Dangerous Ground

14. GROWING PAINS

Jerry awoke late the next morning, stiff and sore, his aching body reacted poorly to his movements as he extracted himself from his rack and stood up. He hadn’t felt this out of shape since his days at the Academy, when he first started running track. I really need to hit the gym more often, Jerry thought to himself as he shuffled his way to the head. After getting dressed, a process that took longer and was more uncomfortable than usual, Jerry slowly walked to the wardroom.

“It’s alive! It’s alive!” wailed Lenny, as Jerry stiffly closed the door.

“That, sir, is a matter of debate,” Jerry lamented, wincing as he sat down. “Right now, I’d settle for the ability to perform basic functions without pain.”

“A bit sore, are we?”

“No, a lot sore. I didn’t think pushing an ROV around would be so taxing, but it had a mind of its own and we had to wrestle the damn thing into position so the arm could grab it. I’m really glad the COB was out there with me. He did most of the work.”

“He is a rather large fellow,” remarked Lenny as he made a cup of hot cocoa. “I hear he moonlights as a tow truck during the winter. ‘Reynolds Wrecking Service’ has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Jerry couldn’t help but laugh. However, it was cut short by the sharp pain he felt across his chest. Nearly doubling over, he looked over toward Berg and said, “Lenny, please don’t do that again. It really doesn’t feel good.”

“Only hurts when you laugh, huh?” asked Lenny as he set the cup in front of Jerry.

“No, it hurts more when I laugh, you twit!”

“Yes, I know,” responded Lenny innocently as he opened the door to leave. “Have a nice day.”

Jerry watched as his friend left and chuckled. Despite his sometimes-loony humor, Lenny’s heart was in the right place. Sipping his cocoa, Jerry looked at the clock on the bulkhead and realized that he only had a few minutes until his next-to-last systems checkout. Ironically, it was on the ship’s air-conditioning chilled water system. And while humans may not need a lot of air-conditioning this far north, many of the ship’s systems, particularly the electronics, would start to fail without the cooling water this system provided. Rising slowly, Jerry went over to one of the cupboards and grabbed the bottle of ibuprofen tablets and dumped three into his palm. He swilled the pills down with the rest of his hot cocoa and traveled as fast as his body would move to his stateroom to get his qual book. If he was lucky, he might make lunch before his next watch in control at noon.

He wasn’t lucky. The checkout was a grueling two hours long, and Jerry had a dozen lookups to answer. With only five minutes before he had to begin the pre-watch tour of the boat with Richards, Jerry hurried to his stateroom and snatched a package of peanut butter crackers and his notebook.

Before going on watch, the oncoming OOD makes a complete tour of the boat and conducts a general inspection of the equipment. He also learns what maintenance work is going to be done during his watch and annotates in his notebook those items, if any, that will require the Captain’s permission to begin.

As Jerry and Cal Richards walked into the torpedo room, Jerry was pleasantly surprised to see that the cleanup from the fire was largely done and that both Huey and Duey had been washed down and were back in their normal storage positions. He then saw Moran and three of the TMs working on tube three, while Foster, Bearden, and a number of the FTs were stripping down the weapons launching console. Richards was also impressed and uttered a rare compliment. Unfortunately, Foster had nothing new to report on the status of the console. But he did promise to inform them of the findings as soon as he completed his survey of the damage.

After finishing their tour of the rest of the forward compartment, Jerry and Richards finally entered control and began their turnover with the Navigator, Harry O’Connell. It had been a quiet morning with no drills, and the only major evolution on the books during their watch was the “field day” the XO had scheduled. Field day, sometimes more formally referred to as Janitorial Ops, was a stem-to-stern cleaning of the boat.

Since cleaning tended to make more noise than the usual day-to-day operations, the XO wanted the boat scrubbed down before they entered the Kara Sea. After only a few questions, Lieutenant Commander O’Connell was relieved of the watch. Once the noon report had been made and the new watch section had settled in, Richards asked Jerry for his qual book and they took stock of what items were to be done next.

