Dangerous Ground

1. MAY SHE EVER GO TO SEA

March 14,2005

SUBASE, New London

Groton, Connecticut

The Naval Submarine Base New London is located on the eastern shore of the Thames River in Groton, Connecticut. It has been there since the 1860s, although Jerry couldn’t remember the exact date. More important, it had been a sub base since World War I. Nearly two dozen nuclear subs were based there, all of them attack boats, SSNs, with the exception of the deep-diving research sub NR-1.

Having been stationed at New London for the past two months while attending submarine school, Jerry knew all about the “Upper Base.” He wasn’t as well-versed as to where things were on the “Lower Base,” though, and so he studied the base map until he’d memorized the layout of the squadron’s piers. His knowledge of the nautical route in and out of the SUBASE was even more limited, and he had gone to the trouble of ordering his own copy of the harbor chart.

It hadn’t been a long trip from Newport, Rhode Island, but he’d been nervous enough about his arrival to program extra time into his trip. He’d arrived back in Groton a day early, leaving as soon as Manta school had been completed, and had spent last night and part of this morning prepping his uniform and memorizing (again) everything he’d been able to find out about the boat. Her CO was Commander Lowell Hardy, the XO LCDR Robert Bair. The boat was commissioned in 1977 and was redesignated as an experimental submarine to test advanced submarine systems and sensors in 1989. She was one of six SSNs that made up Submarine Development Squadron (SUBDEVRON) Twelve. There were many more facts, mechanical and meaningless right now, in isolation, but they would soon be the foundation of his new life.

In spite of all his study, and although he’d attended sub school here, the New London base felt different, strange. He was coming back as a submariner now, reporting to his first ship: USS Memphis, SSN 691.

Jerry looked around his apartment’s living room one last time, making sure he had everything, and then shut and locked the door. He quickly glanced at his watch, checking the time. He’d allowed twenty minutes for the drive to the base, figuring the best time to arrive was 0900 (9:00 a.m.) The crew would be done with the bustle of Quarters, but he didn’t want to appear tardy in reporting.

He checked his uniform again. The skipper would only get one first impression, and Jerry wanted it to be a good one. He carefully checked the driving directions to Lower Base (yet again) on the front seat and drove off.

He made the SUBASE’s main gate right on schedule and was allowed to pass, after a brief security check. He turned onto Shark Boulevard and proceeded toward the Lower Base entrances, being very careful to mind the speed limit. Jerry had found out — the hard way, of course — that the SUBASE police had a thing for red sports cars that violated the speed limit by even two or three mph. Once he reached Dorado Road, he turned left and was waved through the Lower Base gate, having gotten his parking decal the day before. He even found a parking spot. Leaving his gear in the Porsche, he straightened his uniform one last time, and even remembered his orders. It was a good start.

Pier 32 was two blocks and two corners away, and he breasted the bitterly cold March wind, glad for the bridge coat he’d bought. It was a dark midnight blue, made of heavy wool, and long, reaching down to cover his legs, but most officers bought it for looks as much as for warmth. A shorter peacoat would be much more practical on a sub, where space was at a premium.

Memphis lay berthed on the north side of the pier. Only her name on the brow revealed the boat’s identity. A low, weathered black shape on the water, most of her hull rose just a few feet above the wavelets that slapped against her rounded sides. Only a large rectangular structure aft broke up her smooth lines. The brow lay aft of the sail, leading to an open hatch in the deck. There was a small, battered gray wooden shack perched on the pier next to the brow, and Jerry could see an enlisted man inside. The petty officer, a second class, was speaking on the telephone.

Compared with a jet fighter or even a surface ship, the sub looked harmless. No visible weapons, not even all that big above the waterline. Most of her bulk, and all of her abilities, were hidden below the surface.

The Petty Officer of the Watch was keeping an alert lookout, and spotted Jerry as he turned the corner. He saw a short black-haired lieutenant junior grade in his mid-twenties. He looked slim, even in his bridge coat, and carried a manila envelope tucked under one arm.

It was clear he was headed for Memphis, and the petty officer summoned the duty officer, then stepped out of the shack to meet him.

Jerry stopped at the shack and returned the petty officer’s salute, and in keeping with long-standing naval tradition, said, “Request permission to come aboard.”

Commander, U.S. Fleet Forces Command

Compound Norfolk, Virginia

Commander Lowell Hardy sat nervously, waiting. A summons to see the big boss was to be expected. The Manta trials were over, Memphis was old, and Hardy’s tour was nearly over. Hopefully, he was about to be congratulated on a job well-done. Or maybe not.

Memphis had been his first command, and he’d done his best with the old girl, and he’d turned in a good record. But it hadn’t been perfect.

