Dangerous Ground

12. 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.