Larry Bond - Dangerous Ground

He’d also called Uncle Jim, or Senator James G. Thorvald, Republican senator from Nebraska. His mother’s oldest brother, they still saw him at family gatherings. He’d been delighted to hear from Jerry. His mother had been keeping the senator informed after the accident, but it was still good to hear his voice. Jerry had felt strange asking his uncle for help, but he needed every friend he could get.

“I think it’s great that you want to stay in the Navy, Jerry. It’s foolish for the Navy to get rid of someone as capable as you, who wants to serve. Didn’t this get some media play? Can you send me a copy of any news stories? That’ll help a lot. Makes it personal.”

Uncle Jim had called “a few friends on the Hill.” His timing had been perfect, because Jerry’s request had just reached the Chief of Naval Personnel. Jerry had been ordered out to Washington, D.C. to explain to the U.S. Navy exactly why Ensign Jeremy N. Mitchell should get a special break.

Casey had flown Jerry out personally in a two-seat Hornet. It was one last flight for Jerry, and the only support he could give his former pupil. He’d also accompanied Jerry to his 0900 appointment with the admiral.

They’d skipped the green tablecloth, but it still felt a lot like a court-martial. Three captains, two admirals, Jerry, and his skipper, all seated at a long table. The brass looked irritated, and impatient.

“Mr. Mitchell, you’re asking a lot of the Navy.”.

“I understand that, sir, but I also want to give a lot to the Navy.”

“You could do that by serving in surface ships, without the Navy losing anywhere near as much money.”

“I’d do a better job serving in subs, and I’d be more likely to stay in beyond my obligated service.” He knew there was a threat buried in that statement, but it was also the truth. If they sent him to the surface fleet, he’d be gone at the end of his required four years.

“Even if we agreed to extend your obligation, there would have to be other conditions.” The admiral had a sour look, and it took a moment for Jerry to realize they’d already decided. Well, shoot, they could paint him red and use him for a harbor buoy it they wanted to.

“First, we are going to extend your obligated service. Second, we want to make sure that if you do enter the submarine program, you’ll make a good officer. The normal requirement for passing any Navy school is a grade of two point five, the lower quarter of those that make it. In your case, you will have to be in the upper quarter of your nuke school, prototype, and sub school classes. If you fail to excel, you will be reassigned according to the needs of the Navy.”

Jerry nodded. He could do it. He had to, or he’d be counting blankets in Adak for years.

“Finally, there’s the issue of your seniority. You’ll be promoted to lieutenant (j.g.) while you’re in prototype, and you’ll be halfway to lieutenant by the time you arrive at your first ship. That three-year delay has to be made up or it will plague you throughout the rest of your career.”

The admiral continued, “We’re going to shorten your first tour as a division officer so that you can get your career track back in line with your contemporaries. You’ll have to qualify on submarines quickly, though — within a year.”

Jerry bit back his immediate reply. He considered offering the harbor buoy option as an alternative. “Qualifying in submarines,” earning the coveted gold dolphins of a nuclear submarine officer, was an important, maybe the most important part of being a division officer.

An officer reporting to a boat was required to learn its systems — not just in a general way, but every pipe and valve, what they did, and what to do if they didn’t work. Reactors and propulsion, high-pressure air, low-pressure air, electrical, hydraulics — all had to be studied until you could march through the ship blindfolded, correctly naming any item you encountered. On an officer’s first boat, working hard, it normally took over a year to qualify.

Failing to qualify in submarines was reason for separation from the submarine service. Jerry naturally rose to a challenge, but this would be rough.

“Of course, sir, I’ll do my best.”

“I’m sure you will do well,” replied the admiral, and Jerry knew he was lying. The brass might have their arms twisted into giving him subs, but they’d be damned if they had to let him stay there.

And now Jerry was willing to bet that his assignment to Memphis was supposed to be the final nail in his coffin. An older boat, a hurried-up deployment, and he’s the man with the critical skills?

March 15, 2005

USS Memphis, SSN 691

SUBASE, New London

Jerry met the rest of the wardroom at dinner that evening, essentially all twelve officers except for Hardy. Most had families in the area and would normally have gone home at the end of the working day, but Bair’s announcement had changed everyone’s plans. To a man, they were working late, furiously compiling their lists of things that had to be ordered or done to prepare the boat for one more patrol.

Their conversation centered on preparations for the as-yet-undefined mission. Even without the details, many of the routine items could be done, and Jerry was impressed with the energy behind their efforts. Washburn, the Supply Officer, was moving heaven and earth to get stores and parts delivered, and the engineers had already started tearing down some auxiliary pumps that needed repair. Lieutenant Commander Ho and Lieutenant Millunzi, the Main Propulsion Assistant, gave Bair an extremely detailed report on exactly why the pumps needed the work done, and what steps they’d taken to make sure it could be done without interfering with the rest of the ship’s preparations.

Bair quizzed each officer in turn, and those who didn’t have answers made careful notes. Jerry kept a low profile, wishing he could help, and knowing that sooner rather than later he would be helping — just not how. The XO’s deadline for everyone’s answers was Hardy’s arrival back on board, a mere two or three hours away.

Only after all possible ship’s business had been discussed was there any personal conversation. Jerry fielded a few more questions about his background, but that was old news. The new schedule, and its effect on the crew’s lives, raised other issues. None of the officers had been able to tell their wives anything more than they were working late, but each of them had a life that had suddenly been put on cosmic hold. Not only would the patrol mean leaving their families again, it would delay the sub’s decommissioning.

Decommissioning meant leaving Memphis for another duty station. It meant houses sold and bought, kids changing schools, and new jobs elsewhere in the Navy. Nobody had called their detailers yet, there hadn’t been time, but all planned to do so as soon as they knew anything at all.

Each time a service member changes assignments, he works with a “detailer.” This personnel officer balances the officer’s or sailor’s desires, for instance, assignment to Hawaii, with the Navy’s needs, for instance, an open billet in Alaska. Since most tours of duty are of a fixed length, officers start working with their detailers as much as a year ahead of time, and the process can take months to resolve. It’s not as complicated for enlisted personnel, but it still takes time.

Part clerk, part accountant, and part used-car salesman, the detailer searches for billets opening up at the appropriate time, matching them against an officer’s skills and the Navy’s requirements for “career growth.” This means that if an officer is presently in an engineering post, he should go to an operations or weapons posting next, not another engineering slot. If he’s at sea, he’ll probably get a shore posting. Guys on shore duty try to go back to sea.