Battleship Boys

by Paul Lally

“Wait a second let me guess, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “A fleet of food trucks featuring Certified Kosher Brisket Sandwiches and Fried Matzo Ball Bites, and a wide variety of ethnic foods.”

  Curcio face softens into a grin. “Mind reader.”

  “One of my many talents.”

  “Nate’s dream.”

  “What about your dream?”

  He shrugs slightly. “Stay tuned.”

  Jack holds up his empty coffee mug. “Either these things are getting heavier or I’m getting older.”

  “Both.”

  “Mind if I get a refill...?”

  Curcio nods but doesn’t look up. “It’s your ship, Mister Riley.”

  “No way, it’s—”

  The piercing sound of a bosun’s pipe coming from his hip pocket stops him cold. It starts low then swoops high in a “General Call.”

  Curcio looks up, startled.

  “Relax.” Jack fishes out his iPhone. “It’s Pop’s ringtone.”

  “Sorry if I woke you up,” Tommy says after Jack answers.

  “It’s three o’clock in the morning. You okay? Everything all right? How are you feeling?”

  “Belay all that and haul ass up to the bridge.”

  Jack stuffs his phone away and turns to go. “Make me some of those eggs, will you?”

  Curcio shakes his head. “Will make fresh, whenever you come back.”

  Jack recalls the urgent tone of his father’s voice. “Ummm....Might be a while.”

  Curcio looks around. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  But Jack does—in a hurry—as he races down three deck ladders until he reaches “Broadway,” the longest continuous, centerline passageway near the very bottom of the Rock.

  He sprints along its almost 900-foot length, past mysterious-looking valves, switches, levers, and hatches on both sides that leading to Fire Control Rooms, 5-inch magazines, boiler rooms, engine rooms, and a myriad of other workspaces—even the laundry room—all of them brightly lit by humming fluorescents.

  Not a soul in sight at this hour to nod at or wave to. Just the “ship’s owner” himself on his urgent way to find out what the hell caused his father to call at this hour. A notorious late sleeper who loves to “soak” in bed before arising as long as Jack has known him, Tommy sounded like he’d been up for hours.

  He comes to a quick halt, looks this way and that. Is he in the right place? This is one big-ass ship, and everything looks the same down here. Then he spots a “bullseye” painted on the bulkhead. A distinctive yellow rectangle with red stenciled lettering “BRIDGE 001-8890-0.”

  He’s right where he needs to be.

  He undogs the hatch, enters the ladderway and starts climbing three decks... and then three additional levels to reach his destination. If he had threaded his way along any of the decks above, going left, then right, then doubling back it would have taken forever. Here in this “vertical tunnel,” it’s like traveling the interstate with an exit sign that says, “Bridge Directly Above.”

  Despite the urgent tone of his father’s voice on the phone, when Jack arrives minutes later, the crew’s overall behavior is the epitome of calm, cool, and collected. Lit indirectly by red lights to preserve night vision, their faces glow as they calmly regard the display screens of the various instruments on the helm and front control panel.

  The X-Band marine radar sweeps peacefully over the path ahead. Whatever ocean traffic is out there, sails safely in the distance. The GPS calmly reports that the Rock and her passengers—if continuing their present speed and course—are precisely 379.78 miles from Cozumel, Mexico.

  If all goes well—and there’s no indication that it won’t because all shipboard systems are working flawlessly—they’ll arrive at the cruise terminal in 15 hours and eleven minutes. As if to reinforce this comforting information, the slowly setting moon paints its familiar silver streak on the rippling waves.

  All is extremely well.

  As proof, Tommy and JJ stand on the port wing of the bridge. calmly discussing something.

  At 0300 hours? Jack thinks, and crosses over to greet them.

  On the way, he nods to a sleepy-looking Captain Koga, who must have been called from his sea cabin to take command over whatever mysterious “situation” has developed. But at this point it can’t be very important.

  When Jack arrives, Tommy checks his watch and says, “They’re inbound in ten minutes.”

