Battleship Boys

by Paul Lally

The impressive marine entourage of five tugboats and a WW2-era battleship slowly easing down the Piscataqua River toward the sea is of no more interest than an LNG ship or oil tanker sailing upriver to dock at Sprague Energy and rid itself of its cargo.

  Ho-hum... Just another late fall day in a harbor town.

  Soon to be minus a landmark.

  As the tow clears Memorial Bridge, it comes abreast of Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, the sprawling naval repair complex devoted to servicing nuclear submarines. The night shift will soon give over to the day, and labors will continue unabated. Over six thousand people work on Seavey Island, both civilian and naval. It’s a self-contained world with the single purpose of protecting our nation.

  Tommy, JJ, and Koga stand on the Rock’s forecastle just aft of the towing team. The wind has picked up a bit, and the fall air causes them to hunker down a bit.

  In the midst of morning traffic sounds, hissing tires, revving engines, and honking horns, another sound drifts across the river and reaches Tommy Riley’s ears. While it’s a sad fact he’s got terminal cancer, it’s also a solid fact he’s got the hearing of a bat.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  JJ nods but says nothing.

  “I hear nothing,” Koga says.

  “You will,” Tommy says.

  The sound grows in intensity. JJ points to the shoreline around Henderson point. “There they are, God bless ‘em.”

  Row upon row of sailors stand at rigid parade rest as the First Naval District band thumps out “Anchors Aweigh” full blast.

  Someone on shore must have shouted, “Hand salute!” because a rippling motion of white-gloved hands erupt as three hundred officers and sailors “render honors” as a solemn tribute to the battleship USS New Hampshire as she departs her home port for a voyage into an unknown future.

  Munroe Devillar stands by the window enjoying the view below. She’s not wearing a stich of clothing, but it doesn’t matter. Her penthouse apartment at the top of Five Harbor Place in Portsmouth overlooks the Piscataqua River. Nobody can see her out there but God—and He’s not looking.

  The devil?

  Most likely.

  Memorial Bridge is off to her right. Its lift span is slowly lowering from its full height after allowing the USS New Hampshire to glide beneath on her way out of sight and out of mind of the city of Portsmouth and its “we’re-too-busy-to-look” citizens.

  “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” she says, and finishes off the single cigarette-a-day she allows herself. She slides open the French doors, steps out onto the small patio, and flicks the butt in the direction of the ship.

  “Hope you sink, you son-of-a-bitch!”

  From inside, Charlie Stein laughs. “You know you’re buck-naked, don’t you?”

  “Don’t care.” She spins around and marches back inside, her breasts swaying in rhythm.

  Charlie—as usual—is propped up in Munroe’s king-sized bed—on her husband’s side of course. If you’re going to cuckold a man, do it right, right? David’s out of town, while Charlie’s getting ready to go to town instead.

  He pats the sheets. “C’mon, Tiger. Time’s a wasting, and so is my hard-on.”

  Munroe frowns and folds her arms in front her ample breasts. “Screw you.”

  “Exactly.”

  She throws him the finger.

  He brightens. “Oh....being a bad girl?”

  “The baddest.”

  He smiles, slips out of bed and rummages through the dresser drawer. “Hmmmm.”

  “Not that one, darling. Third one down, you never remember.”

  “Got it. Fur or straight leather?”

  She rubs her wrists. “Surprise me.”

  He rummages a bit, gets what he wants and spins around. By now his erection is like Mickey Mantle’s baseball bat. “Bad girls need to be taught a lesson.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me—hands up, bitch!”

  Up go her hands.

  “I’m placing you under arrest.”

  As he buckles on the fur-lined handcuffs and guides her toward the bed, she says in a little-girl voice, “Mr. Policeman, don’t I have the right to remain silent?”

  “Go ahead and try.”

  Harbor lighthouses do more than keep ships out of danger. They point the way home from the sea. Ten years ago, the USS New Hampshire (BB-70) came home to Portsmouth after 75 years of faithful service protecting America from sworn enemies, projecting strength when needed, and offering solace when required.

