With the ritual complete, Lee moved deeper into the shadows, nestling himself in the corner closest to the bridge house. Lee waited placidly until Biron had completed his log entries and left the bridge, then he entered the bridge house and took a position directly in front of the helmsman.
“Right standard rudder, come to new course two-six-zero,” Lee whispered.
All heads turned. Surprised, the helmsman lifted his eyes from the compass and, with a shrug, threw the wheel over in an obedient but puzzled movement. “Right standard rudder, Aye, sir?” he queried back.
The bow of the Farnley slowly swung to the west and headed into the trough. As it turned, each new swell caused the ship to roll a bit more. “Steady on new course two-six-zero,” the helmsman said.
“Very well,” Lee replied.
Lee divided his attention between the compass and the gauge, which measured the ship’s roll. The last roll had been five degrees, but once the ship began rolling, the motion would feed on itself, up to a point. The next roll was seven degrees and the one after that twelve.
“Okay,” Lee said. “That should do it. Right standard rudder. Come to new course one-seven-zero.”
§
Sandwiched between his mattress and the air-conditioning drip pan, Ensign Nat Hayes lay on his back, sound asleep. The upper bunk, barely thirty inches wide, provided enough room for Hayes and his constant sleeping companion, a small rubber purse-sized pouch that held an inflatable life jacket.
The gentle rise and fall of the bow that had lulled him to sleep earlier began to change. At first, it was only a gentle right-to-left roll. The next roll was slightly more severe. Hayes scrunched himself diagonally across his bunk and wedged himself between the boxlike sides.
The rolling motion increased, but Hayes, securely wedged into his bunk, slept on, his breathing deep and regular. The rolling motion built. At the height of the biggest roll yet, a mini-tidal wave sloshed over the edge of the air-conditioning drip pan and cascaded downward. The first few drops to hit Hayes’ face brought him abruptly out of his sleep.
“Arghaspewt!” Hayes screamed, lurching upward, forcing his face fully into the waterfall.
Instinct took over. His arms hooked the strap on the life jacket pouch, and he leapt from his bunk into the darkness in the hope the deck would be where it should. He landed on one foot and was about to gain his balance when the ship rolled the other way spilling Hayes across the room, over a steel chair, and forcefully parking him face down in the corner with his cheek pressed firmly against a cool five-gallon tin of maple syrup.
Glug.
With his heart pounding and his sleep-disoriented mind racing, Hayes snapped to his feet and ran from the room screaming, “Abandon ship! She’s going turtle! Abandon ship! We’re going over! Abandon ship!”
Bursting through the doorway into the small passageway connecting the officers’ staterooms, Hayes, as he had mentally rehearsed many times, executed the right turn toward the exit with amazing speed and agility. His rehearsals, however, didn’t account for obstacles such as Biron, who had heard him coming and took Hayes and his life jacket down with a textbook perfect tackle.
“Hayes. Get a hold of yourself. What’s the matter?” Biron yelled, shaking Hayes.
“Huh? What a…” Hayes replied, then stopped to measure the slow, gentle roll of the ship. There was clearly no danger.
With Hayes under control, Biron let go and got to his feet. As he did, he looked at his wet uniform, then back down at Hayes. “You’re soaking wet. What happened?”
Hayes, now on his feet, was trying to answer that exact question. “I don’t know.”
Lights flicked on, and sleepy officers staggered into the passageway. Hayes, not wanting to face the disgruntled faces, walked back into his stateroom, hit the light switch, and looked at his soaked bunk, then at the air-conditioning drip pan.
Hayes turned to the knot of officers peering over his shoulder. “I’m sorry. It looks like the air conditioner backed up and doused me with water.”
Hayes walked across the room, righted the steel chair, and positioned it next to his bunk. He climbed onto it and began to inspect the drip pan by reaching between it and the cooling coils. His hand hit something by the drainpipe. He dislodged it and, to his surprise, pulled a small cork into view.
“What the hell?” Hayes cursed as he turned toward his fellow officers. “Who’s the wiseass who stopped up the drain line?”
