Glory for Sea and Space (Star Watch Book 4)
Page 5
Perry made sure his face showed the expected level of enthusiasm. But his mind raced with other thoughts … Oh God … just fucking shoot me now.
Chapter 7
Naval Base Devonport, Plymouth, England
USS Battleship, Montana
__________________________
Summer, 1995 …
Tired after a sleepless flight across the Atlantic, Captain Reynolds arrived at the Royal Navy’s largest naval base at 0200, local time. On the flight over, Perry mentally replayed the tense telephone conversation he’d had with his father prior to boarding. His call was the last thing he’d expected to deal with now—especially with everything else going on. What started off as a normal conversation had escalated into an argument. It was clearly evident his father, or Ol’ Gus—as he and everyone else referred to him—was suffering from some kind of dementia. He, obviously, somewhere along the way, had lost touch with reality. Overly excited, to the point he was even panting for breath, Gus had rambled on and on about something he’d found in the scrapyard. A concern, especially since Gus pretty much lived by himself now. At least he was no longer watching over the boys—something he’d done while Perry was at sea, which was most of the time. Both Brian and Jason were now grown, and also in the military.
If his father was indeed going bat-shit crazy, he’d need to make alternative, custodial, arrangements for him. Perhaps it was time to sell the scrapyard. Perry shook his head. What had the old man said? Something about an underground cavern, or an aquifer? But that wasn’t the worst of it, not by a long shot. The old coot was convinced he’d found a spaceship. A fucking spaceship. Shit! He rubbed his tired and burning eyes. He’d have to deal with this later, but right now, he had higher priorities to deal with.
His driver, Seaman Miller—a real Chatty-Cathy with a slow, Southern drawl—had jabber-jawed non-stop since Perry touched down, an hour earlier. They were seated in a beat-to-shit military Land Rover and Perry silently cursed the British’s spine-jarring, ultra-tight suspension systems.
“You married, Captain? I was married six months ago and haven’t seen my wife since. We’re saving for a house … something outside Atlanta.”
Perry held up a hand, hoping to forestall the continuing verbal onslaught. “Why don’t you talk to me about the Montana, Seaman.”
“Well … she’s big! I can say that much. Been kept in tip-top shape, no lack of spit and polish, over the years. It’ll be something to actually see her in the daylight. She’s …”
Perry held up the same hand again. “You’re assigned to the engine room, talk to me about that …”
“Well, to be honest, it’s pretty old school. She still possesses the same original eight Babcock and Wilcox boiler systems, which deliver energy to those geared GE turbines and their four ginormous screws. She’s powered up weekly … like clockwork. We’re talking the past fifty years, Cap, but to be in there … you know, when those big engines roar to life … well, it’s really something!”
As he watched enthusiasm brighten the young seaman’s face, Perry recalled his own reluctant misgivings and was surprised by the young man’s mounting excitement. He’d done some research, finding the ship afforded a max crew compliment of 2,700 men, a portion of them in-transit Marines. He couldn’t imagine her voyage to the Straits requiring anywhere near that number, but more detailed information would be forthcoming in the morning, when he would be fully debriefed. He was by no means cleared for captaincy of this vessel, but then who would be, in this day and time? He’d been assured the crew was experienced, and that key officer personnel on board were quite familiar with the intricacies involved in operating such a classic warship.
“How long have you been stationed here, Seaman?”
Miller, though attempting to swerve around a substantial pothole in the middle of the road, hit it sideways anyway. The Land Rover gave a jolt, as both right front and rear tires slammed forcibly into their respective wheel wells.
“A month, sir. We all have.”
Perry looked at him quizzically.
“Twenty-one hundred of us, Captain. Rumors about the Montana have been blowing around for a year. When the official announcement was posted, there was a mass rush to be assigned to her … ten thousand or more of us, I think. No, with the Montana you’ll have a full crew complement, sir.” Miller nodded enthusiastically and pointed a finger above the steering wheel, as Perry looked out the windshield.
“Here we are, sir.”
Perry, at first, didn’t know what he was looking at. They’d been passing Royal Navy ships, also berthed at Devonport, for the past ten minutes. The vessels were dark silhouettes against a low, rolling-in, fog. Miller parked in front of an immense, nondescript hangar-type corrugated metal structure.
As they both hopped out, Miller grabbed Perry’s duffle bag. “This way, sir.”
* * *
Two armed MPs checked their passes at the side entrance. Miller stood aside, letting Perry enter first. The interior of the corrugated structure was brightly lit by countless lights, hanging from cables connected to steel crossbeams, ten stories above. But the Montana demanded Perry’s full attention. Miller had not exaggerated about her condition. He’d never seen a more pristine—impressive—vessel in all his years in the Navy.
Perry breathed in the salty air and watched as the big, dark gray, dreadnaught, ever so slightly, heaved back and forth inside her covered berth. Thick ropes, the size of his wrist, secured the vessel to the dock. He and Miller stood still, taking the ship in, at approximately her mid point. Above the ship’s pilothouse, a tall scaffolding of antennas and detectors reached nearly to the top of the hangar. Men moved about the decks, scurrying quickly, readying the ship for departure, and probably, Perry thought, getting things shipshape for him.
