Dangerous Ground

6. SEA TRIALS AND ERRORS

April 20, 2005

Atlantic Ocean

“FIRE IN THE GALLEY! CASUALTY ASSISTANCE TEAM LAY TO THE GALLEY! ALL HANDS DON EABS!” screeched the IMC. Immediately after the announcement shattered the evening’s silence, the ship’s general alarm sounded. BONG, BONG, BONG, followed again by “FIRE IN THE GALLEY! CASUALTY ASSISTANCE TEAM LAY TO THE GALLEY! ALL HANDS DON EABS!”

“The man is a sadist!” whined Berg loudly as he tumbled out of his rack. As Jerry, Berg, and Washburn struggled into their poopy suits, Berg continued his lament with: “I might as well not even take the damn thing off at the rate we’re going.”

Reaching into one of the lockers, Jerry pulled out three bags with the Emergency Air Breathing system masks and handed Washburn and Berg one each.

“Come on, Lenny, get a move on. You’re the CAT phone talker. The XO’s going to be pissed as hell if you don’t get to the galley pronto,” warned Washburn.

“I know, I know. I’m going as fast as I can,” replied Berg as he pulled the EAB mask over his face and tightened the straps. Plugging the hose connection into the one hundred pound air manifold, he took a couple of deep breaths, disconnected the hose and quickly moved out of the stateroom. Washburn followed Berg out as they both headed for the scene of the casualty. For the first time in the last two days, Jerry didn’t have to go rushing off immediately, so he had a little more time to get ready before making his way to the wardroom. Normally, he would go to the torpedo room or the crew’s mess during a casualty. But since the “fire” was in the galley across from the crew’s mess, he would only be getting in the way of the casualty assistance team if he tried to go to either location. As the offgoing OOD, Berg was, by procedure, the designated sound-powered phone talker, so he had a reason to be at the scene. So too did Washburn who, as the Supply Officer, was responsible for the galley. Jerry’s job was to stay out of the way and muster in the wardroom, where he would sit quietly breathing dry, metallic-tasting air. How exciting, he thought. Grabbing his qual notes, Jerry took a deep breath, unplugged his EAB, and walked quickly to the wardroom.

In the wardroom, Jerry found Tom Holtzmann already on the sound-powered phones passing reports to and from control. The Navigator was sitting next to him, listening to what was going on. Maneuvering over to the couch, Jerry plugged himself back into the air system and started breathing again. Sitting down, he began going over his notes on casualty procedures and tried to follow the drill through its stages.

“THE CAUSE OF THE FIRE IN THE GALLEY IS A FIRE IN THE DEEP-FAT FRYER,” shouted Holtzmann loudly and slowly through his mask. Even so, he was barely understandable. Talking through an EAB mask is like trying to talk with your hand over your mouth. With every word muffled, any extraneous noise made verbal communication difficult at best. And with six guys breathing like Darth Vader, it was hard to hear what was going on.

“THE FIRE IS OUT,” reported Holtzmann. “PREPARING TO EMERGENCY VENTILATE THE FORWARD COMPARTMENT WITH THE DIESEL.”

Jerry sat back, closed his eyes, and tried to visualize what was going on in control. The small up angle indicated that the boat was already coming up to periscope depth. From the compass repeater on the bulkhead, Jerry saw that Memphis was turning slowly to the left. This would be the baffle-clearing maneuver, checking the area immediately behind the submarine where the hull arrays couldn’t hear, to make sure there were no contacts behind them as they came shallow. After verifying the baffles were clear, the OOD would raise the periscope to visually check that the area was free of any close contacts. Sometimes it was difficult to hear even a large merchant ship on sonar if its bow was pointed right at the sub. The worst were Very Large Crude Carriers, or supertankers. They were amazingly quiet bow-on and had fully-loaded drafts of up to seventy-five feet. Memphis would be nothing more than a speed bump to one of those behemoths if she came up in front of one.

Once the OOD announced, “No close contacts,” the Chief of the Watch would be ordered to raise the snorkel mast and test the head valve at the top of the mast. This verified that the head valve would close automatically when it got wet and would prevent seawater from rushing down into the boat and make things much worse. After opening the induction and diesel exhaust valves and clearing the lines of seawater, the emergency diesel could be started.

While the OOD and the rest of the ship’s control party got Memphis positioned to snorkel, watchstanders in the various spaces would be placing dampers and vent valves in the correct position for the diesel to suck the air and smoke from the affected compartment and discharge it overboard. Fresh air would then be sucked down through the induction valves and replace the toxic atmosphere. After about thirty minutes, the air in the forward compartment would be breathable again. No sooner had Jerry finished his mental walk-through of the procedure when he heard “COMMENCE SNORKELING” over the IMC. About a minute later, he could feel the vibration of the diesel running. The slight rolling of the boat told him that the sea state was pretty mild. Jerry allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as he realized that he was becoming more confident of his ability to read the feel of the boat and his knowledge of emergency procedures.

“Secure snorkeling. Recirculate,” spoke a clear voice over the IMC a few minutes later. “Secure from drill. Drill monitors muster in the wardroom for the critique.”

Jerry removed his EAB, unplugged it, gathered his notes, and headed back to his stateroom. He’d seen a number of these drill critiques and none were pretty. The Captain never seemed to be satisfied with the crew’s performance and he would use these critique sessions to berate the officers and senior enlisted involved. Nobody left one of these meetings happy, so Jerry decided to clear datum before the Commodore and the Captain arrived.

Twenty minutes later, Berg and Washburn stumbled backed into the stateroom. Both were chortling and having a hard time restraining their glee. This was a very unusual outcome from a Memphis drill critique. The perplexed look on Jerry’s face only made the two laugh some more.