A little over an hour later, Bair strolled into control wearing camouflage BDUs and armed with the longest screwdriver Jerry had ever seen. “OOD, I would appreciate it if you would announce over the IMC that field day is to commence.”

“Of course, XO,” replied Richards. “Chief of the Watch, over the IMC, commence field day.”

“Commence field day, aye, sir.” Raising the mike toward his face, the Chief of the Watch called for the start of the boat-wide cleaning. As the announcement was made, Bair’s face radiated contentment.

“Sir, may I ask where you will be hunting today?” Richards asked frankly. Jerry just stood there, staring, completely confused by his XO’s attire.

“Certainly! I shall be in control over behind the ballast control panel,” replied Blair excitedly, pointing toward the panel with his screwdriver. “I will, of course, endeavor to not interfere with the Chief of the Watch’s duties.” Looking over toward Jerry, the XO frowned and then poked him with the screwdriver, saying, “Don’t stare, boy! It’s impolite.”

“Y-yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” stammered Jerry.

The wide grin reappeared on Bair’s face as he made his way over to the ballast control panel (BCP). Politely, he asked the Chief of the Watch to move aside and Jerry watched in amazement as Bair turned on a flashlight with a long articulating neck and then dove under the ballast control panel. It wasn’t long before only his boots could be seen projecting out from the space where the Chief of the Watch’s legs would normally go.

The dazed expression on Jerry’s faced caused Richards to burst out in laughter. “I see that you hadn’t seen the XO in his dustbuster outfit before.”

“No, sir, I haven’t.”

“Well, then, Jerry, let me fill you in on a piece of true Memphis eccentricity,” began Richards. “The XO is on a sacred quest to find commissioning dirt. He wants to dig up a scrap of paper or any other form of trash that can be positively traced back to the boat’s commissioning in 1977. It’s sort of his own personal Holy Grail, which he pursues with considerable vigor.”

Jerry had heard about the aggressive tendency of nuke boat XOs toward cleanliness, but this was so over the top that he had a hard time believing what he had just seen with his own eyes. It all seemed so silly that a grown man would behave so ludicrously about dirt and other refuse. As curiosity won out over awe, Jerry asked, “What’s with the oversized screwdriver?”

“Ah, yes, the XO-Matic,” replied Richards with a smile, as he leaned up against the periscope stand desk. “It’s a modified deck plate screwdriver that has had its blade machined down into a small scoop. About the same size as a baby’s spoon. It is designed to get at dirt deposits that are outside the reach of most primates, let alone normal human beings.” Richards then winked at Jerry and held his index finger up to his lips, motioning Jerry to be silent. Stepping quietly over toward the BCP, Richards then loudly said, “But alas, even with his special tools, the XO has failed to find that elusive and perhaps legendary prey over these past two years.”

A sound, best described as a low growl, emanated from behind the panel, “Enough of your blasphemy, Mr. Richards! I will prove to you and the rest of those heretics you associate with that commissioning dirt does exist. Furthermore, since you firmly believe that it is a figment of your Executive Officer’s imagination, I shall enjoy watching you clean it up after I find it!”

Laughter erupted from the entire ship’s control party as the XO continued to mutter something about the growing insubordination of the crew. As the laughing died down, Jerry felt the strained atmosphere that had existed since he had reported on board easing. The camaraderie that he had missed so much from his squadron days was slowly coming to life on Memphis. It was a good feeling.

The watch progressed with little diversion. There were no drills. Memphis was on a steady course and speed, and there were few contacts. Those they did hold on the towed arrays were all distant, and were classified as merchants. In fact, for the first time since he could remember, Jerry was downright bored. The only thing that broke the monotony was when Hardy came into control looking for Bair. All hands not holding a control stick pointed to the BCP, the XO’s right foot waving about in the air. Hardy stopped dead in his tracks. He closed his eyes, put his forehead in his right hand, and slowly shook his head. Muttering something about a straight-jacket, he returned to his stateroom without even speaking to the XO.

