Operation Ivy Bells

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

COMSUBDEVGRUONE, Point Loma

My orders read: “TO: LT J.R. MCDOWELL FM: COM- SUBPAC. REPORT TO COMSUBDEVGRUONE FOR DUTY AS OIC TOG.”

I knew COMSUBPAC stood for Commander, Submarine Force Pacific Fleet, and COMSUBDEVGRUONE meant Commander, Submarine Development Group One (where I had trained as a saturation diver), and OIC was Officer in Charge. But TOG – what the hell was that?

I had just completed the better part of a year aboard the USS Pigeon, the Navy’s newest ASR, a catamaran monstrosity of a submarine rescue ship with two saturation diving systems, and mothership to one or both Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicles (DSRVs) – mini-subs used in underwater rescue and other tasks. When I had completed my saturation diving training I was transferred to the Pigeon to put into practice what I had learned in school – and to give the Navy sufficient time to vet my background thoroughly. My new orders signaled that the vetting task was complete.

I strolled up the same hill, past the same flower bed, and into the same carefully maintained, nondescript building I had entered a year-and-a-half earlier when I commenced my saturation diving training. This time, however, the Yeoman at the front desk grinned at me and said, “We just got your final security clearance a few days ago, you know,” he added. “Looks like you’re finally in the system.”

I handed him an envelope containing my records. He then pulled out a file folder from the envelope and stamped the outside and the top page on the left-hand side.

I looked at my watch: Nine thirty.

Out the window a large sailboat moved majestically past the submarine tender USS Hunley on its way to a day of waterborne pleasure off the San Diego coastline. Maybe whale watching, I thought. I could just make out a golden-maned girl in a bright red bikini. I grinned; deck sailors stopped work on the sub tender to pay her homage.

The Yeoman handed my papers back and gestured toward the Marine guarding the door in the opposite wall that I had only glanced through on my last visit. “They’ll take care of you inside.”

I showed my orders to the Marine. He wanted to see my ID. I gave it to him, and he actually looked at it and then at me, and then back at the card, and then at me again. I noticed that his sidearm, a standard service .45 semi-auto, was in an open holster. It and the holster were well used. When the Marine asked me to step back, I didn’t argue with him. I did, and he checked me up and down.

“You’re heavier than it says on the card,” he said.

“Yeah, I know. I’ve been working out.” I was pretty proud of the fifteen pounds of muscle bulk I had added during the past two years.

The Marine grudgingly punched in the code and saluted me as I passed through the door. The room was cool and quiet. Its utilitarian gray walls were broken with opaque windows covered with sound absorbing blinds. I suspected they were barred outside as well.

I handed my package to the Personnelman First Class occupying the front desk.

“TOG,” he said, pronouncing it like “Dog.” “We been expecting you, Lieutenant. Welcome aboard the Test Operations Group!” He stretched out his hand. “I’m Peterson. Everybody calls me Pete.”

I shook his hand, and he grinned at me. “I keep you out of trouble,” he said, and pointed to a gunmetal gray desk in the corner. “That’s yours when you’re in town.”

Pete punched a number on his desk phone.

“Richardson.”

“Lieutenant McDowell’s here, Sir.”

“Send him in!”

Pete pointed down the hall.

“Door at the end,” he said.

As I approached the door, it opened. I recognized the officer holding out his hand. Commander Dan Richardson had been skipper of the Pigeon before my tour. He was one hell of a sub-rescue guy. He had worked himself up through the ranks as a diesel submarine Auxiliaryman. Made E-8 and then Limited Duty Officer, or LDO; one of the best. Too old for nukes, they told him, so they surfaced him to the Navy’s ASR fleet as the Engineer on the USS Sparrowhawk, an aging submarine rescue and salvage ship out of Charleston, South Carolina. He graduated to Executive Officer of the USS Ortolan, the Navy’s newest catamaran monstrosity – East Coast sister ship to the Pigeon. Two years later he assumed command of Pigeon.

“Dan!” I shook his hand.

“Mac! Welcome aboard!” He gestured to a thermos on his desk. “Coffee?”

I nodded. “The way I like my women.”

“That covers the waterfront,” he laughed as he added cream and sugar.

The crusty Commander made himself comfortable in a big well-worn leather chair behind his ancient mahogany desk and gestured to an armchair facing his desk. I sat, sipping my coffee.

“What do you know about Operation Ivy Bells?” he asked, without fanfare.

I shrugged. “Nothing, really, except the married guys tend to get divorced.” I sipped my coffee. “And it’s Mare Island,” I added.

Dan nodded and slid a form across his desk. “Sign your life away,” he said.

I looked the form over. He wasn’t kidding. It seems that if I didn’t destroy the paper I used to wipe my ass, I would face a firing squad, after they hanged and electrocuted me. I signed and shoved it back across his desk. What the hell. I was cleared for Top Secret-SIOP before I got here; how much more secret can you get?

A lot, it turned out.