They called a captain the master of his ship, the last absolute monarch. Hardy was the master of 6,100 tons of complex, and in the case of Memphis, cranky machinery. He was the monarch of 135 rugged individualists whose chance of doing the right thing went down as its importance went up. Only his constant supervision had prevented some hapless teenage sailor from sending his career straight into the toilet.

And now his fate was in another’s hands again. He was waiting for Rear Admiral Tom Masters, Commander Submarines Atlantic, to tell him what came next.

Memphis was scheduled for decommissioning, and preparations for that would take several months. There’d be the last trip to Bremerton, Washington, where she would actually be decommissioned, and the crew would split up, each with new orders. What would his read? Another boat immediately? That was the best he could hope for in his heart of hearts, but unlikely. Purgatory in a shore command for a year or two with the promise of another boat afterward? More probable, and by then there’d be a slightly better chance of him getting a newer.

“Commander, the admiral will see you now.” The receptionist’s summons surprised him, because as far as Hardy knew, there was still a herd of people in there with SUBLANT. He’d shown up early for his appointment and he’d seen them go in, but they hadn’t come out yet. Still, if he was supposed to go in, he’d go. Bracing himself, he rapped twice on the dark wood door and opened it.

Hardy had been in the admiral’s office before. It was spacious, filled with the obligatory flags, ball caps, plaques and a four-foot model of the admiral’s first boat.

And people, lots of them. Hardy immediately recognized Rear Admiral Masters behind the desk and Captain Young, Commander SUBDEVRON Twelve and his immediate boss, to Masters’ right. What surprised Hardy was seeing Vice Admiral William G. Barber, Director, Submarine Warfare Division, on the CNO’s staff standing behind Masters. “What have I walked into?” Hardy asked himself.

Sitting in the only available chair was a tall, handsome woman in her late thirties or early forties, stylishly if severely dressed. A younger woman stood near her, and a young man in a gray suit stood to the left of the admiral. They all looked at him expectantly, and Hardy smelled a setup. Whatever was coming, he saw his next command spiraling down the drain.

Reflex took over. He came to attention, hat tucked under his arm, and announced, “Commander Hardy reporting, sir.” Unnecessary, of course, but it broke the silence.

Admiral Masters nodded, “Good to see you, Hardy. I know what you expected to hear from me, but there’s been a change in plans. We’re not going to decommission Memphis just yet.” The admiral motioned to his gray-suited guest. “This is Mr. Weyer Prescott. He’s from President Huber’s office.”

“Deputy to Science Advisor Schaeffer,” Prescott elaborated, as if that explained everything. Hardy noted the gray power suit, the expensive tie, and immediately typed him. There is a natural antipathy in the military services for political animals like Prescott, and from his expression, Hardy guessed the feeling was mutual.

“President Huber needs the Navy to help him with a special problem.” Prescott intoned Huber’s name as if he was invoking a deity, and in effect, he was. Any orders that came from the Commander-in-Chief went straight to the top of the U.S. Navy’s to-do list. From Prescott’s expression, Hardy guessed he either didn’t think the Navy was up to the task or that the Navy would screw it up.

“As you all know, President Huber’s recent mandate was based in large part on his support of environmental causes, and his concern for the damage to the environment…”

Actually, Hardy hadn’t known that, or didn’t care to know it. He’d voted for Coleman, for all the good it had done. He personally regarded Huber as a nitwit, although as the Commander-in-Chief, he’d faithfully execute any lawful orders the freshly inaugurated nitwit issued.

Prescott’s speech was carefully worded, rehearsed, and Hardy suspected he loved the sound of his own voice. “…wants to be seen as an environmental champion, not only here at home but abroad as well.”

“At the upcoming World Environmental Congress in Sao Paulo, Brazil, the President has decided to bring the Russians to task for their many ecological abuses, especially relating to nuclear waste disposal.”

Good for Huber, thought Hardy. Maybe he’s not a nitwit. The Soviets had been legendary for their disregard of even common-sense management of nuclear materials. The Russians had been only slightly better and had done little in the past fifteen years to deal with the messes left by their predecessors.

“The Russian government has ignored repeated calls to deal with the crisis, in spite of evidence provided by international organizations.” Get to the point, man, Hardy thought.

“The U.S. Navy has long operated subs near the Soviet and Russian coasts to gather intelligence on its potential enemy. Well, we now want the Navy to enter those same waters to collect environmental intelligence.” Prescott smiled broadly, and Hardy knew just who had come up with that buzzword.

Prescott looked over at Vice Admiral Barber, who nodded to Rear Admiral Masters. “Captain Hardy, you will prepare Memphis for deployment, and as soon as you are ready for sea, proceed to the Russian coast off the eastern side of Novaya Zemlaya. Using the Manta and other special equipment that will be provided, make a detailed environmental survey of the seabed there.” Masters sounded like he’d also rehearsed his speech, but it was couched in the language of the service and didn’t grate as badly as the civilian’s platitudes. Then Hardy realized what the orders meant.

