Dangerous Ground

3. A NEW DAY

“Reveille, reveille, up all bunks. All hands turn to and commence ship’s work. Quarters to be held on the pier at oh eight hundred,” squawked the ship’s main announcing system, or IMC. Jerry slowly, groggily, fumbled for his watch and checked the time: 0630. It was earlier than Jerry would have liked, particularly given the hard time he’d had in falling asleep, but he was awake now. Pulling the curtain on his bunk back, Jerry started crawling out on to the deck when the shadow of two feet magically appeared on the floor in front of him. Jerry recoiled back as Lenny Berg hit the deck with a dull thump. Berg straightened up from his landing, stretched, and turned on the lights. He looked down for his flip-flops and saw Jerry’s face poking out of his bunk with a surprised expression on it. Berg quickly figured out what had almost happened and made room for Jerry to get out of his bunk.

“Good morning, Jerry. Sorry about just jumping out of my rack, I, ah, forgot you were down here,” Berg said apologetically. “I trust I didn’t startle you too much with my graceful rollout.”

“That’s okay, Lenny. I prefer a good dose of adrenaline to coffee in the morning. It gets the blood flowing so much more quickly,” replied Jerry with as much humor as sarcasm.

“Even Navy coffee? I find that hard to believe.”

Jerry could only grin at Berg’s humor. As if on cue, Berg cleared his throat. “Ahem. So, how was your interview with the Captain?”

“I guess the best way to describe it would be as unexpected.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right. He said I was useless ballast until I finished my quals. The Captain is not one to mince words, even unpleasant ones. But Jerry, the secret to surviving on Memphis is to not let it bother you.” Berg then moved closer to Jerry and slapped him on the back. Lowering his voice a little, he advised, “I know that’s easier said than done, but you won’t make it if you take everything the Captain says personally.”

Jerry nodded his understanding and gathered his shaving kit and towel. He was looking forward to a hot shower and a chance to collect his thoughts. As he was starting to leave the stateroom, Berg called to him.

“Oh, Jerry, remember to take a submarine shower. The XO likes to shut the hot water off on those who dare to take a Hollywood, even in port.” The humor in his voice bespoke of personal experience and Jerry thanked him for his words of wisdom as he set off for the officer’s head.

Like everything else in Memphis, the officer’s head was small. There was a single shower off to the right with a sink next to it. The remaining space held one commode and a urinal. All this for a dozen guys. Things were going to get quite cozy indeed, Jerry thought.

He turned on the water and waited for it to warm up. Once the water had reached an acceptable temperature, he went in and quickly got thoroughly wet. He then closed a valve at the base of the showerhead, shutting off the flow of water, lathered up his washcloth, and scrubbed himself down. Jerry opened the valve after he was finished scrubbing and rinsed himself off. He then repeated the same procedure for washing his hair.

While Jerry basically understood the need to conserve water on a submarine, a long hot shower where the water poured on his body for fifteen minutes sounded really good right now, and in port, with the sub’s water supply hooked up to the pier, Memphis had an unlimited supply. Jerry regarded the XO’s prohibition against “Hollywood showers” as a minor injustice, but avoiding the XO’s ire was much more important than comfort. Before Jerry left the shower stall, he grabbed the squeegee hanging on the soap dish and removed all the excess water from the shower’s steel walls. This was done in order to prevent mildew from forming on the walls and making the head more unpleasant.

After shaving, Jerry headed back to his stateroom to get dressed. Ten minutes had gone by. Berg was already gone by the time Jerry got back; he was probably in the wardroom getting breakfast. Jerry’s other roommate, Lieutenant Washburn, had gone home for the night and was likely already aboard. Jerry put his gear away in one of the wall lockers and made up his bunk before proceeding to the wardroom.

The cramped wardroom was filled. At most, it could seat ten, and all the chairs, save the Captain’s, were occupied, so Jerry had to wait for someone to finish before he could sit down. The mess steward, bustling around with serving dishes and dirty plates, offered Jerry a cup of coffee. He gladly accepted the coffee and stood quietly, as out of the way as best he could and studied his new shipmates.

All were in khaki working uniforms, sitting silently, reading their morning message traffic as they hurriedly ate. Berg was demolishing a plate of scrambled eggs and hash browns, but most settled for cereal or a fresh sticky bun with their coffee.

It was quiet, too quiet. The only words spoken were the occasional comments or questions when someone discussed ship’s business with another officer. It was completely unlike a squadron mess. This wardroom was tense, cold, and uncomfortable.

As he studied his fellow officers, he also studied the wardroom, which didn’t take long, considering its size. It was about the size of a small bedroom, with most of the space taken up by the ten-foot by three-foot table, roughly in the middle. The decor was Navy standard, with fake wood paneling wallpaper on all the walls and drawers and blue vinyl covers on the chairs, table, and the couch at the forward end of the room. Except for a picture of Memphis’ launching and some plaques from other U.S. Navy commands and various foreign navies, there were no decorations. The wardroom’s spartan look only reinforced the isolation, the lack of camaraderie that Jerry felt.

Besides being the place where all officers on board had their meals, the wardroom table also functioned as a workspace for pre-deployment briefs, drill critiques, tactical reviews, and as a place to relax. Here the officers could watch a movie or play some games to help unwind a little. In an emergency, the wardroom could also be turned into an operating room. At that thought, Jerry’s right arm started to ache and he decided that perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to think about the wardroom’s auxiliary medical function.

