Cold Choices

4. MISSION BRIEFING

15 September 2008

Atlantic Ocean—100nm SE of Subase New London

(39°55’N, 070°45’W)

The lookout was the first man down, followed soon after by Palmer and Hayes. “Chief of the Watch,” announced Palmer, “the bridge is rigged for dive, last man down, hatch secured.”

Jerry winced a little as he listened to the report. Technically, it was accurate. But Palmer’s voice still had a note of uncertainty to it. The chief of the watch acknowledged the report and then relayed it to LTJG Shawn McClelland, Seawolf’s sonar officer. McClelland had temporarily taken over as the officer of the deck, or OOD, while Hayes and Palmer prepared the bridge to submerge. This transfer of command ensured the safety of the ship while the men in the cockpit topside focused their attention on removing flat panel displays and other pieces of equipment that preferred not to get soaked. After a brief turnover, Hayes resumed his role as OOD and Palmer his as the junior officer of the deck (JOOD).

Looking down at the plotting table, Jerry saw the quartermaster of the watch point to a colorfully labeled position on the navigation chart and hold up two fingers. Nodding, Jerry turned and exclaimed, “Officer of the Deck, two minutes to the dive point.”

“Very well, Nav,” answered Hayes. “Mark the sounding.”

“Two nine eight fathoms,” replied the quartermaster.

It had been raining topside, and the discarded foul-weather gear added to the crowding and bustle as Seawolf prepared to submerge. Filled with control panels, mechanical and electrical equipment, the control room had about the same floor space as a large suburban kitchen.

The layout of the control room was similar to the older Los Angeles class, with the ship control panel and ballast control panel in the forward left-hand corner. To the forward and right was the entrance to the sonar room, and the five fire-control consoles directly aft of the entrance. The two periscopes were in the center of the space, flanked by two plotting tables, one on each side, and a series of command displays directly in front. While the normal watch in the control room was eleven or twelve men, additional watchstanders were required for the maneuvering watch. With the wet foul-weather gear taking up prime deck space, there was little room left for the captain and the XO. And nobody wanted to crowd the captain.

Rudel stood off to the side with Shimko and waited patiently for his cue. Upon hearing the sounding report, he maneuvered around the extra obstacles and stepped up to the periscope stand. “OOD, report.”

Although Rudel had said “OOD,” his gaze was firmly fixed on Palmer. Understanding his captain’s desire, Hayes said, “Mr. Palmer, make the report.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Palmer responded nervously. Then, after taking a deep breath, he began his lengthy report on the ship’s status. “Captain, the ship is on course one six five at all ahead flank, making two four knots. The ship is rigged for dive. We are about one minute from the dive point and the ship’s inertial navigation system is tracking with GPS. We hold one contact on radar; bearing 180 degrees, range two five thousand yards. Contact is past CPA and opening. Sounding is two nine eight fathoms beneath the keel. Request permission to submerge the ship, sir.”

The captain took in the report while maintaining full eye contact with Palmer, who fidgeted under his CO’s scrutiny. Although Rudel already knew everything that his JOOD had just told him, it was navy procedure to go over it again to ensure that everyone in the ship’s control party was operating with the same information — especially the junior members. He then glanced over at the ballast and ship control panels to verify the boat’s readiness to submerge. Satisfied, he turned and looked toward Jerry.

“Navigator?”

Jerry answered, “Mark the dive point, sir.”

“Very well, Mr. Palmer. Submerge the ship to one five zero feet.” In spite of the bustle, Rudel spoke in a conversational tone. Palmer echoed the captain’s order, “Submerge the ship to one five zero feet, aye.” Reflexively, Jerry checked the ordered depth against their plotted position and the fathometer. Plenty of room — now over three hundred fathoms, or eighteen hundred feet, beneath them.

Palmer then passed the order on to the diving officer, who in turn leaned forward and repeated it to the planesman and the chief of the watch. The three men echoed it back in unison. Six back-and-forth repetitions of the exact same simple order might seem a little tedious, but well-drilled procedures weighed lightly compared with the price of a mistake.

