and boys. Jerry was now absolutely convinced that Emily Davis was a geek, a nerd—another brilliant engineer who didn’t appear to have a life. She went on for ten more minutes and finally concluded by describing how the tragic hero kills himself with a nuclear bomb. “It’s a wonderful movie with lots of depth and emotion all tied together in a futuristic spaceship motif. You really should see it sometime.”
“Let me get this straight,” Jerry said with deep concern in his voice. “Your favorite movie is about a ship. It has two robots named Huey and Duey. The movie has an environmental theme to it. Its title is Silent Running, which is something we will probably be doing a lot of. And at end, the hero is killed by a nuke. Are you trying to tell me something here?”