Prescott smiled, an almost predatory expression. “The samples and photographs of what we expect you to obtain will give President Huber the ammunition he needs at the conference. He will be able to reveal the true extent of Russian environmental abuse and secure his position as the leader of the environmental cause worldwide.”

Hardy didn’t reply immediately. His first response, which he fought back, was to say that Memphis wasn’t ready for a mission. They’d already started to defer maintenance in anticipation of the boat’s decommissioning. Several rather important items of equipment needed either a thorough refit or outright replacement. As the testing platform for the Manta prototype, they’d been involved in a lot of short, intense cruises, with lots of inport time to keep the old girl running. But telling the admiral that Memphis wasn’t ready would be professional suicide. Besides, Masters had to know the state of his boat. Hardy was required to send in regular reports on his material condition, and nobody could ever accuse him of gundecking a report.

Hardy searched for something intelligent to ask. “How specialized is this equipment, sir? How long will I have to train my crew in its use?” Months, he hoped.

“The equipment consists of two remotely-operated vehicles, their support equipment, and an environmental test lab.” The seated woman stood as she addressed Hardy. Her tone and manner were coldly formal.

“This is Doctor Joanna Patterson, Captain.” The admiral hurriedly introduced her. “She’s from the President’s Science Advisory Board and a specialist on nuclear waste disposal.” Standing, Dr. Patterson was almost as tall as Hardy’s six feet, with a pale complexion, ash-blonde hair, and blue eyes.

Hardy started to step forward and offer his hand, but she made no move to respond, and he quickly stopped himself. “You’ll be the one training my crew?” he asked.

Masters explained, “Dr. Patterson will oversee the installation, yes. She’s also in overall charge of the mission.” The admiral had an odd expression, and Hardy suddenly had a hollow feeling in his stomach.

“As in mission commander?” Hardy asked carefully.

“Both Dr. Patterson and Dr. Davis will accompany Memphis on this mission,” Masters explained.

The other woman, who’d stood beside and behind Patterson’s chair, stepped forward and offered her hand. “I’m Emily Davis, sir. I’m with Draper Labs.” Davis was a shorter woman, especially standing next to Patterson, with straight black hair and round glasses. She was dressed practically, if not stylishly. She seemed uncomfortable and glanced at Patterson nervously, as if looking for permission to speak.

“Dr. Davis will operate the ROVs and Dr. Patterson will analyze the results.” Masters explained. “There’s no way to teach your crew what they need to know in the time available.”

“In any amount of time,” added Patterson caustically, and Hardy’s feelings of unease sharpened into intense dislike. Professional suicide be damned.

“Sir, I’m sure you’ve recalled Navy policy regarding women and especially civilians. ”

Prescott interrupted Hardy smoothly, his tone reassuring. “We’ve already discussed this matter with the Secretary of the Navy, the CNO, and the Joint Chiefs. Navy policy has been waived before when necessary, and in view of the special needs of this mission… Well, I’m sure arrangements can be made.”

Waived, hell. Overridden is more like it, Hardy thought. And what arrangements? Where in hell am I going to put two females on my boat?

“And Dr. Patterson is more than just a mission specialist, Captain. She is the President’s personal representative, and as you correctly recognized, mission commander.” Prescott’s tone was harder.

It started to sink in. A civilian woman with some sort of political scientific agenda would look over his shoulder while he took Memphis, due for decommissioning, into Russian waters so they could count barrels of nuclear waste. And she would decide what kind of a job he’d done. And she had the ear of the President. This was insane. There were things worse than purgatory.

“Sir, my only qualified Manta operator’s already been detached, along with some of my crew. He’s left the Navy.” Hardy tried not to sound like a kid looking for an excuse to skip class, although that’s what he felt like.

“That’s already been taken care of, Captain. We checked into your personnel status several weeks ago when we started putting this mission together. You’ve got a new arrival who’s just finished the Manta operator course at the Naval Underwater Warfare Center.”

“New arrival?” asked Hardy, knowing he sounded dense. Since Memphis was slated for decommissioning, they weren’t supposed to be getting any new personnel.

“A special case, Captain, but one that fits well with your needs,” Masters answered. “According to our information, and your record, Memphis is more than capable of handling this assignment.”

“Yes, sir, she is,” answered Hardy, straightening. He knew when to shut up and salute. “When will the equipment arrive?”

“The two ladies will arrive in New London in a few days,” replied Masters. “Captain Young will give your boat priority in any matter relating to this mission.” He handed Hardy a thick manila envelope covered with classification markings. “This is for the trip back. It should tell you everything you need to know.”

