Larry Bond: Dangerous Ground

Having been stationed at New London for the past two months while attending submarine school, Jerry knew all about the “Upper Base.” He wasn’t as well-versed as to where things were on the “Lower Base,” though, and so he studied the base map until he’d memorized the layout of the squadron’s piers. His knowledge of the nautical route in and out of the SUBASE was even more limited, and he had gone to the trouble of ordering his own copy of the harbor chart.

It hadn’t been a long trip from Newport, Rhode Island, but he’d been nervous enough about his arrival to program extra time into his trip. He’d arrived back in Groton a day early, leaving as soon as Manta school had been completed, and had spent last night and part of this morning prepping his uniform and memorizing (again) everything he’d been able to find out about the boat. Her CO was Commander Lowell Hardy, the XO LCDR Robert Bair. The boat was commissioned in 1977 and was redesignated as an experimental submarine to test advanced submarine systems and sensors in 1989. She was one of six SSNs that made up Submarine Development Squadron (SUBDEVRON) Twelve. There were many more facts, mechanical and meaningless right now, in isolation, but they would soon be the foundation of his new life.

In spite of all his study, and although he’d attended sub school here, the New London base felt different, strange. He was coming back as a submariner now, reporting to his first ship: USS Memphis , SSN 691.

Jerry looked around his apartment’s living room one last time, making sure he had everything, and then shut and locked the door. He quickly glanced at his watch, checking the time. He’d allowed twenty minutes for the drive to the base, figuring the best time to arrive was 0900 (9:00 a.m.) The crew would be done with the bustle of Quarters, but he didn’t want to appear tardy in reporting.

He checked his uniform again. The skipper would only get one first impression, and Jerry wanted it to be a good one. He carefully checked the driving directions to Lower Base (yet again) on the front seat and drove off.

He made the SUBASE’s main gate right on schedule and was allowed to pass, after a brief security check. He turned onto Shark Boulevard and proceeded toward the Lower Base entrances, being very careful to mind the speed limit. Jerry had found out — the hard way, of course — that the SUBASE police had a thing for red sports cars that violated the speed limit by even two or three mph. Once he reached Dorado Road, he turned left and was waved through the Lower Base gate, having gotten his parking decal the day before. He even found a parking spot. Leaving his gear in the Porsche, he straightened his uniform one last time, and even remembered his orders. It was a good start.

Pier 32 was two blocks and two corners away, and he breasted the bitterly cold March wind, glad for the bridge coat he’d bought. It was a dark midnight blue, made of heavy wool, and long, reaching down to cover his legs, but most officers bought it for looks as much as for warmth. A shorter peacoat would be much more practical on a sub, where space was at a premium.

Memphis lay berthed on the north side of the pier. Only her name on the brow revealed the boat’s identity. A low, weathered black shape on the water, most of her hull rose just a few feet above the wavelets that slapped against her rounded sides. Only a large rectangular structure aft broke up her smooth lines. The brow lay aft of the sail, leading to an open hatch in the deck. There was a small, battered gray wooden shack perched on the pier next to the brow, and Jerry could see an enlisted man inside. The petty officer, a second class, was speaking on the telephone.

Compared with a jet fighter or even a surface ship, the sub looked harmless. No visible weapons, not even all that big above the waterline. Most of her bulk, and all of her abilities, were hidden below the surface.

The Petty Officer of the Watch was keeping an alert lookout, and spotted Jerry as he turned the corner. He saw a short black-haired lieutenant junior grade in his mid-twenties. He looked slim, even in his bridge coat, and carried a manila envelope tucked under one arm.

It was clear he was headed for Memphis, and the petty officer summoned the duty officer, then stepped out of the shack to meet him.

Jerry stopped at the shack and returned the petty officer’s salute, and in keeping with long-standing naval tradition, said, “Request permission to come aboard.”

Commander, U.S. Fleet Forces Command

Compound Norfolk, Virginia

Commander Lowell Hardy sat nervously, waiting. A summons to see the big boss was to be expected. The Manta trials were over, Memphis was old, and Hardy’s tour was nearly over. Hopefully, he was about to be congratulated on a job well-done. Or maybe not.

Memphis had been his first command, and he’d done his best with the old girl, and he’d turned in a good record. But it hadn’t been perfect.

They called a captain the master of his ship, the last absolute monarch. Hardy was the master of 6,100 tons of complex, and in the case of Memphis, cranky machinery. He was the monarch of 135 rugged individualists whose chance of doing the right thing went down as its importance went up. Only his constant supervision had prevented some hapless teenage sailor from sending his career straight into the toilet.

And now his fate was in another’s hands again. He was waiting for Rear Admiral Tom Masters, Commander Submarines Atlantic, to tell him what came next.

Memphis was scheduled for decommissioning, and preparations for that would take several months. There’d be the last trip to Bremerton, Washington, where she would actually be decommissioned, and the crew would split up, each with new orders. What would his read? Another boat immediately? That was the best he could hope for in his heart of hearts, but unlikely. Purgatory in a shore command for a year or two with the promise of another boat afterward? More probable, and by then there’d be a slightly better chance of him getting a newer.

“Commander, the admiral will see you now.” The receptionist’s summons surprised him, because as far as Hardy knew, there was still a herd of people in there with SUBLANT. He’d shown up early for his appointment and he’d seen them go in, but they hadn’t come out yet. Still, if he was supposed to go in, he’d go. Bracing himself, he rapped twice on the dark wood door and opened it.

Hardy had been in the admiral’s office before. It was spacious, filled with the obligatory flags, ball caps, plaques and a four-foot model of the admiral’s first boat.

And people, lots of them. Hardy immediately recognized Rear Admiral Masters behind the desk and Captain Young, Commander SUBDEVRON Twelve and his immediate boss, to Masters’ right. What surprised Hardy was seeing Vice Admiral William G. Barber, Director, Submarine Warfare Division, on the CNO’s staff standing behind Masters. “What have I walked into?” Hardy asked himself.

Sitting in the only available chair was a tall, handsome woman in her late thirties or early forties, stylishly if severely dressed. A younger woman stood near her, and a young man in a gray suit stood to the left of the admiral. They all looked at him expectantly, and Hardy smelled a setup. Whatever was coming, he saw his next command spiraling down the drain.

Reflex took over. He came to attention, hat tucked under his arm, and announced, “Commander Hardy reporting, sir.” Unnecessary, of course, but it broke the silence.

Admiral Masters nodded, “Good to see you, Hardy. I know what you expected to hear from me, but there’s been a change in plans. We’re not going to decommission Memphis just yet.” The admiral motioned to his gray-suited guest. “This is Mr. Weyer Prescott. He’s from President Huber’s office.”