Larry Bond - Dangerous Ground

“A special case, Captain, but one that fits well with your needs,” Masters answered. “According to our information, and your record, Memphis is more than capable of handling this assignment.”

“Yes, sir, she is,” answered Hardy, straightening. He knew when to shut up and salute. “When will the equipment arrive?”

“The two ladies will arrive in New London in a few days,” replied Masters. “Captain Young will give your boat priority in any matter relating to this mission.” He handed Hardy a thick manila envelope covered with classification markings. “This is for the trip back. It should tell you everything you need to know.”

Hardy took a step back, came to attention, and said, “Thank you, sir.” He turned to face Patterson and Davis. “I’ll see you in a few days, then, ladies. By the way, you may want to pack your bathing suits. After all, this will be a Bluenose run.”

The puzzled look on their faces gave him some pleasure, and taking that small victory, Hardy left.

USS Memphis, SSN 691

SUBASE, New London

The ship’s duty officer emerged from the hatch as Jerry returned the watchstander’s salute. He was an ensign and saluted as Jerry explained: “I’m Jerry Mitchell. I’ve been assigned to Memphis.” The confused officer accepted the manila envelope from Jerry and examined the enclosed orders. As duty officer, he wouldn’t allow anyone aboard who didn’t have explicit business there.

The ensign’s reply was friendly, if puzzled. “Are you part of the decomm crew, then?”

Jerry was now puzzled. “What decomm? All I know is, I’m supposed to report to Memphis. I just finished Manta school at NUWC.”

“And we’ve got the Manta prototype. I’m Tom Holtzmann, by the way. Reactor Officer. XO’s aboard, but the Captain’s off the boat, due back tonight.” Holtzmann had a square, friendly face, with dark hair and eyes. He was a little taller than Jerry, but Mitchell was used to that.

“Captain Hardy?” asked Jerry.

“You’ve heard of him, then?” asked Holtzmann. There was a dark edge to the question, but Jerry didn’t want to follow that up right now.

“No, just checking to see if I’d gotten the right gouge,” replied Jerry. “I’ve still got my gear in the car, but I’ll go below and report in, if that’s okay.”

“Right. I’ll have the petty officer take you forward. This is ET2 Anderson, by the way, one of my guys.” He turned to the petty officer. “Please take Mr. Mitchell forward to the XO’s stateroom.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” He turned briefly to Mitchell. “Follow me, please.”

Anderson dropped smoothly through the hatch, and Jerry followed, slower and with much more care. Submarines were designed to have as few holes in their pressure hulls as possible, and this was one of the biggest, a twenty-five-inch circular opening that looked like the door to a bank vault, if banks put their vaults in the floor.

Technically, it was the Forward Escape Trunk. Everything that the sub needed, except for torpedoes, had to fit through that hatch. Food, repair parts, tools, and appliances all came through that two-foot hole or they didn’t go in at all.

Two vertical ladders brought him down to the middle level of the forward compartment, one of the three decks in the sub. Although he’d been aboard other subs during his training, he still wasn’t used to the jumble of green- and gray-painted metal shapes, which only grudgingly allowed humans to pass between them. Everywhere he looked, Jerry saw machinery, cables, and pipes, all systematically labeled. Part of his job would be to learn every inch of them.

He spotted Anderson’s receding form, headed forward, and hurried to follow, removing his cap and bulky bridge coat. Instinctively, he pulled in his elbows and crouched slightly, in spite of his short stature. He passed the crew’s mess, the galley, and sickbay. Climbing a short ladder, Jerry found himself in the control room. If the reactor was her heart, the control room was Memphis’ brain.

Immediately forward of the control room, right in the bow, were the CO’s and XO’s staterooms, both on the port side of the passageway. The only thing forward of them was a room full of switchboards and beyond that the sub’s massive bow sonar sphere, outside the pressure hull but inside a streamlined fairing. The sonar shack, both the eyes and ears of this underwater animal, was on the right side of the passageway.

The XO’s stateroom had an honest-to-God door with a small sign that read “Executive Officer.” The petty officer knocked twice, lightly, and waited for a muffled “Come” before turning the knob. Anderson then backed up, giving Jerry room in the narrow passageway to go through the door.

The Executive Officer was Lieutenant Commander Robert Bair, at least according to Memphis’ web page. There was no photo, but Jerry saw a man in khakis with gold oak leaves on his shirt collar. He didn’t look very old, but his hair was almost completely white, and the front of his uniform bulged just a little. He was seated at the fold-down desk in his stateroom, which was covered with neat bundles of folders and paperwork. Jerry noticed three baskets fastened to the right side of the desk, labeled load, shoot, and check fire.

Automatically, Jerry straightened to attention and offered the envelope he’d been carrying. “Lieutenant (j.g.) Jerry Mitchell, reporting, sir.” He didn’t salute, since naval officers don’t salute uncovered.

Bair took the envelope without immediately responding and examined the address on the outside before reading the enclosed orders. He sighed tiredly, and gave Mitchell a small smile. “Well, mister, these orders are correct, and you’re supposed to be here, but I can’t imagine why. Our captain’s in Norfolk getting orders to decommission this boat. Can you explain what you’re supposed to be doing here?”

Then Bair’s eyes spotted the golden wings on Jerry’s uniform coat. “And why in hell did they send us an aviator?”

“Not an aviator anymore, sir. I medicaled out of the training program.” Jerry held up his right hand. The sleeve slid back far enough to show a road map of scars over his wrist and lower arm.

“Well, those wings have no place on this boat. You can wear your diver’s pin, but leave the wings off while you’re here.” The XO’s preemptory order disappointed Jerry. He’d worked a long time to get those wings, and technically, they were part of his uniform. But the XO was right. They really didn’t matter here.

“I see you’ve even been to Manta school,” Bair remarked.

“Yes, sir. That’s when they told me I was coming to Memphis , when I received orders to the school.”

“Well, I wish they’d told us at the same time,” muttered the XO sourly. “Look, Captain Hardy’s due back later today. Just go ahead and get your paperwork started, and we’ll sort out what to do with you later.”

He handed the orders back to Jerry. “Take these down to the yeoman. He’ll get you checked in.” He pointed to a stairway just across from his stateroom, at the end of the passageway. “Just use that ladder.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Jerry turned to leave, but the XO called after him.

“Lieutenant Mitchell, one more thing.” He smiled again, the same tired smile he’d given Jerry earlier. “Welcome aboard.”

Yeoman First Class Glover, a slim, dark-haired man with an incredibly neat office, seemed unsurprised by Mitchell’s appearance. He greeted Jerry with a broad smile and handshake. “Welcome aboard, sir. I’ve started your checklist,” he remarked, neatly taking the orders from Jerry’s hand.