Larry Bond - Dangerous Ground

Word also started to get around from those who gave Jerry his checkouts that he came prepared and usually did very well. Hard work and competence is a winning combination in the submarine force and it often earns respect. It took some time, but the chill in the wardroom toward him started to thaw. And while things were still strained between him and Cal Richards, at least the WEPS wasn’t quite so cutting with the sarcasm now. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of Senior Chief Foster.

If anything, Foster had become harder to deal with. When they were alone, Foster was borderline insubordinate and only a little more civilized when they were in the company of others. Jerry just couldn’t figure out what was wrong between them.

He tried hard to iron things out, but Jerry’s attempts at reconciling their problems only made things worse. Jerry found that he could work with Foster only by being extremely specific in his orders and following up to make sure that Foster hadn’t left him hanging with the job half-done. It took a lot of energy, attention, and time he didn’t have.

It wasn’t the best way of doing business, and Jerry certainly wasn’t happy with the situation, but he’d have to make it work for now. Thinking about the dysfunctional relationship with his leading chief only made Jerry tense, and he took a couple of deep breaths to ease his stress. As he let out a big sigh, a voice from below broke his moment of silent reflection.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the voice. “We need to rig the bridge for the surface transit and it’s going to be tight with you up here. Would you mind going below until we’re finished? It should only take about twenty minutes.”

Jerry looked down as a petty officer emerged from the shadows of the bridge access trunk. There were hints of another man below, along with the sounds of gear being hauled up. Jerry watched as the sailor climbed up into the cockpit, squinting hard as he emerged into the sunlight.

“Bright enough for you, Petty Officer Stewart?” asked Jerry.

“Certainly is, sir,” said Stewart as he stood there blinking. “Please disregard the dull klunks , sir. It’s only my pupils slamming shut.”

Jerry grinned and maneuvered out of the way as a Plexiglas windscreen appeared from below. Stewart grabbed the screen and set it down on the top of the sail behind him. The cockpit was nothing more than a small opening, four feet by three feet, in the forward part of the sail. Normally, it would be cramped with just three men in the cockpit, but trying to install all the gear with that many people would be very difficult indeed.

“I’ll get out of your way, Petty Officer Stewart. Enjoy the nice weather,” said Jerry.

“Thank you, sir. Hey, Jack, hold on a second, Mr. Mitchell is coming down.”

Jerry ducked under the sail and worked his way around the other sailor, who he could barely see in the dim light. When he got to the top of the bridge access trunk itself, Jerry yelled, “Down ladder.” After making sure no one was below him, he climbed down the ladder into control. Once down, he reported to the duty petty officer that he was no longer on the bridge. The sailor acknowledged the report and wiped Jerry’s grease-penciled name off the status board.

With that taken care of, Jerry headed toward the torpedo room for one final inspection. After that, he would meet with the Navigator and the scheduled Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant Millunzi, to go over the boat’s departure route one more time. As Jerry descended the ladder to forward compartment lower level, the IMC crackled to life, “There are men working in the sail. Do not raise or lower any mast or antenna. Do not rotate, radiate, or energize any electronic equipment while men are working in the sail.”

Glancing at his watch, Jerry marked the time and toyed with the idea of testing Stewart’s estimated time to rig the bridge. Anything to get back topside and get underway, eh? Jerry thought. There was no doubt in his mind that he was eager to go to sea. It had been nearly four years since his last Midshipman cruise and that had been on a large-deck amphibious assault ship. His total time underway on a submarine could be measured in hours, single digits at that, and the thought of being at sea for three whole days sounded absolutely wonderful. Jerry recalled hinting at this during Quarters that morning and how most of the division laughed at his naïveté.

“Worst case of Newbeeitis I’ve seen in all my years on subs,” joked Bearden.

“Seems to be resistant to treatment too,” added TM2 Tom Boyd. “You’d think Fast Cruise would have cured him!” This comment brought more laughter, as the counterintuitive three-day, in-port drill period had been grueling and anything but fun.

“Can the levity. We still have work to do before we get underway, so turn to,” barked a scowling Foster.

Jerry remembered the tension that descended immediately on the group and that only TM1 Moran had walked away before Jerry dismissed his division. The glare from Foster was intense, and only hinted at his anger. Jerry ignored it. The senior chief seemed to be angry a lot lately, probably because Foster sensed that Jerry was slowly gaining the trust of his men, and for some reason this threatened him. Work began in the torpedo room in near silence.

Making his way back to the torpedo room, Jerry saw that the atmosphere had improved and that his guys were just finishing up the odds and ends. A number of the TMs and FTs were standing around talking and appeared to have relaxed some. Jerry nodded as they acknowledged his presence and walked over to the Manta control station and looked over the results of the system diagnostics he had started after Quarters. Everything looked good and he powered down the console.

The NUWC reps had worked on the prototype the week before, stripped the vehicle to parade rest, and performed every maintenance procedure known to mankind. After replacing the main and auxiliary batteries and a number of circuit cards, the Manta was issued a clean bill of health. Just as Jerry was pulling the Naugahyde cover over the control console, Richards walked into the room and quickly approached him. The WEPS seemed to be more harried than usual.

“Mr. Mitchell, what is the status of your division?” demanded Richards. Jerry was momentarily confused, as he had already given the WEPS his report earlier. Once again, Cal Richards had his sweat pumps in high speed and anything but a repeat of his earlier report would only add to the WEPS’ consternation.

“Sir, the torpedo room and fire-control system are ready for sea. Repairs to the Mk19 weapons launching console have been completed. We have five Mk48 Mod 5 torpedoes on board; one is loaded in tube two and the remaining four are secured in the port storage racks. Tube one has the NMRS retrieval arm installed and is not capable of firing weapons. The Manta prototype has been cleared for at-sea operations and two runs of the daily diagnostics have been completed satisfactorily.”

“Very well,” responded Richards with a calmer voice. “Has the OOD’s status board been updated?”

“Yes, sir. Senior Chief Foster is doing that as we speak,” answered Jerry confidently.

“Good. Now move along or you’ll be late for the last pre-underway brief with the NAV and MPA.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Jerry with eagerness.

The brief was short, to the point, and very professional. The Navigator went over all the points where course changes were needed to keep Memphis in the center of the channel and all the associated turn bearings and landmarks. He also reviewed the procedures for getting underway. Lieutenant Al Millunzi listened carefully as he studied the projected track on the New London harbor chart and asked questions about which tug they’d have, who was the pilot, and what was the updated weather forecast for the Long Island and Block Island sounds.