The wardroom was directly aft of the officers’ berthing, starboard side, and already crowded with officers when he stepped in a few minutes after twelve. Some stood at places around the small table, but most were milling around. Jerry had hurriedly met most of the officers during the morning, but now he took the time for proper introductions. Two of the department heads, Lieutenant Commander Jeff Ho, the ship’s Engineer, and Lieutenant Cal Richards, the Weapons Officer, were the senior officers present. Tom Holtzmann, the Reactor Officer, and Ensign Jim Porter, the Electrical Officer, were both division officers under Ho, a big Hawaiian, certainly too big to be comfortable in a sub’s confined environment. One other officer, Lenny Berg, in charge of the radiomen and a lieutenant (junior grade) like Jerry, was present for the first seating.
They were still finishing introductions when another officer entered. He introduced himself to Jerry as Bill Washburn, the Supply Officer, then turned to Ho, the senior officer in the room. “The XO says to save him a place, but start without him.” He frowned a little. “He just got a call from the CO.”
Ho nodded, then replied, “Good enough. Seats please, gentlemen.”
Lunch was stuffed pork chops and a fresh salad. They hadn’t been lying about the food aboard subs.
“How far along in your training were you when you had your accident?” Cal Richards came straight to the point. Jerry guessed Gunther’s news had spread fast.
“I was in my final cycle,” Jerry answered quietly “I already had orders to a squadron at Oceana. A few more weeks.”
“After how long? A year and a half of training? That’s rough.” Tom Holtzmann’s comment was sympathetic, but reminded Jerry of all the time he’d lost. And he’d never fly again.
“What made you decide to transfer to submarines?” Washburn asked.
An honest question, but one that Jerry had answered a hundred times since the accident, and continued to ask himself. He gave the stock answer, practiced and repeated until it emerged almost automatically.
“They were going to medical me out of the service, but I liked the Navy and wanted to be a part of it. My hand didn’t keep me from normal duties, so I signed up for subs.”
“But it wasn’t your first choice,” prompted Richards.
“No sir. I’d picked aviation, and done well at it. I’ve always liked airplanes, really anything that goes fast, and being outside as well…”
That prompted a round of hearty laughter from every man in the wardroom. When it died down, Richards commented, still chuckling, “You may want to reexamine your career choice before it’s too late.”
Jerry had no reply, but Ho said. “I remember seeing that crash, and you ejecting, and I followed the story after you got out of the hospital. There was a senator, a relative, who helped you stay in.”
“That’s right. My mom’s brother is Senator Thorvald, from Nebraska. Without him I’d be out on the street.”
“Nice to have friends in high places,” Richards commented. There was an undercurrent to the remark that worried Jerry. Richards wasn’t smiling.
The XO came in and dropped into a seat at the head of the table. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” The other officers all greeted Bair quietly, who seemed tired, almost worn out. The mess attendant poured coffee and made sure the dishes were within his reach.
Bair started to fill his plate and announced, “I’ve just gotten the news from the Captain. There’s been a slight change in plans.” He paused to take a bite and chewed, enjoying everyone’s anticipation. “The decomm’s been delayed. We’re going to make another run north, as far north as we’ve ever gone.”
Bair stopped talking and took another bite, but the silence continued for a few more beats as the officers absorbed the news. Jerry felt some relief. At least his first cruise wouldn’t be to a scrapyard.
Finally Washburn, the Supply Officer, asked, “How long have we got to get ready, sir?
The XO’s answer was vague. “A few weeks, but I don’t have the schedule yet. The Captain says this will be a ‘special’ run, and he’ll brief the crew tomorrow morning, but until then we’re to begin preparations for sea.” Jerry watched their faces. Some of them hurried to finish their meals. “A few weeks” wasn’t much time to turn around a sub and prepare it for a hazardous deployment.
He turned to face Jerry, “And it turns out Mr. Mitchell and the Manta will play a critical role. I’d like you to stay after lunch, Jerry. The rest of you pass the word. Start putting your lists together.”
Several of the officers muttered, “Aye, aye, sir,” and the wardroom quickly cleared, except for Bair, Jerry, and the mess steward, who started to clean up for the second sitting, then saw the XO’s face and disappeared.
“Is there anything about this mission that you’ve forgotten to tell me?”
Jerry, surprised and confused, quickly answered, “No, sir!”
“Captain Hardy indicated you’d been hand-picked for this assignment.”
“Nobody told me if they did.”
Bair didn’t look convinced. “Look, mister, your story is all over the ship. It’s nice to see a man fighting to stay in the Navy, but people with pull aren’t going to impress anyone on this boat.” He leaned forward in his chair, spearing Mitchell with his eyes. “Did you use your pull to get aboard
“No, sir, absolutely not! I was supposed to go to another boat, USS
The XO didn’t look happy, but didn’t press Jerry further. “All right, mister. Finish getting squared away. The Captain will be back aboard this evening, and he wants to talk to me about you,” he said, pointing at Mitchell. “I suspect that he’ll also want a word with you himself.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Jerry got out and took the few steps forward to his stateroom. He shared the space with Lieutenant (j.g.) Berg, the Communications Officer, and Lieutenant Washburn, but right now he had the place to himself. He finished unpacking, organizing his clothes and books in a space that made a closet look roomy.
His right arm was sore, and he absentmindedly picked up a hand exerciser and began squeezing it. It still hurt, maybe a little more than usual, but the action gave him the illusion of doing something constructive.
The pain was okay, according to the docs, even a year and a half after the crash. He smiled. At least it didn’t hurt as much as it did a year and a half ago.
“A compound fracture of the radius and ulna.” They didn’t even need X-rays to diagnose it. And it wasn’t a clean break, either. It had finally taken three operations and three months before they were done with him. And from now on, he’d always know when it was going to rain.
The Navy always taped air operations, in case of accidents, and they’d released the video of Jerry’s crash. It showed his Hornet smoothly accelerating down the runway, jet exhausts filled with blue flame, then a small puff of white appeared by the right wheel. That was the only sign of trouble, but the jet suddenly veered off to the right. The canopy flew off a fraction of a second after the puff, followed by the pilot’s seat (That’s me, thought Jerry) on a pillar of flame and smoke. The chute popped, but didn’t deploy fully before Jerry was slammed onto the concrete surface. It had even made the news.
He’d seen it a dozen times and could look at it now without feeling the pain of the landing — and of failure. Loss of an airplane, loss of a career. The Board had cleared him completely, and he almost believed them.
Between operations, he’d stayed at the squadron, his career on medical hold. He’d hated it, hanging around pilots and airplanes but unable to fly. Commander Casey had given him a boatload of collateral duties to keep him busy, but it hadn’t taken Jerry’s mind off the accident. And then the Navy had started.
It was a fair offer. It wasn’t Jerry’s fault he wasn’t able to fly anymore, so they gave him a choice. He could transfer to the surface fleet or accept an honorable discharge.
Jerry couldn’t abide the idea of a discharge. He’d joined the Navy because he liked what it stood for and what it did. He’d always liked speed, and a challenge, since he’d been old enough to walk. First stunts on skateboards, then motorbikes, and skydiving. His girlfriends had called him an “adrenaline junkie,” usually right before they dumped him, but it wasn’t the danger he loved so much as the rush from succeeding at some difficult task. He was an A student for the same reason.
Now the Navy wanted to take away his latest success, when it was in his hands. Except one of his hands didn’t work so well anymore. But he was all right for surface ships, said the detailer. He could still have a naval career. The medical restriction only applied to aviation.
What about subs? Jerry had asked. The detailer had said that yes, he was certainly fit for duty on subs, but
