by Paul Lally
“The wiring was totally screwed up. But I’ll give them credit, they warned me it could happen, since I was rushing things.”
“You did, and it did big time.”
“C’mon, only one of them went bad. The other two are working fine—oops, here she comes, ladies and gentlemen, all the way from Helsinki, please put your hands together for our beautiful azimuth thruster for the Rock.”
The Antonov “crosses the numbers” and lifts its blunt nose to flare for landing. Although the runway’s over 5000 feet-long, the whale-sized cargo plane only uses half of it, thanks to its turbofans’ reverse thrust creating a mini-snowstorm on the just-plowed runway.
The transport’s towering vertical stabilizer resembles a gigantic shark’s fin, albeit with a flashing red navigation light on top as it slowly taxis over to the cargo section of the airport to clear customs and offload its precious cargo.
Tommy and Jack climb back inside the taxi and head for the airport’s general aviation terminal.
“Personal question?” Tommy says as he buckles up.
“Shoot.”
“What’s the bar tab so far?”
“C’mon Pop, we agreed not to talk about—”
“Didn’t ask for the total, a few number will be fine. Stanley and I have a lottery going and I want to win. I figure that new Azipod’s got to set you back.”
Jack steeples his fingers. “My lawyers are talking with their lawyers...”
“The Helsinki folks you mean.”
“Affirmative. Am I paying for four of these, or getting one on warranty? They’re saying the bearings were fine, we’re saying they failed the pressure test on the seal and that’s why the wiring overheated and burned out.”
“You’re talking how much?”
“Four million, maybe a little less.”
“For one pod.”
“Affirmative.”
He whistles again.
Jack shrugs. “It’s only money.”
“Said my billionaire son who prints it in his basement.”
“You figured out where yet?”
“Where, what?”
“Where you want to go with the Rock when she sets sail.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that. The clock’s ticking, and Bob’s chomping on the bit to do a final push before the drawing.”
“I know, I know. I’ve been thinking.”
“I have to, and if you don’t mind, I’ve got a suggestion for you.”
“As long as it’s sunny and hot, I’m listening.”
“Here goes.” Jack pauses. “You know that photo you keep on your roll-top desk? The one with Mom wearing a Panama hat and you in a Hawaiian shirt.”
“I don’t want to go to Hawaii—”
“Not there. That picture was when you and mom were on your honeymoon, right?”
“Right.”
“In Cancún, right?”
“Her idea. And thanks to her old man picking up the airfare and hotel, we had a fabulous time. Never stopped laughing—well almost never.”
“Let’s go back there. You can raise a glass to her.” Jack pauses. “And considering the fact that you created me down there—in between laughing—I’ll raise a glass to her, too.”
Tommy smiles briefly, then looks out the side window. But what he sees is not the City of Portland’s general aviation terminal, he sees his Eileen, all of twenty-four years old, bright and happy, and giggling as she unbuttons his shirt, and nuzzles his chest hair and says, “Mmmmm.....”
And he says, “Mmmmm” right back.
The cold February air removes all thoughts of Cancún, when a half-hour later, an Oshkosh M1080 heavy equipment transporter with the Azipod firmly chained down on its trailer, slowly rolls onto a barge tied up at Fore River at the east end of the airport.
A Bath Iron Works tugboat waits patiently for the deck crew to secure both the steering and propulsion modules for the short trip upriver to the drydock.
While watching the proceedings on shore, Tommy beats his hands against his chest like they do in the movies to keep warm, then points to the monkey-like antics of one of the deckhands looping rigging line over the immense four-blade propeller.
“That thing’s not going anywhere.”
“If it does, it’ll take us with them,” Jack says.
“Sixty tons—how long do you think—”
“—to get it installed? Marchetti promises a week, providing his propulsion guys can swap out the steering module without a hitch. They’ve already done the hard work with the one that failed..”
“Got to get the darn thing there first.”