As the time passed slowly, Jerry kept looking up at the clock, waiting and wondering when he would hear something — anything — from Foster. Halfway through his watch, Jerry couldn’t stand it any longer and he called down to for a progress report.

FT2 Boswell answered the phone. “Hello. Yes, Mr. Mitchell, what can I do for you?”

“Any progress?” Jerry asked.

“Ah, sir, Petty Officer Bearden would like to talk to you.” Boswell’s tone was not encouraging.

Bearden came on the line. “Mr. Mitchell?”

“What can you tell me? Any good news?”

“Well, sir, it’s kind of a good news, bad news situation.”

“Give me the bad news first.”

“Sir, we’ve been at that console for more than six hours so far. The Senior Chief’s got half the division in here and we’re not making any progress. The only thing we’ve found out so far is just how fried it really is.”

“I see,” replied Jerry despondently. “And the good news?”

“Moran’s pretty sure they’ve figured out what happened with tube three and that it can be fixed. They’re working on it now.”

“Very well, keep at it. I’ll be down as soon as my watch is over.”

“Yes, sir, we’ll keep you informed if we make any breakthroughs,” replied Bearden.

Jerry said thank you and hung up the phone.

Master Chief Reynolds wandered into the torpedo room shortly after Jerry’s call. Foster and Bearden had the launch panel stripped down to its underwear while other ratings worked with tech manuals or test equipment. Tools and bits of circuitry littered the deck. Moran and his TMs were huddled around torpedo tube number three. They seemed to be in better spirits than the FTs.

Senior Chief Foster looked up from his work when Reynolds came down the portside aisle, but didn’t stop working. His “Good afternoon, Sam” had a strained sound.

“Is it, Bob?” Reynolds asked.

Foster shook his head emphatically. “It’s a hard fight with a short stick.” He stood up. “Too much has been damaged and we don’t have anywhere near the spare parts. Many of the control relays are charcoal briquettes, and those that I can still recognize are completely fused. Most of the circuit boards have either melted or are so warped that they won’t fit in their slots, and there are several inches of vaporized cabling. In short, Sam, this console is Tango Uniform.”

“I hear Mr. Mitchell had a talk with the division yesterday,” Reynolds commented matter-of-factly, as if he hadn’t even heard what Foster had just said.

“Yeah, he did,” answered Foster with a pained look. “And before you say you were right, I will. You were right. But I still can’t stand the way he used his political connections to get here.”

Reynolds asked, “Has he mentioned them once since he came aboard?”

“No,” Foster admitted.

“Did they help him with all the extra hoops he has had to jump through?”

“No.”

“Is he asking for anything special now?”

“No.”

“So he abused the system. Once. We’ve all done that.” Reynolds pressed his point. “And I don’t think that’s the real issue here, is it? This isn’t about bending or even breaking the rules, especially Navy rules.”

Foster sighed. “But he used his pull…”

“Which you would have done in a heartbeat,” interrupted Reynolds. “If you’d had any. You’re just pissed because you didn’t have his connections.”

The senior chief nodded slowly, finally acknowledging the real issue between him and Jerry Mitchell. “You’re right — again. I guess I am envious of him getting a second chance.”

“But he’s doing a good job with it. He’s working his ass off, and he’s taking care of his people — like a good officer should.”

“All right, COB, I hear you. You don’t have to hit me over the head with a hammer.”

Smiling broadly, Reynolds reached over, grabbed Foster’s shoulder, and said, “As my sea daddy once told me, Bob, always use the right tool for the right job.”

At 1800, as soon as he’d finished his watch, Jerry blitzed down to the torpedo room. He found Foster and Bearden still hunched over the weapons launching console.

They both looked up as Jerry hurried down the aisle. Foster straightened up, shaking his head.

“Can it be fixed?” asked Jerry simply.

“No, sir, not at sea,” Foster replied. “In port, with a tender or repair shop helping, it would take us a week. And we’d have to gut the thing before we could even begin repairs. In my opinion, it would be easier to replace the whole unit than fix it.” He picked up a circuit board. Part of it was blackened. “Almost every board is like this, or worse. Even the ones that aren’t charred have suffered heat stress and saltwater damage.”

