“What?” It was now Emily’s turn to be confused. But after a few moments, her eyes widened, her mouth dropped, and she sputtered, “Oh. Oh! No, no, I didn’t mean anything like that at all, Jerry!”
“Good! I’m glad to hear it, because I don’t like your ending.” Both of them laughed over Jerry’s response. The sound was so loud that all of the torpedomen stopped and looked over at the two of them. Foster had absolute disdain on his face.
Before Jerry could explain, the IMC announced, “Man ROV launch stations.”
Pulling himself together, Jerry looked over at Foster and ordered, “Senior Chief, please start loading Huey into tube three.”
Perplexed, Foster replied, “Excuse me, sir?”
“The ROV with the ‘H’ on it, that’s Huey. Please load it into tube three.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Foster said coldly.
Foster turned and signaled TM1 Moran, who opened the breech door for tube three remotely from the weapons launching console. Greer then inspected the tube with a flashlight, while Foster and the other torpedomen positioned the loading tray with the ROV so it lined up with tube three. The hydraulic rammer was connected, and Huey was slowly pushed into the tube, stern first and upside down. Emily showed the torpedomen how to thread the fiber-optic cable through the small penetration in the breech door and made sure there was enough slack so the cable could be hooked up to the connection box on the inboard side of the tube.
Foster and Lee then attached the deployment drogue to the nose probe on the ROV and slipped the retrieval cable through a larger breech door penetration and attached it to the drogue body. Finally a breech support ring was installed in the tube, which firmly secured the ROV and would prevent it from moving inadvertently. After the loading had been finished, Emily and Jerry inspected the ROV to make sure everything was in order. For Jerry, this was more of a quick course on what to look for when double-checking to see that a ROV had been loaded properly.
Satisfied that everything was correct, Emily asked Moran to shut and lock the breech door. She then took the fiber-optic cable, crimped on a connector, and hooked it up to the connection box. While the loading process went well, it still took twenty minutes to complete and it was clear from the torpedo room phone talker that the Captain was getting impatient.
Jerry and Emily hurried back over to the control pallet, and while Jerry put on his headset, Emily brought Huey to life. After a quick diagnostic check, she informed Jerry that everything was functioning normally and that Huey was ready to go. Jerry then reported to the control room, “Control, U-bay. ROV has been loaded and tested. Test satisfactory. Request permission to flood tube three, equalize to sea pressure, and open the outer door.”
The Chief of the Watch in control acknowledged the request and relayed it on to the OOD, who in turn asked the Captain. It didn’t take long before “Permission granted” was passed back to Jerry. Looking over toward Moran, Jerry called out in a loud voice, “Launcher, flood tube three, equalize to sea pressure, and open the outer door.”
“Flood tube three, equalize to sea pressure, and open the outer door, aye, sir,” replied Moran.
Looking back down at the checklist, Jerry marked off the step with a grease pencil. He then looked at the ship’s speed, the digital display read five knots, and he requested control to slow to two knots—bare steerageway.
“Sir, tube three outer door open,” reported Moran.
“Very well,” said Jerry. Now all they had to wait for was for Memphis to slow down enough so that the ROV could leave the tube without damaging itself in the process. It took a few minutes, but as soon as the speed indicator read two knots, Jerry contacted control again.
“Control, U-bay. Tube three outer door is open, all launch conditions have been met. Request permission to launch the ROV.”
As Jerry was waiting for permission from control, Dr. Patterson walked into the back of the torpedo room. He waved her over and offered her his chair. Jerry was surprised to hear her say, “Thank you.”
Control relayed the Captain’s permission, and Jerry looked over at TM2 Boyd at the winch controls. “Winch operator, release the brake.”
“Release the brake, aye. Sir, the brake is released,” said Boyd.
“Very Well.” Jerry then turned to Emily and said, “It’s your show now, Dr. Davis. Launch Huey.”
“Right. Engaging thruster,” she said.
“Louder, Emily. Everyone has to hear you,” chided Jerry.
“Engaging thruster,” repeated Emily in a louder voice.
“Cable paying out,” reported Boyd.
“Very well,” acknowledged Jerry.
The display console showed Huey slowly backing out of the tube. Once clear of the submarine’s hull, the ROV swung around in a lazy arc, righting itself, and assumed a position twenty feet below Memphis.
Emily announced that Huey was in the tow position. This was confirmed by Boyd, who reported that the cable was holding. Jerry then ordered the winch brake engaged and informed control that they were ready to begin the tow test. Slowly but steadily, Memphis increased speed from two to eight knots. At each half-knot increment, Boyd reported the tension on the cable. The stresses were within the specifications provided by Draper Labs. With the tow test completed, Jerry requested that the boat’s speed be reduced to five knots in preparation for the next phase of the trials.
While Memphis was slowing down, Seaman Jobin noticed that some water drops were coming from the fiber optic penetration in the breech door. Surprised, he called out to Emily, “Doctor Davis, ma’am, there are some drops of water leaking from the fiber-optic penetration in the door. Is it supposed to do that?”
Jerry took off his headset and walked over to tube three. So did Foster. As they were moving toward the tube, Emily said, “I was warned that the penetrations through the breech door might weep initially. As long as it is just droplets, it should be fine.”
Both Jerry and Foster looked at the very slow but steady drip from the seal around the penetration. Their instinctive dislike of any seawater entering the boat fought against Dr. Davis’ known engineering credentials. “Senior Chief?” Jerry asked hesitantly. Foster looked at his division officer with an equally questioning expression and shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea if this is normal, sir. But it doesn’t look too bad.”
“Okay, then, let’s continue the test,” said Jerry as he stood up. “Jobin, keep an eye on it. If it gets any worse, sing out.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Jobin.
“What’s next, Dr. Davis?” asked Jerry.
“It’s time to let Huey go for a short swim.” After pushing a few buttons and then pulling back on the joystick, Emily announced, “Detaching from the drogue.”
Jerry watched as Emily activated the forward-looking sonar and the video camera. Instantly, the sonar display showed the outline of Memphis’ hull, but only a vague shadow could be seen on the video screen. She then turned on the two 150-watt underwater lights and the greenish underside became clearly visible.
“Whoa! Way cool,” remarked Jerry softly.
Emily drove Huey about five hundred yards away from Memphis and then back. Satisfied that everything seemed to be in working order, she told Jerry it was time to recover the ROV.
Jerry nodded and called to control. “Control, U-bay. Preparing to recover the ROV. Request permission to flood down, equalize, and open the outer door on tube one.”
Permission was granted, and Moran proceeded to open tube one’s outer door. Normally it would not be possible to open both the outer doors in the same tube nest, but Foster had disabled the mechanical interlock. This was necessary since tube one contained a retractable arm that would be needed to assist in the recovery of the ROV into tube three below.
