Larry Bond - Cold Choices

As the water level fell, his men stowed the tools and materials they’d used, then filed out, dripping and shivering.

They toweled off as the trainers conferred, then started their debrief. The master chief was matter-of-fact, but merciless. Jerry’s men knew the basics- that was expected — but they had to be better than just good. The master chief reviewed how they used their tools, how to quickly set up a shoring timber, even how to hammer wedges into a hole that was underwater. “You may think you’re wet now. But if your boat takes a hit, you’ll be a long way from help, and all the water in the world is on the other side of that hole. If you can’t deal with it, you’ll lose the boat, the mission, and your lives.”

Jerry watched as his men listened attentively to the critique. A deep sense of pride welled up within him; each one was a professional. He felt particularly blessed, as Chief Hudson and the other senior enlisted men in the department were all strong performers. The “plankowners” that had brought Seawolf into service had long ago rotated off, and theoretically the submariners now assigned to her were no better than the rest of the fleet, but Jerry felt and thought they were a cut above the rest. And yes, they were “his” guys.

“All things considered, gentlemen, you did very well,” concluded the master chief with a grin. “I’ll inform your XO that you all died valiantly trying to save your boat. Any questions?”

A collective groan, plus a volley of wet towels, was the operations department’s response. Jerry laughed as the master chief expertly dodged the assault. The skipper and the XO were going to be pleased with his department’s grade. His men had taken everything the training team had to give before they lost the fight. In a way, it was almost a compliment, if a damp one.

Jerry didn’t mind. The more you trained for something, the less likely it was that you’d ever actually have to use it.

7 September 2008

Pier 8, New London Submarine Base

“Petty Officer Gibson, front and center,” barked Jerry as he and the communications officer, Lieutenant Chandler, stood in front of the operations department, assembled in Seawolf’s navigation equipment room. Seawolf was one of the biggest attack submarines in the U.S. Navy, but the ops department was just barely able to squeeze everyone in.

When Jerry called out his name, Gibson stepped up smartly and took the clipboard. IT2 Paul Gibson had been aboard the boat longer than Jerry. He was a little on the pudgy side, a common problem on subs where great food and few opportunities for exercise left their mark. He was twenty-seven, with a wife and a one-year-old son. He took position in front of the assembled sailors and began reading the plan of the day.

“Our underway is now in eight days. Supply chits have to be turned in by tomorrow if Mr. Constantino is supposed to fill them. ”

Jerry already knew what the PoD said, and Gibson had everything under control. As he stood, half-listening, Jerry looked over the operations department— his department. That still sounded strange, even after six months on board. Ops department was eighteen men, including Jerry and Lieutenant Chandler.

As the commo, Chandler was in charge of six “information systems technicians,” or “ITs,” although most of the crew still called them radiomen. And he was responsible for all the boat’s communications equipment and encryption gear.

And as operations officer, Jerry was responsible for everyone in the department, including Chandler. Jerry was also Seawolf’s navigator, in direct charge of the four quartermasters and six electronics technicians who ran the boat’s navigation systems.

His sailors were neatly lined up in three groups, wearing clean working uniforms. Civilians would be impressed by their military bearing and discipline. But Jerry knew he faced a band of rugged individualists who worked together only by choice. And while they worked together well, that didn’t come automatically, or even easily.

“Family day is Saturday, with a cookout at the ball field. We’re still looking for some people to help with the kids’ games, so contact MM2 Stone if you’re interested. The ship’s ombudsman and the family support network still need email addresses…”

Jerry’s mind wandered to his own personal “to do” list. However, since he was navigator, operations officer, and senior watch officer, technically it was “lists.” Oh. And he was one of three qualified divers on board.

As he mentally went down his tally, he looked down at his watch to check the time. No sweat, he still had fifteen minutes before his meeting with Lieutenant Commander Shimko, the executive officer. He had to go over the voyage plan — again. The crew wouldn’t be briefed about their destination until they were under way, but Jerry not only knew where they were going, he had planned out their entire trip in detail.

It was to Seawolf’s benefit that the XO was a detail freak, but it didn’t make Jerry’s life any easier. He was pretty sure he’d dreamed about the north Barents Sea again last night. He’d been cold when he woke up.

Gibson finished reading the PoD and looked expectantly at Jerry. Sensing his cue, Mitchell stepped forward and asked, “Do the chiefs or leading petty officers have anything further to add?” All four men responded in the negative.

“All right, then. Turn to and commence ship’s work. Dismissed.” As the members of the department queued up to exit through the narrow door into the control room, Jerry saw QM1 Peters waiting for his turn, and caught the quartermaster’s eye. He pointed to his watch and then held up five fingers. Peters nodded, understanding. The ship’s leading quartermaster would be at the briefing with the XO as well.

Jerry waited patiently to exit the nav equipment space and quickly headed aft to his stateroom. Even though the wardroom was on the same deck, and near his quarters, he’d have to hurry a little if he wanted to be punctual. To save time, he’d already organized the materials he needed to bring the night before, but as he approached his stateroom he saw Lieutenant Chandler waiting with a sheaf of papers in his hand and an earnest expression on his face. “Jerry, here are the last of our school requests, but I need to ask you a few questions. ”

Jerry cut him off as he stepped into his stateroom. “Sorry, Matt. I’m wearing my navigator hat right now. I’ve got a voyage planning review in the wardroom with the XO.” He dialed his safe and began removing his notes.

“I know, but this will only take a moment, and I have to turn them in this morning,” the comms officer pleaded.

“It’ll be morning for some time yet, and I do not want to keep the XO waiting.” Closing the safe should have added a note of finality to Jerry’s statement.

Chandler wouldn’t give up. “I’ll just turn them in as is. They’re probably fine.”

“Not without me seeing them first,” Jerry insisted. That was standard procedure for any paperwork going up the chain of command. And Chandler knew better. When the commo smiled and started to offer Jerry the documents, Jerry repeated, “After the meeting. Find me then,” he said firmly, letting some irritation show. Jerry didn’t like mind games. Chandler seemed to think it was the only way to get things done.

Hurrying the few steps to the wardroom, Jerry entered and found QM1 Peters already inside, laying out the charts. Jerry checked them over one last time, carefully comparing them to his own notes. Only after everything appeared in order did he allow himself to get a cup of coffee.