Death of a Cure Page 2

  I emptied my pockets into my personal locker and pulled on another set of the nondescript fatigues. My transportation arrived, and the driver helped me carry the canister and the rucksack containing my jump and dive gear to a small truck. Billy watched and worked hard at staying out of the way. He had defined his assistance as limited to note taking and the provision of verbal abuse. There was no mention in his job description about lifting and hauling. We drove a short distance to the flight line where I boarded a C-17 Globemaster transport aircraft.

  The loadmaster looked at the canister knowing that he and my driver would have to haul it aboard by hand. He shot me a look, and I knew what was coming.

  “Is that your kit?” he asked with more than a little attitude. He also conveniently forgot the “sir” due to the fact that my jumpsuit did not have rank insignia. I was sure that he knew that I was an officer, but I let it slide.

  I glowered back, the best defense being a good offense. “Yeah, just the rucksack and the tube.”

  It was obvious that he preferred cargo, even 70-ton, M1 main battle tank cargo, provided that it could roll itself aboard. The luggage wheel idea was building a following.

  I said goodbye to Billy, and soon the bird was buttoned up; the sole passenger (me) was safety-briefed, and the take-off accomplished, all with little fanfare. The six-hour flight in a noisy transport gave me plenty of time to be alone with my thoughts.

  *

  I could do this 1,000 times and would still experience some anxiety just prior to the big moment. Only James Bond is James Bond. The rest of us are considerably less cool.

  I was going in alone — we almost always operated alone. This would be the fifth time I had parachuted into the ocean and knocked on the door of a submarine but only my second time at night. The night factor added significantly to the degree of difficulty, but it wouldn’t get me any sympathy from my boss, Gen. Marlon F. X. Fitzhue, self appointed protector of the entire free world.

  Mentally, I rehashed what had been learned from my previous underwater sub insertions. After carefully considering the objective, a good plan had been developed. I was well trained and had more than a little experience at this sort of exercise. Even so, I went over every detail I could think of that might operationally affect my ability to get safely aboard the sub. All of that took less than the first hour of my trip leaving me a lot of time to kill. At this point, the worst thing to do was to over analyze the task at hand. Fixating on the upcoming jump and dive for the next five hours would only cause needless anxiety.

  My brother, Ron, entered my thoughts as he often does when I’m about to do something he would consider dangerous. What would he say if he could see me now? He would try to hide his concern behind a forced laugh and let me know, as he had countless times before, that his younger brother had not really moved beyond adolescence. The excitement in his life was limited to the view through a microscope with an occasional, tense skirmish in the boardroom. He would tell me that the excitement in my life could get me killed! I would answer back that someday his boardroom buddies would kill him with boredom. He was supposed to call me last night, and I hadn’t heard from him. There would be a message from him waiting for me upon my return from the mission.

  *

  The rear cargo ramp slowly opened. I was more than ready to get this part over with knowing that my heart rate would settle down the moment I left the aircraft, even more so after getting under underwater.

  When the time came, the loadmaster yelled, “Now!” and slapped me on the back. Standing bent over behind the canister containing my gear, I pushed for all I was worth and followed the five-foot long tube out into the dark space engulfing the fast-moving aircraft. The fine print promised that my static line would stay attached to the plane, automatically deploying the parachute. Although the aircraft was less than 500 feet above the Pacific, there was nothing to see during my freefall in absolute darkness — no, my eyes were not shut, just useless. They would be of little help until actually underwater and then only after putting on the dive mask.

  There was just barely enough time to throw my arms and legs back into the hard arch position drilled into me many years ago by my jump instructors when suddenly I was just about stopped in mid air by the opening parachute. Almost instantaneously after the chute had opened, another less-than-subtle yank on my body pulled at me when the canister reached the end of its tether. I think I gained two inches in height. There was an overcast completely blacking out the stars and the moon. With no light above the horizon to give me a frame of reference for up or down, it was impossible to tell how far it was to the surface. The luminous hands of the altimeter fixed to the aluminum mount on my chest were barely visible. The loadmaster and the now empty transport plane long gone.