“Dive! Dive!” announced the chief of the watch over the 1MC, the ship’s main announcing circuit, followed immediately by two blasts of the diving alarm. WREEEEEE, WREEEEEE.

“Dive! Dive!” he announced a second time.

Once the word had been passed that boat was about to submerge, the diving officer paused momentarily, waiting. After about ten seconds, he looked over at Palmer, who was at the number two periscope looking forward. “Off’sa’deck, request ahead two-thirds.”

“What?” responded Palmer, puzzled.

Hayes quickly came beside him and whispered, “We need to slow down, Mr. Palmer. It won’t do to bend a periscope on our way out now, would it?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no sir,” Palmer replied. Then, struggling to regain his composure, he said, “Helm, all ahead two-thirds.”

“All ahead two-thirds, helm aye.” Reaching down to the engine order telegraph, the petty officer rotated the handle that shifted an arrow from “Flank” to “2/3.” A second arrow on the dial soon followed suit. “Maneuvering answers ahead two-thirds.”

“Very well,” said Palmer, followed immediately with, “Thanks, Dive.”

Acknowledging the comment with a nod, the diving officer proceeded with the business at hand. “Chief of the Watch, open the forward main ballast tank vents.”

“Open the forward main ballast tank vents, aye.” A few toggle switches later, the green bars shifted to red open circles on the ballast control panel or BCP. “Diving Officer, forward main ballast tank vents indicate open.”

Palmer trained the periscope forward and rotated the optics downward. Six towering geysers of air and water vapor leapt from openings on Seawolf’s bow as seawater rushed into the ballast tanks from below and pushed the air out through the vents. “Venting forward,” he reported.

“Venting forward, aye,” responded the diving officer. “Open aft main ballast tank vents.”

“Open the aft main ballast tank vents, aye.”

Rotating the periscope around toward the stern, Palmer saw a similar eruption from the four after vents. “Venting aft.”

Unlike World War II fleet boats that were designed to quickly flood their ballast tanks and “crash dive” under the waves in less than a minute, Seawolf took her sweet time getting under. Like all nuclear-powered submarines, she was designed to stay submerged for long periods of time and wasn’t burdened with the need to surface often like the older diesel boats. The requirement for rapid submergence had been replaced by virtually unlimited underwater endurance and high speed. Furthermore, Seawolf was four times the size of a fleet boat and the increased tankage just took longer to fill. When the time came to submerge, Seawolf’sort of waddled her way down, but once all the way under she transformed into a graceful sea creature, completely at ease in her element.

“Rig out the bow planes,” ordered the diving officer.

As the ship control party continued with the diving procedures, Jerry watched Palmer supervising the evolution. One of Jerry’s duties as the senior watch officer was to provide the XO with an evaluation of Palmer’s performance, and he wanted the report to be based on factual observations, not fantasy. So far, Palmer seemed to be doing okay. Not great, but okay.

A couple of mechanical clunks told Jerry that the bow planes had been extended and locked. After a quick test, the helmsman was ordered to put ten-degree dive on the bow planes. The effect was immediate as the planes forced Seawolf’s bow downward, driving her under the waves. The video monitor showed the forward part of the hull burrowing deeper into the ocean; the venting geysers becoming more of a bubbling mass.

While the view was spectacular, it was also unnerving. Palmer should be doing 360-degree scans as the boat dove. Once again he had allowed himself to become fixated on a single aspect of this highly complex process. Jerry wasn’t concerned for the safety of the ship, as Hayes was on number-one scope and was keeping a vigilant circle search, but the lack of attention on Palmer’s part didn’t encourage confidence in his abilities. And if the captain didn’t have confidence in a JO, he wouldn’t get qualified. Fortunately, Hayes quickly recognized what was not happening and coaxed Palmer to resume a proper search.

Jerry’s brooding was interrupted by the diving officer’s next report: “Off’sa’deck, stern planes tested sat. I have the bubble, sir. Stern planes to ten-degree dive. Proceeding to ten-degree down bubble.”

“Very well, Dive,” replied Palmer.

