Dangerous Ground

10. USING THE SYSTEM

The drills continued unrelentingly throughout the next day. Hardy did let the crew have lunch, although he used the time to critique each drill in detail over the IMC. The Captain was unsparing in his remarks.

“…and Petty Officer Gregory didn’t remember to align the valves on the drain pump manifold properly, so the trim pump was unable to dewater the engine room. Progressive flooding drove us below our crush depth, killing everyone aboard. Mr. Lopez, it’s your responsibility to properly train Petty Officer Gregory, so those deaths are on your head, as well as his.

“Also, Mr. Lopez, there were serious training deficiencies noted during the fire drill we held this morning. As the Damage Control Assistant, you are to ensure that every member of this crew has adequate knowledge of the DC gear on this boat — and that includes the EAB system. During the fire drill, several of the crew didn’t properly seal their EAB masks after hooking them up. Toxic gas leaked in and they all died.”

Hardy paused for a moment. “In the four drills we held since breakfast, everyone aboard this boat has died at least twice. You are supposed to be professional submariners and I’m not going to throw softballs at you. We will continue to conduct emergency drills until you get it right. That is all.”

Jerry sat in the wardroom and half-listened to Hardy’s lecture as he tried to eat. He felt really bad for Frank Lopez as Hardy went on and on about his lack of professionalism. Looking down the table at Lopez, with his shoulders slumped over his meal, Jerry could empathize with him. He himself had earned similar treatments from Hardy — as had every officer present. But right now, Jerry had a bigger problem than the Captain.

Foster’s animosity and insubordination would be a crisis on any ship, but right now, on this boat, it was an unmitigated disaster. Bringing it into the open hadn’t clarified the problem or given him anything that would help him solve the conflict.

The rest of the wardroom looked upset, worried, or just plain scared. Hardy’s leadership style got results, but at a very high price. He ruled Memphis by fear, and he wasn’t afraid to name names over the IMC. Jerry had been taught to praise in public and chastise in private, but Hardy seemed to reverse the procedure. Then Jerry corrected himself. He’d never seen Hardy praising anyone, so with that kind of policy it didn’t really matter what the order was.

Of course, Jerry had heard about “screamers” in the aviation community and throughout the Navy at the Academy. As long as their units produced, the higher-ups didn’t intervene. Their view was that a captain had the right to run his command as he saw fit. But it was awfully hard on the help.

After he finished his harangue, Hardy came into the wardroom, followed closely by Bair, who looked torn. The junior officers started to rise, but Hardy stopped them with a curt “As you were.” Hardy and Bair took their seats at the table, and it seemed to Jerry that the wardroom was even quieter than before. As he was served lunch, Hardy cast an icy gaze over the officers. Some actually hunkered down farther as he looked at them.

When he finally broke the silence, Hardy spoke calmly, but his voice seemed deafening, and although calm, his tone was harsh. “Since we’ve got people dying when they use damage control equipment, after lunch I want all departments and divisions to review EAB mask procedures. Mr. Lopez, you will personally conduct the training with each man aboard. That may take a while, but I’m sure all of you have other casualty procedures you may want to practice.”

He got up suddenly and left the wardroom without eating a bite. A few moments passed, then everyone let out their breath all at once. Jerry started eating again, although quietly. Like him, the other officers seemed to be preoccupied.

Finally Bill Washburn, the Supply Officer, spoke. Tentatively, he asked, “XO, sir, do you think you could ask the Captain to guarantee us a few drill-free hours? My people need to be able to work and right now…”

“I’m sorry, Bill, I’ve already brought that up with the Captain. He is insistent that the crew be ready to drop everything at a moment’s notice, at any time, day or night.”

“But at sea, we don’t face nonstop emergencies. And I’m not talking about missing sleep. My people need to move stores, to cook. I can’t plan menus because I don’t know when my people will be called away. If this goes on for much longer, I’ll have to start feeding the crew battle rations.”

“Then that’s what you’d better do,” Bair replied bluntly.

“It’s not just the cooks, sir.” Jeff Ho, the Engineer, was more forceful. “I’ve got a lot of cranky machinery to take care of. My men could work full-time just keeping the plant from flying apart.”

