Battleship Boys

by Paul Lally

  Vargas is neatly dressed like he was in the previous video, as if attending a business meeting. Corporal Rodriguez kneels before him as he did before, staring directly into the camera, his face neutral, but his eyes bright, as if part of him knows what is to come, while the rest of him insists everything’s going to be all right.

  The other DEA and Mexican marine hostages flank him on either side, like the apostles at the Last Supper. Four armed men stand behind them, silent sentinels to the unfolding horror, wearing baclavas to mask their identity. Only Vargas and the young Mexican Marine’s faces are visible.

  Vargas smiles faintly as he speaks. “You are about to learn that I am a man who never threatens his enemies with words. They are like rain on a hot roof. They sizzle and disappear. Actions do not.”

  He nods to Osito who takes a step closer.

  “Instead of meeting my demands to return my brother, you wasted forty-eight hours resisting them.”

  Sergeant Wright says softly, “Here it comes...”

  Miguel nods to Osito.

  With practiced ease, the muscular executioner expertly swings his machete between Rodriguez’s C6 and C7 neck vertebrae, severing muscles, nerves, and arteries in one clean blow.

  A crimson gusher of arterial blood, released from a lifetime of pressure, spurts forth. Dots of red spatter the camera lens. But not enough to obscure Vargas brandishing the dead man’s head.

  “I have all the time in the world. You do not.”

  Still carrying the severed head in his hand, Vargas walks down the line of kneeling hostages. One by one, he yanks the hoods off the DEA and Mexican marines. Gone is all their fancy tactical gear; the night-vision rigged helmets, the vests, the comm units, the flash-bang grenades, the assault rifles. In their place, rumpled, dirty orange jump suits worn by numb-looking, haunted young men, the last of whom is DEA Agent Christopher Jensen.

  Vargas says, “You will deliver my brother safe and sound. Otherwise...” He hoists the head closer to the camera. “The harvest continues.”

  The picture cuts to black.

  Commander Goldstein considers it a blessing the dead man’s eyes were closed.

  A long moment of hushed silence in SOCOM’s Asset Management Center. Each person lost in thoughts of what they’ve just witnessed in high-definition video, with crisp sound and no room for the imagination to hide.

  Sergeant Wright sighs. “Screwed and tattooed, skipper.”

  “Yes.... and no.”

  “What’s the ‘no’ part?”

  “Like you said, we can’t go in like gangbusters. Not Cancún. The powers-that-be in the peanut gallery behind us wasted too much time pretending we could.”

  “At the price of that kid’s life.”

  “Exactly. And both of their proposed assault plans are for shit. You’re absolutely right, a team can’t get within twenty miles of the place before they’ll know we’re coming, down to the clothes we’re wearing and the color of our eyes.”

  “Goodbye hostages.”

  “Including the vice president’s son.”

  “That Vargas is for real.”

  Goldstein frowns. “So are we.”

  Sergeant Wright cocks his head to one side and narrows his eyes. “Know what I’m going to miss the most about this place, skipper?”

  “What?”

  “The familiar sound of wheels turning in your head, but no clue what the hell you’re going to come up with.”

  “Got me an idea.”

  “Of that I am sure, ma’am.”

  “Problem is, I’m only a three-striper.”

  “The navy’s nuts with those wacky ranks. Everywhere else, you’re a lieutenant colonel, and that carries a lot of weight.”

  “Not enough to outweigh the big boys up there.” She nods to the observation room stuffed with men wearing stars on their shoulders and admiral’s stripes on their sleeves. “They’d have to greenlight the mission.”

  “Mind telling me what you have in mind, ma’am?”

  For the first time since the shit hit the fan, Commander Goldstein smiles. “Full disclosure up front. It’s not my plan. I just worked it up to ‘mission-ready’.”

  Wright grins in return. “This is sounding better and better. Who’s the lucky guy?”

  She looks around to be sure nobody’s listening. “You know Major Williston?”

  “Crazy Willie? Who doesn’t?”