Hardy took a step back, came to attention, and said, “Thank you, sir.” He turned to face Patterson and Davis. “I’ll see you in a few days, then, ladies. By the way, you may want to pack your bathing suits. After all, this will be a Bluenose run.”

The puzzled look on their faces gave him some pleasure, and taking that small victory, Hardy left.

USS Memphis, SSN 691

SUBASE, New London

The ship’s duty officer emerged from the hatch as Jerry returned the watchstander’s salute. He was an ensign and saluted as Jerry explained: “I’m Jerry Mitchell. I’ve been assigned to Memphis.” The confused officer accepted the manila envelope from Jerry and examined the enclosed orders. As duty officer, he wouldn’t allow anyone aboard who didn’t have explicit business there.

The ensign’s reply was friendly, if puzzled. “Are you part of the decomm crew, then?”

Jerry was now puzzled. “What decomm? All I know is, I’m supposed to report to Memphis. I just finished Manta school at NUWC.”

“And we’ve got the Manta prototype. I’m Tom Holtzmann, by the way. Reactor Officer. XO’s aboard, but the Captain’s off the boat, due back tonight.” Holtzmann had a square, friendly face, with dark hair and eyes. He was a little taller than Jerry, but Mitchell was used to that.

“Captain Hardy?” asked Jerry.

“You’ve heard of him, then?” asked Holtzmann. There was a dark edge to the question, but Jerry didn’t want to follow that up right now.

“No, just checking to see if I’d gotten the right gouge,” replied Jerry. “I’ve still got my gear in the car, but I’ll go below and report in, if that’s okay.”

“Right. I’ll have the petty officer take you forward. This is ET2 Anderson, by the way, one of my guys.” He turned to the petty officer. “Please take Mr. Mitchell forward to the XO’s stateroom.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” He turned briefly to Mitchell. “Follow me, please.”

Anderson dropped smoothly through the hatch, and Jerry followed, slower and with much more care. Submarines were designed to have as few holes in their pressure hulls as possible, and this was one of the biggest, a twenty-five-inch circular opening that looked like the door to a bank vault, if banks put their vaults in the floor.

Technically, it was the Forward Escape Trunk. Everything that the sub needed, except for torpedoes, had to fit through that hatch. Food, repair parts, tools, and appliances all came through that two-foot hole or they didn’t go in at all.

Two vertical ladders brought him down to the middle level of the forward compartment, one of the three decks in the sub. Although he’d been aboard other subs during his training, he still wasn’t used to the jumble of green- and gray-painted metal shapes, which only grudgingly allowed humans to pass between them. Everywhere he looked, Jerry saw machinery, cables, and pipes, all systematically labeled. Part of his job would be to learn every inch of them.

He spotted Anderson’s receding form, headed forward, and hurried to follow, removing his cap and bulky bridge coat. Instinctively, he pulled in his elbows and crouched slightly, in spite of his short stature. He passed the crew’s mess, the galley, and sickbay. Climbing a short ladder, Jerry found himself in the control room. If the reactor was her heart, the control room was Memphis’ brain.

Immediately forward of the control room, right in the bow, were the CO’s and XO’s staterooms, both on the port side of the passageway. The only thing forward of them was a room full of switchboards and beyond that the sub’s massive bow sonar sphere, outside the pressure hull but inside a streamlined fairing. The sonar shack, both the eyes and ears of this underwater animal, was on the right side of the passageway.

The XO’s stateroom had an honest-to-God door with a small sign that read “Executive Officer.” The petty officer knocked twice, lightly, and waited for a muffled “Come” before turning the knob. Anderson then backed up, giving Jerry room in the narrow passageway to go through the door.

The Executive Officer was Lieutenant Commander Robert Bair, at least according to Memphis’ web page. There was no photo, but Jerry saw a man in khakis with gold oak leaves on his shirt collar. He didn’t look very old, but his hair was almost completely white, and the front of his uniform bulged just a little. He was seated at the fold-down desk in his stateroom, which was covered with neat bundles of folders and paperwork. Jerry noticed three baskets fastened to the right side of the desk, labeled load, shoot, and check fire.

Automatically, Jerry straightened to attention and offered the envelope he’d been carrying. “Lieutenant (j.g.) Jerry Mitchell, reporting, sir.” He didn’t salute, since naval officers don’t salute uncovered.

Bair took the envelope without immediately responding and examined the address on the outside before reading the enclosed orders. He sighed tiredly, and gave Mitchell a small smile. “Well, mister, these orders are correct, and you’re supposed to be here, but I can’t imagine why. Our captain’s in Norfolk getting orders to decommission this boat. Can you explain what you’re supposed to be doing here?”

