“Which of you’s the supervisor?” Ross yelled, trying to sound fierce.
“He left to go to town. Should be back in an hour.”
Ross had learned that, to a Greek, an hour is the same as tomorrow, and tomorrow is the same as next week. He had to find a way to speed up the timetable. “It doesn’t matter. You have ten minutes to connect the steam lines. Do you understand?” Ross shouted.
“Yes, but you do not understand. The work order says no steam,” the short one said, pointing to the work order, “and without authorization, we’ll get in trouble. You have to wait for the supervisor.” Shorty finished by translating for his friends, who nodded in agreement.
Ross snatched the work order, marked an X in the appropriate box, and signed across the face, “Fleet Admiral J. A. Ross, Esquire.” Handing the paper back, he said, “You now have your authorization and nine minutes to connect the steam.”
The short one didn’t look at the paper but handed it to the fat one, who handed it to the one with the butch haircut, who put it on the desk.
“I am sorry, but without permission, we’ll get in trouble,” the short one said apologetically.
“Very well,” Ross bellowed, “but tomorrow you’ll have no job, because you’ll have no boilers to tend.” Suddenly all three men knew how to speak English, or at least they seemed to understand. He now had their undivided attention. Ross pushed on. “My captain is upset that he doesn’t have steam, and my captain is a crazy man. Do you understand crazy?” Ross said, making a circular motion with his finger next to his ear. They all nodded.
“He ordered me to blow up the generators and this shack if he doesn’t have steam in eight minutes. It doesn’t make any difference to me; it’s up to you.”
Ross stormed out and tried to tear the door off the hinge on the way, but it held. Forty feet down the pier, he stopped and turned toward the shack. The three men were jabbering in Greek and looking out the window at him, obviously discussing who the real crazy man was.
Ross raised his right hand, and the forward gun mount came to life with a deep whoooop from its motors as they started. The pier workers heard it but didn’t know what to make of it until the gun mount’s heavy gear trains let out a threatening growl, and the mount rumbled around and jerked to a stop. Next, the high-precision gears meshed and sang their ominous tune as the two five-inch barrels lowered and took dead aim on the workers, their shack, and their steam generators. The three men prudently vacated the shack and started to approach Ross.
As sun glinted off the teeth like rifling at the tip of the muzzles, Ross shouted, “You have five minutes.”
The men decided to take a wait-and-see approach, so Ross lowered his right arm to hold it horizontal with the ground. From inside the mount, machinery clanked. The Greeks looked quizzical as the hydraulic hoist hissed, lifting shell and powder to the mount. They understood the hoist’s hiss when the brass loading trays clacked down into position. Shell and powder dropped into the tray with a metallic thud. What followed was the unmistakable sound of shells being rammed and breach blocks banging shut into the locked position.
The short one reconsidered and made a decision for the group. “No, no, we hook up steam now,” he said as the three men ran past Ross toward the Farnley.
Within minutes, the Farnley was connected to the steam generators, and the forward gun mount had returned to its normal benign position. For the first time in eleven months, the Farnley’s engineering plant was shut down. In a cold iron status, maintenance and repair was now safer and easier.
Afterwards, Ross had changed back into his work uniform and returned to the engine room. He had been surprised to find his entire crew smiling, laughing, and working. The way they looked at him, smiling with admiration, had made him proud. He’d beaten the system. He had forgotten how good it felt.
Ross knew his theatrics and the work of his crew were only symbolic gestures. They didn’t have any parts, but they would try to overhaul, clean, and oil what equipment they could. Some of it had been running continuously without rest or maintenance for months. It wasn’t much and it wasn’t going to help, but it was something.
“Chief? Chief?”
Lee’s voice retrieved Ross from his private world of thought. Ross’ eyes were drawn to Lee’s grinning face, and he barely noticed the oil-stained cardboard box he was carrying.
“Mister Lee,” Ross said, “I thought you’d have hit the beach, this being your first time in beautiful Elefsis.”
