ROCKS AND SHOALS

by M. L. Maki

  PORT PHILLIP BAY, MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA

  0810, 17 October, 1942

  2nd Lieutenant John Hunt is on the bow of the transport with some of his men. They see a shore dotted with houses and green foliage. The sky is blue with soft clouds. Even with the multi-storied buildings, the air of the city is tranquil and calm. The battalion sergeant major comes up and salutes, “Lt. Hunt, all officer’s meeting in the wardroom.”

  Hunt returns the salute, “Thank you.” He turns to Sergeant First Class Steven Lewis, “Get the boys organized. I want the bunk room squared away and all their gear packed so we can get off this fucking thing as soon as possible.”

  “Hooah, sir.”

  Hunt walks aft, up, and into the wardroom. Captain Morris, his company commander, calls out, “Over here, Hunt.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Colonel Puller should be here soon. They’re sending us to a place called Camp Balcombe. It’s down the coast a bit. They’re supposed to have trucks. We’ll see. I want the men squared away and looking sharp for our hosts.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll be getting replacements to train. I don’t know how long we’ll be here.”

  Hunt, “Sir, will we be getting our mail?”

  “Yes, it’s being forwarded. One other thing, we are guests in this country. I expect the men to be on their best behavior.”

  DIGGS HOME, WASHINGTON, DC

  Quincy closes the front door behind him, deep in thought. His wife, Miranda, looks out from the kitchen. “You look like someone kicked your dog. Smile, Quincy.”

  He looks up and smiles, “How are you, dear?”

  “I’m well. Why did you walk in so glum?”

  “It’s that bitch, again. After being ordered to not fly combat, she attacked into France, again. They’re calling it a great victory.” He sighs.

  Miranda, “That whore is ruining it for the rest of us. Tell me you’re not going to let that little trollop get the best of you.”

  “No, dear. No. But, what I’m doing takes time. Meanwhile, too many people are hero worshipping her.”

  “Well, you need to stop her. Why, I was asked today at the market if I was going to join up.”

  “What?”

  “The checker asked me if I was joining up? She says, she can’t wait to get into uniform and do something important. It took all I had to smile and not respond. I was so mad. The idea.” She looks at Quincy, “I thought I’d married a powerful man.”

  Quincy, “Dearest, it takes time. I do know she’ll never be promoted. I’m in the process of getting her sidelined with a bond tour. If all goes well, she’ll be doing that for the rest of the war.”

  “Send her back to that horse farm. The world will forget her in no time. A woman should have dignity and comportment. She’s a disgrace to all women. She has no femininity. She acts more like a man than woman.” Miranda takes a deep breath, “It’s a disgrace.”

  “I agree. I agree. The problem is there’s nothing to grab onto. She doesn’t appear to have any weaknesses. At least nothing we can exploit. We’re working on it.”

  Miranda snorts, “That’s because you don’t know her well enough. No one is without exploitable flaws.”

  “Even me?”

  “Especially you, Quincy. Don’t you ever forget it.”

  AMERICAN CEMETERY, CAMBRIDGE, UK

  1135, 17 October, 1942

  The last funeral for the fallen of Task Force Yankee is over. Spike stands at Papa Holtz’s grave, “Well, Papa, I did my best. God, it was hard. I’ll see Audrey soon and give her a hug for you.” She goes to a knee, “I don’t know what’s happening to me. The unwritten contract the service has with us all; exceptional performance gets rewarded and poor performance gets punished. I don’t know what I did, but it’s not working. At least, nor for me, Papa. What could I have done differently? What did I do wrong?”

  She touches his gravestone, “When this is all over, I promise I’ll come see you. Well, if I’m not here with you.”

  She stands up and surveys the cemetery. After the invasion and all the air and sea battles, there are many, many fresh graves. The latest are for the five men who died on the Livermore. She walks to the marble wall where the names of those lost and not found are chiseled. Lt. Michael ‘Daisy Cutter’ Landis and Ensign Robert ‘War Bucks’ Carnegie are two of the names she touches.

  She watches Commander Michael ‘Too Tall’ Mohr kneel at the grave of his co-pilot, Lt. Tabitha ‘Sweets’ Younger. She walks away to give him privacy.