He spotted a bulletin board on the forward bulkhead and edged over to it, dodging the mess steward on the way. Several sheets of paper had been tacked over a layer of older notices and newspaper clippings. The new sheets were printouts from an internet news service, and Jerry started to read the one closest to him. Under the brightly colored banner, the headline read NAVY JET CRASHES IN CALIFORNIA. He started to read the piece, assuming it was a report from this morning, and felt déjà vu when he saw that it was an F/A-18, then more so when he read it was at Naval Air Station Lemoore. When he saw that the cause was a flat tire, he felt positively creeped out, but the pilot, Lieutenant (j.g.) Jerry Mitchell, was recovering from his injuries…

His eyes flashed back to the headline and then to the date: JANUARY 2, 2003. He looked at the second sheet. It was dated a few months later and was titled aviator fights to stay. It described Jerry’s aviation background, his political connections, and his attempts to transfer to the submarine service. In the section describing Jerry’s aviation training, his call sign, “Menace,” was mentioned, and someone had marked the word with a yellow highlighter.

The call sign, so appropriate for an aviator, sounded silly and trivial now. He fought the urge to rip the pages off the board, then another impulse to turn and scan the room, as if he could detect the individual who put them up just by looking. He finally turned around, reluctantly, feeling even more isolated, singled out. He knew someone, maybe all of them, was watching him, waiting for a reaction, but did his best to deny them the pleasure.

“Mr. Mitchell, sir? You can sit down now. What would you like for breakfast?”

Jerry settled for some cereal and fruit, then tried to listen and learn. There was no message traffic for him, of course, but he kept an ear cocked to anything Cal Richards, his new boss, had to say. Richards didn’t acknowledge his presence at breakfast, and spoke little, instead writing furiously on a clipboard. After a minute or two, Richards began to flip through the pages on his clipboard, and his face seemed to turn white before Jerry’s eyes.

“Mr. Weyer, when did SUBASE say they were sending over the team to help you troubleshoot the sonar display console?”

“They said it would be sometime this afternoon, sir,” responded Lieutenant (j.g.) Tim Weyer, Memphis’ Sonar Officer. “They have to completely redo their schedule to fit us in and the Repair Officer said he wouldn’t know the time until this morning.”

“Well, if you haven’t noticed, Mr. Weyer, it is morning and I need that time so I can finish my morning report for the Captain. So why don’t you get your butt in gear and find out!” snapped Richards.

“Yes, sir,” replied Weyer tersely as he quickly rose from his chair, threw his napkin on the table, and left the wardroom.

Surprised by the sudden exchange between his department head and a fellow division officer, Jerry hunkered down and concentrated on finishing his breakfast, desperately trying not to meet Richards’ cold stare.

“As for you, Mr. Mitchell,” said Richards sternly. “You have five minutes to finish, and then you are to meet me in the torpedo room. I assume you can find your way there?”

“Yes, sir, of course, sir,” Jerry answered.

Without responding, Cal Richards collected the small pile of paperwork he was working on and walked out of the wardroom. After Richards had gone, Jerry let out a deep sigh and pushed the bowl with some fruit left in it away from him. Putting the napkin on the table, he stood up and started making his way to the door.

“Excuse me sir. Are you finished?” asked the mess steward.

“Yes, yes, I am. Thank you.” And with that, Jerry returned to his stateroom to get his cover, jacket, and notebook. Checking his watch, he had three minutes to get to the torpedo room, Jerry walked quickly back toward the main passageway As he walked, Jerry couldn’t help but be reminded just how much space was at a premium on a submarine. The passageway couldn’t be more than two feet wide and two people going opposite directions would have to turn sideways just to get past each other. On a submarine, outside of your rack, there was no such thing as “personal space.” After reaching the wardroom, Jerry turned the corner and exited the opening in the bulkhead that separated officers’ country from the rest of the boat and walked across to the ladder that went down to the torpedo room in the forward compartment lower level.

Jerry had only been to this part of Memphis once before, so it took him a few seconds to orient himself. The heavy traffic was also momentarily confusing, as sailors were going back and forth between a berthing area on the starboard side and a head by the base of the ladder on the port side. One of the sailors shook his head, smiling, and pointed to a door at the forward end of the passageway. Jerry nodded and headed into the torpedo room, carefully closing the door behind him. Entering “his spaces,” Jerry saw Lieutenant Richards talking to a chief petty officer and two first class petty officers. As he approached the foursome, he only heard the last part of Richards’ instructions. “…and I want a list of all the necessary repair parts on my desk by 1700. If there is nothing else, I suggest you get started and remember we’ll be forming up for Quarters in about twenty minutes.”

As the two petty officers left, Lieutenant Richards brought over the chief. Correction, Jerry thought as they got closer, a senior chief. Jerry was immediately encouraged, having a man with such a wealth of experience as the leading chief would be very beneficial to Jerry to help run the division and for his own education. Jerry paused to think that this might be one of the first rays of hope since he had come to Memphis. He was immediately snapped out of his musings when Richards addressed him.

“Well, I see you made it,” Jerry couldn’t help but notice the biting sarcasm in Richards’ voice. “Mr. Mitchell, this is Senior Chief Torpedoman’s Mate Foster. Senior Chief Foster, this is Lieutenant (j.g.) Mitchell. He is Mr. Adelman’s relief.”

“Pleased to meet you, Senior Chief,” said Jerry as he extended his hand. Foster looked confused by what Richards had just said, and it took him a moment to recover and to shake Jerry’s hand. “Sir,” was all Foster said. Jerry sensed that something wasn’t quite right, but he didn’t have time to think it about as Richards kept on going.

“There will be time for you two to begin turnover later today, Senior Chief, but right now I need to talk to Mr. Mitchell before Quarters. Make sure that everyone in the division is topside and on time.”

“Aye, aye sir,” replied Foster, who now was staring intently at Jerry. “I’ll have the men up promptly at 0745.” Foster then left the torpedo room through the same door that Jerry had used, only the senior chief slammed the door shut on his way out. Jerry didn’t understand why the senior chief would do such a thing, but before he could ask Richards what was wrong, his department head lashed into him.