  JJ adds, “If I know them—and I do—they fudged their ETA. Never do anything predictable. That was Clark Bar’s style back then, and still is.”

  “Earth calling Mars, gentlemen,” Jack says. “Mind clueing me in on what the hell’s going on?”

  JJ spills the beans about SOCOM’s hostage rescue mission. As the admiral does so, Jacks eyes widen, first in disbelief, then even wider in amazement. Now and then. he glances out the port window to scan the eastern horizon. The first hint of false dawn has turned the pitch-black sky pale purple.

  Just as JJ starts talking about how they’ll take a specially chartered high-speed ferry from Cozumel up to Cancún, the bridge radio speaker crackles into life; the voice crisp, efficient, no-monkey-business:

  “Diablo One inbound your position. Request permission to land.”

  Captain Koga glances quickly at JJ, who nods approval. The Japanese captain keys the radio mike. “Permission granted, Diablo One. Activating landing lights now.”

  Unseen from the navigation bridge, perimeter lights come to life on the Rock’s stern, transforming the non-skid, reinforced platform from a fun-loving “Steel Beach” to a brightly lit, fully functional landing platform for the inbound Osprey.

  JJ nods toward the hatch, “Let’s go say hello to the good guys.”

  “Diablo One?” Jack says.

  “Affirmative.”

  Tommy adds, “And Diablo Two.”

  Jack narrows his eyes. “Who knows what’s going on—other than Captain Koga and me?”

  Tommy spins around. He looks twenty years younger as he lifts his chin and sings, “One toke over the line, sweet Jesus, one toke over the line.”

  JJ laughs. “Follow me, gentlemen!”

  While cruising in forward flight, the Osprey’s sound footprint is tolerable. But as it begins transitioning for a vertical landing, the engine howl returns to its familiar shriek.

  Because most of the guys onboard the Rock are old-timers, light sleepers, and early risers, it doesn’t take long to pass the word that something BIG’s going on topside and well worth watching.

  It’s no surprise, then, that by the time Jack, JJ and Tommy huddle in the lee side of Turret 4 to escape the rotor downwash coming from a slowly descending Diablo One, they do so in the company of a considerable crowd of half-asleep geezers, dressed—and partially dressed—as eager, eye-rubbing, big-yawning sidewalk superintendents.

  Because there’s no ground crew member to guide the CV-22 onto the landing pad, the pilot takes his sweet time positioning the aircraft before setting down.

  Once landed, a lot happens all at once. The rear boarding ramp, already partially open, does so all the way, to allow a “stick” of tactically tricked-out Delta Force team members to double-time out in a steady stream.

  As they do so, JJ grins at his two friends, then shouts to be heard over the screaming engines, still roaring at close-to-takeoff-power (just in case), “Curtain UP!”

  He hurries forward in a half-crouch—not because of the nearness of the Osprey’s spinning propellers, they’re safely out of reach—but from the sensory overload you experience when exposed to the roaring power of machinery at work and you instinctively hunch your shoulders.

  Major Williston spots JJ approaching and goes forward to meet him, not failing to salute as he does so.

  “Forget that, major,” the admiral shouts. “I’m retired.”

  “Not anymore, sir.”

  Puzzled, JJ returns the salute. “Welcome aboard. You ready to make history?”

&nbs
p; “Depends if I can sell my used car to your guys over there.”

  “Leave that to me.”

  “Happy to be your backup.”

  “I may need it—what a damned crazy idea this is.”

  “That’s why they call me ‘CW’—short for Crazy Willie,’ sir.”

  By now, they’ve cleared the landing pad, and a good thing too, because the Osprey throttles up, lifts vertically about ten feet, weathervanes slightly to take up a heading for Hurlburt Field, then departs in a rush of wind and noise.

  The Delta team follows CW as he and JJ make their way to the vicinity of Turret 4, where introductions are made to Tommy and Jack.

  The sound of the aircraft’s departure barely fades before Major Williston pulls out a well-thumbed index card.

  “Gotta’ read this verbatim, sir. They say if I don’t, then we aren’t operating a mission sanctioned by the SOCOM gods and the White House.”