Jack checks his watch. “Neap tide in ten minutes.”
“Cutting it tight.”
“Unexpected headwinds aloft, they said. Plane should have landed an hour ago.”
The tugboat sounds her whistle twice to signal imminent departure. Jack and his father hustle onboard the barge and head for a distant figure who stands near the stern observing the action; Frank Marchetti, his puffy, down-filled neon-red jacket makes him look like the Pillsbury Doughboy.
Jack says so when he arrives.
“Christmas present from the wife,” Frank says. “But give me a Navy Pea jacket any day. Built for weather like this.”
“She’s taking good care of you,” Jack says.
Tommy says, “That color certainly makes you stand out from the crowd as a master of fashion.”
Frank growls but says nothing.
The tug’s midships-mounted Voith-schneider propeller churns up the waters of Fore River. Random chunks of ice tumble about in the foam as she eases the barge into the channel, slowly swings to starboard to center up, then glides down the river.
Sparse traffic at this hour of the morning on I-295, as the tug sails beneath Veterans Memorial Bridge, and then Casco Bay Bridge, where freshwater meets the saltwater of the Atlantic.
The three and a half-mile water-borne journey is uneventful. If they had tried to muscle the Azipod through city streets it would have been a nightmare of cop cars, flashing lights, narrow corners, and angry words.
Jack experienced that very thing when the first Super Plug n’ Go stations started going up across the country. As far as width is concerned, the size of his SuperCap “tanks” are similar to the underground petroleum tanks installed in regular gas stations.
But at almost twice the height, it became a nightmare of “special transportation permits,” safety precaution up the wazoo, extra costs for off-duty cops to wrangle traffic, and red tape wherever red tape could be found to tie things up until money was found to sooth the savage hunger of town municipalities. Fortunately, the newer SuperCap storage units are not only smaller in size, but also installed in a modular fashion—like Lego blocks.
Problem solved.
But not a sixty-ton Azipod. Even resting horizontally on its wooden travel blocks, the hull-red painted thruster unit with its brightly polished four-bladed propeller towers over the deckhands, who stand around in small groups, smoking and joking.
Frank Marchetti breathes in the cold January air and lets it out with a whoosh. “Good to get out of the office. Reminds me of why I got into this line of business in the first place.”
Tommy says, “Why don’t you come with us on the trip? Say bye-bye to winter for a couple of weeks.”
“Where are you headed? Or is that still a state secret?”
“Not a bit. But now that you mention it, my son here had a great idea, and I’m inclined to take him up on it.”
Jack keeps a straight face but wants to smile. His father is the least sentimental person he’s ever known. Always pragmatic, feet-on-the-ground, no-nonsense, “The-defense-rests-your honor” kind of guy.
So, what caused the turnaround?
Jack’s answer comes as swiftly as his question: his father’s other half, the polar opposite, part-Italian, part-Irish, warm-blooded, big-hearted woman who left this earth too soon: his late wife Eileen Benedetto-Riley; the perfec
t yin to Tommy’s yang.
For a split-second, Jack feels a pang of envy. To find that “someone” in your life who balances you, who creates a whole greater than the sum of your individual parts. His mom did that for his dad. Jack’s long-time partner Bianca, however, did not. Nor did Sharon, or Patricia, or Pamela, or Allison, or any of the other women he dated over the years.
Why?
The question often comes to him when he’s shaving in the morning, staring in the mirror. The answer he gives himself time and time again, is that mental energy spent in trying to sort out the complex, ever-moving, ever-changing parts of a relationship is energy not spent thinking about what’s needed to make this world a better place to live in.
So he doesn’t.
A sanctimonious, evasive answer, you might be thinking. Me too. And we’d both be right—except....neither of us is the Jack Riley. And so far, his astonishing technological track record includes inventing a way for Americans to continue their love affair with the ubiquitous automobile but abandon petroleum in favor of electricity to keep that passion going strong. And by doing so, saving the earth’s ever-dwindling resources.
