Larry Bond - Cold Choices

Once he’d checked the chart, Jerry headed aft again. He’d meant to just pass through officer’s country on his way to the XO’s stateroom, but Palmer’s desk light was on and the curtain drawn back. Loose papers had slid from his desk and were scattered across the deck. Jerry stepped in to gather them up, but saw Palmer, lying in his bunk, one arm limp over the edge and dangling, moving like a pendulum with the ship’s motion.

Jerry hurriedly stepped over the papers and bent down to check on the junior officer. He was awake, a little pale, but Jerry had seen far worse.

“Jeff, are you OK?” Jerry was concerned but puzzled.

With obvious effort, Palmer turned his head to look at Jerry. “I’m whipped. No, that’s what I’d feel like if I got better. I came down from the bridge an hour ago, and I meant to work on the search plan for the UUVs, but I was so tired I had to lie down.”

Carefully lowering himself to one knee, Jerry gathered up the papers. “Try to get something to eat and drink, if you can keep it down.”

“Oh, I grabbed a box lunch from the galley,” Palmer answered. “The doc’s pills are helping with the seasickness. I’m just fracking tired. It’s so easy to stop what I’m doing.”

Jerry left without saying anything else. It would have been easy, almost reflexive, to either haul Palmer’s butt out of the rack, or blow sunshine at him until he was motivated to get up. Neither approach dealt with the real problem, and Palmer’s gas tank might actually be near “E.” But Jerry didn’t think so.

Seawolf’s crew had suffered a major hit, both physical and mental, when they collided with the Russian. Everyone in the service knows submarining is dangerous. The potential for disaster is just one mistake away. But submariners compensate for that with detailed procedures for any imaginable situation. Near-obsessive training pushes the danger and the fear it brings into the back corners of one’s mind, where driving a boat seems no riskier than riding a commuter train every morning. Sure, something might happen. But you’re much more likely to read about it happening to the other guy.

But now it had happened to them, and instead of having a chance to recover, Rudel had turned them around, back toward an uncertain and potentially threatening future. And regardless of how things would turn out in the end, nobody on Seawolf would ever think of submarines in the same way.

There was little to do about it, except recognize that it was happening. Jerry had faith that Seawolf ‘s crew would react quickly and properly when the next crisis came. In the meantime, let them rest and heal.

Jerry was just about to make his report to the XO when he realized he had skipped the electronics equipment space up on the first deck. “Well, that was pretty stupid,” thought Jerry out loud. Now he would have to trudge back up and check in on the guys doing repair work. He was briefly tempted to just report everything status quo, but that wasn’t how he operated. With a weary sigh, Jerry turned back around and made his way forward.

Climbing up to the electronics equipment space was a circus act. Wait for the bow to begin pitching forward and the first step would take you halfway up the ladder. Watch for the roll to starboard, then step up at the bottom of the trough, but hang on as the boat swings back to port.

Here, once again as high inside the sub as Jerry could get, the motion was constant and violent enough to bruise him on any of a dozen angles. Like a climber, he made sure of the next handhold before releasing the one he had as he worked his way from the top of the ladder to the door of electronics space.

The noise was constant and unnerving. Instead of the quiet hum of electronics, Jerry heard wind-driven ice floes slammed and ground against the hull. It unnerved him, forcing him to remember that nothing was being crushed or mangled in runaway machinery.

This is where the action was. The periscope and other retractable masts passed through the electronics equipment space on their way down. Packing glands in the overhead sealed them against the outside water pressure where they entered the pressure hull, and those joints had been strained and even opened by the impact of the Russian’s hull.

EN2 Gaynor, one of Lieutenant (j.g.) Williams’s men, had wedged himself into a small gap between the periscope assembly and the bulkhead. It was uncomfortable, but it freed both hands to work on the seal overhead. Another petty officer, MM3 Day, alternately handed Gaynor tools and mopped up seawater around the gland so the second class could see to work.

Day’s efforts hadn’t kept Gaynor from getting repeatedly splashed in the face with icy water. His shirt and even his pants were spattered, and he occasionally stopped long enough to wipe his glasses. It was crude, rough work, pounding material into the gland to plug the gap. It wasn’t the kind of thing one associated with nuclear submarines, but in some ways, a sailor’s work never changed.

Todd Williams was there, looking miserable. Braced in a corner, he greeted Jerry tiredly. “Gaynor’s making progress.” A muttered imprecation from the petty officer made him pause, but only for a moment. “This is the third try. The first two leaked, but the stuff seems to be working, now that Gaynor’s got the proper tools.”

Two more engineers maneuvered their way into the space, laden with tools and more packing material. Their clothing was wet enough to show they’d been working on the leak as well.

There was only one question, and Williams didn’t wait for Jerry to ask. “Give it another two hours and we’ll be ready for a test.”

“That’s good news, Todd. Thanks.”

His tour of the operations compartment now finally complete, Jerry headed for the XO’s stateroom and reported. Shimko, pale but still seated and working at his desk, said, “Good. That matches what he told me earlier. I’m glad he’s still on schedule.”

The deck shuddered, an unusual motion. Both Jerry and Shimko grabbed for support and waited until it had passed.

“The storm’s getting worse,” Shimko announced. It wasn’t news, but it started him talking about what was obviously an uncomfortable request. “I want you to go topside and look at the weather.”

Jerry smiled, almost involuntarily, and laughed, but only for a moment. “It’s hard not to look at the weather when you’re up there.”

“We’re starting to get more injuries,” the XO explained. “It’s mostly scrapes and bruises, but Garcia was actually thrown from his rack when he was asleep. The doc just put seven stitches in his forehead.”

Shimko spoke carefully, as if he’d rehearsed what he had to ask. “As long as we’re forced to remain on the surface, the Captain’s concerned about the boat’s ability to weather the storm. It’s bad enough that the storm’s moving slowly to southeast, but we’re heading northeasterly, almost perpendicular to its path. Read the latest weather reports, go up and look things over, then report back to me. Should we keep going, or slow and try to find a more comfortable course?”

The confusion must have shown in Jerry’s expression. Shimko explained, “Yes, this is the Captain’s decision to make. And yes, he and I both went up a little while ago. He used the sat phone to call Rountree’s parents. We both looked at the weather, but now he wants to hear your opinion as well.”

There was only one answer. “Aye, aye, sir. I’ll report back as soon as I can.”

Jerry went back to his stateroom, trying to work it through. The captain might be testing him, seeing what Jerry’s answer would be, but Shimko hadn’t acted like this was a training evolution. The XO also hadn’t hinted at his own opinion.