Again, he noticed the pride on Miller’s face, as he stared up at the Montana. Surprisingly, Perry too felt similar stirrings beginning to surface. Who would have thought?
Suddenly, the huge battleship’s powerful engines roared to life. Miller looked over to Perry with a broad smile, saying something. His words were drowned out by the loud reverberating noise within the confined space. Perry looked aft, checking to see if the ship’s house-sized screws were churning up the water, but the surface remained still. Yes—he had to admit it—he was excited too, and he also felt a level of pride. Soon, he would be captaining this fine vessel.
Had Perry known then what was to come, what was in store for the Montana within weeks—that she would be sitting, wrecked, at the bottom of the Taiwan Strait—perhaps he would have relished that moment even more.
Chapter 8
Naval Base Devonport, Plymouth, England
USS Battleship, Montana
__________________________
Summer, 1995 …
Captain Perry Reynolds stepped off the gangway onto the Montana’s sprawling, bow to stern, teak deck. He knew beneath the planks of wood were independent, two-inch-thick, sandwiched armor plates. The teak deck alleviated two problems: The unevenness of the metal sub-deck, a safety concern for scurrying-about sailors, as well as being an ingenious method for absorbing heat from the sun above as well as generated friction heat from constantly moving metal plates below.
Perry was curious to find out why he wasn’t met by a junior officer. The coming aboard of a new captain was always a big deal. He was fully aware there was nothing standard about this mission, but not to be formally greeted by a fellow officer was, to him, a sign of disrespect—he hoped it wasn’t a sign of things to come.
Directly in front of Perry and Miller was one of the ship’s original large sixteen-inch gun turrets. Miller made a fist and knocked on the broad, forward-facing surface. “Seventeen inches of armor plating … can you believe that, sir?”
Perry nodded, well aware of the specifications of the vessel. His duffle bag had a three-inch folder stowed inside with all the ship’s technical specs, as well as her issues and idiosyncrasies.
“Let’s get on
up to the bridge, Seaman.”
* * *
Miller hurried along the high exterior catwalk and was the first to enter through the outer hatch. Perry followed, noticing the open seventeen-inch-thick door. He shook his head and whistled. Scowling, Miller looked back over his shoulder and Perry, realizing this could be misunderstood, gestured toward the big door. Miller’s questioning expression gave way to comprehension and a smile. The bridge was comprised of two primary sections. First, they passed by a narrow compartment—situated behind the forward observation section of the bridge, which was surrounded by multiple large windows. This armored, set back area was where the helmsman steered the ship, and also where the ship’s captain would command from when confronted while in wartime situations. They entered the bridge proper and Perry took in the surrounding view of the forward portion and bow of the goliath vessel.
“Captain on the bridge!” a lackluster voice announced—one of the junior officers, now standing at attention.
Captain Perry Reynolds returned the salutes of all four on-duty bridge officers standing erect before him. Typically, bridge officers could include a JOW, Junior Officer of the Watch; JOD, Junior Officer of the Deck; OOD, Officer of the Day; and OOW, the Officer of the Watch.
Perry held the salute a moment longer than normal, taking in the faces of those he would be commanding. He was more than a little surprised at what he saw—two bridge officers were quite old—perhaps even older than his own, most likely deranged, father. Military regulations required an officer to retire after so many years of service—typically, between twenty to thirty years, depending on several factors. But no officer was permitted to remain active past the age of sixty-two, an age these three hadn’t seen for at least a decade … maybe longer.
“Ah … Captain.”
Perry turned, seeing another officer enter the hatch behind Miller. At least he’s a good many years younger, Perry thought—perhaps in his mid-thirties. Like the others, his uniform was standard Navy-issue: khaki shirt and trousers. He wore silver devices on his collars, signifying the rank of Commander.
While Perry was somewhat taller than average, and barrel-chested, the young commander was wiry-looking and less than average height. Perry assessed him in less than three seconds, noting he sported a mustache—over thick, protruding, fish-like lips—and his darting eyes were small and dark, and gave him the impression of high intelligence. It was unlikely the man would miss even the smallest detail. Another thing Perry was quick to pick up on was that the young officer radiated hostility. Whether it was hostility toward him, or toward the situation he found himself in, Perry wasn’t sure. He glanced at the name tag pinned above the commander’s top-left pocket: Commander Leif Greco. So this is my XO.
Commander Greco stood erect and saluted. Perry returned the salute, then let it fall, saying, “As you were, Commander.”
Greco’s eyes darted—first over his shoulder—to the men standing several paces behind him, then back to Perry. “Welcome aboard, sir,” he said, reaching a hand out. Perry shook it and found his grip surprisingly firm, for such a small man.
“Thank you, XO … how about you introduce me to the bridge.”
