Dangerous Ground

5. FIRST UNDERWAY

April 18, 2005

SUBASE, New London

Jerry climbed out of the bridge access trunk into the cockpit atop Memphis’ sail. He was greeted by dazzling sunlight and it took his eyes a minute to adjust to the brightness. It was a glorious spring day, not a cloud in the sky, warm, and with a moderate breeze. It was a perfect day to go to sea. And Jerry was excited. Excited and nervous, because the XO had suggested to the Navigator that Jerry conn the boat out as Junior Officer of the Deck. Being the senior watch officer, as well as the ship’s Navigator, Lieutenant Commander Harry O’Connell assigned officers to their watch stations and oversaw their qualifications and “professional development.” Training junior officers in the fine art of shiphandling definitely fell into both categories, and he completely concurred with the XO’s suggestion. Even though the scheduled departure was still a couple of hours away, Jerry already had a good case of the butterflies. Smiling, he fondly remembered that the last time he felt this way was just before his first training flight in an F-18.

Looking out over the sail, Jerry could see members of the crew working to finish the preparations for going to sea. Some were loading the last of the provisions, removing the lifelines, and disconnecting the shore power cables. While everyone was busy, Jerry knew that most of the work was done. Thinking back, Jerry wondered where the past month and a half had gone. It seemed to have passed by him in a blink of an eye. On the other hand, there were moments when he felt as if he were in suspended animation.

He had made excellent progress on his qualifications, having completed most of the system checkouts and a number of the procedural ones as well. But that progress had come at a price: Jerry didn’t have a life outside of Memphis. While his shipmates got off as often as they could, Jerry stayed aboard almost every night studying for the next signature in his qual book. After about five straight days, the XO would track him down and order him to go home.

Jerry remembered the first time the XO threw him off the boat. He came into the wardroom after Jerry had remained onboard for the entire first week. Grabbing the ship’s data book that Jerry was trying to study, the XO slammed it shut as hard as he could. The loud thud made Jerry jump, the effect enhanced considerably by his semiconscious state. The XO then sat down, looked Jerry straight in the eye, and said, “Mr. Mitchell, go home.”

“Sir?” Jerry stammered as his eyes tried to focus. “I, uh, can’t. XO. I really need to study for my ventilation system checkout.”

“I don’t recall giving you a choice in the matter, mister,” replied Bair sternly. Then, in a less severe tone, he said, “Jerry, your dedication is commendable and you’ve made a good start on your quals. But after many days of very long hours and very little sleep, your brain WILL turn into tomato paste and you WILL be worthless.” Bair covered the closed book with his hand. “I’ve been peeking in on you over the past hour and you have been staring at the same page the whole time. I bet you don’t even know what ventilation lineup you were looking at.”

Jerry smiled weakly and looked down at the closed book in front of him. “No bet, sir.”

“All right, then. I want you to go home, take a long hot shower, and then get some sleep in a bed that is larger than a coffin. You’ll feel a lot better and you’ll be more alert in the morning.”

Of course, the XO was right — again. Even though Jerry felt like he had to be working virtually every hour of every day, it just wasn’t practical. Jerry then came to the realization that the race he was running was a marathon, not the hundred-yard dash. He had to learn to pace himself if he was going to complete all that he had set out to do. Once Jerry had accepted that idea, it was a little easier to take some personal time off, but every now and then he still needed a gentle reminder from the XO to hit the beach. Jerry also realized an unexpected benefit from Bair’s nagging. Some of the other officers and chiefs noticed the considerable effort that Jerry applied to all his duties, including his qualifications, and that the XO often had to tell him to get off the boat.

Word also started to get around from those who gave Jerry his checkouts that he came prepared and usually did very well. Hard work and competence is a winning combination in the submarine force and it often earns respect. It took some time, but the chill in the wardroom toward him started to thaw. And while things were still strained between him and Cal Richards, at least the WEPS wasn’t quite so cutting with the sarcasm now. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of Senior Chief Foster.

If anything, Foster had become harder to deal with. When they were alone, Foster was borderline insubordinate and only a little more civilized when they were in the company of others. Jerry just couldn’t figure out what was wrong between them.

He tried hard to iron things out, but Jerry’s attempts at reconciling their problems only made things worse. Jerry found that he could work with Foster only by being extremely specific in his orders and following up to make sure that Foster hadn’t left him hanging with the job half-done. It took a lot of energy, attention, and time he didn’t have.

It wasn’t the best way of doing business, and Jerry certainly wasn’t happy with the situation, but he’d have to make it work for now. Thinking about the dysfunctional relationship with his leading chief only made Jerry tense, and he took a couple of deep breaths to ease his stress. As he let out a big sigh, a voice from below broke his moment of silent reflection.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the voice. “We need to rig the bridge for the surface transit and it’s going to be tight with you up here. Would you mind going below until we’re finished? It should only take about twenty minutes.”

Jerry looked down as a petty officer emerged from the shadows of the bridge access trunk. There were hints of another man below, along with the sounds of gear being hauled up. Jerry watched as the sailor climbed up into the cockpit, squinting hard as he emerged into the sunlight.

“Bright enough for you, Petty Officer Stewart?” asked Jerry.

“Certainly is, sir,” said Stewart as he stood there blinking. “Please disregard the dull klunks, sir. It’s only my pupils slamming shut.”

Jerry grinned and maneuvered out of the way as a Plexiglas windscreen appeared from below. Stewart grabbed the screen and set it down on the top of the sail behind him. The cockpit was nothing more than a small opening, four feet by three feet, in the forward part of the sail. Normally, it would be cramped with just three men in the cockpit, but trying to install all the gear with that many people would be very difficult indeed.