  The downward pull from the canister relaxed as it impacted the surface, floating momentarily. Hitting the water hard somewhere next to it, I was forced under by my downward velocity better than fifteen feet. The time had come to pull the regulator from its holder, put it in my mouth, breathe in some bottled air, and clear my ears. Removing the dive mask from its pocket, putting it on my face, and clearing the water from it came next, followed by extricating myself from the parachute harness. My eyes stung from the salt water.

  Be cool, Tommy.

  The canister followed me down like an obedient pup. At thirty feet, all was peaceful again even if it was still very dark. Thirty feet had been chosen because it was deep enough for the ocean to be still yet not so deep that the eighty cubic foot tank would get quickly sucked dry. Pulling the homing locator out of another pocket marked a key moment as without it, finding the sub would be impossible. The beacon was coming in strong.

  I swam in the direction indicated by the glowing pointer. After about 250 feet as measured by my kick count, the beacon emitted an audible alarm – the Hawaii was close. Turning on my dive light while descending to eighty feet as instructed, I set off in the direction of the sub. After swimming another seventy feet, I saw the submarine appear suspended motionless in front of me. My position was near the bow on the port side. Turning right, my slow and measured kicking brought me along the length of the sub just over the curving deck.

  Moving aft until the sub’s underwater entrance, the lock-out/lock-in chamber, was encircled in the illumination of my dive light left me with mixed emotions. Getting aboard the sub would be a relief, but at the same time, I was going to have to enter the air-lock that was not only a claustrophobia-inducing crypt but also the only part of my short journey that was completely dependent upon the actions of others – something I dreaded even more than the small, dark, enclosed chamber. Opening the outer hatch required actuating the release lever and lifting the cover. Pulling the canister towards me, I pushed it into the open hatch and followed it in. Standing next to it, my fancy fins folded up and out of the way. Reaching up and pulling the hatch shut secured the locking mechanism. After banging on the inner hatch with the butt of my dive knife, I could hear the sound of water rushing and knew that the crew was draining water out of the chamber. Even though the water level descended around me, I kept the regulator in my mouth, breathing normally. Well, as normally as you can breathe when trapped in a steel crypt watching your air supply diminish. Respiration rate may have been up a touch. I just don’t like small spaces and may have closed my eyes.

  The wheel in the inner hatch started to turn and eventually the inner portal opened dumping the last couple of gallons of seawater. An officer in a working uniform looked curiously in at me as the regulator dropped from my mouth. Having no idea what he was thinking, my words were less than poetic.

  “Hi,” I said. OK, maybe it could have been more eloquent. It was a strange entrance, but it wasn’t a Neil Armstrong moment, even if it wasn’t your typical house call.

  SKI REPAIR

  “Nice of you to drop in, Colonel.” He had been working on that one. “I’m Johannson, the exec. Welcome aboard!”

  By “exec,” Lt. Cmdr. Gary Johannson had meant
that he was the executive officer and the second in command of the boat after the captain. Subs are always boats, never ships. Submariners, those who for reasons known only to them, volunteer to be sub crewmembers, are particular about the distinction. I’ve never asked why, but you will get a guaranteed correction if you say ship. The ones I have met are even funny about the pronunciation of the word submariner. It is always sub-mare-in-er, never submarine-er — important stuff in the realm of the bubblehead. Personally, I thought that the version with “Marine” in the middle sounded best.

  Johannson was a big, tow-headed Swede who probably made cranial contact with many of the low-hanging spaces aboard the sub. He wore a perpetual, ear-to-ear grin and seemed to be one of those eternally cheerful guys. Or, maybe, he was just happy to have the doc who could fix his shipmate aboard and ready to get the job done. I get that a lot except from the occasional bad guy who doesn’t want me fixing anyone.