“Oh man, Jerry, you missed a good one,” said Berg with his usual pixielike grin. “The Captain didn’t even wait for the critique before he started chewing out the Chop here for having incompetent people in the galley. He was sooooo pissed off, I thought that he was going to lift a relief right then and there.”

“Forgive my ignorance, Lenny, but why would this be funny?” replied a very confused Jerry. “It sounds like Bill here got his butt reamed in a major league way.”

Berg was about to respond, when he stopped, waved flamboyantly at Washburn, and said, “Bill, this is your coup. Please enlighten Mr. Jerry here on the outcome of said ass-chewing.”

“Thank you, Your Officerness,” replied Washburn with an equally exaggerated hand gesture. “You see, while the Captain was busy winding himself into the overhead and yelling at me about how poorly trained my people were, the Commodore stepped out of galley behind him and just stood there listening. When the Captain demanded an explanation for the abysmal performance of my people, what pitiful excuse did I have for my MS2 not activating the fire-suppression system installed in the deep-fat fryer’s exhaust hood, the Commodore butted in and said, ‘Because I told him he was dead.’ Oh Lord!” sputtered Washburn as both he and Berg struggled valiantly not to break out in loud laughter. “The look on CO’s face was absolutely priceless!”

Jerry gasped and winced, “Ouch! Talk about being hoisted on one’s own petard.” The thought of Hardy being publicly embarrassed by his boss was both appalling and delightful. Given Hardy’s predilection for public criticism, the concept of him getting a little dose of his own medicine from the Commodore was very satisfying. And yet, it flew in the face of everything Jerry had been taught at the Academy, and at the squadron, on the basic principles of leadership. Praise in public, correct in private was supposed to be a good officer’s modus operandi. He hadn’t seen too much of that on Memphis.

Still chuckling, Berg kicked off his shoes and climbed into his rack. “I don’t know about you guys, but after thirteen drills in the last day and a half, I’m pooped.”

“Hang in there, Lenny, my sources tell me there is only one drill left,” said Washburn.

“And how would you know this?” asked Berg sarcastically.

“Do not underestimate the power of hot coffee and fresh chocolate chip cookies, young Jedi,” Washburn replied. “The squadron staff has received both in large quantities, which gave my guys a number of opportunities to peek over their shoulder. According to their schedule, there is only one more drill after the interviews.”

“Ah yes, caffeine and sugar, the Dark Side, are they,” rasped Berg in his best Yoda-like voice. “Do you have any idea what the drill will be, Bill?”

“I think it is either a fire in the torpedo room or another approach and attack scenario.”

“Oh boy, Jerry! Another one for you, you lucky dog,” exclaimed Berg. “By the way, have you recovered from that dreadful Otto fuel spill drill they ran yesterday?”

“Yeah, I think so,” said Jerry as he plopped back into his chair. “I just don’t understand how we could have screwed up that casualty drill so badly. It’s not like we haven’t done similar drills before. We just seemed to always be running behind the power curve in responding to the casualty.”

This was a bald-faced lie. Jerry was convinced that Senior Chief Foster had deliberately interfered with the division’s response to the drill. According to TM3 Lee, the torpedo room watchstander, and one of the drill monitors, Foster appeared to have intentionally distracted Lee as the squadron staff member came into the room and dumped liquid orange Jell-O on the deck by the port storage rack. The Jell-O simulated a spill of Otto fuel, the mono-propellant used by Mk48 ADCAP torpedoes.

While Otto fuel in and of itself is chemically hazardous, it is much worse if it catches fire. Because the fuel and oxygen are mixed together in a thick syrup-like fluid, an Otto fuel fire is extremely difficult to extinguish. If a hot fire was allowed to develop in close proximity to warshot torpedoes, it would likely lead to a catastrophic explosion and the loss of the sub. That kind of accident had destroyed the Russian guided-missile submarine Kursk.

Furthermore, the fumes from an Otto fuel fire are extremely toxic. So, even if the torpedo warheads didn’t cook off, a lot of people would still get hurt or killed from the poisonous fumes. Hence, timely response to an Otto fuel spill is absolutely critical. By keeping the watchstander’s attention away from his duties, Foster made sure that there was a significant delay in discovering the problem and getting the word out.

Then, during the actual casualty response, the drill schedule had Foster designated as the sound-powered phone talker for the casualty assistance team. As the man-in-charge at the scene, Jerry recalled all the problems he had communicating with control on the status of the cleanup. On several occasions, he had to repeat his report, two or even three times, before Foster would relay them to the OOD. By delaying the flow of information, the ship’s crew took longer than it should have to respond to the simulated problem and their grade suffered because of it. The chewing out Jerry and his division received from Hardy was very unpleasant and humiliating. Foster’s wicked grin only made it worse.

“Hellooo! Earth to Jerry, come in, please!” shouted Berg.

“Huh? Oh — sorry, Lenny. I was just going over the Otto fuel spill in my head again. I guess I’m still trying to figure out what went wrong.”

“What’s to figure out, you had bad comms with control and that will always screw you during a graded drill. Senior Chief Foster should have known better, but even the best of us have off days. So stop with the self-recriminations and get over it. You’ll do better next time.”

Jerry became a little angry at Berg’s cavalier response. It was clear he had no idea that Foster had almost certainly sabotaged the drill, and it would be hard to do better next time if Foster continued to interfere. As Jerry considered correcting Berg’s ignorance, Bair stuck his head into the room.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I gather you are enjoying yourselves, given all this laughter.”

“No, sir, XO,” said Berg soberly. “We’re just a little punchy after so many drills, and I guess we got a little silly.”

