by Paul Lally
Only, it’s not a story, it’s the God’s honest truth—with pictures to prove it—including DEA agent Jensen, who as fate would have it, happens to be the son of Vice President Ann Jensen, who eagerly awaits his return.
As proof, her beaming face appears in the story’s two-minute opening “tease,” surrounded by a mob of White House reporters.
Her face is a symphony of happiness. “I can’t thank enough the brave men and women of the USS New Hampshire and the Delta Force team for their courage and determination to save the hostages—including my son.”
She looks straight into the camera, her face a combination of relief and joy. “Safe travels, Chris. I love you.”
“Where’d you get that clip?” Jack Riley says. “It’s terrific.”
“Do I have to tell?” Bob says.
JJ says, “Indeed you do not. Begging forgiveness is always better than asking permission—wait a second, would you look at that fabulous shot of the Rock! How’d you get that?”
“Drone, sir,” Bob says. “Right after we sank the oil rig.”
Moving at flank speed, the USS New Hampshire BB-70 slashes through the sea, her bow wave resembles a curved, foaming scimitar just beneath her bow number.
“That is one beautiful battleship,” Tommy says.
“Amen,” JJ says.
The wide shot swoops down from high above, across the Rock’s mid-section where the 5-inch turrets are located, then rises alongside the forward funnel, then higher up the main mast to hover in place, looking down along the length of the ship as she moves forward, revealing her two after turrets...the helipad...and the stern... then out of frame completely, leaving nothing left but the churning, tumbling wake of a battleship on her way to war.
The screen fades to black.
“That’s just the tease,” Bob says. “We’ve got the arrival in Cozumel buttoned up. As for the rescue mission—we didn’t have primary access with our own gear, obviously—but thanks to the guys’ helmet cams, we got some great stuff—thank you, Colonel Williston.”
CW grins and gives him a half-salute. “We endeavor to keep the media happy whenever possible.”
“Happy? We’re ecstatic.”
Jack says, “How exactly are you going to use this?”
“It’s divided into eight, three-minute segments. Total of twenty-four for a half-hour special, leaving room for commercials. But right now, we’re offering them one at a time to media outlets, both broadcasting and online, as developing stories they can punch in every hour on the hour, like breaking news. Keeps everybody watching, builds the tension. Like so...”
He ticks them off on his fingers.
“Delta Force landing on the ship, swearing in the Admiral and the guys, the Hawaiian shirts, landing at Cozumel, into the Cathedral, the hostages, the bus ride, the cigarette boats... you get where this is going.”
“Like a movie.”
Bob beams. “Exactly. Only there’s no special effects or CGI. This shit—excuse the expression—is for real and...” he pauses and looks at the guys. His eyes swim with sudden tears and his voice breaks. “...and so are the folks who pulled it off. Each and every one of you from top to bottom is a GODDAMNED hero and I salute every last ONE of you! God bless you and God bless the United Fucking States of America!”
He snaps off a parade ground salute, then snuffles and blows his nose on his red bandana.
Jack adds softly. “The secret to Mr. Martin’s successful career as one of the best P.R. guys on the planet is that he believes every word he writes and every frame of video he shoots—whether it’s true or not.”
“I object!”
“To what?”
“To your untrue characterization of me.”
“In what respect?”
Martin draws himself up to his full height, blows his nose again, then raises his chin to appear even taller. “I am not one of the best P.R. guys and you know it. I am, quite simply, the best!”
Nobody argues that.
Tommy raises his hand, as if in a courtroom. “Admiral Lewis, your honor, if I may approach the bench—figuratively speaking that is.”
“Court’s in session. Proceed, Counselor Riley.”
“Thank you, your honor.” He clears his throat. “Regarding said film of the rescue mission. Do you feel public disclosure of Mr. Martin’s dramatic documentation without prior approval from higher command is warranted?”
“Absolutely not.”
A rumble of disapproval and frowns. No surprise there.