  I was happy to get out of the wet gear and get a fresh water rinse. All of this occurred in the torpedo room with cold water starting out in a hose aimed at me and then draining through a grating to somewhere out of sight below. The sub’s crew didn’t seem concerned about where the water was going so I wasn’t either. After toweling off and breaking the canister’s waterproof seal, the dry storage area inside provided underwear, fatigues, shoes, and socks. I retrieved my traveling medical equipment leaving the remaining personal items in the canister. Smiling guy that he was, Johannson had still scrutinized every item as it came out of the canister. He instructed the two seamen to take the rest of my gear to his cabin where I would be bunking on a cot between him and the chief engineer. I wondered if the sidearm would still be loaded when I next saw it? Johannson quickly led me to the sickbay. Don’t know what happened to the canister; I never saw it again — another piece of equipment loss to explain. Later, my unloaded pistol and four empty magazines would magically reappear, stuck in the top of my medical bag. Maybe the rounds ended up in the canister.

  Along the way we passed through the crew’s mess where a cup of hot coffee was pressed into my hands, and then we proceeded along several brightly lit passageways. The boat did not have the small, claustrophobic feel of its diesel-electric predecessors. Although we passed only a couple of seamen, both of them seemed very curious about the newcomer, even though they knew what I was here to do. This changed as we got near the sickbay. There was a lot of activity as well as some very serious faces.

  “How many are on the final injury list?” I asked.

  “Thirty-nine requiring more than a band-aid or aspirin. Everyone aboard is probably a little shook up in some way. We hit hard and slid to a stop without any warning,” Johansson answered quietly. “Had the boat been ten feet deeper, we’d have struck the side of the mount instead of grazing the top, and we would all be dead.” For the first time, his face lost its customary smile.

  He recovered quickly. “But now that the United States Marine Corps has been kind enough to send us “Super Doc” straight from the heavens above, we are saved! Thank you, Jesus!!” exclaimed Johannson immediately regaining his happy demeanor while channeling some departed Southern preacher. He then started loudly singing “From the Halls of Montezuma” announcing our arrival. He got a lot of the words wrong.

  Sickbay was overflowing even though most of the injured were being treated in their bunks. Dr. Orr and some volunteer medical support were in constant motion, moving back and forth from patient to patient. I was introduced to Lt. (Dr.) Raymond Orr and his ad-hoc team of very committed helpmates. I told the lieutenant to forget the rank, and we quickly became Ray and Tom. He was happy for the informality; he was happy that I was here; he was a lot happier than he had been at anytime in the last 24 hours. In my personal life, I almost never have this effect on people. Maybe my disdain for the bubbleheads needed rethinking.

  Electrician’s Mate 1st Class Terry Kawalski, “Ski” to his buddies, was doped up pretty good, and though he was pale, he did not seem to be in much pain. Stripped to the waist, he had a large bandage wrapped around his middle. Ray handed me his chart with the notes that had been made since the accident. You could read not only his medical but also his military training in the record. The make, model, and serial number of the generator were part of the package as was a description of the lifting eye that Kawalski had fallen upon. A sketch of the steel eye and the metal flange on the piece of equipment that had pierced the abdominal wall was included. Ray suspected that the spleen had been damaged and required removal. Had the injury fully trashed the spleen with subsequent hemorrhaging, Ray would have attempted emergency surgery on his own and probably gotten away with it.

  Having decided that he had some time, he did a very smart thing and waited. Buying time bought him options — I was the option selected. From Kawalski’s vitals, some testing, and my own evaluation, it was obvious that we had to look inside.

  Planning for spleen removal surgery required patient vaccinations for pneumococcus, H. influenza, and meningococcus, the protocol for a splenectomy. Ray helped me prep Kawalski and get him under. My new junior doctor friend would monitor his vitals and play anesthesiologist/assistant surgeon while I did the cutting. Due to the trauma, we performed open surgery. Upon inspection, it became quickly obvious that the damaged spleen had to come out, and it did without much fuss — it’s not difficult surgery. Disconnecting it from its arteries allowed me to remove it by cutting it free from the ligaments holding it in place. We sewed the abdomen back together, giving Electrician’s Mate 1st Class Terry Kawalski a scar to scare his future grandchildren. Yet it was not the basis for a Purple Heart as he was not injured in combat. Unless some significant complications arose, Kawalski would, after some recovery, once again do whatever it is that 1st Class Electricians Mates do aboard nuclear submarines. Hopefully, I would be long gone before he regained the energy to tell me what that was. I noted to all of the medical team, and to a few members of the crew within earshot, that the Marine Corps had once again bailed out the Navy — everyone could sleep soundly. Even though some serious eye rolling ensued, my little joke was all the assurance that the onlookers needed to know that their shipmate was going to make it. There wouldn’t have been any kidding around if I had any concerns. The good news would spread quickly along the submarine jungle telegraph.

