“I think it’s an OK idea,” said Pringle. “We never really see you guys, except at sea, or on a radio net, or maybe at an exercise prebrief. It gets kinda impersonal, you know? I talked to one guy, skipper of one of the Spruance DD’s, and he’s going to set up an exchange day, my officers aboard his ship for a day at sea, and then we’re gonna let his guys come fly on one of our patrols. Walk a mile in the other poor bastard’s moccasins, you know?”
Mike nodded. “Yeah, that’s good stuff. We’ve got all the heloes out here at Mayport, but you guys are all the way over at NAS Jax. Besides, Goldsborough does ASW as sort of an add-on mission; she’s a quarter of a century old, and her sonar is strictly an active beast. We’re out of it when it comes to sophisticated passive work, and that seems to be the game these days.”
Mike was scanning the crowd as he spoke, hoping to catch another glimpse of Diane Martinson, but she was not in sight. He wondered what made Pringle think she was on the prowl.
“Yeah, well, of course, that’s all we can do from the airplane,” continued Pringle. “Unless we drop a pinger buoy, but we don’t do that until we’re pretty freaking sure we got the sewerpipe in a box. We use an active pinger, we usually drop a torpedo on the next pass. But before that, we’ll work a guy for hours on end, getting him localized. It takes lots of sonobuoys and lots of time and lots of patience.”
Mike turned back to the bar. “Yeah, I hate that about ASW. From the ship’s point of view you spend hours and hours processing ambiguities, all the time wondering if you really got a guy or a whale.”
Pringle nodded. “You know what they say: ASW means anti-submarine warfare; it also stands for awfully slow work.”
Mike finished his beer. “Roger that. Look, nice talking to you. I’ve got to let my boss see that I actually came, and then, with any luck, I’m outa here and on the beach.”
“You single? I thought all you blackshoes were married.” Pringle looked surprised.
“Free and easy, as the song goes. Which is why I feel the urge to blow this popstand. See you on the radio.”
They shook hands again, and Mike turned to find the Commodore. He needed to make his manners to the Admiral, and then convert a trip to the head to a sneakaway into the parking lot, the Commodore’s instructions notwithstanding. He pushed gently through the crowded room, careful not to take advantage of his relative bulk, and oblivious to the buzz of conversations and the thickening atmosphere from the smokers, greeting fellow CO’s as he headed for the second reception room. There he found the Commodore, the Admiral, and the Chief of Staff clustered in one corner, surrounded by mostly surface officers who were trying to look extremely interested in what the Admiral was saying. Since this was business talk, there were no wives in the group. He noticed that the alluring Mrs. Martinson was not around as he joined the small crowd, and eventually worked his way close enough to nod to the Commodore, who acknowledged him with a brief nod of his own, and to say good evening to Admiral Walker. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Captain Martinson eyeing him, but he decided to ignore him for the moment. The Admiral was asking him a question.
“Well, Captain, did you find any submarines out there last night?”
“No, Sir.” He went on to describe the search, emphasizing the wretched sonar conditions in that part of the operating areas, as the officers around them listened attentively. “I think maybe somebody was seeing things,” he concluded.
The Admiral nodded. “I suspect that’s possible; fishing can be a tedious business.”
Captain Martinson broke in. “So can ASW; are you sure you looked hard enough, Captain Montgomery?” Martinson pronounced the word “Captain” in a manner designed to let everyone know how improbable he found the title. An officer was always called “Captain” if he were actually in command of a ship, even if his actual rank was only a Lieutenant. Mike turned his head to look directly at Martinson.
“We looked as hard as the report warranted, Chief of Staff.”
There was a sudden pause in the surrounding conversations. The Commodore shot Mike an exasperated look from behind the Admiral’s right shoulder, confirming Mike’s own sudden realization that, once again, he had gone a little too far. The Admiral, aware of the unintended impertinence, gave him an amused smile.
“I’m sure you did your best, Captain. If there really is a sub out there, we’ll probably be hearing more about him. Gentlemen, I need a refill. Eli, you look like you’re out, too. Come on.”