“Activating docking beacon,” announced Emily. The very-high-frequency acoustic beacon provided precise information on the drogue’s location to the ROVs navigation system. This enabled it to find the drogue and dock. As Huey approached the drogue, Emily tweaked the course with slight nudges of the joystick. Once the nose probe of the ROV edged into the drogue, mechanical clamps latched onto it and held the ROV securely.
Turning off the sonar, video camera, and lights, Emily reported, “Huey is docked and ready to be retrieved.”
“Very well,” said Jerry as he moved over to the retrieval arm station. He turned on the black-and-white video camera and lights and then extended the arm. “Winch operator, slowly reel in the ROV to my mark.” Boyd acknowledged Jerry’s order and began to reel in the cable. Jerry watched the video screen intently, waiting for the first sign that the ROV was near the outer door of tube three. He wished he had as clear a view as Emily did from her vehicle’s video system, but the arm used considerably less advanced technology. Soon the ROV’s form emerged from the shadows. Jerry shouted, “Mark!” and Boyd stopped the winch. He then tried to reach Huey with the arm, but the ROV was still too far away. It took a couple of tries before Jerry got a good grip on Huey’s hull. As Boyd started reeling in again, Jerry moved the ROV into place so that it entered tube three cleanly. As Jerry was stowing the retrieval arm, Boyd called out, “Breech ring contact.”
With a sigh of relief, Jerry ordered, “Launcher, close the outer door on tube three, drain the tube, and open the breech door.” He felt like clapping and Emily had a cautious smile. One down, one to go.
Jerry turned to Foster and said, “Senior Chief, have the men pull Huey from the tube and prepare Duey for its test run as quickly as they can.”
“I know what to do, sir,” replied Foster icily.
“Very well, Senior. Carry on,” responded Jerry casually.
The second test run went more smoothly than the first, and Jerry thought his guys were starting to get the hang of deploying and recovering the ROVs. After Duey was recovered, Jerry sent some of the division off to dinner while the others washed down the two ROVs. The first group returned to perform some of the required maintenance, under Emily’s watchful eye, while the others went to the second sitting.
Both Emily and Dr. Patterson were very pleased with the test runs, and both were confident that the ROVs would perform as expected once Memphis reached the Kara Sea. After everything was completed, and Emily had tucked her babies in for the night, Jerry grabbed a cup of coffee in the wardroom and started studying for his next watch.
All in all, Jerry thought, the day had gone remarkably well. The ROVs had performed to spec, Emily was happy with how things went, and both Hardy and Patterson had been civil. Foster was still a pain in the ass, but he had gotten the job done, and that counted for something. Jerry hoped that maybe, just maybe, this crew had turned the corner and that things would improve in the coming days. Jerry even dared to consider the possibility that this mission might not be as bad as he had originally thought. Only time would tell.
* * * *
Drill Team
The obnoxious wailing woke Jerry from a dead sleep and for a moment he thought it was his alarm clock, but as he reached for it, he woke up a little more. It was loud, way too loud for his alarm clock. As his brain began to function, Jerry recognized the sound. It was the Collision Alarm. There was a flooding casualty somewhere on board the boat.
Berg and Washburn were already out of their bunks and pulling on their poopy suits. As Jerry got up, the alarm stopped and he heard the Chief of the Watch’s voice over the IMC announcing system. “FLOODING IN THE ENGINE ROOM! CASUALTY ASSISTANCE TEAM LAY TO THE ENGINE ROOM!”
Nobody in the stateroom slowed down, and Jerry rediscovered that quickly dressing in a cramped space with two other people took a lot of practice all by itself. He inflicted a nasty blow to Washburn’s rib cage when Jerry’s elbow stuck out a bit too far, and he almost put on Berg’s shoes. As he dressed, Jerry went over his assignment for the different emergency stations. For flooding, he was supposed to muster his division in the torpedo room.
Officers were pouring out of their staterooms like ants from a kicked-over hill. Jerry hurried toward the ladder and slid down the handrails to reach the torpedo room below. Most of the TMs and FTs were already there, including Senior Chief Foster. As he took stock of his spaces, Jerry thought to check his watch. It was 2:23 in the morning.
It was only a drill, of course, so there wasn’t a fountain of cold seawater endangering Memphis. FT3 Larsen was wearing the sound-powered phones that allowed him to pass information on to everyone in the torpedo room as to what was going on in the engine room.
Jerry was ready to sit tight and wait when Foster started grilling the torpedo gang. He pointed to the aft bulkhead. “Seaman Jobin, what do we do if water starts coming under that door? Petty Officer Boyd, how do we fire torpedoes if we lose the high-pressure firing air reducer?”
A door on the aft bulkhead led to a passageway on the lower level, but it wasn’t watertight, so there was little they could do to stop the flow of water. There were, however, emergency procedures for restoring high-pressure firing air, should the reducer fail.
As Boyd simulated setting up the starboard tube nest for a shot, Emily Davis came down the aisle between the torpedo storage racks.
“Is this your damage control station?” Jerry asked.
“What’s that?” Emily asked in return. She seemed nervous.
“The XO was supposed to assign you stations. Places where you’re supposed to go in an emergency,” he explained.
As he spoke, the lights suddenly went out. Battery-powered battle lanterns cut in automatically, creating cones of light filled with angular shadows. Jerry was a little startled, but Davis screamed and headed back toward the door.
“It’s all right!” he called. “They’re just isolating some of the electrical circuits to keep them from shorting out.”
Davis froze, either because of Jerry’s explanation or because the path before her was dark as well. “It’s just part of the drill.” It was hard to sound soothing without also patronizing her, but she was probably too scared to notice. She held her place between the racks, undecided about which darkness was less threatening. Finally she turned and felt her way back toward Jerry.
TM1 Moran brought over a sound-powered phone headset. “Here, ma’am. Maybe you’d like to listen in on the DC circuit.” He helped her with the headphones and the unfamiliar microphone. Moran then explained how the phones worked; that the energy of her voice created the current that powered the circuit. She grasped the principle instantly and was also interested in the activity on the circuit. “Just don’t press the ‘Talk’ button on top of the mouthpiece,” Moran instructed.
Just as Davis started to calm down, the lights came on, and the IMC announced, “Secure from drill.”
Another voice, the Captain’s, came on the IMC. “That was disgraceful. It took eight minutes for the Casualty Assistance Team to get on scene and twelve minutes to secure the flooding and begin dewatering. Do I have to remind everyone that there is only one watertight bulkhead inside the pressure hull?” It was one of the first things any submariner learned about the Los Angeles class. Only the forward bulkhead to the reactor compartment was fully rated to test depth. The Captain’s caustic reminder was more than a little insulting.