“All right, let me make myself perfectly clear, Mr. Mitchell. You will become intimately familiar with every piece of equipment in this room. You’ll ensure that all maintenance is done properly and on time and that your maintenance records will be flawlessly maintained. Don’t bring me any problem that you haven’t already thought of a solution. And don’t bring me sloppy or incorrect paperwork. I expect you to perform all of your duties impeccably and that includes your qualifications. Any questions?”

Jerry was stunned by the way Richards dressed him down. He hadn’t done anything yet, but apparently that was the problem. The duties that Richards described were the norm for a new officer on board his first ship, but the venom with which Richards had delivered them was totally inappropriate. Jerry felt angry for the first time since his arrival. The fighter pilot aggression that had served him so well during his flight training bubbled to the surface, and he straightened himself and looked Richards straight in the eye.

“No, sir. I clearly understand exactly what you expect from me.”

Cal Richards noticeably balked when Jerry stood his ground. And with a far more civil tone he said, “Very well, then, Mr. Mitchell. Carry on.” Richards then turned around and left the torpedo room.

Leaning up against the centerline torpedo stowage rack, Jerry tried to make sense out of the last ten minutes. What was it about him that Richards viewed as threatening? Surely it wasn’t him personally, Richards had only met him yesterday. But something was obviously bugging his department head, the look on Richards’ face, his treatment of Tim Weyer in the wardroom, his boisterousness. It was as if Richards had to intimidate or frighten others to have them do what he wanted done. Then it clicked; Richards was faking it, trying to act as if he had everything under control when in fact he was barely hanging on; it was all a façade.

Jerry had seen this before down at the training squadron. It was the sign of a man running scared. Cal Richards was afraid, but afraid of what or whom? Immediately after he had asked himself that question, Jerry intuitively knew the answer: Lieutenant Richards lived in dreadful fear of Captain Hardy.

Just as Jerry was making some progress in understanding his situation, the IMC announced “All hands not on watch lay topside for Quarters.” Jerry quickly made his way up to forward compartment middle level and then waited for his turn to climb up the forward escape trunk. Emerging from Memphis, Jerry found the weather to be sunny and milder than yesterday. In fact, it was quite pleasant by comparison. Still a bit nippy, but nothing a Midwestern boy couldn’t handle. Jerry then made his way to the gangplank, saluted the colors, and walked down on to the pier in search of his division. He soon found Senior Chief Foster with a group of ten sailors forming up in the second row of three. Jerry walked over and stood next to Foster, but the senior chief did not acknowledge his presence. The wind seemed colder than Jerry had first thought.

The XO was carefully watching the forward escape trunk, and as soon as Hardy emerged from the hatch, Bair shouted, “Attention on deck!” The crew, standing at ease, instantly became three neat, motionless lines, drawn up on the pier. The only sounds left were the cold breeze and the waves as they slapped against the pier and the submarine’s hull. Every man’s attention was on Hardy. Now they would get some answers.

“All right, listen up.” Hardy’s tone matched his expression — both were stern, almost angry. “The CNO has given us one more patrol to do, one that will be more difficult than the last few we’ve done. We’ll be getting underway on May 13th, about sixty days from now. I can’t tell you our destination or what our mission is until we’re underway, but I can tell you that we will have guests aboard.” That started a chorus of whispers in the ranks, but that stopped as the Captain continued.

“This boat not only has to be made ready for patrol, but all the preparations made for the decommissioning have to be turned around. And there are a lot of deficiencies that have to be corrected.” This earned the crew a hard glare from Hardy.

“Anyone who was scheduled to transfer off Memphis will have their orders deferred until we finish this patrol. All leaves are canceled, and until this boat is completely ready for sea, the crew will go to port and starboard duty sections.”

That raised a real murmur, almost a groan. “Port and starboard” meant that half the crew would stay aboard after the working day was finished. On Navy subs in port, part of the crew always stayed aboard each night to deal with emergencies and monitor the reactor, which was never left unattended, but those tasks didn’t take half the crew.

“Understand, this patrol is not my idea, but come mid-May, we will get underway and this boat will be ready in all respects for its mission. Executive Officer, take charge and carry out the plan of the day.”

The XO called out as Hardy quickly walked up the gangplank and disappeared below. “All right, people, we have a lot of work to do and not much time to do it in, so let’s get moving. There will be a department head meeting immediately after lunch. Dismissed!”

Jerry looked over at Foster, who seemed preoccupied with the news. Several of the torpedo gang approached the senior chief, ready to protest or ask him questions, but Jerry spoke up. “Senior Chief Foster, I’d like to meet the division.”

Foster’s reaction was surprising. In a hurried voice, he replied, “Of course, sir. Torpedo gang and FTs, this is Lieutenant (j.g)”—he paused, glancing at Jerry’s nametag—”Mitchell. He’s the new Torpedo and FT Division Officer.”

Some of the men near Jerry offered him a quick greeting, while the others moved in closer, surrounding Jerry and Senior Chief Foster. Jerry started to speak. “I’ve got a few things I want to say. ”

Foster interrupted. “Sir, I don’t think we’ve got time for that right now. I’ve got to get these men to work.”

Nonplussed, Jerry nodded. “All right, Senior Chief.” Disappointed, he tried to look at each of the men now under his command, to memorize their names and faces. “I’ll talk to you all at another time.” He added, “Carry on,” unnecessarily, as Foster had already started leading the division back aboard.

Jerry hung back as the crew slowly filed on to Memphis. He’d been all primed for “the talk,” his first speech to the men under his command. They’d drummed it into him at the Academy that this was his best, maybe his only chance to make a good first impression, to tell the men what he expected of them, and to start building his own personal command style. All junior officers entertained grandiose hopes of inspiring their men, but would usually settle for not looking like an idiot.

And Foster had taken that opportunity away by interrupting him, and in general, treating him as irrelevant. Jerry had backed down, automatically avoiding a confrontation with his leading chief in front of the division, but on reflection, he realized that might not have been the best choice.

