Patterson erupted indignantly, “Now, see here, Capt. . .”
“SILENCE!” roared Reynolds. His bellow was so loud that it actually echoed inside the crew’s mess. Even Patterson was taken aback by the sheer power in his voice. Reynolds then looked around menacingly at everyone, to make sure they understood that he meant business. Sighing, he turned once again to Hardy. “Captain, I appreciate your candor in this matter. But as their lord, you must make at least a perfunctory attempt at defending them.”
“Of course, King Boreas. My apologies.” Hardy then proceeded to testify that these warm bodies hadn’t sunk the ship yet, although their ignorance had nearly succeeded on numerous occasions. Furthermore, they were barely adequate in the performance of their duties and their exercises. Hardy ranted on for a few more minutes about their general inability to do anything right and concluded that they were totally unworthy in and of themselves. Their only credible defense, Hardy concluded, was for them to throw themselves at the mercy of the King’s court. Reynolds listened with rapt attention, looking very sagelike in his robes and fake beard.
“Very well, Captain. I concede their unworthiness,” stated Boreas. “However, I am willing to be merciful to these warm bodies and allow them one last opportunity to prove that they are indeed worthy to enter my domain. We shall begin the . . .”
All of a sudden, there arose a commotion behind Reynolds. Washburn and Foster appeared to be shocked and angered by one of the petitions and their agitated discussion interrupted the King. A very annoyed Boreas turned toward his two courtiers and swore, “By my beard, you try my patience! What are you two babbling about?”
Both Washburn and Foster quickly came over with the petition and presented it to Boreas. “Your Majesty,” spoke Washburn hesitantly as he knelt before Reynolds. “There is a warm body present that has openly admitted to being affiliated with a most heinous association. I—I—” Washburn seemed unable to finish, so appalled by what he had read.
“Please go on, Prime Minister,” commanded Reynolds. Jerry had a sinking feeling that there were talking about him.
“Sire,” spoke Foster with significant disgust. “The warm body in question is an aviator.”
Jerry watched as Reynolds’ hands curled up into clenched fists. Slowly and rigidly, he turned around and cast a chilling gaze on the warm bodies. “Do you mean to tell me there is a member of that league of arrogant scoundrels who routinely trespasses on my realm without so much as a ‘By your leave!’” Reynolds was shaking as he spoke and Jerry noticed that everyone near him had started to move as far away as they could, given the tight quarters.
“WHERE is this wretch, my Captain of the Guard?” demanded the King angrily. Foster wasted no time in pointing Jerry out. With slow, deliberate steps, Reynolds marched toward him.
Oh shit, this is not going to be good, Jerry thought as Reynolds approached and towered over him. Jerry gulped as two large hands grasped his arms and lifted him off the deck. Once the two were at eye level, with Jerry dangling almost a foot off the deck, Reynolds spoke in a hushed voice through clenched lips, “You have much to account for, flying man!”
Jerry could only nod his head, amazed at Reynolds’ strength and a little afraid of what was to come. Reynolds gently put Jerry back down and released him. Both Davis and Patterson watched in awe, their eyes the size of saucers, as they witnessed Reynolds easily lifting Jerry off his feet. Turning away with a graceful swing of his cape, Boreas commanded, “Let the trials begin! Captain of the Guard, escort these unworthy warm bodies to the torpedo room.”
For the next two hours, Jerry and the other warm bodies underwent the trials as prescribed by King Boreas. None of them were particularly harmful to the body. Most were simply uncomfortable, but everything revolved around being cold, somehow, somewhere.
The first trial was relatively simple. All a warm body had to do was crawl down the twenty-two-foot length of a torpedo tube and rub their nose on the muzzle door. Of course, with the forward end of each torpedo tube exposed to the sea, the temperature in the tube was a bit on the nippy side. It was a cold trip down and back, as well as a little claustrophobic.
The part that Jerry hated the most was backing his way out of the tube once he had reached the muzzle door. In order to get anywhere, Jerry had to arch his back so that he could shuffle backward. This brought his bare back in contact with the frigid guide rail at the top of the tube. He yelped more than once.
As Jerry had been warned earlier, many of the trials involved the use of ice in a number of very unpleasant ways. In one particularly devious trial, he had to transport two ice cubes placed under his armpits from the back of the engine room to the spherical array access trunk: the full length of the boat. “This will clip his wings,” remarked the Royal Baby as he placed the ice under Jerry’s arms. Unfortunately, the ice cubes on his first attempt were too small, and they melted before he could finish the course. Obviously, Jerry was still too hot-blooded to enter the frozen realm. He was sent back to the engine room to try again.
Midway through the trials, he had had significant doubts whether he’d make it. The low point was during Captain Hardy’s favorite game: bobbing for ice cubes. In this trial, Jerry was pitted against another warm body and the two would submerge their faces into a large container of water filled with ice cubes. The first to grab an ice cube with their teeth won. The loser had to keep on playing till they defeated someone. Jerry proved to be particularly inept at this game, and ended up going seven rounds before finally managing to beat a junior petty officer from E Division. Even Patterson beat Jerry. It was with a bruised and frozen ego that Jerry heard the crew cheer, “Broomhilda! Broomhilda!” as Patterson emerged first with an ice cube clutched firmly in her mouth. He’d be hearing about this ignominy for the rest of the patrol.
With most of the trials over, the warm bodies started to congregate in the auxiliary machinery room for the baptism. As Jerry entered the twenty-one-man bunkroom, just forward of the auxiliary machinery room and aft of the torpedo room, the Prime Minister and the Captain of the Guard brought him up short. “His Majesty, the King, requires your presence, warm body,” said Foster malevolently. Washburn and Foster then grabbed Jerry’s arms and led him into the torpedo room.
“Ahhh, excellent. You have found him,” remarked Reynolds, pleased. “Well, done. Well done. Bring him here.”
Jerry was ushered up to King Boreas, where the Captain of the Guard pushed him to his knees. “Show the proper respect to His Majesty, knave!”
The rough handling by Foster was starting to anger Jerry. Foster’s behavior was becoming abusive and even in such ceremonies there were limits. Jerry sensed that Reynolds also knew that Foster had gone overboard and ordered him to back off. “Stand easy, my Captain!”
Foster moved away from Jerry, who was allowed to rise and face the King.
“According to the reports of the Royal Court,” began Reynolds, “you have acquitted yourself well in the trials. But there is still one issue that I need to have satisfied before I grant you entry into my realm.” Turning away from Jerry, he paced about a bit, rubbing his beard slowly, as if he were trying to find the right words.
“What issue would that be?” asked Jerry. Belatedly he added, “Your Majesty” after Foster glared at him.
“It’s rather simple really,” said Reynolds, pausing as he faced Jerry. “Are you an aviator or a mariner?”
“I was an aviator, but I’m no longer qualified to fly. I’m now a submariner.”
“He lies, Your Highness!” screeched Foster. “I recommend that he be given the truth serum!”
“Hmmm, perhaps you are right, Captain.” Reynolds then motioned to Washburn to come forward. In his hands was a steel bucket. “Prime Minister, administer the serum to this warm body so that we can see if he is indeed telling us the truth or not.”