“I see. Well, get unsilly, as the inspection interviews will begin shortly. The Commodore has decided to only talk to the younger JOs. That means you and Jerry here. The Chop has been excused.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Berg.

“They’ll call you when it’s your turn,” said Bair. “Oh — and one more thing. Try to be confident when you answer his questions. Nothing is worse than appearing to be uncertain of your answer, and regardless of whether you’re right or wrong, the interview can only go downhill from there. If you are uncertain, stick to the first one. At least be wrong with conviction. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Jerry and Berg in unison.

No sooner had the Executive Officer departed than the Dialex in the stateroom rang. Washburn answered the phone, listened for a moment, and said, “Yes, sir, I’ll let him know you’re waiting for him.” Hanging up, Washburn pointed at Berg and motioned toward the passageway. “Your turn, Lenny. The Spanish Inquisition awaits your presence in the wardroom.”

Sighing, Berg once again crawled out of his rack and put on his shoes. “I really didn’t want to take a short nap anyway,” he said as he tied the laces. Berg then stood up, straightened his poopy suit, and marched out of the stateroom, executing a sharp square turn at the passageway. As he departed, Jerry and Washburn heard him utter in an English accent, “Alas, poor Leonard. I knew him well.”

Jerry and Washburn looked at each other as their roommate left, both wondering whether Lenny Berg was slightly insane. Washburn then shrugged his shoulders and said, “Actors. You gotta love ‘em.”

As the Supply Officer settled into his rack, Jerry sincerely asked, “Bill, how did a theater major ever get into the nuclear power pipeline in the first place?”

“Only God and Naval Reactors know, Jerry,” responded Washburn as he reached for the novel he had been reading. “Either Lenny is a really good actor or the Navy was really that desperate. Still, it’s good to have the guy on board.”

“Absolutely,” replied Jerry as he sat down and opened his qual book to the diving officer section. He had just started reviewing some of the casualty procedures when Jerry heard a muffled snore. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that Washburn had fallen asleep before he had even finished a single page of the book. I know how you feel, thought Jerry. Stifling a yawn, he returned to his studies.

Jerry must have dozed off as well, for he found himself being lightly shaken by Berg who whispered, “Your turn, old boy.” Jerry rose, stretched and headed for the wardroom. He knocked on the door and then entered. Captain Young was the only other person in the room.

“Reporting as ordered, sir,” said Jerry while standing at attention.

“At ease, Mr. Mitchell. Please sit down,” replied Young. Jerry quickly moved over to a chair and seated himself across from the commodore. “In my discussions with your XO,” Young continued, “he tells me he is very pleased with the progress you’ve made on your qualifications thus far. He also says your pace to date is one of the fastest he’s seen. I don’t know whether you realize it or not, but that is high praise from Bob Bair. Especially since he qualified under me in record time on Batfish back in the mid-nineties.”

“I’ve been fortunate, sir. The XO has been very supportive of my efforts and the Captain has given me numerous opportunities to get my drill requirements completed.” Jerry winced internally and hoped that didn’t sound too much like a backhanded compliment.

“I’m sure he has,” replied Young matter-of-factly. “Still, you had to do the work necessary to capitalize on those opportunities and that is what has impressed your XO.” Leaning back in his chair, Young opened a folder in front of him and examined its contents for a moment.

He then looked up at Jerry and said, “In reviewing your record, Lieutenant, I have to admit that I’m pleasantly surprised myself. I’ll be frank with you. I was opposed to your transfer from aviation to submarines. I didn’t like how you went about using family political ties to force the issue. But your performance to date has met or exceeded all the requirements placed on you. You graduated in the top twenty-five percent of your class at Nuclear Power School. You were the first officer to qualify as Engineering Officer of the Watch on your crew at prototype, as well as graduating third in your class overall. And you finished fourth in your class at the Officer’s Basic course at Submarine School. I can’t help but draw the conclusion that you are trying to prove a few flag officers wrong.”

Jerry was getting more uncomfortable as Captain Young went on. He had been expecting questions on system specifications and procedures, not an overall evaluation of his past performance coupled with a statement that could be interpreted as an accusation, even if it was an accurate one.

“Sir, I made a promise to do my utmost if they approved my transfer. I’m just trying to hold up my end of the bargain.”

“Relax, Lieutenant. I’m not accusing you of anything. Part of that deal you made required that your progress be reported up the chain at each phase. Since you’ve been assigned to my squadron, you’re my responsibility now. I just thought you’d want to know the gist of my report.”

“My apologies, sir. I guess I misunderstood what you meant by proving senior officers wrong,” replied Jerry sheepishly. “And I do appreciate your comments, sir.”

“Well, I suppose I better ask you at least one question before we move on to the next topic. I can’t let you out of here with just a pep talk, now, can I?”

“Sir?” responded Jerry, curious as to what the commodore meant by the “next topic.”

“How many EAB connections are there on this ship?”

Initially startled by the Commodore’s question, Jerry quickly recovered and answered, “Approximately eight hundred sixty, sir.”

“Really. Are you sure of that, mister?” demanded Young.

“Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir,” replied Jerry.

“Very well, then. How do you justify that number?”

“There are one hundred sixty-nine EAB manifolds on this boat, and each manifold has four connections. That makes for a total of six hundred seventy-six connections in the EAB system itself. However, assuming a normal complement of one hundred thirty men and a one hundred and forty percent load out of EAB masks, and each mask has a connection on it, that gives another one hundred and eighty-two. This brings the grand total to eight hundred fifty-eight connections, sir.”

“Am I to understand that you’ve personally counted each and every EAB mask?” pressed Young.

