Dangerous Ground

little taller than Jerry, but Mitchell was used to that.

“Captain Hardy?” asked Jerry.

“You’ve heard of him, then?” asked Holtzmann. There was a dark edge to the question, but Jerry didn’t want to follow that up right now.

“No, just checking to see if I’d gotten the right gouge,” replied Jerry. “I’ve still got my gear in the car, but I’ll go below and report in, if that’s okay.”

“Right. I’ll have the petty officer take you forward. This is ET2 Anderson, by the way, one of my guys.” He turned to the petty officer. “Please take Mr. Mitchell forward to the XO’s stateroom.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” He turned briefly to Mitchell. “Follow me, please.”

Anderson dropped smoothly through the hatch, and Jerry followed, slower and with much more care. Submarines were designed to have as few holes in their pressure hulls as possible, and this was one of the biggest, a twenty-five-inch circular opening that looked like the door to a bank vault, if banks put their vaults in the floor.

Technically, it was the Forward Escape Trunk. Everything that the sub needed, except for torpedoes, had to fit through that hatch. Food, repair parts, tools, and appliances all came through that two-foot hole or they didn’t go in at all.

Two vertical ladders brought him down to the middle level of the forward compartment, one of the three decks in the sub. Although he’d been aboard other subs during his training, he still wasn’t used to the jumble of green- and gray-painted metal shapes, which only grudgingly allowed humans to pass between them. Everywhere he looked, Jerry saw machinery, cables, and pipes, all systematically labeled. Part of his job would be to learn every inch of them.

He spotted Anderson’s receding form, headed forward, and hurried to follow, removing his cap and bulky bridge coat. Instinctively, he pulled in his elbows and crouched slightly, in spite of his short stature. He passed the crew’s mess, the galley, and sickbay. Climbing a short ladder, Jerry found himself in the control room. If the reactor was her heart, the control room was Memphis’ brain.

Immediately forward of the control room, right in the bow, were the CO’s and XO’s staterooms, both on the port side of the passageway. The only thing forward of them was a room full of switchboards and beyond that the sub’s massive bow sonar sphere, outside the pressure hull but inside a streamlined fairing. The sonar shack, both the eyes and ears of this underwater animal, was on the right side of the passageway.

The XO’s stateroom had an honest-to-God door with a small sign that read “Executive Officer.” The petty officer knocked twice, lightly, and waited for a muffled “Come” before turning the knob. Anderson then backed up, giving Jerry room in the narrow passageway to go through the door.

The Executive Officer was Lieutenant Commander Robert Bair, at least according to Memphis’ web page. There was no photo, but Jerry saw a man in khakis with gold oak leaves on his shirt collar. He didn’t look very old, but his hair was almost completely white, and the front of his uniform bulged just a little. He was seated at the fold-down desk in his stateroom, which was covered with neat bundles of folders and paperwork. Jerry noticed three baskets fastened to the right side of the desk, labeled load, shoot, and check fire.

Automatically, Jerry straightened to attention and offered the envelope he’d been carrying. “Lieutenant (j.g.) Jerry Mitchell, reporting, sir.” He didn’t salute, since naval officers don’t salute uncovered.

Bair took the envelope without immediately responding and examined the address on the outside before reading the enclosed orders. He sighed tiredly, and gave Mitchell a small smile. “Well, mister, these orders are correct, and you’re supposed to be here, but I can’t imagine why. Our captain’s in Norfolk getting orders to decommission this boat. Can you explain what you’re supposed to be doing here?”

Then Bair’s eyes spotted the golden wings on Jerry’s uniform coat. “And why in hell did they send us an aviator?”

“Not an aviator anymore, sir. I medicaled out of the training program.” Jerry held up his right hand. The sleeve slid back far enough to show a road map of scars over his wrist and lower arm.

“Well, those wings have no place on this boat. You can wear your diver’s pin, but leave the wings off while you’re here.” The XO’s preemptory order disappointed Jerry. He’d worked a long time to get those wings, and technically, they were part of his uniform. But the XO was right. They really didn’t matter here.

“I see you’ve even been to Manta school,” Bair remarked.

“Yes, sir. That’s when they told me I was coming to Memphis, when I received orders to the school.”

“Well, I wish they’d told us at the same time,” muttered the XO sourly. “Look, Captain Hardy’s due back later today. Just go ahead and get your paperwork started, and we’ll sort out what to do with you later.”

He handed the orders back to Jerry. “Take these down to the yeoman. He’ll get you checked in.” He pointed to a stairway just across from his stateroom, at the end of the passageway. “Just use that ladder.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Jerry turned to leave, but the XO called after him.

“Lieutenant Mitchell, one more thing.” He smiled again, the same tired smile he’d given Jerry earlier. “Welcome aboard.”

* * *

Yeoman First Class Glover, a slim, dark-haired man with an incredibly neat office, seemed unsurprised by Mitchell’s appearance. He greeted Jerry with a broad smile and handshake. “Welcome aboard, sir. I’ve started your checklist,” he remarked, neatly taking the orders from Jerry’s hand.

“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.