JJ slaps the table lightly. “Order in the court. I will not tolerate such outbursts.” He leans forward to see CW. “I believe Colonel Williston will confirm my opinion of its complete inappropriateness without prior approval.”
“Absolutely, sir. Highly classified operation presented for all the world to see, including our enemies, or which there are many? Bad form indeed.”
“Agreed. But sometimes the best way to show the world that America will not conscience the cartels’ enslavement of human beings to addictive drugs, is to show the consequences of doing so as vividly as possible, and without delay.
“This is one of those times.
“Therefore, my judgement as commanding officer of the aforementioned mission to save innocent lives from harm by the extortionate actions of the Garcia Cartel, I hereby authorize the immediate release of Mr. Martin’s documentation of the mission highlights to all media outlets, both print and electronic throughout the world.”
Bob Martin brightens right up. “What I’m hearing is—"
“That in certain cases for the betterment of us all, it’s far better to seek forgiveness than ask permission—which I am fully prepared to do at my court martial.”
“I’ll represent you,” Tommy says.
“I’ll be a character witness,” Jack says.
“Me too!” CW says.
JJ slaps the desk. “Case dismissed, court adjourned!”
You’d think Cher landing on the Rock’s flight deck twelve hours later would be a bit ho-um, considering what these guys just went through: rescuing hostages, escaping machine gun fire, blasting Garcia’s hideout to smithereens, on and on.... They deserve a break, right? Some peace and quiet, huh?
Wrong.
Never underestimate the powers of a music/film/theater personality wearing the sparsest of sequin-studded outfits to rejuvenate the sex hormones of old men. Not that “The Queen of Pop’” planned on doing such a thing.
First and foremost, she’s an entertainer. But let’s be honest, her costume designer must have had that in mind by making sure that 75% of her well-toned, nicely tanned, in-shape body would be available for all the world to see, including the Battleship Boys, now happily gathered around the small performance stage set up on the fantail after her dramatic arrival by Navy chopper.
Earlier, when the MH-60S Seahawk flared for a landing on the helipad, Tommy Riley turned to Jack. “A navy bird’s handling the delivery? You didn’t say anything about that.”
“Don’t look at me, Pop. We had a contract with a civilian outfit. You’ll have to ask the admiral. Something must be up for the switcheroo.”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe the brass back at the Pentagon fell in love with Bob Martin’s piece. The networks and social media are sure as hell buzzing hot about ‘The Battleship Boys’.”
“The day the Pentagon does that, I’ll eat my hat—look, there she is! It’s really her.”
Despite the flight suit and clunky helmet, the person alighting from the chopper is unmistakably Cher. Seconds later, she takes off the helmet and waves to the gathered crowd to remove all doubt.
Later that night, just as she’s finishing up her signature song, “If I Could Turn Back Time,” the Battleship Boys go wild. Can’t blame them. Her bulky flight suit is long gone, replaced with firm, toned up flesh trimmed in black lace on bold display.
The backup band is blaring, the guys are clapping, and there she is, strutting around on top of Tur
ret 4, singing her heart out the way she did in that music video years ago.
Only this time, the band’s twice as loud, the stage lighting’s twice as dramatic, and her smile twice as bright for old sailors whose happy grins are lifeblood for an entertainer.
After three happy bows to tumultuous applause, she shouts, “I love you guys!”
More applause.
“What you did... how you saved those hostages. I mean if anybody ever says you’re over the hill, do me a favor, okay?”
She waits for a response.
Nothing.
She cups her ear and repeats, “I said...do me a favor, okay?”
A booming “OKAY!!!”
“If they dare tell you that, you just tell them that I’ll be waiting on the other side of that hill to kick their ASS!”
That brings down the house.
Tommy and Jack watch the performance from high atop the secondary battery director. With a clear view of Cher’s “stage” on Turret 4, they’re like box seats.