As Jerry walked back on to the sub, he tried to put himself in Foster’s place. The senior chief had been the acting division officer and had expected to fulfill that role until Memphis was decommissioned. Now he’d have to step down. It was part of the service’s tradition, but still, it had to grate, at least a little.

And what kind of a man was Foster? Jerry hadn’t had time to study any of the men’s service records, but he resolved to do it as soon as he could.

Back aboard, Jerry headed for the torpedo room. It was time to get started in his new job. He found Senior Chief Foster already at work, filling out what appeared to be a new duty schedule. One of the torpedoman’s mates, a second class named Greer, was leaving and nodded politely to his new division officer.

Foster looked up wordlessly as Jerry maneuvered into the cramped corner in the forward and starboard side of the torpedo room that functioned as the division’s administrative office.

“Well, Senior Chief, let’s get started on the turnover. What do you recommend we should do first?” Normally, when a new officer arrived, his predecessor would “turn over” materials like paperwork and keys that the new officer would need to do his job. There were classified pubs to inventory, maintenance records to review, and a host of other administrative issues.

“I don’t think I can do anything with you right now, sir.” Foster’s tone was hurried again, almost dismissive. “The Weapons Officer wants the new duty section done in half an hour, and then I’ve got to supervise a test of the fire-control circuit.” He paused, and looked almost kindly at Jerry. “I’d ask you to do the duty section, but you don’t know any of the men yet.”

Jerry tried to be positive. “You sound overloaded, Senior. You’re wearing too many hats, and I’m supposed to be wearing one of them. The quicker you turn over the division officer responsibilities to me, the sooner you’ll be able to slow down.”

“Nobody slows down on Memphis, sir,” Foster responded coldly. “This job has to be done properly, and I can’t take the time to teach you how right now.” He paused, as if thinking, and said, “Perhaps you should get the service records for the TMs and FTs and review them, sir. I’ll try and make some time this afternoon to start the turnover.” Foster said it the way a grown-up might promise to play ball with a small child.

Reluctantly, Jerry agreed and headed for the ship’s office. Yeoman Glover quickly retrieved an armful of dark brown folders from the filing cabinets, and after signing a form, Jerry took them back to his stateroom. Berg and Washburn were elsewhere, so he had what little space there was to himself, but he felt useless. Studying records wasn’t going to help get Memphis ready.

An hour and a half later, his head full of names and facts, Jerry threw the pile of folders down in frustration on his bunk. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to work. There’d be time to look over this stuff later. He’d learn more about his division by working with the men, not by hiding in his stateroom.

Senior Chief Foster was doing his level best to keep Jerry from taking over as division officer. Jerry could see that now, although he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. It wasn’t logical. This certainly wasn’t the way it was supposed to work.

It was universally acknowledged that chief petty officers actually ran the Navy. The chiefs largely tolerated officers because they were willing to do paperwork. Like a shop foreman and a factory manager, each had important tasks.

Junior officers, fresh out of school and new to everything, needed a lot of guidance. It was no accident that the Navy teamed up a green division officer with a much more experienced chief. On the books, the officer had the authority, but only a fool would act without listening to what his chief had to say.

The division officer had to interpret the orders that came down from his department head and to get his division what it needed, whether it was repair parts, nominations for a school, or annual personnel ratings. If the division officer was good, he could resolve the inevitable conflicts between orders from above and reality impinging from below. Even the mediocre ones did their best to screen their men from the bovine byproducts that often accompanied guidance from above.

The chief was usually the best technical man in the division. He knew his equipment, his troops, and what they were able to do. That knowledge took at least ten years to acquire, and many chief petty officers served more than twenty.

So why was Foster refusing to even deal with Jerry? Confused and in need of some guidance, Mitchell left his stateroom and took a few steps forward to Lieutenant Richards’ stateroom. The Weapons Officer was inside, searching through a stack of papers. He looked up when Jerry knocked on the doorjamb. “Yes?”

“Sir, I’d like to talk to you about Senior Chief Foster.”

“What about him?”

Jerry wished he’d thought this though a little bit more, but plunged ahead anyway. “He seems reluctant to turn over his division officer duties to me, and I was wondering if you. ”

“What?” Richards’ tone was unbelieving, as if he couldn’t understand what Mitchell had told him.

“I went to see Foster about turning over the division as you instructed, and he said he was too busy, that we’d have to do it later. Sir, he’s deliberately stalling.”

Richards absorbed Jerry’s statement and sat motionless for a few moments.

“And why do you need me?” Richards asked curtly. Jerry started to reply, but as he opened his mouth to speak, the lieutenant cut him off.

“No, wait, I don’t want to know,” the weapons boss told him. “Mister, I’ve got twenty urgent things to do right now. And one of them is not holding your hand while you deal with your senior chief!”

“Yessir,” Jerry replied quickly.

“If you’ve got a problem with your leading chief, work it out. I suspect the problem may not be with the Senior Chief, either. I’ve known Foster a lot longer than I’ve known you, and he’s good. In fact, he’s very good at his job. We still don’t know about you.”

Richards dismissed him. “Now, go make yourself useful. I’m still waiting for that new duty schedule from the Senior Chief, and I want a list of all repair parts the Torpedo and FT division needs on my desk by 1700.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Jerry half-fled Richards’ stateroom, thinking, Stupid, Jerry, just plain stupid! Originally, he intended to go back to his cabin and think, but decided instead to go looking for Foster. He ran into the senior chief by the galley, heading forward with some papers in his hand.

“Senior Chief, is that the new duty schedule for the division?”

“Yes, sir.” Foster moved as if to pass him and head forward, but Jerry held out his hand. “I’d like to see it, please.”

Foster seemed reluctant to hand it over, almost as if it held secret information. “The WEPS wanted to see it right away, sir.”

“Don’t you think the division officer should see it first?”

