Dangerous Ground

4. FITTING IN

The next morning Jerry felt less like an impostor at Quarters. He belonged there, even if Foster didn’t want him. And while Jerry might not like it, he at least knew where he stood.

And knowing, he could plan. Before Quarters started, Jerry told the senior chief that he would to speak to the division before they were dismissed. He’d felt foolish rehearsing it ahead of time, but it was clear that unless he took the right tone, Foster would roll right over him.

After Jerry went over the plan of the day and read a few announcements, he gave “the speech.” It wasn’t the one he’d planned to give the day before, but that may have been for the good. This one was better tuned to Memphis and the division.

He mentioned his background, giving a little more detail than may have been generally known. He admitted this was his first leadership opportunity and made it clear that he depended on their skills, especially those of Senior Chief Foster. The finish was the most important part.

“My only policy change is that from now on, everyone in the division should check in with their supervisor before leaving the ship, just as Senior Chief Foster will check in with me.” That earned him a few curious looks, because that was supposed to be the policy, but Jerry was looking at Senior Chief Foster as he said it. There’d be less chance for a repeat of yesterday.

He’d planned to continue the turnover with Senior Chief Foster, but the IMC loudspeaker announced, “Lieutenant Mitchell, lay topside.” The senior chief gave a small smile as Jerry left.

He stopped to grab his coat and cover, which slowed him down enough to earn another summons from the loudspeaker. He emerged from the forward escape trunk to find the XO waiting for him, along with two women.

“This is Dr. Patterson and Dr. Davis. They’ll be… er, supervising the installation of some special mission equipment for the patrol.” Jerry noticed that Bair’s correction earned him a scathing look from Dr. Patterson, the older of the two women. She looked to be in her early forties, while Davis seemed to be in her late twenties. Neither looked happy, although Davis just looked uncomfortable. Patterson scowled as if she disapproved of Memphis and everyone around her. Jerry wondered how a Navy tech rep functioned with an attitude like that.

“Ladies, this is Lieutenant (j.g.) Mitchell. He’s the Torpedo Division Officer and the Manta operator.” He turned to Jerry. “Show them to the wardroom. The Captain will be joining us there shortly.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” He offered his hand to the ladies and Davis shook it, while Patterson hung back and frowned. “Pleased to meet you both. This way, please.” Recalling his own first time aboard just a few days ago, Jerry followed the two women down the hatch.

As they moved through the narrow passageways, Jerry watched the visitors dodge corners and equipment that encroached into the passageway. Davis looked more at ease, wide-eyed with curiosity, and obviously interested in everything. While she was peeking into the ship’s sickbay, which also held the three-inch countermeasure launchers, she almost missed the turn into the wardroom, but caught up in time. Jerry could see she was full of questions and wondered if he knew enough to answer them.

When they reached the wardroom Jerry took their coats while the mess steward organized coffee and pastries. Nobody could ever accuse Memphis of being a poor host.

“What kind of special equipment will we be receiving?” Jerry asked curiously.

Davis started to speak, but Patterson stopped her. “I’m not sure I can tell you that,” Patterson replied. “It’s classified.”

Jerry felt a little hurt. Security on a submarine was usually tight, and everyone had clearances. Not like they would be able to hide something in such close quarters anyway. Still, if she didn’t think he was cleared to know, so be it.

Captain Hardy came into the wardroom, and Jerry snapped to attention. Bair and Richards followed him, and Richards asked for coffee for all of them.

Mitchell started to excuse himself and leave, but Bair said, “You need to be here, Mr. Mitchell. Have a seat.”

Captain Hardy looked at Jerry and said, “These two ladies are technical reps from Draper Labs. They’ll oversee the installation of a pair of remote operating vehicles (ROVs) and their handling gear in the torpedo room. The equipment will be installed in the starboard tube nest before we leave on patrol. Your people will, of course, assist with the work. Is that clear?”

Jerry felt a little vindicated. So he did have a “need to know.” He glanced over at Patterson, who was frowning.

As Jerry answered, “Yes, sir,” his brain processed the implications of losing the starboard tubes. “So we will have only two operational tubes for the upcoming patrol?”

“That is exactly what it means,” Hardy replied. He didn’t look happy with either Jerry’s question or the situation.

The Captain continued. “Dr. Davis is here to survey the torpedo room before the actual installation. There is also some special analytical equipment that Dr. Patterson will be in charge of, but that will be installed elsewhere on the boat.”

Jerry asked, “What will the equipment be used for?”

Both Hardy and Patterson started to answer, but Hardy paused, letting the woman speak. “That is classified — for the moment, at least.”

After she stopped, Hardy amplified her comment. “Its presence on this boat is classified. If you draw any conclusions or speculate about the use of the ROVs, keep it to yourself, and tell your men the same thing. You are not to discuss the presence or function of any of the equipment, except as necessary for installation and testing.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Stop any work on the starboard tube nest and have your people stand by to assist Dr. Davis this afternoon with the survey. That is all.”