“I’ll get out of your way, Petty Officer Stewart. Enjoy the nice weather,” said Jerry.

“Thank you, sir. Hey, Jack, hold on a second, Mr. Mitchell is coming down.”

Jerry ducked under the sail and worked his way around the other sailor, who he could barely see in the dim light. When he got to the top of the bridge access trunk itself, Jerry yelled, “Down ladder.” After making sure no one was below him, he climbed down the ladder into control. Once down, he reported to the duty petty officer that he was no longer on the bridge. The sailor acknowledged the report and wiped Jerry’s grease-penciled name off the status board.

With that taken care of, Jerry headed toward the torpedo room for one final inspection. After that, he would meet with the Navigator and the scheduled Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant Millunzi, to go over the boat’s departure route one more time. As Jerry descended the ladder to forward compartment lower level, the IMC crackled to life, “There are men working in the sail. Do not raise or lower any mast or antenna. Do not rotate, radiate, or energize any electronic equipment while men are working in the sail.”

Glancing at his watch, Jerry marked the time and toyed with the idea of testing Stewart’s estimated time to rig the bridge. Anything to get back topside and get underway, eh? Jerry thought. There was no doubt in his mind that he was eager to go to sea. It had been nearly four years since his last Midshipman cruise and that had been on a large-deck amphibious assault ship. His total time underway on a submarine could be measured in hours, single digits at that, and the thought of being at sea for three whole days sounded absolutely wonderful. Jerry recalled hinting at this during Quarters that morning and how most of the division laughed at his naïveté.

“Worst case of Newbeeitis I’ve seen in all my years on subs,” joked Bearden.

“Seems to be resistant to treatment too,” added TM2 Tom Boyd. “You’d think Fast Cruise would have cured him!” This comment brought more laughter, as the counterintuitive three-day, in-port drill period had been grueling and anything but fun.

“Can the levity. We still have work to do before we get underway, so turn to,” barked a scowling Foster.

Jerry remembered the tension that descended immediately on the group and that only TM1 Moran had walked away before Jerry dismissed his division. The glare from Foster was intense, and only hinted at his anger. Jerry ignored it. The senior chief seemed to be angry a lot lately, probably because Foster sensed that Jerry was slowly gaining the trust of his men, and for some reason this threatened him. Work began in the torpedo room in near silence.

Making his way back to the torpedo room, Jerry saw that the atmosphere had improved and that his guys were just finishing up the odds and ends. A number of the TMs and FTs were standing around talking and appeared to have relaxed some. Jerry nodded as they acknowledged his presence and walked over to the Manta control station and looked over the results of the system diagnostics he had started after Quarters. Everything looked good and he powered down the console.

The NUWC reps had worked on the prototype the week before, stripped the vehicle to parade rest, and performed every maintenance procedure known to mankind. After replacing the main and auxiliary batteries and a number of circuit cards, the Manta was issued a clean bill of health. Just as Jerry was pulling the Naugahyde cover over the control console, Richards walked into the room and quickly approached him. The WEPS seemed to be more harried than usual.

“Mr. Mitchell, what is the status of your division?” demanded Richards. Jerry was momentarily confused, as he had already given the WEPS his report earlier. Once again, Cal Richards had his sweat pumps in high speed and anything but a repeat of his earlier report would only add to the WEPS’ consternation.

“Sir, the torpedo room and fire-control system are ready for sea. Repairs to the Mk19 weapons launching console have been completed. We have five Mk48 Mod 5 torpedoes on board; one is loaded in tube two and the remaining four are secured in the port storage racks. Tube one has the NMRS retrieval arm installed and is not capable of firing weapons. The Manta prototype has been cleared for at-sea operations and two runs of the daily diagnostics have been completed satisfactorily.”

“Very well,” responded Richards with a calmer voice. “Has the OOD’s status board been updated?”

“Yes, sir. Senior Chief Foster is doing that as we speak,” answered Jerry confidently.

“Good. Now move along or you’ll be late for the last pre-underway brief with the NAV and MPA.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Jerry with eagerness.

The brief was short, to the point, and very professional. The Navigator went over all the points where course changes were needed to keep Memphis in the center of the channel and all the associated turn bearings and landmarks. He also reviewed the procedures for getting underway. Lieutenant Al Millunzi listened carefully as he studied the projected track on the New London harbor chart and asked questions about which tug they’d have, who was the pilot, and what was the updated weather forecast for the Long Island and Block Island sounds.

As the Main Propulsion Assistant (MPA), Millunzi was responsible for the boat’s main mechanical systems. Tom Holtzmann’s reactor made the steam, but it was Millunzi’s systems that put it to work. Driving not only the main propulsion turbines that turned the screw, but also the ship’s service turbine generators that provided electricity. He was also the next most senior officer in the Engineering Department, after the Engineer himself, and was completely qualified to stand in for him if necessary. Millunzi also had the reputation on the waterfront as being one of the best shiphandlers in the squadron. Hence his pairing with the very inexperienced Jerry Mitchell.