Sensing defeat, Foster wordlessly handed it over. Jerry studied the unfamiliar form for a minute. To his credit, Jerry recognized most of the names from his recent study of the personnel records. It wasn’t terribly complex. Half the division would remain on board each night. Jerry noted that the senior man after Foster, TM1 Moran, also had the two most inexperienced men: TM3 Lee and TMSN Jobin.

Jerry handed the paper back to Foster. “Thanks, Senior Chief.” He kept his tone casual and stepped out of the way so that Foster could head forward.

After Foster disappeared, Jerry headed for the torpedo room, to familiarize himself with the spaces if he couldn’t do anything else. As its name implies, the room was designed to store and fire torpedoes and cruise missiles. There was little space for humans to walk around and work in, but to Foster’s credit everything was well organized and properly stowed. The only things out of place were a coffee cup and a beat-up paperback book on the starboard torpedo storage rack.

Jerry was opening cabinets when Senior Chief Foster returned. The look on his face made Jerry start to feel like a burglar, but then he remembered that this space was his responsibility.

“Is the WEPS happy with the duty roster?” Again, Jerry kept his tone casual, matter-of-fact.

“Yes, sir.” Foster replied.

“You said you were going to test the fire-control circuits next.”

“Yes, sir, I have to supervise a test of the fire-control circuit interface with the port tube nest.” Foster sounded like he was in a hurry, but Jerry refused to be rushed.

“Do you have the PMS card for the check, Senior Chief?”

Foster went over to a card index and removed a stiff 8x10 card. Filled with text and symbols, it was titled FIRE CONTROL CIRCUIT CHECK OF THE mk67 torpedo tube system.

Jerry had studied the Planned Maintenance System (PMS) at the Academy and at submarine school. It was the Navy’s way of standardizing the routine maintenance work on all the equipment aboard a ship. Before it was installed on any ship, a team of engineers studied each new piece of equipment. How often did a component need to be cleaned or lubricated? When did it need to be checked or replaced? Once the bright boys had listed what checks needed to be done and when, they’d figure out what skills were needed, what tools and materials should be used, and even how long it should take.

All that information, in excruciating detail, was printed on the card Jerry held in his hand. It was a weekly check that required the following tools, and the following personnel.

“Senior Chief, you said you were going to supervise the test. According to this card, a first class should be able to perform the check.”

Foster replied, “Well, yes, but I want to make sure…”

“Is there a problem with Moran? Does he have the skills?” Jerry wasn’t demanding, but he was insistent.

“Yes, sir. Absolutely,” the senior chief answered firmly.

“Then you don’t need to be there. We have to start the turnover. You know it, and I know it, so let’s begin. I want to see the division’s spaces.”

Foster glared at Jerry, “Certainly, Mr. Mitchell, as you wish. Let’s start over here with the starboard tube nest.”

It was hardly the best tour Jerry had ever had, but he had to concede one thing: Foster knew his stuff and he knew it cold. As they walked around the room, Foster kept pointing to pipes, valves, and other mechanical components, spitting out facts and specifications at a rapid rate. So rapid, in fact, that Jerry couldn’t keep up. He had had some basic instruction on the Mk67 torpedo tubes in submarine school, but everything there had been on paper. Now Jerry was trying to merge some of his basic knowledge with chunks of metal that were all clustered on top of each other and interwoven with piping and electrical cables.

The four torpedo tubes were nearly identical. Broken out into two nests or groups, tubes one and three were on the starboard side and had been modified for ROY testing back in the late-1990s. Tubes two and four were on the port side and were standard 688-class torpedo tubes. As with every U.S. Navy attack submarine built since the early 1960s, the torpedo tubes were moved aft from their traditional position in the bow, and on 688-class submarines, angled out at seven degrees. This arrangement was necessary because the fifteen-foot bow sonar sphere prevented bow-mounted tubes. Each tube nest had its own ram ejection pump located beneath the torpedo tubes. These pumps used high-pressure air to drive a slug of water into a tube, which would forcefully eject a 3,700-pound Mk48 ADCAP torpedo from the sub.

In the middle of the torpedo room, directly between the two tube nests, was the Mk19 weapons launching console. From this position, a torpedo-man’s mate could operate all of the four tubes’ various functions. Everything from opening the breech door, flooding a tube, even firing one could be done from this console. Foster pointed out, of course, that all the automatic functions on the console had a manual backup and his torpedomen could work these in their sleep.

Behind the torpedo tubes, in the middle of the room, were the three two-leveled torpedo stowage racks where up to twenty-two weapons could be stored. Normally, a 688-class boat would leave two slots, or “stows” vacant, so that torpedoes could be removed from the tubes for maintenance. With four weapons in the tubes, a 688 would usually go to sea with a mix of twenty-four torpedoes and Tomahawk cruise missiles. Memphis, however, was not a normal 688. The Manta control station, located at the port, aft end of the centerline stowage rack, reduced the number of weapons that could be stored by four.

Integral to the outboard torpedo stowage racks was the reloading equipment. Loading trays on the inboard side of the two racks were designed to pivot, so that they could align themselves with the canted tubes. Hydraulic rams would then push the weapons into the tubes. Moving weapons on the racks, or indexing weapons, was also done with a complex system of hydraulically driven gears and linkages. Again, if necessary, loading could be done manually with a block and tackle and lots of manpower.

Jerry knew Foster was intentionally moving at warp speed, either to show how much he knew about Memphis’ main armament and how little Jerry knew, or to get the tour of the spaces over and done with as soon as possible. Probably both, Jerry thought. Still, he asked his senior chief numerous questions that required Foster to slow down to answer. Most of the questions Jerry asked were honest inquiries for clarification of something that Foster had said or for additional explanation of a system’s function. For some of his questions, however, Jerry already knew the answer and he wanted to compare it to what Foster would tell him.