Biron, having a hard time controlling his laughter, managed enough strength to say, “I don’t know, but look,” as he pointed to a piece of paper pinned to the foot of Hayes’ bunk.
Hayes retrieved the typewritten note. It read, “You’ve been had by the Phantom Corker.”
§
Commander Kahn, captain of the fleet oiler Cuyahoga, concentrated on the pitch and roll of his ship. The bow fell sluggishly into a swell, throwing white froth into the rainy black night. With the weight of a full load of oil, she was riding well, but he would be happy when the refueling was over, O’Toole or no O’Toole, despite the loss of ballast.
Two years ago, as a destroyer captain in O’Toole’s squadron, Kahn had refueled on a night as dark and nasty as this. Wistfully, he recalled how terrifying and educating the experience had been, and how O’Toole had haunted the exercise like a ghost.
Two years ago, he’d assumed, as did everyone else, that O’Toole was on one of the squadron ships and that he’d opportunistically ordered refueling to continue despite the bad weather just to be ornery.
The effect had been long lasting, and he refused to believe he could ever forget the refueling or any of the numerous nail-biting expeditions O’Toole dreamt up.
Kahn reached into his pocket and pulled out two marble-sized brass bearings and rolled them in his hand. With a smile, he recalled the night O’Toole had made them refuel like this. O’Toole seemed everywhere, seeing things no one else could see. It seemed he could even read your thoughts. Until now, he never knew how O’Toole had done it. O’Toole had waited for the bad weather. He’d been through the drill so many times, he’d seen every mistake possible. He wasn’t on a squadron ship; he was on the oiler, and he was using the radar.
He turned to O’Toole and asked, “Are you ready, Commodore?”
O’Toole looked up from the radar screen. “Not yet. Let’s give them a few more minutes.”
O’Toole was acting as a safety observer for the exercise. The radar gave him a bird’s-eye view of proceedings. “Do they know where you are?” Kahn asked.
O’Toole smiled. “No, and if you ever give away my secret, I’ll have you keelhauled.”
“How good are they?”
“Damned good and getting better every day. I’d say they’re almost adequate, but don’t quote me on that.”
§
Two-hundred-fifty yards astern of the Cuyahoga, John Flannery, captain of the Wainwright, braced himself as the bow rose to meet an oncoming but invisible swell. Flannery strained his eyes trying to see something, anything, through the rain-spattered bridge windows. It was useless. The weather was foul and the night the blackest he’d ever seen. All he could see through the bridge windows was blackness and the reflection of the tiny red lights that dimly illuminated the bridge.
Flannery had been in the navy twenty-one years and captain of the Wainwright for two months. No matter how he looked at the situation, he knew his training hadn’t prepared him for this. O’Toole seemed to be able to order bad weather for exercises. Tonight O’Toole wanted the impossible. This wasn’t O’Toole’s normal impossible, like navigating a fog-choked channel without radar or merely refueling during a nighttime storm without radio communications. O’Toole had already made them do those things. Now he really wanted the impossible; refuel without radar, without operational use of the radio, and without navigation lights in a storm on the darkest night he could order up.
Flannery, knowing the oiler was somewhere in the darkness a few hundred yards ahead, tried to control hi
s nerves and shed the clammy feeling. Flannery couldn’t believe this was happening. With his conning officer and executive officer huddled at his side like close family members, he felt like a condemned man waiting for a last-minute reprieve from the governor. Flannery looked at the other men on the bridge. It only added to his despair; everyone looked like cast extras in a deathwatch scene from a nineteen-thirties movie.
A radio speaker crackled, “All stations in Tango Tango, this is Tango Tango. Play ball.” O’Toole’s voice was unmistakable despite the static.
The conning officer and the executive officer inched closer to Flannery. There would be no reprieve.
The conning officer asked, “What now?”
No one answered, but the executive officer raised a night vision scope to his eyes and scanned the darkness. Lowering the scope, he finally said, “Can’t see a damned thing.”
Almost dead ahead, a flickering white pinpoint of light appeared amidst the darkness. Squinting, the conning officer said, “It’s the oiler, Captain. We’re cleared to make our approach.”