“Too much to do. No place to go,” Lee replied, taking a seat next to Ross. More cheerfully, Lee added, “What’s doing with the pump?”
“Been rattling like hell. Sounds like a dryer full of loose nuts and bolts. We’re tearing her down to see what the problem is. Probably can’t do anything, but at least we’ll know where we stand.”
Ross and Lee watched in silence as Stucky meticulously dismantled the pump. Ross’ eyes spotted something.
“Hold it, son,” Ross shouted as he jumped into the bilge.
Ross examined several parts, fitted them back together, and played with the assembly again.
“Here’s the problem,” Ross said to Stucky. “See how the bearing rattles around in the housing? The bearing has to fit tight.” Ross demonstrated as Stucky nodded.
“Fixable?” Lee asked.
Stucky and Ross turned to look at Lee. Stucky’s freckles were half covered with streaks of grease.
Ross spoke, “The bearing and shaft look okay, but the bearing housing’s shot. We don’t have another one.”
“What are the options, Chief?” Lee asked.
“T’ain’t none, Mister Lee. We clean her up, put her back together, and hope for the best.”
“Let me see the housing, Chief.”
Ross handed Lee the two machined parts that bolted together to hold the bearing. Lee examined them for a second, then asked, “Anything special about the steel?”
Ross frowned, trying to figure out what Lee was asking. “No. It’s just standard steel. Why?”
Lee turned the parts over in his hands several times before replying, “I don’t know; they just seem like cheap parts.”
“Hell, there isn’t anything to them. Just two blocks of steel, a couple of holes drilled through them, and some simple machining. Some company probably sells them to the navy for a hundred bucks apiece, though.”
“What do you mean by simple machining?” Lee asked.
“That type of machining is simple. Any high school kid could do it after a month of shop classes.”
“Can you make another set in the machine shop?” Lee asked.
The question put Ross on guard. Ross formulated his answer carefully. “Sure, but that’s against regulations. We’re not allowed to manufacture our own parts.”
Lee’s black eyes opened wide and sparkled. “Then why did the navy put a machine shop on board?”
“Look, Mister Lee, to say the navy won’t like it would be putting it mildly.”
Lee started to giggle. “What would the navy say about what you did this morning on the pier?”
“That was different. It was… How did you find out about that?” Ross asked. Stucky smiled, almost laughing at the defensiveness in Ross’ voice.
Lee raised his hand to cut Ross short. “Tell you what, Chief, you make the parts you need to fix your noisy dryer down there, and I’ll sign the log authorizing the work. That makes it legal.”
“It’s a Fuel—Transfer—Pump,” Ross snapped back, then realized how stupid his words must have sounded. Ross turned dead serious and spoke to Lee in the most pedantic voice he could muster.
“Your signing the log will make it legal for me to do the work, but it doesn’t make it legal for you. The navy will nail your hide to the gauge board like a trophy.
“Will the new part be safe?” Lee asked.
Damn. Why does this kid keep asking questions when he should be listening? Ross thought. Then, to answer Lee’s question he said, “Of course, it’s ju
st a simple housing.”
“Do it, Chief. Make the part,” Lee began, “and until further notice, any part you need, you make it if you can. Don’t worry about me, Chief, I can take care of myself. You just worry about the equipment.”
Ross knew Lee had just put him in a box. The box protected everybody except Lee. Ross didn’t like to see anyone go out on a limb like that, but there was nothing he could do except appeal to logic. “Mister Lee, I’ve got to tell you this is against regulations.”
“I’ll also make an entry into the log explaining that you objected and explained the regulations to me,” Lee said, grinning at Ross.
Shit. I can’t win with this kid. Every time I open my mouth, I just make things worse. Quit while you’re ahead, dummy.
“Quit while you’re ahead, Chief. You’re going to need your energy for another project I have for you,” Lee said.
Ross stood dumbfounded by the apparent echo for several seconds. Ross was afraid to ask, but he knew he had to. “What project?”