“Are there any big problems?” Bair asked.

“No, sir, nothing major yet.”

“This isn’t our first deployment,” the XO reminded them. “We always have drills our first few days at sea.” He waved down a few who started to protest. “I know they’ve never been this frequent or this difficult, but that is his call. If you want the drills to stop, give him what he wants.”

Bair pushed his plate away. “Let’s get organized for that shipwide training session. Muster everyone in their spaces as soon as the meal is finished, and I don’t want to hear that Mr. Lopez is kept waiting. He’s got a lot of ground to cover, and this cannot take all afternoon.”

A chorus of “Aye, ayes” followed him out of the wardroom as the XO left and Jerry automatically started to head for the torpedo room. He had to make sure.

He paused. Of what? That Foster would still follow his orders? That the torpedomen and fire-control technicians would? They’d all seen Foster tell him off. It was impossible to go about business as usual when his own division chief had said he wanted the mission to fail, that he wanted Jerry to fail.

This conflict was way out of control. Jerry needed help, desperately, but from whom he couldn’t say. Not from the Captain, certainly, and even the XO couldn’t do much to adjust Foster’s attitude.

The chief petty officer, is, by tradition, “the backbone of the fleet.” The typical CPO had a ton of experience and was often the most competent technician in his field onboard. But chiefs also wore the khaki uniform, making them a critical part of the leadership structure. It was the chiefs who made things work. Pairing a junior officer with an experienced chief was a good system; practical, effective, and enshrined in naval tradition.

Which folded like wet Kleenex when the chief in question didn’t go along with the plan. None of the officers could help, and he couldn’t go to his division. They looked to him to fix this problem. He couldn’t possibly ask another chief for help — or could he?

Master Chief Reynolds was the Chief of the Boat, the senior enlisted man aboard. As the COB, he was the official, sanctioned, box-in-the-org chart link between the officers and the crew. In sub school, they told him that a junior officer couldn’t go wrong if he asked the COB for help. It was worth a try.

Reynolds worked for the XO, but he often helped the nonnuclear machinist mates, or auxiliarymen, under Lopez, and Jerry was pretty sure he’d be in their spaces. As he hoped, Jerry found Reynolds in the auxiliary machinery room in forward compartment lower level, aft of the torpedo room. He was reviewing the maintenance records on the emergency diesel generator.

“Master Chief, do you have a few minutes?”

Reynolds straightened up. He was a huge man, seeming to fill the space, although he, Jerry, and the watchstander were the only ones in it. In spite of his size, he was not intimidating, and Reynolds’ weather-beaten face was relaxed and friendly. His tone was friendly as well. “Of course, Mr. Mitchell.” He turned to the auxiliaryman watchstander and said, “I’ve got it for ten minutes. Go get some coffee.” The young sailor quickly left.

He settled down on top of a pump housing, offering Jerry the only chair in the space. “I have a hunch I know what you want to talk about,” he said as Jerry sat down. “Or ‘who,’ actually,” Reynolds added.

Jerry was a little surprised. “Exactly what have you heard?” he asked carefully.

“Everything,” replied Reynolds matter-of-factly. “There aren’t any secrets on a submarine. Well, not for more than thirty seconds anyway. And Senior Chief Foster hasn’t been secretive.”

“Master Chief, I’ve tried talking to him in private, and he blows me off. He sabotages my work, and now the division’s work. He has intentionally caused us to fail in two drills, and he’s destroying what little is left of my division’s morale. He says he wants the boat’s mission to fail and he wants to make sure I don’t get my dolphins.”

“So I’ve heard,” Reynolds remarked. He sat quietly, letting Jerry talk.

“I’ve got my qualification to work on, we don’t know half of what we should about those ROVs, I’m still learning my regular duties, and I’ve got to keep at least one eye on Foster to make sure he doesn’t blindside me.” Jerry was frustrated and angry. “The blowup this morning is the worst yet. I don’t know what to do about him.”

“How can I help?” Reynolds asked.

“What’s his problem? Why is he doing this?” Jerry asked, almost pleading.

“He thinks you’re a lightweight,” Reynolds answered, “someone who was assigned to this sub because of his political pull.”

