Larry Bond - Dangerous Ground

“I’ve also asked the messenger of the watch to meet you topside. He’ll help you get your gear aboard. I’ve put you in Mr. Adelman’s bunk. He was our Manta specialist, but he left last week.”

A little nonplussed by Glover’s brisk efficiency, Jerry retraced his steps to the forward escape hatch and met a young seaman, so young Jerry wasn’t sure he was old enough to drive, much less enlist in the Navy. His sandy blond hair stuck out from under a “dixie cup” sailor’s hat. He stiffened and saluted when he saw Jerry climb out of the hatch. “Seaman Gunther, sir.” Jerry returned the salute, then offered his hand, which seemed to surprise the enlisted man.

“Glad to know you, Gunther.” He motioned to the pier. “My car’s in a lot a couple of blocks from here.”

Gunther nodded and buttoned up his peacoat, following Jerry down the brow, saluting the flag and the duty officer as they stepped off onto the pier. They trudged in silence, the wind at their backs hurrying them along.

Gunther whistled at the red ‘02 Porsche when he first saw it, then whistled again when he realized that it was Jerry’s car. “That’s a sweet car, sir.” Gunther remarked as Jerry opened the trunk.

“Thanks, Gunther, and before you ask, I bought it used,” Mitchell answered. He handed the sailor a suitcase, then picked up his briefcase and garment bag.

Gunther noticed a set of golden wings on the briefcase and a fly high sticker on the Porsche’s rear bumper. “Are you an aviator, sir?”

Jerry answered honestly, if incompletely. “I was, for a while, but I had some medical problems and they let me transfer to submarines.”

During the mercifully short walk back, Gunther pelted Jerry with questions about the aircraft he’d flown, especially how fast they could fly. Jerry had occasionally flown past Mach 1, but disappointed the sailor when he insisted he’d never come close to Mach 2.

As they approached Memphis again, Gunther exclaimed, “I remember now! You were on the news a while back. They had a video of your crash and then they wanted to kick you out of the Navy…”

Mitchell nodded. “That was me. I convinced them to let me stay.”

“Cool. That was an amazing crash, sir.” Gunther was even more animated now as he helped pass the bags through the hatch and manhandle them forward to the officers’ berthing area. He was reluctant to leave Jerry, even as the officer started to unpack, but remembered he had other duties and left after one last question about the ejection seat.

The rest of the morning passed quickly as Jerry filled out forms, received his dosimeter or “TLD” (regulation on all nuclear subs) and tried to find his way around. He met or passed by most of the ship’s 130-odd crew in the crowded passageways. He’d left his wings off when he’d changed into his khaki work uniform, which left his shirt uncomfortably bare. Eventually, he’d pin on his gold dolphins, a qualification process as difficult and as lengthy as getting his wings.

The wardroom was directly aft of the officers’ berthing, starboard side, and already crowded with officers when he stepped in a few minutes after twelve. Some stood at places around the small table, but most were milling around. Jerry had hurriedly met most of the officers during the morning, but now he took the time for proper introductions. Two of the department heads, Lieutenant Commander Jeff Ho, the ship’s Engineer, and Lieutenant Cal Richards, the Weapons Officer, were the senior officers present. Tom Holtzmann, the Reactor Officer, and Ensign Jim Porter, the Electrical Officer, were both division officers under Ho, a big Hawaiian, certainly too big to be comfortable in a sub’s confined environment. One other officer, Lenny Berg, in charge of the radiomen and a lieutenant (junior grade) like Jerry, was present for the first seating.

They were still finishing introductions when another officer entered. He introduced himself to Jerry as Bill Washburn, the Supply Officer, then turned to Ho, the senior officer in the room. “The XO says to save him a place, but start without him.” He frowned a little. “He just got a call from the CO.”

Ho nodded, then replied, “Good enough. Seats please, gentlemen.”

Lunch was stuffed pork chops and a fresh salad. They hadn’t been lying about the food aboard subs.

“How far along in your training were you when you had your accident?” Cal Richards came straight to the point. Jerry guessed Gunther’s news had spread fast.

“I was in my final cycle,” Jerry answered quietly “I already had orders to a squadron at Oceana. A few more weeks.”

“After how long? A year and a half of training? That’s rough.” Tom Holtzmann’s comment was sympathetic, but reminded Jerry of all the time he’d lost. And he’d never fly again.

“What made you decide to transfer to submarines?” Washburn asked.

An honest question, but one that Jerry had answered a hundred times since the accident, and continued to ask himself. He gave the stock answer, practiced and repeated until it emerged almost automatically.

“They were going to medical me out of the service, but I liked the Navy and wanted to be a part of it. My hand didn’t keep me from normal duties, so I signed up for subs.”

“But it wasn’t your first choice,” prompted Richards.

“No sir. I’d picked aviation, and done well at it. I’ve always liked airplanes, really anything that goes fast, and being outside as well…”

That prompted a round of hearty laughter from every man in the wardroom. When it died down, Richards commented, still chuckling, “You may want to reexamine your career choice before it’s too late.”

Jerry had no reply, but Ho said. “I remember seeing that crash, and you ejecting, and I followed the story after you got out of the hospital. There was a senator, a relative, who helped you stay in.”

“That’s right. My mom’s brother is Senator Thorvald, from Nebraska. Without him I’d be out on the street.”

“Nice to have friends in high places,” Richards commented. There was an undercurrent to the remark that worried Jerry. Richards wasn’t smiling.

The XO came in and dropped into a seat at the head of the table. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” The other officers all greeted Bair quietly, who seemed tired, almost worn out. The mess attendant poured coffee and made sure the dishes were within his reach.

Bair started to fill his plate and announced, “I’ve just gotten the news from the Captain. There’s been a slight change in plans.” He paused to take a bite and chewed, enjoying everyone’s anticipation. “The decomm’s been delayed. We’re going to make another run north, as far north as we’ve ever gone.”

Bair stopped talking and took another bite, but the silence continued for a few more beats as the officers absorbed the news. Jerry felt some relief. At least his first cruise wouldn’t be to a scrapyard.

Finally Washburn, the Supply Officer, asked, “How long have we got to get ready, sir?

The XO’s answer was vague. “A few weeks, but I don’t have the schedule yet. The Captain says this will be a ‘special’ run, and he’ll brief the crew tomorrow morning, but until then we’re to begin preparations for sea.” Jerry watched their faces. Some of them hurried to finish their meals. “A few weeks” wasn’t much time to turn around a sub and prepare it for a hazardous deployment.

He turned to face Jerry, “And it turns out Mr. Mitchell and the Manta will play a critical role. I’d like you to stay after lunch, Jerry. The rest of you pass the word. Start putting your lists together.”

Several of the officers muttered, “Aye, aye, sir,” and the wardroom quickly cleared, except for Bair, Jerry, and the mess steward, who started to clean up for the second sitting, then saw the XO’s face and disappeared.