Lee tapped the cardboard box sitting on the catwalk. “I think this contains all of the parts you need to overhaul the main steam valve. One finger; remember?”
“Where did you get them?” Ross asked in astonishment.
“You don’t want to know.”
“You’re unorthodox. Do you know that?” Ross said.
“No, Chief, I’m a methodist.”
“I wasn’t talking about religion,” Ross said, annoyed.
“Neither was I,” Lee replied.
Ross tried to recover, to find an escape. Ross countered, “You know, when we overhaul the valve, we have to replace all of the steam flange studs. It’ll take thirty-two of them, and I only have four left.”
“You have thirty-six now.” Lee beamed from ear to ear. “There are thirty-two in the box.”
Ross noticed his screwdriver lying on the catwalk next to Lee. Impulsively, he reached out and rescued it. When it was safely in his hip pocket, Ross grabbed the box and tore it open to examine the contents.
As Ross rummaged through the box, Lee got up and said, “I know you’re busy, so I had better leave you alone.”
Ross couldn’t believe it. The box contained everything he needed and then some. He looked up expecting to see Lee, but he was gone.
Stucky had been watching the exchange like an enthralled spectator at Wimbledon. Ross was clearly at a loss for words, so Stucky broke the silence. “What’ya got there, Chief?”
Ross paused for a second, then said slowly, “Son, I think I done just got had by a pro.”
“What’s in the box?” Stucky persisted
“Shut up, sonny, and get your butt to work on the main steam valve while I try to remember how to use a boring machine.”
§
In the late evening hours, the surf on the public beach at Santa Cruz was all but gone. Michael Milford Morrison was lonely. His friends had left the beach earlier, but he wanted to stay behind. It was getting dark, and Morrison had just taken a ride.
The ride was groady, the wave soft and sloshy. Even the surf had gone home. The surf, the fun, the excitement had died slowly over the summer since high school graduation. He thought it was going to be better than this.
Laying the board on the sand, Morrison threw a towel over his bare shoulders and stared at the Pacific. For the first time in his life, he felt alone. Sure, he had his parents and younger brother, but now even they were different. His father always ragged at him about everything, calling him a bum and yelling at him to make something of himself. His mother babied him and applied the same rules to him as she did to his younger brother. It wasn’t fair.
His buddies had changed. They were different now, and they knew it. Slowly, the group was falling apart, with some going off to college and others taking jobs. All had developed other interests, and it was getting difficult to get them together for some fun. The only bond they shared was rapidly disintegrating.
Morrison pulled his legs in and rested his chin on his knees. The sun had just disappeared below the horizon, and the two-foot waves looked like gray shadows under the crimson sky. Santa Cruz wasn’t exciting anymore. The adventure of childhood was gone. He knew it was time for him, but he wondered what one did to become a man.
Morrison had never been more than four hundred miles from home. He closed his eyes to visualize what the world was like where the sun was headed. With its girls and neon signs, Tokyo would be exciting. In Rome, there were ruins to explore. There was a world far more colorful and exciting than Santa Cruz waiting to be discovered.
The world was unlike Santa Cruz; it was full of adventure. Exotic places waited for him, like those in the movies and in National Geographic. They were all there for him to see and explore, but they all lay across the sea. Morrison swiped a tangle of his long brown hair from his shoulder, picked up his surfboard, and headed toward the parking lot. He knew what to do, and he would tell no one, especially not his parents. Tomorrow would be a big day.
§
Since the ship had arrived at Elefsis two days ago, Biron’s world was in turmoil. Schedules had been changed at the last minute, and he had a thousand details that had to be taken care of on short notice. They had expected to be sent to Skaramanga for minor repairs, but unexplainably, the schedule was changed to include hull painting. However, before the ship could be dry-docked, all ordinance had to be unloaded at the NATO pier at Sudha Bay.
Then the supply system had made the most colossal blunder he’d ever seen. At first, he went looking for Meyers so he could vent, but when he couldn’t find him, he returned to the fantail. As luck would have it, Meyers and Ross were standing on the fantail watching the work party load provisions from the pier.