Washburn lifted the bucket, handed it to Jerry, and ordered, “Drink!” Jerry took the bucket and looked closely at the contents. The liquid inside had a dark orangeish-brown color and it had an oily sheen to it. A light brown foam clung to the edges. It looked absolutely disgusting and it smelled just as bad.
“I said, drink!” repeated Washburn forcefully.
Hesitantly, Jerry slowly lifted the bucket to his lips and took a drink. Almost immediately he began to cough and sputter as he gagged on the foul-tasting elixir. He coughed so hard that he nearly spilled the rest of the serum onto the deck. Washburn deftly recovered the bucket from Jerry’s shaking hands and said, “The serum has been administered, My Lord.”
“Very well, Prime Minister. It will take but a few moments for it to take effect.”
A few moments, my ass! thought Jerry as the coughing finally subsided. It’s having one hell of an effect right now. Jerry didn’t know all of what they had mixed together in that bucket, but from that one vile gulp he was certain that soy sauce, vinegar, and some sort of carbonated drink were included. What sick mind had devised this concoction? They should lock him up before he hurts someone, Jerry lamented.
“I ask you again: Are you an aviator, or a mariner?” Reynolds’ voice was louder and firmer than the first time.
More than a little irate with the whole Bluenose business, Jerry replied firmly. “Your majesty, I am now a mariner. I sail on and under the sea, not over it.”
“More lies. It is well known that aviators do not pay their respects to King Boreas. And you were an aviator,” growled Foster.
“That is incorrect, Captain of the Guard,” replied Jerry sternly. “Aviators like myself fly from ships. When the ship crosses the Arctic Circle, we pay proper homage like anyone else.” Foster appeared almost apoplectic, shocked that Jerry would dare challenge him.
“That may be true,” interrupted Reynolds, “but explain to me why those in their flying machines do not pay their respects and violate my domain with wild abandon? Even though I send my fiercest winds, they ignore my challenge and come and go as they please.”
Jerry looked at Reynolds and tried to figure out why he was doing this. It seemed like he was really trying to make a point, but what? And to whom? It should be obvious to Reynolds that this sort of ceremony wouldn’t be possible in a tactical aircraft, and Jerry just didn’t know if the charge Foster was leveling against all aviators was accurate or not. Maybe the aviation community had some kind of ritual that he wasn’t aware of. So, why would Reynolds emphasize the lack of respect by aviators? Was this just one of those legendary trumped-up charges brought against people during these ceremonies to which there was no right answer? Or was Reynolds trying to get him to admit to something under pressure—to someone who needed to hear it. His gut feeling said it was the latter.
Jerry stood as erect as he could and slowly, evenly addressed Reynolds’ question. “Your majesty, I was an aviator. And I was a good one. But due to an accident that was not my fault, I can no longer fly. I wanted to stay in the Navy, but I also wanted to belong to an elite group, a group that had some of the best people in the service. I tried to transfer to submarines, but I was told no. Not because I wasn’t qualified, but because it would cost too much and that the Navy wouldn’t get a good return on its investment.” Jerry found his gaze slowly shifting toward Foster as he continued speaking. “I didn’t like the answer I received; it seemed to me to be arbitrary and capricious. The higher-ups just didn’t want to be bothered by a baby aviator with a broken wing. I forced the issue through family political connections because I don’t believe in giving up on something important just because it’s hard to achieve. And now I’m here.”
Taking a deep breath and returning his attention to Reynolds, Jerry concluded his little speech. “Now Your Highness, as for the disrespect shown by aviators: I can’t speak to the actions of others. I can only speak for myself. In that regard, I am here, now, willingly paying the proper respect and deference due to your exalted position and humbly seeking your permission to enter your realm. These actions should be the point of debate for the Royal Court, not my past status.”
That twinkle in Reynolds’ eyes told Jerry that he had made the right choice. “Well said, lad. I accept your explanation.” Turning toward the Prime Minister and the Captain of the Guard, Reynolds inquired, “Are there any other charges against this warm body?”
“None, sire,” said Washburn with a huge smile. Foster said nothing, but shook his head no.
“Very well, then, young mariner, join the other warm bodies and we shall conclude the ceremony.” Jerry bowed and left the torpedo room.
The baptism was the climax of the Bluenose ceremony. Each warm body stepped into the shower area in the crew’s head and was liberally doused with unheated seawater from one of the small garden-hoselike fire-fighting connections. Jerry watched as Emily was drenched with freezing water. Her screech was so loud, it was picked up by one of the ship’s self-noise monitoring hydrophones. When it was Jerry’s turn, Reynolds himself took the hose and gave him an extra-long soaking. Jerry stood there and endured it, determined to not cry out. Shaking violently, Jerry was led to the auxiliary machinery room, where he was allowed to dry off, and a petty officer painted his nose a very deep shade of blue. He was now a true and trusted, ice- and brine-encrusted Bluenose.
The celebratory feast, in spite of the pomp and circumstance, was really just another excuse to give the new Bluenoses some more grief. The dinner was served cold, naturally, and Jerry thought the menu was about as disgusting as the truth serum. The salad was half-frozen cooked spinach with anchovies, pickled relish, some kind of squishy nut, and spearmint dressing. The main course consisted of sardines in peanut butter sauce, cold mashed potatoes with hideous gelatinous sardine gravy, and frozen snow peas. Dessert was a snow cone made from the water drained from cans of tuna fish. In addition to the chilly and revolting cuisine, the new Bluenoses ate their dinner while sitting on ice held in large sheet cake pans. By the time the ceremony had finally concluded, and King Boreas and his court retired, Jerry’s butt was numb with cold.
Slowly waddling back to his stateroom, Jerry was congratulated on surviving his initiation. He acknowledged their greetings with a stiff nod, but all he cared for right now was a hot shower. Grabbing a towel from his stateroom, he headed for the officer’s head. Once at the shower stall, he turned on the water and waited for it to warm up—it didn’t. Jerry moaned and cursed the general unfairness of it all, as the XO had secured the hot water until further notice. He had to get the salt off his body, so with a deep, resigned sigh, Jerry jumped into the cold fresh water.
Up in their stateroom, Patterson and Davis were desperately trying to warm up from their ordeal. Emily was still shaking uncontrollably, despite being wrapped up in two blankets. Patterson walked around their tiny room, shivering, upset, and annoyed that there was no hot water. Suddenly there was a knock at their door.
“Yes!” yelled Patterson, “Who is it?”
“Messenger of the Watch, ma’am, with a gift from Master Chief Reynolds.”
Patterson flung open the door, poised to tell the messenger just what he could do with the master chief’s gifts, when she saw the sailor holding a tray containing two large steaming mugs. “What is this?” she asked.
The sailor smiled. “Hot tea fortified with a little depth charge medicine, ma’am. COB said you two earned it.”
Patterson grabbed one of the mugs and took a sip, “Oh, my God! A Hot Toddy! Bless you.” She grabbed the other mug and handed it to Emily, who seemed more content to just hold the hot ceramic in her hands.
“Where on earth did you find brandy?” questioned Patterson through sips of the prized beverage. “I thought the Navy didn’t allow alcohol to be consumed on board ships.”