Jerry left and headed down one deck to the torpedo room. Senior Chief Foster was there, along with several sailors from torpedo division. “Senior Chief, there’s been a change in plans. What’s scheduled for this afternoon?”

“Moran and I and some of the others have to work on the weapons launching console, we’re getting some incorrect signals from the fire-control system.”

“Well, as of now, that’s off. There’s a visitor aboard that we have to…”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think we can do that. Mr. Richards was pretty clear about getting this problem fixed.”

Mitchell felt his anger building. Foster’s resistance to even a simple order was unbelievable. “Senior Chief, this takes priority. I just came from a meeting with the CO, XO, and the WEPS.” Working on keeping calm, he repeated, “Plans have changed.”

“They didn’t tell me about it.” Foster remarked.

That did it. Mitchell looked at the other torpedo gang sailors and said, “Give us a minute, please.”

The others left, quickly. Senior Chief Foster watched them go with a small smile, as if he knew what was coming and enjoyed the idea.

“Senior Chief, I want to know what your problem is.”

“Sir, I don’t understand what you mean.” Jerry felt his irritation grow and fought to control it. Foster had donned an “innocent” expression so classic that under other circumstances it might have made Jerry laugh. Now it only emphasized how much Foster was playing with him.

“I want it perfectly clear that I am. ” Jerry stopped himself, and took a breath. Asserting his authority was pointless. Not only was the senior chief already ignoring his rank, he seemed to take pleasure in frustrating him. And what was he supposed to do? Take him up to captain’s mast? Right.

Jerry could see Foster watching him as he thought, studying him.

Jerry started again. “Senior Chief, if you don’t want to talk about this, that’s your choice, but I’m just trying to get the job done. If you don’t like me, I think I can live with that. But whether you like it or not, I am the Torpedo Officer and if I give you an order, I expect you to follow it.”

Foster’s face became a mask. “Yes, sir.”

Mitchell pressed his point. “As the division officer, it’s my job to deal with the WEPS. If I say something needs to be done, you do not have to check with Mr. Richards. I will have already done that.”

“If you say so, sir.” Foster pronounced the last word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“All right, then. Stop any maintenance on the starboard tube nest and have the division ready this afternoon to assist with a pre-installation survey. This is for some special equipment that we’ll be loading later for the patrol. We probably won’t need everyone, but it will be easier to have the men return to their work if they aren’t necessary than to try and bring them in at the last minute. Any questions?” Mitchell saw a flash of curiosity pass over Foster’s face, but he knew the man would not give Jerry the satisfaction of asking for more information. Foster just shook his head.

“Very well, then, Senior Chief, carry on.” Jerry left, with bridges burning behind him. He was unhappy, almost despairing, about his confrontation with Foster. He’d hoped to resolve whatever conflict there was, but instead had formalized it. On the other hand, Foster now knew where Jerry stood.

He headed back to the wardroom, intending to get more information from Richards or the two women about what was going to be done. He found the lieutenant in the passageway, but didn’t get a chance to ask about the ROV. Instead, the WEPS called him into his stateroom.

“How is your qualification program coming, mister?”

Mentally, Jerry shifted gears, hesitating for a moment before answering. He knew Richards would want to hear something positive. “I’ve been studying the ship’s data book.”

“Really? Good for you.” Richards’ cold tone did not match the praise. “Have you talked to the qualifications officer yet?”

“No, sir. I don’t know who that is.”

“It’s me, and it’s time you got busy.” Richards turned in his chair, reached into a drawer, and pulled out a fat notebook. “Here’s your qualification book. Frankly, I don’t see how you can do this, but it won’t be my fault if you fail. Figuring for the time you’re going to be aboard and the amount of material you’ve got to cover”—he pulled out a sheet of paper—”I’ve made up a schedule.” He handed it to Jerry, shaking his head as he did. “The clock is ticking, Mr. Mitchell. Good luck.” Richards almost sounded like he meant it.

Jerry dumped the notebook in his stateroom and went looking for Davis. He found her in the wardroom, sitting alone with her coffee, looking bored.

“Dr. Davis?”

“Please call me Emily.”

“And I’m Jerry,” he said automatically. “I was hoping I could get some more information about the gear and what’s going to happen in my torpedo room, if that’s not classified.” He grinned, and Davis smiled back.

“Well, could we start the survey now? I’ve been trying to work from drawings, and I’m having some trouble visualizing where everything needs to go. And, if you haven’t already noticed, I’ve never been aboard a submarine before.”

Jerry shook his head, “I’m sorry, Dr… I mean Emily, but my men won’t be ready until this afternoon.”

Jerry could tell by the look on Davis’ face that she was disappointed. Sighing, Jerry smiled and suggested, “We could go down and have a quick look around. We’ll just have to keep out of the way of my men while they work.”

Davis’ face quickly transformed from gloomy to beaming. “Oh! That would be great! Thank you.”