Then Bair’s eyes spotted the golden wings on Jerry’s uniform coat. “And why in hell did they send us an aviator?”

“Not an aviator anymore, sir. I medicaled out of the training program.” Jerry held up his right hand. The sleeve slid back far enough to show a road map of scars over his wrist and lower arm.

“Well, those wings have no place on this boat. You can wear your diver’s pin, but leave the wings off while you’re here.” The XO’s preemptory order disappointed Jerry. He’d worked a long time to get those wings, and technically, they were part of his uniform. But the XO was right. They really didn’t matter here.

“I see you’ve even been to Manta school,” Bair remarked.

“Yes, sir. That’s when they told me I was coming to Memphis, when I received orders to the school.”

“Well, I wish they’d told us at the same time,” muttered the XO sourly. “Look, Captain Hardy’s due back later today. Just go ahead and get your paperwork started, and we’ll sort out what to do with you later.”

He handed the orders back to Jerry. “Take these down to the yeoman. He’ll get you checked in.” He pointed to a stairway just across from his stateroom, at the end of the passageway. “Just use that ladder.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Jerry turned to leave, but the XO called after him.

“Lieutenant Mitchell, one more thing.” He smiled again, the same tired smile he’d given Jerry earlier. “Welcome aboard.”

Yeoman First Class Glover, a slim, dark-haired man with an incredibly neat office, seemed unsurprised by Mitchell’s appearance. He greeted Jerry with a broad smile and handshake. “Welcome aboard, sir. I’ve started your checklist,” he remarked, neatly taking the orders from Jerry’s hand.

“I’ve also asked the messenger of the watch to meet you topside. He’ll help you get your gear aboard. I’ve put you in Mr. Adelman’s bunk. He was our Manta specialist, but he left last week.”

A little nonplussed by Glover’s brisk efficiency, Jerry retraced his steps to the forward escape hatch and met a young seaman, so young Jerry wasn’t sure he was old enough to drive, much less enlist in the Navy. His sandy blond hair stuck out from under a “dixie cup” sailor’s hat. He stiffened and saluted when he saw Jerry climb out of the hatch. “Seaman Gunther, sir.” Jerry returned the salute, then offered his hand, which seemed to surprise the enlisted man.

“Glad to know you, Gunther.” He motioned to the pier. “My car’s in a lot a couple of blocks from here.”

Gunther nodded and buttoned up his peacoat, following Jerry down the brow, saluting the flag and the duty officer as they stepped off onto the pier. They trudged in silence, the wind at their backs hurrying them along.

Gunther whistled at the red ‘02 Porsche when he first saw it, then whistled again when he realized that it was Jerry’s car. “That’s a sweet car, sir.” Gunther remarked as Jerry opened the trunk.

“Thanks, Gunther, and before you ask, I bought it used,” Mitchell answered. He handed the sailor a suitcase, then picked up his briefcase and garment bag.

Gunther noticed a set of golden wings on the briefcase and a fly high sticker on the Porsche’s rear bumper. “Are you an aviator, sir?”

Jerry answered honestly, if incompletely. “I was, for a while, but I had some medical problems and they let me transfer to submarines.”

During the mercifully short walk back, Gunther pelted Jerry with questions about the aircraft he’d flown, especially how fast they could fly. Jerry had occasionally flown past Mach 1, but disappointed the sailor when he insisted he’d never come close to Mach 2.

As they approached Memphis again, Gunther exclaimed, “I remember now! You were on the news a while back. They had a video of your crash and then they wanted to kick you out of the Navy…”

Mitchell nodded. “That was me. I convinced them to let me stay.”

“Cool. That was an amazing crash, sir.” Gunther was even more animated now as he helped pass the bags through the hatch and manhandle them forward to the officers’ berthing area. He was reluctant to leave Jerry, even as the officer started to unpack, but remembered he had other duties and left after one last question about the ejection seat.

The rest of the morning passed quickly as Jerry filled out forms, received his dosimeter or “TLD” (regulation on all nuclear subs) and tried to find his way around. He met or passed by most of the ship’s 130-odd crew in the crowded passageways. He’d left his wings off when he’d changed into his khaki work uniform, which left his shirt uncomfortably bare. Eventually, he’d pin on his gold dolphins, a qualification process as difficult and as lengthy as getting his wings.

The wardroom was directly aft of the officers’ berthing, starboard side, and already crowded with officers when he stepped in a few minutes after twelve. Some stood at places around the small table, but most were milling around. Jerry had hurriedly met most of the officers during the morning, but now he took the time for proper introductions. Two of the department heads, Lieutenant Commander Jeff Ho, the ship’s Engineer, and Lieutenant Cal Richards, the Weapons Officer, were the senior officers present. Tom Holtzmann, the Reactor Officer, and Ensign Jim Porter, the Electrical Officer, were both division officers under Ho, a big Hawaiian, certainly too big to be comfortable in a sub’s confined environment. One other officer, Lenny Berg, in charge of the radiomen and a lieutenant (junior grade) like Jerry, was present for the first seating.