  Back then, the Portsmouth Harbor lighthouse had been there to greet her grand entrance. This morning, it will bid her farewell.

  Located on the far tip of New Castle Island just east of the city at the mouth of the Piscataqua River, the Coast Guard-operated lighthouse abuts historic Fort Constitution, built in 1632.

  Like a modern-day Stonehenge, the buildings of the state-run historic park only suggest what might have been, back when real fears arose about real enemy fleets sailing up the river to lay siege to Portsmouth—or worse, disembark musket-wielding Redcoats to quell the revolution.

  For almost 400 years, up to and including World War Two, the Federal Government kept upgrading the fort’s weaponry to protect American citizens from enemies without, while overlooking enemies lurking within.

  The thought of enemies within, especially cancer, causes Jack’s binoculars to wobble for a moment, before steadying again on a point upriver where any minute the tugboats will heave into view with the Rock in tow.

  Tears in his eyes obscure his sight and he has to wipe them away. Then he blows his nose.

  “You doing okay, buddy?” Bob Martin says.

  “My thoughts got away from me.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  The two men stand on a stone parapet of the fort’s seawall. Not much remains of the fortification beyond the enclosure walls and poured concrete structures installed during different conflicts.

  “Thinking about your dad?” Bob adds.

  Jack laughs. “Where’d you learn to read minds?”

  “Family trait. Pretty sure some of my ancestors were Gypsies—well, were you?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “How so?”

  “Well... forts protect from without, but there’s not a damn thing you can do when you’re attacked from inside.”

  “This the ‘Big C’ we’re talking about?”

  Jack nods. “So damn unfair.”

  Up go his binoculars.

  A moment later...“I see her...I think.”

  Bob snatches them away. “Let me look. You’re too weepy.”

  A few seconds later. “You’re absolutely right. Here comes history, my friend.”

  The Sarah Ann Moran plows resolutely onward, not much of a bow wave at five knots, but the swell of water shoved against her blunt bow shows the force of her “bollard pull” or towing strength. At this distance, only the Rock’s towering superstructure pokes above the skyline. But that will change with every passing minute.

  “Not a bon voyage boat to be seen,” Jack says. “Can’t believe it.”

  “Familiarity breeds contempt.”

  “Guess so.”

  “I know so.” Bob shakes his head. “Cruella DeVille offered them a brighter bauble and they snatched it up. Luxury high rises and condos, where once an honest-to-God war hero, a Montana-class battleship reigned supreme. Great copy, I must admit. My team will be working that into the campaign, you can count it.

  “Hell of an idea you had—raffling off berths.”

  “They’ll go fast, trust me. A two week, all-expenses paid trip—airfare included—to where, by the way? Decided on ports of call yet?”

  “Got some interesting ideas.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m not ready to share until I run them past Pop, and he signs off on them. I mean, all this...this... madness I’m up to...all the money I’m spending... it’s for him. To balance the accounts somehow... someway.”
r />   “Never happen. Ain’t how the father and son thing works, my friend.”

  “I know.” Jack laughs. “But who says I can’t try?”

  “—said the billionaire Plug n’ Go genius as he tossed thousand-dollar bills into the ocean.”

  The procession of tugboats and battleships draws closer, about a half-mile off, now. The sun continues rising in a bright blue cloudless sky and brings out every detail of the approaching battleship—almost to a fault. Despite constant efforts to keep her shipshape, rust streaks here and there, plus fading grey paint create a ghost-like image. Nothing worse than a ship “dead in tow” her engines stilled, propellers motionless, a lifeless body without a soul.

  That’ll change soon, Jack thinks. And for the better with the Azipod propulsion system. That, plus new accommodation berths, not to mention re-wiring for the DC alternate power supply, and... and....

  And just like that, his mind shifts to the restoration project to come, not the moment at hand; a passing parade of tugboats pulling a multi-ton floating piece of steel away from a city that could care less.