“We’re just one deck up. It’s almost directly below us.” Jerry then looked around for Dr. Patterson.

“Will your partner want to come with us?”

Davis’ expression at his use of the word “partner” made him realize that Patterson must be the boss.

“No.” Davis shook her head sharply. “She’s working with the Captain and the Executive Officer.”

“Then let’s go for a quick tour.”

Jerry led Davis out of the wardroom and toward the ladder by the crew’s berthing. Jerry belatedly hoped that the crew had been informed that there were female visitors on board, otherwise this could get interesting. Entering into the torpedo room, Jerry and Davis found it buzzing with activity. A number of the TMs and FTs were huddled around the launching console and several of the access panels were open. TM1 Moran looked up from the panel and saw Jerry and Dr. Davis in the back of the room. Grabbing a rag, he walked over to his division officer and the visitor.

“Mr. Mitchell, I thought the survey was this afternoon,” Moran seemed nervous and surprised by Jerry’s arrival with Davis.

“Not to worry, Petty Officer Moran, I haven’t changed anything. I’m just letting Dr. Davis have a quick look around.” Moran visibly relaxed after Jerry had replied.

“Dr. Emily Davis, this is Torpedoman’s Mate First Class Moran. Petty Officer Moran, Dr. Davis.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Davis as she extended her hand.

“You’ll excuse me if I don’t shake your hand, ma’am. Mine are covered in grease. I’ve been doing some maintenance on the port tubes and this stuff doesn’t come off very easily.”

“Have you tried gasoline? I’ve always found that it works pretty well in removing marine grease,” suggested Davis.

Moran stared at her with amusement.

“What? What’s wrong with what I said? It does work!” replied Davis defensively.

Moran looked at Jerry, who motioned to him, as if to tell him to explain. “I’m sure it does work, ma’am,” said Moran. “But you can’t bring gasoline onto a sub. There’s nowhere for the vapors to go. They would collect and become toxic, in addition to being very flammable.”

Davis suddenly became wide-eyed and momentarily covered her mouth in embarrassment, “That was stupid of me! I guess I’m too used to working in a well-ventilated lab.”

“That’s okay, ma’am. Most people don’t realize that we can’t use a lot of things on board a submarine for safety reasons. Take deodorant, for example. We can’t use aerosols on board because the propellants are bad for our atmosphere, so we all use stick deodorant,” said Moran.

“Thank you, Mr. Moran. I’ll try to remember that in the future.”

“You’re welcome, and ma’am, its ‘Petty Officer Moran’ or ‘TM1.’ That’s a mister,” stated Moran as he pointed at Jerry.

When Davis looked at Jerry with confusion, he said, “Never mind, I’ll explain later.” Turning back toward Moran, Jerry said, “We’ll try to keep out of your way, Petty Officer Moran. By the way, where’s the Senior Chief?”

“He went back to the chiefs’ quarters, sir. He, umm, said he had to unload a bunch of paperwork. He should be back soon,” replied Moran, again with some apprehension.

“Thanks, TM1. We won’t keep you any longer.” Moran nodded and returned to his work.

“All right, what did I do wrong this time?” asked Davis with a note of frustration.

“Hmmm? Oh nothing. However, the title ‘mister’ is usually reserved for addressing officers junior to you in rank. While it’s not inappropriate for a civilian to address an enlisted man as ‘mister,’ it’s not customary aboard ship and some enlisted don’t like to be addressed that way. Shall we proceed with the tour?”

Jerry escorted Davis over to the starboard tube nest and began to discuss the features of the Mk67 torpedo tubes on Memphis while Davis listened with rapt attention. Jerry was beginning to enjoy himself, feeling more confident about his abilities, and it didn’t hurt that this young woman seemed to hang on every word he said.

But after about twenty minutes, Jerry’s confidence began to waver as he started to run out of things to say, and as Davis’ questions became increasingly more technical. Jerry loathed the idea of calling Moran over to help, particularly since he and the other TMs were still troubleshooting the launching console.

As if on cue, Senior Chief Foster appeared by the port tube nest. He looked over and saw the two of them by the starboard tubes; this earned Jerry a deep scowl. Jerry ignored the senior chief’s displeasure and motioned for him to come over.

“Excellent timing, Senior Chief, I’m afraid that I’ve exhausted my limited knowledge of the torpedo tubes, and Dr. Davis here is full of questions. Dr. Davis, this is Senior Chief Foster, my division’s leading chief. Senior Chief, Dr. Davis.”

As Foster shook Davis’ hand, he looked straight at Jerry and said, “Sir, I thought you said the survey was this afternoon. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to get people freed up for that and. ”

“Whoa, Senior. I haven’t changed a thing, so stand down,” replied Jerry tersely. “Dr. Davis was curious and asked for a quick look around before the survey this afternoon, and seeing as she is a guest on board our boat, I saw no reason not to grant her request. We’ve made every effort to stay clear of the men. And now that you are here, you can help reduce the good doctor’s curiosity.”