Jerry heard the frustration and fatigue in his senior chief’s voice. They had worked over nine hours just to come to the conclusion that there was nothing they could do to repair the badly damaged console. “Senior, you and Bearden did your best. I can’t ask for more than that. But what I don’t understand is how did seawater get inside the console in the first place? It’s supposed to be splash-proof.”

“We haven’t been able to figure that out, Mr. Mitchell. First, we thought it could have been the gasket around the tube control panels. The FTs replaced it before we left New London, but it’s clear that the fire started at the bottom of the console.” Reynolds pointed toward the lower portion of the console, which was almost completely charred. The buttons used to control the torpedo tube functions were several feet higher. “There is no obvious path for the water to get inside like it did.”

Jerry asked, “Can we still set and launch weapons manually?”

“Yes, we can work the tubes manually without any problems, and the emergency preset circuits still seem to be working,” assured Foster, “but it’ll be slow, and of course the weapon inputs won’t be as precise.”

“Then we’ll have to be very polite to everyone we meet,” Jerry answered lightly. Looking over at the starboard tube nest, he motioned his head toward tube three. “Bearden said that TM1 figured out what the deal was with tube three.”

“Yeah,” snarled Foster with contempt. “The rubber gasket material was old and should never had been installed in the first place.”

Intrigued, Jerry raised an eyebrow and said, “Really. How old?”

“We can’t be certain. There wasn’t much of the gasket left for us to recover. And since we didn’t install the gasket assembly, we don’t know how old it was, but I found these two replacement kits in our spares locker.” Foster tossed the two gasket assemblies, one at a time, to his division officer. Jerry caught them deftly and then looked at the manufacturing date: February 1999. That was way too old. Any spare part with rubber that was five years old or more was to be viewed with extreme suspicion and returned through the supply system. The part was not to be installed under normal circumstances, because the rubber would have hardened to the point where it was no longer safe to use. This was particularly true if the system in question operated under any sort of pressure.

As Jerry examined the gasket assemblies, and thought back to the casualty, a perplexed frown formed on his face. “Senior Chief, if the part was defective, then why didn’t it fail during our earlier trials after we left New London?”

Foster smiled. But this time it was the normal Cheshire catlike grin that a chief displayed before explaining the obvious to an inexperienced junior officer. “Well, sir, for one thing, it’s hard to predict when and how a part will fail. It’s even harder when the part is defective or old. But I think the water outside of New London being some twenty-odd degrees warmer had something to do with it.”

A look of embarrassment flashed across Jerry’s face as he soon as he heard Foster’s answer. “Okay, so much for the dumb question.”

“Don’t feel too bad, sir. It took us a while to figure it out,” said Bearden with a chuckle in his voice.

“So, the cold water made the rubber more brittle and it cracked under the pressure,” said Jerry.

“Yes, sir, it also made the rubber harder,” replied Foster as he handed Jerry a piece of the fiber-optic cabling. “If you’ll look at this end, you can see where the two halves of the cracked gasket gnawed on the cable. I guess the flow of water in the tube caused the gasket to expand and contract rhythmically, which in turn caused the hard rubber to literally chew through the cable.”

As Jerry listened to Foster’s explanation and viewed the available evidence, he couldn’t help but be impressed with his guys’ work and he said as much. “That was a nice piece of detective work, Senior Chief, you two and Moran are to be commended. But this still leaves the $64,000 question. Can the tube be repaired?”

The grin returned again as Foster said, “Already done, Mr. Mitchell. Petty Officer Moran and the others installed an acceptable replacement this afternoon. All we need is the Captain’s permission to do a hydrostatic test of the tube. If it passes — and I’m pretty sure it will — we’ll be ready to conduct ROV ops immediately.”

