Larry Bond - Cold Choices

One clue to the time of day was the sound of quiet movement in the passageway outside his stateroom. And Jerry could smell breakfast in the wardroom, just a few feet down the passageway.

Jerry shared his stateroom with Lieutenant Chandler, who occupied the lower bunk, and Ensign Tim Miller, who had the top rack. Being a department head, Jerry had the middle bunk — the easiest one to get in and out of. Still, Jerry was always careful to make sure of Chandler’s location before getting out of his bunk. He remembered the perils of being in the lower bunk during his tour on Memphis when Lenny Berg nearly jumped on him once or twice. Space management becomes very important when three people occupy the floor space of a walk-in closet — a small closet.

Chandler and Miller were gone, already risen and dressed, much to Jerry’s relief. It wasn’t just the extra floor space. Ever since Jeff Chandler’s promotion, there’d been friction.

There used to be four lieutenants aboard Seawolf, and then there were five. Jerry was competitive. He understood the natural drive, not to reach some goal, but to beat someone or something.

But he didn’t understand Chandler. His roommate, subordinate officer, and shipmate was doing everything he could to get ranked as the best lieutenant aboard Seawolf, and that “everything” went far beyond just doing a stellar job.

Every officer was evaluated annually on a standard fitness report form. It was filed in his jacket and used to decide if he merited promotion. It was also used by the Bureau of Personnel to see if an officer was a good fit for their next duty station. A “bad” fitness report, even as a junior officer, could haunt someone throughout their entire career. And bad, in the highly competitive, small-town community of submarine officers, could be interpreted as anything less than perfection.

Shortly after Chandler’s promotion, they’d both been doing paperwork in their stateroom. Chandler had to leave and offered to take a stack of Jerry’s finished paperwork to the XO on his way. Jerry had of course agreed, but later the XO asked him about some of the documents. Several were missing, and had to be redone. Jerry was sure he’d done them — pretty sure, at any rate.

And Chandler had started finding reasons to talk to the XO and the skipper. A division officer like Chandler was supposed to check with his department head, Jerry, before seeing the XO, and then he was supposed to check with the XO before seeing the captain. It was part of the chain of command. Your juniors weren’t supposed to deal directly with a senior officer without your knowledge and permission. Sure there were social occasions, even while at sea, when the CO would spend time with his junior officers to watch a movie, play games, or just talk. That helped to build camaraderie and a tight wardroom.

But Jerry had recently seen Chandler speaking with the XO and even the captain — never for long, and about trivial matters, as far as Jerry knew, but what was he after? More face time? You couldn’t help but get face time on a submarine, but that seemed to be his goal.

Jerry detested politics, especially petty office politics. It was a drain, a distraction, and it destroyed trust. He’d seen a lot of this self-promoting posturing in his career already, and had hoped to avoid it on Seawolf. Chandler’s shenanigans could also affect Jerry’s fitness report, simply because part of Jerry’s evaluation covered his ability to lead those under him in the chain of command.

By 0545, Jerry was dressed. He stopped in the wardroom just long enough to grab some coffee, then headed for control. The watch was changing as he reviewed the charts and the planned course for the day. As usual, Seawolf was where she should be and on schedule. He inspected the chart and the logs and found them being properly maintained. He hadn’t expected anything else, but he couldn’t sit down to breakfast until he’d satisfied himself that everything was in order.

The weather report showed a storm overhead. Winds gusted to forty knots, with waves up to twenty-five feet high. It was an early winter storm, but not too early. The weather would get worse as they sailed farther north, but Seawolf might as well be on blocks for all the motion Jerry felt. His sensitive stomach appreciated their isolation from the surface. Submarines were not designed to ride the waves, and Jerry turned a pale gray-green every time Seawolf ran on the surface in a rough sea.

And Jerry hated to lose his appetite. Food on a sub was always good. The cooks regularly served pancakes or French toast, eggs and hot and cold cereal, along with bacon, sausage, and lots of fruit. And then there were the hot, fresh cinnamon sticky buns — the bane of every waistline on board. Jerry could easily make breakfast a big meal, but he’d disciplined himself early on to eat lightly. There was almost no room to exercise aboard a sub, although there was an exercise bike and some free weights crammed into one of the auxiliary machinery rooms. A lot of submariners joined the jogging circuit after they returned from patrol.

A stack of angled-in boxes on the bulkhead held each officer’s message traffic, and Jerry picked at his fruit salad as he read a mix of news summaries and administrative traffic.

At sea, the XO never held morning officers’ call. There was little room in the cramped spaces, and too many of the officers were on duty throughout the ship. Besides, it really wasn’t necessary; Jerry and the other department heads spoke with Shimko at breakfast or immediately after the meal, trading information about the day’s activities.

When Jerry found the XO this morning, his greeting was “On track, sir. No adjustment required until the next course change at 0700 tomorrow.”

Finishing a bite of eggs, Shimko nodded, unsmiling. Swallowing, he asked, “And the other checkpoint?” He managed to sound conversational.

“Also on schedule, sir.”

“Good. See me later.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Jerry toured his spaces quickly, finding everything in order. The ITs were dealing with a bad display in the radio room, but they expected to have it up in an hour, “no prob.” Chandler was in radio as well, working with Chief Morrison on the rate training schedule for the next advancement exam. Jerry headed back to officers’ country, pleased to find the passageway empty.

Shimko answered Jerry’s soft knock, and urged him inside. “Shut the door.” Jerry eased the door closed, and held the knob so it wouldn’t make a noise.

“Sir, I recommend a small speed change when we change course tomorrow so that we’ll cross the Arctic Circle at 1400 hours tomorrow afternoon,” Jerry reported.

“Do it. Then it’s still tomorrow after lunch, eh? Excellent. You’ll be secretary,” Shimko informed Jerry.

“Aye, sir. Who’s going to be Boreas?”

Shimko grinned broadly.

“Uh, XO, weren’t you Boreas last year?” Jerry’s tone was mildly accusatory.

“Yeah,” replied Shimko defensively. “Do you have a problem with that, Mr. Mitchell?”

“No sir! Absolutely not!” Jerry exclaimed, wisely recognizing the right answer when told. “But from the rumors I heard, you had way too much fun last time.”

“And that’s why I want to do it again. XO’s prerogative.” Shimko was still smiling. “COB still has the props from last time.”

“Aye, aye, sir. I mean, Your Majesty. I’ll need the list of candidates.”

Shimko handed him a single sheet with a list of names. “There are thirty-seven unrepentant warm bodies for you to keep track of.”

Jerry took the paper, read it, and whistled. “This is over a quarter of the crew.”