Larry Bond - Dangerous Ground

Jerry dumped the notebook in his stateroom and went looking for Davis. He found her in the wardroom, sitting alone with her coffee, looking bored.

“Dr. Davis?”

“Please call me Emily.”

“And I’m Jerry,” he said automatically. “I was hoping I could get some more information about the gear and what’s going to happen in my torpedo room, if that’s not classified.” He grinned, and Davis smiled back.

“Well, could we start the survey now? I’ve been trying to work from drawings, and I’m having some trouble visualizing where everything needs to go. And, if you haven’t already noticed, I’ve never been aboard a submarine before.”

Jerry shook his head, “I’m sorry, Dr… I mean Emily, but my men won’t be ready until this afternoon.”

Jerry could tell by the look on Davis’ face that she was disappointed. Sighing, Jerry smiled and suggested, “We could go down and have a quick look around. We’ll just have to keep out of the way of my men while they work.”

Davis’ face quickly transformed from gloomy to beaming. “Oh! That would be great! Thank you.”

“We’re just one deck up. It’s almost directly below us.” Jerry then looked around for Dr. Patterson.

“Will your partner want to come with us?”

Davis’ expression at his use of the word “partner” made him realize that Patterson must be the boss.

“No.” Davis shook her head sharply. “She’s working with the Captain and the Executive Officer.”

“Then let’s go for a quick tour.”

Jerry led Davis out of the wardroom and toward the ladder by the crew’s berthing. Jerry belatedly hoped that the crew had been informed that there were female visitors on board, otherwise this could get interesting. Entering into the torpedo room, Jerry and Davis found it buzzing with activity. A number of the TMs and FTs were huddled around the launching console and several of the access panels were open. TM1 Moran looked up from the panel and saw Jerry and Dr. Davis in the back of the room. Grabbing a rag, he walked over to his division officer and the visitor.

“Mr. Mitchell, I thought the survey was this afternoon,” Moran seemed nervous and surprised by Jerry’s arrival with Davis.

“Not to worry, Petty Officer Moran, I haven’t changed anything. I’m just letting Dr. Davis have a quick look around.” Moran visibly relaxed after Jerry had replied.

“Dr. Emily Davis, this is Torpedoman’s Mate First Class Moran. Petty Officer Moran, Dr. Davis.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Davis as she extended her hand.

“You’ll excuse me if I don’t shake your hand, ma’am. Mine are covered in grease. I’ve been doing some maintenance on the port tubes and this stuff doesn’t come off very easily.”

“Have you tried gasoline? I’ve always found that it works pretty well in removing marine grease,” suggested Davis.

Moran stared at her with amusement.

“What? What’s wrong with what I said? It does work!” replied Davis defensively.

Moran looked at Jerry, who motioned to him, as if to tell him to explain. “I’m sure it does work, ma’am,” said Moran. “But you can’t bring gasoline onto a sub. There’s nowhere for the vapors to go. They would collect and become toxic, in addition to being very flammable.”

Davis suddenly became wide-eyed and momentarily covered her mouth in embarrassment, “That was stupid of me! I guess I’m too used to working in a well-ventilated lab.”

“That’s okay, ma’am. Most people don’t realize that we can’t use a lot of things on board a submarine for safety reasons. Take deodorant, for example. We can’t use aerosols on board because the propellants are bad for our atmosphere, so we all use stick deodorant,” said Moran.

“Thank you, Mr. Moran. I’ll try to remember that in the future.”

“You’re welcome, and ma’am, its ‘Petty Officer Moran’ or ‘TM1.’ That’s a mister,” stated Moran as he pointed at Jerry.

When Davis looked at Jerry with confusion, he said, “Never mind, I’ll explain later.” Turning back toward Moran, Jerry said, “We’ll try to keep out of your way, Petty Officer Moran. By the way, where’s the Senior Chief?”

“He went back to the chiefs’ quarters, sir. He, umm, said he had to unload a bunch of paperwork. He should be back soon,” replied Moran, again with some apprehension.

“Thanks, TM1. We won’t keep you any longer.” Moran nodded and returned to his work.

“All right, what did I do wrong this time?” asked Davis with a note of frustration.

“Hmmm? Oh nothing. However, the title ‘mister’ is usually reserved for addressing officers junior to you in rank. While it’s not inappropriate for a civilian to address an enlisted man as ‘mister,’ it’s not customary aboard ship and some enlisted don’t like to be addressed that way. Shall we proceed with the tour?”

Jerry escorted Davis over to the starboard tube nest and began to discuss the features of the Mk67 torpedo tubes on Memphis while Davis listened with rapt attention. Jerry was beginning to enjoy himself, feeling more confident about his abilities, and it didn’t hurt that this young woman seemed to hang on every word he said.

But after about twenty minutes, Jerry’s confidence began to waver as he started to run out of things to say, and as Davis’ questions became increasingly more technical. Jerry loathed the idea of calling Moran over to help, particularly since he and the other TMs were still troubleshooting the launching console.

As if on cue, Senior Chief Foster appeared by the port tube nest. He looked over and saw the two of them by the starboard tubes; this earned Jerry a deep scowl. Jerry ignored the senior chief’s displeasure and motioned for him to come over.

“Excellent timing, Senior Chief, I’m afraid that I’ve exhausted my limited knowledge of the torpedo tubes, and Dr. Davis here is full of questions. Dr. Davis, this is Senior Chief Foster, my division’s leading chief. Senior Chief, Dr. Davis.”

As Foster shook Davis’ hand, he looked straight at Jerry and said, “Sir, I thought you said the survey was this afternoon. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to get people freed up for that and. ”

“Whoa, Senior. I haven’t changed a thing, so stand down,” replied Jerry tersely. “Dr. Davis was curious and asked for a quick look around before the survey this afternoon, and seeing as she is a guest on board our boat, I saw no reason not to grant her request. We’ve made every effort to stay clear of the men. And now that you are here, you can help reduce the good doctor’s curiosity.”

Foster looked pained and embarrassed. Jerry sensed that his mild chastisement of the senior chief in front of a visitor had just blown up the abutments to the bridges he had torched earlier. Oh well, thought Jerry, he’s a big boy. He’ll just have to get over it. For his part, Foster merely nodded stiffly and then turned to address Davis. “What do you want to know, ma’am?”

“In talking with Mr. Mitchell, I gather that your torpedoes are about 19 feet in length, but what I need to know is how long is the tube itself?”

“First off, ma’am, with the torpedo mount dispenser attached, the length of a Mk48 Mod 6 is twenty feet six inches. The length of the tube itself is twenty-two feet two inches.”

Davis jotted down the figure and looked relieved. “Whew, that leaves three inches to spare. They said my babies would fit, but I didn’t think it would be this tight.”

“Your ‘babies’ ma’am?” asked a perplexed Foster.

“Yes, they are part of the special equipment we’ll load on your submarine in a few weeks. I’m not at liberty to say much more right now,” responded Davis nervously.