“Batter up.” O’Toole crackled over the radio.
Turning toward the radio, Flannery cursed. “I’m not going to take this.” He keyed the radio and spoke into the microphone, “Tango Tango, this is Bravo Juliet. Negative on the approach. We can’t see the oiler.”
The crackling radio response from O’Toole was immediate. “Steeeeerike one!”
Flannery tried to think of a response, but before he could, the radio clicked and O’Toole’s voice boomed from the speaker. “Bravo Juliet, this is Tango Tango. It’s all in the eyes. You can’t see a thing from inside the bridge, so get your stern pieces off the bridge and onto the bridge wing. You’re going to need every bit of night vision God gave you, so kill all the lights on the bridge except for the compass.”
In unison, Flannery and his executive officer looked at each other, then, without breaking formation, zipped up their green foul weather jackets and followed the conning officer to the port bridge wing.
All of the bridge lights went out, and O’Toole’s voice returned. “Now that you can see, close your interval to two-hundred yards like you were supposed to do in the first place. Then you’ll be able to see the oiler.”
The conning officer ordered a five-knot increase in speed, then asked Flannery in an airy voice, “How did he know?”
The ship slowly increased speed to fifteen knots, a speed that to Flannery seemed like ninety knots under the circumstances.
The executive officer raised the night vision scope and trained it on where he thought the oiler should be. In despair, he said, “Can’t see a damned thing.”
O’Toole’s voice crackled over the radio. “Bravo Juliet, this is Tango Tango. Stow the night vision scope; it won’t help a bit.”
Silently the quartermaster stepped onto the bridge wing and took the scope from the executive officer, who handed it to him like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The executive officer turned and peered into the darkness astern and asked, “Where the hell is he?”
“Everywhere,” Flannery said.
Flannery’s nerves were about to snap. He was sweating so hard, he was as wet inside his foul weather jacket as he was outside from the driving rain. It seemed they had been closing on the oiler for hours. He looked at his young conning officer, whose tense drawn face showed the near terror they shared. It wasn’t fair to put a young officer through this.
Flannery placed his hand on the conning officer’s shoulder and tried to think of a gentle way to relieve him of the con. The radio crackled, “Bravo Juliet, this is Tango Tango. Remember, it is all in the eyes. You need a conning officer under thirty for this maneuver. Their night vision is thirty-seven percent better than a man of forty.”
Flannery’s head snapped around, and he looked carefully into the bridge house. It was a foolish, instinctive move. O’Toole wasn’t there, and Flannery knew it.
“Shit,” the conning offer began, “I can’t believe this. What’s the superlative of terror?”
“Terror-est,” offered the executive officer.
“O’Toole,” Flannery corrected.
“There.” the conning officer called out. “There’s the oiler, Captain. I can see her now.”
Flannery’s eyes followed the direction of the conning officer’s extended arm, but Flannery couldn’t see a thing. “Where?” he asked.
“There.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Flannery said, trying to keep his voice from breaking. “Better get your speed up. Wait, are we lined up?”
The conning officer ordered full speed, then replied, “I think so.”
“You think so?” blurted Flannery. “I thought you said you could see her.”
“Well, it’s hard to tell in this rain. I can’t believe we’re doing this. Is this a bad dream? Am I going to wake up?”
Flannery now saw a gray smudge in the blackness off the port bow. Relieved, he replied to his conning officer’s questions, “Yes. No.”
With alarming speed, the gray smudge took the shape of the oiler’s stern. They were closing fast, and both the conning officer and Flannery took a deep breath in preparation for a shouted engine command.
O’Toole’s voice boomed through the radio static. “Bravo Juliet, this is Tango Tango. It’s all in the eyes. Remember, everything looks twice as close as it really is under these conditions. Keep your speed until you see the whites of their eyes.”
Exhaling, the conning officer asked Flannery, “How close is that?”
“A little closer.”
After a second, the conning officer interjected, “Captain, I can see the white lettering of her hull number.”
Flannery, who was now supporting his weight on the bridge railing, whispered, “Close enough.”