“That’s true, ma’am. But we do carry some alcohol for medicinal purposes, and as the COB pointed out, you two aren’t Navy, so the rules don’t apply to you.”
“Well, thank you for the hot drinks. We do appreciate them,” replied a grateful Patterson.
“Oh, ma’am, one more thing.” The messenger moved a little closer and whispered in a hushed voice, “The XO wishes to convey his compliments and says that by the time you are done with your tea, the hot water will be back on line.”
Patterson thanked the messenger for the news and shut the door. Shuffling over to the desk, she sat down and slowly sipped her drink. As the warmth poured back into her body, Patterson looked over at the huddled mass on the bunk and said, “You know, Emily, for military types, these guys are okay. Criminally insane, but okay.”
Davis could only nod her assent.
* * * *
The Casualty
May 21,2005
Norwegian Sea, Near Jan Mayen Island
Jerry stood at the sink in the officer’s head, fiercely scrubbing his nose. And yet despite his efforts of the past two days, it was still a very noticeable shade of blue. Only now it was sore as well.
“Hey, Jerry, go easy on that weather vane of yours,” quipped Berg as he stepped into the head. “You might as well get used to it. Your nose is going to be blue for a while.”
“How long?” asked Jerry testily. “And what the hell kind of paint did you guys use, anyway?”
“No, no, nooo, Jerry, my man. We didn’t use paint at all.” Berg dramatically paused as he started shaving.
“And!?!” said Jerry. He was in no mood for Lenny’s usual riddles this morning. His nose hurt, he was tired, and he had to hurry up if he wanted to eat breakfast before the second ROV test prebrief.
“Huh? Oh yes. Let me see now,” Berg’s façade of temporary forgetfulness only annoyed Jerry further. “We used tried-and-true Prussian blue dye on the noses of the warm bodies. You know, the dye we use for checking valve bodies and stems.”
Jerry vaguely recalled the maintenance procedure, but he didn’t initially catch Berg’s key word: dye. When he finally did, his eyes opened wide and he gasped, “You used a permanent dye? How long will the color last?”
“It’s not just any dye,” protested Berg. “Prussian blue is one of the first synthetic colors ever made. It has a very honorable history in the textile industry and art since the early 1700s. Its name is derived from one of its earliest uses: the dyeing of Prussian military uniforms.”
“How long?” growled Jerry
“Don’t worry, it’ll fade.” Berg hesitated as he applied his aftershave and then added, “Eventually.”
“Eventually. Could you be a wee bit more precise than that?”
“Sure. How about a couple of weeks?”
“Arrgh!” snarled Jerry as he marched back to his stateroom.
“Hey, shipmate, chill,” admonished Berg as Jerry left.
Jerry regretted snapping at Lenny. He knew he shouldn’t take his frustration out on him. Lenny had played only a minor role in his Bluenose initiation, as did Washburn. But what bothered Jerry more was the way the COB went after him. Between the trim party and the extra attention during the ceremony, he felt like Reynolds was doing everything in his power to make him look like an idiot. On the other hand, the COB had certainly made good on his promise to help him with his qualifications. Jerry had already completed his Diving Officer requirements and was ready for his qual board. Reynolds’ mentoring had gone a long way toward speeding up the process. That and the extra watches he stood didn’t hurt, either. Still, Jerry was getting mixed signals and he no longer understood just what Reynolds was doing, or why.
Jerry scarfed down breakfast like a tornado going through a trailer park. And just in time, too. As soon as his dishes had been cleared away, the wardroom door opened and Emily, Patterson, Foster, and others started pouring in. Hardy and Bair brought up the rear, and they squeezed into their places.
Jerry was relieved to see that several others had the same shade of blue nose as he did. Until he’d seen them, his nose had seemed as big as the bow array. Emily’s and Patterson’s appeared more subdued, but he suspected they may have used makeup.
Emily’s briefing was much shorter than the previous one, as it was mostly a review of the procedures. There were a few questions on ROV limitations and handling issues, but Davis dealt with them quickly. After less than half an hour, when everything had been covered, the XO spoke up.
“All right, everyone, that last piece of business to go over is the watch rotation for the two test runs. Mr. Richards, do you have your teams lined up?”
“Yes, sir,” responded the Weapons Officer. “Team one will handle the first test run and will switch with team two as soon as the first ROV is recovered and secured. Also, each team will be assigned to the same ROV for the duration of the patrol.”
Jerry saw that both Emily and Patterson looked confused, and it didn’t take long for Patterson to interrupt. “Excuse me, Commander, I don’t understand why we need teams. During our first two test runs, Mr. Mitchell employed all of his people and they handled the tests very well. Why do we have to split them up into two teams?”
“It’s a simple matter of logistics, Doctor,” replied Bair matter-of-factly. “After reviewing the plan of operations that you and the Navigator submitted, it became clear that we’d have to go to port and starboard sections just to conduct all the ROV missions you want. If we stood the whole torpedo division up for each run, they’d be exhausted in only a few days. Tired men make too many mistakes.”
Hardy nodded his head in agreement and added, “Dr. Patterson, you’ve planned a very aggressive schedule with over two dozen missions within a three-week period. If we’re going to be successful, we must pace ourselves. Even so, this will be a hard rate to maintain.”
Jerry watched and listened as Hardy and Patterson went back and forth over the mission details. It was remarkable to see them being so civil, when only a week ago they were screaming at each other. There was still some tension, to be sure, but it seemed to be held in check. Patterson was very goal-oriented, and as long as she believed that Hardy was helping her toward her goal, things went smoothly. But if she felt he was being obstructive, she could become a holy terror in a heartbeat.
It struck Jerry that Dr. Patterson was one of those people who was good at visualizing what needed to be done. But for all her knowledge and political savvy, she wasn’t very good at figuring out how to do it. One might say that she was process-impaired. This was, however, Hardy’s forte. Give him an objective and he’d get you there. Just don’t tell him how to do it.
Jerry’s amateur psychoanalysis came to an abrupt end when the XO addressed a question to him. “Mr. Mitchell, how are the maintenance arrangements coming along?”
“Huh? Oh, excuse me, sir. I’ve discussed our maintenance support needs with all of the department heads and they have specialists in sonar, navigation, and electric propulsion ready to assist my division as necessary.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“Ahh, yes, sir. I have one concern,” said Jerry hesitantly.
“And what is that?” said Hardy and Patterson in unison. Both momentarily looked at each other, more surprised than annoyed, and then they returned their attention to Jerry.
“Well, Captain, ma’am, my guys can perform the routine maintenance between the runs—that shouldn’t be a problem—but I don’t know if we’ll be able to do much if something major breaks. I mean, we’ve only had a week to study the plans and there has been no formal training on these vehicles. And what little we do have on emergency repair procedures is not exactly up to Navy standards. No offense, Dr. Davis.”
“None taken, Mr. Mitchell,” replied Emily politely. “But if something does break down, then it’s my job to fix it. I designed and supervised the modification of the ROVs, and I’m responsible for their health and well-being; with your division’s help, of course.”
“I appreciate your candor, Mr. Mitchell,” said Patterson firmly, “but Emily has gone over the mission requirements and determined that the probability of a mission critical failure is quite low.”