“Bravo Zulu, Senior!” exclaimed Jerry, using the Navy expression for “Well done.” “I’m sure this will make Doctor Patterson very happy.” Then Jerry looked back over at the remains of the weapons launching console, and his enthusiasm waned. “That, however, will not go over well with the Captain.”

“No, sir, he isn’t going to like that at all,” admitted Foster.

Handing the defective gaskets back to Foster, Jerry let out a deep sigh and turned toward the starboard side aisle. “I guess it’s time to tell him, then,” he announced darkly.

“Do you want me come along, sir?” asked Foster sincerely.

Heartened by the unexpected show of support, Jerry quickly agreed. “Yes, Senior Chief, I would. Thank you.”

Hardy took their report in the wardroom, with the XO, the department heads, and the two ladies present. The atmosphere in the room had a court-martial-like feel to it, with Hardy sitting motionless at the opposite end, a stony expression on his face. Jerry stood stiffly before the audience and summarized the damage from the casualty, the repairs that could be made and those that couldn’t, and their effects.

He started with the status of the ROVs and the torpedo tubes, primarily because they were the only good news he had to offer. Patterson listened intently as Jerry reported that the ROVs were both in fine shape. While this was encouraging, Patterson appeared edgy, shifting about in her seat as though she had sat on a burr.

“Mr. Mitchell, I’m sure Emily appreciates all you have done for her ROVs, but this doesn’t help us much if the torpedo tube used to deploy them doesn’t work. Were you able to repair the tube?” demanded Patterson nervously.

Jerry let a small, satisfied smile form on his face as he said, “Yes, ma’am. My guys have already completed the repairs to tube three. All I need is the Captain’s permission for a pressure test to make sure everything is squared away. If the test is satisfactory, we should be able to launch and recover the ROVs without any problems.”

“Splendid!” exclaimed Patterson, much relieved.

“Just a moment, Dr. Patterson,” interrupted Hardy, tapping the table with two fingers. “Before I authorize any test, I need to know what caused the leak in the first place and who is responsible.” The look of joy on Patterson’s face immediately gave way to one of frustration. For a brief moment, it looked like she was going to protest, but Hardy cut her off with a curt wave of his hand and a stern, uncompromising stare.

Looking back at Jerry, Hardy repeated himself. “What caused the casualty, Mr. Mitchell? And who is responsible?”

“Sir,” said Jerry firmly, “the casualty occurred because the fiber-optic penetration gasket failed catastrophically. And the reason why it failed is because it was very likely beyond its shelf life.” He motioned for Foster to hand to the Captain a piece of the failed gasket and one of the outdated spares.

“If you’ll look at the remnant of the failed gasket, sir, you’ll note that rubber is hard and brittle, similar to the replacement part that Senior Chief Foster just gave you. We found that gasket assembly in the spare parts we were issued.” Hardy briefly examined the two parts and quietly handed them over to Bair as Jerry continued his explanation.

“We believe that the colder water made the old rubber in the gasket assembly more susceptible to cracking, and after it had chewed through the cable, it blew apart and allowed seawater to leak into the torpedo room. And Captain, all modifications to tube three, including the installation of the gasket, were performed by SUBASE maintenance personnel.” Jerry forced himself not to sound triumphant as he drove the last part home.

Hardy’s jaw was firmly clenched and Jerry swore he could hear his captain’s teeth grinding at the other end of the table. Jerry knew Hardy was angry and embarrassed, particularly given his tirade in the torpedo room in front of Patterson and Davis. But he had little sympathy for the man. Hardy just wanted a body to make an example of, and he naturally assumed the culprit had to be a member of his crew. Well, now he would have to carry his little witch-hunt back to New London.

Bair cleared his throat, diverting everyone’s attention from Hardy, and asked a crucial question. “Jerry, you’ve explained how the leak started, but why did it result in a fire?”

“The short answer XO is, we don’t know,” stated Jerry bluntly. “After over nine hours of investigating, Senior Chief Foster and Petty Officer Bearden were unable to find out how the water got inside the weapons launching console. All they were able to find was that the fire started very low in the console, near the deck, and that it was devastatingly hot.”