Jerry shrugged. “I guess that’s true, to a certain extent. I wanted subs, and I used my uncle’s influence to get the Navy to listen. But I’ve pulled my weight since I got here. Others aboard were unsure of me too, some were even hostile, but they’ve changed their minds. Why not Foster?”

“A long time ago, Foster applied for a direct commission program. He was turned down because he didn’t have a college degree. When he tried to apply for a college program that would give him a commission, they told him he was too old. He applied for a waiver and was denied.”

Jerry listened, then thought for a moment before replying. “So why should I get a second chance when he didn’t get any at all?”

“That’s pretty much it,” agreed Reynolds.

“What do I do about it?” demanded Jerry, almost angry, but really just frustrated.

“You can’t shoot him,” remarked Reynolds, smiling.

“I was considering it,” Jerry confessed. “But seriously, I can’t take him to mast, and I don’t want to. And I can’t think of any other punishment or any way to force him to change his attitude.”

“You’re right. There isn’t any,” Reynolds confirmed. “You can’t just change a man’s feelings. He’s got to do that. You’re going to have to convince him that you’re more than a political hack. Then he may fall into line.”

“I’d just settle for him leaving me alone. He’s supposed to be working with me, but at this point I’d be happy if he’d just stopped working against me.”

“Could you use some help?” Reynolds suggested.

“I’d love any help, from anywhere. What do you have in mind?”

“Well, Senior Chief Foster is supposed to be helping you become a good division officer — and that includes your qualifications. Since he’s not willing, maybe I can fill in.”

Jerry’s spirits soared. “Master Chief, there’s no ‘maybe’ involved. I know I’ll qualify with you helping me.”

“It’s not enough, Mr. Mitchell. Qualifying isn’t going to make Senior Chief Foster respect you. You need to demonstrate to Foster that you are a good officer. One that looks after his men, goes to the mat for them when he needs to, and puts their best interests before his own. Except for the XO, and maybe one or two others, there aren’t many good officers on this boat. But if you don’t qualify, you won’t get very far in the submarine force. So, we’ll start there.”

“I’m grateful.” He reached out, and Reynolds took his hand and shook it. Jerry said, “Thanks, thanks a lot.”

“Come by after you get off the noon-to-six tonight and we’ll see what you’ve got left in that qual book.”

“Right, COB, I’ll be there and thanks again.”

Jerry left, headed forward with what would be a spring in his step, if he had the headroom.

Master Chief Reynolds watched him leave, then sighed. He paused for a moment, looked at his watch, and headed up and forward to the chiefs’ quarters. Along the way, he saw FT2 Boswell, one of the men in Jerry’s division. He told Boswell to find Senior Chief Foster and ask him to join Reynolds in the Goat Locker.

Reynolds got there ahead of Foster, and chased out two chiefs sucking on coffee and pretending to do paperwork.

Foster showed up a minute later, to find Reynolds waiting for him. “What’s up, Sam?” he asked, dropping into a chair.

“I want to know when you’re going to let up on Mitchell,” Reynolds said flatly.

Just hearing Jerry’s name changed Foster’s demeanor. Angrily, he answered, “That no-load? I’ll have him begging for mercy by the time we’re back!”

Foster’s statement was no surprise to the COB. He’d heard the Senior Chief say the same thing or worse in the chiefs’ quarters. Foster hated Mitchell and wasn’t quiet about it.

“Everyone else is willing to cut the kid some slack. Why don’t you ease up?” Reynolds made the last sentence a suggestion, not a question.

“Because I’ll be damned if this Navy’s going to be ruined by someone with the political pull to change the rules.”

“Even if you have to ruin your division, or this boat, to do it?” Reynolds voice was hard.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Foster answered.

“I was on the phone circuit during that Otto fuel spill drill during sea trials. I know what you did. And even if I didn’t, your last blowup with Mitchell is all over the boat. You admitted to tanking the drill on purpose.”

“So what? The kid’s worthless. He can’t lead, and now the division knows it.”

“Nobody can lead when his next-in-line is backstabbing him. I don’t see you doing the Navy any favors. I see you taking cheap shots to work off an old grudge.”