In his late twenties, Millunzi had a big, square face and a nose that could have belonged to Julius Caesar. He had a frame that matched and had to carefully work to fit his way through the many narrow hatches and passageways on Memphis. Although Jerry knew where he stood with many of the ship’s officers, for good or ill, he hadn’t had to deal with Millunzi much during his month and a half aboard. Their respective responsibilities kept them pretty much apart. Fortunately, the MPA was all business, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

“Jerry, before you give any order, I want you to tell me what you want to do and what you’re going to say. If I agree, I’ll say so, and you can go ahead. If I’ve got a problem, and there’s time, I’ll give you a chance to rethink your plan. If there isn’t, I’ll take the conn and sort things out. I will also ask you questions during our run to the dive point. And they won’t be academic. Is this all clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Jerry answered. In a way, Jerry felt a little relieved. Millunzi wasn’t going to let him make any big mistakes. And Millunzi wouldn’t take over unless Jerry was really messing up; in which case Jerry wanted the MPA to take over. But that wasn’t going to happen, Jerry thought. Not on his watch.

After the brief, both O’Connell and Millunzi quizzed Jerry on the conning orders he would have to give to get Memphis away from the pier, down the Thames River, and out to the Atlantic Ocean. Jerry answered the questions correctly, but he was not always confident of his response. Despite this, the Navigator seemed satisfied that Jerry had a reasonable idea of what to do and how to do it.

“All right, Mr. Mitchell, report to the bridge in fifteen minutes,” said O’Connell looking at his watch. “I want an on-time departure at 1100.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” responded Jerry. But just as he was about to head down to his stateroom, Captain Hardy came bounding up the ladder screaming at Lieutenant Commander Ho, Memphis’ Engineer.

“What the hell are you doing down there, Engineer? Why did the pump fail this time?”

“Captain, the motor controller blew about ten minutes ago when we tried to pump the sanitary tanks in preparation for our departure. It will take several hours to make the repairs,” responded Ho nervously.

“If you haven’t noticed, Engineer, we don’t have several hours! The squadron commander will be here any moment now,” exclaimed Hardy shaking his head in disbelief. Getting a hold of himself Hardy asked, “How full are the sanitary tanks?”

“Sir, sanitary tanks number one and number two are about fifty percent, and sanitary tank number three is about twenty-five percent.”

“Very well, have the duty officer get the drydock connections removed and we’ll blow the tanks once we are at sea.”

“Yes, sir, and we’ll begin working on the sewer discharge pump immediately,” replied Ho.

“That would be very wise, Engineer,” responded Hardy sarcastically. “I also want the maintenance logs for that pump, here, in my stateroom, within the hour. I want to know the idiot who performed the last preventative maintenance check and missed such an obvious problem.” With that, Hardy slammed the stateroom door shut in his Engineer’s face. Ho backed away, his face still a little pale, combed his hand through his hair, and trudged down the ladder to forward compartment middle level.

Jerry watched as the tired-looking man disappeared from view. He wasn’t surprised at the CO’s tirade; he’d seen far too many of those over the past weeks. Millunzi walked up behind Jerry and said in a low voice, “I would not want to be Frank Lopez right now. That’s his gear and the Captain will be all over his butt on account of this latest incident. Not that the Captain will bother to remember that we’ve had nothing but trouble from that particular pump for almost two years now and that our requests for a replacement have been repeatedly denied.” The MPA then looked at Jerry and said, “The shit pump has had a bad habit of eating motor controllers. Now, get a move on and I’ll see you up on the bridge.”

Reaching his stateroom, Jerry found Lenny Berg putting his jacket on. A life jacket and safety harness were on the deck by his feet. “Ahh, our intrepid JOOD arrives to mentally prepare for his first underway. Need any Maalox?”

“Ha, ha, very funny, Lenny. I happen to feel just fine, thank you.” A little lie, Jerry thought, because he was a tad nervous and could feel it in his stomach.

Berg was about to fire another round of witticisms when the squawking of the IMC interrupted their exchange, “COMSUBDEVRON TWELVE, arriving.”

“Well, well, the commodore is finally here. I bet the Captain is having a snit fit over something right now, even as his boss is crossing the gangway,” said Berg seriously.

“Yeah, well, he just chewed out the Engineer over the sewer discharge pump. The motor controller was fried.”

“Hmmm, not like that hasn’t happened before.” Then, in a more light-hearted way, Berg remarked, “Maybe the pump just wants a new job, and frying motor controllers is its way of expressing its frustration. I mean, moving human waste around isn’t all that glamorous, you know.”

Jerry laughed as he put on his jacket and ball cap. He then started digging through his desk, looking for his sunglasses. Finding them, he put them in his pocket and turned to face Berg.

“Lenny, is the Captain always this nervous when getting underway?”

Berg laughed. But the laughter was forced mixture of amusement and irony. “It’s because of Captain Young. As long as the squadron commander is on board, everything has to be perfect.”

Berg picked up the life jacket and harness and then looked at Jerry with a smile and said, “Correction, more than perfect.”

Jerry nodded, understanding his friend’s observation, and asked. “This is Hardy’s first boat, isn’t it? Is he all that eager to get promoted?”

“I don’t really know, Jerry,” Berg answered. “But I don’t think it’s all about ambition. Remember, he is a triple A personality control freak.”

“Hey, Lenny,” Jerry called out to his friend as he was leaving. “You be careful out on deck. I really don’t want to get signed off on the man overboard drill today.”

“Yes, sir! Oh Wise and Benevolent Junior Officer of the Deck, sir,” mocked Berg as he bowed and doffed his cap. “Just don’t go and pull any five-gee turns while you’re up there and we’ll be fine.”

Jerry rolled his eyes at Berg’s last comment and followed him out of the stateroom. As Jerry entered control, he saw the XO getting ready to set the maneuvering watch. A bit early, given the schedule in the plan of the day, but not unexpected, given Hardy’s nervous state. Looking up from the navigation plotting tables, Bair saw Jerry over by the duty petty officer reporting in. As Jerry made his way to the ladder, the XO called over, “Mr. Mitchell, good luck on your first underway.” Winking, he added, “Just keep her between the buoys and you’ll do fine.”