After her second encore, Jack stands and stretches. “You gonna’ be okay up here?”
“Sure...where you off to?”
“Gotta’ see a man about a dog, then make a couple calls.”
“Can’t it wait?” Tommy points to Cher, being called back to the stage. “You might miss another encore—probably a couple.”
“Don’t tell me, tell my bladder. See you later.”
“Wait a second. We need to talk.” Tommy’s voice has an edge to it, like when he was the daddy and Jack was his little boy.
“What about??”
“I need a lift home.”
Jack sits back down. “You feeling okay?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve been thinking it over and...whatever happens to the Rock, it’s going to be up to you and JJ and Stanley... I won’t be around to find out.”
“You never know.”
“Trust me, son. I know.”
They regard Cher chatting with the boys, many of whom have gathered around her like moths to her hot-mamma flame.
“It’s been a hell of a ride,” Tommy says. “But I’m ready to go home. Can you do that for me, Jackie-boy?”
“You haven’t called me that since forever.”
“You’re all grown up, but you’ll always be that to me.”
Jack’s eyes smart. He shoves the feeling down long enough to say, “By ‘home’ you mean—”
“Portsmouth. I miss my little condo apartment. After that...” he looks up. “I plan on finding out what happens in what my dear departed mother—your Grandma Brigid—used to call ‘The Great Beyond.’”
Jack smiles. “I remember her sitting at the kitchen table peeling her ‘praties’ and scaring the hell out of me with talk like that.”
“Me too. But I’m not so scared anymore.”
“Home, Jeeves.”
Tommy grins. “You got it.”
The phone call in Jack’s quarters takes longer than expected to connect. The provider, Ocean Cellular, charges an arm-and-leg to link up with satellite communications. Fortunately, Jack’s, got billionaire-sized arms and legs, so he can afford it. And he can also afford to smile when he hears what CFO Andy Diengott has to say.
“China Pacific’s on board. All they need is your go-ahead for the transfer.”
“O ye of little faith. I knew they’d bite!”
“Right as always, boss-man.”
“Full speed ahead,” Jack says.
A brief pause. “You know what this means, Mr. Riley.”
“Why is it you always call me ‘mister’ at times like this, when it’s ‘Jack the rest of the time?’”
“Whenever you’re about to jump out of an airplane without a parachute, like you’re doing now, I prefer to be formal about it. China Pacific or not, Mr. Riley, this takeover deal is flirting with close to a billion of your hard-earned dollars.”
“One point two billion, but who’s counting, right?”
“Apparently you are.”
“Force of habit—tell me, how soon can they move on this? The Rock’s due in Boston in two days.”
“With enough proxies, I can have them in the bag by tomorrow night.”
“Perfect timing. Make it happen, Andy.”
“That’s a ‘yes,’ then?”
“Affirmative. And top secret, needless to say. If Devillar gets the slightest sniff of what’s going on with her dream deal, she’ll stick spikes in my tires as fast as she can.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear, Jack.”
“Counting on it.”
He ends the connection and sits there motionless, his hands cradling the smartphone like it’s a ticking time bomb. If he had some scotch, he’d gulp down a big slug before making the next call.
But he doesn’t.
So he takes a deep breath, swipes the screen to retrieve the “recent” calls and double-checks to be sure.
No caller ID.
Just the geographic location: “Anchorage, Alaska.”
Only one person he knows lives up there.
He taps “Call”.
By the fifth ring, he’s itching to hang up. No need to listen to her chatty voice message. After all, it’s been two years since he’s heard that husky, happy, healthy voice.
“JACK! It’s YOU!” Breathing hard. “Jesus, I couldn’t find the damn phone. Dog sleeping on it, for God’s sake. Are you okay? I saw the hostage rescue story on the news. Mio Dio, the ship, the Delta Force, all that stuff going on and you looked terrible—sorry, didn’t mean that way, but all of you guys really do—so serious, so scary, tell me everything.”
