* * *
To Perry’s surprise, Seaman Miller was standing outside his cabin, offering up a large mug of coffee.
“Good morning, sir. Did you sleep well?”
“I slept fine. How long have you been lurking out here? Why didn’t you just bang on the hatch?”
“It’s only been a few moments, sir.”
Perry took the mug and sipped the aromatic brew. It was hot and wonderful! He loved well-made coffee and this was very good. “There’s a lot I need to get done today, Seaman. I’m taking it you’ll play tour-guide for me for another day?”
“Aye, Captain. As long as you need me.”
“Good. Let’s start aft … head to the engine rooms—”
“Excuse me, Captain. Commander Greco took the liberty of scheduling your morning. He has you back here, meeting with the officers for breakfast in the captain’s suite, at 0700; then a tour of the armaments, starting with the forward turret and those big sixteen-inch guns.”
“Nice of Mr. Greco to lay out the day for me, but I’d prefer to keep things a bit more off-the-cuff. What do you say we grab a doughnut and skip the formal breakfast?”
“Um … aye, sir. That sounds fine. But Mr. … the XO … was adamant that …”
Perry was surprised at the level of kickback he was receiving, since stepping out from his quarters. “Is there a problem here, Seaman? I wouldn’t worry too much about Commander Greco. Let’s not forget who works for whom on this vessel.”
“Aye, Captain. So … to the engineering rooms then it is,” Miller said.
* * *
They were moving along on what was commonly referred to as Broadway, on Deck 3 of the battleship. From here, on either side of the large passageway, one could access the four fire rooms and the massive boilers where steam was generated. The four engine rooms were equipped with individual turbines that would eventually power the ship’s twenty-foot-wide screws. The area was the power plant of the ship—the very heart of the Montana. Here men and women were busy at their stations, and Perry enjoyed spending a few moments with the crew—asking them who they were and what, specifically, they were working on. What surprised him most was the constant yelling between crewmembers. Yelling, because surrounding mechanical devices were loud, and also, on an over fifty-year-old warship, there weren’t that many communication alternatives. The crew was learning what was what too, and were sharing and passing along aspects of the ship’s operation that were different from contemporary 1995 Navy vessels.
By the time they reached engine room four, Perry was feeling better about the mission and his crew. How it would actually come together next week, when the Montana was at sea for the first time in half a decade, would be interesting.
Exiting the noisy engine room, Perry worked his jaw in an attempt to clear his ears.
“Uh oh,” Miller said under his breath.
Perry had already spotted whom Miller was referring to. Headed their way at a quick pace was Commander Greco. He didn’t look happy. They met at the halfway point of Broadway.
“Morning, XO,” Perry said.
The XO gave him a half-hearted salute and said, “There must have been a misunderstanding, Captain. The day’s activities did not include a review of the lower decks—”
Perry held up a palm. “Hold on there, XO. No need to get your shorts knotted in a wad. There will be plenty of time during the week to meet with the other officers. Truth is, I spoke with the majority of them only last night.”
Greco, looking confused, asked, “I’m sorry … over the next week?”
Perry stared back at Greco, whose eyes were darting here and there, while he pursed his fishlike lips. It seemed as though he expressed his emotions that way—two meaty worms, moving in unison right above his chin.
“No … you have that wrong. There is no week ahead … for doing anything!”
“I assure you, XO, I reviewed the deployment orders just this morning.”
“Those orders were issued days ago; you’re not up to date on the latest developments.”
Perry noticed the commander had ceased referring to him as Captain, or even Sir. “Are you telling me you’re getting orders from the Pentagon … from the admiral directly?”
Greco hesitated, working his lips for a moment, before answering, “Captain, I’m not sure if anyone knows that you’ve arrived on board yet.”
“Just tell me what the orders say, Commander.”
“We’re to use all due haste, leaving from Naval Base Devonport at 2300 hours.”
Perry checked his watch. It was nine o’clock in the morning. If what the commander was saying was true, and he’d certainly need to confirm that first, then they would be underway in less than fourteen hours.
“How am I supposed to skipper a vessel I’m still unfamiliar with, along with a green crew and an ancient battleship that hasn’t been fully sea-tested?”
Greco furrowed his brow toward Miller, who quickly retreated further down the passageway. The worms morphed into a patronizing smile: “Both the crew and ship are ready … have been for weeks. The only one not up to speed is you. Excuse my directness, Captain.” Greco glanced around, perhaps checking if anyone was nearby him listening. He leaned forward, speaking in a hushed tone, “Sir, did you honestly think you were going to captain this ship? I believe, prior to now, you were skippering … what … a little frigate? Off the friendly coast of Australia? Did you actually believe you were qualified for …” he turned, gesturing towards their surroundings … “for all of this?”
Perry stared back at Greco, doing his best to keep his rising anger at bay. For once, the little weasel’s eyes had stopped moving. Perry stood up tall—emphasizing even more their difference in height—then spoke loud enough for any nearby to hear him. “As part of my morning introduction to the Montana, I poked my head into the brig and saw six empty jail cells. Seems nobody’s gotten into trouble on board the Montana today. But if you ever speak to me in such a disrespectful way again, I’ll make sure you spend two weeks in there. Is that understood?”