“Aye, sir, I’ll do my best,” Jerry replied as he gave his XO an informal salute. Lifting his head to the bridge access trunk, Jerry yelled, “Up ladder,” and started climbing.

The bridge was prepared for sea with an assortment of electronic gadgets installed in the cockpit. The portable “bridge suitcase” with the communications gear and navigation instruments had been installed and tested. Since anything left on the bridge would be exposed to extreme water pressure when the boat submerged, the instruments used to conn Memphis were built into a removable case that could be quickly detached when the boat was ready to submerge. Next to the suitcase were an electronic chart plotter and a GPS receiver. A satchel bag lashed to the side contained paper charts, a flashlight, and a bullhorn. The Plexiglas windscreen had been secured in front of the cockpit, along with a grease pencil on a string. Behind Jerry was the “flying bridge,” an area atop the sail where an installed steel frame allowed additional people to stand safely while the ship made its surface transit.

Jerry checked the pier. The boat was divorced from shore power and the sanitary and potable water connections had also been removed. A small crane was working its way down the pier; it would be needed to lift the gangplank off the sub’s hull. Down on the deck, Jerry could see the line handlers mustering with the COB and Lenny Berg. Undoubtedly, the COB was reminding everyone about the proper safety precautions when handling the bulky mooring lines.

He looked at his pocket checklist to make sure he had gone over everything he would have to do to get the sub underway. He was thankful he had spent some extra time studying, even though he had fallen asleep the night before while reviewing Dutton’s Naval Shiphandling. But not all knowledge can be gained through an intensive book study effort. Theoretically, he knew what to do. Now it was time to put that theory into practice.

Noises from below told Jerry that others were coming up. Within a few seconds, a familiar voice spoke, “Permission to come up to the bridge.”

“Granted,” replied Jerry.

Petty Officer Stewart climbed into the cockpit with a pair of binoculars and a sound-powered phone headset. “Here you go, sir,” said Stewart as he handed the binoculars to Jerry. Jerry took them and thanked Stewart, who was busily putting on the sound-powered phones. Soon thereafter, Lieutenant Millunzi climbed up the ladder and joined Jerry in the cockpit. Millunzi had barely straightened up when he began bombarding Jerry with questions on the status of the bridge equipment and the topside area below. Jerry answered them quickly and concisely. Satisfied, Millunzi turned to Jerry and said, “Jerry, this is the one time that I will give you free advice. After this I charge a can of soda for every problem you want me to help you with.” The smirky grin on Millunzi’s face told Jerry that the MPA was quite serious.

“In that case, sir, what is your favorite liquid refreshment? Because I’m going to need a couple of six-packs to get me through our upcoming deployment.”

“Dr Pepper, of course. And you’d better make it three.”

Both men chuckled a bit and Jerry started feeling a little less tense. He didn’t realize just how anxious he was as he waited for things to get started.

“The secret of being a good shiphandler, Jerry, is to be able to manage inertia and momentum,” said Millunzi in a more sober tone. “You are used to driving a fighter that doesn’t weigh a lot but goes really fast. Memphis weighs several thousand tons and moves at a snail’s pace, by comparison.” He then pointed aft and asked, “What do you see back there, Jerry?”

Jerry faced aft and after a moment turned back toward the MPA, looking confused. “I don’t understand, sir.”

Millunzi pointed toward Memphis’ stern and said. “What do you see?”

Jerry looked again. “The rudder, sir?”

“Exactly!” shouted Millunzi happily. “Half of the rudder, your control surface, is out of the water flapping in the breeze, where it doesn’t do a damn thing for you. She’s great underwater, but on the surface and at slow speed, Memphis is a pig. She won’t respond quickly to rudder orders, so you have to think way ahead if you are going to effectively maneuver her. That’s the deceptive part of conning a sub on the surface: They move slow enough so that you think you have plenty of time to get out of trouble. In fact, if you don’t react in time, which means early, inertia will take over and ruin your entire day.”

“Mr. Millunzi, sir,” interrupted Stewart. “The XO reports that the maneuvering watch is set and that the Captain, the Commodore, and the pilot will be up shortly.”

“Very well,” responded Millunzi. Picking up the microphone and handing it to Jerry, he added, “Okay, Jerry, time to take the conn. You know what needs to be said. Just take a deep breath and let the maneuvering party know who is giving the rudder orders.”

Reaching for the mike, Jerry actually felt his hand shake a little. “Attention in the maneuvering party. This is Lieutenant (j.g.) Mitchell; I have the conn. Lieutenant Millunzi retains the deck.”

One by one, the various positions acknowledged the announcement.

“Helm aye.”

“Nav aye.”

“Radio aye.”

“Contact coordinator aye.”

“Maneuvering aye.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard. Ahh, here is our friendly tug to assist us,” said Millunzi.

Jerry looked up and saw a small red and black tug, with a great big yellow capital T on its black stack, maneuvering into position on Memphis’ port quarter. The handheld radio crackled to life and Millunzi exchanged a communications check and greetings with the master of the tug Paul A. Wronowski—or “Tug Paul” for short. Once Memphis was firmly secured to Tug Paul, Millunzi grabbed the bullhorn and shouted, “On deck, single up all lines!” The linehandlers quickly moved to reduce the number of lines between Memphis’ cleats and the pier’s bollards from two to one.

Millunzi was getting ready to say something when Hardy, climbing up the ladder, interrupted him. “Captain to the bridge.”

