The Shotgun and the Fever

It was the fall of 1983 or ’84. I was stationed aboard the USS McKee (AS-41), a submarine tender moored at Point Loma in San Diego Bay. My primary duty was clerical—handling payroll in the ship’s office. But that day, my duty section was up, and I had an additional assignment: serving on the ship’s reserve force, tasked with protecting the nuclear weapons we carried.

I felt the flu coming on. That unmistakable ache behind the eyes, the heaviness in the limbs. After my duty section turned over, I went below to lie down, hoping rest would stave off the worst of it.

Instead, I was summoned to sick bay for examination. But before I could be seen, the ship’s alarm clanged and the voice over the 1MC declared a security violation.

Instinct took over.

I ran down three decks to the armory, was handed a Mossberg 500 shotgun, and dispatched to the starboard side of the open deck. There, I saw several deckhands moving in and out of the ship, ignoring the security violation. I tried to think of how to assert my authority. When the first sailor approached, I called out:

“Security violation: stand fast.”

“But we’re trying to tie up this submarine,” he protested.

“Stand FAST,” I repeated, firmer this time. He complied, leaning back against the railing.

Moments later, a third-class petty officer barked at him: “Why the hell are you just standing there with your hands in your pockets? Get your ass back to work!”

The sailor gestured toward me. I stepped forward.

“Security violation: stand fast.”

“We have work to do, Lambert.”

“So do I,” I said flatly. “STAND FAST.”

More sailors gathered. Then their chief arrived. “What the hell is going on here? Can’t you see your shipmates working?”

A first-class petty officer pointed toward me. “Security violation, Chief.”

“I don’t give a shit!” the chief snapped. “We’re trying to get some work done here.”

He turned to walk away.

I knew if I let him go, my orders would mean nothing. So I flipped the Mossberg upside down, retrieved two shells from the band on the stock, and began loading—one into the chamber, one into the magazine.

“Uh—Chief?” said the first class, voice tight.

The chief turned just in time to see the second shell slide home. Navy protocol was clear: Do not load a weapon unless you intend to fire it.

His eyes narrowed. “Do you intend to fire that weapon, Lambert?”

Recalling Jack Nicholson’s line from Chinatown: “How bad do you wanna know, Chief?”

They froze. All of them.

Five minutes later, the 1MC announced: “Secure from security violation.”

They remained motionless.

“You can go,” I said.

They scattered like roaches when the light comes on.

I returned the weapon to the armory and went back to sick bay. It wasn’t the flu. It was pneumonia. My temperature was 103.

They weren’t defiant. They were professional sailors, trying to complete the job assigned to them. But in the chaos of conflicting priorities, only the unmistakable threat of a 12-gauge shotgun gave them pause. Not because they feared me—but because they understood the rules. A loaded weapon meant intent. And intent, in that moment, meant authority.

I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I wanted to be obeyed. Not for ego, but for the sake of the order we all swore to uphold.

 

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