Greco’s expression didn’t change. “Try giving that order and see what happens. See how fast it will be rescinded, either by me or by one of the senior officers on the ship. I report directly to the admiral … just as you do. Look, why don’t you relax; enjoy your time on board. As far as the crew … the enlisted men are concerned … you are the real captain here. But make no mistake, Captain, about who’s really in charge. There’s a plan at work here, and we all have a job to do. Yours is an important one. Just play the part and everything will work out fine.” Commander Greco stepped back and, speaking louder than necessary, said, “Yes, Captain … rescheduling this morning’s officer’s meeting for lunch in your quarters is fine. Thank you.” He abruptly turned and headed off.
Perry watched him till he was no longer visible, obscured behind equipment and partial bulkheads. He released his held breath and relaxed his two tightly gripped fists. What the hell have I gotten myself into?
Chapter 10
Naval Base Devonport, Plymouth, England
USS Battleship, Montana
__________________________
Summer, 1995 …
Captain Perry Reynolds and Seaman Miller continued their morning walk-about of the lower decks. Perry went through the motions—meeting other crewmembers and exploring the grand old ship—but his mind, for the most part, was on other things.
He found himself in the uncomfortable position of reevaluating his military career. With the exception of several small skirmishes, during the Gulf War in ’91, from which he’d replaced his Navy collar insignia rank of a silver oak leaf collar with a silver eagle, along with his first command aboard a Navy ship—he had to admit—he was an untested captain. And one, most likely, he himself wouldn’t have voluntarily given his current level of responsibility to. The difference between a frigate and a battleship, even a fifty-year-old one, was huge. A frigate’s main role was to assist amphibious expeditionary forces and re
plenish groups and merchant convoys, as needed. A battleship, with a crew of fifteen hundred or more, was the star player—often protecting aircraft carriers, or taking center stage in an armada preparing for battle. With that said, his skippering of the Gallant was no small feat. With a crew of one hundred and ninety three, his past naval record was beyond reproach. Solid. But at forty-seven, perhaps he should be further along in his career. He didn’t like doubting himself. Not like this.
Perry had to remain mindful of the fact that Commander Greco was an ass. He had his own skewed agenda and men like him eventually got what was coming to them. He decided to wait; see how things played out, at least for the time being. But he had to find a way to keep his temper in check. Over the last few hours he’d too easily envisioned how great it would feel to plant a fist across the little weasel’s mealy mouth.
“Captain, we should probably get you back to your quarters,” Seaman Miller said.
“Lead the way, Seaman.”
* * *
The USS Montana’s captain’s primary lower deck quarters were indeed lavish by modern standards. Contemporary warships offered far less space for their commanding officers than what was allocated for them back in the 1940s. Perry now found himself alone, the first time since he’d left the tiny, upper deck bridge quarters behind the captain’s bridge. He looked around the multi-compartment suite, fully aware that he neither deserved such fine accommodations nor, if he was honest with himself, wanted them. He wandered into the sleeping compartment, where a bed, nightstand, integrated bulkhead bookshelf, wardrobe, and single armchair awaited. His duffle was lying on the bed. Perry tugged its partially open zipper and saw nothing inside—including his deployment orders or the letter from his father. Irritated, he looked about the compartment. The empty envelope was lying atop one of the bulkhead shelves. Looking around, he spotted the trash receptacle in the corner, where his letter from Ol’ Gus had been tossed. No longer a crumpled-up ball, it had been unfolded—someone had read the letter. Perry was fairly certain he knew just who. Checking out the wardrobe, he found his possessions, either hung on hangers or neatly stowed in drawers.
In the adjoining compartment was the head—holding a toilet and stall shower; his travel kit rested on the washstand. The next compartment—a lavish ready room—had a sitting area, containing a couch and two armchairs. A long dining/conference table—with ten chairs positioned around it—occupied a section of the large ready room, beneath three polished brass portholes. The table was set with cutlery and china, atop a white tablecloth. Perry became aware of the savory aromas wafting out from the officers’ galley.
Perry watched as naval officers entered the now-open ready room hatch. The two elderly officers, Ensign Powell and Lieutenant Hudgins, saluted and approached him.
Hudgins, long-faced, with sparse wisps of silver hair atop his head, said, “Good afternoon, Captain. Have you been getting better acquainted with the Montana?”
“Yes, she’s a fine ship. And I’ve had the opportunity to meet more crew—all good men and women.”
Perry noticed that the elderly ensign, standing next to Hudgins, seemed far more tightlipped than he’d been the previous night. He looked similar to Hudgins, possessing an equally long face and large ears, but what hair he had left was dyed black—contrasting strongly with his bushy white eyebrows.
“Ensign, this must be quite the nostalgic experience for you,” Perry said.
Powell seemed to ponder that. “Those wouldn’t be the words I’d select, Captain … but yes, many old memories from earlier days have returned. Some good … some not so good.”
“If you will, there’s a lot to discuss, gentlemen, so let’s take our seats,” Commander Greco said, occupying a chair at the far end of the table. Perry had seen him hurry into the compartment, along with six other officers. Most of them he’d been introduced to the night before.