  A distant, husky female voice calls out, “Made it just in time!”

  They turn to see Mayor Maggie Foley carefully making her way across the fort’s central courtyard, stability cane in one hand, the other clamped onto her ever-present purse.

  When she arrives, Jack holds out his binoculars so she can have a look.

  After a quick scan, she says, “That’s your father, right there on the bow—big as brass.”

  “Yes, ma’am”

  “And the admiral, too—but who’s the other man with them, that short one? Looks like an undertaker—or a banker.”

  “Haven’t a clue.”

  She hands back the binoculars and waves at the ship. “Hiya fellas!” Then she laughs. “They’ll never see me over here, but who the hell cares?”

  She’s right, of course. The tugs are keeping their tow safely inside the dredged boundaries of the river channel, 400 yards away from where they’re standing.

  “I guess you know the council voted,” the mayor finally says.

  “I didn’t, but I knew it was happening soon.”

  “She got her way—despite my ‘nay’ vote. Mine and Jughead’s.”

  “’Jughead’?”

  “Bill Marino. Didn’t matter. Devillar got her majority—and you’ve officially got a battleship without a home.”

  “Life goes on, Madam Mayor.”

  “What are your chances, Jack? Be honest with me. Remember it’s Maggie you’re talking to here, not some public relations hack, like your best friend over there.”

  Bob pretends outrage, “Madam, I reject your vile imputation!”

  “Duly retracted, Mr. Martin. My abject apologies, but only because you’re such a sweetheart with all those eyeglasses you get for folks who need them. You’re such a saint. I love you for that.”

  “It is my mission in life, Madam Mayor—that and bailing out my friend here with an irresistible public relations campaign guaranteed to save that battleship from a fate worse than death.”

  Maggie lifts her cane like a queenly scepter. “Jack Riley, I repeat, what are your chances of doing such a thing—after your little joy ride, that is.”

  “At this point, all I care about is hearing from my dad tomorrow morning that the Rock made it to the drydock in one piece. Beyond that lie dragons.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “When ancient mariners didn’t know what the hell was over the horizon, they used to write that on their maps.”

  “You’re going to set sail and find out?”

  “Yes, ma’am. In a battleship.”

  By now, the tow’s slowly passing the harbor lighthouse. Beyond that the Atlantic Ocean awaits—not dragons. As if sensing this, the Sara Ann Moran sounds a long, low whistle—almost a lament to the way life used to be for the Rock. The four other tugs join in chorus.

  Jack instinctively raises his hand in a solemn salute to his father, and to the memory of the thousands of officers and enlisted who faithfully served the Rock for the past 75 years.

  “Fair winds and following seas,” he says.

  And he means it.

  Catedral Maria Estrella del Mar (Cathedral of Mary, Star of the Sea) rises up like an overly decorated wedding cake from the one-story squalor of low-income housing on the west side of Cancún, Mexico.

  Built in the 1600s after the Spanish conquistadores stormed on shore and conquered the Maya indigenous peoples. Along with the soldiers came another breed of ecclesiastical “soldiers;” single-minded, fanatical Franciscan missionaries determined to cleanse the noble Maya’s “dark and misled souls” and make these “pagans” see “The Way of the Cross”—or be nailed upon it if they didn’t.

  What did the Maya do?

  Same thing the ancient Christians did.

  Like any conquered civilization in their right mind, they burrowed underground to escape persecution and to continue worshipping their many gods.

  Long before Christianity rose to be a world power in the 14th century, early followers of Jesus found themselves in the same dangerous predicament, when Rome went after them like an infestation of rats. In response, the Christians dug catacombs on the city’s outskirts to bury their dead, escape their tormentors, and worship their newly found Lord.

  Groups of courageous Maya did the same thing in Cancún, refusing to worship the Christian God the missionaries were ramming down their throats. By doing so, they were honoring a civilized, cultured Mayan world that had existed for over two thousand years before a man Jesus trod the earth, died on the cross, and then “rose” again to became not just one of the many gods the Maya worshipped, like Itzamna, Ix Chel and Kinich Ahau, but the one and only God.