  Mohr lowers his head and cries, his hand on Younger’s grave stone. “Love, I need you now. I need you. What is left to love without you. Damn this war. I should have told you a long time ago, and damn the consequences. I’ll always love you, Tabby. Always. I have to go now. They’re sending us home. I’ll be back. Count on it.” He lays a red silk rose on her grave and stands, trying to hold his sobs in.

  WILSON COVE, SAN CLEMENTE ISLAND

  1350 (12150 GMT), 17 October, 1942

  Lt. JG Jeremiah ‘Romeo’ Buford sits on a bench talking with his new swim buddy, GM3 Doug Epsom, “So, distance is life with underwater explosives.”

  “Have we ever used them underwater for real?”

  “Yes, we have. You’re not cleared for the details, but our team blew some shit up underwater in combat. You’ve got to keep your head and plan for distance. That, or get the hell out of the water.”

  “Which did you do?”

  “We were high and dry.”

  Lt. Russell ‘Triage’ Jeremy walks up and motions his assistant team leader to join him. They walk away, clear of the rest of the team. “How’s he working out?”

  “He listens and tries damn hard. He’ll be fine. He’s still working through the jitters after all the shit he blew up today. Boss, I can’t wait to be fit for full.”

  Russell hands Jere a newspaper. It’s folded to show the headline:

  COMMODORE HUNT DATES ACE BRITISH PILOT. MEETS THE PRINCESS

  Romeo reads it and hands the paper back. “It was a political thing. She told me about it. She had to do it.”

  “He took her on a boat ride and met the queen.”

  “Princess.”

  “She becomes queen.”

  “Triage, I love her and she loves me. It’s fine. I knew all about it. It’s all good.”

  “Okay then. As long as your good. Let’s get the team together. It’s time to head back.”

  NORTH LONDON

  1600, 18 October, 1942

  Sam and Gloria walk out of a Marks and Spenser on Baker Street. It looks untouched by the war. Sam spots a book store. “Come on, Gloria.”

  Gloria rolls her eyes, “Not every person on your Christmas list loves books.”

  Sam smiles, “Philistine. Not everyone like clothes.”

  “Yep, but most people wear them. Well, I suppose you don’t really want your SEAL dressed.”

  Sam laughs, “Well, in public.”

  Gloria, “Thank you for buying your bridesmaid dress.”

  “No problem. I’m looking forward to you two getting hitched.”

  “I still say, you should have bought a wedding dress.”

  “And jinx it? No, way.”

  KREMLIN, MOSCOW

  1830, 18 October, 1942

  Major Constantin Romanov, a helicopter pilot, is escorted into Marshal Kryukov’s office. He salutes the man who commands all of Russia. Kryukov returns the salute. “Have a seat. Tea, please, Vasyli.”

  The aid serves the tea and leaves.

  Kryukov gives Romanov a measuring look, “Relax, Major. You are in no trouble. I have some questions for you.”

  “Sir?”

  “First, are you, in any way, related to the late Czar?

  Romanov’s face reveals his panic, “Um. No, sir.”

  Kryukov, “Answered as a loyal officer. I know you are loyal. I also know you are brave and intelligent. You came back in time with me, making you valuable to me. I want honest answers t
o my questions. I do not want political answers.”

  “Sir, in the past, long before the revolution, my family served the Czar. There is a rumor that there was a bastard in our past, but I do not know if that is true.”

  “Good. That is useful. Can you please give me a frank assessment of how the system of communism failed our country?”

  “Sir?”

  “Look, I know junior officers are expected to recite chapter and verse the party theology. I don’t frankly give a rat’s ass about any of that. I do care about the standing of Russia in the world. Please answer.”

  “Yes, sir.” Romanov takes a deep breath, “It is as the west has said. Our system of a controlled and planned economy is inferior to capitalism. They outbuilt us. However, the western, capitalist system awards wealth, not loyalty or discipline. It also generates copious amounts of corruption.”

  “True. Very true. The difficulty is the time travelers in America. They know the history of the Cold War. We need to stave off the closing of the curtain as long as possible. We especially need to hold off until we have the atomic bomb.”

  “Are our spies in their Manhattan Project helping us, sir?”

  “No. They have all been imprisoned or reassigned.”

  “I see. Sir, may I ask how this relates to me?”

