Larry Bond - Dangerous Ground

“Y-yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” stammered Jerry.

The wide grin reappeared on Bair’s face as he made his way over to the ballast control panel (BCP). Politely, he asked the Chief of the Watch to move aside and Jerry watched in amazement as Bair turned on a flashlight with a long articulating neck and then dove under the ballast control panel. It wasn’t long before only his boots could be seen projecting out from the space where the Chief of the Watch’s legs would normally go.

The dazed expression on Jerry’s faced caused Richards to burst out in laughter. “I see that you hadn’t seen the XO in his dustbuster outfit before.”

“No, sir, I haven’t.”

“Well, then, Jerry, let me fill you in on a piece of true Memphis eccentricity,” began Richards. “The XO is on a sacred quest to find commissioning dirt. He wants to dig up a scrap of paper or any other form of trash that can be positively traced back to the boat’s commissioning in 1977. It’s sort of his own personal Holy Grail, which he pursues with considerable vigor.”

Jerry had heard about the aggressive tendency of nuke boat XOs toward cleanliness, but this was so over the top that he had a hard time believing what he had just seen with his own eyes. It all seemed so silly that a grown man would behave so ludicrously about dirt and other refuse. As curiosity won out over awe, Jerry asked, “What’s with the oversized screwdriver?”

“Ah, yes, the XO-Matic,” replied Richards with a smile, as he leaned up against the periscope stand desk. “It’s a modified deck plate screwdriver that has had its blade machined down into a small scoop. About the same size as a baby’s spoon. It is designed to get at dirt deposits that are outside the reach of most primates, let alone normal human beings.” Richards then winked at Jerry and held his index finger up to his lips, motioning Jerry to be silent. Stepping quietly over toward the BCP, Richards then loudly said, “But alas, even with his special tools, the XO has failed to find that elusive and perhaps legendary prey over these past two years.”

A sound, best described as a low growl, emanated from behind the panel, “Enough of your blasphemy, Mr. Richards! I will prove to you and the rest of those heretics you associate with that commissioning dirt does exist. Furthermore, since you firmly believe that it is a figment of your Executive Officer’s imagination, I shall enjoy watching you clean it up after I find it!”

Laughter erupted from the entire ship’s control party as the XO continued to mutter something about the growing insubordination of the crew. As the laughing died down, Jerry felt the strained atmosphere that had existed since he had reported on board easing. The camaraderie that he had missed so much from his squadron days was slowly coming to life on Memphis. It was a good feeling.

The watch progressed with little diversion. There were no drills. Memphis was on a steady course and speed, and there were few contacts. Those they did hold on the towed arrays were all distant, and were classified as merchants. In fact, for the first time since he could remember, Jerry was downright bored. The only thing that broke the monotony was when Hardy came into control looking for Bair. All hands not holding a control stick pointed to the BCP, the XO’s right foot waving about in the air. Hardy stopped dead in his tracks. He closed his eyes, put his forehead in his right hand, and slowly shook his head. Muttering something about a straight-jacket, he returned to his stateroom without even speaking to the XO.

As the time passed slowly, Jerry kept looking up at the clock, waiting and wondering when he would hear something — anything — from Foster. Halfway through his watch, Jerry couldn’t stand it any longer and he called down to for a progress report.

FT2 Boswell answered the phone. “Hello. Yes, Mr. Mitchell, what can I do for you?”

“Any progress?” Jerry asked.

“Ah, sir, Petty Officer Bearden would like to talk to you.” Boswell’s tone was not encouraging.

Bearden came on the line. “Mr. Mitchell?”

“What can you tell me? Any good news?”

“Well, sir, it’s kind of a good news, bad news situation.”

“Give me the bad news first.”

“Sir, we’ve been at that console for more than six hours so far. The Senior Chief’s got half the division in here and we’re not making any progress. The only thing we’ve found out so far is just how fried it really is.”

“I see,” replied Jerry despondently. “And the good news?”

“Moran’s pretty sure they’ve figured out what happened with tube three and that it can be fixed. They’re working on it now.”

“Very well, keep at it. I’ll be down as soon as my watch is over.”

“Yes, sir, we’ll keep you informed if we make any breakthroughs,” replied Bearden.

Jerry said thank you and hung up the phone.

Master Chief Reynolds wandered into the torpedo room shortly after Jerry’s call. Foster and Bearden had the launch panel stripped down to its underwear while other ratings worked with tech manuals or test equipment. Tools and bits of circuitry littered the deck. Moran and his TMs were huddled around torpedo tube number three. They seemed to be in better spirits than the FTs.

Senior Chief Foster looked up from his work when Reynolds came down the portside aisle, but didn’t stop working. His “Good afternoon, Sam” had a strained sound.

“Is it, Bob?” Reynolds asked.

Foster shook his head emphatically. “It’s a hard fight with a short stick.” He stood up. “Too much has been damaged and we don’t have anywhere near the spare parts. Many of the control relays are charcoal briquettes, and those that I can still recognize are completely fused. Most of the circuit boards have either melted or are so warped that they won’t fit in their slots, and there are several inches of vaporized cabling. In short, Sam, this console is Tango Uniform.”

“I hear Mr. Mitchell had a talk with the division yesterday,” Reynolds commented matter-of-factly, as if he hadn’t even heard what Foster had just said.

“Yeah, he did,” answered Foster with a pained look. “And before you say you were right, I will. You were right. But I still can’t stand the way he used his political connections to get here.”

Reynolds asked, “Has he mentioned them once since he came aboard?”

“No,” Foster admitted.

“Did they help him with all the extra hoops he has had to jump through?”

“No.”

“Is he asking for anything special now?”

“No.”

“So he abused the system. Once. We’ve all done that.” Reynolds pressed his point. “And I don’t think that’s the real issue here, is it? This isn’t about bending or even breaking the rules, especially Navy rules.”

Foster sighed. “But he used his pull…”

“Which you would have done in a heartbeat,” interrupted Reynolds. “If you’d had any. You’re just pissed because you didn’t have his connections.”

The senior chief nodded slowly, finally acknowledging the real issue between him and Jerry Mitchell. “You’re right — again. I guess I am envious of him getting a second chance.”

“But he’s doing a good job with it. He’s working his ass off, and he’s taking care of his people — like a good officer should.”

“All right, COB, I hear you. You don’t have to hit me over the head with a hammer.”

Smiling broadly, Reynolds reached over, grabbed Foster’s shoulder, and said, “As my sea daddy once told me, Bob, always use the right tool for the right job.”

At 1800, as soon as he’d finished his watch, Jerry blitzed down to the torpedo room. He found Foster and Bearden still hunched over the weapons launching console.