The two senior officers moved away, breaking up the attending circle. Mike turned with the rest of the officers to go, but Martinson wasn’t finished.
“Smooth move, there, Montgomery. You just told the Admiral that you make the decisions as to which missions are important and which aren’t. How clever of you,” he said, with a superior smile on his face.
Mike flushed with anger, mostly with himself for letting his mouth run without his brain being engaged, but he held his tongue. By Navy protocol, Martinson, being senior, could call him by his last name like a sailor if he wanted to, even though it was a deliberate insult for the Chief of Staff to do so. Martinson finished his drink. He was almost as tall as Montgomery, with a receding hairline, and fine, aristocratic features which were marred by the perpetual, faint sneer on his face when talking to subordinates. He was known in the surface ship community as a “killer,” one who promoted only his favorites and who killed off their competitors with exquisitely crafted fitness reports. He spoke with an acquired New England accent.
“I understand,” he said, “that you live in the actual village of Mayport. As I remember, that’s right next to the commercial fishing piers. Perhaps you can speak to some of the commercial fishermen this weekend, and perhaps see what that was all about.” He pronounced the word perhaps in the British style, p’raps.
“The Coast Guard,” Martinson continued, “was less than forthcoming. It might be useful to explore the antecedents of this report. Think you can manage that? I mean, if I ask you to do it, will that be sufficiently important?”
He stared down his nose at Mike, as if peering haughtily over reading glasses that were not there. The effect was diluted somewhat by the fact that Mike was taller than the Chief of Staff.
“I think I can manage that, Chief of Staff,” said Mike, evenly.
“Oh, very good. Do let us know what you find out.”
He gave a frosty smile, turned and walked away to find the Admiral. He had said “us” as if there were a royal triumvirate to whom this minion would report on Monday. Another ship CO who had been standing nearby and listening wagged his index finger gently at Mike as the Chief of Staff strode away.
“You do have the gift of gab, Michael,” he said sympathetically, albeit with just a hint of professional relief that someone else was on the Chief of Staffs list. Commander Brian Thomas Duffy had command of a Perry class frigate. He was of medium height, red haired and had a round, red Irish face.
“Win some, lose some,” shrugged Mike. “That guy’s been on my case since the first time I sent out a message saying the basin gave the ships lousy support.”
“Yeah, I remember hearing about that,” Duffy said with a chuckle. “That was like, what, over a year ago, wasn’t it? It needed saying, but I was glad you said it instead of me.”
Mike looked down at him, trying to keep any hint of contempt out of his voice. He had little respect for the goalong guys, the Commanding Officers who chose never to criticize anything, although in his more reflective moments he realized that they were going to get along a lot better than he was. Duffy caught his look.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said, finishing his drink. “If more of us bitched, maybe things would get better. But let me ask you—did you get any better support from the base after you blasted them? I’ll bet you didn’t.”
“If everybody keeps quiet,” replied Mike. “It never gets better.”
“Nope, I think you have it wrong,” said Duffy, shaking his head. “It’s peacetime. The shor
e establishment is never going to support the Fleet in peacetime the way they should. It’s you that has the unreasonable expectations. All you accomplished was to get yourself some instant notoriety as a troublemaker, and now the big guys treat everything you do with suspicion.”
“Perhaps,” said Mike. “But I think it’s our job as CO’s to call a spade a spade.”
“Again, I disagree,” said Duffy, looking past Mike at someone across the room. “It’s our job as Commanders in command to conform to the expectations of our superiors, not piss them off. That way we stand a chance of getting promoted, and thereby gaining a chance of fixing some of the things that are wrong once we get senior enough to do it. I have to go. Take care, Michael.”
Mike finished his beer as Duffy walked away. He knew that Duffy was probably right, but it still rankled him. One of his CO’s during his XO tour had said the same thing. The Navy is monolithic; it is neither bad nor good—it just is. It succeeds because it makes its officers, especially its commanding officers, conform to a professional standard. You can buck the system if you want to, but be prepared to experience some pain for the privilege.