“This was a simple one. In a real flooding casualty, we would have lost vital systems, and the accumulating seawater would have taken out others. But if you prefer standing hip-deep in cold salt water, we’ll let you try it.
“So far, this crew has not demonstrated it is ready to respond to an emergency properly. Until it is, expect more drills. That is all.”
Hardy gave them forty-five minutes before hitting them again. This time it was the general alarm klaxon, followed by “FIRE. FIRE IN THE PORT AC SWITCHBOARD. ALL HANDS DON EABS!” The ventilation fans and lights died immediately, and Jerry had to fumble for a flashlight he kept by his bunk. Berg and Washburn also used them in what now seemed to be an even smaller stateroom.
Slowed by the darkness and the need to plug into an EAB manifold to breathe, Jerry found his division already mustered in the torpedo room. Larsen had the phones on again and Foster had started a training session on the emergency air breathing system. Jerry stood and listened carefully. Foster knew the ropes, and while he might hate Jerry, he took care of his men.
Emily came down the aisle again, carefully holding a flashlight so that it pointed at the deck immediately in front of her. “I asked Lieutenant Commander Bair,” she announced, “and he says I should report here, since this is where my...ROVs...are...located.” Her words trailed off as the light showed nearly a dozen men standing around with masks on. Her puzzled look told Jerry that she didn’t have a clue as to what was going on. Walking over to her, Jerry removed his mask and said, “Good morning again, Dr. Davis. If I may be so blunt, where is your EAB mask?”
“My what?”
“Your emergency air breathing mask, like this one.” Jerry held up his mask so that Emily could see it clearly. “There are two such masks in your stateroom: one for you and another for Dr. Patterson. If you hear the IMC announce ‘Don EABs,’ please take the mask out of the bag, put it on, and make sure you have a good seal. You then plug the mask into an air manifold that looks like this.” Jerry pointed up into the overhead at a red-colored pipe with four plugs protruding from it.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was to participate that much in the drills,” Emily apologized.
“The EAB system’s purpose is to enable you to continue breathing in a toxic atmosphere. That usually happens when there’s a fire on a submarine. You need to learn how to use the EAB mask properly so that you are prepared in case something does go wrong,” Jerry explained firmly. “In fact, why don’t you sit in on Senior Chief Foster’s training? He’s going over the basics right now.” Just as he was about to lead Emily over, it finally struck him that Dr. Patterson wasn’t here with her.
“Where is Dr. Patterson? What’s her emergency station?” asked Jerry.
“She’s still in bed,” answered Davis. “She says these drills are silly and refuses to have anything to do with them.”
“What?” exclaimed Jerry.
Everyone looked at Emily with as much surprise as their division officer. Even Foster stopped his instructions in mid-sentence. Nobody on a sub ignored casualty drills.
Hardy’s voice over the IMC announced: “Secure from drill. All hands remove EABs. If that had been a real fire, I’d be heading for the nearest port and hoping we’d make it. It took too long to isolate the circuit and once again the Casualty Assistance Team was too slow. Count on doing this again until you do it right.” The lights came on and Jerry wearily headed back to bed.
Hardy hit them with a reactor scram at five, and then an engineering casualty during breakfast. As that drill ended, Jerry heard the General Alarm and the IMC announcement, “MAN BATTLE STATIONS TORPEDO.” Jerry was the Officer of the Deck under instruction for this drill, so he hurried to the control room.
He came into the space on the tail end of yet another argument between Hardy and Patterson. “... tired of these games. I’ve got work to do, and these drills keep slowing us down.”
“Doctor, I will drill this crew until I am satisfied with their performance. If our only job is to get you north, then how I run my boat is none of your business.” He spoke calmly, almost casually.
“Captain Hardy, you will stop these pointless drills!” Patterson’s voice was more than firm.
Hardy paused before answering. For a moment, Jerry thought he was going to comply. Then his expression hardened. “Respectfully, ma’am, I refuse.” As Patterson started to protest, he cut her off. “And in the future, Doctor, for the safety of this boat, you will participate in any casualty drills.” She didn’t answer him immediately and he continued. “Do not mistake me, Doctor. It truly is the safety of the boat—and the mission—that is at stake here.”
Patterson, almost expressionless, looked at Hardy for a moment, then nodded silently in agreement. She turned and left the control room.
Jerry realized he’d been holding his breath. So there were limits, things even Hardy couldn’t be bullied into doing. It made Jerry a little more hopeful, but he wondered what price they’d pay for Hardy’s defiance.
The drills continued throughout the day, with Hardy mixing accidents, engineering casualties, and battle drills almost continuously.
Drills are a normal part of submarine life, but Hardy was merciless in his pace, as well as in his critique of the crew’s actions. Even the smallest infraction brought blistering condemnation. The best the crew could hope for was a plain: “Secure from drill.” If Hardy didn’t have anything bad to say, he wouldn’t say anything at all.
Jerry watched as the crew took grim satisfaction in the lack of praise. During one of the engineering drills, he overheard one of the nuke electronics technicians say proudly, “Even the old man can’t find anything wrong with that one.”
But if there was any criticism from Hardy, the department head and division officers echoed it, passing it down the chain of command. When the machinist mates didn’t deal with a feed pump casualty quickly enough, Hardy held a “washup” in the wardroom—for all the officers. After reviewing the casualty in detail and pointing out each and every thing that had gone wrong, Hardy laid into Lieutenant Commander Ho, the Engineer.
“Your people aren’t properly trained or supervised. You tell Jackson, Hughes, Train, and even Chief Barber that their performance is not satisfactory, nor is yours for letting it happen.”
Ho stood at attention in front of the entire wardroom while the Captain lambasted him for several more minutes. He managed to work in an “Aye, aye” or “Yes, sir” where appropriate, but Hardy never gave him the chance to explain or even apologize.
Jerry listened to it with the rest of the wardroom, embarrassed for Ho, and remembered how different his old squadron commander had been. He suspected that the difference in command styles was not because one was an aviator and the other a submariner.
After Hardy left the wardroom, Jerry watched as Ho turned on Al Millunzi, the Main Propulsion Assistant. His division maintained and operated the feed pump in question and had muffed the drill. “What were your people thinking, mister? Or were they thinking at all?” Ho spoke loudly, much more loudly than he had to, and Jerry saw him glance in the direction of the passageway, as if he wanted to make sure Hardy heard him berating the MPA.
Millunzi immediately came to attention and didn’t respond as Ho criticized his leadership, his technical knowledge, and even his dedication to the Navy. “I’ll expect nothing less than perfection from you and your men, mister. Now, go make it happen!”