“No, sir. I looked up the EAB loadout in the ship’s data book and then asked the DCA what Memphis had on his last inventory. He said he didn’t remember the exact number, but he was very confident we had at least that many masks on board, he thought we might even have a few extra as well. I never verified the actual number, hence my answer of approximately eight hundred sixty.”

Jerry felt strangely calm after his little dissertation to the commodore, who simply sat there and looked at him. Silently, Jerry thanked Chief Gilson for being so thorough during his damage control checkout. While a long and painful ordeal, with numerous lookups that Jerry had to answer afterward, he now knew his DC equipment cold and that little extra detail on the EAB connections had just come in very handy.

A slight smile broke out on Young’s face as he said, “I would have been happy with the number of connections on the manifolds, but you are quite correct, Mr. Mitchell. Well done.” Young opened the folder again and quickly wrote a few notes down. Probably something along the lines of “Mr. Mitchell is a smart-ass,” thought Jerry.

“Umm, sir, you mentioned another topic?” asked Jerry, trying to move the interview to a rapid conclusion.

“Yes, yes, I did,” replied Young as he closed the folder. “We have one more drill to run, a battle stations torpedo drill, and I’m going to need your help in conducting the exercise. How much time do you need to prepare the Manta for launch?”

“About thirty minutes, sir. May I ask what you want me to do?”

“I want you to pilot the Manta as a hostile submarine in a mock attack against Memphis.” answered Young.

Jerry felt a cold sweat forming on his forehead. “Y-you, you want me to fight against the Captain and the rest of my crew?”

“Not exactly, Lieutenant. One of my staff will tell you what to do. I just need you to guide the Manta accordingly.”

I am royally screwed, thought Jerry. Hardy won’t bother with the commodore’s little distinction if Memphis does badly during the drill — the CO would place the fault squarely on him and would chew on his butt all the way back to New London. And with a staff rider looking over his shoulder the whole time, Jerry couldn’t intentionally make it easier for his crew. Frantically, Jerry tried to think of a way out of this dilemma.

“Sir, I must inform you that I’ve never flown the prototype off of Memphis. I have lots of simulator time and some hours with the smaller prototype at Newport, but none with the UUV we are carrying right now.”

“Yes, I was aware of that,” responded Young. “All the more reason to conduct this exercise, wouldn’t you agree?”

Jerry desperately wanted to say, “Hell no, sir!” but he couldn’t say that to the man who was sending a progress report on him to those reluctant flag officers. Besides, his Navy training had drilled into him that there was only one correct answer.

“Yes, sir. When do you want to launch?” Jerry tried to sound more confident than he felt. And right now he felt like a trapped animal, with nowhere to go.

“Excellent!” exclaimed Young jubilantly. “Report to the torpedo room in fifteen minutes. Lieutenant Commander Monroe will meet you there. And Mr. Mitchell, not a word to any other member of your crew.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said Jerry as he stood up and left the wardroom.

Once he was out in the passageway, Jerry leaned up against the bulkhead and tried to reduce the knot he felt in his gut. He really wanted to talk to Lenny. He needed Berg’s unique insight to help him with this one, but he was under explicit orders not to speak to anyone about the drill. Fearing that his resolve wouldn’t hold up if he returned to his stateroom, Jerry headed aft toward the torpedo room.

Breaking out into almost a jog, Jerry reached the torpedo room quickly and immediately sought out the duty watchstander. He found TM2 Boyd at the weapons launching console, making his quarterly hour log entries.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said Boyd, greeting his division officer. “Is there something I can do for your”

“Yes, Petty Officer Boyd, I have a question. Who would man the Manta launch stations during this watch?”

“The offgoing torpedo room and fire-control watchstanders would normally do that. That would be Greer and Davidson. Do you want me to find them, sir?”

“Yes, please. I need them here in ten minutes,” replied Jerry somewhat nervously.

“Anything wrong, sir?” inquired Boyd. “You don’t look so good.”

“I’ll be all right, but thanks for asking. Just ask the Chief of the Watch to get them here ASAP.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” nodded Boyd, who picked up the sound-powered phone handset and called control.

Jerry went back to the Manta control area, lifted up the Naugahyde cover, and powered up the control console. After the initial system diagnostics were completed, Jerry started a full system check. As expected, the ten-minute automatic test showed no problems. Jerry logged the time of the check and the results and then waited for Lieutenant Commander Monroe to show up.

Soon thereafter, Greer and Davidson appeared over by the starboard tube nest. Jerry called and waved for them to come back to the control console, informed them of the impending launch, and then told them to be ready to assume their stations.

Both were curious as to what was going to happen and asked some legitimate questions. Jerry responded that he wasn’t at liberty to discuss it, but that all would be clear soon. This only made the two even more curious, and they peppered him with even more questions. Jerry was about to order the two of them to shut up when he saw a squadron staffer walk into the torpedo room. Motioning for Greer and Davidson to hush, Jerry pointed to the lieutenant commander who was approaching them.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Mitchell. I’m Lieutenant Commander Andy Monroe. Are you ready to launch the Manta?”

Doesn’t waste any time, does he? Jerry thought. Well, I can deal with that. “Yes, sir. We’re ready, any time you want. My team is assembled and I’ve already performed the preflight maintenance check.” Jerry then pointed to the two petty officers and said, “This is TM2 Greer and FT2 Davidson. They will be assisting me during the launch and recovery.”

“Very good,” said Monroe as he shook their hands. “I’ll inform the commodore that we are ready to begin.” Picking up the phone, Monroe called control. While Monroe was busy talking to the commodore, Jerry sent Greer aft to the engine room to monitor the mechanical indications of the launch process and to use the manual overrides if a problem arose. Davidson sat down next to Jerry and would assist him at the control console and be Jerry’s communications link with Greer. Jerry put on his own communications headset, a high-tech version of the bulky sound-powered phone set, and waited for control to come on the line.