It was time to go. The Commodore most certainly knew that he had been there. Mission accomplished, sort of, he thought wryly. He made his way through the crowd to a side door, and out into the hall. Some of the party had spilled out into the hallway, slowing him down as he headed for the main entrance to the club. He made a pit stop on the way out. Coming out of the men’s room, he spotted the destroyer squadron Chief Staff Officer standing by the front door, in animated conversation with two aviators. He reversed course, and trying to look inconspicuous, walked back down the hall, made a right out through a side patio door, and collided with Diane Martinson.
They touched briefly, and stepped back away from each other in confusion. He was aware of a subtle perfume, and the soft feel of her body. The back of his right hand had momentarily pressed against her belly. They both were startled, and began apologizing simultaneously. He thought of a dozen flippant things to say, but was distracted by her dark, appraising eyes. They stared at each other for one second longer than was appropriate, a visceral, subliminal channel opening briefly between them, and then she half smiled, half frowned, stepped around him and was gone.
He stood there, feeling like a tongue-tied teenager. She had been nearly as tall as he was; probably just her high heels. Part of him wanted to turn around, go after her, apologize again, do something to maintain contact. Then his better judgement reasserted itself, told him to get gone while he could. The Chief of Staffs wife, for Chrissake! He fled through the side door, and went out to the parking lot, a mosaic of images still imprinted on his mind of her disturbing beauty.
He unlocked the door of his car, a white, 1966 Alfa Romeo hardtop coupe, known by aficionados as a “big Alfa.” He slid in, and lit off the engine, which came to life with a satisfying vrooming noise. He drove out of the O’Club parking lot a little faster than was necessary, aware that the Chief Staff Officer probably had seen or heard him leaving.
What had that woman been doing out there alone on the patio; maybe she had been as bored with the reception as he was. He wished he had been able to keep her there for a moment. He made his way across the base, past the piers and the repair buildings, and out the main gate. Turning right, he drove down past the long fence which bordered the airfield for a mile and a half. The Naval Station itself was collocated with the Mayport Naval Airfield, home to four squadrons of anti-submarine warfare helicopters. The tops of the hangar complex were visible above the palm trees and dense palmetto groves which framed the landing strips. To get to the village of Mayport, he had, to drive almost all the way around the perimeter of the naval complex, a distance of some four miles.
Mayport itself was a tiny fishing village at the junction of the St. Johns river and the Intracoastal Waterway. The St. Johns flows north up the east coast of Florida, through the city and port of Jacksonville, and then east to the Atlantic, while the canal-like Intracoastal Waterway parallels the east coast of Florida. The two waterways joined in a Y-junction a few miles inland from the mouth of the St. Johns on the Atlantic. A ferryboat ran from the Mayport side to the opposite side of the St. Johns, to allow the coastal highway to continue up the Florida coast to Georgia.
Several commercial fishing boats were based in Mayport, tied up to aging wooden piers on the Waterway. There was one large seafood restaurant, an historical tourist attraction called Hampton’s Fish House, which was perched directly on the point defining the intersection of the river and the Waterway, and right next to the ferry landing. The village of Mayport consisted of a few stores selling bait, tackle, and beer, and one gas station. Between the ferry terminal and the main river were two sandy dirt roads embracing a collection of ramshackle wooden houses. On the other side of the fishing piers lay the Mayport marina.
Mike drove down the hard packed gravel road to the marina, parked, made his way past the marina office and across several floating pontoon piers, and went aboard his houseboat, named the Lucky Bag. As soon as he opened the door, he was greeted by a raucous “Shit-fire!” from a large green parrot who was roosting on an A-frame perch in the main lounge. The parrot stretched his neck and began the bowing routine parrots do when greeting their bonded pair mate. Mike dropped his briefcase on the leather room couch, and walked over to the perch. The parrot was dipping and weaving, and Mike bent his head over to one side, and then the other, much to the parrot’s delight. They then recited the parrot’s repertoire of unsavory language, and, when all the formal amenities were over, he pitched the parrot onto his shoulder board and headed for the bedroom to get out of his Navy uniform and into his marina uniform of khaki swim trunks, a t-shirt, and ancient tennis shoes.
