Holt Barrineau was the assistant officer-in-charge of the SEAL platoon assigned to Michigan for the exercise with the Pakistani Special Forces. Holt was built like a truck—a very large truck—that made squeezing his powerful six-foot-four frame through the submarine’s constricted passageways and hatches a challenge. The crew called him “Gutzilla,” partly because of his huge size and aggressive demeanor, and partly because of his nearly insatiable appetite. Jerry had personally seen the young officer consume unbelievable quantities of food. Holt didn’t just eat; he refueled.
Lieutenant Alex Carlson was physically a polar opposite. Skinny as a reed, he barely made it to five-foot-ten inches in height and weighed in at 160 pounds when soaking wet. Barrineau easily had 100 pounds on him. But despite the significant differences in size, shape, and Navy training, Carlson and Barrineau were close friends. Carlson, as the Advanced SEAL Delivery System, or ASDS, pilot, worked far more closely with the SEALs than anyone else on Michigan. SEALs also hold a special respect for non-SEALs that take the same risks to bring them in and out of harm’s way. The mutual respect quickly turned into friendship. Jerry was confident that none of the individuals involved thought anyone would get badly hurt. He doubted thought entered into the discussion at all, but the basic physics of the situation were entirely in Barrineau’s favor, and by a wide margin.
“After a few slow trials to get the positioning right,” continued Manning, “Holt attempted the real kick. Unfortunately, as he raised his right leg, his left foot slipped and he rotated the kick instead of making it head on. The kick caught Alex between the fifth and sixth ribs on his left side, spun him about, and threw him into a missile tube where his left ulna took the brunt of the impact. It was a clean fracture, just above the wrist, and was easily set, but Alex will be in a whole arm cast for a couple of months, maybe three.”
Jerry shook his head and looked upward. “Lord, save me from the synergistic stupidity of knuckleheaded young men.”
“I believe the underlying medical condition is called testosterone poisoning, sir,” added Manning wryly.
Jerry didn’t immediately respond to the doctor’s quip. He simply frowned while he groped around on his desk for the clipboard with the exercise master events list. Quietly, he looked it over, then tossed the clipboard back onto his desk.
“I’m assuming that Alex can still stand watches.”
“Yes, sir. Between his arm and a couple of bruised ribs, he’ll be a bit sore, but he is able to stand regular watches on board Michigan. He just can’t pilot the ASDS.”
“That’s fine, Doctor. We only have one more event in this exercise, and it doesn’t include the ASDS, so this injury goes into the annoying vice inconvenient category.” Jerry paused momentarily, thinking. “Still, I’m going to have to give it some thought on how to describe this incredibly stupid stunt officially.”
“If it’s of any help, XO, some of the SEALs are calling it the ‘Spartan kick gone wrong.’ “
“Spartan kick gone wrong, eh?” Jerry mulled over the doctor’s suggestion. “It certainly is catchy. It would make a great title for a YouTube vid . . .”
He froze in midsentence as that dreadful thought finally worked its way into the conscious part of his brain. Leaning forward, a guarded expression on his face, and speaking softly, he asked, “Please tell me no one recorded this foolishness?”
Startled by her XO’s sudden change, Manning stammered, “I... I don’t think so, sir. Why would they do something so dumb as . . .”
Her response slowly drifted to a stop as Jerry adopted the classic “XO look,” a foundation of stern impatience with a dash of irritation.
“… and I’ll find out and get back to you ASAP,” concluded Manning
Lieutenant Alex Carlson was physically a polar opposite. Skinny as a reed, he barely made it to five-foot-ten inches in height and weighed in at 160 pounds when soaking wet. Barrineau easily had 100 pounds on him. But despite the significant differences in size, shape, and Navy training, Carlson and Barrineau were close friends. Carlson, as the Advanced SEAL Delivery System, or ASDS, pilot, worked far more closely with the SEALs than anyone else on Michigan. SEALs also hold a special respect for non-SEALs that take the same risks to bring them in and out of harm’s way. The mutual respect quickly turned into friendship. Jerry was confident that none of the individuals involved thought anyone would get badly hurt. He doubted thought entered into the discussion at all, but the basic physics of the situation were entirely in Barrineau’s favor, and by a wide margin.
“After a few slow trials to get the positioning right,” continued Manning, “Holt attempted the real kick. Unfortunately, as he raised his right leg, his left foot slipped and he rotated the kick instead of making it head on. The kick caught Alex between the fifth and sixth ribs on his left side, spun him about, and threw him into a missile tube where his left ulna took the brunt of the impact. It was a clean fracture, just above the wrist, and was easily set, but Alex will be in a whole arm cast for a couple of months, maybe three.”
Jerry shook his head and looked upward. “Lord, save me from the synergistic stupidity of knuckleheaded young men.”
“I believe the underlying medical condition is called testosterone poisoning, sir,” added Manning wryly.
Jerry didn’t immediately respond to the doctor’s quip. He simply frowned while he groped around on his desk for the clipboard with the exercise master events list. Quietly, he looked it over, then tossed the clipboard back onto his desk.
“I’m assuming that Alex can still stand watches.”
“Yes, sir. Between his arm and a couple of bruised ribs, he’ll be a bit sore, but he is able to stand regular watches on board Michigan. He just can’t pilot the ASDS.”
“That’s fine, Doctor. We only have one more event in this exercise, and it doesn’t include the ASDS, so this injury goes into the annoying vice inconvenient category.” Jerry paused momentarily, thinking. “Still, I’m going to have to give it some thought on how to describe this incredibly stupid stunt officially.”
“If it’s of any help, XO, some of the SEALs are calling it the ‘Spartan kick gone wrong.’ “
“Spartan kick gone wrong, eh?” Jerry mulled over the doctor’s suggestion. “It certainly is catchy. It would make a great title for a YouTube vid . . .”
He froze in midsentence as that dreadful thought finally worked its way into the conscious part of his brain. Leaning forward, a guarded expression on his face, and speaking softly, he asked, “Please tell me no one recorded this foolishness?”
Startled by her XO’s sudden change, Manning stammered, “I... I don’t think so, sir. Why would they do something so dumb as . . .”
Her response slowly drifted to a stop as Jerry adopted the classic “XO look,” a foundation of stern impatience with a dash of irritation.
“… and I’ll find out and get back to you ASAP,” concluded Manning
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