With the stern planes in the act, the deck started to dip toward the bow. The force of the water on the depressed stern planes quickly caused the boat’s hull to rotate downward, driving her under the sea. The diving officer watched both the gauge on the ship control panel and the inclinometer attached to the bulkhead. Like a carpenter’s level, a gas bubble indicated the amount of the ship’s tilt as it approached the ordered ten-degree down angle. The reference to the ship’s angle by the position of the “bubble” was firmly rooted in submarine tradition, if somewhat antiquated.

“Depth five five feet,” called out the diving officer.

Palmer acknowledged the report as he kept up his circle search. Going around and around on the periscope, while necessary, was also tedious and somewhat tiring, even with a power assist to help turn the scope. “Dancing with the fat lady,” as the periscope watch was called, could give a person a good workout.

“Depth six zero feet.”

“Decks awash,” Palmer reported.

The diving officer kept on announcing the increasing depth, and after the seventy-foot mark, Palmer announced, “Scopes under. Lowering number-two scope.”

Simultaneously, Hayes lowered the number-one periscope. From start to finish it had taken Seawolf almost eight minutes to dive. Pretty much par for the course, thought Jerry as the quartermaster noted the time in the ship’s log.

Ten minutes later, Seawolf was at 150 feet and with a satisfactory slow speed trim. All balanced out and in her natural environment, she could now truly begin their journey north.

Jerry listened as the captain set Seawolf’s course and speed in a north-easterly direction at sixteen knots. By reflex, he double-checked the plotted course against the captain’s orders. Open water lay before them for hundreds of miles. He noted that the time of the next course change was several days away.

Captain Rudel stayed in control until after the watch had turned over, then headed aft toward his stateroom. The XO followed, announcing “Briefing at 1300” before he left. It was only a reminder. Not only had the briefing been part of the plan of the day, but out of the 130 men aboard, only a handful, Jerry included, knew the details of the boat’s destination and mission. There was more than a little curiosity.

With the maneuvering watch secured, Jerry returned to his stateroom and got busy collecting his briefing materials. He was providing the visual aids, as the XO put it, for the briefing to the CO and the rest of the wardroom.

Wardroom, USS Seawolf

Lieutenant Commander Shimko finished presenting Seawolf’s planned track. “And here’s the part we all like. Course two seven zero, then two two five. West and southwest to home. Total voyage time seven weeks, two days, and change. All things considered, a fairly short northern run.”

The packed wardroom held thirteen of Seawolf’s fifteen officers, along with Master Chief Hess, the chief of the boat. Lieutenant Commander Lavoie, the sub’s engineer, had the watch in control while Lieutenant (j.g.) Todd Williams, the ship’s damage control assistant, was back in maneuvering. When the wardroom was used for meals, the officers would eat in two shifts, and it was still a tight fit. With the space this full, everyone kept their elbows pulled in. Jerry had a little more space up front, because he had to handle the charts.

It had taken only fifteen minutes for the XO to lay out their planned course and describe their mission. Shimko didn’t waste words. He expected a routine transit, a smooth mission, and a speedy return home.

“Mr. Mitchell.” He turned to Jerry. “This is a very packed mission plan. Can you keep us on schedule?”

Jerry caught the XO’s tone. “Well, sir, there’s construction on the turnpike. If we take the bypass. ”

Everyone laughed, a comfortable joke among officers comfortable with each other and pleased with their new assignment.

Shimko announced, “Our torpedo officer will now describe exactly how the UUVs will be used on this op.”

Lieutenant (j.g.) Palmer, standing near the doorway, pulled some notes out of his shirt pocket. He didn’t try to move from where he stood.

He unfolded the notes and paused for a moment. “The vehicles we are carrying are prototypes of the Advanced Development UUVs. They have high-frequency imaging sonars and precision underwater mapping software. The high-resolution imaging sonar will allow us to collect precise bottom bathymetric data. There is also a special camera module that can take seven-megapixel digital photos of the bottom or anything interesting that it comes across.