Foster took a different tack. “What did he do? Come running to you?”

“Which is exactly what any officer on this boat should do when an enlisted man’s behavior is unsat.”

“But he couldn’t take care of it himself, could he?” Foster sounded smug.

“He did take care of it, by talking to me,” Reynolds explained. “It’s the COB’s business to deal with bad actors.”

Reynolds leaned his massive frame forward, emphasizing his words. “You’ve disobeyed lawful orders from a commissioned officer, as well as being openly insubordinate. You’ve deliberately interfered with ship’s drills and you’ve disrupted discipline in your division. If you were a first class or below, you’d be at Captain’s Mast, minus at least a stripe. But we don’t do that to chiefs, because they’re supposed to be better than that.”

Foster was grim, but not contrite. “You can’t make me kiss up to that…”

Reynolds cut him off. “What I expect is for you to earn your pay and do your work. Nothing less and nothing more.” Foster looked unconvinced, and the Master Chief continued.

“The only reason Hardy hasn’t noticed your private war is that he’s too busy sweating Patterson and the mission. If I do not see a change in your behavior immediately, I’ll bring this to the Captain’s attention myself.”

Foster was still unmoved. “Hardy’s hated Mitchell since he came aboard.”

“I’ll just mention the part about how you want our mission to fail. Remember, you not only told it to Mitchell, but the rest of the torpedo division. Add to that your sabotaging of the drills, insubordination, and failure to obey a lawful order, and I think I could make an excellent case against you. If he heard half of that, Hardy would have your ass off this boat in twenty-four hours and you’d be facing Commodore’s Mast.”

Both of them knew that was no idle threat. Captain’s Mast, or more formally, “nonjudicial punishment,” was used to discipline enlisted members who broke the rules aboard ship. Insubordination, unauthorized absence from the ship, dereliction of duty, or a dozen other offenses could be punished by extra duty, restriction to the ship (when next in port), fines, or in extreme cases, the malefactor would lose a stripe and the associated pay.

Officers and chiefs could not be disciplined by Captain’s Mast. They went before the squadron commander, which was similar, but it wasn’t a “family matter” any longer. It made the ship look bad, which made the Captain of that ship look bad. Hardy would not be pleased at all. People who wore khaki weren’t supposed to need this kind of disciplinary action, so anyone who appeared before the squadron commander could expect no mercy.

Considering the charges Reynolds had listed, Foster would expect a reduction in rate, and to be permanently beached. The financial loss would be accompanied by a succession of crappy duty assignments until he eventually retired.

The two chiefs studied each other. Foster tried to gauge how serious Reynolds really was, and Reynolds watched the wheels turn as Foster processed the Master Chief’s threat.

Foster finally said, “I won’t stand for him being in my Navy.”

“It’s not your Navy, and it’s not your place to make that decision,” Reynolds reminded him. “The only one I see breaking the rules here is you. And I won’t let you wreck my boat.”

“I won’t help him.”

“No, I’ll do your job,” said Reynolds harshly. “Your new job is to stop tripping him up. And you will follow the lawful orders of any commissioned officer aboard this vessel.” The COB stood up suddenly. “I’ve told you what’s wrong, what needs to be to fixed, and what will happen if it doesn’t get fixed. Consider yourself counseled, Senior Chief.”

He left Foster alone in the chiefs’ quarters, considering.

After his meeting with Reynolds, Jerry felt better, although he was still unsure about how to deal with Foster and his division. Finally he decided he would just go to the torpedo room and muddle through as best he could. So far, the torpedo gang had done their jobs as if nothing had happened. They were smart enough to know that Foster was wrong. Jerry had to stay focused on the division, and trust his men to follow him in spite of Foster.

The XO found Mitchell as he passed through the control room. “Jerry, I’m going to put Dr. Patterson with your division for the training session. You’ve already got Emily Davis, so the ladies can stay together.”

“Broomhilda?” Bair’s order had caught him off guard. “I mean, ah, where has Dr. Patterson been for the other emergency drills, sir?”

“In her stateroom pretending to work. She’s come up with one excuse after another for avoiding them, but I think I’ve impressed on her the value of learning how to use an EAB mask.”

