each one was a professional. He felt particularly blessed, as Chief Hudson and the other senior enlisted men in the department were all strong performers. The “plankowners” that had brought
“All things considered, gentlemen, you did very well,” concluded the master chief with a grin. “I’ll inform your XO that you all died valiantly trying to save your boat. Any questions?”
A collective groan, plus a volley of wet towels, was the operations department’s response. Jerry laughed as the master chief expertly dodged the assault. The skipper and the XO were going to be pleased with his department’s grade. His men had taken everything the training team had to give before they lost the fight. In a way, it was almost a compliment, if a damp one.
Jerry didn’t mind. The more you trained for something, the less likely it was that you’d ever actually have to use it.
1. BEWARE THE WOLF
“Petty Officer Gibson, front and center,” barked Jerry as he and the communications officer, Lieutenant Chandler, stood in front of the operations department, assembled in
When Jerry called out his name, Gibson stepped up smartly and took the clipboard. IT2 Paul Gibson had been aboard the boat longer than Jerry. He was a little on the pudgy side, a common problem on subs where great food and few opportunities for exercise left their mark. He was twenty-seven, with a wife and a one-year-old son. He took position in front of the assembled sailors and began reading the plan of the day.
“Our underway is now in eight days. Supply chits have to be turned in by tomorrow if Mr. Constantino is supposed to fill them. ”
Jerry already knew what the PoD said, and Gibson had everything under control. As he stood, half-listening, Jerry looked over the operations department—
As the commo, Chandler was in charge of six “information systems technicians,” or “ITs,” although most of the crew still called them radiomen. And he was responsible for all the boat’s communications equipment and encryption gear.
And as operations officer, Jerry was responsible for everyone in the department, including Chandler. Jerry was also
His sailors were neatly lined up in three groups, wearing clean working uniforms. Civilians would be impressed by their military bearing and discipline. But Jerry knew he faced a band of rugged individualists who worked together only by choice. And while they worked together well, that didn’t come automatically, or even easily.
“Family day is Saturday, with a cookout at the ball field. We’re still looking for some people to help with the kids’ games, so contact MM2 Stone if you’re interested. The ship’s ombudsman and the family support network still need email addresses…”
Jerry’s mind wandered to his own personal “to do” list. However, since he was navigator, operations officer, and senior watch officer, technically it was “lists.” Oh. And he was one of three qualified divers on board.
As he mentally went down his tally, he looked down at his watch to check the time. No sweat, he still had fifteen minutes before his meeting with Lieutenant Commander Shimko, the executive officer. He had to go over the voyage plan — again. The crew wouldn’t be briefed about their destination until they were under way, but Jerry not only knew where they were going, he had planned out their entire trip in detail.
It was to
Gibson finished reading the PoD and looked expectantly at Jerry. Sensing his cue, Mitchell stepped forward and asked, “Do the chiefs or leading petty officers have anything further to add?” All four men responded in the negative.
“All right, then. Turn to and commence ship’s work. Dismissed.” As the members of the department queued up to exit through the narrow door into the control room, Jerry saw QM1 Peters waiting for his turn, and caught the quartermaster’s eye. He pointed to his watch and then held up five fingers. Peters nodded, understanding. The ship’s leading quartermaster would be at the briefing with the XO as well.
Jerry waited patiently to exit the nav equipment space and quickly headed aft to his stateroom. Even though the wardroom was on the same deck, and near his quarters, he’d have to hurry a little if he wanted to be punctual. To save time, he’d already organized the materials he needed to bring the night before, but as he approached his stateroom he saw Lieutenant Chandler waiting with a sheaf of papers in his hand and an earnest expression on his face. “Jerry, here are the last of our school requests, but I need to ask you a few questions. ”
Jerry cut him off as he stepped into his stateroom. “Sorry, Matt. I’m wearing my navigator hat right now. I’ve got a voyage planning review in the wardroom with the XO.” He dialed his safe and began removing his notes.
“I know, but this will only take a moment, and I have to turn them in this morning,” the comms officer pleaded.
“It’ll be morning for some time yet, and I do not want to keep the XO waiting.” Closing the safe should have added a note of finality to Jerry’s statement.
Chandler wouldn’t give up. “I’ll just turn them in as is. They’re probably fine.”
“Not without me seeing them first,” Jerry insisted. That was standard procedure for any paperwork going up the chain of command. And Chandler knew better. When the commo smiled and started to offer Jerry the documents, Jerry repeated, “After the meeting. Find me then,” he said firmly, letting some irritation show. Jerry didn’t like mind games. Chandler seemed to think it was the only way to get things done.
Hurrying the few steps to the wardroom, Jerry entered and found QM1 Peters already inside, laying out the charts. Jerry checked them over one last time, carefully comparing them to his own notes. Only after everything appeared in order did he allow himself to get a cup of coffee.
ETC Hudson and Lieutenant Commander Shimko appeared in the door as Jerry was pouring. He offered a cup to the XO, who gratefully accepted one. Peters also had some, but Hudson declined.
Marcus Shimko was second-generation American, born to Andrei and Natalia six years after they’d emigrated from what was then the Soviet Union and now Belarus. He was short, about Jerry’s height, but stocky where Jerry was slim. Shimko had already lost a lot of his hair, but what was left was sandy and cut very short. He was all business, an exceptional organizer and a detail hound — the perfect executive officer.
Jerry teased Hudson about “not stooping to drink wardroom coffee” but kept one eye on the XO. When the executive officer sat down, ship’s business took over. Jerry picked up his notes while Hudson double-checked the wardroom door, making sure it was locked.
With his laser pointer, Jerry highlighted individual sections of the entire mission on the nautical chart taped to the table. The bright blue and yellow chart was overlaid with black lines showing
“Our projected track takes us out of the Block Island Sound, east, and then northeast. I’ve recommended passing to the west of Iceland, using the Denmark Strait. Once past Iceland, we follow the east coast of Greenland, using shallow water and biologies wherever possible to mask our approach. Assuming an on-time departure on the fifteenth and a speed of advance of sixteen knots, we should arrive at Point Alpha at 1200 Zulu time on the twenty- third.” Jerry pointed to the first of a series of x’s on the chart.
He’d rehearsed the speech several times, and gotten it off smoothly. Shimko just nodded, inviting Jerry to continue. So far, so good.