The lieutenant, red-faced, nodded silently and left the wardroom. Jerry felt sure that Chief Barber and M division were next in line for “verbal admonition.”
As the crew demonstrated their competence with the basic drills, Hardy and the XO increased the complexity. Engineering casualties caused flooding. Toxic smoke from a simulated insulation fire in forward compartment middle level caused dozens of simulated casualties, including Jerry and his men, who were told to lie in place and wait to be treated.
The rescuers appeared quickly, all wearing EABs and their fire-fighting suits. As the leading “rescuer” reached down to pick up one of the casualties, the XO stopped him. “Wait a minute, Brown. Is your mask on properly?”
Machinist Mate Second Class Brown nodded, “Yes, sir.” His answer was muffled by the mask.
“Good,” the XO replied. “And can you see all right?”
“Yessir, as well as the mask allows,” responded Brown.
“Do you have a nifty with you?” Bair asked innocently. The nifty is the handheld Navy infrared thermal imager (NIFTI), which is used by firefighters to locate a fire in thick, obscuring smoke. It can also be used to find personnel casualties by their body heat.
“Uh, no, sir. The fire-fighting teams have both of them.”
“Well, that’s no good! This compartment is filled with toxic smoke. It’s not only poisonous, it’s nearly opaque.” Bair pulled out a small green trash bag and slipped it over Brown’s head. He then passed bags to the rest of the team. “Here, all of you put these on, just like Brown.”
As they pulled the bags over their heads, a muffled curse came from somewhere in the group. “I can’t see shit!” exclaimed an anonymous voice.
“I can’t see shit, sir!” the XO replied, amused. “If you can guarantee that fires will never have smoke, I’ll let you take off the bags.”
“Permission to proceed, sir,” Brown said in a tone that managed to mix frustration with proper respect for the XO’s rank.
Bair nodded approval, and then, remembering they couldn’t see him, said, “Proceed.”
The rescuers were required to actually “examine” each casualty, then bodily lift the “unconscious” man from the space and evacuate him to a safe portion of the sub. Stumbling, moving carefully to avoid the angular equipment that filled the space, the rescue team had only evacuated half of the casualties in the torpedo room when Hardy came clattering down the ladder from the deck above.
“What’s going on...” he started, but then stopped himself as he realized what the XO had done. He saw Bair checking his watch and asked, “How long have they been at it?”
“Ten minutes, sir. They’ve cleared five casualties so far.”
“Leaving the other five breathing toxic smoke for ten minutes,” the Captain said harshly. He pointed to the men, including Jerry, still lying “unconscious” on the deck. “Well, we might as well stop the drill, because these men are all dead.”
The rescue team did stop, and some of the men started to remove their bags, but Hardy yelled, “No! Belay my last! Leave the bags on and keep going. You obviously need the practice. Next time you might not have ten minutes.”
The crew had now been subjected to over fifteen hours of intense drilling, and both Bair and Master Chief Reynolds argued strongly for a break to let the crew catch its breath and have a meal in peace. Hardy deferred to the petitions of the XO and COB and allowed the crew to eat dinner without any interruptions, in stark contrast to both breakfast and lunch, and everyone welcomed the three-hour respite.
The meal, however, was not according to the menu that was listed in the plan of the day. Washburn apologized profusely to both the wardroom and the crew’s mess for having to serve sliders and fries, instead of the much-anticipated surf ‘n’ turf. His mess cooks just didn’t have enough time to prepare the steaks and lobsters with all the drill activity. Although there was a little grumbling, no one blamed the supply officer. Most of the crew was just grateful to have a quiet hot meal.
Half an hour after dinner, though, the drills returned with a vengeance. “FIRE IN THE TORPEDO ROOM! ALL HANDS DON EABS! CASUALTY ASSISTANCE TEAM LAY TO THE TORPEDO ROOM,” blared the IMC. Followed immediately by the BONG, BONG, BONG of the general alarm. Jerry grabbed the EAB mask on his bunk and started to walk quickly to his spaces. He had taken only a few steps, when he nearly collided with Emily Davis, who was exiting the wardroom. “Stay here!” Jerry yelled as he literally pushed her back into the wardroom. Confused by Jerry’s actions, Emily watched as he turned the corner on his way to the torpedo room. The other junior officers scampered by, going as fast as they could to their damage control stations. Not knowing what to do, Emily shut the wardroom door and sat down on the couch.
Jerry reached the crew accommodations just aft of the torpedo room and found a number of TMs and FTs in fire-fighting gear rigging a fire hose. He slipped on a Nomex flame-retardant jumpsuit and the protective headgear and gloves as quickly as the very cramped quarters would allow. Once finished, he moved up to the man with the sound-powered phones to report to control that he was in charge at the scene. But as Jerry got closer, he was surprised to see that it was FT1 Bearden manning the phones. Looking around, he saw no sign of Senior Chief Foster.
“Petty Officer Bearden, where is the Senior Chief?”
“I don’t know, sir. He should have been here by now.” Bearden’s response did not encourage Jerry at all. “I’m on line with control. Do you want me to report that you are in charge at the scene?”
“Yes, please.” As Bearden made the report, Jerry looked around the area and saw that the team was just about ready to make its entry into the torpedo room. He then noticed that the red ball cap that Bair was wearing, the “badge” of a drill monitor, had a Fokker triplane embroidered on the front. The XO also had a grin on his face that would do justice to the Cheshire cat. Jerry poked Bearden on the shoulder and asked, “What’s with the XO?”
Bearden turned, looked, and then Jerry saw his shoulders sag. Facing his division officer, Bearden said dejectedly, “Ahh shit, sir. We’re screwed.”
“What’s wrong?”
“The XO is wearing his Red Baron hat. It’s his way of telling us that this drill is going to be a ball buster. Every time he’s worn that hat, the drill has always been complex and hard. Very hard.”
“Wonderful,” replied Jerry sarcastically.
An unidentifiable rating then handed Jerry a training NIFTI. Actually, it was just a small coffee can with both of the ends removed and painted white, but it was good enough to keep one of the XO’s stupid green garbage bags off his head.
Positioning the hose team, jerry turned to have Bearden report that they were making their entry. Only, he wasn’t there. Looking frantically for his phone talker, Jerry spotted Bearden and Foster at the end of the line, apparently arguing about something, given Foster’s animated hand motions. Angrily, Bearden took off the sound-powered phones and handed them to the Senior Chief. It seemed to take Foster a very long time to get the phones on, adjusted, and checked back into control. Jerry figured that that little stunt had cost them almost a minute. The XO certainly didn’t look happy.