They were still finishing introductions when another officer entered. He introduced himself to Jerry as Bill Washburn, the Supply Officer, then turned to Ho, the senior officer in the room. “The XO says to save him a place, but start without him.” He frowned a little. “He just got a call from the CO.”

Ho nodded, then replied, “Good enough. Seats please, gentlemen.”

Lunch was stuffed pork chops and a fresh salad. They hadn’t been lying about the food aboard subs.

“How far along in your training were you when you had your accident?” Cal Richards came straight to the point. Jerry guessed Gunther’s news had spread fast.

“I was in my final cycle,” Jerry answered quietly “I already had orders to a squadron at Oceana. A few more weeks.”

“After how long? A year and a half of training? That’s rough.” Tom Holtzmann’s comment was sympathetic, but reminded Jerry of all the time he’d lost. And he’d never fly again.

“What made you decide to transfer to submarines?” Washburn asked.

An honest question, but one that Jerry had answered a hundred times since the accident, and continued to ask himself. He gave the stock answer, practiced and repeated until it emerged almost automatically.

“They were going to medical me out of the service, but I liked the Navy and wanted to be a part of it. My hand didn’t keep me from normal duties, so I signed up for subs.”

“But it wasn’t your first choice,” prompted Richards.

“No sir. I’d picked aviation, and done well at it. I’ve always liked airplanes, really anything that goes fast, and being outside as well…”

That prompted a round of hearty laughter from every man in the wardroom. When it died down, Richards commented, still chuckling, “You may want to reexamine your career choice before it’s too late.”

Jerry had no reply, but Ho said. “I remember seeing that crash, and you ejecting, and I followed the story after you got out of the hospital. There was a senator, a relative, who helped you stay in.”

“That’s right. My mom’s brother is Senator Thorvald, from Nebraska. Without him I’d be out on the street.”

“Nice to have friends in high places,” Richards commented. There was an undercurrent to the remark that worried Jerry. Richards wasn’t smiling.

The XO came in and dropped into a seat at the head of the table. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” The other officers all greeted Bair quietly, who seemed tired, almost worn out. The mess attendant poured coffee and made sure the dishes were within his reach.

Bair started to fill his plate and announced, “I’ve just gotten the news from the Captain. There’s been a slight change in plans.” He paused to take a bite and chewed, enjoying everyone’s anticipation. “The decomm’s been delayed. We’re going to make another run north, as far north as we’ve ever gone.”

Bair stopped talking and took another bite, but the silence continued for a few more beats as the officers absorbed the news. Jerry felt some relief. At least his first cruise wouldn’t be to a scrapyard.

Finally Washburn, the Supply Officer, asked, “How long have we got to get ready, sir?

The XO’s answer was vague. “A few weeks, but I don’t have the schedule yet. The Captain says this will be a ‘special’ run, and he’ll brief the crew tomorrow morning, but until then we’re to begin preparations for sea.” Jerry watched their faces. Some of them hurried to finish their meals. “A few weeks” wasn’t much time to turn around a sub and prepare it for a hazardous deployment.

He turned to face Jerry, “And it turns out Mr. Mitchell and the Manta will play a critical role. I’d like you to stay after lunch, Jerry. The rest of you pass the word. Start putting your lists together.”

Several of the officers muttered, “Aye, aye, sir,” and the wardroom quickly cleared, except for Bair, Jerry, and the mess steward, who started to clean up for the second sitting, then saw the XO’s face and disappeared.

“Is there anything about this mission that you’ve forgotten to tell me?”

Jerry, surprised and confused, quickly answered, “No, sir!”

“Captain Hardy indicated you’d been hand-picked for this assignment.”

“Nobody told me if they did.”

Bair didn’t look convinced. “Look, mister, your story is all over the ship. It’s nice to see a man fighting to stay in the Navy, but people with pull aren’t going to impress anyone on this boat.” He leaned forward in his chair, spearing Mitchell with his eyes. “Did you use your pull to get aboard Memphis? Did this ‘special mission’ sound exciting?”

“No, sir, absolutely not! I was supposed to go to another boat, USS Hartford, until my orders were changed to add Manta school. That was just a few weeks ago, and I swear I don’t have a clue about why I was assigned here.”