Both junior officers crammed themselves to one side to make room for Hardy, the commodore, and the pilot to come up from the bridge access trunk. After the three of them were situated on the flying bridge, Hardy asked, “Mr. Millunzi, are we ready?”

“Just finishing the final arrangements topside, sir.” He nodded to Jerry. “I was instructing Mr. Mitchell on some of the trickier parts of conning a submarine on the surface.”

“Hmpf,” replied Hardy, turning to face Jerry. “Mr. Mitchell, I agreed with the XO’s recommendation that we make you the conning officer for the maneuvering watch, in spite of the fact that you have only been a member of my crew for a short period of time. This is a required assignment for all junior officers and you need the experience. I wish your first time underway was under different circumstances, but there are no easy underways on my boat.”

Jerry could only nod. “Yes, sir, I’ll do my best.”

“What’s the hand signal for a tug to make half speed?”

“Point with your index finger in the direction you want the tug to push, either ahead or astern.”

It was the correct answer, but Hardy only frowned. “Will you be using hand signals today?”

“No, sir. With Tug Paul’s bridge facing aft, it would be better to use the handheld radio to reduce the chance of a misunderstanding.”

Again, Jerry gave the correct answer. Hardy looked unimpressed. “Very well, make your report.”

Jerry looked at Millunzi, who nodded slightly, and then began the long and detailed report on the status of Memphis’ preparation for getting underway. This formal, almost ritualistic, approach ensured that the Captain and the Officer of the Deck were both working with the same information. And while a good CO probably already knew everything his OOD was reporting, double checks were never wasted.

Completing his report, Jerry requested permission to get underway. Hardy took a quick look around, and once satisfied that his JOOD had made an accurate report, said, “Permission granted.”

Picking up the radio, Jerry called over to the tug, “Tug Paul, this is U.S. Navy submarine, stand by for tug orders.”

“Roger,” squawked the radio.

“On deck,” Jerry yelled through the bullhorn. “Take in all lines!” The line handlers below started pulling frantically on the mooring lines to get them all on board as quickly as possible. As the last line came over, Jerry pulled the lever for the ship’s horn and let loose a prolonged blast. This told everyone in the harbor that a boat was getting underway. At the same time, Stewart hoisted a large U.S. flag on a pole behind the flying bridge.

“Tug Paul, back one third,” Jerry commanded. As the diesel engines on the tug roared to life, Memphis began to slowly pull away from the pier. Jerry watched as the distance between them increased. Turing toward Millunzi, Jerry asked, “Enough?”

“Wait. Give it a few more seconds,” replied Millunzi. “Okay, now.”

“Tug Paul, all stop.” Picking up the mike, Jerry issued his first conning order. “Helm, bridge, back one third, left full rudder.”

“Bridge, helm, maneuvering answers back one third, my rudder is left full with no ordered course.”

“Very well, helm.”

Jerry immediately looked aft to make sure the rudder had been turned in the correct direction, but with so many people on the bridge he had a hard time seeing the rudder. When it took him a little too long to do this, Millunzi prompted him, “Don’t forget the tug, Jerry. You need her horsepower to get us out properly.”

Fumbling for the radio, Jerry ordered the tug ahead one third. As Memphis moved slowly into the Thames River, Millunzi leaned over and said, “Watch the stern and make sure it swings to port. A submarine with stern way on is very unpredictable. It’s easier with a tug, but you still need to keep a close eye on it. There! Do you see it? The stern is starting to swing.”

Jerry didn’t see it at first, but after a moment, he also spotted the slight swing to the left. Millunzi is very good at this, thought Jerry. As the sub continued its slow arc into the river, Jerry watched the compass repeater on the suitcase and digital map display. Once Memphis came within thirty degrees of the channel course, Millunzi whispered, “Let inertia work for you now.” Jerry ordered the rudder amidships and all stop. He then ordered Tug Paul to answer all stop, and then to take in all lines. Jerry politely thanked the tug master over the radio for his services.

Once the tug was clear, Memphis was free to begin moving downriver. Jerry felt the deck begin to vibrate as Memphis’ screw bit into the river. It felt a little like his fighter at full military power, but once the sub’s backward motion was countered, and she started moving forward, the vibrations subsided.

As they left the area of the sub base, Jerry Mitchell, an aviator by first choice, was now finally on his way to becoming a submariner. The sounds and smells of the river and especially the sights of the historic Thames filled his senses. The well-settled, cluttered shoreline testified to how long men and ships had been here. As they passed the Submarine Museum, Jerry saw the Nautilus moored to her quay. A little over fifty years ago, he thought, she would have taken this same route out to sea. Memphis passed under the 1-95 and railroad bridges within two minutes of the planned time. The initial part of Jerry’s underway had gone remarkably smoothly. The Navigator would be pleased.

As they came up on the Electric Boat construction yard, the boat for the pilot pulled alongside and he bid farewell to the Captain and expressed his best wishes for a successful sea trial.

But before he went below, the pilot slapped Jerry on the back and said, “That was a very reasonable underway, Lieutenant. You made a few minor mistakes here and there, of which I’m sure Mr. Millunzi here will tell you all about in fine detail. However, for a first time out you did well. Good luck on the rest of your qualifications.” A few minutes later, with the pilot gone, the topside rigged for dive, and the last man down, Jerry increased speed to eight knots.

After another fifteen minutes, Memphis passed New London Ledge Light, the square redbricked lighthouse that marked the mouth of the Thames River. As Jerry ordered the speed increased to ahead standard, about twelve knots, the commodore climbed down from the flying bridge. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I’m going below.” Turning toward Jerry, Captain Young said, “Mr. Mitchell, my compliments on a fine first underway. Keep up the good work.”