The conning officer yelled, “All ahead two-thirds. Indicate turns for ten knots.”
Slowly the Wainwright’s speed dropped, and she slid into position beside the oiler. Flannery held his breath. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. They were going to be a bit wide of the mark, but other than that, they were in perfect position. His knees still trembling, Flannery took a deep breath in relief and said, “Well, I’ll be a… I don’t believe it. That audacious SOB.”
Flannery slapped the conning officer’s back and with a big grin squealed, “We did it.”
The bridge crew’s cheer was cut short by the radio. “Bravo Juliet, this is Tango Tango. That approach was unsat. You started out of position. That made the approach wide and ninety seconds too long. If you had started in position, you would have been able to compensate. Then the approach might, I say again, might, have been adequate. Remember, two-hundred yards; it’s all in the eyes.”
Two-hundred yards astern of the Wainwright, a captain and his conning officer stood shoulder to shoulder on their dark, rain-swept bridge wing. The captain asked, “Can you see them?”
“I think so,” replied the younger man.
“That’s adequate, I think. Keep your eye on them.”
SKARAMANGA
September 1971, Skaramanga Shipyard
Operation Marathon: Day 433
A few days later, the Farnley entered the dry dock at Skaramanga, and Chief Ross had some important papers Lee needed to sign. Lee was in his stateroom when Chief Ross and a Greek shipyard worker entered.
Ross gestured to the shipyard worker and said, “This is Mister Dananixous.” Ross pronounced the name carefully, and when the worker didn’t grimace too bad, he continued, “He is the dry dock’s Number Two, and he needs an officer to sign the work order to connect sanitary drains, power, and steam.”
Lee stepped forward and with a bigger than normal smile shook hands with the black-haired worker. “Glad to meet you, Mister Dana…”
“Danathaxus,” the worker assisted.
“He speaks a little English, Mister Lee,” Ross added.
“Good. Do you have a paper for me to sign?” Lee asked.
Danathaxus
fumbled with the papers stuffed into his shirt pocket and retrieved a wrinkled piece of paper and handed it to Lee. As Lee unfolded the paper, his eyes widened. He looked back at the shipyard worker. “This is in Greek. What am I signing?”
Before the shipyard worker could respond, Ross said, “Don’t worry, just sign it. If we don’t get the sanitary drains hooked up, there’s going to be a mutiny outside the crew’s head.”
Lee looked at Danathaxus and asked slowly, “This just authorizes… just says it is okay to hook up power and steam, right?”
“And crappers,” Danathaxus added.
“Okay,” Lee said, turning to his desk to sign the paper. When Lee tried to return the paper, Danathaxus wasn’t paying attention. His eyes were glued on several shiny square tins lined up against the bulkhead. Each tin was clearly labeled in one-inch-high letters, Maple Syrup.
Absentmindedly, Danathaxus took the paper from Lee and asked, “Real maple syrup, sweet?”
Ross and Lee exchanged glances. As Lee walked over to the tins, Ross looked into the worker’s joyous black eyes and studied him. Lee tilted one tin back so he could read the fine print under the main label, then turning back to Danathaxus, said, “It’s real. It says no artificial additives.”
“Artificial?” Danathaxus asked.
“Good. Real,” explained Ross.
The worker smiled broadly. “Cannot get in Greece. Very special. Very much costly. Very, very precious. It is a delicate.”
“A delicacy?” asked Ross.
Danathaxus nodded. “Yes, delicacy. Maybe get little spoonful on Christmas,” he said, demonstrating the size of the portion with his fingers.
“Do you want some?” Lee asked.
“Oh, yes.” Danathaxus almost squealed with joy.
Ross grabbed the worker’s arm and began leading the confused and dismayed man out of the room. “Come on, Mister Dananixous, we gotta talk business,” Ross said brusquely.
“Hey, Chief,” Lee objected.
“Sorry, Mister Lee. This is a shipyard. They fix ships like us for a living and have warehouses full of stuff we could use. What I have to talk about to Mister Dana… whatever… ain’t fit for your young, tender ears. It’s gonna get sticky.”
The Marathon Watch Page 18