“Man Manta launch stations,” squawked the IMC. Soon thereafter, Jerry heard the Chief of the Watch announce on the sound-powered phones, “All stations, control, control on the line.”

“Control, U-bay. U-bay on the line,” responded Jerry.

“U-bay?” asked Monroe with a puzzled look on his face.

“We had to call it something, sir,” said Jerry defensively. “And we couldn’t use Manta control or UUV control; that would be too confusing. So we called it U-bay, you know like e-bay, only it means UUV bay.”

“Yeah, right. Whatever,” said Monroe, who didn’t looked impressed. “How long before the nav system is aligned and ready to go?”

“It’s ready now, sir,” replied Jerry. “The Manta uses a strapdown ring-laser gyro for the inertial navigation system.”

“Very well. Proceed with the launch.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Jerry reached over and picked up a small yellow binder with all the Manta procedures in it. He opened the laminated pages to the launch section. Using a grease pencil, Jerry and Davidson went down the procedure one step and a time and marked off each step as it was accomplished.

“Control, U-bay. Request ship’s speed be reduced to four knots,” said Jerry.

“Request ship’s speed be reduced to four knots. Control aye.”

Knowing that it would take a little while for Memphis to drop to the launch speed, Jerry continued with the checklist.

“Retracting battery umbilical cable,” announced Jerry as he pushed the button on the touch screen. The display paused for a moment and then indicated that the cable had been detached from the Manta and stowed in the docking structure.

“Engine room upper level reports the umbilical has been retracted and stowed,” stated Davidson.

“Very well. Flooding docking skirt and equalizing to sea pressure,” said Jerry as he activated several of the onscreen controls. A few moments later, Davidson reported, “Engine room upper level reports the docking skirt flooded and equalized to sea pressure.”

Jerry acknowledged the report and looked over his shoulder toward Monroe, “Sir, where do you want the Manta to go after launch?”

“Have the Manta assume station five hundred yards off the starboard quarter after launch. However, during the exercise, you’ll pilot the vehicle directly. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. I understand completely,” Jerry replied. Davidson looked at his division officer with a puzzled expression. It was unusual for someone to manually pilot the Manta; its whole design was predicated on operating largely without continuous human guidance. Jerry saw the questioning look on Davidson’s face and motioned for him to stay on the checklist.

“U-bay, control. Ship’s speed is now four knots,” said the Chief of the Watch.

“Very well, control.” Jerry leaned over and looked at the checklist Davidson was holding and saw that there was only one step left. “Control, U-bay. Request permission to launch the Manta.”

“Request permission to launch the Manta. Control aye.” Jerry waited only a few moments before the Chief of the Watch passed on the Captain’s approval, “U-bay, control. Permission granted to launch the Manta.”

“Very well, control.” Jerry detached the docking latches and then pushed the LAUNCH button. The rest of the launching sequence was done automatically by the Manta’s programming.

“Engine room upper level reports the docking latches have detached and the Manta has lifted off the docking skirt,” said Davidson.

Jerry nodded as the telemetry update from the Manta through the acoustic modem was coming in strong. He watched closely as the UUV’s position on the display moved away from Memphis. Everything seemed to be working fine and after a minute, the Manta had assumed its position on Memphis’ starboard quarter. Turning to LCDR Monroe, Jerry reported, “Sir, Manta on station and ready to maneuver.”

“Very well,” replied Monroe. Taking his clipboard, Monroe recorded Memphis’ course and speed on a miniature maneuvering board-plotting sheet. He then drew a couple of lines, pulled out a pocket ruler and measured something. Satisfied with his results, Monroe looked at Jerry and said, “Mr. Mitchell, I want you to send the Manta five thousand yards dead astern of Memphis. I trust the acoustic modem will allow that?”

“Yes, sir, easily. Depending on the acoustic conditions, we could have three times that range.”

“Excellent. Once the Manta reaches that position, turn it around and match Memphis’ course and speed. I’ll give you the next leg at that time.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Jerry as he typed in the new position and the necessary course and speed. The Manta peeled off to the right and headed directly away from Memphis at ten knots. He also noticed that the boat had started to increase speed again and was at six knots. Probably going back to a normal one-third bell, or about seven knots, thought Jerry. Doing some quick math in his head, Jerry figured out about how long it would take for the Manta to reach the end of the first leg. “Commander Monroe, it will take a little less than ten minutes for the Manta to reach the designated location.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mitchell” was all Jerry received in response. The next nine minutes passed by in silence as Jerry watched the navigation screen on the control console display.

“Sir, the Manta is five thousand yards astern on course zero four zero degrees, speed seven knots,” reported Jerry.

“Very well,” responded Monroe. “Mr. Mitchell, the second leg is another five thousand yards perpendicular to the present course. Have the Manta steer course one three zero degrees at ten knots. And while you are at it, how long till the Manta reaches the end of the second leg?”

With perpendicular courses, thought Jerry, only the Manta’s speed mattered. Again, after a little mental gymnastics, he came up with the answer. “Fifteen minutes, sir.”

“Correct. And that’s when we get to the good part.”

“Sir, may I ask what we are supposed to be doing during this drill?” asked an unbearably curious Davidson. “I don’t have a clue as to what is going on.”

“Certainly, Petty Officer Davidson. You and Lieutenant Mitchell here are the faithful crew of my Russian nuclear-powered attack submarine. Mr. Mitchell is my helmsman and you are my sonar shack. Together we are going to make a mock attack on Memphis, using the Manta.”