Once Foster finally reached Jerry, he ordered the senior chief to report to control that the team was entering the torpedo room. As Jerry opened the door, all the lights went out in the compartment and everyone, save Jerry, had a bag put over their head. Holding his coffee can up to his face, Jerry was allowed to see a flickering reddish light from the aft port side of the room. Great, thought Jerry, the fire is over by the warshot Mk 48s. I bet we only have a limited amount of time before the XO has one of the weapons cooks off. Bearden was right. This will be a ball buster.
Advancing slowly, crouched down and waddling, Jerry led his team up and around the center torpedo storage rack. As they came up to the weapons launching console, Jerry saw TM3 Lee lying on the deck. Jerry directed the last two members of the team to remove Lee from the torpedo room as quickly as they could. Foster grabbed another sound-powered phone set from its storage box and tried to find the jack; the first set he had been wearing wasn’t long enough to reach the fire’s location. Jerry reached over, took the connector, and plugged it in for him. The senior chief seemed to double-check the connection, but Jerry wasn’t about to be blindsided again and he rechecked the connection himself. It was secure.
Continuing on around the center stow, the team came across a red strobe light that marked the location of the fire. The only thing back in that corner was one of the AC power distribution panels. Turning to Foster, Jerry yelled, “To control, the fire is near panel P-4. Recommend electrically isolating the panel.” Foster repeated the report precisely and forwarded it to control. Jerry waited about fifteen seconds and then directed the hose team to shift to high-velocity fog and start fighting the fire. He waited the extra time to allow control to pass the word to isolate the electrical panel before he started spraying it with lots of seawater.
Bair walked over to the strobe light, increased the frequency of the flashes, and moved it closer to Jerry’s team. “The fire is getting worse and it’s starting to get really hot in here,” he said loudly. Immediately, Jerry yelled to Foster, “To control, the fire is getting worse. We need a second hose team.” Preoccupied with fighting the simulated fire, Jerry didn’t hear Foster’s repeat back. After about thirty seconds, Jerry became concerned that he hadn’t heard anything from control about sending in a second team. He was about to ask Foster if control had responded when the IMC roared to life, it was the Captain’s voice and he sounded agitated: “TEAM LEADER, CHECK YOUR SOUND-POWERED PHONE CONNECTION!”
Jerry spun around and looked over at the sound-powered phone jack. The plug was halfway out of the socket. Reaching over, he angrily screwed the plug back in. “Senior Chief, verify that you are back online with control and then pass on the word that we need a second hose team down here.”
“Yes sir,” replied Foster smugly.
No sooner had Jerry turned his attention back to the fire than the XO turned on a white strobe light and pointed it at the team. “It’s extremely hot in here. You can’t stand the heat any longer,” shouted Bair as he pushed Jerry’s team back from the strobe lights.
Jerry felt frustrated, as there was little he could do without the second hose team. The XO wasn’t cutting them any slack either, and unless Jerry took measures to protect his team from the heat, the XO would start having them pass out on him. With a hard sigh, Jerry ordered the nozzle man to select low-velocity fog. He then ordered the team to start backing away from the advancing fire. Moments later, the IMC announced, “SECURE FROM DRILL. ALL HANDS REMOVE EABS.”
Jerry stood up and ripped the EAB mask off his face. He was angry, very angry. He looked around to find Foster when Hardy came stomping into the room with Lieutenant Cal Richards in tow. “That was absolutely deplorable,” screamed Hardy. “If this had been a real fire, we’d be in three-section duty on the bottom with Thresher and Scorpion’’—a sarcastic reference to the only U.S. nuclear-powered submarines that had sunk with all hands.
“Mr. Richards,” ranted the Captain, “this team reacted so slowly to the fire that my grandmother with a garden hose could have done better. If you haven’t realized it yet, there were four warshots with six hundred and sixty pounds of high explosive each sitting in the middle of that fire!”
Turning toward Jerry, he continued to lash out. “What excuse do you have for your incompetent communication practices? You were out of touch for nearly two minutes! And in that time you let the fire get so bad, so out of hand, that the weapons in the racks cooked off!”
Shifting back to Richards, Hardy finished his tirade in typical form. “WEPS, I’m holding you personally responsible for this abysmal performance. It’s clear that you have been derelict in your duties as a department head, since these imbeciles are less capable than basic sub school students. I can only assume that you are gundecking your training!” Cal Richards was pasty-white with fright, as Hardy was using words usually reserved for courts-martial offenses.
“XO, you and the WEPS come with me,” Hardy shot out as he turned to leave. “We need to plan remedial drills for the Weapons Department. The rest of you, clean this mess up.” With that, Hardy and the still silent Richards left the torpedo room.
Bair let loose with a heavy sigh, looked at Jerry, and said, “Clean up and stow the DC gear, Mr. Mitchell. We’ll discuss the drill later.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” responded Jerry quietly.
Turning to leave, Bair gave Jerry a friendly slap on the shoulder and then headed off for the CO’s stateroom. As the XO slowly walked out of the torpedo room, Jerry sensed his weariness.
“Okay, folks, let’s clean up,” Jerry said as he reached down and unplugged the two strobe lights. He then peeled off his fire-fighting gear and gave it to TM3 Lee.
As the rest of torpedo division started to secure the phones and the rest of the DC gear, Jerry quietly made the rounds to see how his people were doing. Most were downcast, resigned to the inevitable additional drills. Some made jokes that a three-section watch rotation with Thresher and Scorpion would be easier than what they had right now. Bearden looked just plain mad.
Jerry was furious that the entire department was being forced to suffer because of one man’s bad attitude. While the thought of confronting Foster was not all that appealing, Jerry had to do something before he destroyed what little morale the division had left. Jerry, working hard to keep calm, said, “Senior Chief, can I see you a moment, please?” He held up a clipboard, as if he wanted to speak about some paperwork issue.
Foster followed Jerry forward to an unoccupied corner of the torpedo room. Speaking softly, Jerry said carefully, “You intentionally broke that phone connection, Senior Chief.”
“So?” retorted Foster. “I was just imposing another casualty.”
“After I’d double-checked the connection? And on your own?” He challenged Foster. “The XO decides what drills to run. Did he tell you to impose that particular casualty?”
“No.” The Senior Chief pointedly did not add “sir.”
Jerry was direct. “So why did you do it?”
“To see how you’d handle it. And you didn’t.”
“To make me look bad in front of the Captain seems a better explanation.”
“You can do that all by yourself.”
“But you don’t mind sticking out your foot now and then.”
“This conversation is over,” Foster announced in a voice loud enough to be overheard.
“Not yet it isn’t, Senior Chief! Not until I say it’s over,” countered Jerry forcefully.