  “The boys upstairs brought him in on the initial mission planning. But CW poked so many holes in their proposals that they dis-invited him.”

  “He can be like that.”

  She fiddles with a pencil. “So...Major Williston... uh... he tracked me down. Told me what he had in mind. Told me the boys vetoed it big time. Told me why they should have approved it instead. Told me...” Up go her eyebrows. “He’s... uh... pretty convincing.”

  “No kidding. In more ways than one, I hear.”

  Even though the lighting’s muted in this high-tech place, Goldstein’s face flames up in a fierce blush. Wright studiously ignores this. Lucky enough to have a happy marriage and three (almost) grown kids, he understands the power of love to move mountains—and in CW’s case, find the perfect partner to pitch his rescue mission.

  Her blush fades. “I hate to say this, but that poor man’s death will help Major Williston and I make our case." Once the White House gets wind of this video, they’ll be breaking down the door to sign off on the mission. ”

  “All it’ll take is for the vice-president to see her son kneeling there.”

  Commander Goldstein reaches into her backpack and pulls up a folder.

  Sergeant Wright says, “That the plan?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “When do you pitch it to the boys upstairs?”

  “When CW shows up.”

  “Time enough to bring me in the loop, then.”

  She frowns. “’Sorry, sergeant. Need-to-know.’”

  “Exactly, ma’am. I need to know, so I can help you save those guys.”

  “Taps, taps, lights out. All hands turn to your racks. Maintain silence about the decks.”

  The p.a. announcement made at 2200 hours goes largely unheeded, save for the older crew members who’ve had a busy day, including Stanley Albertini who wrestles off his compression socks while eyeing the soft pillow and crisp sheets of his turned-down bunk set up in the captain’s luxurious “in-port cabin.”

  While the rest of the sweepstake winners continue drinking, jawing, and telling lies, or wandering around on the decks enjoying the change in weather—it’s much warmer by the way, now that Florida is passing by unseen in the distance—Admiral Lewis and Tommy Riley have taken up residence in the flag bridge, enjoying a nightcap after a busy second day at sea.

  By morning, they’ll have transited the Florida Straits and be sailing deep into the Gulf of Mexico, on their way to meeting up with the abandoned oil platform.

  Located one deck below the navigation bridge, the flag bridge allowed an admiral and his staff to conduct the broader business of fleet battle during wartime, while the ship’s captain tended to the localized demands of managing a floating, fighting city packed with over 3000 officers and enlisted.

  This included a helmsman steering his ship while safely tucked away inside a heavily armored conning tower rising vertically from deck 03 to the flying bridge on deck 05.

  Protected from enemy fire by seventeen inches of HHA (High-Hardness Armor) and communicating via “talker” sailors wearing sound-powered telephones, the helmsman would receive course and speed commands from the bridge. Visual contact with the outside un-armored world was via tiny horizontal slits carved into the steel, and even those could be battened down in case of live gunfire.

  Tonight, however, Captain Koga and his small crew do not have that complicated responsibility of navigating the Rock that way—thanks to Jack Riley’s endlessly deep pockets that allowed Bath Iron Works to perform its remarkable refit.

  Gone are the Rock’s boiler rooms, s
team turbines, endless miles of wrapped steam pipes, shaft tunnels—and the hundreds of officers and men needed to keep it all working smoothly. In its place, an Azipod propulsion system and modernized navigation and guidance system that transformed the USS New Hampshire into a cruise ship—albeit a highly-armored one—that you or I could steer with an index finger pressed gently against a joystick.

  Which is what’s happening right now, directly above the flag bridge, where JJ and Tommy sip Glenfiddich twelve-year-old single-malt scotch.

  Just as the Rock’s simplified propulsion system has reduced the requirements for her seaworthiness, so has “standing watch” on the navigation bridge been reduced from what you’d normally see on a warship this size:

  Officer of the deck

  Junior officer of the deck

  Junior officer of the watch

  Conning officer

  Quartermaster of the watch

  Boatswain’s mate of the watch

  Helmsman

  Lee helmsman

  After steering watch

  Lookout

  Low-visibility lookout

  In their place, thanks to the multi-million-dollar refit—including a Raytheon DGPS system—the crew guiding the Rock through the four-hour “Mid watch” is as follows:

  Officer of the watch

  Helmsman

  Lookout.