“Well, this should be quick,” said Davidson sarcastically. “With a TB-29 towed array, Memphis will make short work of us. The Manta ain’t that quiet.”

“Do not lose heart, comrade,” answered Monroe in a dreadful Russian accent. “Saint Nicholas — or is it Saint Andrew? Oh well, whomever it is, he will protect us and Mother Russia from those imperialists.”

“Huh, sir? I don’t get it.”

“Okay, let me be a little more clear. The commodore has already ordered your captain to stow both the TB-16 and TB-29 tails. Because you guys are going into really shallow water on your next run, you won’t be able to use the towed arrays. So the commodore wants to see how the crew performs against a quiet target with hull arrays only.”

“No shit, sir?” exclaimed Davidson, now considerably more interested. “Er, excuse me. You mean we get to hose over the old man, er, I mean the Captain? Kewl!”

“That’s the spirit,” replied Monroe more pleasantly.

Jerry just sat there and contemplated what was about to become his worst nightmare. Without the towed arrays, the Manta at slow speed would be a very difficult target to detect. This meant there was a good chance that LCDR Monroe would be able to take on Captain Hardy and win. The prospect filled Jerry with dread.

“Comrades, if I can have your attention please,” said Monroe as he tapped Jerry’s shoulder, bringing him out of his trancelike state. “The battle plan is as follows: We’ve intentionally sent the Manta down the hull array’s baffles so the sonar girls wouldn’t be able to cheat while we positioned the vehicle for the exercise. So now they only know that the Manta will come at them from abaft the beam. That’s still a lot of territory to keep under observation, which helps to make the exercise more realistic. We’ve also muddied the water a little more by taking a long time before things get interesting. It’s going to be an hour before Memphis’ sonar shack will even get a whiff of the Manta. This should help reduce the ‘alerted operator syndrome,’ since the sonar operators will have had time for the adrenaline to wear off.”

The more Jerry listened, the more he had to admire Monroe’s plan. It was brilliant, devious, and would certainly stress the sonar shack’s operators to no end. Jerry wondered if Monroe would spot the operator’s a few decibels in reduced performance due to increased system self-noise. Hardy would almost certainly be in the shack yelling at the sonar supervisor to find him his target. Jerry watched Davidson as he became more excited as the plan was explained to him. The very idea of beating the Captain at his own game was an incredibly motivating concept for the young torpedoman’s mate.

“Now, after we gain contact,” Monroe continued, “I want you to drive the Manta right across Memphis’ stern and generate a closest point of approach, a CPA. We probably won’t detect her at long range, so this maneuver should allow us to generate a good fire-control solution. I want you to travel about one thousand yards past the CPA and then turn in the direction of the target and match the target’s course and speed based on the solution. Since the target will be ahead of us and will be going in the same general direction, there is almost no chance of a collision with this maneuver. Do you think you can do that?”

Jerry thought for a moment and said, “Let me see if I have this straight, sir. You want me to cross astern of the target like this—” Jerry used his hands to show the relative positions of the Manta and Memphis—”go one thousand yards, then turn toward Memphis and match her course and speed. I then maintain that relative position so that we stay at about a constant range from the target, right?

“Precisely, Mr. Mitchell!” said Monroe enthusiastically. “You now have a fair understanding of Russian submarine target motion analysis tactics.”

“Thank you, sir. But to be honest, I’ve heard about it before. What you’ve described is also a basic fighter maneuver called ‘lag pursuit.’ And I know how to execute that maneuver,” responded Jerry confidently.

“Very good!” replied Monroe. “Ahhh, I see that the Manta is just about at the start position. Let’s have some fun now, shall we?”

Jerry looked at the navigation display and saw that the Manta had less than one hundred yards to go. Jerry punched the manual control button and tested the joystick. The controls seemed to be sluggish. Remember, be light on the stick, Jerry thought to himself. With the Manta that far away, it would take about five seconds for the maneuvering commands to reach the vehicle and another five seconds before he would be able to see any results on his displays. After verifying that everything seemed to be operating normally, Jerry reported. “Sir, the test of the Manta’s manual controls has been completed satisfactorily. Oh, and while I don’t disagree with anything you’ve said about the low probability of a collision, Just to be safe, I’d like to start the Manta off with a one-hundred-foot depth separation.”

“A prudent suggestion, Mr. Mitchell. Very well, make your depth three five zero feet and come left to course zero four zero.”

“Make my depth three five zero feet and come left to course zero four zero, aye, sir.”

As Jerry executed the maneuver, Davidson called up the sonar displays and adjusted the brightness and contrast. The use of color made these displays easier to use than the old green screens that the sonar techs were using. And even though detection was largely automated with the Manta sonar systems, Davidson really wanted to find Memphis before the sonar techs found the Manta.

“Easy there, Petty Officer Davidson,” said Monroe jokingly. “Don’t burn a hole in the flat screen by staring so hard! We’ve got a little ways to go before we even have a chance of picking up Memphis.”

“Yes, sir. Do you think we really have a chance?”

Monroe nodded vigorously and replied, “Absolutely! All right, Mr. Mitchell, it’s time we looked like a Russian SSN. Slow to eight knots.”

Jerry dropped the Manta’s speed by two knots and settled in for the potentially long wait. He snickered to himself as he remembered his submarine tactics instructor’s description of antisubmarine warfare, or ASW, and what it really meant was Awfully Slow Warfare. “You must be patient when you go hunting submarines,” his instructor said. “Impatience can get you killed.” But as the minutes passed, Jerry noticed that Davidson was losing interest in the sonar displays. For almost forty minutes, they refused to provide any indication of Memphis’ presence. Monroe’s delaying tactics were probably having an equally unpleasant effect in the sonar shack two decks up as well.