After a couple of hours, Jerry allowed his first tour of the torpedo room to come to an end. TM1 Moran and two of the more junior torpedomen were well into their PMS check on tubes two and four. Undoubtedly, Foster would want to look in on them; something Jerry wholeheartedly approved of. Impressed by Foster’s knowledge, Jerry was sincerely appreciative for the tour, even if it was given begrudgingly.

“Thank you for the tour, Senior Chief. It would seem that I have an awful lot to learn about the systems that are in this room. I trust you won’t mind if I ask you some more questions from time to time.”

“You’re most welcome, sir,” responded Foster with some sarcasm. “Sir, I would like to go and look in on the maintenance check. Petty Officer Moran has the two most junior torpedomen working with him and I’d like to see how they are doing.” The emphasis on the junior TMs hopefully would free him from this overly inquisitive officer.

“Certainly, Senior, carry on.” Jerry made sure his voice was neutral and polite. Despite Foster’s less than friendly behavior over the last few hours, Jerry knew that he had to work with this man if he was to have a smooth-running division. And he needed that if he was to obtain his ultimate goal: his gold dolphins and a career in submarines.

Just as Senior Chief Foster was preparing to leave, Lieutenant Richards popped out from behind the starboard tube nest and made his way down to Jerry and Foster.

“There you are, Mr. Mitchell. I see you and the Senior Chief have begun your turnover.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Jerry. “Senior Chief Foster has just finished giving me a tour of the torpedo room and it is clear that I have much to learn.”

“Well, that’s a start, at least,” said Richards as he tossed some folded papers into Jerry’s hands. “I need a new watch schedule for your division ASAP, the other one is now OBE.”

“Sir, I don’t understand. I’m sure Senior Chief Foster’s watch schedule was correct for a port and starboard duty section.” Jerry wasn’t entirely certain of this, but defending his leading chief was the right thing to do.

“I said it was OBE, Mr Mitchell, not incorrect. The XO and the COB have convinced the Captain that a Port and Starboard watch rotation isn’t necessary and would likely have a negative impact on the crew’s performance when we finally get underway. So we are now going to a three-section duty rotation.”

Foster let out a short whistle and said, “Leave it to Mr. B and Master Chief Reynolds to tag-team the Captain, again!”

“Regardless of how it happened, Senior Chief, I still need a new watch bill for your division and I want it by 1700 today,” snapped Richards.

“Understood, sir,” replied Jerry, who then turned to Foster. “Senior Chief, I’ll take the first stab at the new three-section duty schedule while you handle the repair parts list and are looking in on the PM work. I’ll bring the schedule by for your review before I turn it in to the WEPS.”

“Yes, sir, if you insist, sir,” said Foster coldly.

“Yes, Senior Chief, I do insist. I need to start pulling my weight on this boat and I can begin by doing this. Oh, and Senior Chief, please pass on the news to the rest of the division. I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.”

Foster merely nodded and walked over to where Moran and company were performing the maintenance check.

“I expect your schedule to be correct, Mr. Mitchell,” warned Richards.

“Of course, sir. You’ve made that very clear. Now, if you will excuse me, sir.” And with that, Jerry headed back to his stateroom to begin his first assignment.

As Jerry was hustling back to his stateroom, he nearly collided with Lenny Berg as he and Washburn were leaving.

“That’s the second time in one day that I almost collided with you, Jerry!” exclaimed Berg, who feigned a fainting spell. “You, sir, are a menace to navigation.”

Jerry was also surprised by the near miss and while he heard Berg’s little quip, for some reason he homed in on the word “menace,” his former call sign. Jerry’s face must have been a looking glass to his heart as Berg quickly dropped his goofy smile and said, “Hey, Jerry, lighten up. It was only a joke. Hey, the Chop and I were just going to lunch. Care to join us? I know this neat little place down the passageway that serves great fried chicken.”

“Uh, no thanks, Lenny. I’m really not all that hungry and I have to redo the watch bill for the WEPS, so I guess I’ll pass.”

“Oh, Jerry, bad move, dude! You don’t want to insult the Chop here. You’ll find puree of peas at your next meal. It’s naasty.”

“Knock it off, Lenny,” said Washburn. “If the man has work to do and he wants to skip a meal, I will in no way be insulted. However, if I hear any more about the smashed peas I served with the fish and chips from you again, it will become a self-fulfilling prophecy!”

“Okay, okay! Some people just can’t handle honest criticism. See ya later, Jerry.”

Jerry entered his stateroom and retrieved the service jackets he had left on his bunk. He started to review them again with a new sense of purpose, as he had to identify who had the proper qualifications and compare the records to the original watch bill that Senior Chief Foster had put together. The process took longer than Jerry had thought it would, a lot longer. But at 1600, he had what he believed was a good draft watch bill. With an hour left before his deadline, Jerry returned the service jackets to YN1 Glover and he went in search of Senior Chief Foster.

When Jerry reached the torpedo room, Foster was nowhere to be found. Jerry looked around the room and saw one of the TMs cleaning up over by the port tube nest. As Jerry approached, the sailor stood up and Jerry recognized him as the second class he had seen earlier.

“Excuse me, Petty Officer Greer, do you know where I can find the senior chief?”

“No, sir, I haven’t seen him for about half an hour. He left after putting the repairs parts list together and filling out the electronic two-kilos,” replied Greer. The “two-kilo” is the standard Navy requisition form that has to be filled out for every spare part in the supply system. The fact that Foster had already done them was encouraging.

“Thank you, Petty Officer Greer. Maybe he’s in the chiefs’ quarters.”

“You’re welcome, sir. And if I see Senior Chief Foster, I’ll let him know you are looking for him.”

Jerry proceeded back toward the chiefs’ quarters, or Goat Locker, which was immediately outboard of the ship’s office in Forward compartment middle level. He was seasoned enough to know that a junior officer did not just barge into the Goat Locker; one knocked on the door and waited for permission to enter. Only the CO had the right to walk in without knocking, although a smart one did not, out of respect for his chiefs.