“How did you manage that?” Jerry was astonished, and more than a bit curious. Patterson wasn’t easy to convince.

“I scared her out of her wits by telling her about Bonefish,” said the XO with a devilish smile on his face. Bonefish was one of the few diesel-electric submarines in the U.S. Navy’s inventory back in the ‘80s. She suffered a hideous battery well fire in the spring of 1988. Three men were killed and twenty-three were injured by the blaze.

“They taught us about her at sub school.” Jerry shivered as he recalled the pictures they showed him of the Bonefish on the surface, with brownish smoke billowing from her sail. “That was one nasty fire.”

“Well, Patterson never went to sub school, but when I described how those men suffocated, she became a believer. I’ll make it worth your while and send Lopez to you first.”

“Aye, aye, XO. She’s more than welcome to join us, of course.”

Bair grinned. “That’s nice. I could never lie that well.”

Foster was not in the torpedo room when Jerry came down the ladder. Emily Davis had TM1 Moran, FT1 Bearden, and FT2 Boswell going over the weapons launching console with her. Jerry called TM1 Moran over and told him about Patterson joining them for the drill.

“Broomhilda? Ah, sir, does she have to be here?” Moran almost pleaded with the lieutenant. “Marcie’s okay,” he said, indicating Emily Davis, “but Broomhilda’s just going to make a fuss.”

“Not our call, TM1.” Then, doing a double take, he asked, “Marcie?”

Moran nodded toward Davis, as she quizzed the two FTs about the panel. “Short, straight dark hair, big glasses, kinda quiet, and hangs around with a dominating Patty, of a sort. And she called me ‘sir,’ sir.”

Jerry closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead as he thought about the allusion Moran had made concerning the mousy Peanuts character and Emily. The image of Marcie following Peppermint Patty around was way too accurate a comparison. He had to admit that Moran had her pegged. Puffing out a sigh, Jerry said, “Whatever works, Petty Officer Moran, just expect one more for the training. And pleeease, don’t call her Broomhilda — at least while she’s here.”

“Yessir.”

It wasn’t until he had left that Jerry realized how normal Moran had acted.

There was a clattering on the forward ladder and Senior Chief Foster came down from the Goat Locker. Jerry decided the only way to deal with this was to act like he was in charge, because he was. “Senior Chief, we’re just about set up for the training session. Dr. Patterson will be joining us, and Lieutenant Lopez will start with us.”

Foster stepped away from the starboard tube nest, started to reply, “I don’t. ” but was interrupted by footsteps behind him. He quickly moved out of the way as Master Chief Reynolds came from the after crew accommodations.

“I heard Dr. Patterson was joining you. I thought I might stand by, in case you needed a hand, sir.” Reynolds started the sentence facing Jerry, but finished it by looking at Foster. Jerry was sure everyone in the room had seen it, including the Senior Chief. Reynolds’ support might not have been necessary, but Jerry welcomed it all the same. He struggled to suppress a smile.

“Senior Chief, would you please double-check the preparations?” Jerry asked as casually as he could.

“Yes, sir,” Foster answered coldly, managing to look daggers at both Jerry and Reynolds.

Patterson then entered the room by the same path the COB had taken. She paused halfway down the small passage between the center and starboard racks and said, “Lieutenant Mitchell? Emily? Since you’re here, this must be the torpedo room,” she said jokingly.

“As if the rack of torpedoes on the port side and the ROVs on the starboard wasn’t a dead giveaway,” muttered Moran under his breath. Jerry hoped she hadn’t heard that.

Patterson walked up to Jerry and seemed to gather herself. “Lieutenant, I’m supposed to learn about the emergency air masks with Dr. Davis and the rest of your division.”

Mitchell was impressed. Patterson was actually being polite. What did the XO tell her?

Lieutenant (j.g.) Frank Lopez appeared, quickly descending the forward ladder.

“The XO says I’m supposed to start in here. Are you ready?”

“Yes, Frank, we’re all set.”