Foster looked pained and embarrassed. Jerry sensed that his mild chastisement of the senior chief in front of a visitor had just blown up the abutments to the bridges he had torched earlier. Oh well, thought Jerry, he’s a big boy. He’ll just have to get over it. For his part, Foster merely nodded stiffly and then turned to address Davis. “What do you want to know, ma’am?”

“In talking with Mr. Mitchell, I gather that your torpedoes are about 19 feet in length, but what I need to know is how long is the tube itself?”

“First off, ma’am, with the torpedo mount dispenser attached, the length of a Mk48 Mod 6 is twenty feet six inches. The length of the tube itself is twenty-two feet two inches.”

Davis jotted down the figure and looked relieved. “Whew, that leaves three inches to spare. They said my babies would fit, but I didn’t think it would be this tight.”

“Your ‘babies’ ma’am?” asked a perplexed Foster.

“Yes, they are part of the special equipment we’ll load on your submarine in a few weeks. I’m not at liberty to say much more right now,” responded Davis nervously.

“Excuse me, Dr. Davis,” said Jerry. “But I think you can tell him at least as much as I’ve been told. I’ve only been on Memphis for a couple of days now, and Senior Chief Foster and the others will do most of the work installing your equipment. I believe that puts him in the ‘need to know’ category. Wouldn’t you agree, Senior?”

Foster was momentarily taken aback by Jerry’s remark and could only utter a halfhearted, “Yes, sir.”

Sighing, Davis quickly looked around and said, “All right, I guess you have a point. We’ll be loading two ROVs and their support equipment for the upcoming mission. The ROVs are modified Near Term Mine Reconnaissance System vehicles. I had to lengthen them slightly to accommodate some of the modifications and I was concerned that they wouldn’t fit. The survey this afternoon is to go over our space requirements and to work out any possible issues with the loading and installation.”

“I see,” said Foster only slightly less confused. “Will we be able to look over the technical documentation for these ROVs? I’m assuming we’ll also be maintaining as well as operating the vehicles.”

“That’s right, Senior Chief,” replied Davis with some caution. “But I can’t let any of you see the documentation until just before we leave. It would reveal the purpose of the mission and, for now, that is only to be known by myself, Dr. Patterson, your Captain and your Executive Officer.”

Foster was obviously dying of curiosity. He looked at Jerry with an annoyed and questioning expression, but all Jerry could do was shrug his shoulders and shake his head no. “Very well, ma’am. Do you have any other questions?”

“Yes, I do, several, as a matter of fact.” Her expression brightened. “Is it possible to open the outer doors on both the starboard tubes at the same time? I believe you have an interlock that normally prevents this from happening, but can it be overridden?”

Foster explained that the nesting interlock used mechanical linkages and that it could be disabled by removing a padlock at one of the connection points. The Weapons Officer held the key, but it required the Captain’s permission, since it was a safety feature.

Davis nodded and fired the next question, which Foster answered succinctly and quickly. The questions kept coming, well beyond any reasonable definition of “several.” And once again, Jerry was impressed with Foster’s knowledge. It seemed like there was nothing this man didn’t know about the torpedo tubes or the supporting systems. Still, after about forty minutes Jerry noticed that Foster was becoming annoyed with Dr. Davis’ unending stream of questions. Before matters could get out of hand, Jerry inserted himself to draw the interrogation to a close.

“Excuse me Dr. Davis, I hate to interrupt, but the Senior Chief still has a few hundred things to do before the formal survey, and it’s almost lunchtime. I suggest we save the rest of your questions for this afternoon.”

“But I only have a few more!” exclaimed Davis. “Really, I’m serious. It will take just a little longer.”

“Later, Dr. Davis, please,” replied Jerry in a firm tone as he gently started turning her back toward the ladder. Reluctantly, Emily began moving— slowly. As they were just about to leave the torpedo room she suddenly spun around and faced Jerry. She looked like a kid who had just lost a prized possession. “The Manta! I forgot all about my questions on the Manta! Do we have time for those now?” Jerry could only roll his eyes. Then, with a very a deliberate motion, he pointed his finger toward the door.

“Okay, okay. I understand. Later,” said Davis with more than a hint of disappointment, but she also smiled at Jerry’s expression. Jerry softly chuckled as they headed up the ladder to forward compartment middle level. He had known a number of bookish engineer types at the Academy, but this was the first time he had met a young woman who could match them. She was just as passionate and intense about underwater vehicles as he had been about his beloved F-18s. That suited him just fine. She cared deeply about her work and would likely move heaven and earth to make sure everything worked perfectly. This reassured Jerry, since the crew of Memphis would have to use her ROVs to do something, somewhere — something that obviously meant a lot to the CNO and his staff. No, Memphis could certainly do worse than to work with the likes of Dr. Emily Davis.