“XO, do you know what the navy sent me in place of the gray paint I had ordered?”
“No,” Meyers said. His grin betrayed his lie.
“Well,” Biron began.
“Did you hear about the maple syrup?” Meyers interrupted.
“Hell, that’s not maple syrup; that’s my paint.”
Meyers looked at the pile of shiny, square metal tins stacked on the aft part of the fantail and asked, “What the hell were you going to do with six-hundred gallons of gray paint?”
“I only ordered a hundred gallons,” Biron began, “but that was six months ago. When it didn’t come in, I reordered it the first of the next month. I’ve been doing that for six months. Now the great navy supply eagle gets diarrhea and delivers all six-hundred gallons at one time, but instead of paint, I get maple syrup. The only similarity is that they both come in five-gallon containers. What the hell am I going to do with one hundred and twenty tins of maple syrup?”
Meyers seemed unimpressed and was having trouble not laughing. Ross was looking at the small mountain of maple syrup on the fantail, enjoying Biron’s predicament.
“Have you talked to the cooks?” Meyers asked.
“They told me to stuff it. They don’t have room for it, and it seems like that’s about a three-year supply of syrup.”
“Sounds like a good idea because you can’t leave it on the pier. Find a place to stuff it,” Meyers said.
“Where?” Biron shouted in exasperation.
“I don’t know. I didn’t order six-hundred gallons of anything,” Meyers said, waving his hands in front of him as if trying to ward off a curse. Ross started to walk away, but Meyers reached out and put a hand on Ross’ shoulder.
“Chief, we have a sticky situation here. The engine room is the only space big enough to store all of that… whatever it is. Have the work detail help you get it stowed.”
“What? You can’t be serious, XO,” Ross pleaded. “I can’t have that stuff in my engine room. Why, it’ll take hours just to get the stuff down there.”
Meyers began to walk away, so Ross changed tactics. “Come on, XO, I have enough troubles of my own.”
“So do we all, Chief. It’ll only be temporary,” Meyers said.
“I’ve heard that before,” Ro
ss said, storming off in a huff.
“What problems is he talking about, XO?” asked Biron.
“Oh, the usual. He got about ten percent of what he’d ordered, but he expected that. What really has him peeved is that he ordered some machinery-gray paint.”
“Did he get syrup?” Biron asked, allowing himself to smile.
“No, he got medical white enamel. Lee changed the order.”
“Medical white?”
“Yeah, the stuff they use on hospital ships for the surgical rooms,” Meyers said.
“Did you tell Ross what Lee did?”
“Why should I?”
“What does Lee want with white enamel?” Biron asked.
“Beats me. Lee said the supply system seemed to be out of regular paints, so he was going to start ordering different types and colors until he found one they had. He started with medical white and hit the jackpot on the first try.”
TSUSHIMA-KAIKYO
August 1971, Tsushima-Kaikyo, Eastern Channel
Operation Marathon: Day 426
The aircraft carrier USS Kennedy and her battle group were four hours out of Sasebo, Japan steaming northeastward through the brooding grey choppy waters of the Korea Strait. The day was unremarkable in every respect; even the low gray clouds rolling seaward over headlands of Tsushima posed no threat.
From his flag bridge, Admiral Kappel watched the screening destroyers intently, particularly the Kuntz. Five miles off the starboard bow, she was dead in the water. Even at that distance, Kappel could clearly see the two black balls hanging from her yardarm, the international breakdown signal.
When the exercise started, he knew she couldn’t last much longer. He had the message to the CNO already drafted. All he had to do was take it out of his pocket and send it. Then this whole stupid affair would be over.
“Admiral, you won’t believe this. We just received a FLASH breakdown report from the Can’t-do-Kuntz.”
It was one of his staff aides and the derogatory name-calling struck a tender nerve. “It’s the USS Kuntz,” Kappel began and then asked, “Anyone hurt?”
“No,” the aide replied, still reading the message.
The Marathon Watch Page 16