The Lucky Bag was a converted commercial fishing boat, eighty feet in length, with a proportionally deep beam and draft. The interior had been gutted and rebuilt to accommodate a large central lounge amidships, two guest cabins and a bath forward, a galley just aft of the lounge, and a spacious master’s cabin which took up the entire after section below deck. The engines had been removed, and the engine room, located beneath the galley area, now contained a diesel generator, an air conditioning plant, and the remaining utilities. The deckhouse had been modified to retain the pilothouse and a companionway ladder to the lounge forward, but the entire after section of deck had been made over into a large, covered, screened in porch area which reached all the way to the stern. With the boat moored bow-in at its pier, the porch overlooked the entire waterway and river junction area.
Mike fixed himself a gin and tonic in the galley, and then he and the parrot went up the after companionway ladder to the porch to watch the sun go down over the river junction. After an evening of serious Navy, and a week at sea, the view from the porch deck was particularly lovely. The western sky over the palm trees across the waterway was filled with red and orange hues and light, stringy clouds. The waterway itself was a shimmering sheen of orange, sparkling light, cut repeatedly by a steady parade of small craft going in both directions. There was a slight onshore breeze from the Atlantic ocean, coming from behind the marina and the naval base hidden in the trees. The screeing noises of the gulls, the puttering hum of small boat engines, and a mixture of music from the radios on passing boats provided a soothing contrast to the metallic environment of a warship, with its tight, confined spaces and atmosphere of anxiety over old machinery and often dangerous evolutions. He found it wonderfully ironic that he could slip out of the Navy entirely by simply stepping onto this old houseboat on the river.
Upriver there came a loud honk of the car ferry’s horn as she got underway from the far shore and headed for the Mayport side. The ferry’s horn was echoed by the lesser blat of a commercial fisherman standing into the junction. The two skippers were exchanging signals about how they were going to pass in the junction of the two waterways. The St. Johns was navigable to large, ocean-going ships from its mouth next to the naval base all the way up
to Jacksonville, which meant that considerable care had to be taken when operating any kind of boat in this busy intersection. Mike put Hooker, as he called the parrot, down on the back of a rocking chair; Hooker promptly cussed him and dropped a bomb on the newspaper that Mike kept spread around the rocker to protect the rattan carpeting. Mike retrieved his binoculars from their box by the companionway door, focused them, and identified the incoming fisherman as the Rosie III. Good, he thought. Chris Mayfield. Now maybe I can get the skinny on this stupid submarine business, as well as some fresh snapper for supper. He put the binocs down and retrieved Hooker; the bird walked down his arm and took a slug of gin and tonic, getting a beakfull and then putting his head back to swallow.
“You’re going to get fucked up, there, Bird.”
“God Damn!” croaked the parrot, helping himself to one more shot. He wobbled a little on the return trip to Mike’s shoulder.
“Idiot bird,” grumbled Mike.
Mike left the porch via the port side main deck, and went down the brow to the pier. He waved to a couple of girls who were opening up their boat for the weekend. The big chested blonde invited him to stop by; he acknowledged the invite without actually saying yes or no. With Hooker on his shoulder, he walked across the floating moorings to the sand parking lot, and headed down the dirt road towards the commercial piers.
The Rosie III was docking in a cloud of diesel exhaust and shrieking seagulls, who were anxious for whatever scraps might be coming their way as the crew finished cleaning out the nets. Mike could see old man Mayfield in the door of the boat’s pilothouse. Christian Mayfield was about seventy, and he had been fishing almost his entire life on the Jacksonville fishing grounds. He affected a poverty-stricken demeanor, always complaining about the high cost of everything, but Mike happened to know that he owned a third interest in Hampton’s, as well as many of the house lots in the village. He normally would not give a Navy officer the time of day, but had been intrigued by Mike’s choice of habitat, and his habit of bringing Hooker into the back bar at Hampton’s.
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