About an hour and five minutes into the drill, Davidson was startled by something on the display. He leaned forward and stared intently for a few moments and almost shouted, “Mr. Monroe, I think I have a contact!”

“Bearing?” barked Monroe.

“Contact bears zero one zero with a moderate right bearing rate,” answered Davidson quickly.

“Very well. Mr. Mitchell, come left to zero one zero.”

“Come left to zero one zero, aye,” replied Jerry. Moments later, “Sir, steady on course zero one zero.”

Suddenly the IMC blared, “MAN BATTLE STATIONS TORPEDO!” BONG, BONG, BONG. “MAN BATTLE STATIONS TORPEDO!”

“Well, well, I do believe they managed to pick up our scent. Look alive now, lads, for the game is afoot!”

Monroe moved over closer to Davidson and looked at the sonar display. After a few minutes, Monroe said, “Yes indeed, a very nice two to three degree per minute right bearing rate. There is no hint of cavitation on the narrowband display either. I would definitely say we have found our adversary. Mr. Mitchell, come right to,” Monroe paused momentarily as he took one more glance at the primary detection display, “come right to zero four zero.”

“Coming right to zero four zero, aye, sir,” acknowledged Jerry. He could feel his heart rate speeding up as the hunt began.

“Sir! Possible target zig,” reported Davidson.

Monroe nearly fell off his stool as he quickly leaned over to look at the display. “Good call, Davidson. She’s either turned toward us or increased speed.” After another thirty seconds of watching, Monroe exclaimed, “Look at that bearing rate! It has shot through the roof! And still no cavitation. She’s close, and she had to have turned toward us. Mr. Mitchell, stand by to come hard left on my mark!”

“Yes, sir!” said Jerry. All three men were now totally engrossed in the engagement that was unfolding before them.

Monroe monitored the sonar display carefully and slowly raised his left hand, poised to signal his order. “Contact has just past through CPA, aaaand mark! Hard left rudder! Mr. Mitchell, steady on course three four zero, increase speed to twelve knots, and execute your lag pursuit maneuver!”

“Coming hard left to three four zero, increasing speed to twelve knots, and beginning lag pursuit!” replied Jerry excitedly. Gently pushing the joystick over, Jerry pulled the Manta through a tight turn and crossed behind Memphis. A couple of minutes later, Jerry executed a hard right turn and brought the Manta close to Memphis’ estimated course. According to the target motion analysis algorithm, they had passed Memphis about two thousand yards astern and they were now on her port quarter.

“Perfect, Mr. Mitchell! Now keep us on her tail,” encouraged Monroe.

“Aye, aye, sir! We are in the sweet spot and I intend to take up permanent residence.”

Monroe and Davidson watched as Jerry matched Memphis maneuver for maneuver for the next six minutes. Keeping a close eye on the target’s estimated course and speed, Jerry adroitly adjusted the Manta’s course and speed so that it maintained its relative position with respect to Memphis. Captain Hardy must be beside himself with frustration, thought Jerry. With the Manta still in his baffles, there was nothing the Captain could do. He couldn’t hear the Manta and — more important — he couldn’t simulate a torpedo shot on it. Jerry was in control of the situation, and Jerry knew that Hardy knew it as well. But all of a sudden, the small smile on Jerry’s face was replaced with a frown. Memphis had not executed a maneuver in over three minutes. Something was up.

“Mr. Monroe, sir, the Captain is up to something. He hasn’t maneuvered at all in the three plus minutes and I think he’s going to break, and break hard, soon.”

“Concur. Which way do you think he’ll go?” Monroe asked.

“He’ll go to the left. All of his past maneuvers, as small as they were, have been to the right. He’s going to go to the left in a major league way, I just know it!” exclaimed Jerry. “And when he does, I’ll go hard right, cross behind again, and settle in on the starboard side of the baffles.”

“Won’t that be risky? Our TMA solution is a little old,” questioned Davidson.

“Not really,” responded Jerry. “I’ve kept our relative position pretty constant, so the solution is still accurate and we haven’t closed the target all that much. That’s the whole point behind the lag pursuit maneuver. Furthermore, as soon as we see him commit to a left turn — and we will if he breaks hard — we start turning to the right and with our superior maneuverability we’ll finish our maneuver before he does.”

“Do we still have depth separation?” asked Monroe.

“I don’t know, sir. That’s hard to estimate. I think Memphis is a little deeper, but I can’t say how much.”

Monroe sat down and thought for a moment. He looked at his own notes and then the TMA solution. A smile slowly grew on his face. “If he turns left, Mr. Mitchell, execute a hard right turn!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said Jerry. The three of them then sat there, glued to the sonar display, awaiting the first clue that Memphis was starting her turn. They didn’t have long to wait.

Within thirty seconds of Monroe’s decision, Memphis executed the hard left turn that Jerry had predicted. With almost lightning reflexes, Jerry simultaneously drove the Manta into a hard right turn and then eased off before they emerged from the starboard baffles. By the time Jerry finished fine-tuning, the Manta occupied the exact same position on Memphis’ starboard quarter.

“Sweeet,” muttered Davidson.

“Nicely done, Mr. Mitchell,” praised Monroe. “Now, before they can figure out what just happened, increase speed to fifteen knots. Davidson, prepare to go active.”

“Increase speed to fifteen knots, aye, sir,” replied Jerry.

With the added speed, the Manta broke from the starboard baffles. Waiting just a few seconds to let the maneuver’s effect sink in. Monroe ordered Davidson to go active on the bow array with four sharp pulses; meaning simply, “bang, you’re dead.”