This pronouncement caught all the Navy people off guard, and Jerry had to resist the urge to sigh. Assuming the odds of a major failure was low based on calculations with little or no operating history was risky business. He had seen an early draft of the mission plan, and the proposed ROV operations tempo was harsh. With little time for maintenance between each run, the whole concept of operations begged for a major problem to occur. By the look of several other crew members, it was clear that they shared his skepticism.
“Final item,” Bair declared suddenly, breaking the awkward silence. “During the second ROV test, Mr. Mitchell will observe the evolution from the control room.”
“Sir?” asked Jerry, slightly perplexed.
“It’s important that you see what goes on in control during a ROV deployment. It will give you an appreciation for what the ship control party has to do to support a launch and recovery. This will also improve your understanding of our information needs.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hardy then stood up and spoke firmly, “If there are no further questions, we’ll man ROV stations in half an hour.” It was not a request, and by definition there were no other questions. “Very well, then. Dismissed.”
Jerry stood and waited for Hardy and Patterson to leave. Once the herd had thinned out a bit, he left the wardroom and headed toward the torpedo room. He had taken less than half a dozen steps before Emily entered the passageway and called to him.
“Hey, Jerry, wait up a moment, please.”
He stopped, turned, and waited while she caught up with him. “Are you feeling okay? You were pretty spaced in there for a while.”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” answered Jerry. “I was momentarily mesmerized by your lovely blue nose.”
Emily immediately reached over and cuffed Jerry lightly on the head.
“Oww! Geez, pay the lady a compliment and she whacks you one.”
“A woman’s prerogative,” Emily replied tersely. “And stop acting like you’ve been mortally wounded. I didn’t hit you that hard.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll gladly accept any further abuse in stoic silence.”
Emily sighed, shook her head, and said, “Why is it that men always resort to sarcasm?”
Concluding that silence was the better part of valor, he quickly escorted Emily past the twenty-one-man bunkroom and into the torpedo room. Once inside, he gently directed her toward the ROV and Manta control area.
“All right Emily. What’s bugging you?” Jerry asked firmly.
She reluctantly looked at him. There were tears welling in her eyes and she blurted out, “Do you really not trust me, Jerry?”
Shocked and surprised, Jerry could only wonder: Where the hell did that come from? Confused, he asked, “What are you talking about, Emily?”
“During the brief, when you raised your concern on the repair issue, I saw the look on your face when I said I could take care of any major repairs. And when Dr. Patterson said I had calculated that there was a low chance of a critical failure happening, you didn’t seem to believe her. I can only conclude that you don’t trust me.”
Oh boy, Jerry thought, as he finally understood the problem. Mom warned me about this gender communications gap, he thought to himself. Struggling to answer Emily’s accusation without digging himself a deeper grave, Jerry motioned for her to sit down.
Then, after taking a deep breath, he carefully and slowly offered his explanation, “Listen, Emily, there is something that you have to understand. Navy people are trained to be conservative when dealing with equipment; submariners even more so. For example, when we conduct a reactor startup, we calculate the precise height that the control rods have to be raised before the core goes critical. There are a lot of variables that go into this calculation, and it takes several highly trained operators to do the math, and then it is triple-checked. And yet when we begin the startup, we operate under the assumption that the core could go critical the moment the Reactor Operator begins shimming the rods out.”
Emily’s scrunched brow told Jerry that she wasn’t quite making the connection.
“There are always places where a mistake could be made, and the results of such an error could be catastrophic. I admit there are a lot of coulds, possibles, and ifs in what I just said, but we can’t afford even one serious reactor accident.”
“But you trust your people, don’t you?”
“If they are qualified for their watch position, absolutely. But we all know that a mistake could still be made if we become complacent and just assume that the calculation was done correctly. And this, mind you, is how we treat an engineering plant that most of us have had years to become familiar with and can operate competently. We can’t say the same thing for your vehicles.”
Embarrassed, she looked down at the deck and shook her head no.
“Okay, then, please don’t confuse our lack of trust for your ROVs, as a lack of trust in you. I believe the crew trusts you. I know I do, but your ROVs have had so little operational time that most of what you and Patterson have said they can do is still on paper.”
A small smile flashed quickly across her face as she wiped her eyes on a Kleenex that Jerry had magically produced. “Thanks. I guess I’m taking any criticism of my babies, real or implied, a bit personally. I’m sorry that I accused you of not trusting me.”
“Don’t worry about it, Emily,” responded Jerry reassuringly. “When a person pours their heart and soul into a project, they get attached to it.”
For a brief moment, Jerry relived that fateful day when his F-18E/F Super Hornet spun out of control and blew up. He remembered saying he was sorry, over and over again, and feeling like he had just lost a friend. Jerry shook his head a little, as he tried to purge the memory from his brain. He saw the quizzical look on Emily’s face, smiled, and said, “Sorry, got lost there for a moment. Anyway, I want you to know that I understand where you are coming from and that I know how important those ROVs are to you.”
“Thank you, Jerry, I appreciate your empathy,” she said as she rose. She started to give him a peck on the cheek, but then reconsidered. Jerry saw her stop, but smiled almost as if she had kissed him. Both turned to their assigned tasks.
As she went about powering up the control console, Jerry surveyed his spaces and noticed that Huey was prepped and in position to be loaded. Looking at his watch, he saw that there were only a few minutes left before they manned launch stations. Less than a minute later, Senior Chief Foster, Petty Officer Willis, and Seaman Jobin entered the torpedo room and moved toward the ROV. They were the bulk of ROV team one; Petty Officer Boyd was already there, since he had the torpedo room watch.
“MAN ROV LAUNCH STATIONS,” announced the IMC. The Captain was precisely on schedule.
“All right, people. Let’s get this vehicle into tube three,” ordered Foster. Jerry got out of the way. Despite the smaller number of men working on the ROV, Foster managed to get it into the tube and hooked up in about the same amount of time as during the first test trials. Ten minutes later, Huey was outside swimming around. Once everyone was clear of tube three, Jerry walked up and shined his pocket flashlight on the fiber-optic penetration in the breech door. The leak they had seen during the first two tests had noticeably decreased to a slow drip. Satisfied, Jerry returned to his place back by the control console.
Emily ran Huey through her test regimen. After fifteen minutes, the mechanical arm in tube one reached out and gently hauled the ROV back into tube three. The test had gone flawlessly, and Emily was clearly pleased. Foster and company pulled the vehicle from the tube and pushed it into the outboard stow of the lower centerline rack. After the restraining straps were in place and the vehicle secured, team two stepped up and prepared to do the whole thing all over again with Duey.
As team one departed, Jerry turned to follow them. He stopped momentarily, waved to Emily, and then called over to TM1 Moran, the senior man on team two. “Petty Officer Moran, I have to be in control for this test run. You’re in charge down here.”
Moran poked his head up from behind Duey, looked over to his division officer, and said, “Yes, sir.” He immediately went back to work preparing the ROV for loading, while Jerry made his way to control.