The door opened and a huge man poked his upper body through the clearly inadequate opening. The nametag said REYNOLDS and his collar devices had the anchor and two stars of a master chief. This man is the Chief of the Boat, Jerry thought. The Chief of the Boat, or COB, is the senior enlisted man on the submarine and the direct representative of the crew to the CO and XO.

“Yes, Lieutenant, what can I do for you?” asked Reynolds in a voice that was as deep and impressive as his size.

Jerry momentarily hesitated, as all he could think of was the line from the original Star Wars movie: “Let the wookie win!” Quickly recovering his composure, Jerry replied, “Excuse me, Master Chief, I’m Lieutenant (j.g.) Mitchell, the new Torpedo Officer. I’m looking for Senior Chief Foster. Is he here?”

“Senior Chief Foster, aye, wait one,” boomed the COB. Turning toward the interior of the chiefs’ quarters, he called, “Has anyone seen Foster?”

A voice from inside responded, “I saw him and Bearden heading to the torpedo shop on base about fifteen minutes ago.”

The COB turned around and said, “Did you get that, Mr. Mitchell?”

Jerry nodded and asked, “Did they say when they would be back?”

Again, the COB relayed the question. No one knew when they were to return. Now Jerry would have to take his draft watch bill to the WEPS without the most senior man in the division being able to review it and correct any mistakes he had made. As Jerry’s frustration grew, he was certain that the timing of this trip to the SUBASE torpedo shop wasn’t just a coincidence.

“Thank you, Master Chief. I’ll just finish up without him.”

“I prefer ‘COB,’ Mr. Mitchell, and welcome aboard.” Reynolds then extended his massive hand. Jerry gladly accepted the COB’s offer and as they shook hands, Jerry noticed that in addition to the silver dolphins on the COB’s chest, he also wore the helmet with sea horses pin of a master diver.

Jerry started heading toward the WEPS’ stateroom, then thought the better of it and went back to the torpedo room. Since Foster was unavailable, he would at least have TM1 Moran give it a quick look over. Arriving in the torpedo room, Jerry found Moran talking to the rest of the division about a problem they had discovered during the maintenance check that morning. As Jerry came up to the group, he didn’t immediately interrupt as Moran was going over the procedures that would have to be used to troubleshoot the problem. However, Jerry couldn’t help but notice that time was growing short and he raised his hand and made a slashing movement across his throat. Moran nodded his head in acknowledgement of Jerry’s order and sent the other TMs off to do some more cleaning before knocking off for the day. He reminded all of them to come back and see him before hitting the beach as the watch bill hadn’t been finalized yet.

“Yes, sir, you wanted to see me?” said Moran as he walked over to Jerry.

“Petty Officer Moran, I’d like you to take a few minutes and review this draft watch bill before I turn it in to the WEPS.”

“Sir, Senior Chief Foster typically reviews these,” replied Moran nervously.

“I understand that, Petty Officer Moran, but the Senior Chief isn’t on the boat right now and I have to turn this in soon. You’re the senior petty officer aboard right now, and I need a pair of experienced eyes to look it over.” Jerry smiled as he emphasized the last part, hoping to reduce the tension that he felt growing.

“Yes, sir, of course.” Moran took the paper from Jerry’s hand examined at the draft watch bill. Every now and then, Moran would look up at Jerry, clearly uncomfortable with the task. Jerry tried not to let on that he knew just how jittery Moran was; embarrassing him wouldn’t help the situation. Just what I need, Jerry thought, another scared rabbit. Moran soon finished and handed the paper back to his division officer.

“It looks good to me, sir. The only change I’d recommend is that you switch Seaman Jobin to my watch section. I’m his ‘sea daddy,’ his mentor, and I’ve been working with him now for the past two months. I’d like to keep him with me if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, Petty Officer Moran. Thank you for informing me. I’ll make the change and turn in the watch bill. I’ll let you know as soon as the WEPS approves it.” Jerry left the torpedo room feeling good about his watch bill, a trivial assignment in the grand scheme of things, but it had passed muster with a senior petty officer and he would be turning it in on time. Returning to his stateroom, Jerry quickly made the change and then took the final version to the WEPS with five minutes to spare.

Richards took the paper without saying anything. As he started reading it, his face became crimson. Then he slammed the watch bill on his desktop and yelled, “What kind of bullshit are you trying to give me, Mitchell!”

“Excuse me, sir?” Jerry replied in a confused tone.

“This watch bill is all hosed up! You have Jobin and Davidson in the same watch section. Jobin isn’t qualified to do anything yet and Davidson will be gone for three weeks. This leaves only two qualified people in the first section.”

“I wasn’t aware that Davidson was going to be gone,” said Jerry as his temper started rising. “He was on the Senior Chief’s port and starboard watch bill and I assumed he would be available. And as for Seaman Jobin, TM1 Moran specifically requested that I put Jobin in his watch section.”

Jerry’s response seemed to irritate Richards even more as he rose from his chair and started speaking through clinched teeth. “Mr. Mitchell, FT2 Davidson has a quota to an advanced maintenance course for the CCS Mk 2 fire-control system. Once it was announced that we were going to a three-section duty rotation, Senior Chief Foster asked me to let Davidson go to the course as originally planned. If you would bother to talk to your leading chief, you would know what the hell is going on in your division.”

Jerry had to fight hard to keep from blowing up on his department head. Senior Chief Foster had intentionally withheld information he needed to know, and on top of that, had left the boat so that he couldn’t be ordered to ensure that the watch bill was correct. Jerry sensed that arguing with Cal Richards about the senior chief’s malicious attempts at sabotage would be a lost cause and would only make things worse. Instead, Jerry took a number of slow, deep breaths and pulled the watch bill from Richards’ desk.

“Sir, given this new information, all we need to do is move Petty Officer Larsen from the third section to the first and each section now has three qualified watch standers.”