  That’s it.

  JJ remarks on how marine technology has changed the face of sea power since he and Tommy were butter-bar ensigns on the Rock during Vietnam.

  Tommy lifts his glass. “I don’t mind progress; it’s change that I hate.”

  They clink and sip.

  JJ adds, “Mark Twain said that, right?”

  “You’re always right, Admiral Lewis, SIR.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “This time you are. It’s one of my favorite quotes. Especially with all the bells and whistles they stuck on the Rock during her refit to do the work we used to do by hand.”

  JJ turns away and regards the nighttime sea. Tommy does too. The light from the rising moon over the ocean paints a silvery path that keeps pace with their swift progress. The sea’s almost glass-smooth, the wind action minimal (Beaufort Scale 1: “Light Air”), making for a near-motionless passage with minimal rise and fall of the hull.

  “The guys will sleep like babies tonight,” JJ says.

  “They’ve had a busy day.”

  “And busy guns tomorrow on that oil rig.”

  “Correction: just one gun.”

  JJ sighs and drains his glass. “What I wouldn’t give for a salvo from that turret down there.”

  A spotlight mounted on the Rock’s flying bridge casts its beam onto an American flag painted on the armored top of Turret 2. First featured on the “Big Stick” (USS Iowa BB-61) when re-commissioned for Vietnam, the painted flag tradition repeated itself on the Rock, as well as the other battleships that followed.

  Tommy says, “Glad we spruced up Old Glory last year. She needed it wicked bad.”

  “You have taken great care of this vessel, Lieutenant Riley.”

  “Still do. Always shall.”

  Another interval of silence. In the presence of the vastness of the open ocean, words do not come easily. Finally, JJ climbs down from the pylon-mounted chair and pats the cushion.

  “Take a load off your dogs.”

  “I’m not an admiral.”

  “Sit. That’s an order, lieutenant, from a three-star admiral.”

  “Retired,” Tommy says, then grunts as he hoists himself up onto the seat and pats the armrests. “And to think, Bull Halsey and Oley Oldendorf sat in this very same chair.”

  “And won battles against shitty odds—speaking of which, how’s the pain, my friend?”

  Another sip of scotch. “Booze helps.”

  “Doesn’t seem right to me.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “A man who spent his life defending the unjustly accused...”

  “Meaning me.”

  “Affirmative. You should be getting a pass on this cancer thing.”

  “Some of my clients were guilty as charged, you know.”

  “And you got them off anyhow, because you’re a hell of a defense lawyer.”

  “The law lives beyond the courtroom. Eventually they screwed up again and ended up doing hard time. Life always catches up with you, JJ. No exceptions.” He holds out his glass, “Any more bug juice?”

  JJ uncaps his silver-plated hip flask and does the honors.

  “Engraved and everything. Nice. How’d you come by it?”

  “Some asshole gave it to me when I retired.”

  “Remember who?”

  “Fella by the name of Thomas Aloysius Riley, Esquire. Ever heard of the guy?”

  “’Esquire,” huh? Some kind of lawyer, right?”

  “One of the best.”

  “You know the difference between a lawyer and a prostitute, don’t you?”

  “Remind me again.”

  “A prostitute will stop screwing you after you’re dead.”

  JJ pours himself a shot. “Too true.”

  A faint telephone ringing sound.

  Tommy says, “That’s yours.”

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Wear your damn hearing aids and you will.”

  “Pain in the ass.”

  JJ fumbles with his iPhone, stares at it momentarily, squints closely at the screen, then hands it over.

  “Left my readers in the cabin, help me out.”

  “Jesus, you are one drunk skunk.”

  “Read out the caller ID, I hate robocalls.”