“Hi, Bianca.”
A long pause. “Cara mia, I had to call you. I just had to. Sorry.”
“That’s okay. Sorry I missed you. Had the phone on silent.”
“How’s Pop doing throughout all this?”
“Fine, he’s fine—I mean, all things considered.”
A pause. “Like what?”
“Later, okay?”
“Now, young man.”
Jack smiles at hearing the familiar expression. At forty-three, he’s seven years younger than Bianca and forever will be the “swimming pool boy” who seduced her from her neat-as-a-pin world as a public-school teacher in Boardman, Ohio, and swept her away to Portsmouth, New Hampshire to live under the same roof with an entrepreneurial demon who never stopped working.
And there they lived—almost happily-ever-after—until one day Bianca realized her caro bambino was never going to leave the pool and enjoy lazing in the sun, even for a little while, like any smart Italian would, who knows the secret to a long life is to enjoy every minute of it. But Jack’s full-blooded Irish, and...
“All you understand is worrying about where the next potato’s coming from,” she would say to him. “Mamma mia, tu sei impossibile!!”
Being as decisive as a light switch that “clicks” when you turn it off, Bianca packed her bags, put Roscoe the Dog into the SUV and headed northwest, straight back to her birthplace, Anchorage, Alaska.
“Still teaching up there in East Bumfuck?” Jack says.
“Quit changing the subject.”
“Answer my question and I’ll answer yours. Still at it?”
“I love my kids. Third-graders rule. And you? Still changing the world?”
“You mean...”
“The SuperCap stuff, what else?”
“That’s going fine. But lately, I’ve been trying to be a good son, too.”
Another pause. She’s a master at waiting him out. Then she says, “Perché...Because...?”
“Because Pop’s dying.”
He briefly explains what’s hard to explain. To Bianca’s credit, she’s a quick study when it comes to life’s catastrophes.
“When do you arrive in Boston?” she says.
“Two days. We’ll disembark the guys there.”
“And then?”
“Damned if I know. I have a battleship I don’t know what the hell to do with.”
“And a dying father—both of whom you love, and not in that order.”
“Do me a favor, will you?”
“Name it.”
“Quit being right all the time.”
A soft chuckle. “Quit hiding your light under a bushel and maybe I will.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
A longer pause this time.
Just as Jack starts to speak, Bianca says, “Tell Pop I said ‘Ciao-ciao.’ Tell him I know what’s going on, and that I love him more than he’ll ever know.”
After spending a restful night in the Flag Admiral’s palatial “In-port quarters,” Cher’s topside once again, and once again bundled up like a stuffed teddy bear; flight suit, clunky helmet, a dozen roses (thanks to the forward-thinking Chef Curcio who picked them up in Cozumel), and the hearty best wishes from the Battleship Boys who crowd around Turret 4 to watch the return of the Navy MH-60S Seahawk.
The squat, haze-grey chopper settles onto the helipad with all the confidence of a homing pigeon returning to its roost but keeps its “motor running” for the pickup.
JJ shouts over the tumult of the helicopter’s screaming turbine, “Can’t thank you enough, ma’am.”
“Loved every second of it—and it’s ‘Cher,’ okay?”
“Aye, aye.”
A quick embrace—a bit shocking to the older man. Not every day Cher hugs you, that’s for damn sure. Then she scampers off like a happy teenager about to go for a ride.
Admiral Lewis takes a deep breath and lets it out with a whoosh. Whatever the hell happens next is a mystery. But for now, this much he knows for sure: by sending Bob Martin’s videos up the chain of command without prior permission, he snatched away the mission reins and rode this horse all the way to the finish line.
Regardless of the higher-ups reaming him a new asshole for not saying “Mother- May-I?” he could care less. All he knows—and all he cares about right now—is that he can say two of the best words in the English language. And he proceeds to do so, his voice drowned out by the helicopter’s engines.