“Thank you, sir,” replied Jerry.

The commodore then looked up at Hardy, “Captain, I suggest we meet in your stateroom to go over the drill schedule for the next two days. Say, in fifteen minutes?”

Hardy looked pained by the commodore’s “suggestion,” but acknowledged the order with a perfunctory “Aye, aye, sir.”

For the next ten minutes, all that could be heard on the bridge was the wind and waves flowing past the submarine’s hull. Visibly disgusted that he had to leave the bridge, Hardy climbed down into the cockpit and addressed Millunzi. “MPA, strike down and stow the flying bridge and then get us to the dive point as quickly as you can. If you need me, I’ll be in my stateroom.”

Millunzi acknowledged the Captain’s order and had Stewart relay the order to control for two sailors to come up and disassemble the flying bridge. As Hardy was about to go below, he turned toward Jerry and said, “Don’t let the commodore’s comment go to your head, Mitchell. By my standards, your performance was adequate. Nothing more.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Jerry, more surprised than hurt. As soon as Hardy had disappeared into the bridge access trunk, Millunzi shook his head and issued a short snicker.

“Away the morale suppression team,” cried Millunzi. “The floggings will continue until morale improves.”

Both Jerry and Stewart laughed softly at the MPA’s sarcastic comment, and a lot of the tension Jerry had felt seemed to wash away. He was also relieved that the senior officers had departed the bridge. Now he could freely ask Millunzi for an honest critique of his performance.

As if he were reading Jerry’s mind, Millunzi said, “We’ll go over the mistakes the pilot mentioned once we get out of the channel. Then we can open her up and have some real fun.”

“Sounds good to me, sir,” Jerry replied. “For the record, how many did I make?”

“Five minor ones, that’s all. And despite the Captain’s views, you done good for your first time out.”

Five! Thought Jerry. He was having a hard time thinking of more than three. Still, he was pleased with Millunzi’s compliment. The two sailors summoned to the bridge now arrived. They immediately began to take the flying bridge down, handing sections of piping that made up the frame to Stewart, who passed them below. Millunzi urged them to work quickly, but not to skip on safety.

“What’s the rush, sir?” asked Jerry.

Millunzi pointed to two buoy symbols on the map display and then to a pair of red and green flashing buoys a couple of miles in the distance. “Those are buoys two and three. They mark the mouth of the channel. Once we pass them, we can rev this puppy up to flank speed. Provided these turkeys get their act together and get the flying bridge taken apart.” Millunzi grinned while jerking his thumb in the general direction of the two sailors up on the sail.

“In the meantime, Jerry we need to crank up the RCPs soon.”

“Yes, sir!” Jerry looked back and saw that the last of the frame was just about detached from the sail. Reaching down, Jerry picked up the mike and said, “Maneuvering, bridge, shift reactor coolant pumps to fast speed.”

“Shift reactor coolant pumps to fast speed, bridge, maneuvering aye.”

A few moments later the suitcase speaker blared, “Bridge, maneuvering, reactor coolant pumps are in fast speed.”

“Maneuvering, bridge aye.”

The buoys were clearly visible and they would soon be passing them. The two sailors reported that they were done and the flying bridge had been stowed for sea. Millunzi acknowledged their report and the two went below. A few minutes later the suitcase speaker blared again, “Bridge, Navigator, two hundred yards to the turn point. New course, one six five.”

“Navigator, bridge aye,” replied Jerry.

“Okay, Jerry, this is a small course change, so what are you going to do?”

“Just order the helmsman to use ten degrees left rudder and steady on the new course,” answered Jerry confidently.

“Correct.”

“Bridge, Navigator, mark the turn!”

“Helm, bridge, left ten degrees rudder, steady course one six five.”

“Left ten degrees rudder, steady course one six zero, bridge, helm aye.”

As Memphis started turning, Jerry could feel the difference that eight knots of speed made in her response. She quickly came up on her new course and settled in for the long run through the Long Island and Block Island sounds out to the Atlantic Ocean.

“All right, Jerry, let’s pick up the pace, shall we?” said Millunzi with a gleam in his eye.

“Aye, aye, sir.” Keying the mike again, Jerry spoke, “Helm, bridge, all ahead flank!”

“All ahead flank, bridge, helm aye. Sir, maneuvering answers all ahead flank.”

“Very well, helm.”

As Memphis began to surge ahead, the bow wave grew larger and larger until it was crashing against the base of the sail. The roar of the water as it flowed over the hull was deafening. Jerry felt as if he was at the base of Niagara Falls as tons of water came crashing down. The deck trembled as the main propulsion turbines slammed 35,000 shaft horsepower into the screw, which chewed up the water like a blender. Memphis’ wake was frothy and huge and could be seen for miles in the bright sunlight. Salt spray was thrown high into the air as the bow plowed through the slight rolling waves. And even with the protection of the Plexiglas windscreen, Jerry and the others were still occasionally hit in the face with cold seawater.

Jerry looked over at Al Millunzi and saw that he had removed his ball cap, his black hair streaming in the stiff wind. Meeting Jerry’s gaze, Millunzi leaned over and yelled, “I defy you to find a better mode of transportation than this!”

“Honestly, sir, I don’t think I can!” Jerry yelled back — and he meant every word. True, flying at supersonic speeds, yanking and banking, was a surefire way to get an incredible rush. But what he was feeling now was even stronger. In fact, he probably had so much adrenaline running in his system right now that it was making his stomach a little bit queasy. As the wind and spray whipped by his face, Jerry was finally able to let go of his precious F-18E Super Hornet. His heart and soul now belonged to another: Memphis.