  FLIGHT LINE, RAF KENLEY

  Spike studies the ordinance slung under Thud’s bird. They’re thinner than a Phoenix, but over twice as long. The jet can only carry two. “How much do they weigh?”

  Thud, “Two thousand pounds each. They’re heavy and awkward.”

  “How do they work?”

  “It’s a heavy steel pipe with a hardened nose. In the tail is a rocket motor from an AIM-7. We drop it from 4000 feet. It orients down using a gyro and clock work, then it fires the rocket. My calculations have it hitting the ground at Mach 4. Deceleration starts a time delay fuse from a navy armor piercing shell. Once it’s burrowed deep, it will detonate. There are two fuses to make sure it goes off. I slammed it together, but it should work. I tested one off Scotland and it burrowed eighteen feet into solid rock, then blew the rock apart.”

  “Good. Very good.” Spike smiles, “Thud, God speed.”

  Thirty minutes later, his squadron is formed up and flying south. Their target? The sub pens at Brest, France.

  Speedy, “No radars.”

  Thud, “Thank you. Oyster said he swept for missile teams, too. We’re too low for them to miss, and too high for us to hide, so all we can do is pray.”

  Speedy, “I have the pens on camera. Setting up the auto-drop.” They need to fly straight and level for several seconds for the clockwork in the bomb to function properly. “Bombs are spun up.” Their jet lifts as the bombs fall away.

  The fins on the bomb turn with the clock work, orienting it in the straight down position. Then the missile motor fires, accelerating the bombs speed. The extremely hard nose on the bomb hits the outer concrete roof at Mach 4.2. The nose holds and the bomb drives through, spalling the inside of the outer roof.

  Next, it hits the inner roof, which is a much thicker concrete. The rocket motor burns out and the missile stops its forward progress about three quarters of the way through the concrete. Then the fuse times out and the 600 pounds of nitrocellulose explosives detonate. The second roof fractures and huge slabs of concrete crush down on the submarine below, pushing it deeper into the water until it hits bottom, rolls on its side, crushed. Boats, equipment, crew and workmen are smashed beneath the onslaught. The gate holding back the sea fails, and water rushes into the dock, drowning the destroyed submarine and any who survived the explosion.

  Twelve jets drop two bombs each. All, but six score direct hits on the submarine pens. The rest destroy warehouses, quays, docks, ships, and men at the harbor of Brest.

  Speedy, “Feed wet. Fuck, dude. That felt like a milk run.”

  SUB PENS, BREST, OCCUPIED FRANCE

  Kaptain Zur See Rector walks into one of the damaged pens. Broken concrete is everywhere and the roof is open to the sky. His aid, “Sir, the roof is unstable.”

  He waves a hand and climbs in. After climbing over concrete slabs for five minutes, he comes to the remains of a U-boat. The roof caved in on top of it, crushing the stern flat. The bow is a twisted wreck. The aid comes to his side.

  Rector, “How many U-boats lost?”

  “Twelve, Herr Kaptain. Three more with minor damage. Over seven hundred sailors and six hundred workman dead, sir.”

  Rector bows his head, “And how many boats untouched?”

  “One, Herr Kaptain.”

  He closes his eyes, “And now many aircraft were in the raid?”

  “Twelve, Herr Kaptain. The machine gunners say they damaged one.”

  “They destroy two squadrons of U-boats and you brag that we damaged one aircraft. Just damaged? At that rate, we’ll lose every submarine for one or two of their cursed jets. We must do better. Better defenses. Better radar.”

  “Yes, Herr Kaptain.”

  COMMODORE’S OFFICE, RAF KENLEY

  1330, 20 October, 1942

  Lieutenant Commander Anthony Chatman completes the turn over to his replacement. Spike silently pulls the code key from around her neck and hands it to Carpenter. Swede and Thud turn theirs over to Osterman and Dillon.

  Eisenhower says, “Gentlemen, could you give the Commodore and I a moment?” They nod and leave. “It’s been an honor working with you, Samantha.”

  “Thank you, Ike.”

  “Just to let you know, I’ve asked to have you back. Get some rest. Lord know you need it. If they don’t have anything worthwhile for you, let me know.”

  “Sir, Duke will serve you well. That, and he’s getting a permanent star. You know, I’ve enjoyed serving with you, as well. Thank you for everything.”