“For the benefit of our guests,” Lopez began, “I’ll go over the basic mechanics of the emergency air breathing system before we discuss the procedures on how to use it.” Lopez picked up a mask and started to go over the various parts. He explained that the mask was made of flexible rubber, with a clear Plexiglas faceplate and that all masks were the same size. There were four straps that pulled the mask tightly against the face and could be made to fit anyone. Lopez then cautioned Dr. Patterson to make sure her long hair was pulled back when she put the mask on. Otherwise the hair would prevent a good seal.

The air, not oxygen, was provided by the ship’s low-pressure air system and there were 169 EAB manifolds located throughout the boat. You could always find a manifold by looking for the red squares with a black triangle on the deck. He pointed to the one below him and asked Emily to run her hand over the triangle. It was noticeably rough, like coarse sandpaper. Lopez explained that this was how you could find the square in the dark with your hands, or even with your shoes.

He then went to the end of the hose and showed them the conical plug. Reaching up to the manifold, he demonstrated how the plug could easily be inserted into the manifold, even though there was one hundred-pound air in it. To release the plug, he pushed on the outer ring on the female connector and the air pushed the plug out.

The air was not allowed to just flow into the mask. That was much too dangerous. Instead, air was passed to an individual only as it was needed by a demand regulator, which was attached to a person’s belt. It was the same type of regulator that scuba divers used and it was very reliable.

Emily was intrigued by the simplicity of the EAB mask, but she also looked nervous. Jerry guessed she was still dealing with being submerged.

Lopez turned to Patterson and Davis. “Ladies, the torpedo gang are all familiar with the mask and the procedure. If you’d like, I’ll put them through it first while you watch, so you can see how it’s done.”

He pointed to Jerry. “You first. You can set a good example.”

Jerry took the mask and placed it over his face. He grabbed the top two straps and pulled on them. He then grabbed the bottom two straps and pulled tightly. He repeated the process again to ensure a good seal.

“Now watch as he tests to see that the mask has a good seal with his face,” said Lopez.

Jerry inhaled and the mask flattened noticeably against his face.

“See that? If you inhale, the reduced pressure in the mask will cause it to be pushed against your face. That’s how you know the seal is airtight. Okay, Jerry hook up.”

Jerry took the plug and inserted it into the manifold. There was a momentary hiss as the plug was locked into the connection. Taking a deep breath, there was a brief sound of moving air, identical to that made by Darth Vader.

“Hear that sound? That is the demand regulator releasing air at the correct pressure when it senses the reduced pressure in the mask. If one hundred-pound air were released directly into the mask, it would burst your lungs. Thanks, Jerry.”

Jerry removed the mask, unplugged it and wiped the inside of the mask with a cleaner.

“There isn’t enough air in the mask for you to re-breathe,” cautioned Lopez. “So if you need to move from one manifold to another, be sure to take a deep breath and hold it. Pop the connection and move quickly, but carefully to the next manifold. Any questions?”

Patterson and Davis both watched carefully. Jerry then handed the mask to Foster, who tested and donned it expertly.

After several more of the torpedo gang had gone through the procedure, Patterson raised her hand. “I’d like to try it now.”,

Jerry was amazed all over again. Patience; politeness? He watched as Lopez handed her the mask.

“What am I supposed to do first?” she asked. “Aren’t you going to set it up for me?

Lopez shook his head. “No ma’am. You have to do it all by yourself.”

Patterson looked puzzled, and the lieutenant continued. “What if you were alone? What if we were unconscious?” His tone changed, becoming more intense. “In an emergency, all our lives depend on each other. You have to know how to do this,” he said flatly.

Nodding, she took the mask and started to check it. Lopez guided her through the process telling her what to do, but making her handle the mask, test the seal, and make the attachment. In the end, she was wearing the mask and breathing regularly, a huge smile visible through the faceplate.

She took it off and handed it to Lopez, who turned to Davis. “Your turn, ma’am,” he said, offering her the mask.

Davis quickly shook her head, “I’d like to watch some more, first.”

The officer answered, “All right,” and turned to FT3 Larsen. “Then you’re next. Let’s see if you can do it as well as a civilian.”

Dr. Patterson, arranging her hair, came over to Jerry. “I’ve never done anything quite like this,” she remarked. Then, more softly, “Did those poor men really suffocate on the Bonefish?”