The XO didn’t look happy, but didn’t press Jerry further. “All right, mister. Finish getting squared away. The Captain will be back aboard this evening, and he wants to talk to me about you,” he said, pointing at Mitchell. “I suspect that he’ll also want a word with you himself.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Jerry got out and took the few steps forward to his stateroom. He shared the space with Lieutenant (j.g.) Berg, the Communications Officer, and Lieutenant Washburn, but right now he had the place to himself. He finished unpacking, organizing his clothes and books in a space that made a closet look roomy.

His right arm was sore, and he absentmindedly picked up a hand exerciser and began squeezing it. It still hurt, maybe a little more than usual, but the action gave him the illusion of doing something constructive.

The pain was okay, according to the docs, even a year and a half after the crash. He smiled. At least it didn’t hurt as much as it did a year and a half ago.

“A compound fracture of the radius and ulna.” They didn’t even need X-rays to diagnose it. And it wasn’t a clean break, either. It had finally taken three operations and three months before they were done with him. And from now on, he’d always know when it was going to rain.

The Navy always taped air operations, in case of accidents, and they’d released the video of Jerry’s crash. It showed his Hornet smoothly accelerating down the runway, jet exhausts filled with blue flame, then a small puff of white appeared by the right wheel. That was the only sign of trouble, but the jet suddenly veered off to the right. The canopy flew off a fraction of a second after the puff, followed by the pilot’s seat (That’s me, thought Jerry) on a pillar of flame and smoke. The chute popped, but didn’t deploy fully before Jerry was slammed onto the concrete surface. It had even made the news.

He’d seen it a dozen times and could look at it now without feeling the pain of the landing — and of failure. Loss of an airplane, loss of a career. The Board had cleared him completely, and he almost believed them.

Between operations, he’d stayed at the squadron, his career on medical hold. He’d hated it, hanging around pilots and airplanes but unable to fly. Commander Casey had given him a boatload of collateral duties to keep him busy, but it hadn’t taken Jerry’s mind off the accident. And then the Navy had started.

It was a fair offer. It wasn’t Jerry’s fault he wasn’t able to fly anymore, so they gave him a choice. He could transfer to the surface fleet or accept an honorable discharge.

Jerry couldn’t abide the idea of a discharge. He’d joined the Navy because he liked what it stood for and what it did. He’d always liked speed, and a challenge, since he’d been old enough to walk. First stunts on skateboards, then motorbikes, and skydiving. His girlfriends had called him an “adrenaline junkie,” usually right before they dumped him, but it wasn’t the danger he loved so much as the rush from succeeding at some difficult task. He was an A student for the same reason.

Now the Navy wanted to take away his latest success, when it was in his hands. Except one of his hands didn’t work so well anymore. But he was all right for surface ships, said the detailer. He could still have a naval career. The medical restriction only applied to aviation.

What about subs? Jerry had asked. The detailer had said that yes, he was certainly fit for duty on subs, but the submariners had their own training pipeline, and he was too far along in his training to start.

But Jerry’s mind had suddenly fixed on subs as his goal. If he couldn’t fly, he’d serve in subs instead. He’d need a waiver, the detailer had said, as if that decided the issue.

A “waiver” was Navyspeak for permission to break a rule. The Navy would grant waivers to selected individuals on a case-by-case basis. He’d seen guys too old for flying get waivers because they’d had previous service experience. He’d seen guys with family problems get waivers allowing them to take extra time in the training program. The Navy wrote the rules, and the Navy could break them, too. When it wanted to. Usually, it didn’t want to.

Commander Casey knew Jerry well enough to understand what drove him, and he believed that Jerry would be “. an asset to the service. But I’ll have to tell you, kid, that the Navy spends just as much training a submariner as it does an aviator.”

“Why does that matter?”

“They’ve spent as much time and money on you as they want to. It didn’t play out, and that’s nobody’s fault, but now they want to get some work out of you in return for your paycheck. Or stop the paychecks and give you a discharge,” he said sourly. Casey didn’t think much of that idea, either.

“But I can make the grade,” Jerry insisted. “Six months at Nuclear Power School, then six months at prototype. I can do it.”

“Jerry, you could be a brain surgeon if you wanted to,” replied Casey, but then he paused, glancing at his scars. “Well, maybe not that. But this isn’t about whether you’re capable.” He sighed. “It’s about ‘the road not traveled.’ You made your choice when you joined the Fleet. It’s too late to go back and start over.”

“I’m not too old,” Jerry countered.

“Yes, you’re within the age limit, but every time the Navy spends money training a new officer, it takes a risk. He can do well in training, but still make a poor officer. If he’s no good, or even if he’s good but decides he doesn’t like the Navy, and leaves after his first term of service, the Navy loses its investment. If you trained to be a submariner, it would double their financial risk, as well as eating up another year and a half of your first four years. You’d barely have a year left before you could leave the service.”

“But I don’t want to leave! I’ll extend. They can start my four years from when I begin sub school.”