By the time Jerry had finished this train of thought, he and Davis walked into the wardroom — and into a full blast from Patterson.

“Emily! Where the hell have you been? We need to leave now, if we are going to get ready for the survey this afternoon.”

“I’m. I’m sorry Dr. Patterson. Lieutenant Mitchell was giving me a quick tour of the torpedo room. I thought it would help speed things up to get some of my questions out of the way.” Jerry noticed that Davis looked very uncomfortable and embarrassed by Patterson’s unexpected hostility. For that matter, no one in the wardroom looked at all comfortable with Dr. Patterson. Even Captain Hardy, whose face was crimson, suffered in silence, even though he looked like he was going to erupt at any moment.

“Fine, fine, Emily, get your coat and let’s go,” replied Patterson in a patronizing tone. As Patterson and Davis collected their coats and other belongings, the mess steward emerged from the pantry with a set of plates. He set them down on the table and walked up to Hardy and asked, “Excuse me, sir. Will our guests be staying for lunch?”

Before Hardy could say a word, Patterson looked menacingly at the mess steward and said, “I’m not spending any more time on this rust bucket than I absolutely have to.” She then turned toward Jerry and pointed a finger at him. “You! Show me how to get off this piece of junk.”

Jerry quickly looked at Bair, who stiffly nodded his head in the direction of the door. Jerry then motioned to the door and said, “This way. Dr. Patterson.” In her haste to leave the wardroom, she pushed Jerry out of the way and stomped down the passageway toward the forward escape trunk.

As Davis passed by Captain Hardy, she uttered a barely audible “Thank you” and proceeded out into the passageway. Jerry followed the two women toward the escape trunk, but Patterson seemed to remember the way. By the time he was topside, Patterson was already storming off the boat, with Davis running behind to catch up. He shrugged and went below.

When Jerry returned to the wardroom, he found it incredibly quiet and even tenser than before. Hardy ate little and said not a word, although it was obvious that something really bad had happened. Bair’s expression matched Hardy’s. Lunch was eaten in absolute silence, and only after Hardy had left did any of the other officers even dare to ask the XO about what had happened.

Bair pushed himself away from the table, rose, and said, “Gentlemen, believe me, you don’t want to know. And even if for some insane reason you did, I couldn’t tell you. All I can say is this mission will be closest thing to hell that I have ever seen in this man’s Navy.”

As Bair left, the remaining officers looked at each other with astonishment and dread. A sense of despair seemed to descend on all in the wardroom. Jerry was also confused by what the XO had said and couldn’t understand what had brought him so far down. Lenny Berg saw the questioning look on Jerry’s face and tried to explain.

“Jerry, the XO has always been one of the few bright lights on this boat. He is the man who has served directly under Hardy for almost two years and he has been our BS filter from day one. Believe me, he’s taken a lot of hits for this crew. If being this Captain’s personal whipping boy isn’t hell, then I do not want to find out what hell is really like.”

The other officers murmured their assent and slowly filed out of the room. Jerry stayed behind, trying to comprehend the enormity of what Berg had said. The normally jovial Lenny Berg had been cast into the pit of depression by the XO’s three sentences. And while Jerry didn’t understand the exact ramifications of those words, he knew that things on board Memphis had taken a turn for the worse.

Jerry looked up at the clock and realized that he only had about an hour and a half before the ladies returned for the survey. Remembering the thick qualification book and schedule he received from Richards, Jerry decided to go to his stateroom and see just how much work he faced in his quest for the gold dolphins.

As he entered his stateroom, Jerry saw a stack of documents and three-ring binders over a foot tall sitting on his desk. In awe, Jerry investigated the mountain of paper. After looking at a few pages, it soon became apparent that these were the division’s records. Maintenance logs, calibration logs, training and readiness records, various inventories, and more, a lot more. Jerry remembered Moran’s comment about the senior chief “unloading” some paperwork. Well, thought Jerry, I guess Senior Chief Foster has officially turned over the division. He looked around his cramped stateroom. Now where the hell am I going to put all this stuff?

Jerry spent the next hour segregating and organizing the division’s records. He skimmed each packet of paper and placed it in one of four piles— maintenance, personnel, training, or supply — on his bunk. He vowed to look at everything in more detail later, but right now he just wanted to get a handle on his job as a division officer. As daunting as the huge pile looked at first, from what Jerry could tell, the senior chief seemed to have run a pretty tight division. Once again, Jerry was impressed with the man’s abilities. If only we could get along, he thought ruefully.

Looking down by his pillow, Jerry saw his qual book. He picked it up and saw that it was well over an inch thick. He began to wonder if he could finish in time. Flipping through the book, Jerry noticed all the signatures he needed to obtain before he would be awarded his dolphins. There were watches to stand under instruction, tens of system checkouts and practical exercises to perform, and dozens of standard operating and emergency procedures to memorize. Setting it aside, Jerry picked up the schedule that Richards had recommended and started looking at what he should be doing first. The list was oppressively long and the pace demanding.