For the next hour, Jerry reveled in his new love. Millunzi quizzed Jerry on various situations they might encounter and pointed out the major landmarks as they sped past them. Of particular interest was Race Rock, the wave-lashed lighthouse on a bunch of rocks at the westernmost tip of Fishers Island. This lighthouse marked the northern end of the passage known as “The Race,” the boundary between Long Island Sound and Block Island Sound.

Traffic was very light, with only a single contact, a long black barge pushed by a tug. It was coming up from the south and appeared to be heading straight for the entrance to the New London harbor channel. It was several miles distant and drawing away, designated “Master Two” by the Contact Coordinator. Since it was held both visually and on radar, it wasn’t a navigation hazard.

Finally Memphis passed between Block Island and Montauk Point on Long Island and entered the Atlantic Ocean proper. As soon as they cleared Long Island, the seas became rougher and the boat started to pitch and roll a little.

“We are now out of the lee of Long Island, so we are no longer being protected from the wind. This means the ride will be rougher for the rest of our run to the dive point,” commented Millunzi.

Now Memphis was heading for the open sea. Instead of land on both sides of them or filling one side of the horizon, it was just a small dark line behind them, growing thinner with each minute. The broad horizon was as novel to Jerry as everything else, but it was unchanging. Within a few minutes, he’d worked out a routine of checking the compass, the radar repeater, the map display, then scanning the horizon with his binoculars. There was no other surface traffic in sight.

“How much longer?” asked Jerry.

“About three hours until we’re past the hundred-fathom curve. About here.” Millunzi tapped the map display.

As Jerry looked down at the instruments, the bow rose a little more steeply than before and fell back to the sea with a noticeable drop. Jerry automatically tightened his grip on the edge of the cockpit and shifted his weight.

Millunzi grinned. “Nothing like this in a fighter, is there?”

“No, we usually flew well above any turbulence,” Jerry answered, “or we were yanking and banking and—” Jerry’s stomach suddenly flipped — or felt like it did. Puzzled, he straightened and tried to continue. “If we did hit turbulence, it was really more like a bumpy road than this pitching or rolling movement.” He had to force the last word out, because as his mind was drawn to the motion, a wave of weakness and nausea passed through him.

“Jerry, what’s wrong? You’re white as a sheet!” Millunzi sounded puzzled and concerned.

Jerry swallowed hard, fighting reflexively to control his rebellious insides. As he struggled, Memphis pitched forward and lurched to the right. His stomach surged upward, and only by a supreme effort did he force its contents back down.

This was impossible. He’d flown all kinds of maneuvers in jet fighters. He couldn’t…”

Hot flashes and cold chills ran across his skin. The nausea was overwhelming. His stomach made another attempt to empty itself, and he flung himself to the side of the cockpit and leaned out as far as he could. It wasn’t a conscious decision to throw up, just an automatic reaction to avoid making a mess in the cockpit.

Millunzi and Stewart watched in amazement as Jerry threw up violently, or more correctly, threw out and then back as the wind caught the vile substance and pulled it aft, spreading it along the sail. It was pure luck that he’d chosen the leeward and not the windward side.

As he threw up, Jerry hoped that once his stomach had emptied itself, the nausea would pass. But just as soon as the first spasm stopped, another began. The gut-churning misery continued for several minutes, until his cramping stomach muscles were too exhausted to contract.

Jerry turned back, leaning weakly on the edge, and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief.

Both Millunzi and Stewart looked at him and burst into laughter. “Look at him. He’s actually green!” the enlisted man exclaimed.

“I’m sorry,” Millunzi apologized, but still laughing. “It was your expression.”

Too near death to respond, Jerry struggled with this new affliction. The novelty and surprise of his seasickness were gone, but the weakness and nausea remained. Could he function? He had to, but all he wanted to do was lie down somewhere. Or throw himself over the side. He really didn’t care.

Jerry didn’t know which was worse: the terrible fact that he was seasick or the embarrassment of throwing up. He didn’t have long to reflect on his dilemma as his stomach lurched again and Jerry had to lean over the edge. In tears from his laughter, Millunzi tried to show some sympathy for his pathetically green JOOD.

“Ahh God, Jerry, sniff, I’m truly sorry that you’re sick. Really I am!” said Millunzi apologetically. “But I haven’t seen someone emergency blow his cookies like that for a long time, and while you probably won’t believe this, it is rather humorous.”

Jerry could only moan a response, but his glare made it clear that he was not amused.

Petty Officer Stewart bent down and took something from a sailor below. Rising, he handed Millunzi a can and a small bag.

“Sir, this is from the Doc. He says make sure Mr. Mitchell takes the pills first.”

“Thank you, Petty Officer Stewart. Okay, Jerry, get your sorry green butt over here. The corpsman has sent up some stuff to help relieve your suffering.”

Jerry took the Dramamine tablets and washed them down with sips of Sprite. He then slowly nibbled on some saltine crackers and gradually began to feel somewhat human again. Millunzi watched him for a while and then asked, “Jerry, do you feel up to finishing up the watch or do you want to go below?”

“I finish what I start, sir,” rasped Jerry. “So unless you specifically order me below, I’ll stick it out.”

“That’s the spirit, lad. We’ll make a real submariner out of you yet— even if it kills you!”

Jerry could only manage a feeble smile in response to Millunzi’s remark. But he appreciated the sentiment behind it just the same. The boat rolled again and Jerry’s stomach felt like it had been turned upside down.

“Uugghh, I can’t believe I’m this seasick!” complained Jerry. “I never had any problems when I flew. I mean, I was never airsick!”