“How bad is the damage?” questioned Bair hesitantly.

Taking a deep breath, Jerry looked squarely at Hardy and said, “The console is totaled, sir. And there is no way we can repair it at sea. We can still operate the tubes manually and the emergency preset circuits are intact, but we’ve lost all remote tube functions, including those associated with the fire-control system.”

A collective groan came from the naval officers present. Bair put his head in his hands and simply muttered, “Oh shit!” Hardy remarkably remained silent as Patterson and Davis looked on with puzzlement.

Tapping his fingers on the table again, Hardy motioned for everyone to become silent. “Senior Chief?” Hardy said, demanding his confirmation of Jerry’s report. He simply would not take Jerry’s word that the weapons launching console was kaput. He had to hear it from Foster directly.

“Sir, the console is gone,” replied Foster frankly. “A shipyard would just swap out the whole thing. With a tender’s help, I could replace every circuit board and relay and rebuild the console in a week or two. But out here, we just don’t have the parts, and I can’t scrounge or make them, either.”

Hardy listened with a sour expression, the kind of expression a sub captain would be expected to have when hearing that the two working tubes he’d started with were now crippled. But then it softened, and Jerry thought that for a moment, he’d almost looked pleased.

The XO and the other department heads asked Foster, Jerry, and Cal Richards questions about the torpedoes and their ability to launch them, but the Captain remained silent. It didn’t take long for them to run out of questions. The console was down hard and nothing they could do would bring it back.

Hardy’s announcement filled the eerie silence. “With almost no weapons capability, the ability of this boat to perform its mission has been seriously affected.” Jerry agreed with that statement, but was completely unready for what the Captain said next. “I believe we should abort the mission.”

Dr. Patterson stood up abruptly, her seat tipping back with a crash. “What?” The others in the wardroom looked just as surprised, but remained silent out of deference for Hardy’s rank. Patterson felt no such limitation.

“We can’t go home because of a problem with the other torpedo tubes!” she exclaimed.

“Doctor,” the Captain said carefully, “Memphis is a warship with no teeth. We can’t defend ourselves effectively. You don’t understand how important that console is. In a fast-moving fight. ”

“And what’s the chance of that happening? Are we at war? Are we likely to begin one while we’re at sea?” Jerry could tell that Patterson was afraid as well as angry. If Hardy turned around and went home, she’d never get the evidence she hoped to find, and her boss, the President, wouldn’t get his coup at the conference.

And Hardy had the perfect excuse. A naval vessel that couldn’t fight was a liability.

Hardy stood his ground. “Dr. Patterson, this mission requires that we operate in close proximity to the Russian coast. ”

She interrupted him again “And are we going to shoot our way in?” she demanded. “I’ve read our rules of engagement. You aren’t allowed to shoot at anyone unless they attack you in international waters, and even then, only if you can’t evade or escape. Is that correct?”

“Yes, ma’am. Only in extreme self-defense.”

“And when those admirals approved this mission, they said the threat was low, that the Russian Navy was a basket case, and that this would be a ‘milk run.’”

“Both the CNO and SUBLANT,” Hardy clarified, “would completely understand the risks of proceeding on with the mission with a crippled weapons system.”

“But the CNO and SUBLANT,” Patterson echoed, “work for my boss, the President. And what he’s going to hear is what I put in my report.”

She paused and Hardy didn’t immediately respond. Her threat was obvious and her tone made it more than clear that she would carry it out.

Finally, he said softly, “Doctor, I am ultimately responsible for the safety of this boat and everyone on board.”

She spoke just as softly. “And this submarine can still do the job that we have set out to do. The accident hasn’t affected our engines, the sonar works, we can still deploy the ROVs, and the chances of us actually having to shoot anyone are nil. We will continue.”

Hardy looked at her for a minute, then repeated, “We will continue.” He made it sound like a sigh.

