torpedo room deck were being put in place. Once done, there would be a complete path from the hatch to the centerline stowage rack in the torpedo room. Everything seemed to be moving along just fine. The only things missing now were the equipment and the tech reps. Unfortunately for Jerry and his division, they stayed missing for several hours.
It was well past lunch before the women and their gear arrived. Both Hardy and Foster were seething over the delay, not that Jerry wasn’t irritated as well. In the age of cellular phones and wireless capable PDA’s, it was absolutely incomprehensible that they hadn’t heard from them. Finally the IMC called, “Mr. Mitchell, lay topside.” Jerry hurried to the forward escape hatch and got up on deck in time to see a semi-tractor truck with a canvas- covered flatbed trailer rumble to a stop on the pier. A base security car was in front, and a van labeled CHARLES STARK DRAPER LABORATORY completed the convoy. Patterson and Davis got out of the van and started to pull their luggage from the back.
Jerry told the topside watchstander, “Pass the word to the Captain that they’ve arrived and ask Senior Chief Foster to come topside.”
Hurrying onto the pier, Jerry greeted the two women as they stepped away from the van, but only Dr. Davis returned his “hello.” Patterson simply announced, “There are my bags,” as she passed Jerry and strode toward the brow.
Jerry smiled cynically as he turned back to Davis and asked, “What kept you? You guys are over three hours late.”
“Sorry about that. The traffic out of Boston was hideous.”
“You should’ve called to let us know that you were going to be delayed,” teased Jerry. “It would have been the polite thing to do.”
“You’re right, of course. But simple courtesy is not high on Dr. Patterson’s list of things to do today.”
“So I’ve noticed. She seems to be in her normal foul mood.”
Davis didn’t respond to Jerry’s little quip, but simply looked down at the ground, slightly biting her lower lip. Jerry gathered that the trip down from Boston was more unpleasant then she cared to talk about. Motioning toward the brow, he said, “Come on, Emily, I’ll have someone get your personal gear on board.” The two of them headed toward the submarine.
As Dr. Patterson approached the brow, the messenger of the watch, Seaman Gunther, came to attention and saluted her.
“What the hell is this all about?” she demanded.
“Captain Hardy said that you should be treated as senior officers while you’re aboard, ma’am.”
Patterson still looked puzzled. “Senior?” she asked.
Jerry came over. “Commander and above. Lieutenant commander and below are ‘junior officers,’” he explained.
“Oh.” Patterson looked momentarily pleased at her sudden change in status, but then scowled. “What’s wrong with you people? Don’t you know how to relate to someone who doesn’t have stripes on their arm somewhere?”
Jerry quickly replied, “I’m sure the Captain was. ”
“I’ll take this up with the Captain myself,” Patterson interrupted, almost huffing. She headed below.
Jerry turned to Gunther. “It’s okay. You don’t have to salute Dr. Patterson or Dr. Davis. They can’t return your salute anyway.”
Gunther, a little confused and embarrassed, nodded. “Yessir.”
“Please make sure that the ladies’ bags are taken to the XO’s cabin.”
Glad for something constructive to do, Gunther nodded and took off.
Senior Chief Foster suddenly emerged from the forward escape hatch. The sour expression he carried made Jerry think that he’d met Patterson going down while he went up.
Jerry asked, “Are we ready to load?”
“Yes, sir.” Foster seemed irritated by the question, but Jerry ignored it. Foster was always irritated by his questions.
While Jerry reviewed the inventory and signed for the equipment, Emily Davis supervised as Foster and his men unloaded the truck. The procedure was similar to the one used for loading torpedoes, and the cargo was handled just as delicately. Although it couldn’t explode, if any of the equipment was damaged, the mission, whatever it was, might be delayed or even aborted.
After removing the canvas, each pallet had four lifting lines and two guidelines attached and was swung over by crane onto the loading tray. Dr. Davis monitored the loading evolution closely, like a mother hen fussing over her chicks, and made sure they were handled gently. The pallets were all wrapped in dark gray plastic and carried no markings except for a large number made of silver tape. The numbers matched a list Davis had, and she referred to it to make sure the pallets were brought aboard in the correct order.
Number Three happened to be first, and Davis hurried across to the sub’s deck, matching the pallet’s progress as it was swung over. The weapons loading hatch was located on the bow, in front of sail. Unlike the two escape hatches aft of the sail, this hatch was angled and matched up with the holes in the decks below. It allowed a torpedo or missile, twenty-one inches in diameter, to be brought aboard and loaded, tail first, into the torpedo room.
Once placed on the loading tray, the downhaul lines were attached, and the crane on the pier lifted the tray to the proper angle. Then the heavy pallet was slowly lowered down inside the hull.
Yesterday, during torpedo loading, Foster and the division had averaged about thirty minutes per weapon. It took almost an hour and a half just to get the first equipment pallet stowed, mostly because of Davis’ constant checking and her entreaties to move slowly and carefully. The second pallet was going a little faster, but Jerry predicted they would be at it well past dinnertime.
Dr. Patterson did nothing to speed the process. She showed up as the second pallet was being lifted across to the sub, and when she saw the pallet swinging in the air, shouted, “Stop!”
Senior Chief Foster, directing the crane, held both arms up, his hands balled into fists. The crane operator immediately halted, and everyone froze in their places, quickly, almost frantically, searching for a problem. “What’s wrong?” someone asked.
Patterson ignored the question and turned to the nearest sailor, TM1 Moran. He was holding one of the lines that steadied the pallet while it was swung over. “How can you let that pallet swing about like that? Are those cables strong enough to hold the pallet when you let it swing all over the place?” she demanded.
Moran looked at her in puzzlement, then turned toward the Senior Chief, pleading in his expression. Both Foster and Jerry hurried over, while Patterson continued ranting. “Why isn’t the pallet properly supported?”
Foster overheard the last question and quickly asked, “What’s wrong with the rig, ma’am?”
“It’s only suspended by a single cable! What if it breaks?” she demanded. “When we loaded the pallets on the trailer, we used a crane with two cables!”
“Ma’am, that cable’s rated for five tons, and the pallet weighs less than two tons.”
She wasn’t satisfied. “How do you know that one cable won’t break? When was it last inspected?”
“The crane is inspected monthly by SUBASE and I checked it myself this morning, ma’am.”
“And what do you know about cables?” she retorted contemptuously. She turned to toward the topside watch, a short distance away, and called, “Tell the Captain to come up here now. I need to see him immediately!”
She wasn’t facing Jerry, which was good, because his face must have mirrored his surprise. Who did this woman think she was? Only the Captain’s “senior officer” admonition prevented Jerry from countermanding her order. Nobody “tells” the Captain anything. You may inform him of certain facts, but you don’t tell him what to do — especially Captain Hardy.
Jerry also watched Foster, struggling to control his anger. “Dr. Patterson,” Foster began slowly. “This is the exact same crane and rig we used to bring ten torpedoes aboard yesterday, and they weigh thirty-seven hundred pounds each. I’ve been in subs for..”
“Yes, but these pallets are worth millions of dollars each!”
Jerry almost burst out laughing. Mark 48 torpedoes cost about one and a half million each. Submarine sailors and officers handle costly high-tech equipment every day. Hell, they lived inside one of the most complex and expensive machines ever built.