The more Jerry looked at his qualification requirements, the more apprehensive he became. He then lifted his eyes over the schedule to the four mounds of paper on his bunk and tried to figure out how he was going to juggle his qualification needs with his responsibilities as a division officer.

Then it dawned on him that as the Manta operator, he was probably going to be in the torpedo room manning the UUV control console for a lot of the time once they got on station. As the fear of failure started growing, Jerry recalled the aura of pessimism in the wardroom over lunch and that fear started to give way to panic. “Whoa,” Jerry said to himself. “Don’t try to swallow an elephant whole. Take this one bite at a time.”

It was almost time for the good doctors to return, and the thought of dealing with Patterson again was not particularly a pleasant one. However, this time Jerry wanted to be topside to greet them. Besides, a little fresh air sounded really good right now. Before he grabbed his coat and ball cap, Jerry took out a pen and wrote his name on the cover of the qual book. This is now my book, he thought, and I’ll finish it one signature at a time. He then placed the book on his bunk and headed for the forward escape trunk.

It was windy topside, but the wind was from the south, so it wasn’t bitingly cold. The sun occasionally shone through the streaks of gray clouds. All in all, not a bad March afternoon. Jerry took a few deep breaths, relishing the outside air. There was a momentary flash down at the end of the pier and Jerry saw Dr. Patterson getting out of a car. Emily appeared a few seconds later. Jerry allowed himself a smug moment. Those 20/10 fighter pilot eyes of his were still working to spec. Patterson was now past the pier guard and was moving quickly toward the brow. Emily, with her shorter gait, was struggling to keep up. As Patterson approached, Jerry could swear he heard her stomping on the concrete pier. Okaaay, Jerry thought, she is still pissed off from this morning. This should make for a lovely afternoon — NOT.

“Good afternoon Dr. Patterson, Emily. I trust you had a good lunch,” said Jerry as he pointed to a number of breadcrumbs on Davis’ coat.

“Oh yes,” replied Davis as she brushed the crumbs off. “We had grinders at a very nice restaurant called Spiros.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with it. It’s a popular haunt for submariners.”

“So I noticed,” interrupted Patterson. “Can we skip the unnecessary pleasantries and get this survey over and done? Now, take us to the torpedo room, Lieutenant.”

Patterson’s rude remark caused something inside Jerry to pop.

Jerry walked up and looked Patterson straight in the eye and said, “Dr. Patterson, might I make a slight suggestion? Since it’s obvious that this morning’s meeting with the Captain and the XO didn’t go very well, exercising a little common courtesy might make this afternoon’s evolution less painful.”

Patterson stared at Jerry in utter amazement. Recovering quickly, she gave Jerry a “Who are you to question me, little man?” look, then said, “I don’t have to, Mr. Mitchell, because I work for the President.” And with that, she tried to push Jerry back so she could get to the hatch. But he was ready for her this time, and he held his ground.

“Interesting,” responded Jerry. “So do we.” He then stepped away from the hatch and motioned for Patterson to proceed. She did so in silence.

The survey in the torpedo room began with a strict warning from Hardy that anything heard during the meeting was not to be discussed with anyone outside of the present group. Furthermore, any speculations about the nature of the mission were to be kept strictly to oneself. The Captain spelled out in detail exactly how the restrictions were to be applied, assuming nothing. It was so detailed that Jerry began to get a little insulted. This wasn’t the first security briefing he’d ever attended. He watched the torpedo gang for a similar reaction, but they endured it in patient silence.

Finishing with another stern warning about the penalties facing anyone who disclosed classified information, Hardy then turned over the meeting to the XO, who introduced Dr. Patterson and Dr. Davis. Patterson reemphasized the Captain’s admonition for strict security and explained that the orders for this mission came from the President himself. This drew a low murmur from the TMs and FTs, which the XO quickly silenced.

Emily Davis then took over and started telling Jerry and his men what they needed to do to prepare Memphis for the patrol. They would be loading two ROVs and their support equipment. Everything was loaded on pallets sized to fit through the weapons shipping hatch, the same one used to load torpedoes.

“The ROVs are modified Near Term Mine Reconnaissance System (NMRS) vehicles,” she explained. “They were used as early mine clearance vehicles, but we’ve adapted them for this mission.

“The changes include a different sensor package and a thrust vector axial pump jet for precision navigation. Each vehicle has its own cradle, which is compatible with the torpedo storage rack’s tie-down arrangements. All of the launching and recovery operations, and most of the maintenance work, will be done using Navy-approved NMRS procedures.” Jerry made a quick note to himself to make sure that they obtained a full set of manuals from SUBASE.

Davis continued. “The support equipment will be fitted on seven pallets. There will also be a retrieval arm assembly placed into tube number one to help properly position the ROV so that it can be recovered.”