  No way were they buying that line of Franciscan bullshit.

  At least, back then.

  But time, like dripping water, can wear away the most adamantine of things—including one’s faith, providing it drips long enough.

  Nowadays, the majority of those tunnels have either collapsed or are unsafe. Like back in Rome, only a few hundred yards or so are open here and there for tourists to gawk and gape and endure tour guides more interested in herding them to the next attraction than explaining the extraordinary resilience of groups of an indigenous people who, when trampled down, rose to resist.

  One tunnel in particular is not on any tour guide’s itinerary.

  Every time Miguel Vargas stands in “his” tunnel and looks up at the stone ceiling carved out by ancient Maya, he smiles at the irony of it all. Fifty feet directly above him, the Sacred Eucharist of Christ our Lord rests in a golden ciborium inside a golden tabernacle upon the main altar of Catedral Maria Estrella del Mar.

  Who says the Maya don’t have a sense of humor? To have made certain their tunnel system included a branch directly beneath the religious symbol of their daily persecution by the Franciscan missionaries and conquistadores. Like giving them the finger and saying, “To hell with you and the lousy world you dragged over from Spain to pollute what used to be our paradise.”

  Down here in Vargas’s private tunnel, no burials, no worship service, nothing like what the early Christians in Rome did while huddling in deathly fear of centurions prowling the streets above them in search of victims.

  Instead, a brightly lit, air-conditioned, nearly hundred-yard-long excavation has been transformed into a drug manufacturing center for the fentanyl/heroin whose street name is Paríso: Yucatan Maya for “Paradise.”

  Along with the assorted machinery associated with pharmaceutical manufacturing, like milling machines, granulation rollers (both wet and dry), and hot melt extrusion machines for drug combinations with “poor solubility and bioavailability,” Vargas made sure to provide comfortable break rooms for his 75 workers to relax from their grueling 12-hour shifts. A well-equipped cafeteria provides two meals a day.

  Do the local police know what’s going on down here?

  The short answer is “hell ye
s.” But only to the extent that it’s some kind of negocio del cartel (cartel business). That’s it. Any policeman in his right mind who wants to see the sun rise another day, leaves his imagination at door of Catedral Maria Estrella del Mar, and goes about his way “checking the locks” somewhere else.

  Not that you can access Vargas’s tunnel from inside the sacred cathedral. His workers get there by entering what looks like an ordinary-looking rear entrance to a chapel in the adjacent courtyard.

  Once inside, down the hallway, turn left, slap your ID card against the right-hand panel of an ordinary looking door and it opens inward—not to a room, but a large freight elevator. fifteen-feet square or so —the kind you see in warehouses.

  Hit the “ABAJO” button and down you go to put in another long day in paradise making Paríso.

  A short length of tunnel branches off from the main section and functions as Vargas’s office and private quarters. Despite fiberglass panel wall coverings and recently installed new flooring, the place still “feels” like an underground bunker.

  In the “bunker,” Adriana Ruiz-Santiago is just finishing off her Sandía Agua Fresca, a non-alcoholic watermelon-based drink. She holds the glass to her forehead.

  “I thought it was supposed to be cool underground.”

  Vargas shrugs. “We’re using the milling machine today. It puts out a lot of heat.”

  She looks around his private office quarters. “Do you like the drapes I had installed?”

  “They help.”

  She leans forward and takes both his hands. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Nothing. My world is complete.”

  “You are as bad a liar as you are good a lover.”

  “Gracias.”

  A long pause. They’re long accustomed to silence, knowing when it’s time to speak, someone will.

  Finally, Adriana says, “Papa is so proud of you.”

  “For failing to deliver?”

  “But you have.”

  “You can’t start a bonfire without wood.” He lifts up a small white and blue capsule. “So far, all I’m delivering are twigs.”

  “You want to burn down America?”