  He draws himself up to his full height, clears his throat, squints, stops, pats an infinity of pockets and frowns. “Can’t find my fucking—excuse me—my damned readers—Gunny! Front and center!”

  A tall figure detaches himself from the group and ambles over; USMC Gunnery Sergeant David Nuell. No rush, no hustle, moves like John Wayne on his way to a gunfight; relentless, determined.

  By now, in ways only known to sailors around the world, scuttlebutt about a “big-ass tilt-rotor landing on the chopper pad” has now awakened most of the other guys from their beauty sleep. They continue gathering near the stern to find out what the hell’s going on, while staring at the special forces team crowded around JJ.

  Major Williston holds out the index card. But instead of taking it, Nuell taps one of the pockets on the major’s utility vest. “Try that one, sir.”

  Moments later, his “found” reading glasses in place, Williston reads in a parade-ground voice loud enough to carry to the still-growing group of veterans edging closer and closer.

  “Attention to orders! By order of the President of the United States, Commander-in-Chief, the museum ship New Hampshire, naval designation BB-70, is hereby recalled to active duty for operations in and around the Gulf of Mexico until further notice. Signed: Francis J. Dougherty, Secretary of Defense.”

  He lets the announcement ripple out and hit the group like a delayed tsunami. The guys who forgot to put in their hearing aids, turn to those who don’t need them to get the gist of what the major just said. Their murmuring grows louder and louder as the astonishing news sinks in.

  Williston barks, “Stand at ease, gentlemen. We ain’t done yet.” He flips the card over. “Admiral Lewis, if you will, sir, front and center.”

  A puzzled JJ faces the major. Something about the set of CW’s jaw and his no-bullshit glare makes JJ stand tall.

  Williston barks, “Attention to further orders! By order of the President of the United States, Commander-in-Chief, Vice Admiral (retired) James Jeremiah Lewis is hereby recalled to active duty until further notice. Admiral Lewis is hereby directed to assume direct command of the USS New Hampshire, (BB-70) for any and all designated missions. Signed: Francis J. Dougherty, Secretary of Defense.””

  Let me tell you, this bombshell gets a hell of a rise from the crowd, now numbering well over two hundred guys wearing pajamas, T-shirts, skivvies—whatever they could lay their hands on, as the word-of-mouth version of “general quarters” finishes scrambling the last of the sleepyheads out of his rack and hustles him topside.

  Major Williston tilts his head slightly, listening to an incoming radio message in his earpiece.

  “Same back at you, Diablo One—break-break—Diablo Two, come on down, the gang’s all here! Hot coffee too!”

  He turns to JJ “You do have coffee, sir?”

  JJ hesitates, but Jack lifts his mug. “This is a battleship, major. Coffee’s guaranteed fresh 24/7.”

  In a repeat performance, the second Osprey lands just as efficiently. But instead of an assault team double-timing out of the aft boarding ramp, a slower procession of navy and air force personnel carry, roll, and lug a wide variety of “bulletproof” Pelican shipping containers packed with God only knows what.

  Major Williston says, “Got a place for them to set up their surveillance gear, sir?”

  “Wardroom lounge should do the trick.” JJ says.

  CW glances around. “And that would be.... where, exactly? Lots of real estate around here.”

  “We’ll show you.”

  “Show her, sir, not me.” Willie gestures toward Commander Goldstein who draws near. What with everybody dressed in full battle gear, it’s hard to tell gender. Not that it matters much, mind you. Nobody looks at reproductive organs when bullets are flying, they’ll kill anything with two legs.

  With introductions made and “welcome aboards” out of the way, Goldstein shouts to be heard over departing Diablo Two. “If we go flat out, sir, I’m estimating three hours minimum before we’re ready to launch drones and get data from Cancún—that work for you, major? You, too, admiral?”

  She looks back and forth between the two men.

  “What’s your drone setup?” JJ finally says.

  “YellowJackets and their Queens.”

  He frowns. “Never heard of them.”