Turning toward Hardy, Davis said, “This will require disabling the starboard tubes nesting interlock,” the safety device she’d asked Foster about that morning. Both Hardy and Richards nodded their understanding.

“Finally, two much smaller instrumentation kits will be installed in the engine room.” This last statement generated some questioning looks from virtually everyone present, but no further explanation was forthcoming.

Davis then asked if anyone had previous NMRS experience. No one, not even Foster, raised his hand. She went on to explain that just about everything concerning NMRS vehicle operations was done in the best of Polish traditions. After the laughter died down, Davis went on to explain that a NMRS ROV is loaded into a torpedo tube backward and upside down. When it deploys, the vehicle pulls itself out of the tube and then swings about, righting itself. This will also affect how a ROV is loaded on board, as the orientation of the vehicle will be backward from how torpedoes are loaded.

With the end of the formal presentation by Davis, questions from both sides flew across the room. LTJG Frank Lopez, Memphis’ Damage Control Assistant and the ship’s diving officer, needed the weights of all the equipment for his initial dive compensation calculations. Foster wanted to know what type of batteries the ROVs used and how they were to be recharged. Davis asked about storage space for her equipment. The give-and-take continued for an hour. At this point, Jerry asked a crucial question, one that had been neglected throughout the technical discussions.

“Dr. Davis, none of my people have any experience on the ROV. How much time will we have to train?”

Davis hesitated, glanced at Patterson, and said, “Due to security constraints, Mr. Mitchell, the ROVs and their equipment will only be loaded the day before you depart. Furthermore, there is only time and consumables available for four training launches and recoveries — essentially, two for each ROV as a final system check before performing mission-related work.”

Jerry was dumbstruck by Davis’ reply — and he wasn’t the only one. Everyone from Memphis’ crew, except the Captain and the XO, was just as dumbfounded. Shaking his head vigorously, Jerry said, “Only two checkout runs each? Dr. Davis, that is completely inadequate. There is no way we can become proficient with these vehicles in only four test runs.”

Before Davis could respond, Patterson spoke up, “I understand your concerns Lieutenant Mitchell, but there is nothing that can be done. We have a very tight window for this mission. I’ve discussed this at length with SUBLANT and the CNO’s staff, and they have assured me that this crew can fulfill all mission objectives with minimal training.”

Jerry looked to Richards for support, but his department head only looked at the deck. The Captain and XO were also both silent, but it was clear from the look on their faces that they weren’t happy with this at all.

Then it dawned on Jerry that this was probably what caused this morning’s blowout. Both Hardy and Bair had likely argued vehemently that more training was needed and Patterson simply pulled a “collar check” on them, stating that the submarine admirals had “said” it could be done. Both also understood that the lack of training could very well doom this mission to failure and end both their careers. Hell indeed, thought Jerry, remembering the XO’s words from lunch.

“All right, people, if there are no more questions, let me sum up what needs to be done,” said Bair. “By my count, Dr. Davis will need nine torpedo stows for the two ROVs and the seven supporting pallets, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” responded Foster.

“Very well. Mr. Mitchell, you will coordinate with SUBASE to get us everything we need on the NMRS ROVs. If you have to say anything to justify the request, the cover story is that we are going to AUTEC, the acoustic test range in the Bahamas with a NMRS vehicle in July, and we’ll need the documentation. You’ll also have to get the starboard tubes ready to support ROV operations. I want you to stay on top of this. I don’t want to have any surprises. Mr. Richards, you will put in a request for ten torpedoes with SUBASE. And Mr. Lopez, you need to get the weight information for the compensation calculations from Dr. Davis. Did I miss anything?”

No one spoke.

“All right, then, gentlemen, we’ve got work to do.” Bair then turned to Patterson and Davis and asked, “Will you ladies be joining us for dinner?”

“No, Commander. Emily and I must return to Washington this evening. We also have work to do,” replied Patterson.

“Understood. Mr. Mitchell, please escort our guests off the boat. Goodbye, Dr. Patterson, Dr. Davis.”

Jerry acknowledged the order and took the women back to the wardroom to retrieve their gear. Once topside, Patterson quickly walked onto the pier and headed toward the car. Davis held back, handed Jerry a business card, and said, “If you need any additional information, I’ll do what I can to help.”

Jerry pocketed the card. “Emily, you know that we don’t have sufficient training time for this mission. Is whatever we are about to do so damned critical that we can’t take the time to do it right?”

“I’m sorry, Jerry, but it’s not my decision. For what it’s worth, I raised the same concerns and got the same reply.” She lowered her voice a little. “All I can say is that the timing’s very tight.”

“Okay,” said Jerry with a sigh.

“I’ll see you in about a month, then. When it’s time to load my babies on your sub.”

“Until then,” said Jerry, bowing slightly. Smiling, Davis walked down the gangplank to the pier. Jerry watched her walk all the way down to the car before he went down below.