“Each UUV is fitted with a GPS and inertial navigation system, and they’re smart enough to follow complex instructions. Seawolf will get in range of an ‘area of interest,’ typically about five nautical miles. We will launch one of the three vehicles — Maxine, Patty, or LaVerne.” Those who hadn’t heard the three names before, but understood the reference, smiled or chuckled; Palmer didn’t pause. “Each has an endurance of about sixty hours, but we expect each mission to take no more than forty-five, allowing a fifteen-hour margin.

“We can communicate with one acoustically within seven nautical miles, or by SATCOM, which gives us the flexibility to be much farther away. We can preset times when a UUV will come up to a shallow depth, find a safe hole in the sea ice, and listen for instructions. It can also use the same procedure to take its own GPS fixes.

“We won’t be able to see what a UUV has found until it returns to the boat. The imaging sonar returns almost photographic-quality images, but the acoustic modem would choke on that much data. We’ll download the detailed bottom data after the UUV is recovered. Instead, we’ll get basic data — a usable picture of the bottom, position, course and speed, and so on, as long as we’re within that seven-mile acoustic comms range.

“When a UUV completes a mission and returns to the boat, it will need about two hours’ maintenance. Basically, while we’re sending one out, one will be running a survey, and we’ll be servicing or recovering the third. We don’t charge the lithium-thionyl-chloride batteries on these UUVs. The energy sections are completely replaced. That shortens our turnaround time.”

The XO asked, “Questions?”

“Sir, what if we have problems with the UUVs?” Lieutenant Will Hayes was main propulsion assistant. The engineering department would not be directly concerned with survey operations, but it was an honest question.

Shimko looked to Palmer. The torpedo officer only paused for a moment. “Losing a vehicle would be bad, but would only cost us one or two sorties at the very most. And those could be made up if we stayed on station a little longer. The consumables can be used by any of the three vehicles. We’ve loaded the top starboard torpedo tube with the mechanical arm that recovers the UUVs. We can use any of the three other starboard tubes for actually launching or recovering them. I’ve laid in extra repair parts for the arm, the control console, and the handling equipment. Barring a catastrophe, we can fix all the gear underway.”

Hayes and everyone else seemed satisfied by Palmer’s answer.

Chandler then raised his hand. “Sir, if we’re doing this after the Russian training exercises are done for the year, why did we embark CTs and the ACINT riders?” The cryptological techs were enlisted men who were experts in electronic eavesdropping and would be spending a lot of time in the radio room and the ESM bay. Most could speak Russian, several were fluent in a couple of languages. Given their skill level, they were dramatically underpaid. The acoustic intelligence riders were hypertrained sonar technicians who would assist Seawolf’s own sonar shop.

Boats on intelligence-collection missions near foreign waters routinely carried CTs and ACINT specialists to actually gather signals and acoustic intelligence data and advise the captain on procedures and the conduct of the mission. They usually kept to themselves, and submariners had learned that “the riders” never talked shop.

The XO answered this question. “They’re aboard because we can’t be sure the Russians will do what they’ve done in the past. We will be monitoring their transmissions, if there are any. And since we’re looking at the seabed, we may find expended weapons or other materiel and if there are any markings, I’d like to know what they say.” He paused for a moment. “Although our ordered mission is to conduct precise bottom surveys, we will always use every opportunity to gather useful intelligence. Confucius says, ‘Man who search at night better use long candle.’”

While everyone laughed, the captain stood up. He nodded toward Ensign Santana, who turned on the ship’s announcing circuit and handed the microphone to Rudel.

“Attention, all hands. This is the Captain. Before we sailed, you were all told our mission would be up north, and would last just over seven weeks. Here’s the rest of it. After transiting to the Barents Sea, we will be surveying parts of the seabed there. We will also aggressively collect any intelligence we can on Russian naval operations. In the course of your work, you may learn more details about our mission. Do not discuss what you learn with other members of the crew or anyone off the boat without my express permission.

“Our work will involve using the three prototype UUVs we are carrying. As it is early fall up there, we will spend most of our time under sea ice. None of this will be any more unusual or hazardous than our typical hair-raising exploits. All we have to do is work our tails off, get the job done, and then we’ll return home quickly and safely. That is all.”