Perry spent another hour on the bridge, getting acquainted with the other officers, and learning more about the Montana. As expected, the two elderly officers were brought back from retirement into semi-active service, for the Montana’s final voyage. Speaking with them, Perry was surprised by their joint emotional state of mind. More than once, they exhibited tears welling up in their eyes—or had difficulty swallowing past the lump in their throats. One was a Navy lieutenant, one an ensign. The oldest of the two, Ensign Powell, was seventy-six years old. He explained how he had served on the Wisconsin, one of the four original Iowa-class battleships, and he spoke of her as if she were an actual person—one revered—perhaps like a deceased wife, or a cherished friend. The old-timers still held their original ranks, but they understood their presence on the Montana was mostly a symbolic one. Perry was grateful there were men on board who’d had active experiences sailing on a fifty-year-old-plus battleship.
It had been a long day and Perry needed to sleep. From what he understood, he’d have the week to get familiar with both the ship and the crew. He glanced around the bridge, noticing Commander Greco was nowhere to be found.
* * *
Watching him stifle a yawn, Seaman Miller, still as chatty as ever, steered Perry off the bridge. The Montana had two captain quarters—one, below, was more appointed, with an adjoining officer’s dining table and a small living room, while the other one was smaller, and located directly behind the bridge. It was here that Perry found his duffle bag already atop his bunk along with several unopened envelopes, addressed to him. One was large—an internal Navy correspondence envelope—which Perry was certain contained his updated deployment orders. The other envelope was standard U.S. mail—stamped and forwarded from several stateside bases, including Norfolk, plus several bases in Britain. There was a greasy thumbprint on one corner and the penned writing was unmistakably Ol’ Gus’s.
Perry ripped off the end of the envelope and let the single sheet of paper slide out into his open palm. He unfolded it and immediately saw the Central Valley Scrapyard letterhead. The sheet of paper had several greasy fingerprints on it too, and he read his father’s messy cursive writing:
Son,
I hope this note gets into your hands soon. But I’ll also try to reach you by telephone. Perry, it’s important you hurry to come back home. I’ve found something pretty remarkable. Mostly by accident, I’ve discovered that there is a large open cavern, I think they’re called aquifers, beneath the scrapyard. It’s huge. But it’s what’s in that cavern that is why I’m bothering you. I don’t trust telling the local authorities, or any government agency either, about this thing, whatever the hell it is. I realize that I’m sounding crazy, off my rocker. Well, I’m not. I’m as sane as I was when I saw you last, a year ago. I don’t think it’s safe, describing that object in this letter, but believe me when I tell you, it will forever alter things … both your life and mine. I’ll be going back down into the cavern in the morning. I believe I’ve spotted something, perhaps a way into it.
Come home, Perry, as quickly as you possibly can.
Love, Gus
Perry reread the letter several times before crumpling it up into a ball and tossing it into a trash receptacle. He shook his head and opened his duffle to extricate his kit. Irritated, he retrieved the wadded-up paper ball and shoved it deep into his duffle bag. The last thing he needed was for someone else to find that.
He undressed, then crawled beneath the covers. He slept better on a ship than anywhere else—the gentle swaying back and forth—the clanging and distant sounds of men at work. He thought again about the letter. Ol’ Gus truly believed what he said. What was it he’d written? He’d found a way in …
Chapter 9
Naval Base Devonport, Plymouth, England
USS Battleship, Montana
___________________________
Summer, 1995 …
Perry was up, showered, and dressed by 0500. Today, he wanted to establish a definitive command presence on board the Montana. Crew and officers alike needed to know just who he was—what kind of CO they could expect him to be—prior to hitting open waters in a week’s time.
Before heading out, he spent several minutes reviewing the contents of the marked Confidential Navy communiqué that was within the large sealed envelope. It was from none other than Admiral Sands. Scanning the pages, one by one, his orders seemed fairly straightforward. The communiqué outlined specific dates, the intercept coordinates with Carrier Group Five in the Taiwan Strait, and a minutia of details that the U.S. Navy was famous for. There was something odd about the orders—something that didn’t seem quite right—but he couldn’t put his finger on it at the moment. Granted, this wouldn’t be the typical naval assignment, where established military objectives would be provided. Not a combat missio
n, this instead was a U.S. Navy public relations extravaganza—the opportunity to shine a nostalgic spotlight on a great battleship previously unknown to just about everyone. But it was what the vessel symbolized that mattered most. Battleships, especially the big Iowa-class vessels—and this ship was categorized as one of them—evoked a greater emotional response than most any other vessel on the open sea. Perhaps it was what these powerful ships once symbolized, in an era long past—an open cockiness—an unbridled destructive power, not only apparent, but also flaunted. Perhaps, not too unlike the United States itself.
Looking through the stack of pages for several more moments, Perry’s eyes settled on the signature issuing the deployment orders: Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Paul Sands. Since when, he wondered, does the chief of naval operations, the big cheese himself, issue a lowly captain’s deployment orders?
Before placing the packet into his duffle bag, he made a mental note to himself to secure it later in the day inside the safe in his other captain’s quarters.