Jerry took the steps up the ladder to control from middle level two at a time. Tim Weyer was the Officer of the Deck and with him on the periscope stand were Hardy and Richards. He made his way over to the fire-control area and sat down at the third position, the closest one to Richards, who was manning the sound-powered phones. Bair suddenly popped out of the sonar shack and walked quickly over to the stand.
“Captain, that last sonar contact is classified as biologies. It sounds like a pod of humpback whales was just passing by, likely heading out toward deeper water.”
“Very well, XO,” growled Hardy, his tone reflected his annoyance. “Please schedule remedial training for sonar division, XO. We can’t afford to have improperly trained sonar techs getting spooked by whales once we are in area.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Bair flatly.
“As for the two of you,” snapped Hardy at Weyer and Richards, “I strongly suggest that you get your collective acts together and pay more attention to your people’s less-than-adequate proficiency. This error is inexcusable. Am I clear, gentlemen?”
Wincing at the Captain’s criticism, Weyer and Richards uttered their barely audible responses. Jerry found himself wishing that he could just slink back down to the torpedo room.
After sitting for half an hour, Jerry found himself fidgeting. What was taking Moran so long? They should have requested permission to launch by now. Hardy was pacing around the periscope stand and was obviously on a slow boil. Jerry feared he would lose his patience any moment now. Fortunately, he overheard Richards as he spoke into the sound-powered phones, “Request permission to flood tube three, equalize to sea pressure, and open the outer door, aye, wait. OOD, the torpedo room reports they are ready to launch the ROV and request permission to flood tube three, equalize to sea pressure, and open the outer door.”
Weyer looked at Hardy, who nodded curtly. Turning to Richards, he said, “Permission granted.”
Down in the torpedo room, Moran was sweating. It had taken longer than he had expected to get the ROV into the tube. He was sure that the CO was pissed as hell, and he was sure he’d hear about it later. But at least his team had managed to load the vehicle without breaking anything. Now they could relax a little bit and wait for Marcie to finish her test run before they had to bust their butts again. He had just settled down with a cup of coffee when TM2 Greer called him. “Hey, Curt, come over here and look at this, will you?” Sighing, Moran put his cup in one of the holders and walked over to the starboard tube nest.
“What’s the problem, Joe?”
“Take a look at the fiber-optic cable penetration in the breech door. I think the leak is getting worse.”
Moran took the flashlight and examined the penetration fitting. Sure enough, the water was seeping out in a small but steady stream. It definitely was worse than during the first trials. “Did the Senior Chief say anything about this during the first test run?”
“I didn’t talk to Foster at all, but Boyd told me that they thought it had gotten better. Do you think we should inform control?” Greer asked, clearly concerned.
“Are you kidding?” replied Moran forcefully. “The CO is already pissed at us for taking so long to the load the damn ROV and you know how he takes false alarms. I’ll call the Senior Chief and he can come and take a look at it.”
Moran walked over to the Dialex, picked up the receiver, and dialed the chiefs’ quarters. “Hey Master Chief, it’s Moran. Is Senior Chief Foster there? Could I speak with him, please?” As he waited for Foster to come to the phone, Moran walked around in small, agitated circles.
“Hey, Senior Chief, Moran here. Did you guys notice if that leak from the cable penetration was worse during your run? What? No, no, it’s a steady stream now. No, it’s definitely beyond a slow drip. Could you come down here and take a look? Yeah, okay, thanks.”
It wasn’t even a minute before Foster burst into the torpedo room. “All right, Moran, let’s look at the stupid fitting.” It took only a casual inspection for Foster to see that the leak was a lot worse. Foster carefully grasped the fiber-optic cable between his fingers and gently moved it around to see if he could determine exactly which part of the fitting was leaking. As he moved the cable, more water spurted out—and with greater force.
“Hey! Petty Officer Moran, what are you guys doing over there?” shouted Davis. “I’m getting a lot of interference, and ...” Emily stopped in midsentence as the cable continuity alarm flashed on her screen. She was no longer connected to the ROV outside. “I’ve lost Duey!” she shouted.
Over by tube three, Foster and Moran heard a sharp snapping noise. A split-second later, a high-velocity spray of water shot out from the fitting. The spray hit the centerline storage rack and ricocheted toward the weapons launching console. Part of the deflected water hit Moran in the chest with enough force to knock him into the starboard tube nest. He fell to the deck, momentarily stunned. A shocked Foster jumped back and hit the starboard storage rack.
Greer, Lee, and Emily all stared at the geyser of water pouring into the torpedo room. At a depth of two hundred feet, the pressure blasted seawater through the pinky-finger-sized hole like a fire hose on steroids. The roar was deafening.
Dazed, Foster stood up and grabbed for the Collision Alarm. The screech of the alarm reverberated throughout the boat. Shaking his head, he yelled over to Greer. “Greer, close the muzzle door!”
Hesitant at first, Greer crawled over to the weapons launching console and pushed the button to close the muzzle door on tube three. Nothing happened. He tried again and again, still nothing. The console wasn’t working. Shivering as the ice-cold seawater sprayed all over him, he turned toward Foster and shouted, “It doesn’t work!”
“Close it manually,” Foster screamed as he made a repetitive lever-like motion with his arm. Nodding, Greer looked in the overhead for the tube three muzzle door lever. With all that sea spray, it was hard to see anything. Still, after a few more seconds he found the lever and pulled it into the closed position. As Greer lowered his arm and looked back toward Foster, there was a bright flash.
Up in control, Jerry heard a dull roar coming from below, like the sound of high-pressure air being released. Without even asking for permission to leave, he got up and started heading for the torpedo room. When the Collision Alarm sounded, he bolted down the ladder. The XO was right behind him. As they were halfway down the second ladder to the lower level, the IMC blared: FIRE IN THE TORPEDO ROOM!
Down in the twenty-one-man bunkroom, Jerry grabbed two EABs and tossed one to the XO. As they donned their masks, the crewmen from the berthing area were filing out and putting on their masks as well. Bair ordered them to start forming a fire-fighting team.
Plugging in his mask, Jerry turned to Bair, who motioned for him to go in. Jerry opened the door. It looked more like a steel foundry than a torpedo room. Flames and sparks were leaping around from the forward part of the room. Silhouetted by the fire, he saw Foster coming toward him, carrying an injured man. It flashed into his mind that Emily Davis had only a few minutes of damage control practice.
After taking a deep breath, Jerry unplugged his EAB, and moved as quickly as he could to the ROV control area. Bair helped Foster with the injured crewman. Smoke was rapidly filling the room, making it hard for Jerry to see where he was going. Feeling his way along the bulkhead, he found Emily huddled behind the control console. She was still tightening the straps on her EAB mask when he reached her. Grabbing her head with both of his hands, he put their two facemasks together. She looked terrified, but there was no time for comforting words. She needed to get out of here—now! Jerry yelled as loud as he could through his mask, “EMILY, YOU NEED TO LEAVE. FOLLOW THE BULKHEAD TO THE DOOR!” Without waiting for her reply, Jerry jerked her to her feet and placed her right hand on the bulkhead. He then grabbed her left hand and put it on her EAB connection. “ON THREE, YOU PULL THE PLUG AND GO! ONE! . . . TWO! . . . THREE!” Even though her hands were shaking badly, she managed to unplug her connection and started walking along the bulkhead.