Dinner was less severe than lunch. Although the crew of the Memphis had a hard task ahead of them, they could at least get started. Even Berg had regained some of his sense of humor and cracked a few jokes during the meal. Jerry actually saw the XO laugh for the first time, although he still looked stressed. The Captain had left the boat for the evening, which might have contributed to the more relaxed atmosphere.

Jerry worked late sorting the division’s unfamiliar paperwork and finding places to put it.

With the passageway lights rigged for red and the IMC loudspeaker stilled, the boat settled in for the night. Jerry thought about sleep. Then he remembered Richards’ schedule and his own qualification process. He’d shoved his qualification book onto the bookrack to make room for the paperwork he’d just managed to put away. His rack looked terribly inviting, but instead of turning in, he grabbed the ship’s data and qualification books and headed for the wardroom.

He spread out his books on the table, got a cup of not-too-stale coffee and a few cookies from the pantry, and settled in. The setting, as well as the subject matter, reminded him of being on the old USS Sam Rayburn, SSBN 635, berthed at Charleston, South Carolina. Formerly a ballistic missile submarine, or SSBN, she had been converted into a moored training ship, or MTS. The old girl was now a floating prototype, where students from Nuclear Power School went and put their theoretical knowledge to work running a real reactor. Sans missile tubes and heavily modified for her training role, the MTS 635 prototype trainer had a nuclear reactor and a complete submarine engineering plant bolted to South Carolina. Everything worked, except that no matter how much steam the plant made, they never went anywhere. Many nuclear submarine officers went through that school, the last step in their nuclear power training.

And Jerry had loved it. He knew exactly what to do, how to study, how to pace himself, how not to be intimidated by what seemed like an overwhelming task. He’d learned to fly that way as well, and he could learn this boat too. It took energy, a steady stream of effort over a long time. It came from his desire to succeed — and his desire to prove the admirals wrong. And it was something he could do. Foster might hate him, the other officers might think he was a lightweight, but this he could do without interference. He wasn’t sure about the rest of his job, but this would be all right.

Jerry was in the process of drawing the boat’s trim system in his notebook when the wardroom door opened and Bair walked in. Seeing Jerry at the table studying, the XO approached and said, “Good evening, Mr. Mitchell. Mind if I join you?”

“No, sir, not at all.”

Bair pulled up a chair next to Jerry and sort of fell into it. The paperwork he had been carrying hit the table with a dull thump. He looked dog-tired.

“I couldn’t help but overhear the Captain’s welcome the other day,” said Bair with a touch of sarcasm. “But I haven’t been much better myself. It’s clear from the mission orders and our meetings today with Patterson that you aren’t to blame for this extra patrol, and I apologize for accusing you of arranging it just to prove yourself.”

“Uh, thank you, sir” was all that Jerry could muster in reply.

“Your record is quite good, for an aviator,” teased Bair. More seriously, he added, “But Memphis isn’t a fighter. She’s an old, worn-out submarine, and she gets cranky from time to time.” The XO then leaned forward a little and pointed at the dolphins on his shirt. “To earn these, you need to not only understand her individual systems, but you need to learn about her mood swings as well. And the only way you can do that is to throw yourself into learning absolutely everything about her.”

Jerry was surprised to hear Bair speak in such a reverent tone as he talked about Memphis. This boat meant something to him. While it seemed a little weird, Jerry knew that he had to have a similar relationship with this “cranky” old sub if he was to make the grade.

“Now, the Navy and the Captain are demanding a very aggressive qualification schedule from you,” Bair continued. “And I agree. You need to catch up with your peers if you are going to make a career in submarines. I also agree that there can be no special dispensation. You must earn your dolphins,” the XO placed extra emphasis on the word “earn.”

“However, one of my responsibilities is to make sure that junior officers assigned to this boat are properly trained. And in that regard, I will do everything I can to see that you have the opportunity to complete your qualifications. The rest is up to you, Jerry.”

For the first time since coming on board, Jerry actually felt welcomed, and sensed that the XO was sincere in his offer. “Sir, I appreciate your advice and I will work my tail off to not disappoint you.”

“The only one who will be truly disappointed, Jerry, should you fail, is you,” said Bair. “However, Mr. Mitchell, judging by your past performance as a fighter pilot and the dogged pursuit of your transfer to submarines, I have a feeling that it won’t happen.” The XO stifled a yawn and looked at his watch. “It’s getting late. Jerry, why don’t you hit the rack and get some sleep? You can start off fresh on your qualifications in the morning.”

“Aye, aye, sir! And thank you, XO,” Jerry said. “Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Jerry.” And with that the XO stuck the load of paperwork under his arm and headed toward his stateroom.

Jerry made his way back to his stateroom and leaned against the bunks. He didn’t realize just how tired he really was, until he started undressing. As Jerry settled into bed, he paused to reflect on the events of the day and was confident that tomorrow would be better. Yes, tomorrow would see him start the process of becoming a dolphin-wearing submariner. And with that pleasant thought, Jerry fell asleep.