At this moment, Reynoso wished that he were in the small quiet radio room, operating his radio equipment, instead of holding this damn lightning rod. He imagined his division-mates, who were probably at this moment sitting in the radio room, watching him on the close-circuit monitor and laughing it up. It must be funny for them to see their leading petty officer, that asshole who gives them all that boring maintenance to perform each day, shaking in his sneakers.
He looked up at the number two periscope, projecting from the top of the sail standing tall against the bright sky.
The periscope lens was trained in his direction. They would be watching for sure, making wisecracks at his image on the small black and white screen in the radio room. He would have given them the finger, too, if the officer looking through the scope right now wouldn’t also see it. Who knows, maybe it was the captain. Then he would be in deep shit. No chance of making chief petty officer after flipping off your captain.
Whoever it was looking, they would have to stop now. Both periscopes began to sink into their wells and, like some kind of silent ballet, the rest of the masts followed in succession until the black sail reverted to its sleek fin-like shape. Reynoso knew that lowering the masts was a precaution against the helo’s whirling rotors, and he took a deep breath at the thought of the many different things that could go wrong.
Reynoso could see Lake’s head poking above the high bridge coaming. Lake pointed to the approaching helo and said something to the headset-laden sailor on the bridge beside him. Another sailor standing on deck beside Master Chief Ketterling wore a similar headset, allowing the bridge and the deck to talk directly to each other. The circuit was very necessary during helo ops. Any orders shouted from the bridge would get drowned out by the helo’s immense noise.
The Seahawk looked like a mosquito, its landing gear hanging beneath it like legs. It approached the Providence from the stern at a low altitude. One slow flyby, then it began to circle the submarine in tight close arcs. The whirring rotors kicked up a salty spray, temporarily blinding Reynoso and reminding him to don the goggles currently resting on top of his head. He could see the open side door and two of the helo’s helmet-clad crewmen preparing the pallet of cargo for lowering. He could see the pilot’s face too, peering through the Plexiglas window. The pilot was focused on him, apparently singling him out as the lucky one with the rod.
Reynoso glanced at the spinning rotors and wondered how much static electricity was in the air today, or even if it mattered. He wasn’t as knowledgeable on the concepts of electrostatic discharge as he was on radio wave propagation. Mr. Lake had explained it to him once before. How did it go? The spinning rotors impacted the air molecules around them, stripping the negatively charge electrons from the helo’s surface, thus creating a huge potential difference between the helo and the earth’s ground. The first thing on the ground to touch the helo would act as the electrical conduit for all of that electrostatic charge to equalize. In other words, if a man touched the helo first, or if he even touched the cargo dangling from the helo, he was in for one hell of a shock. The grounding rod in his hand was well-insulated and would prevent that from happening, theoretically. The rod would route all the current through the stout cable and to the ship’s electrical ground, instead of through him. Or did the current flow the other direction? He couldn’t remember. He just knew that he wasn’t supposed to touch the helo’s grounding lanyard for any reason whatsoever.
Still, it gave him chills to think his hands would be inches away from a violent death. One unexpected gust of wind, one stumble on his part, and it could all be over.
The Seahawk signaled, it was ready to lower cargo. The circling ceased and the helo took up a position close off Providence’s port quarter. Reynoso saw one helo crewman lean out the side door and make eye contact with him. The crewman spoke into his headset, guiding the pilot closer and closer, until the helo was directly above Reynoso. Then the helo came to a stop and hovered. The helo’s crewman cast out a few lengths of the grounding lanyard, and Reynoso quickly identified the small loop at the end of the dangling cable. That was his target.
The man in the helo began to pay out more of the lanyard, and Reynoso watched as the loop slowly descended. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed that Jorgenson and Tepper had moved a few paces further away from him, probably thinking that if anything went wrong, the further away from him the better off they’d be. He couldn’t blame them. He’d have done the same thing.
He’d have done the same thing if he weren’t such a chief’s kiss-ass, he scolded himself. If he’d only kept his big mouth shut.
As the loop came down, Reynoso held up the rod with both hands. The trick was for the helo to lower the loop low enough so that he could hook it, at the same time keeping it high enough so that it wouldn’t come in contact with his body if a sudden gust of wind came along.
The loop was close enough now. At least he thought it was. His first swing with the extended hook snagged nothing but air. The loop was still several feet away.
He inwardly cursed. He’d never been much of an athlete. He’d be lucky to make one free throw in ten. What the hell was he doing here?
Just then he saw the helo’s crewmen exchange glances. Maybe they were thinking the same thing. Maybe they could tell that he’d never done this before. The loop was lower now, much closer. It had to be low enough now!
He took another swing, and missed.
He was starting to panic now. The noise, his inept depth perception, the tossing deck, all seemed to gang up on him and he felt every eye in the helo and on Providence’s deck focusing squarely on him. Even the three or four seagulls floating near Providence’s bow seemed to be waiting for him before they swooped down to grab their next fish.
I can’t do it! he suddenly thought.
He turned his back to the swinging lanyard, and was about to move away when he saw Ketterling’s solid bulk in his path. In contrast to Jorgenson and Tepper, Ketterling had moved closer to him. The big black man said nothing, but simply stood with hands on hips, the eyes behind the weathered face meeting squarely with his own. The eyes spoke volumes to Reynoso’s conscience, which was always eager to receive encouragement and guidance from his superiors. They said, “I’m here to support you.” They said, “You can do it.” They also said, “I’ll personally beat your ass if you don’t hook that damn fucking lanyard right now! And you can forget ever fucking making chief!”
Reynoso turned in his tracks and faced the swinging lanyard, now only a foot above his head. It was close enough that he could easily reach up and grab it. Ketterling was watching him. He had to do it!
He brought the rod up even with the loop. He couldn’t miss now. He could practically guide it in.
But, just as the rod’s hook met with the eye of the loop, Providence’s deck took a swell and the hook twisted in his hand. A loud “Pop!” resonated and a shower of sparks descended around him as the hook glanced off the loop, almost sending him over the side and into the water.
Reynoso was on his hands and knees now, his heart skipping several beats as he caught his breath and gathered his senses. He was okay as far as he could tell. He hadn’t been shocked, just scared half to death. Through his gloved hands he felt the rough texture of the rubberized deck and noticed that he had dropped the grounding rod on the deck beside him.
Behind him, he thought he heard the sailor with the headset shout, “Master Chief, the officer of the deck wants to know what the hell’s the problem!”