Talk about a paradigm-shift. He’s the guy who did it.
That’s why, when he rinses his Gillette triple blade and ponders this fact, he figures it’s a pretty good exchange for not having someone cozy beside him in bed on a winter’s night, tucking in the comforter around his shoulders so he won’t get chilled as he drifts off to dreamland.
Bianca used to do that without thinking. It was in her caring nature.
But now she’s gone for good. Without warning. Or at least no warning that Jack could detect. But then again, the more you learn about how this two-legged genius billionaire thinks and acts, the easier it may be to understand his instinctive retreat to his mind when his heart cries, “Uncle.”
And with the baffling, unanswered question of why Bianca headed back to Alaska floating up from his subconscious to demand attention, Jack sighs and slides it back onto his mental shelf of “works-in-progress” and turns his attention to the Azipod propulsion module. With Jack Riley, whenever his heart is in doubt, his mind is ever ready to replace it with science.
Lots of science.
He leaves the two older men and makes his way toward the thruster unit. The morning sunrise is doing its best to poke through the thin clouds and provide enough light to gleam off its brightly polished propeller blades.
He runs his hand over the carefully machined edges, the manufacturing of which is a marvel of foundry-casting, grinding, and then polishing the aluminum/stainless steel blades to create a four-bladed, multi-ton masterpiece of marine engineering.
By scientific definition, a propeller is “constructed by sections of helicoidal surfaces acting together to rotate through the water with a screw effect.” But to regard its elegant ellipsoidal curves is to regard a work of art.
So lost is Jack in this admiration of science (and conveniently avoiding questions of the heart) that he doesn’t notice Frank Marchetti approaching.
He arrives and pats the one of the blades, like an old friend. “My guys say this swap out is just a hiccup. Hope so.”
“They’ve been moving fast.”
“It’s how Bath Iron Works rolls.”
Jack looks around “Where’s Pop?”
“In the wheelhouse warming up.”
“Good idea—been meaning to ask you a question. Do you miss it? The hands-dirty part of this business?”
“I do, but my wife Rena loves my nine-to-five life.”
“Wives can be like that—so I’ve heard.”
“Look...” Frank lowers his voice, despite the fact that the roar of the tug’s engine and general water sounds are more than sufficient to keep things confidential. “JJ told me the deal about your dad. Hell of a thing, cancer. How’s he holding up?”
“This joyride is keeping him busy.”
“Good. Me too.” Frank smiles. “Every morning when I wake up, I laugh.”
“Because?”
“We’re making a World War Two battleship seaworthy just so you can take a bunch of old farts out for a two-week cruise. It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard of.”
“Looking for a new home, too, don’t forget.”
“Any nibbles?”
“Zero, so far.”
“Damn. You’re getting a lot of press on this. I’m surprised you haven’t any takers.”
“Not me. It’s one thing to beat the drum about a Montana-class battleship going for a cruise down memory lane with a bunch of geezers, but quite another to invite her to drop anchor in your backyard.”
“Something will turn up. It’s got to. I’d hate to see all the hard work we’ve put into the Rock end up at the breakers.”
“The Navy owns her. We’re just the custodians.”
“And damn fine ones in my books—oh, been meaning to tell you: turret four looks in good shape. We ran the diagnostics like you asked and everything checks out.”
“All three barrels?”
“No can do. Two of them are borderline with breech issues, but we swapped out one from turret three. As of right now, at your disposal, you’ve got a fully functional Mark Seven 16-inch main battery gun in turret four, should you so desire to do a little shooting like you said.”
“That’s still on the dance card.”
“Great! I was hoping you’d say that. Whereabouts?”
“I’m working on a possible target in the Gulf of Mexico—not firmed up yet, but close.”
Frank shakes his head. “See what I mean? That’s why I laugh in the morning. You guys are nuts.”