“Give me a break.” Foster didn’t even try to speak softly. “You can’t hack it.” He was impatient with the conversation and turned to leave, but Jerry kept talking.
“I’d have a better chance of hacking it if you were working with me—or at least not against me. And we do have a mission to accomplish,” he reminded Foster.
“A junket for Broomhilda? This is one mission I want to fail. And why should you get a second chance? It’s just more politics.” Foster sounded disgusted with the word. “The only mission I’ve got is to make sure that you don’t stay in submarines, and better still, to get you out of the Navy altogether.”
“Well, Senior Chief, my mission is to obey the orders of a duly elected Commander in Chief and the chain of command, even if I think they are politically motivated. And if you do anything like this again, I’ll drag your ass in front of the XO personally. Is that absolutely, positively, crystal clear, Foster?” replied Jerry loudly and sternly.
Momentarily taken aback by the vehemence Jerry displayed, Foster smiled and said, “You don’t have the guts, flyboy.”
Foster threw that last sentence over his shoulder as he walked away from Jerry, past the rest of the division, and out of the room.
After the senior chief’s abrupt departure, the men busied themselves with their assigned duties silently. Jerry remained isolated and tried to understand what had just happened—and why. He had never seen such open insubordination before, and he certainly didn’t know how to handle it - short of officially putting Foster on report, of course. Jerry was pretty sure the XO would back him up, but given Richards’ present state of mind, he would almost certainly support Foster. Regardless, it would be very messy if Jerry tried to bring charges against Foster. And how would Captain Hardy react? Very likely negatively, and that would end his second chance for a naval career for sure. “Damned if I do, damned if I don’t,” muttered Jerry to himself. A sudden movement caught Jerry’s eye, breaking his concentration. It was FT1 Bearden.
“Sir, the guys have finished cleaning up and all the DC gear has been properly stored. May I dismiss the men who are not on watch?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Jerry with a slight smile. “Thank you, FT1.”
Bearden fidgeted about for a moment, reluctant to speak, and then quietly he said, “Mr. Mitchell, I never should have let Senior. . .” Jerry sharply raised his hand, silencing the petty officer.
“It’s not your fault, Petty Officer Bearden,” stated Jerry sincerely “It’s not your fault. Understood?”
Bearden nodded stiffly as Jerry clasped his shoulder.
Drained physically and emotionally, Jerry started to make his way back to his stateroom. As he walked, he wondered if he had done the right thing. Well, he thought, that’s behind me now. For good or ill, the conflict between him and Foster was now out in the open. Right now, Jerry could only hope and pray that Foster wouldn’t call his bluff.
* * * *
Using the System
The drills continued unrelentingly throughout the next day. Hardy did let the crew have lunch, although he used the time to critique each drill in detail over the IMC. The Captain was unsparing in his remarks.
“. .. and Petty Officer Gregory didn’t remember to align the valves on the drain pump manifold properly, so the trim pump was unable to dewater the engine room. Progressive flooding drove us below our crush depth, killing everyone aboard. Mr. Lopez, it’s your responsibility to properly train Petty Officer Gregory, so those deaths are on your head, as well as his.
“Also, Mr. Lopez, there were serious training deficiencies noted during the fire drill we held this morning. As the Damage Control Assistant, you are to ensure that every member of this crew has adequate knowledge of the DC gear on this boat—and that includes the EAB system. During the fire drill, several of the crew didn’t properly seal their EAB masks after hooking them up. Toxic gas leaked in and they all died.”
Hardy paused for a moment. “In the four drills we held since breakfast, everyone aboard this boat has died at least twice. You are supposed to be professional submariners and I’m not going to throw softballs at you. We will continue to conduct emergency drills until you get it right. That is all.”
Jerry sat in the wardroom and half-listened to Hardy’s lecture as he tried to eat. He felt really bad for Frank Lopez as Hardy went on and on about his lack of professionalism. Looking down the table at Lopez, with his shoulders slumped over his meal, Jerry could empathize with him. He himself had earned similar treatments from Hardy—as had every officer present. But right now, Jerry had a bigger problem than the Captain.
Foster’s animosity and insubordination would be a crisis on any ship, but right now, on this boat, it was an unmitigated disaster. Bringing it into the open hadn’t clarified the problem or given him anything that would help him solve the conflict.
The rest of the wardroom looked upset, worried, or just plain scared. Hardy’s leadership style got results, but at a very high price. He ruled Memphis by fear, and he wasn’t afraid to name names over the IMC. Jerry had been taught to praise in public and chastise in private, but Hardy seemed to reverse the procedure. Then Jerry corrected himself. He’d never seen Hardy praising anyone, so with that kind of policy it didn’t really matter what the order was.
Of course, Jerry had heard about “screamers” in the aviation community and throughout the Navy at the Academy. As long as their units produced, the higher-ups didn’t intervene. Their view was that a captain had the right to run his command as he saw fit. But it was awfully hard on the help.
After he finished his harangue, Hardy came into the wardroom, followed closely by Bair, who looked torn. The junior officers started to rise, but Hardy stopped them with a curt “As you were.” Hardy and Bair took their seats at the table, and it seemed to Jerry that the wardroom was even quieter than before. As he was served lunch, Hardy cast an icy gaze over the officers. Some actually hunkered down farther as he looked at them.
When he finally broke the silence, Hardy spoke calmly, but his voice seemed deafening, and although calm, his tone was harsh. “Since we’ve got people dying when they use damage control equipment, after lunch I want all departments and divisions to review EAB mask procedures. Mr. Lopez, you will personally conduct the training with each man aboard. That may take a while, but I’m sure all of you have other casualty procedures you may want to practice.”
He got up suddenly and left the wardroom without eating a bite. A few moments passed, then everyone let out their breath all at once. Jerry started eating again, although quietly. Like him, the other officers seemed to be preoccupied.
Finally Bill Washburn, the Supply Officer, spoke. Tentatively, he asked, “XO, sir, do you think you could ask the Captain to guarantee us a few drill-free hours? My people need to be able to work and right now ...”
“I’m sorry, Bill, I’ve already brought that up with the Captain. He is insistent that the crew be ready to drop everything at a moment’s notice, at any time, day or night.”
“But at sea, we don’t face nonstop emergencies. And I’m not talking about missing sleep. My people need to move stores, to cook. I can’t plan menus because I don’t know when my people will be called away. If this goes on for much longer, I’ll have to start feeding the crew battle rations.”
“Then that’s what you’d better do,” Bair replied bluntly.
“It’s not just the cooks, sir.” Jeff Ho, the Engineer, was more forceful. “I’ve got a lot of cranky machinery to take care of. My men could work full-time just keeping the plant from flying apart.”