More sparks popped out from the flames, but this time the lights blinked as well. An electrical fire! Jerry moved as fast as he could over to the power distribution panel. He swung the panel door open and started opening the breakers inside. Since he didn’t know exactly what was on fire, he opened all of them in the hope that it would cut out the equipment that was burning. As he stood there, he felt the boat developing an up angle; they were coming shallow. Soon they would be at a depth where they could emergency-ventilate the torpedo room and get rid of the smoke.
Jerry considered grabbing a fire extinguisher and heading toward the fire. But he realized that it was more important for him to report to the XO that he thought they had an electrical fire on their hands, and that he had already opened the breakers. Once again, Jerry took a couple of deep breaths, unplugged his EAB, and started making his way back toward the berthing area. When he reached the ROV control consoles, he stopped to plug into the emergency air supply nearby. As he was feeling around for the EAB manifold, he bumped into somebody—it was Senior Chief Foster. Once Foster realized who it was, he tried to go around Jerry but Jerry held him back. “OUT OF MY WAY! I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR YOU,” snarled Foster. “WE HAVE AN ELECTRICAL FIRE. I HAVE TO . . .”
“I ALREADY TOOK CARE OF THE BREAKERS, SENIOR CHIEF,” shouted Jerry angrily as Foster pushed against him.
“WHAT?” Foster seemed shocked by Jerry’s report.
“I SAID, I ALREADY OPENED ALL THE BREAKERS ON THE P-PANEL. I’M GOING TO INFORM THE XO.” Feeling a tad smug, Jerry unplugged himself and continued his search for Bair. Foster just stood there, dumbfounded.
He found the XO right where he expected him to be, leading the fire-fighting team. They were all crouched down, advancing slowly toward the forward part of the torpedo room, under the cover of a low-velocity water fog to keep the heat down. Jerry crawled up to Bair’s side and plugged himself into his EAB fitting. Carefully and deliberately, Jerry reported his observations and corrective actions to his superior. The XO listened, and after Jerry had finished, gave him the thumbs-up sign. Bair then raised the NIFTI back up to his faceplate and motioned for the fire-fighting team to resume their advance and began spraying the burning console with high-velocity fog. Jerry detached himself and backed off. He would only be in the way now. With the power supply to the weapons launching console isolated, the fire was quickly extinguished.
The uncontrolled leak that caused the fire had also died down. Once the muzzle door had been shut, the torpedo tube depressurized rapidly and the dangerous pressure-driven spray quickly diminished to an inoffensive trickle. The danger to the boat was over.
* * * *
Recovery
Memphis bobbed around at periscope depth for forty-five minutes while the smoke was cleared from the forward compartment. The atmospheric monitoring equipment indicated that the carbon monoxide and carbon dioxide levels in the boat were once again within safe levels. But Hardy made everyone wait another ten minutes while he had the atmosphere tested manually. Finally, the IMC announced to the crew that they could take off their EABs.
Jerry removed his mask and was immediately greeted by the stench of burnt electrical insulation. The smell was so pungent that he briefly considered putting his mask back on. Throwing his EAB onto the centerline storage rack, he walked over to the starboard tube nest. Boyd and Greer had finished draining tube three, and were examining the inside of the breech door as Jerry approached.
“Any ideas as to what happened?” he asked.
“Not a clue, sir,” answered Boyd frankly. “Oh, it’s obvious that the gasket failed catastrophically, but I can’t tell you how or why.”
“Can we still use the tube?”
“Sure. We can screw in the metal plug and seal the penetration, but we won’t be able to support ROV ops.”
“I see,” Jerry said. It was not going to be a pleasant experience when he’d have to tell Patterson that the tube might no longer be capable of supporting the mission. She might blow a gasket herself. “Well, go ahead and put in the plug. I want this door watertight. And find me some of that gasket, we need to figure out what happened.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Boyd.
Jerry surveyed his damaged room. In the poor light, he couldn’t tell if what he saw was burned equipment and structure or if it was just soot from the fire. Turning his flashlight to the weapons launching console, he was surprised to see that it was largely intact. He half-expected it to be a charred ruin. Jerry had just started walking over to make a closer inspection when the lights came back on. Over at the power distribution panel, he saw Foster and FT3 Larsen, the latter on the sound-powered phones. He was probably talking to maneuvering, Jerry thought, making sure that it was safe to close the breaker for the lighting circuit. With better illumination, the real state of the torpedo room became readily apparent.
The forward part of the room was pretty bad off. The damage to the launching console was worse than he had first thought, and the area between the tubes was badly burnt as well. The rest of the room, however, just looked dirty from all the smoke. Foster left the P-panel and marched down to the console, his feet sloshing in half an inch of cold seawater still on the deck. Jerry watched as the senior chief wiped off part of the control section and surveyed the damage. He looked tired and dismayed.
Slowly, Jerry walked up behind Foster and asked, “How bad?”
“Real bad,” replied Foster as he shook his head ruefully.
“Can it be repaired at sea?”
“Uhh, I don’t know ... sir.” Foster closed an access panel and then turned to face Jerry. “And I won’t know for sure until we have stripped this console to parade rest. But I can say this much: I wouldn’t hold out much hope.”
Jerry nodded his acknowledgment and the two of them just stood there, an awkward silence between them. It was a little too much for Jerry.
“How’s Moran?”
“He was badly bruised when he got slammed into the tubes by that jet of water, but Doc says he’ll live,” said Foster wearily.
“You did well getting him out as fast as you did, Senior. Thank you.”
Foster was startled by the sincerity of Jerry’s compliment. And for the second time that day, he was at a loss for words.
Jerry was about to suggest that Foster go and get some dry clothes on, when Emily walked into the torpedo room. He was glad to see that she had not been hurt. He regretted being so rough on her during the fire, but he had to do it. He had to get her to safety. As Emily got closer, he could tell that she was awestruck by all the damage. But what Jerry initially took as an aftereffect of shock turned out instead to be unbridled rage.
“What did you idiots do?” demanded Emily. Her whole body shook as she spoke.
Completely taken aback by her accusation and vehemence, Jerry was barely able to muster a weak, “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Mitchell! Why did those stupid Neanderthals of yours play around with the cable fitting! If they had just left things alone, this wouldn’t have happened and my baby wouldn’t be stranded out in the middle of the Norwegian Sea!”
Both Foster and Jerry were utterly amazed that the ranting woman in front of them was the mousy, quiet Dr. Davis. In different circumstances, the extremes of Emily’s behavior would have been humorous. But right now, any sign of joviality would be ill advised. With one of her precious ROVs stuck outside, she had the temperament of a mother grizzly bear whose cub was threatened.
“Emily, I can assure you that my guys did not cause this casualty . . .”
“Don’t give me that patronizing bullshit, you son of a bitch! Your men cut him loose!”
Jerry felt his jaw tighten and he found himself becoming angry as well. He was cold, wet, and coming down from an adrenaline high. He really wasn’t in the mood to deal with someone who couldn’t separate the cause of the accident from proper corrective actions. And while Jerry liked Emily Davis a lot, he wasn’t about to put up with her irrational tirade.