Perry took a seat at the head of the table, directly opposite Greco.
* * *
After a working lunch of burgers and fries, the officers provided updates on directives given to them previously by Commander Greco. With only a few insubstantial tasks left to complete, the Montana was ready to head out to sea. During their two-hour lunch, Perry learned that the Montana had ventured outside its enclosed hangar anchorage on twelve separate occasions—always between the hours of 0200 and 0400—when the outside world was asleep. The ship’s running lights were lowered to the barest minimum. Perry, who’d wondered how a fifty-year-plus vessel had tested for seaworthiness, moored as she was under a sheltered hangar, now knew the answer: The ship had been tested—her big, twenty-foot screws engaged and powered as she entered the harbor and navigated out into open seawater—and, apparently, done so numerous times.
Perry did ask questions and commented on some of the decision-making processes in order to get better clarification. But right then he felt even more disconnected—like an observer—or, even worse, non-important window-dressing. There seemed no real purpose in his being there. Obviously, Greco had everything well in hand, on top of every aspect of the mission, from maneuvering the big ship out to sea, later that night, to intercepting the U.S. Fleet, currently en route to conduct military exercises within the Taiwan Strait, along with the ROC Navy. Their own voyage—departing from Naval Base Devonport, in Plymouth, England, en route to Port of Taichung, Taiwan—would take seventeen days. The proposed route would take them off the coast of Spain and France and into the Mediterranean, where they would eventually enter into the mouth of the Nile River at the Dead Sea. Once past the Gulf of Aden, they would sail into the India Ocean and, eventually, enter the South China Sea. No longer were they required to avoid, at all cost, observation by passing ships. Attempting to keep a nine-hundred-foot-long warship from view would be impossible anyway. Since early morning, announcements of the existence of the Montana were officially broadcasted everywhere. The PR machine was in full swing. Virtually every major news organization on the planet was currently spewing-out, as received, video clips of the perfectly preserved battleship, and the ship’s top-secret backstory, along with information chronicling the upcoming voyage toward the Taiwan Strait. As of today, the Montana was the most famous warship on the planet.
Commander Greco, hearing from every officer around the table, seemed satisfied with their updated status reporting. “Good. We are on schedule for our 2300 departure. Within the next few hours, the first journalists and camera crews will arrive. We’re keeping it down—a rather small contingent of news crews has been invited—twenty-five people total will take up residence on board for the entirety of the voyage. Represented will be CNN, CBS, ABC, and FOX News.”
Commander Greco looked down the table, locking eyes with Perry. “Within the next few days, reports of the most famous warship in the world will be equally matched by news reports of the most famous Navy captain in the world. You, Captain Reynolds, will shortly become a household name. Tell us … how does that make you feel?”
Perry stared back at Greco, doing his best to hide the disgust he felt inside. He let his eyes shift to the faces of the other officers. They seemed to share Greco’s unbridled enthusiasm and were smiling broadly. All except Ensign Powell, who looked back at him with a sympathetic expression. The men waited for him to say something—perhaps something inspirational or profound.
“To be honest … this is horseshit. It’s all horseshit. But I serve at the pleasure of the President and the United States Navy.”
The smiles momentarily wavered, then returned but with less enthusiasm. Commander Greco clearly was not amused. “Let’s just hope the good captain keeps those views to himself when the cameras roll later on today.”
The other officers nervously chuckled.
“From now on, everyone … dress whites only. You’ll find new uniforms hanging in your quarters. We need to maintain proper appearances from here on out.” Commander Greco then said, “Unless Captain Reynolds has something further to add, I suggest we adjourn this meeting and get
back to work.”
As the men began to rise, Perry motioned them to keep their seats. “I do have something to add.” The officers, including Greco, briefly looked at one another, before tentatively sitting back down. “As I stated before, I’m playing along with this … charade … for the good of the mission. I know you all are in on it. You have your own role to play here, I suppose. But I want to make something abundantly clear. While I’m here to play some kind of part … an unnecessary figurehead, perhaps … just know that when this ship leaves the harbor, I’ll assume full responsibility as skipper of this vessel. As long as I hold the rank of officiating captain aboard this ship, I will be just that … her Captain. The helm will answer to me and me alone. If you have a problem with that, well, it’s best you throw me in the brig right now.”
Chapter 11
Sol System
Planet Earth, Central Valley Scrapyard, San Bernardino, CA
__________________________
Present Day …
The closing of the patio’s sliding glass door pulled Jason back from the events taking place in Plymouth, England, in 1995. Dira drew her robe tighter around her body against the late night chill and padded her way over to the two still-reclining men. Jason saw her glance toward them first, then stare at the abundance of empty beer bottles, lying on side tables and on the stone patio beside their lounge chairs. She motioned Jason to scoot over and then lay down, partially next to him and partially atop him. She stifled a yawn, and said, “I don’t understand why you just went along with what was happening. You’ve never seemed to be the kind of officer, or person, for that matter, to put up with that kind of BS.”
Glory for Sea and Space (Star Watch Book 4) Page 6