“Touché, mon capitaine,” said Monroe triumphantly as he slapped both Jerry and Davidson on the back.

A couple of minutes later, the IMC announced, “Secure from battle stations. Secure from drill. Drill monitors muster in the wardroom for the critique.”

“Mr. Mitchell, you and your team recover the Manta and then join us in the wardroom,” ordered Monroe. “And a very well done to both of you.”

As Monroe headed forward, Davidson turned toward Jerry and said, “That was awesome, sir! You really handled the Manta well.”

“Thanks, Petty Officer Davidson. The funny thing is, the Manta felt a lot like an airplane. And I just fell back on my aviation training.”

“Well, sir, Mr. Adelman was never that good, and this was your first time with the real deal. Maybe that’s why the Navy sent you here for this mission. They knew you had the proper skills.”

Jerry laughed and responded sarcastically to Davidson’s naïveté, “Somehow TM2, I don’t think I can attribute that kind of forethought to the senior leadership of the U.S. Navy. Now, let’s get the Manta back on board.”

As Davidson contacted Greer to begin the recovery procedure, Jerry looked up and noticed for the first time that all of the torpedoman’s mates were looking at him and Davidson. A few nodded their approval; Foster clearly made his feelings known by his glare. Jerry chose to ignore his senior chief’s disapproval and turned the Manta procedure book to the recovery section.

Ten minutes later, with the Manta firmly secured in its dock, Jerry headed forward toward the wardroom. With any luck, the critique would be almost over. Hardy was bound to be in a foul mood after Monroe’s lopsided victory over Memphis’ fire-control party. Turning the corner around the bulkhead that separated officers’ country from the rest of the boat, Jerry heard a loud and angry voice coming from the wardroom. He couldn’t make out all the words, but the voice was very familiar. The Captain was obviously beside himself with anger over this drill and he was making his displeasure known to one and all. Stopping by the door to the wardroom, Jerry took a deep breath and went in.

“It’s about time you showed up Mitchell. We’ve been waiting for you,” growled Hardy.

Inwardly Jerry groaned. Now he would have to endure the Captain’s wrath as each embarrassing moment was gone over in detail. Since there was nothing Jerry could do about it, might as well get it over with. “Sorry, sir, we were recovering the Manta and I wish to report that the vehicle is now secured.”

“Very well,” grumbled Hardy.

“Let’s continue with the critique, please,” remarked Young rather testily. “As you were saying, Mr. Monroe.”

Lieutenant Commander Monroe looked down at his notepad and picked up where he had let off. He described the maneuvers used during the exercise and how they were based on classic Russian SSN tactics. He then made several complimentary statements on Jerry’s ability to grasp the essence of the tactics and to employ them. Monroe even went so far as to say that Jerry’s previous aviation experience proved to be extremely valuable in this instance. Jerry watched as Hardy seemed to turn more and more crimson as the squadron staffer praised one of his officers. When they reached the point in drill when Memphis turned hard left, Bair piped up and asked, “Why did you turn hard right as we turned left? I don’t quite understand the rationale behind that action.”

Monroe motioned for Jerry to answer his XO. “Well, sir, we could have easily turned with Memphis, but in doing so we would have ended up in a disadvantaged position where you would have been able to shoot us. By turning right and crossing astern for the second time, we retained the position of advantage. We knew about where you were and that you were in our weapons envelope. But we were not in yours. When I saw the hard left break, I recognized the situation as being similar to what aviators call a ‘flat scissors’ and I maneuvered accordingly.”

“Are you saying you beat the crap out of us by using dogfighting tactics, mister?” demanded Bair.

“Uh, yes, yes, sir. I guess that is what I’m saying.”

Bair sat back in his chair and shook his head. “No wonder we couldn’t figure out what they were doing. We were expecting them to behave like submariners and planned our attack based on this assumption. But instead, they acted more like fighter pilots. And in this case, they actually had one.”

“Yes, XO, I agree!” Hardy said angrily. “And that is exactly why I object to this whole drill. How can we be expected to fight a small, highly maneuverable vehicle with traditional tactics and weapons?”

“Your point is well taken, Captain,” replied Young icily. “But the last time I heard, the CNO is encouraging exactly this kind of out-of-the-box thinking!” Rising, Young positioned himself so that everyone could hear him. “What we learned today from this exercise was not what we had intended. Instead of ending up with a traditional sub-on-sub encounter that would just test your fire-control party’s skills, we found that a highly maneuverable vehicle with a well-trained operator unexpectedly dominated the scenario. And I submit to you, Captain, that this result is of far greater interest to my staff and me than what we did expect.”

“Since other nations will undoubtedly follow our lead in developing combat UUVs, this exercise has given us some insight into the problems we’ll face in developing future tactics and systems to address the threat. Now, if you will excuse us, Captain, we’ll sit down and determine your final grade for these sea trials. In the meantime, please set a course for home.”

As the members of Memphis’ crew filed out of the wardroom, Jerry received a number of slaps on the back and some words of congratulations — all out of the Captain’s earshot, of course. Even the XO, who had been in charge of the fire control party he and Monroe had so thoroughly bested, winked his approval.

But even more surprising to Jerry was the fact that Hardy was amazingly civil on the trip back to New London. Undoubtedly, the excellent grade Memphis received from the Commodore had done much to salve the Captain’s wounds. But Jerry hoped that maybe the Captain was starting to see that he was worth having on board. Of greater importance to Jerry, though, was his realization that he could be a good sub driver. And for the first time since he started down his new career path, Jerry saw light at the end of the tunnel.