“Now, wait one damn minute, Dr. Davis! My men did not cause that fitting to fail. They responded properly to the casualty that followed. And I stand one hundred percent behind their actions, even though it meant cutting the drogue umbilical cable and stranding the ROV. In the grand scheme of things, Doctor, the lives of my men are considerably more important than your vehicle!”
It was Emily’s turn to be surprised. She simply stood there, her mouth hanging open, as Jerry’s stern message sunk in. Slowly, she nodded her head, the anger on her face replaced by anguish. “But what about Duey?”
Before Jerry could answer, another angry voice repeated the question. “Yes, Lieutenant, what about the ROV? Can it be recovered?”
Jerry looked up and saw Patterson and Hardy approaching them. Inwardly he groaned. It would be nearly impossible now to keep the situation under control with the two hottest heads on the boat joining the discussion. Jerry knew that they would both be upset, but for vastly different reasons. Hardy didn’t disappoint him as he butted in. “The question of the ROV’s recovery will have to wait, Dr. Patterson. What I need to know, Mr. Mitchell, is the name of the individual who is responsible for this debacle—and nearly cost me my boat!”
Jerry heard Foster swallow hard behind him. Jerry knew it would be so easy to blame him for this whole incident. According to Greer and the others, Foster was the senior member present when the casualty occurred. And Davis would almost certainly back his claim. It was the Memphis way of doing business after all, pass the blame onto someone else. But that was not how Jerry was brought up or trained by his instructors at the Academy and by Commander Casey. When he signed on to Memphis and assumed the duties as the Torpedo Division Officer, he became responsible for whatever happened in this room.
“I’m waiting, mister!” snarled Hardy.
“Yes, sir,” replied Jerry, stalling as he built up his courage. “Based on my knowledge of the events that led up to the casualty, sir, I really can’t give you the name of a particular individual at this time.”
“That is totally unacceptable, Lieutenant!” screamed Hardy, his face and neck bulging with anger.
“I’m sorry, Captain, but there is no way I can name an individual with any degree of confidence,” replied Jerry firmly, but with respect. “We had a fitting, not installed by the ship’s crew, fail at two hundred feet when it is rated for considerably deeper depths. We had a control console that is supposed to be splash-proof, short out and burst into flames. Without investigating how and why these incidents occurred, I can’t tell you if one of my men is responsible or if the fault lies with SUBASE personnel or even Draper Labs.”
Hardy, completely unconvinced by Jerry’s argument, seethed and through clenched teeth said, “One last time, Lieutenant Mitchell, I’m ordering you to tell me who is responsible for this disaster!”
“Very well, Captain. If you want a name, then use mine. Because I’m responsible for what goes on in my torpedo room.”
An eerie silence descended on the group as all of them were surprised by Jerry’s forceful response to Hardy’s demand.
“Umm, Captain,” interrupted Patterson. “While this incident is of some importance to you, we do not have time to play your petty blame game when there are larger issues to consider. Can the ROV be recovered and can we continue on with our mission?”
Jerry recognized the snide “mission commander” tone in Patterson’s voice and knew that Hardy was in a poor position to negotiate since she had kept her questions strictly within the boundaries he had set for her. Recognizing the right answer when told, Hardy motioned for Jerry to address her questions.
“In regard to your first question, ma’am. Yes, I believe we can recover the ROV. As to the second, again, I don’t know. If we can’t determine the cause of the failure, then we can’t safely use the tube to support ROV ops. Since no other tube is configured to deploy the ROVs, that would constitute a mission-critical failure.” Jerry intentionally used Patterson’s own words from that morning’s briefing to drive his point home.
“I see. And if you can determine the cause of the failure?”
“If we can isolate the root cause—and if we can correct it—we should be able to support ROV deployments, barring any complications from the fire. As to whether or not we continue the mission, that is a decision that you and the Captain need to make.”
“Fair enough, Mr. Mitchell. Now, how do you propose we recover the ROV?”
Jerry turned toward Emily and asked, “Emily, did you keep the emergency retrieval hardware and software of the NMRS in your ROVs?”
“Certainly. Once the ROV detects a loss of signal continuity with the control console, it assumes that the fiber-optic cable has been severed and returns to the launch point. Once there, it emits a series of knock, knock pulses to alert the submarine that its back and waits for the homing beacon to be activated. But Jerry, without the drogue, we don’t have a homing beacon and we can’t position the ROV properly for it to be recovered by the mechanical arm.”
“Then, I guess someone will have to go outside and manhandle Duey into position.”
“Wait a minute,” Hardy protested. “I will not authorize a dive that requires decompression. And at two hundred feet your bottom time is only a few minutes before decompression is necessary.”
“Actually, Captain, it’s five minutes,” boomed Reynolds as he came down the starboard aisle between the storage racks. “And I agree with you, sir, a decompression dive is risky business even with seasoned divers. With inexperienced divers, it would be unacceptably risky. But somehow I don’t think Mr. Mitchell had a deep dive in mind, did you, sir?”
“No, COB, I didn’t,” smiled Jerry.
“Very well, then. What is your plan?” Hardy was now as curious as the others about what Jerry had in mind.
“We’ll position Memphis as close as possible to the launch point, but we’ll be at periscope depth. Once we know Duey is nearby, the divers will go out and call him up to our depth. We can then push it into position where the mechanical arm can grab it.”
“But Jerry, how will you call Duey?” asked Emily. “None of your hull arrays can transmit at a frequency that Duey’s sonar can pick up.”
“True enough. So we rig a portable power supply to one of the spare drogues and the divers lift it over the side and point it down toward Duey. If we do this right, the ROV will be less than three hundred yards away and its sonar should be able to detect the homing beacon.”
As she listened to Jerry’s scheme, Emily’s face became bright with hope. “Yes, Yes! That should work. Oh Jerry, you’re brilliant!”
Jerry was uncomfortable with her enthusiasm. “Let’s hold off on the ‘brilliant’ stuff until after we get Duey back, shall we?”
Hardy was silent as he considered Jerry’s idea. His wrinkled brow and clenched jaw showed his reservations, his uncertainty that the risk was justifiable. Finally he approached Reynolds and asked, “COB, what would your bottom time be for a dive of seventy feet?”
“Let’s see, seventy feet with no decompression would give us about fifty minutes, sir. That should be more than adequate for the job.”
Hardy started pacing as he continued to mull over Jerry’s proposal. As he walked, Reynolds kept feeding him more information. “We have the proper dive gear, and there is very little current to speak of. We have plenty of daylight left, so visibility shouldn’t be a problem. The only way we could reduce the risk further would be to go diving in a swimming pool.”
“Very well, COB. I’ll authorize the dive,” conceded Hardy with a sigh. “I trust you’ll be the lead diver, but who will be your partner on this dive?”
“Mr. Mitchell, sir.”
“Mitchell?” Hardy sounded incredulous.
“Yes, sir,” Reynolds answered politely “He’s a certified Navy diver, he possesses the best knowledge on the ROVs of any diver onboard, and I believe he has some ice diving experience. I’d say that makes him perfect for the job.”