As soon as the briefing broke up, Jerry headed forward to control. As navigator, he’d made it his business to look at the chart table at least twice each watch. Yes, they were still in the Atlantic Ocean, with hundreds of miles of water hundreds of fathoms deep below them. Then Jerry imagined how embarrassed he’d be if they ran aground.

QM2 Keith Dunn had the watch. His folks were Georgia farmers, Jerry remembered, and he had five-year-old twins, a boy and a girl. The petty officer was leaning on the chart table, quietly talking with another member of the watch, when Jerry came into control. Dunn quickly turned to the chart table.

“Afternoon, sir.” He pointed to a spot in the chart. The quartermaster reeled off his report with practiced formality. “As of 1330 we’re ninety miles south of Martha’s Vineyard, which is also the closest land. Still on course zero eight zero at sixteen knots, depth two hundred feet. Next planned course change isn’t for two days until after we clear the Grand Banks. It’s going to be a bit dull for us quartermasters, sir.”

Dunn’s report was routine, and Jerry double-checked to make sure he was updating the chart properly. Jerry had watched QM1 Peters take the last GPS fix, just before they submerged, which raised Jerry’s confidence about their location. As long as they were underway, Jerry would be responsible for making sure that Seawolf was where she needed to be, and knowing where she was supposed to go next.

Driving a submarine was very different from what he’d expected to do in the Navy. Jerry had been selected for aviation and trained as a pilot, and he’d done well. He was short and athletic, with the reflexes and eyesight that flying a fighter demanded. But a tire had blown on takeoff one day, forcing him to eject. He’d made it out of the jet alive, but landed badly, shattering his right wrist. While the doctors had been able to repair the damage, his right hand had “a limited range of motion.”

Those hated words had washed him out of aviation, at least as a pilot. Years of training had been wasted, and the Navy had wanted Jerry to settle for an assignment to surface ships. Jerry was too much a competitor to settle for something offered to him. he’d asked for submarines, another elite branch with a long and difficult entry. The Navy had initially refused. he’d made it, though, using every trick in the book to get the transfer. And he’d made it through nuclear power school and the rest of the submarine training pipeline.

He’d had to adjust. Instead of a single man controlling an agile fighter, he was part of team that controlled a massive underwater machine — a creature of the sea instead of the sky. And while a plane would fly as part of a squadron, a sub always operated alone.

There were similarities, though. Technology made it possible to live and work underwater, just as it let him fly. It let him find and fight an enemy, if he needed to, and the hardware could also kill him if he didn’t stay on top of it. Submariners and aviators both tended to be detail freaks. It was the little stuff that made the difference.

And practice made perfect. The ship’s 1MC system announced, “SIMULATE UUV LAUNCH OPERATIONS.” Launching and operating a UUV involved only control and the torpedo room watchstanders, but getting the vehicles launched and recovered was going to be critical to the mission. The torpedo division held loading drills every day.

Jerry watched Dunn hook up his sound-powered phones and check communications with the torpedo room. For a real launch, Seawolf had to slow to five knots, and the captain would authorize the UUV’s launch and recovery. And the vehicle’s position had to be plotted, so Dunn monitored the control circuit. For the drill, Dunn would provide control’s responses, but Seawolf wouldn’t actually maneuver.

Jerry wasn’t involved with the loading drill, so he headed aft. There was a mountain of paperwork that he’d put off, and it was all due to the XO before they returned to port. he’d been working only about twenty minutes when the phone buzzed. “Jerry, it’s Greg. Can you come down to the torpedo room?

Lieutenant Greg Wolfe was Seawolf’s weapons officer. He was responsible for the UUVs as well as the sub’s torpedoes and cruise missiles. The two department heads had worked closely on the UUV operational plan for this mission. Jerry’s extensive experience with UUVs aboard Memphis had been very useful during the planning phase. He could tell from Wolfe’s voice that something was seriously wrong.

Jerry stopped outside the door to the torpedo room. He could hear urgent voices inside, and wondered for half a moment if there was a genuine emergency. Logic answered that question immediately, though. If there had been a real problem, alarms would have sounded minutes ago.