Later that evening, after another tense meal, Patterson was in the head she and Emily shared with Hardy, getting ready to turn in. Exhausted from the day’s events, and yet another confrontation with Lowell Hardy, she just wanted to lie down and get some sleep. As she washed her face, she found herself muttering questions to the image in the mirror, “Why does he have to be so difficult? Why can’t he be more cooperative, like my staff back in D.C.? Why do I always have to fight him over everything?”

As she stewed over Hardy’s constant — and annoying — references to risks, consequences, and warfare, she lost track of where she was and slammed her elbow into the shower stall. Cursing the miniscule accommodations, Patterson’s frustration with Memphis and her commanding officer boiled to the surface and her irritation was enough to make her scream. In defiance to Hardy’s edicts on cleanliness, she threw the towel on the deck, turned off the light, and quietly opened the door to her stateroom. Emily was already asleep, so Patterson couldn’t turn on the light. Even though there was a tiny red light shining by the door, her eyes were not adapted to the dark, so she had to navigate her way to her rack by touch. Wearily, she tumbled into her bunk and was immediately grabbed by someone. She screamed as a large arm wrapped around her waist.

In control, Hardy and Bair were going over the revised fire-control team procedures when they heard Patterson scream. Surprised and afraid, both men raced to her stateroom, each one thinking that a member of the crew had gone off the deep end and was assaulting her. As Hardy burst into the stateroom, Patterson was over by the door to the head, bouncing on both feet and pointing vigorously at her bunk. “There is someone in my bed!” she screamed.

Bair reached over and turned on the light, ready to grab the idiot once he could see him. Davis, huddled up at the far end of the top bunk, her eyes wide with terror. In the bottom bunk was a man-sized, silver-colored suit hanging halfway out of the bunk with its empty arms outstretched toward Patterson. Immediately upon seeing her assailant, Patterson stopped bouncing and yelled indignantly. “What the hell is that thing?”

Hardy looked at Bair and both desperately tried to stifle their amusement; they failed. Within moments, both men were roaring with laughter. This only served to make Patterson angrier, which in turn caused the two to laugh even harder.

“Captain Hardy, this is outrageous!”

With tears welling in his eyes, Hardy could barely reply, “Yes, ma’am. You’re right. I’m sorry.” Bair nearly doubled over with his Captain’s response, and the two laughed until they were gasping for air.

“Are the two of you quite finished enjoying yourselves at my expense?” demanded Patterson, still quite peeved.

“Almost,” answered Hardy honestly. And after a little more chuckling he said, “Oh God! I needed that.”

Bair, finally managing to get a hold of himself, turned toward control, and shouted, “Auxiliaryman of the Watch, report to Dr. Patterson’s stateroom.”

Within a few seconds, a balding petty officer appeared at the door. “Auxiliaryman of the Watch, reporting as ordered, sir.”

“Petty Officer Johnson, please return the training steam suit to his quarters in the crew’s mess,” ordered Bair.

“Aye, aye, sir.” Johnson quickly walked into the stateroom, grabbed the steam suit by the arms, and began to pull it down the passageway. As he made his way to the ladder, they could hear him berating the steam suit. “Bad George! Who said you could leave your locker? Now the DCA will have to confine you to quarters for the rest of this run.”

With the steam suit thumping its way down the ladder, Bair and Hardy returned their attention to Patterson, who was now standing with her fists on her hips, her right foot tapping the deck. Her expression was more of annoyance than anger, but it was clear that she didn’t like being the butt of someone’s joke. “So, Captain, please don’t tell me that this is another example of the sick and twisted kind of humor the Navy condones?” While her expression was indignant, the effect was muted by her flowered pink pajamas.

Hardy paused for a moment and then replied, “Then I won’t tell you. Good night, ladies.”

Surprised by his response, Patterson watched as both Hardy and Bair left, the latter closing the stateroom door. Still annoyed, Patterson let out a growl as she turned out the lights and tumbled into her bunk. After she finally got comfortable, she thought about what had just happened and started to chuckle. Sighing, she turned over and muttered to herself, “Boys will be boys.”