“Yes, ma’am, they teach us all about it in sub school. That submarine didn’t have this kind of safety equipment, though,” he added encouragingly.

She shuddered, then changed the subject. “Is Senator James Thorvald from Nebraska, your uncle?”

“Yes, ma’am, my mother’s oldest brother,” Jerry replied.

“I’ve met him a few times on the Hill. This is what, his fourth term? He’s got a decent record on the environment — for a Republican,” she said with a smile. “I understand he gave you some help getting this assignment.”

“Some, ma’am, he didn’t tell me the details.” Jerry was vague, hoping she’d stop talking about it.

“Oh well, normally it involves making the Pentagon brass do something they don’t want to do. Let’s see, I’m pretty sure he’s on the Senate Armed Services Committee. Which means if the Navy doesn’t give him what he wants, he can make life hard for them when they come before the committee.”

Jerry was becoming more and more uncomfortable and noticed that several of his men, including Foster, were listening to Patterson.

“You’re lucky the senator is on Armed Services. If it had been Small Business or Agriculture, you probably would have been out of luck. But in that case, your uncle might have found a friend on one of the committees that handles defense, like Intelligence or Appropriations, and asked for a favor. There’s almost always a way to make the system work for you.”

“If you’ve got friends in the right places,” someone muttered.

Jerry ignored the comment and tried to explain. “I just asked if he could help, and he said he’d make a few calls.”

“And that’s probably all it took.” Patterson explained. Jerry had never seen her this at ease. She was in her element. This was her world, the world of political give-and-take, and she was very comfortable in it.

“This goes on all the time. For something as simple as this, he probably called the Secretary of the Navy’s office and talked to one of the staffers there. Who made the final decision on your case?”

“The Chief of Naval Personnel,” Jerry answered quietly.

“Does he work for the Secretary of the Navy?”

“No, ma’am, not directly. He reports to the Chief of Naval Operations, who works for the secretary.”

“Oh, okay, then, the secretary’s staff calls the Chief of Naval whatever and he calls the personnel person.”

To ordinary officers and sailors, “BUPERS,” the CNO, and “SECNAV” were not people but mighty beings who could be petitioned and who would, for perverse reasons, grant or deny those requests. The idea of Uncle Jim calling and twisting their arms was unsettling. They had bigger things to worry about. They had a Navy to run.

In spite of the distracting conversation, Lopez had pressed on with the EAB drills. “That’s the last of the torpedo division,” he announced. “Dr. Davis, it’s your turn next. You’ll have to take your glasses off. They aren’t wire rims and they’ll prevent you from getting a good seal.”

Still listening to Patterson, Jerry watched as Davis stepped up, fumbling with the mask as she went through the procedure. He was surprised. Subconsciously, he’d expected her to be more familiar with the gear, being an engineer and all that.

Patterson was still talking about his uncle. “I’m sure it was a simple thing for your uncle to arrange. I’m dealing with him on an environmental issue. We want him to come over to our side on the Superfund Act this year, but it’s going to cost us. Possibly some farm subsidies or he might hold out for some construction contracts for his state. That gets messier because.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but is that really how business is done?” Senior Chief Foster had come over to join the conversation. Although he looked calm, Jerry knew him well enough to see how agitated he really was. Foster’s face was a little redder than usual, and his movements were small and tightly controlled. “Shouldn’t that kind of thing be decided on its own merits?”

Foster spoke with a soft intensity Jerry had never heard before. This guy really lived by the book, and he didn’t think much of those who broke the rules. Evidently he took it all very personally.

Patterson was momentarily surprised by the questions, but seemed to have a ready answer. “Merit matters, of course. But any new law needs friends, powerful friends. Usually there’s a price for that support.”

“And you don’t think there’s a problem with that?” Foster said disapprovingly.

“I don’t try to fix the system. I just try to make it work.”

Foster voice was harsh. “Even if it’s corrupt?”

Dr. Patterson, obviously offended, started to reply, but was interrupted by a scream. “I can’t breathe! Take it off! There’s no air!”

They all turned to see Emily Davis on her knees, frantically pulling the mask off her head. Reynolds, as well as several of the torpedo gang, hovered around her, while Lopez checked the connection. “She’s got air!” he announced.