  Eisenhower nods. They walk out together into the pouring rain and drive to a maintenance hangar. Only those going home are present. It’s not big enough for the whole command. Those flying are in their flight suits. All the leadership of Task Force Yankee are present, including those from Holy Loch. Captain Earl ‘Duke’ Carpenter, Brigadier General Ira C. Eaker, Colonel Donald Blakeslee, and Air Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding join them.

  Eisenhower, “I think it’s time.”

  Spike nods, and they all walk in. As they approach the platform, each officer is announced by title. When Spike walks up, Fluffy announces, “Air Forces Great Britain, arriving.” The bell rings her on. Carpenter is announced as “Captain, United States Navy, arriving.”

  As General Eisenhower and Air Marshal Dowding speak, Spike looks out over her people, then studies the far wall. She hears nothing. When it’s her turn, she walks to the mic. Looking out over the assembled men and women, she smiles. “It has been my honor to serve with each and every one of you. Each of you, as you go to your next commands, will carry a piece of my heart. These words are too small, but thank you.” Then she reads her orders, “From, Commander, Naval Personnel to acting Commodore Samantha Hunt. Turn over Air Forces Great Britain, Naval Forces, Great Britain, and Task Force Yankee to Captain Carpenter. Upon turning over, you will revert to commander.” She steps back from the mic.

  Carpenter reads his orders and turns to face her, “I relieve you.”

  Spike, “I stand relieved.” She about faces and walks to Cooper at the back of the platform. She removes her dress uniform jacket with the large stripe of a commodore and hands it to Cooper. Then she puts on the jacket with the three stripes of a commander. She avoids Cooper’s gaze.

  The higher-ranking individuals leave first and are announced. When Carpenter leaves, he’s announced as “Air Forces, Great Britain, departing.” The last to walk, she’s announced as “Commander, United States Navy, departing.” She walks straight to her hard shelter.

  Gloria meets up with Swede and Thud, “Thud, you flying on her wing?”

  “Yeah.” Only the four surviving F-14Bs are flying back to the States.

  Gloria, “It felt like we all had to
silently watch her get raped.”

  Swede, “It was. I ache for her. Thud, keep an eye on her.”

  “I will.”

  SPIKE’S HARD SHELTER

  Spike goes to the head and changes into her flight suit. She hands Cooper her dress uniform. Cooper, “What should I do with the Commodore’s jacket?”

  “Pitch it. It will be a hundred years before another woman needs one.” She smiles at Cooper, “Thanks. See you on the flip side.”

  Cooper packs her uniform away and heads to the transport jet.

  She mounts up in 211. Lizard is already in the back seat doing the checklists.

  The C-57 and its sister transports lift off from Kenley Field. Then, Swede and NOB take off. When it’s their turn, Lizard calls the tower, “Kenley tower, Knight 211. Request permission to taxi.”

  “Knight 211, permission to taxi to runway 21. Tell the Commodore, it’s been a pleasure. You are cleared to 320 and unlimited climb. Good luck.”

  Lizard, “Roger, Kenley Tower. And thank you. Cleared to 320 and unlimited climb.”

  Spike and Thud go full military and lift off in perfect tandem. Under her breath, “Last time.”

  The ‘14s form up on the three transports carrying the pilots, RIOs, ground crews, and their equipment. They are flying home, Spike’s plane in the lead. The fly silently. Ireland passes astern. Finally, Spike, “Are you okay, Lizard?”

  “Boss, I’m fine. I didn’t have to stand on that platform.”

  “I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt. I’ll deal. Lord knows I could use a break.”

  “It was wrong. Everyone there knew it was wrong. It was like a Greek tragedy. It was wrong, but we did it anyway.”

  “Yeah. Okay, we should check in with Reykjavik.”

  Another half hour and they land to refuel. She walks into a hanger to pee. The workers inside go silent as she passes. Fueled, they take off and fly to St. Johns, Newfoundland, where they spend the night.

  FLIGHT LINE, SAINT JOHNS, NEWFOUNDLAND

  0425, 21 October, 1942

  Spike and Lizard complete the checklists and start moving. When they get clearance, they lift off with Thud and form up on the transports. The next leg takes them south to Patuxent Naval Air Station on the Chesapeake Bay.

  “All good back there, Lizard?”