Patterson, Hardy, and Emily all looked at Jerry as if he was some sort of circus freak. All that undesired attention made him feel a little uncomfortable, so he tried to explain. “I did some ice diving in Wisconsin and Minnesota as a kid. It’s really quite a unique experience diving under an ice canopy...and...ahh, just forget it.”
Patterson and Emily both laughed, while Hardy slowly shook his head. “All right COB, I’ll get Memphis in position while the two of you get ready.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” responded Jerry and Reynolds in unison.
“I’ll break out the gear, Mr. Mitchell, while you finish giving your people their instructions,” said Reynolds.
“Okay, COB, I’ll be with you in a moment,” Jerry replied. Turning to Foster and Emily, he briefly discussed with them what they had to do to support the dive. Foster reassured him that tube three would be ready to receive the ROV, and Emily said it would take her twenty minutes to put together a portable power supply and connect it to one of the spare drogues.
Jerry found the COB at the far forward end of the torpedo room, removing the diving gear from their storage lockers. The paint on the lockers had been fried, but the lockers themselves were in good condition, as were their contents. Jerry was relieved to see that they had good crushed neoprene dry-suits to wear, but they didn’t have any insulated undergarments. This meant that he and the COB would get cold during this dive. It might take thirty minutes or so before they started to really feel it, but they’d still need a hot shower afterward.
After breaking out the gear from the lockers, it had to be moved to the crew’s mess, where they would suit up. Reynolds had several sailors lug the equipment up while he and Jerry went to their staterooms to change. Digging around in his locker, Jerry found the cotton sweatshirt and pants he’d brought and put them on, along with two pairs of socks. Back in the crew’s mess, Jerry found Reynolds already slipping into his drysuit. He tossed Jerry a container of talcum powder, which he applied liberally to the legs and arms of his suit before putting it on. After adjusting the neck, wrist, and ankle seals, Jerry put on his rubber boots and made sure that the boot and ankle seals overlapped. He did the same with the hood.
Reynolds then ran Jerry through the checklist to make sure the tank, regulator, gauges, and buoyancy compensator were all in working order. With that completed, all they could do was sit and wait for the sonar techs to find the lost ROV. They didn’t have to wait long. Fifteen minutes later, control called down to the crew’s mess to inform the divers that the ROV was close by and that it was up to them to bring it home. As Jerry and the COB started putting on their tanks, Bair came into the mess deck and told them that the starboard torpedo nest muzzle and shutter doors were already opened and that the mechanical arm had been extended. The floodlight on the arm would also be on and they were to use it as a navigation aid, if the visibility was not as good as they expected. He then wished them luck and issued a stern warning not to do anything heroically stupid.
As they picked up their masks, gloves, fins, and flashlights, Reynolds looked over to Jerry and said, “Time for you to become a true Bluenose, Mr. Mitchell.”
The wide grin on the COB’s face left Jerry feeling a bit uneasy. “Why do I get the impression that I should feel honored?”
“Because it is a true honor to actually swim in the realm of King Boreas. An honor that goes far beyond merely being sprayed down with seawater during the baptism.”
“Really? Well, I’ll take your word for it, Your Majesty. Just no more of that Prussian blue crap,” warned Jerry adamantly.
Reynolds laughed as he climbed the ladder up into the forward escape trunk. For a moment, Jerry wasn’t certain that the COB would fit through the hatch. He was such a big man to begin with, and he now had most of his diving gear on as well. But with surprising ease, the COB deftly navigated the hatchway. After all their other gear had been handed up, Jerry started climbing up the ladder.
“Press your chest onto the ladder, sir. That way you won’t snag the hatch seat,” coached Reynolds. Once Jerry’s tank was clear of the hatchway, Reynolds reached down and bodily pulled him up into the escape trunk. After being set down on the grate, Jerry called down, “Is that drogue and power supply ready?”
“Right here, sir,” responded Boyd. Jerry then heard a guttural, “Umph!” Followed by, “Sir, if you don’t mind, I could use a little help.”
Reynolds knelt on the grate and helped Jerry grab the large box in Boyd’s arms. It was rather heavy, and even the COB had to exert himself to lift it into the escape trunk. “Son of a buck!” Jerry exclaimed. “I thought Davis was going to make this thing portable!”
“Well, sir, it is—kinda. You can move it.”
Jerry was unimpressed and showed his concern. “Petty Officer Boyd, if we take this thing out of the escape trunk, we’ll go straight to the bottom.”
“Uhh, yes, sir, we know, sir,” replied Boyd with a smile. “That’s why we made sure there was enough umbilical cabling so you don’t have to remove the power supply from the escape trunk. Dr. Davis says all you have to do is point the drogue down over the starboard side and push the black button. As long as the button is depressed, it’ll keep transmitting the homing beacon.”
As Jerry pulled the cabling into the trunk, Boyd and Greer lifted the drogue and pushed it up into the trunk for the two men to grab. As they lifted the drogue, Jerry noticed that it weighed almost as much as the power supply. There were two metal gas bottles taped to it, too, one on each side. “What the hell are these for?” he asked, pointing to one of the cylinders.
“It was Dr. Davis’ idea, sir. They’re empty. She said their buoyancy should make the drogue easier to handle once you’re out in the water.”
“Would you please thank her for us, TM2? And we’ll see you when we get back.”
Once everyone was clear, Reynolds shut and dogged the lower escape trunk. With the hatch closed, Jerry repositioned the drogue and the cabling so that he and the COB had at least a little room to don the rest of their gear. “It’s a bit tight in here, isn’t it?” remarked Jerry tensely. As Jerry started to put on his fins and gloves, Reynolds saw that he was agitated, uneasy. As the COB put on his fins, he glanced over at Jerry and asked, “Nervous?”
Jerry let out a brief sigh and then admitted, “No COB, I think a better word is ‘scared.’ I’ve never left a submerged submarine before, and I’ve never made a dive hundreds of miles from the nearest shore.”
“That’s okay, Mr. Mitchell. It’s all right to be a little scared. I actually prefer it that way because I know you’ll be more careful. Now, once we get out there, we stay in each other’s sight at all times. There is no reason for us to be apart, understood?”
Even though Jerry was an officer and Reynolds a senior enlisted man, Jerry knew that the COB had the authority of experience, and in this situation, he gave the orders. “Understood, COB.”
“Okay, then,” said Reynolds as he opened the valve. “Let’s get wet!”
Below the grate, Jerry heard the rush of seawater as it quickly began to fill the escape trunk. He could feel the temperature inside dropping sharply on his face as the water rose up over his feet. Reynolds reached down and scooped up some seawater and swished it around in his full face mask. As he put it on, he leaned over to Jerry and shouted, “If you think the dousing I gave during the Bluenose ceremony was bad, you ain’t seen nothing yet!”
Jerry did the same, but waited until the last minute before pulling the mask down over his face. As he adjusted the straps, the frigid arctic water rose over his head. Suddenly, a sharp chill clawed its way down Jerry’s back, as a few drops of seawater slipped between the facemask and his dry suit. The unexpected cold caused Jerry to inhale sharply. Reynolds shook his head, a broad smile on his face. Moments later, the trunk was filled with water and Reynolds opened the upper hatch. A small amount of air bubbled its way to the surface.