Larry Bond - Dangerous Ground

“Yes, you told me all that this afternoon,” Hardy answered impatiently. “The aviator with ‘pull.’ Where did you assign him?”

“Well, sir, I’d recommend Mr. Adelman’s billet. We need a torpedo officer and…”

“But you haven’t done it yet?” Hardy interrupted. His tone was more than critical.

“Not without your approval, sir.” Bair carefully kept this tone neutral.

“All right, then. Do it,” Hardy ordered. He sounded slightly mollified.

Careful to keep his tone neutral, the XO asked, “Sir, can you tell me anything more about the mission?”

Hardy’s face darkened, and Bair thought he was about to lash out, but instead the Captain started unpacking his briefcase, almost attacking its contents. “Yes, there is. I can tell you that this mission is the misguided product of poor leadership and political expediency.” He yanked a bundle of papers out and stuffed them in a drawer. “That it’s a waste of our time and a risk to our careers.” He slammed the case closed and shoved it into a corner.

“And I can tell you that if this mission succeeds, it will be a miracle,” he declared, suddenly turning to face his XO, “but if it fails, it will not be our fault. Is that clear, Commander?”

“Absolutely, sir,” replied Bair in his firmest, most positive voice.

Hardy handed Bair a thick folder. “Here’s what they gave me in Norfolk. Read it, then report back to me with any problems you have right away.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Bair looked at Jerry’s personnel folder. “What about Mitchell?” he asked.

“Give me ten minutes, then send him up here.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Jerry had managed to locate a ship’s information book and was leafing though the pages when the phone rang.

“The Captain wants to see you,” Bair’s voice informed him, and Jerry jumped up, nervousness drenching him. He suddenly wished Lenny Berg hadn’t given him a heads-up about the Captain, and also wished he’d thought ahead. The Captain’s cabin was only a dozen steps away and one ladder up, so there was no time to delay. His first impression of Jerry would have to include a rumpled shirt and a five o’clock shadow.

Jerry hurried to the ladder, then climbed up and took the few steps forward to the Captain’s cabin. He knocked and waited to hear “Come” before turning the knob and stepping in.

Captain Hardy sat at his desk, still in his blues but with his uniform jacket hung on a nearby hook. Feeling underdressed in his khakis, Mitchell announced, “Reporting as ordered, sir.”

Hardy didn’t reply immediately, but studied his newest junior officer carefully. All Jerry could do was meet his gaze without challenging him. Hardy was bigger than Mitchell, in his mid-forties, with salt-and-pepper black hair. His face was lined, and Mitchell saw them converge into a scowl.

“Mr. Mitchell, you’re going to be my new Torpedo Officer.” Hardy made the statement flatly, without any tone, but his expression said he wasn’t happy with the situation.

“Aye, aye, sir. I’ll do my best.”

“I’ll expect more than that, mister,” the Captain told him. “You’re a key man on this patrol, and your performance will have a direct effect on the success of the mission, the careers of the men aboard, and possibly on their survival.”

“Yes, sir. May I ask what the mission is?”

“You may not,” Hardy replied tersely. “It’s not my job to explain things to division officers. The crew, of which you are now a member, will be briefed at Quarters tomorrow morning.” He paused for a moment, as if finished, but then continued.

“I will explain this to you, Mr. Mitchell.” The Captain leaned forward in his chair a little. “You’ve used political pull to jump from one set of rails to another and I don’t like it. You couldn’t make it here on your own or you wouldn’t have needed pull to get here. You think you’re a special case, and I don’t like special cases.”

He pointed at the personnel file. “And frankly, I don’t care what kind of grades you got in the nuclear pipeline or sub school. I’ve seen plenty of theory men fall flat on their faces when they actually had to perform in the real world, so whatever you may think of your skills, at this point they count for zero.”

Then Hardy corrected himself. “No, they don’t count for zero. They’re unknown, and I don’t like unknowns, either.”

Jerry had stood stock-still through Hardy’s lecture, searching for a reply. He wanted to answer Hardy, to explain, but couldn’t think of anything that didn’t sound either silly or disrespectful.

Finally, after a few moments of silence, Hardy glanced at the folder again. “And this says you’re supposed to qualify in subs in less than a year.” He looked sharply at Mitchell. “Was this some sort of deal your patron got for you? Some sort of Softball qualification process?”

“Sir, I didn’t ask for anything special. ” Jerry protested.

“But you got it, all the same,” Hardy interrupted. “I happen to agree with this requirement. You need to pull your weight, and you can’t do that unless you know this boat. But I won’t give you a free ride. No shortcuts.”

Jerry ventured a hopefully safe, “Yes, sir.”

“You will spend every free moment learning this boat and filling in the signatures in your qualification book. If I see you reading anything on this boat, it damn well better have a piping diagram in it… Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And this will in no way excuse you from your regular duties, which you will exercise perfectly. Any screw-ups by you will affect the success of this upcoming patrol. And if your error causes us to fail, I’ll make sure the Navy knows exactly whose fault it was. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Jerry, who’d been standing at attention the entire time, tried to straighten even further.

“Now get out.”

Jerry quickly backed out of the CO’s stateroom. He made his way back to his stateroom and leaned against the bunks. He was drained, emotionally and physically, but sleep seemed impossible. He shed his uniform, climbed into his coffin-sized bunk, and pulled the privacy curtain shut. As he worked to relax his body, his mind spun with fearful possibilities. Reason told him it couldn’t be as bad as it seemed, but the day’s events didn’t give him much hope. He finally fell asleep arguing with himself.

“Reveille, reveille, up all bunks. All hands turn to and commence ship’s work. Quarters to be held on the pier at oh eight hundred,” squawked the ship’s main announcing system, or IMC. Jerry slowly, groggily, fumbled for his watch and checked the time: 0630. It was earlier than Jerry would have liked, particularly given the hard time he’d had in falling asleep, but he was awake now. Pulling the curtain on his bunk back, Jerry started crawling out on to the deck when the shadow of two feet magically appeared on the floor in front of him. Jerry recoiled back as Lenny Berg hit the deck with a dull thump. Berg straightened up from his landing, stretched, and turned on the lights. He looked down for his flip-flops and saw Jerry’s face poking out of his bunk with a surprised expression on it. Berg quickly figured out what had almost happened and made room for Jerry to get out of his bunk.

“Good morning, Jerry. Sorry about just jumping out of my rack, I, ah, forgot you were down here,” Berg said apologetically. “I trust I didn’t startle you too much with my graceful rollout.”

“That’s okay, Lenny. I prefer a good dose of adrenaline to coffee in the morning. It gets the blood flowing so much more quickly,” replied Jerry with as much humor as sarcasm.