  We safely returned the patient to one of the three fixed litters in the little sickbay, the other two occupied by injured seamen. It was time to chase Ray out and send him to a bunk of his own.

  “Go get some sleep, Lieutenant,” I ordered, a colonel once again.

  “What, and leave the safety of my crew to a Marine?”

  While pushing him out the door and into the companionway, I was updated on the more serious patients in a rapid-fire verbal volley. Finally, he gave in, waved a resigned thanks, and with a junior officer dragging him by the shirt sleeve, moved off in search of sleep. He was a good doc — the crew had been served well and they knew it.

  I checked on the other two patients in sickbay — they would keep. The executive officer had been hanging out in the companionway relaying updates on the surgery to the captain whom I still had not met. Johannson led me around the ship to see the other injured sailors. We used the excuse that it was too easy to get lost. There was no need to verbalize what we both knew — not a great idea for a stranger (even a brother officer) to wander about a nuclear sub without a keeper — at least until they got to know me a whole lot better.

  After seeing and evaluating all thirty-eight of the remaining injured, a process that took over six hours, I was satisfied that the Hawaii would suffer no fatalities. Sharing this with the captain seemed like a good excuse to meet him. Johannson (who had become Gary to my Tom) led me to the officer’s wardroom. The sub’s skipper, Commander Richmond, would be along soon.

  Planting my butt in a booth, I declined coffee but accepted orange juice. Ray walked in looking a lot better and well rested. He thanked me — my 45th since my arrival on board. I said, “No probl
em” for the 45th time and off he went to check once again on everyone that I had just seen.

  Commander Mike Richmond silently appeared and faced me. He was short like my brother but more laid back like me. After introductions, I received my 46th thank you, this time from the skipper. I had never met Commander Richmond before, but it was obvious that he had something to tell me and was uncomfortable with whatever it was.

  “Colonel, I have been in touch with COMSUBPAC, and I have some news. You have a brother, Dr. Ronald Briggs, in New York. Is this correct?”

  It could only be bad news. Family matters are not passed along to me, or any members of my group, unless the news is really, really bad and then only if the basic mission has been completed. The sick feeling that had started way down deep in my gut was expanding. I was working hard to control my breathing and could feel my skin get cold.

  “Commander Richmond, is my brother dead?”

  TRANSIT

  Richmond told me that he had no details about Ron’s death. Three days after my jump into the Pacific, we rendezvoused with a surface combatant group in a less embarrassing part of the Pacific. One of the ships was an amphibious assault vessel with a large medical staff and impressive facilities. I supervised the transfer of nine of Hawaii’s most injured to the larger, though probably not better, medical quarters. After turning the cases over to the new docs, it was a short hop by helicopter to a carrier.

  The transport back to Yokosuka seemed to take no time at all. I was dispatched as part of the cargo aboard a twin-engine turboprop. The base chaplain, a stranger to me, filled me in on what he had found out about Ron’s death, which wasn’t much. The official line was that he had jumped from his office window.

  It was going to be a long, butt-numbing trip from Japan back to the United States. At the best of times, travel like this is an endurance contest. Some people have told me that I can be a surly traveler. This, of course, is simply not true. I’m a prince of a guy – just ask me. In my current situation, I wasn’t sure what was going to be worse, the travel or actually arriving in New York. Looking forward to the reality of a life without Ron, his death not yet an emotionally accepted fact and even worse, death by suicide, was physically and mentally draining, leaving me feeling hollow and removed from everything around me. Being half the world away had somehow made it seem unreal. I was sure that coming face to face with the funeral, Ron’s work associates, and dealing with his condo in Manhattan would remove any barrier that my subconscious had constructed keeping me from finally dealing with the fact that he was gone. No matter how long the trip to New York would be, it would go too fast.