“Like I told you earlier: two very different platforms,” said Millunzi as he chomped down on a Slim Jim. Jerry quickly turned away and kept munching his saltines.

For the next two hours, Jerry fought his queasiness and tried hard to concentrate on his duties. And while the medication reduced the effects of his seasickness, it certainly didn’t get rid of them. Still, he managed to stand the rest of the watch without making a complete fool of himself. Next time, he thought, I’ll get some of those patches that prevent this sort of thing from happening. Mercifully, the nearly six-hour-long surface transit finally drew to a close.

At 1711, control reported that the latest sounding was 115 fathoms, or 690 feet, and that it was almost time to dive the boat. Since Jerry and Millunzi would have to rig the bridge for dive, which would cause them to lose their ability to safely drive the sub, Lenny Berg assumed the deck and the conn down in control.

“Let’s hop to it,” announced Millunzi. “Petty Officer Stewart, you get the sound-powered phones and the colors while Mr. Mitchell and I get the suitcase and the other electronics.”

Stewart acknowledged the order and pulled the sound-powered phones from the jack and screwed the cap over the external connection. Millunzi showed Jerry how the other equipment was removed and the external connections made watertight. Finally, the windscreen and flagpole were unbolted and handed down. Once everything had been removed, Millunzi and Jerry raised the clamshells and locked them into place. These two doors faired the cockpit area into the rest of the sail, presenting a smooth, streamlined surface to the water as it flowed over the sail. By doing this, a significant source of flow noise — like the tone that is made by blowing across an empty Coke bottle — was eliminated.

Jerry and Millunzi then climbed down the ladder, with Millunzi shutting and securing the upper and lower bridge access trunk hatches. After that, Millunzi reported, “Chief of the Watch, the bridge is rigged for dive, last man down, hatch secure.” The Chief of the Watch then reported to Berg that the ship was rigged for dive, that is, all conditions had now been met to allow the submarine to safely submerge.

Millunzi stepped up on to the periscope stand, talked briefly with Berg, and reassumed the watch as Officer of the Deck. Jerry waited until the two were done and then tried to join Millunzi. But before he could a second step, Lenny pulled him aside and said, “Al says you’ve done your job for today. He wants you to sit at POS 1 and carefully watch what goes on as he submerges the ship.” When Jerry tried to resist, Berg grabbed him more firmly by the arm and pulled him over to the first fire-control position.

“Trust me on this, Jerry, Al is doing this for your own good. If the Captain saw you wobbling up there as the conning officer with Captain Young on board, he’d give live birth to a litter of warthogs and then sic them on you! Now sit down.”

Jerry looked up to Millunzi, who drew his right hand rapidly across his throat, meaning stop it, and then forcefully pointed for him to stay put. Recognizing an order when he saw one, Jerry nodded and sat down. No sooner had he done so, Captain Hardy marched into the control room and demanded to know the ship’s status.

“OOD, report,” bellowed Hardy.

Calmly, Millunzi began the lengthy report on the ship’s condition. He provided Hardy with the current course and speed, information on any contacts held, navigation system status, depth of water beneath the keel, and finally, that the ship was rigged for dive. He then took a breath and requested permission to submerge the ship. Hardy paused briefly to check the compass repeater and speed indication on the ship’s control panel. Satisfied with the report, he faced Millunzi and said, “Very well, OOD. Submerge the ship to one five zero feet.”

“Submerge the ship to one five zero feet, aye, sir. Diving Officer, submerge the ship to one five zero feet.”

As Jerry listened to the exchange and acknowledgment of orders, he realized that the same thing had just been said four times by three different people. To an outsider, this whole idea of repeating the same thing over and over again would seem absurd. However, the principle of repeating back orders was adopted by the Navy to help forge a solid communication chain so that the right people took the right actions at the right time. It wasn’t foolproof, but it did considerably reduce the number of errors that were made.

“Dive! Dive!” announced the Diving Officer over the IMC. Then, reaching for the diving alarm, he pushed the lever twice. WREEEEEE, WREEEEEE reverberated throughout the ship, closely followed by a second announcement, “Dive! Dive!”

Jerry then watched as the Diving Officer, Chief of the Watch, and the planesmen worked together to slowly drive Memphis underwater. Millunzi manned the periscope and kept providing the foursome with important feedback information on how things were going outside. It took several minutes, but Millunzi finally reported, “Scope’s under, lowering number one scope.”

Once Memphis was below one hundred feet, Millunzi called Berg over and said, “Get Jerry to his rack. He puked himself silly on the bridge and he’s dog-tired. Doc Noonan said to give some more Sprite and saltines if he’s hungry, but above all Doc said he needs rest.”

“Aye, aye, Your OODness,” responded Berg.

Jerry stood up, ready to protest, but then realized that he really did feel weak. All the adrenaline had worn off, and all that remained was the fatigue. Berg helped him up and started for the ladder to middle level when Jerry stopped, turned toward Millunzi and said, “Thanks for the sage advice, sir.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Mitchell. But that will cost you a can,” grinned Millunzi.

“Dr Pepper, right? You’ll have it as soon as we get back, sir.”

“Very good. Oh. and Jerry, when it’s appropriate, you can call me Al.” With that, Millunzi went back to the business of settling Memphis into her natural element.

“All right, green one, come with me,” nagged Berg. “You’ve had a rough day and the doctor’s orders must be obeyed. It’s off to your rack for a few hours of blissful slumber so that you’ll be well-rested and ready to face that vile creature, the drill monitor.”

Jerry didn’t remember even making it to his stateroom before he fell asleep.