  Tommy does so. “Who’s ‘Clark Bar?”

  “Shit.”

  It’s like somebody slapped JJ sober. He snatches back the phone and puts it on speaker.

  “Mainiac here.”

  “You alone?” the tinny voice says.

  He glances at Tommy. “It’s okay. Go.”

  “We’re tracking you southwest of Miami at—”

  “—why the hell are you doing that? I’m retired, remember?”

  A brief pause.

  “We have a situation.”

  The last thing Major Benjamin Williston, USMC expected was to be called back to SOCOM’s command center; a low-ceilinged, sound-proofed, display screen-packed conference room, where eight hours earlier he had laid out his—admittedly outrageous—plan to rescue the Cancún hostages and was told to take a hike.

  And so he did.

  But now he’s back.

  This time, flanked by Commander Goldstein and Chief Master Sergeant Wright, he’s eyeball-to-eyeball with SOCOM’s top dog himself to make his “new-and-improved” case to rescue the DEA agents and Mexican marines.

  Army four-star Clark Richardson presides alone and supreme at the immense conference table. After reading CW’s “revised” executive summary and liking what he saw, he kicked out the brass and now is ready to do his duty as SOCOM’s chief, which includes—according to Wikipedia—“ensuring the readiness of Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marine Corps’ special operations and synchronizing special operations planning.”

  Richardson stopped smoking years ago and switched over to chewing gum (Doublemint). Normally he “parks” it behind his lower lip when dealing with the public. But considering he and CW go back a few years, and together survived more than one or two highly clandestine missions, he chews with gusto, occasionally snapping it for emphasis.

  “So, tell me again, major, how it is—SNAP—you know all about this damned battleship.”

  “It’s in the news, sir. Thought everybody knew.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “That’s because you have bigger fish to fry.”

  “You’re telling me, except—SNAP—in this case, the White House is frying me instead—ETA to fly out to the ship?”

  CW glances at Commander Goldstein, who takes the lead and says, “We estimate wheels up in twelve hours, sir, and—”

  “—what kind of
wheels?”

  “Choppers don’t have the range, sir. Hurlburt’s gassing up two Ospreys and sending them down to us—uh, that is to say, the minute they get your go-ahead.”

  General Richardson’s smile could freeze a rattlesnake in mid-strike “So thoughtful of you to give me that opportunity.”

  “Sir, I didn’t mean—”

  “—moving on, boys and girls, why tilt-rotors?”

  Sergeant Wright pipes up. “They’ve got the speed and can handle a deck landing.”

  “On that battleship, you mean.”

  “Affirmative, sir. We’ve confirmed their landing pad’s stressed to take the load. Major Williston’s team lands first, then ours.”

  “Broad brush me your recon, Sergeant.”

  “Absolutely, sir.” Wright consults his scribbled notes briefly. “First of all, we’re real-time as long as the signal holds. Drones, mini-drones, live uplinks to DeltaCon and full rez with DarkStar—with your permission, of course—same as for authorizing the Ospreys—but with all due respect, the clock’s ticking fast on this situation..”

  General Richardson narrows his eyes. “I seem to recall it’s been a long time since you’ve been in the field, sergeant.”

  “Ten years, sir.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Special Recon.”

  “That a fact?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many levels?”

  “All five.”

  “The hardest?”

  “Swimming. But I don’t plan on doing that this time around. Not on a battleship.”

  This gets Richardson’s attention. He turns to Commander Goldstein.

  “Combat range for those Ospreys?”

  “Just enough. But MacDill’s detailing a MC-130 for tanker backup, just in case.”

  “Weather?”

  Major Williston’s turn. “Hurlburt Met assures CAVU conditions all the way to the ship.”

  “What about Cancún?”

  “Showing much the same, next forty-eight hours. And the good news just keeps coming: we just got final intel on our entry location. Turns out, Vargas uses a personal backdoor beneath a fucking cathedral for God’s sake—pardon my French.”

  Richardson ponders this while he chews his gum. “This is one crazy-ass plan, CW.”