The commander had run out of arguments, but he couldn’t just give Jerry an order. “Jerry, I’ve seen how you apply yourself to any task. This situation’s no different. You have to choose a new path. Apply yourself to making that choice with the same effort you applied to flying an airplane.”

It was good advice, but Jerry hadn’t used it the way Casey had meant it. The next morning Jerry had laid a request for a waiver allowing him to transfer to submarines on the skipper’s desk. Casey had shaken his head, but passed it up the chain. He’d even “strongly recommended” approval, knowing that it wouldn’t make any difference. Jerry had to run with this. Once it had run its course, Jerry could get on with the rest of his life.

Jerry did run with it. He argued and wheedled his way up the chain of command. In between physical therapy sessions, he read every Navy personnel manual he could borrow. He hunted down anyone on the base who had been a submariner, or who had known a submariner, looking for information, angles to play, maybe even a new connection.

He’d also called Uncle Jim, or Senator James G. Thorvald, Republican senator from Nebraska. His mother’s oldest brother, they still saw him at family gatherings. He’d been delighted to hear from Jerry. His mother had been keeping the senator informed after the accident, but it was still good to hear his voice. Jerry had felt strange asking his uncle for help, but he needed every friend he could get.

“I think it’s great that you want to stay in the Navy, Jerry. It’s foolish for the Navy to get rid of someone as capable as you, who wants to serve. Didn’t this get some media play? Can you send me a copy of any news stories? That’ll help a lot. Makes it personal.”

Uncle Jim had called “a few friends on the Hill.” His timing had been perfect, because Jerry’s request had just reached the Chief of Naval Personnel. Jerry had been ordered out to Washington, D.C. to explain to the U.S. Navy exactly why Ensign Jeremy N. Mitchell should get a special break.

Casey had flown Jerry out personally in a two-seat Hornet. It was one last flight for Jerry, and the only support he could give his former pupil. He’d also accompanied Jerry to his 0900 appointment with the admiral.

They’d skipped the green tablecloth, but it still felt a lot like a court-martial. Three captains, two admirals, Jerry, and his skipper, all seated at a long table. The brass looked irritated, and impatient.

“Mr. Mitchell, you’re asking a lot of the Navy.”.

“I understand that, sir, but I also want to give a lot to the Navy.”

“You could do that by serving in surface ships, without the Navy losing anywhere near as much money.”

“I’d do a better job serving in subs, and I’d be more likely to stay in beyond my obligated service.” He knew there was a threat buried in that statement, but it was also the truth. If they sent him to the surface fleet, he’d be gone at the end of his required four years.

“Even if we agreed to extend your obligation, there would have to be other conditions.” The admiral had a sour look, and it took a moment for Jerry to realize they’d already decided. Well, shoot, they could paint him red and use him for a harbor buoy it they wanted to.

“First, we are going to extend your obligated service. Second, we want to make sure that if you do enter the submarine program, you’ll make a good officer. The normal requirement for passing any Navy school is a grade of two point five, the lower quarter of those that make it. In your case, you will have to be in the upper quarter of your nuke school, prototype, and sub school classes. If you fail to excel, you will be reassigned according to the needs of the Navy.”

Jerry nodded. He could do it. He had to, or he’d be counting blankets in Adak for years.

“Finally, there’s the issue of your seniority. You’ll be promoted to lieutenant (j.g.) while you’re in prototype, and you’ll be halfway to lieutenant by the time you arrive at your first ship. That three-year delay has to be made up or it will plague you throughout the rest of your career.”

The admiral continued, “We’re going to shorten your first tour as a division officer so that you can get your career track back in line with your contemporaries. You’ll have to qualify on submarines quickly, though — within a year.”

Jerry bit back his immediate reply. He considered offering the harbor buoy option as an alternative. “Qualifying in submarines,” earning the coveted gold dolphins of a nuclear submarine officer, was an important, maybe the most important part of being a division officer.

An officer reporting to a boat was required to learn its systems — not just in a general way, but every pipe and valve, what they did, and what to do if they didn’t work. Reactors and propulsion, high-pressure air, low-pressure air, electrical, hydraulics — all had to be studied until you could march through the ship blindfolded, correctly naming any item you encountered. On an officer’s first boat, working hard, it normally took over a year to qualify.

Failing to qualify in submarines was reason for separation from the submarine service. Jerry naturally rose to a challenge, but this would be rough.

“Of course, sir, I’ll do my best.”

“I’m sure you will do well,” replied the admiral, and Jerry knew he was lying. The brass might have their arms twisted into giving him subs, but they’d be damned if they had to let him stay there.

And now Jerry was willing to bet that his assignment to Memphis was supposed to be the final nail in his coffin. An older boat, a hurried-up deployment, and he’s the man with the critical skills?