Larry Bond - Dangerous Ground

All in all, Jerry thought, the day had gone remarkably well. The ROVs had performed to spec, Emily was happy with how things went, and both Hardy and Patterson had been civil. Foster was still a pain in the ass, but he had gotten the job done, and that counted for something. Jerry hoped that maybe, just maybe, this crew had turned the corner and that things would improve in the coming days. Jerry even dared to consider the possibility that this mission might not be as bad as he had originally thought. Only time would tell.

May 16, 2005

Atlantic Ocean

The obnoxious wailing woke Jerry from a dead sleep and for a moment he thought it was his alarm clock, but as he reached for it, he woke up a little more. It was loud, way too loud for his alarm clock. As his brain began to function, Jerry recognized the sound. It was the Collision Alarm. There was a flooding casualty somewhere on board the boat.

Berg and Washburn were already out of their bunks and pulling on their poopy suits. As Jerry got up, the alarm stopped and he heard the Chief of the Watch’s voice over the IMC announcing system. “FLOODING IN THE ENGINE ROOM! CASUALTY ASSISTANCE TEAM LAY TO THE ENGINE ROOM!”

Nobody in the stateroom slowed down, and Jerry rediscovered that quickly dressing in a cramped space with two other people took a lot of practice all by itself. He inflicted a nasty blow to Washburn’s rib cage when Jerry’s elbow stuck out a bit too far, and he almost put on Berg’s shoes. As he dressed, Jerry went over his assignment for the different emergency stations. For flooding, he was supposed to muster his division in the torpedo room.

Officers were pouring out of their staterooms like ants from a kicked-over hill. Jerry hurried toward the ladder and slid down the handrails to reach the torpedo room below. Most of the TMs and FTs were already there, including Senior Chief Foster. As he took stock of his spaces, Jerry thought to check his watch. It was 2:23 in the morning.

It was only a drill, of course, so there wasn’t a fountain of cold seawater endangering Memphis. FT3 Larsen was wearing the sound-powered phones that allowed him to pass information on to everyone in the torpedo room as to what was going on in the engine room.

Jerry was ready to sit tight and wait when Foster started grilling the torpedo gang. He pointed to the aft bulkhead. “Seaman Jobin, what do we do if water starts coming under that door? Petty Officer Boyd, how do we fire torpedoes if we lose the high-pressure firing air reducer?”

A door on the aft bulkhead led to a passageway on the lower level, but it wasn’t watertight, so there was little they could do to stop the flow of water. There were, however, emergency procedures for restoring high-pressure firing air, should the reducer fail.

As Boyd simulated setting up the starboard tube nest for a shot, Emily Davis came down the aisle between the torpedo storage racks.

“Is this your damage control station?” Jerry asked.

“What’s that?” Emily asked in return. She seemed nervous.

“The XO was supposed to assign you stations. Places where you’re supposed to go in an emergency,” he explained.

As he spoke, the lights suddenly went out. Battery-powered battle lanterns cut in automatically, creating cones of light filled with angular shadows. Jerry was a little startled, but Davis screamed and headed back toward the door.

“It’s all right!” he called. “They’re just isolating some of the electrical circuits to keep them from shorting out.”

Davis froze, either because of Jerry’s explanation or because the path before her was dark as well. “It’s just part of the drill.” It was hard to sound soothing without also patronizing her, but she was probably too scared to notice. She held her place between the racks, undecided about which darkness was less threatening. Finally she turned and felt her way back toward Jerry.

TM1 Moran brought over a sound-powered phone headset. “Here, ma’am. Maybe you’d like to listen in on the DC circuit.” He helped her with the headphones and the unfamiliar microphone. Moran then explained how the phones worked; that the energy of her voice created the current that powered the circuit. She grasped the principle instantly and was also interested in the activity on the circuit. “Just don’t press the ‘Talk’ button on top of the mouthpiece,” Moran instructed.

Just as Davis started to calm down, the lights came on, and the IMC announced, “Secure from drill.”

Another voice, the Captain’s, came on the IMC. “That was disgraceful. It took eight minutes for the Casualty Assistance Team to get on scene and twelve minutes to secure the flooding and begin dewatering. Do I have to remind everyone that there is only one watertight bulkhead inside the pressure hull?” It was one of the first things any submariner learned about the Los Angeles class. Only the forward bulkhead to the reactor compartment was fully rated to test depth. The Captain’s caustic reminder was more than a little insulting.

“This was a simple one. In a real flooding casualty, we would have lost vital systems, and the accumulating seawater would have taken out others. But if you prefer standing hip-deep in cold salt water, we’ll let you try it.

“So far, this crew has not demonstrated it is ready to respond to an emergency properly. Until it is, expect more drills. That is all.”

Hardy gave them forty-five minutes before hitting them again. This time it was the general alarm klaxon, followed by “FIRE. FIRE IN THE PORT AC SWITCHBOARD. ALL HANDS DON EABS!” The ventilation fans and lights died immediately, and Jerry had to fumble for a flashlight he kept by his bunk. Berg and Washburn also used them in what now seemed to be an even smaller stateroom.

Slowed by the darkness and the need to plug into an EAB manifold to breathe, Jerry found his division already mustered in the torpedo room. Larsen had the phones on again and Foster had started a training session on the emergency air breathing system. Jerry stood and listened carefully. Foster knew the ropes, and while he might hate Jerry, he took care of his men.

Emily came down the aisle again, carefully holding a flashlight so that it pointed at the deck immediately in front of her. “I asked Lieutenant Commander Bair,” she announced, “and he says I should report here, since this is where my…ROVs…are…located.” Her words trailed off as the light showed nearly a dozen men standing around with masks on. Her puzzled look told Jerry that she didn’t have a clue as to what was going on. Walking over to her, Jerry removed his mask and said, “Good morning again, Dr. Davis. If I may be so blunt, where is your EAB mask?”

“My what?”

“Your emergency air breathing mask, like this one.” Jerry held up his mask so that Emily could see it clearly. “There are two such masks in your stateroom: one for you and another for Dr. Patterson. If you hear the IMC announce ‘Don EABs,’ please take the mask out of the bag, put it on, and make sure you have a good seal. You then plug the mask into an air manifold that looks like this.” Jerry pointed up into the overhead at a red-colored pipe with four plugs protruding from it.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was to participate that much in the drills,” Emily apologized.

“The EAB system’s purpose is to enable you to continue breathing in a toxic atmosphere. That usually happens when there’s a fire on a submarine. You need to learn how to use the EAB mask properly so that you are prepared in case something does go wrong,” Jerry explained firmly. “In fact, why don’t you sit in on Senior Chief Foster’s training? He’s going over the basics right now.” Just as he was about to lead Emily over, it finally struck him that Dr. Patterson wasn’t here with her.