“Are there any big problems?” Bair asked.
“No, sir, nothing major yet.”
“This isn’t our first deployment,” the XO reminded them. “We always have drills our first few days at sea.” He waved down a few who started to protest. “I know they’ve never been this frequent or this difficult, but that is his call. If you want the drills to stop, give him what he wants.”
Bair pushed his plate away. “Let’s get organized for that shipwide training session. Muster everyone in their spaces as soon as the meal is finished, and I don’t want to hear that Mr. Lopez is kept waiting. He’s got a lot of ground to cover, and this cannot take all afternoon.”
A chorus of “Aye, ayes” followed him out of the wardroom as the XO left and Jerry automatically started to head for the torpedo room. He had to make sure. . . .
He paused. Of what? That Foster would still follow his orders? That the torpedomen and fire-control technicians would? They’d all seen Foster tell him off. It was impossible to go about business as usual when his own division chief had said he wanted the mission to fail, that he wanted Jerry to fail.
This conflict was way out of control. Jerry needed help, desperately, but from whom he couldn’t say. Not from the Captain, certainly, and even the XO couldn’t do much to adjust Foster’s attitude.
The chief petty officer, is, by tradition, “the backbone of the fleet.” The typical CPO had a ton of experience and was often the most competent technician in his field onboard. But chiefs also wore the khaki uniform, making them a critical part of the leadership structure. It was the chiefs who made things work. Pairing a junior officer with an experienced chief was a good system; practical, effective, and enshrined in naval tradition.
Which folded like wet Kleenex when the chief in question didn’t go along with the plan. None of the officers could help, and he couldn’t go to his division. They looked to him to fix this problem. He couldn’t possibly ask another chief for help—or could he?
Master Chief Reynolds was the Chief of the Boat, the senior enlisted man aboard. As the COB, he was the official, sanctioned, box-in-the-org chart link between the officers and the crew. In sub school, they told him that a junior officer couldn’t go wrong if he asked the COB for help. It was worth a try.
Reynolds worked for the XO, but he often helped the nonnuclear machinist mates, or auxiliarymen, under Lopez, and Jerry was pretty sure he’d be in their spaces. As he hoped, Jerry found Reynolds in the auxiliary machinery room in forward compartment lower level, aft of the torpedo room. He was reviewing the maintenance records on the emergency diesel generator.
“Master Chief, do you have a few minutes?”
Reynolds straightened up. He was a huge man, seeming to fill the space, although he, Jerry, and the watchstander were the only ones in it. In spite of his size, he was not intimidating, and Reynolds’ weather-beaten face was relaxed and friendly. His tone was friendly as well. “Of course, Mr. Mitchell.” He turned to the auxiliaryman watchstander and said, “I’ve got it for ten minutes. Go get some coffee.” The young sailor quickly left.
He settled down on top of a pump housing, offering Jerry the only chair in the space. “I have a hunch I know what you want to talk about,” he said as Jerry sat down. “Or ‘who,’ actually,” Reynolds added.
Jerry was a little surprised. “Exactly what have you heard?” he asked carefully.
“Everything,” replied Reynolds matter-of-factly. “There aren’t any secrets on a submarine. Well, not for more than thirty seconds anyway. And Senior Chief Foster hasn’t been secretive.”
“Master Chief, I’ve tried talking to him in private, and he blows me off. He sabotages my work, and now the division’s work. He has intentionally caused us to fail in two drills, and he’s destroying what little is left of my division’s morale. He says he wants the boat’s mission to fail and he wants to make sure I don’t get my dolphins.”
“So I’ve heard,” Reynolds remarked. He sat quietly, letting Jerry talk.
“I’ve got my qualification to work on, we don’t know half of what we should about those ROVs, I’m still learning my regular duties, and I’ve got to keep at least one eye on Foster to make sure he doesn’t blindside me.” Jerry was frustrated and angry. “The blowup this morning is the worst yet. I don’t know what to do about him.”
“How can I help?” Reynolds asked.
“What’s his problem? Why is he doing this?” Jerry asked, almost pleading.
“He thinks you’re a lightweight,” Reynolds answered, “someone who was assigned to this sub because of his political pull.”
Jerry shrugged. “I guess that’s true, to a certain extent. I wanted subs, and I used my uncle’s influence to get the Navy to listen. But I’ve pulled my weight since I got here. Others aboard were unsure of me too, some were even hostile, but they’ve changed their minds. Why not Foster?”
“A long time ago, Foster applied for a direct commission program. He was turned down because he didn’t have a college degree. When he tried to apply for a college program that would give him a commission, they told him he was too old. He applied for a waiver and was denied.”
Jerry listened, then thought for a moment before replying. “So why should I get a second chance when he didn’t get any at all?”
“That’s pretty much it,” agreed Reynolds.
“What do I do about it?” demanded Jerry, almost angry, but really just frustrated.
“You can’t shoot him,” remarked Reynolds, smiling.
“I was considering it,” Jerry confessed. “But seriously, I can’t take him to mast, and I don’t want to. And I can’t think of any other punishment or any way to force him to change his attitude.”
“You’re right. There isn’t any,” Reynolds confirmed. “You can’t just change a man’s feelings. He’s got to do that. You’re going to have to convince him that you’re more than a political hack. Then he may fall into line.”
“I’d just settle for him leaving me alone. He’s supposed to be working with me, but at this point I’d be happy if he’d just stopped working against me.”
“Could you use some help?” Reynolds suggested.
“I’d love any help, from anywhere. What do you have in mind?”
“Well, Senior Chief Foster is supposed to be helping you become a good division officer—and that includes your qualifications. Since he’s not willing, maybe I can fill in.”
Jerry’s spirits soared. “Master Chief, there’s no ‘maybe’ involved. I know I’ll qualify with you helping me.”
“It’s not enough, Mr. Mitchell. Qualifying isn’t going to make Senior Chief Foster respect you. You need to demonstrate to Foster that you are a good officer. One that looks after his men, goes to the mat for them when he needs to, and puts their best interests before his own. Except for the XO, and maybe one or two others, there aren’t many good officers on this boat. But if you don’t qualify, you won’t get very far in the submarine force. So, we’ll start there.”
“I’m grateful.” He reached out, and Reynolds took his hand and shook it. Jerry said, “Thanks, thanks a lot.”
“Come by after you get off the noon-to-six tonight and we’ll see what you’ve got left in that qual book.”
“Right, COB, I’ll be there and thanks again.”
Jerry left, headed forward with what would be a spring in his step, if he had the headroom.