Instead, as he stepped in, alarms went off inside him. Enlisted ratings clustered around the starboard tube nest. The recovery arm, used to bring the UUVs back aboard the sub, was pulled halfway out of its tube back inside the torpedo room.

Cables and equipment clustered around a thick steel beam. Painted a bright green, the recovery arm was designed to fit in a twenty-one-inch-diameter torpedo tube, but just barely. Even though Seawolf’s tubes were larger, they had been sleeved to take the smaller weapons in the U.S. submarine inventory. While the tube was a little over twenty-three feet long, the arm actually expanded out to sixty feet when it was deployed outside the hull.

When a UUV returned to the sub, the recovery arm telescoped out of the uppermost starboard torpedo tube. It had a short-range acoustic homing beacon on the end that guided the underwater robot to within a few feet. Then the arm automatically grabbed the vehicle and lined it up with the torpedo tube below. Finally, it guided the UUV into the tube and retracted back into its own tube. It was as complicated as a Chinese puzzle and as easy to work on as a tax form.

Chief Johnson was directing some sort of activity while Palmer and Wolfe stood in one corner, flipping through tech manuals. Both officers looked up at the same time and saw Jerry. He hurried over to join them, but Wolfe started talking while Jerry was still a few steps away.

“It’s jammed halfway in.” Jerry’s heart sank. He didn’t bother asking how. Wolfe was already explaining.

“We interrupted the loading drill when the recovery arm showed a hydraulic leak. We found the problem and corrected it simply enough, but when we tried to re-stow the mechanism, it only slid part of the way in.

“As we pushed it back into the tube, it made a scraping noise — the kind of sound you don’t want precision machinery to make. When we tried to back it out and look for the cause, it made the same noise, only louder.”

“Did you ever see this on Memphis?” Palmer asked.

Jerry answered quickly, “No. Whenever we worked on the arm, it always went back in smoothly. But the retrieval system and procedures were a lot different since we used a tethered vehicle.”

“It’s like I said, it’s gotta be the tracks.” Palmer was insistent, but then added, “We’re screwed.”

“No we’re not,” Wolfe said firmly. “We’ll sort this out.” He turned to Jerry. “I’ve got Chief Johnson and the division locking it in place so it doesn’t move until we figure out what’s wrong.”

“Losing a vehicle would be bad enough, but losing the arm kills the entire mission. It’s the one thing we can’t replace or work around. We aren’t out even one day and this happens.” Palmer sounded like he was ready to go back to his stateroom and start packing his bags. Jerry thought he sounded frightened, worried more about his career than the jammed arm. Jerry was grateful that they were speaking softly.

“I said we’ll sort this out, and we will,” Wolfe repeated. “Now go make sure the arm can’t shift if we have to maneuver.”

While Palmer checked on the division’s progress, Wolfe said, “I was hoping you might have seen something like this on your last boat. We routinely pull it out for servicing, and the arm seems to work well. In the sea trials last week, we launched a vehicle and everything worked perfectly.”

Wolfe sighed, then asked Jerry, “Would you brief the XO? I know it’s my job, but I want to stay on top of this, and,” jerking his thumb in Palmer’s direction, “I’ve got to keep a lid on Palmer.”

“Okay.” Jerry nodded, and glanced at his watch to mark the time. “It’s been what, five minutes?”

Wolfe checked the clipboard. “Ten since we tried to re-stow the arm.”

“Yeah, it’s time to put the XO in the loop.” Jerry headed forward. He climbed the ladders between the two decks without even thinking about it, his mind trying to process the implications of a jammed recovery arm. He knocked on the XO’s door and heard, “Come.”

Lieutenant Commander Shimko was examining two forms, one in each hand, as if comparing signatures. As Jerry started to tell the XO about the problem, he methodically laid them back into a folder and placed the folder precisely on the corner of his desk.

He frowned as he heard the news, but nodded agreement when he heard Wolfe’s apology for not making the report personally. Jerry expected the XO to hurry down to the torpedo room, but instead he asked Jerry, “Is there any hazard to the boat?”

“No, sir.”

“Is there any need to change our course or depth?”