“What about the forty-millimeter gun tub? How’d it check out?”
“JJ and his naval shipyard guys did a great restoration job. All it needs is ammo—and guys who know how to fire it.”
“That we’ll have, including the admiral.”
“Want to know the best part of this?”
“I’m all ears.”
Marchetti shakes his head in amazement and laughs. “You’ve got a Japanese captain commanding the Rock. It’s perfect.”
“Like you said, we’re nuts.”
Captain Koga’s hand-picked engineering and deck crew are a multi-national mix of Malay, Filipino and Hondurans. They’ve been living in a nearby Portland motel for the past week. Flown in from various ports around the world, the laid-off, more-than-available ex-Hanjin Shipping employees have shown up for familiarization duty every day, including today, lined up on the foredeck like eager naval cadets, while Koga tears them new assholes.
“We sail with living, breathing passengers in fourteen days and you have learned nothing!”
He spins around and points to turret one. Its three 16-inch barrels are elevated at a high angle.
“May I remind you for the thousandth time that this is not a fifty-foot shipping container filled with washing machines made in China. This is a weapon of war and this is a warship. And the men who will walk on this deck two weeks from today have fought for their country and risked their lives, and for that we will salute them and serve them with honor. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, SIR!”
“Report to your duty stations.”
The crew takes off like a pack of greyhounds. Dressed in World War Two-era Navy work uniforms: white cloth caps, blue denim trousers and matching shirts beneath winter wool pea coats, they fit right in with their historic surroundings. By contrast, the hardhats, Carhartt bib overalls, and down vests worn by the Bath Iron Works crews make them seem caught in a time warp.
Regardless of dress codes, hard, unrelenting work is the common denominator that unites them all. For almost three months, the Rock has been propped up inside the Portland drydock, the sole focus of propulsion crews, living quarters crews, hull inspectors, electricians, plumbers, yard riggers, welders, tinsmiths, pipefitters and carpenters.
Overtime has become a way of life as the workforce of over 350 men and women busily resurrect a Mont
ana-class battleship from a rusty grave and breathe new life into the long-abandoned decks and service systems that once kept her alive and slashing through the ocean waves at a steady thirty-five knots.
To someone unfamiliar with the art of shipbuilding, the task to do so is akin to climbing Mount Everest—backwards. But Bath Iron Works crews have eyes in the back of their heads. Not a weld is made, a joint brazed, or wiring harness repaired that hasn’t been done on another ship in another time. And if the worker hasn’t personally done it himself, the history of his trade is imprinted in his memory and can be recalled with ease.
In other words, that young shipfitter you see struggling with welding an angle iron? The one that forms a part of the framework for the replacement Azipod’s steering module? He suddenly shuts off the torch, flips up his auto-darkening welding helmet, blows away the traces of the welding rod smoke and stares at his work.
Not frowning, not frustrated, his face is almost serene as he takes a mental trip back to when he was an apprentice shipfitter and men who understood the trade passed it on to him; some harshly, others with patience and understanding. But regardless of the teacher, the lessons got taught.
One of the voices “speaks” to him. Not sure of who as much as what the man is saying in his head, the shipfitter smiles, nods, flips down his helmet, strikes the torch, and continues welding. But this time he spreads his weld joint wider because he’s approaching a turn, and voila, the joint holds.
And a damn good thing too. The replacement pod has arrived. The tug’s tying up alongside the drydock.
Topside, aft of Turret 4, Stanley and JJ observe a conga-line of workers carrying long, rectangular, plastic-wrapped packages toward a hatch leading below to the newly installed modular living quarters.
“Are those what I think they are?” Stanley says.
“You know damn well what they are.”
“Mattresses!” Stanley spits out his distaste.
JJ reads his mind and says in a mocking tone. “At ease, sailor. They didn’t repair and restore this remarkable vessel just so you could express your distaste for the soft life.”