* * * *
Master Chief Reynolds watched him leave, then sighed. He paused for a moment, looked at his watch, and headed up and forward to the chiefs’ quarters. Along the way, he saw FT2 Boswell, one of the men in Jerry’s division. He told Boswell to find Senior Chief Foster and ask him to join Reynolds in the Goat Locker.
Reynolds got there ahead of Foster, and chased out two chiefs sucking on coffee and pretending to do paperwork.
Foster showed up a minute later, to find Reynolds waiting for him. “What’s up, Sam?” he asked, dropping into a chair.
“I want to know when you’re going to let up on Mitchell,” Reynolds said flatly.
Just hearing Jerry’s name changed Foster’s demeanor. Angrily, he answered, “That no-load? I’ll have him begging for mercy by the time we’re back!”
Foster’s statement was no surprise to the COB. He’d heard the Senior Chief say the same thing or worse in the chiefs’ quarters. Foster hated Mitchell and wasn’t quiet about it.
“Everyone else is willing to cut the kid some slack. Why don’t you ease up?” Reynolds made the last sentence a suggestion, not a question.
“Because I’ll be damned if this Navy’s going to be ruined by someone with the political pull to change the rules.”
“Even if you have to ruin your division, or this boat, to do it?” Reynolds voice was hard.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Foster answered.
“I was on the phone circuit during that Otto fuel spill drill during sea trials. I know what you did. And even if I didn’t, your last blowup with Mitchell is all over the boat. You admitted to tanking the drill on purpose.”
“So what? The kid’s worthless. He can’t lead, and now the division knows it.”
“Nobody can lead when his next-in-line is backstabbing him. I don’t see you doing the Navy any favors. I see you taking cheap shots to work off an old grudge.”
Foster took a different tack. “What did he do? Come running to you?”
“Which is exactly what any officer on this boat should do when an enlisted man’s behavior is unsat.”
“But he couldn’t take care of it himself, could he?” Foster sounded smug.
“He did take care of it, by talking to me,” Reynolds explained. “It’s the COB’s business to deal with bad actors.”
Reynolds leaned his massive frame forward, emphasizing his words. “You’ve disobeyed lawful orders from a commissioned officer, as well as being openly insubordinate. You’ve deliberately interfered with ship’s drills and you’ve disrupted discipline in your division. If you were a first class or below, you’d be at Captain’s Mast, minus at least a stripe. But we don’t do that to chiefs, because they’re supposed to be better than that.”
Foster was grim, but not contrite. “You can’t make me kiss up to that...”
Reynolds cut him off. “What I expect is for you to earn your pay and do your work. Nothing less and nothing more.” Foster looked unconvinced, and the Master Chief continued.
“The only reason Hardy hasn’t noticed your private war is that he’s too busy sweating Patterson and the mission. If I do not see a change in your behavior immediately, I’ll bring this to the Captain’s attention myself.”
Foster was still unmoved. “Hardy’s hated Mitchell since he came aboard.”
“I’ll just mention the part about how you want our mission to fail. Remember, you not only told it to Mitchell, but the rest of the torpedo division. Add to that your sabotaging of the drills, insubordination, and failure to obey a lawful order, and I think I could make an excellent case against you. If he heard half of that, Hardy would have your ass off this boat in twenty-four hours and you’d be facing Commodore’s Mast.”
Both of them knew that was no idle threat. Captain’s Mast, or more formally, “nonjudicial punishment,” was used to discipline enlisted members who broke the rules aboard ship. Insubordination, unauthorized absence from the ship, dereliction of duty, or a dozen other offenses could be punished by extra duty, restriction to the ship (when next in port), fines, or in extreme cases, the malefactor would lose a stripe and the associated pay.
Officers and chiefs could not be disciplined by Captain’s Mast. They went before the squadron commander, which was similar, but it wasn’t a “family matter” any longer. It made the ship look bad, which made the Captain of that ship look bad. Hardy would not be pleased at all. People who wore khaki weren’t supposed to need this kind of disciplinary action, so anyone who appeared before the squadron commander could expect no mercy.
Considering the charges Reynolds had listed, Foster would expect a reduction in rate, and to be permanently beached. The financial loss would be accompanied by a succession of crappy duty assignments until he eventually retired.
The two chiefs studied each other. Foster tried to gauge how serious Reynolds really was, and Reynolds watched the wheels turn as Foster processed the Master Chief’s threat.
Foster finally said, “I won’t stand for him being in my Navy.”
“It’s not your Navy, and it’s not your place to make that decision,” Reynolds reminded him. “The only one I see breaking the rules here is you. And I won’t let you wreck my boat.”
“I won’t help him.”
“No, I’ll do your job,” said Reynolds harshly. “Your new job is to stop tripping him up. And you will follow the lawful orders of any commissioned officer aboard this vessel.” The COB stood up suddenly. “I’ve told you what’s wrong, what needs to be to fixed, and what will happen if it doesn’t get fixed. Consider yourself counseled, Senior Chief.”
He left Foster alone in the chiefs’ quarters, considering.
* * * *
After his meeting with Reynolds, Jerry felt better, although he was still unsure about how to deal with Foster and his division. Finally he decided he would just go to the torpedo room and muddle through as best he could. So far, the torpedo gang had done their jobs as if nothing had happened. They were smart enough to know that Foster was wrong. Jerry had to stay focused on the division, and trust his men to follow him in spite of Foster.
The XO found Mitchell as he passed through the control room. “Jerry, I’m going to put Dr. Patterson with your division for the training session. You’ve already got Emily Davis, so the ladies can stay together.”
“Broomhilda?” Bair’s order had caught him off guard. “I mean, ah, where has Dr. Patterson been for the other emergency drills, sir?”
“In her stateroom pretending to work. She’s come up with one excuse after another for avoiding them, but I think I’ve impressed on her the value of learning how to use an EAB mask.”
“How did you manage that?” Jerry was astonished, and more than a bit curious. Patterson wasn’t easy to convince.
“I scared her out of her wits by telling her about Bonefish,” said the XO with a devilish smile on his face. Bonefish was one of the few diesel-electric submarines in the U.S. Navy’s inventory back in the ‘80s. She suffered a hideous battery well fire in the spring of 1988. Three men were killed and twenty-three were injured by the blaze.
“They taught us about her at sub school.” Jerry shivered as he recalled the pictures they showed him of the Bonefish on the surface, with brownish smoke billowing from her sail. “That was one nasty fire.”
“Well, Patterson never went to sub school, but when I described how those men suffocated, she became a believer. I’ll make it worth your while and send Lopez to you first.”
“Aye, aye, XO. She’s more than welcome to join us, of course.”
Bair grinned. “That’s nice. I could never lie that well.”
* * * *