Larry Bond: Cold Choices

So it was time for a new plan. The U.S. would plant acoustic recording devices on the seabed to monitor Russian activity. The information could be recovered later by another submarine when the area was quiet. These sensors would gather some of the raw intelligence data that a submarine would normally be tasked to collect. There would be other Western assets that would still be watching, but their observations would be from a safe distance.

Obviously, secrecy was paramount. If the Russians discovered the sensors’ existence, they could be easily destroyed or recovered. Besides the embarrassment, and loss of valuable intelligence, the devices used some very sophisticated technology — not the sort the U.S. wanted to share.

Jerry showed the XO how Seawolf would approach each survey site and launch a UUV, an automated underwater robot, to check out the bottom topography and to measure the ambient acoustic conditions. Several sites would be examined in each exercise area. The collected data would be used by the bright boys back home to compute the exact sensor locations, which would be planted later.

After examining every yard of their planned path, the XO quizzed Jerry about GPS satellite coverage, deviation from standard sonar conditions, marine life in the area, and the effects of the aurora borealis on communications. Jerry’s ready answers pleased Shimko, but earned him a crack about “smartass know-it-all.”

“Make those changes I mentioned and we’ll brief the Skipper tomorrow at nineteen hundred.”

“Aye, aye, XO,” Jerry replied. Shimko finished, “That’s all, then.”

Jerry turned to help his chief gather up the maps and notes, but Shimko called him aside.

“How’s the watch bill coming?” the XO asked.

“It’s done,” Jerry answered, “I’ll have a smooth copy on your desk this afternoon.”

“Fine.” Having watched Jerry mentally shift gears, Shimko hit him with the real question. “Who’s taking her out?” he asked, in a voice slightly softer than normal conversation.

As senior watch officer, Jerry not only made up the underway watch bill, he managed the junior officers’ training. Conning Seawolf when she got under way was an important learning opportunity for a junior member of the wardroom.

“Hayes,” Jerry replied followed by a short pause, “and Palmer. With your permission, sir.”

Shimko frowned. “Palmer,” he repeated, working through the idea and not enjoying the implications. “After the hash he made of his last underway, why should I give him another chance?”

Jerry hoped the question was rhetorical. “Because he can’t qualify without it,” he replied earnestly. “Because he learns from his mistakes.”

“And if he flubs, it’s too late to replace him,” Shimko replied acidly. “Seawolf is not just a training aid, and I’m not inclined to risk the boat as we leave for an important mission.”

“Lieutenant Palmer would be pleased to answer any questions about underway procedures you wish to ask,” Jerry replied positively.

“Fine. I’ll see both of you right after lunch tomorrow.”

“Day after tomorrow?” Jerry replied hopefully. “They’ll be loading weapons all day today and most of tomorrow.”

Shimko sighed. “All right. Day after tomorrow, then.” He paused, then said, “You can’t carry him forever, Jerry.”

“He’ll find his feet, sir. He just needs a little more time.”

“I hope so, for everyone’s sake,” the XO answered as he left the ward-room.

Peters and Hudson had finished collecting all the charts, and Jerry double-checked them as they left to make sure nothing was left behind. Everyone on a nuclear submarine had some sort of security clearance, but it didn’t pay to get sloppy with sensitive documents. Although he might have more room in a jail cell, the food was worse.

Chandler was not in his stateroom, or in the comms shack. Jerry hadn’t expected the man to be waiting outside the wardroom, but he begrudged the time it would take to find the commo, and he couldn’t trust Chandler to find him.

Matthew Lloyd Chandler III was a good officer. The son of a successful submarine admiral, he’d just made lieutenant and seemed destined for higher rank. But as communications officer and Jerry’s subordinate on the ship’s organizational chart, Chandler seemed to be a drain on his time, not an asset.

He finally found Chandler in the ship’s office. When he saw Jerry, the lieutenant spoke first. “I got those questions answered, sir. I should have looked in the manual,” he said humbly, gesturing to a fat notebook on a rack over the yeoman’s desk.

Chandler’s formality irked Jerry. He did work for Jerry, and it was of course proper to address officers senior to oneself as “sir,” but naval custom allowed officers who worked together and were separated by one pay grade to use first names. The submarine service was even more informal. And any pretext for formality had been removed two months ago, when Chandler had been promoted from lieutenant j.g. to full lieutenant, the same rank as Jerry.

“Petty Officer Wallace helped me find what I needed.” Chandler nodded toward the yeoman, sounding grateful.

Then why didn’t you ask him in the first place? Jerry thought, but suppressed the urge to say it. He simply said, “Good. Then are they ready for me?”

“Yessir.” Chandler handed over the forms.

Jerry reviewed them on the spot, since their next stop was the ship’s office. They were neatly filled out. He took his time, but couldn’t decide if he was pleased or irritated to find everything in order.

As Jerry read, the phone in the ship’s office buzzed, and Wallace answered. He listened for a moment, then replied, “I’ll tell him.” Wallace turned to Jerry. “Chief Hudson’s looking for you. He’s in officers’ country.”

“I’ll meet him there,” Jerry answered. He initialed the forms and handed them to the yeoman.

Chief Hudson was waiting by Jerry’s stateroom with a third-class petty officer Jerry didn’t recognize. The young sailor nervously came to attention when he saw Jerry, and Mitchell let him stay that way for the moment.

“Lieutenant Mitchell, this is Petty Officer Dennis Rountree,” Hudson reported. “He’s just come aboard, fresh from school. Here’s his service jacket.”

Jerry opened the file and skimmed it quickly. Twenty years old, although he looked about fourteen. Good scores, no disciplinary problems. He’d expected that, but it never hurt to check. “At ease, Petty Officer Rountree.” Jerry smiled as he said it, trying to really put the young man at ease. “Welcome aboard. You’re coming to a great boat with a handpicked crew. Since you’ve just been picked as well, you’re allowed a few moments to feel proud, before Chief Hudson starts working your tail off. We’re getting under way in eight days, and we’ll be gone for a while. Are you ready for that? Everything squared away ashore?”

“Yes, sir. I can’t wait,” Rountree replied enthusiastically

Jerry’s smile matched the chief’s. “Keep that attitude, and you’ll do well.” Turning to Hudson, he asked, “Did you phone the XO?”

“Yessir, he said to see him when we’re done.”

It was only a few steps from Jerry’s stateroom to the XO’s. Jerry knocked twice, lightly, and waited to hear “Come” before turning the knob.

Lieutenant Commander Shimko had the neatest stateroom Jerry had ever seen. Of course, when you live in a space the size of a walk-in closet, neatness is more than just a virtue, but the XO’s room was almost pathologically spotless. Shimko’s stateroom had two bunks on one side, separated from the opposite bulkhead by a three-foot-wide patch of linoleum deck. That bulkhead held a sink and mirror. Next to that was a closet, and next to that a fold-down desk. A chair in front of the desk took up about a third of the available floor space.