Richards seemed to be mollified by Jerry’s calm reply and he sat back down. “Very well, Mr. Mitchell. I accept your recommendation.”

Jerry turned to leave, but Richards called him back. “Where is your repair parts list, mister? Senior Chief Foster said he had finished it and the two-kilos over an hour ago.”

“I don’t know where the list is, sir. Senior Chief Foster never gave it to me,” said Jerry in a non-confrontational, matter-of-fact tone. “But I’ll go find the list and get it to you ASAP.” The puzzled look on Richards’ face told Jerry that perhaps he was starting to get through to the WEPS. Jerry certainly hoped so. Richards said nothing. He simply returned to his mountain of paperwork while Jerry quickly returned to his stateroom. Once there, Jerry picked up the boat’s internal telephone and called down to the torpedo room.

“Torpedo room,” responded the other person on the line. Jerry didn’t recognize the voice.

“This is Mr. Mitchell. Is TM1 Moran there?”

“Yes sir. Wait one.”

After a brief pause, Jerry heard a familiar voice: “Moran here. What can I do for you, sir?”

“Petty Officer Moran, the WEPS has approved the watch bill with minor modifications. You, Jobin, Willis, and Larsen have the duty, the rest may knock off work and go home for the night after they check out with you.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll pass the word to the division. Anything else?”

“Yes, just one question,” said Jerry. “Do you know if Senior Chief Foster and Petty Officer Bearden have returned to the boat yet?”

“I haven’t seen the Senior Chief, but FT1 Bearden is here now. Would you like to speak to him?” replied Moran.

“Yes, please.”

After another brief pause, the lead fire-control technician was on the line, “Bearden, sir.”

“Petty Officer Bearden, do you know where Senior Chief Foster is? I need to get the repair part list he was working on into the WEPS.”

There was absolute silence on the other end. Then, somewhat hesitantly, Bearden answered, “Sir, I believe the Senior Chief went home for the day.”

“Really? Well, that wasn’t very wise now, was it?” responded Jerry in a cynical tone. He wasn’t at all surprised that Foster had not returned. “Petty Officer Bearden, do you know where he normally keeps the division’s laptop?”

“Certainly, sir. Senior Chief Foster usually keeps it in his locker under his bunk in the chiefs’ quarters.”

“Thank you, I’ll take care of the matter. Have a good evening.” And with that Jerry hung up the phone and headed back to the chiefs’ quarters. As Jerry went by the wardroom, he could see that dinner was being served and he realized that he was a bit hungry himself. The COB answered the door again and Jerry apologized profusely for interrupting the chiefs’ meal. He explained that he needed the division’s laptop to answer the WEPS’ requirement and that it was very likely in Senior Chief Foster’s bunk locker. The COB disappeared for a few minutes and then returned with the laptop in hand. Jerry thanked the COB and hurried back to his stateroom.

Fortunately, Foster hadn’t buried the files in some folder that was deeply nested in another. Jerry took a quick look at the list. He didn’t have the time or expertise to know if it was complete and printed out a copy on paper and saved the files to two diskettes. Jerry took one of the diskettes and the paper copy and laid it on top of the WEPS’ desk and proceeded to the wardroom to get something to eat. Since he had arrived very late, Jerry ate, alone, at the second sitting.

Exhausted, Jerry went back to his stateroom and literally fell into his rack. He tried to read some more out of the ship’s information book, but he was mentally and physically spent and he just couldn’t concentrate. Realizing that this was a waste of time, Jerry got ready for bed, crawled back in, and closed the curtain on his rack. After getting comfortable, Jerry thought back on the terrible day he had had. And for the second night in a row he found himself asking the same nagging question: Had he done the right thing in asking for subs?

Jerry remembered the last hurdle he had to clear before the Navy would grant his request. It was an interview with the Director of Naval Reactors. Before that meeting, Jerry and his squadron commander had visited “Uncle Jim” Thorvald in his office. The senator would not, of course, attend the meeting, but wanted to wish Jerry well. And Jerry wanted to thank the senator for his efforts.

Jerry had never been in Washington, D.C. before, or the Russell Senate Office Building, or a senator’s office. Starting with the seal of the Great State of Nebraska on the door, it was filled with symbols of the state, as well as a fair amount of Cornhuskers memorabilia.

They went into the senator’s inner office, and he welcomed the two officers warmly. “Jerry, Commander Casey, please come in. Take a seat.” An aide materialized with juice and rolls, appropriate for the early hour. Jerry sat nervously on the leather couch.

The balding, thin, almost scrawny senator regarded his nephew fondly, but also appraisingly. “I’ve spent some political coin to get you a second chance with the Navy, Jerry. Assuming you pass the Naval Reactors inquisition, are the taxpayers going to get their money back?” Although he smiled and joked a little, Jerry knew the senator was serious.

“You know I’ll do my best. Senator…Uncle Jim.”

“But is that enough, Jerry? We all knew you’d be a good pilot. You’re the type, and it’s all you’ve ever wanted. I can remember you saying it when you were six, and it never changed. Now, suddenly, it’s subs. You know the Navy will make it hard for you. Can you do it?”

Jerry nodded. “Remember when I taught myself Japanese so I could watch all those anime films undubbed? How about when I built that hang glider?”

“You mean the scaring us to death part?” Thorvald asked, smiling.

Jerry laughed, remembering. “No, I mean the part where I met all the FAA safety requirements — and Mom’s. Built it, and paid for it, all by myself, when I was seventeen.”

“Maybe you should have built a minisub,” the senator responded, half-jokingly.

“And I’ve been scuba diving since my senior year in high school.”

Torvald held up his hands in surrender. “All right, Jerry, I remember.”

His voice became firmer. “And I believe you can do anything that’s physically possible.”

So was this physically possible? Jerry felt like the entire crew of Memphis considered him to be either a lightweight or a political hack. He fell asleep wondering if he could win against odds of 134 to 1.