  “Nano-drones and mother ships. I’ll bring you up to date, sir.”

  He makes a face. “Endurance?”

  “It’s a brand-new world. The Queenies were upgraded to a 36-hour flight duration a couple years back. Lots of improvements: small munition packages, encrypted video, control data-links, and a fuel-injected engine.”

  “I’ve been out of the game too long.”

  Goldstein grins. “Welcome back, sir.”

  A half-hour later, a handheld loudspeaker amplifies the admiral’s stentorian voice as he speaks to the assembled crowd of navy vets who won a chance to go for an all-expenses paid cruise (airfare included!), not knowing that any of this current excitement was going to be on the schedule—nor did anyone else for that matter, including JJ.

  Only yesterday afternoon, the mixed group of 50, 60, 70, and a few 80-year-olds, plus the “Ancient Mariner” himself, Stanley Albertini, were enjoying a steel beach picnic. Now they’ve gathered on that same “beach,” recently home to two Air Force tiltrotors, to listen to JJ and CW brief them on their unexpected but vital mission.

  The Delta teams have dispersed to their assigned stations within the Rock: Commander Goldstein’s team is busy setting up surveillance gear in the wardroom lounge, while CW’s team sorts out ops gear in the crew’s living space two decks below, just aft of where the admiral and Major Williston stand on the top of Turret 4, so that the vets can more easily see them.

  Admiral Lewis keys the megaphone. “As you may have already noticed, this gentleman standing beside me is most definitely not Cher.”

  That gets a laugh.

  “But she is coming, trust me. In the meantime, allow me to introduce Major Patrick Williston, United States Marine Corps, who is here to ask us to help his Delta Force team succeed on a life-or-death mission.”

  He lets that statement hang. By now, the sun has risen just above the eastern horizon. Its morning rays lance across the Gulf waters and cause some of the guys to shield their eyes. But most of them wear baseball caps of some sort or another, so it’s not a big deal.

  CW starts things rolling. “First of all, you don’t have to re-enlist to help.”

  Laughter.

  “But I am asking you to volunteer.”

  Total silence.

  JJ applauds. “I’m proud of you gentlemen for not forgetting the first rule of serving in the Navy. Never EVER volunteer.”

  “And we never will!” someone shouts.

  Lots of laughter.

  Major Williston continues. “I need you guys to help me and my team save the lives of five United States federal agents and seven Mexican marines being held hostage by the Garcia drug cartel in Cancún.

  “Forty-eight hours ago, there were thirteen, until t
hey killed a Mexican Marine Corporal in cold blood. Twenty-four hours from now there will be one less hostage—unless we save them all.”

  That turns heads and starts plenty of conversations.

  JJ takes the megaphone and rides over the chatter. “A long time ago, each of us took an oath. Remember how it goes?”

  He raises his right hand. The palsy of aging causes a small tremble in his fingers, but his voice is steel-hard and determined.

  “I, James Jeremiah Lewis do solemnly swear to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States.”

  As he slowly speaks, there’s not a few gathered whose lips silently move as they too recall the familiar oath.

  A long pause after he finishes.

  Utter silence, save for the ever-present “hiss” of the Rock’s broad-beamed hull parting the waves and the gentle, buzzing vibration that ocean-going vessels seem to generate the way human beings possess heartbeats.

  JJ continues. “Every one of us on this ship is being called upon to do our duty. We need each and every one of you to make this mission a success. And we especially need eighteen men pushing seventy—or at least look like it—which should not be a problem, considering all the grey hair I see here—including what’s left of mine.”

  Smiles and a few chuckles.

  “Those guys need to go above and beyond the call of duty.”

  Frowns and mumbles of questions in the assembled gathering.

  “We need to save these young men. Guys our age when we first walked these decks, stood our watches, did our jobs. They were doing theirs, too, until the shit hit the fan and the drug cartel snatched them up.

  “Now it’s time for us to help Major Williston and his team bust that fan and bring the boys out for their families, their friends, and their country, both United States and Mexico. Doesn’t matter where they call home. We need to help them get there.”

  A long pause.