Davis seemed to have trouble getting the mask off, but her hands weren’t pulling at the right spot. Reynolds reached out and neatly slipped it off, leaving her gasping, her face streaked with tears. She fumbled to put her glasses back on.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see anything. There was no air coming in.” She was shaking, leaning forward to support herself with her hands as well as her knees.

Puzzled, Lopez checked the faceplate. It was clear. Reynolds helped her to her feet.

“I’m sure the mask is all right,” Lopez said reassuringly. “I watched you make the connections and you did just fine.” He paused for a moment, then added, “And what about the others who used it? It worked fine for them.”

“Maybe it was just funky,” joked Jobin. “Everybody knows Lee’s breath reeks.”

“Don’t joke about it,” Davis gasped. “I really couldn’t breathe!” She looked menacingly at Jobin, who did his best to shrink behind the others.

“All right,” said Lopez, “we’ll do it differently. I’ll hook it up first, see?” He plugged the mask into the manifold, pressed it to his face, and breathed deeply. Emily heard the regulator release air into the mask. Pulling the mask away, Lopez handed it to her. “Just hold the mask up to your face and make sure you can breathe first. Then you can adjust the straps.”

She took the mask as if it was coated with acid and placed it over face. She took a breath and felt her lungs fill with the dry air. After careful consideration, she looked at everyone surrounding her, sighed, took off her glasses, and then pulled the mask on.

The compartment was absolutely silent, and Reynolds said, “Step back, guys. Give her a little room.”

As they stepped back, Jerry watched Emily. Her body had that same posture of tight control he’d just seen in Foster. She stood perfectly still, took three deep breaths, then said, “All right! It works this time.” She quickly ripped the mask off the next instant and handed it to Lopez.

The lieutenant handed the mask to Foster and said, “The Torpedo Division is done. I’ve got the rest of the crew to check, so I’m outta here,” he said resignedly.

Lopez left, followed by most of the torpedomen and FTs. Reynolds, Patterson, and Jerry remained, along with Emily. Foster was there as well, but did not stand as close. More composed now, she said, “I’m sorry. The mask was working fine the first time. I couldn’t stand to have anything over my face.”

She turned to Reynolds. “Thank you, Master Chief.” She hugged him, and then left.

That afternoon Hardy hit them with a battle drill that combined an approach on an escorted boomer with an engineering casualty that almost caused a low-water alarm in one of the steam generators. The crew handled it, although not perfectly.

True to his word, Washburn’s cooks served battle rations for dinner: ham sandwiches, boiled eggs, and apples. It was still early enough in the voyage that the apples were fresh. Compared to normal submarine fare, this was a real step down, but Hardy didn’t say a word.

After dinner, he simulated an electrical fire in the sonar room. As the auxiliarymen isolated the circuit at the switchboard forward, the entire sonar system dropped off line, leaving Memphis blind and deaf.

Hardy was livid until the ship’s sonar officer, Lieutenant (j.g.) Tom Weyer, was able to prove that the auxiliarymen had not caused the failure. The fault lay in the switchboard, which would have been overhauled if they had not been scheduled for decommissioning.

They repaired the malfunction quickly and then continued with the drill. As they watched the crew simulate isolating and correcting the fault, Bair quietly pressed his case with Hardy. “If we keep on at this pace, we’re going to have real casualties, self-inflicted ones. The crew is not getting the time it needs to take proper care of the gear. And they all need sleep. If we don’t slow down, they’re going to start making more mistakes due to fatigue and the training won’t be worth a damn.”

“I’m not convinced they can handle themselves. I can’t trust them to deal with every possibility yet. If there’s a casualty and they drop the ball, it’s a black mark against me, not them.”

“From who? Patterson?” Bair was dismissive. “She doesn’t care. She doesn’t even understand. We have to drill them to our standards, not hers. And sir, with all due respect, it seems like you’ve raised your standards a little.”

Hardy sighed. “What’s your recommendation?”

“Give them the night off. No drills until after breakfast tomorrow.”

The Captain thought about it for almost a minute, but finally said, “All right, pass the word.”