Larry Bond - Dangerous Ground

Jerry gasped and winced, “Ouch! Talk about being hoisted on one’s own petard.” The thought of Hardy being publicly embarrassed by his boss was both appalling and delightful. Given Hardy’s predilection for public criticism, the concept of him getting a little dose of his own medicine from the Commodore was very satisfying. And yet, it flew in the face of everything Jerry had been taught at the Academy, and at the squadron, on the basic principles of leadership. Praise in public, correct in private was supposed to be a good officer’s modus operandi. He hadn’t seen too much of that on Memphis.

Still chuckling, Berg kicked off his shoes and climbed into his rack. “I don’t know about you guys, but after thirteen drills in the last day and a half, I’m pooped.”

“Hang in there, Lenny, my sources tell me there is only one drill left,” said Washburn.

“And how would you know this?” asked Berg sarcastically.

“Do not underestimate the power of hot coffee and fresh chocolate chip cookies, young Jedi,” Washburn replied. “The squadron staff has received both in large quantities, which gave my guys a number of opportunities to peek over their shoulder. According to their schedule, there is only one more drill after the interviews.”

“Ah yes, caffeine and sugar, the Dark Side, are they,” rasped Berg in his best Yoda-like voice. “Do you have any idea what the drill will be, Bill?”

“I think it is either a fire in the torpedo room or another approach and attack scenario.”

“Oh boy, Jerry! Another one for you, you lucky dog,” exclaimed Berg. “By the way, have you recovered from that dreadful Otto fuel spill drill they ran yesterday?”

“Yeah, I think so,” said Jerry as he plopped back into his chair. “I just don’t understand how we could have screwed up that casualty drill so badly. It’s not like we haven’t done similar drills before. We just seemed to always be running behind the power curve in responding to the casualty.”

This was a bald-faced lie. Jerry was convinced that Senior Chief Foster had deliberately interfered with the division’s response to the drill. According to TM3 Lee, the torpedo room watchstander, and one of the drill monitors, Foster appeared to have intentionally distracted Lee as the squadron staff member came into the room and dumped liquid orange Jell-O on the deck by the port storage rack. The Jell-O simulated a spill of Otto fuel, the mono-propellant used by Mk48 ADCAP torpedoes.

While Otto fuel in and of itself is chemically hazardous, it is much worse if it catches fire. Because the fuel and oxygen are mixed together in a thick syrup-like fluid, an Otto fuel fire is extremely difficult to extinguish. If a hot fire was allowed to develop in close proximity to warshot torpedoes, it would likely lead to a catastrophic explosion and the loss of the sub. That kind of accident had destroyed the Russian guided-missile submarine Kursk.

Furthermore, the fumes from an Otto fuel fire are extremely toxic. So, even if the torpedo warheads didn’t cook off, a lot of people would still get hurt or killed from the poisonous fumes. Hence, timely response to an Otto fuel spill is absolutely critical. By keeping the watchstander’s attention away from his duties, Foster made sure that there was a significant delay in discovering the problem and getting the word out.

Then, during the actual casualty response, the drill schedule had Foster designated as the sound-powered phone talker for the casualty assistance team. As the man-in-charge at the scene, Jerry recalled all the problems he had communicating with control on the status of the cleanup. On several occasions, he had to repeat his report, two or even three times, before Foster would relay them to the OOD. By delaying the flow of information, the ship’s crew took longer than it should have to respond to the simulated problem and their grade suffered because of it. The chewing out Jerry and his division received from Hardy was very unpleasant and humiliating. Foster’s wicked grin only made it worse.

“Hellooo! Earth to Jerry, come in, please!” shouted Berg.

“Huh? Oh — sorry, Lenny. I was just going over the Otto fuel spill in my head again. I guess I’m still trying to figure out what went wrong.”

“What’s to figure out, you had bad comms with control and that will always screw you during a graded drill. Senior Chief Foster should have known better, but even the best of us have off days. So stop with the self-recriminations and get over it. You’ll do better next time.”

Jerry became a little angry at Berg’s cavalier response. It was clear he had no idea that Foster had almost certainly sabotaged the drill, and it would be hard to do better next time if Foster continued to interfere. As Jerry considered correcting Berg’s ignorance, Bair stuck his head into the room.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I gather you are enjoying yourselves, given all this laughter.”

“No, sir, XO,” said Berg soberly. “We’re just a little punchy after so many drills, and I guess we got a little silly.”

“I see. Well, get unsilly, as the inspection interviews will begin shortly. The Commodore has decided to only talk to the younger JOs. That means you and Jerry here. The Chop has been excused.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Berg.

“They’ll call you when it’s your turn,” said Bair. “Oh — and one more thing. Try to be confident when you answer his questions. Nothing is worse than appearing to be uncertain of your answer, and regardless of whether you’re right or wrong, the interview can only go downhill from there. If you are uncertain, stick to the first one. At least be wrong with conviction. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Jerry and Berg in unison.

No sooner had the Executive Officer departed than the Dialex in the stateroom rang. Washburn answered the phone, listened for a moment, and said, “Yes, sir, I’ll let him know you’re waiting for him.” Hanging up, Washburn pointed at Berg and motioned toward the passageway. “Your turn, Lenny. The Spanish Inquisition awaits your presence in the wardroom.”

Sighing, Berg once again crawled out of his rack and put on his shoes. “I really didn’t want to take a short nap anyway,” he said as he tied the laces. Berg then stood up, straightened his poopy suit, and marched out of the stateroom, executing a sharp square turn at the passageway. As he departed, Jerry and Washburn heard him utter in an English accent, “Alas, poor Leonard. I knew him well.”

Jerry and Washburn looked at each other as their roommate left, both wondering whether Lenny Berg was slightly insane. Washburn then shrugged his shoulders and said, “Actors. You gotta love ‘em.”

As the Supply Officer settled into his rack, Jerry sincerely asked, “Bill, how did a theater major ever get into the nuclear power pipeline in the first place?”

“Only God and Naval Reactors know, Jerry,” responded Washburn as he reached for the novel he had been reading. “Either Lenny is a really good actor or the Navy was really that desperate. Still, it’s good to have the guy on board.”

“Absolutely,” replied Jerry as he sat down and opened his qual book to the diving officer section. He had just started reviewing some of the casualty procedures when Jerry heard a muffled snore. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that Washburn had fallen asleep before he had even finished a single page of the book. I know how you feel, thought Jerry. Stifling a yawn, he returned to his studies.

Jerry must have dozed off as well, for he found himself being lightly shaken by Berg who whispered, “Your turn, old boy.” Jerry rose, stretched and headed for the wardroom. He knocked on the door and then entered. Captain Young was the only other person in the room.