“Not at this time, sir.”

“And Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Palmer are both on task?”

“Yessir.”

“Then tell Mr. Wolfe I’ll be down there in a while. I’ll report to the Captain in the meantime. Thank you, Jerry.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Jerry showed up in control at 1730 hours, half an hour before his watch started. He’d eaten an early dinner, in the first sitting. Not only did his rank allow him his pick of which sitting to use, a pending watch preempted everybody except the captain. It was a good meal — stuffed pork chops. Jerry savored the salad. The fresh vegetables would disappear after two weeks.

The captain or the XO couldn’t be in control all the time, so qualified officers stood watches as “officer of the deck” or “OOD.” Responsible for the operation of the sub when the captain wasn’t there, the OOD acted in the captain’s name. Any aspect of the ship that affected its operations was his responsibility. An OOD was expected to keep the sub out of trouble, deal quickly with any casualty, and if necessary, fight the boat until battle stations were manned. If there was time, he would notify the captain of developments, but he didn’t need the captain’s permission to act.

Lieutenant Commander Stan Lavoie had stood the noon-to-six watch in control, along with two chief petty officers and five enlisted men. Other officers and enlisted men stood watch elsewhere in the boat. The sonar displays were always manned, as was engineering, with almost twelve men tending the nuclear reactor and the engines. Others took care of the auxiliary machinery, located throughout the sub. About one-quarter of Seawolf’s 130-man crew was on watch at any one time. While the working day technically ended at dinnertime, the boat never slept.

Lavoie was waiting for Jerry, and had his briefing ready. While Jerry reviewed the ship’s course, speed, depth, and other information, the enlisted men on watch each passed information on to their reliefs, and then traded places, reporting to the chief of the watch, who also briefed his relief. Although somewhat crowded with twice the number of men it normally held, control remained quiet, the men speaking in low voices.

The chief of the watch reported to Lieutenant Commander Lavoie, “Sir, the watch has been relieved.”

“Very well, Chief. Thank you.”

Lavoie turned to Jerry. “I am ready to be relieved.”

Jerry responded formally, “I relieve you sir,” then said, “This is Lieutenant Mitchell, I have the deck and the conn.” Each of the enlisted operators acknowledged Jerry’s announcement that he was now in charge.

Jerry toured each of the enlisted men’s stations — conn, sonar, fire control, the chart table, and the rest. Everything was in order, as it should be when Seawolf was simply moving from Point A to Point B.

The captain had even suspended any drills until the UUV arm was unstuck. Normally after a boat went to sea, the XO ordered a flurry of emergency drills: fires, equipment failures, flooding, a simulated radiation leak. Those drills would still happen, but not until the weapons department solved their “little problem.” In the meantime, Jerry periodically updated the heading they’d need and the time it would take to reach New London, just in case the captain asked.

The quiet and lack of change wore away at Jerry’s alertness. He’d developed and enforced a routine, checking important displays every five minutes, and every display on the half hour. He paced the limited space, and thought up questions to ask himself.

Robinson did show up with the two junior electronics technicians. Although the extra bodies crowded everyone, he was glad for the activity, and to watch some of his men at work.

Halfway through the watch, Lieutenant Wolfe appeared, grinning widely. “War’s over,” he announced, almost euphoric. “The arm moves freely and appears undamaged.”

Jerry felt several bricks fall from his shoulders. The mission could continue. “How’d you fix it?”

“All it took was a bucket of bear grease, a crowbar, and Chief Johnson cursing a blue streak.” Wolfe grinned and Jerry could see the strain falling away. He felt it himself, and he wasn’t even responsible for the retrieval arm.

“We found some debris on two of the wheels. It’s gummy, and there was some solid material in it, either grit or metal. Anyway, the chief thinks it may have been lurking, stuck to the underside of the mechanism. The division’s inspecting the entire arm now — top, bottom, and sides — for any piece of gunk big enough to see or feel.”

The XO walked into control and saw Wolfe. “I’ve briefed the Captain. He says well done, and he wants your report when you’re finished with your inspection.”

“Aye, aye,” Wolfe answered brightly.

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

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