Larry Bond - Dangerous Ground

The chief was usually the best technical man in the division. He knew his equipment, his troops, and what they were able to do. That knowledge took at least ten years to acquire, and many chief petty officers served more than twenty.

So why was Foster refusing to even deal with Jerry? Confused and in need of some guidance, Mitchell left his stateroom and took a few steps forward to Lieutenant Richards’ stateroom. The Weapons Officer was inside, searching through a stack of papers. He looked up when Jerry knocked on the doorjamb. “Yes?”

“Sir, I’d like to talk to you about Senior Chief Foster.”

“What about him?”

Jerry wished he’d thought this though a little bit more, but plunged ahead anyway. “He seems reluctant to turn over his division officer duties to me, and I was wondering if you. ”

“What?” Richards’ tone was unbelieving, as if he couldn’t understand what Mitchell had told him.

“I went to see Foster about turning over the division as you instructed, and he said he was too busy, that we’d have to do it later. Sir, he’s deliberately stalling.”

Richards absorbed Jerry’s statement and sat motionless for a few moments.

“And why do you need me?” Richards asked curtly. Jerry started to reply, but as he opened his mouth to speak, the lieutenant cut him off.

“No, wait, I don’t want to know,” the weapons boss told him. “Mister, I’ve got twenty urgent things to do right now. And one of them is not holding your hand while you deal with your senior chief!”

“Yessir,” Jerry replied quickly.

“If you’ve got a problem with your leading chief, work it out. I suspect the problem may not be with the Senior Chief, either. I’ve known Foster a lot longer than I’ve known you, and he’s good. In fact, he’s very good at his job. We still don’t know about you.”

Richards dismissed him. “Now, go make yourself useful. I’m still waiting for that new duty schedule from the Senior Chief, and I want a list of all repair parts the Torpedo and FT division needs on my desk by 1700.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Jerry half-fled Richards’ stateroom, thinking, Stupid, Jerry, just plain stupid! Originally, he intended to go back to his cabin and think, but decided instead to go looking for Foster. He ran into the senior chief by the galley, heading forward with some papers in his hand.

“Senior Chief, is that the new duty schedule for the division?”

“Yes, sir.” Foster moved as if to pass him and head forward, but Jerry held out his hand. “I’d like to see it, please.”

Foster seemed reluctant to hand it over, almost as if it held secret information. “The WEPS wanted to see it right away, sir.”

“Don’t you think the division officer should see it first?”

Sensing defeat, Foster wordlessly handed it over. Jerry studied the unfamiliar form for a minute. To his credit, Jerry recognized most of the names from his recent study of the personnel records. It wasn’t terribly complex. Half the division would remain on board each night. Jerry noted that the senior man after Foster, TM1 Moran, also had the two most inexperienced men: TM3 Lee and TMSN Jobin.

Jerry handed the paper back to Foster. “Thanks, Senior Chief.” He kept his tone casual and stepped out of the way so that Foster could head forward.

After Foster disappeared, Jerry headed for the torpedo room, to familiarize himself with the spaces if he couldn’t do anything else. As its name implies, the room was designed to store and fire torpedoes and cruise missiles. There was little space for humans to walk around and work in, but to Foster’s credit everything was well organized and properly stowed. The only things out of place were a coffee cup and a beat-up paperback book on the starboard torpedo storage rack.

Jerry was opening cabinets when Senior Chief Foster returned. The look on his face made Jerry start to feel like a burglar, but then he remembered that this space was his responsibility.

“Is the WEPS happy with the duty roster?” Again, Jerry kept his tone casual, matter-of-fact.

“Yes, sir.” Foster replied.

“You said you were going to test the fire-control circuits next.”

“Yes, sir, I have to supervise a test of the fire-control circuit interface with the port tube nest.” Foster sounded like he was in a hurry, but Jerry refused to be rushed.

“Do you have the PMS card for the check, Senior Chief?”

Foster went over to a card index and removed a stiff 8x10 card. Filled with text and symbols, it was titled FIRE CONTROL CIRCUIT CHECK OF THE mk67 torpedo tube system.

Jerry had studied the Planned Maintenance System (PMS) at the Academy and at submarine school. It was the Navy’s way of standardizing the routine maintenance work on all the equipment aboard a ship. Before it was installed on any ship, a team of engineers studied each new piece of equipment. How often did a component need to be cleaned or lubricated? When did it need to be checked or replaced? Once the bright boys had listed what checks needed to be done and when, they’d figure out what skills were needed, what tools and materials should be used, and even how long it should take.

All that information, in excruciating detail, was printed on the card Jerry held in his hand. It was a weekly check that required the following tools, and the following personnel.

“Senior Chief, you said you were going to supervise the test. According to this card, a first class should be able to perform the check.”

Foster replied, “Well, yes, but I want to make sure…”

“Is there a problem with Moran? Does he have the skills?” Jerry wasn’t demanding, but he was insistent.

“Yes, sir. Absolutely,” the senior chief answered firmly.

“Then you don’t need to be there. We have to start the turnover. You know it, and I know it, so let’s begin. I want to see the division’s spaces.”

Foster glared at Jerry, “Certainly, Mr. Mitchell, as you wish. Let’s start over here with the starboard tube nest.”

It was hardly the best tour Jerry had ever had, but he had to concede one thing: Foster knew his stuff and he knew it cold. As they walked around the room, Foster kept pointing to pipes, valves, and other mechanical components, spitting out facts and specifications at a rapid rate. So rapid, in fact, that Jerry couldn’t keep up. He had had some basic instruction on the Mk67 torpedo tubes in submarine school, but everything there had been on paper. Now Jerry was trying to merge some of his basic knowledge with chunks of metal that were all clustered on top of each other and interwoven with piping and electrical cables.

The four torpedo tubes were nearly identical. Broken out into two nests or groups, tubes one and three were on the starboard side and had been modified for ROY testing back in the late-1990s. Tubes two and four were on the port side and were standard 688-class torpedo tubes. As with every U.S. Navy attack submarine built since the early 1960s, the torpedo tubes were moved aft from their traditional position in the bow, and on 688-class submarines, angled out at seven degrees. This arrangement was necessary because the fifteen-foot bow sonar sphere prevented bow-mounted tubes. Each tube nest had its own ram ejection pump located beneath the torpedo tubes. These pumps used high-pressure air to drive a slug of water into a tube, which would forcefully eject a 3,700-pound Mk48 ADCAP torpedo from the sub.

In the middle of the torpedo room, directly between the two tube nests, was the Mk19 weapons launching console. From this position, a torpedo-man’s mate could operate all of the four tubes’ various functions. Everything from opening the breech door, flooding a tube, even firing one could be done from this console. Foster pointed out, of course, that all the automatic functions on the console had a manual backup and his torpedomen could work these in their sleep.