Hayes had fallen into the habit of keeping the blanket and sheets half folded down. He inspected his bunk and ran his hands under the sheets. Carefully, he lifted the pillow. The coast was clear. Hayes took a single step and swatted the light switch, sending the small compartment into total darkness except for the shaft of light entering the door.
Hayes stepped back to the bed and sat down. As he sat, he felt the mattress sink as the steel springs strung between the sides of the metal bunk gave a little. He thought he felt a slight snag, then a release as the mattress sank, but he didn’t have time to think about it. There was a loud pop under his bunk, followed immediately by a hissing sound.
Without warning, his mattress rose, lifting his feet clear of the deck. Hayes jumped up and turned around, but in the darkness, all he could see was that his mattress was rapidly disappearing behind a black somethingness. The hissing sound grew louder, and the black something began to close in on him. Hayes jumped for the light switch but was too late. The blackness blocked his path and was pushing him back against the cabinets on the far side of the compartment.
The blackness was cool, and it grabbed at his skin. It was rubber. It’s a three-meter weather balloon. This isn’t a three-meter compartment.
Hayes, trying to escape under it, dove toward the shaft of light coming from the door. He didn’t make it. It pinned him gently, but firmly to the deck. “Help! Help! Someone help!”
§
Barely thirty minutes later, a dozen men dressed in black with blackened faces and black stocking caps pulled down over their ears crouched low in the passageway. They had turned off all the lights, and in the darkness, it was almost impossible to see the large stainless steel double-tank coffeemaker pushed against the bulkhead. They listened intently as footsteps approached from the far end of the passageway.
A shadowy figure also dressed in black appeared and said, “Okay, the watch has changed, and they just finished their first round. We have an hour. Remember, teams three and four have everything aft of the stack. The last thing we want to do is start running into each other. What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the coffeemaker.
From the darkness, a voice replied, “You don’t want to know.”
“You can’t carry that thing across the pier. The metal will glow in the dark.”
“Yeah, I know. We polished it up real good.”
“Cover it with something!”
“Here, use my fart sack,” another voice offered, and two men worked to drape the mattress cover over the coffeemaker.
“What the heck you doing with a fart sack?”
“Midnight supply shopping bag.”
“Okay, remember, if you’re caught, it is name, rank, and serial number only.” The man paused as a wave of giggles swept the group. “Let’s go.”
With a squeak, the watertight door to the main deck swung open, and the men poured onto the dark deck, made their way over the side, and stealthfully worked their way through the cold night across the pier toward the Raynor.
The two men carrying the coffeemaker were the last to make it to the Raynor. They hoisted the machine to men already on deck, pulled themselves aboard, and disappeared through a door.
Less than two minutes later, they had located the mess deck and had set the old coffeemaker on the floor in front of the Raynor’s shiny new machine.
“Kill the frigging lights,” one said, unrolling a cloth containing tools.
The other man scampered away and, when all the lights were off, returned and held the flashlight while the other man worked with the precision of a surgeon to separate the Raynor from her coffeemaker.
The final touch was switching the serial number plates pop-riveted to each coffeemaker. “That’ll really mess with their minds,” the head surgeon said with a smile.
When they removed the coffeemaker from its stand, the sound of sloshing liquid surprised the men. “Damn, it’s still got coffee in it.”
“What now?”
“Pour me a cup while I get the old one hooked up.”
When the transplant was complete, they examined their handiwork. As a final touch, they poured the coffee from the new machine into the old one.
“Let’s get out of here.”
They collected their tools and carried the new machine off, pausing only long enough to turn the lights back on and place the dirty coffee cup on the scullery table.
In the Raynor’s engine room, a black-clad figure hid behind a large locker next to the escape ladder. The Raynor’s twelve-hundred-pound steam plant was operated by pneumatic computers and controlled from a glass-encased control booth set high against the forward bulkhead. The cold iron watch had been set, and the only other man in the engine room was in the control booth reading a comic book.
The shadowy figure crawled around to the front of the locker and slowly opened the doors, careful not to make any noise. At the bottom of the locker was a large locked tool chest, and a tug at its handles indicated it had to weigh at least a hundred pounds. A hemp line, uncoiling as it fell, dropped from the escape hatch and snapped taut, leaving its bitter end dancing inches above the deck.
The toolbox was first to make the trip to the main deck.
§
Later that day in Norfolk, VA, O’Toole heard the ship’s bells chime twice; it was five p.m. He was exhausted. DESRON 23 was the best squadron he’d commanded, and the extra effort to stay ahead of them was wearing on him. Being a dragon is hard work. First, you have to be ferocious, malevolent, and cunning so you can terrorize the villagers. Once you establish yourself as a dangerous and evil dragon, you have to let the dragon slayer kill you. There’s no victory in slaying a friendly dragon.
He rubbed his tired eyes, stuffed the Operation Marathon file into the lower desk drawer, cleared his desk, and waited. Tonight he had another lesson to teach; a lesson that would allow him to leave his dragon suit behind. He looked forward to it and shook his head with a wry smile, knowing the men would never say “Terror O’Toole” quite the same way after tonight. It was important for the villagers to rally behind the dragon slayer. It was equally as important for all concerned to believe in the mortality of the dragon slayer and the dragon.
“Enter.” O’Toole bellowed at the knock on his door.
Commander Flannery, captain of the Wainwright, stepped into the small stateroom. “It’s seventeen hundred, Commodore. You said you wanted to see me.”
This was Flannery’s first command, and he’d only been in command for a few months. O’Toole thought highly of Flannery, who had done an extraordinary job under the circumstances. Learning to command a ship took time. The number of details and the fine nuances of dealing with the crew were endless. Flannery had the double burden of learning how to command while having to put up with what O’Toole knew to be a difficult curriculum.
So far, Flannery had done almost everything right, but O’Toole had noticed he was having difficulty keeping the hundreds of command details in perspective. The most important thing was he had forgotten that it was all right for a captain to be human. Tonight O’Toole would teach him how important it was for a captain to be mortal.
“Have a seat, Captain,” O’Toole said, waving Flannery to a chair.
Flannery wasn’t intimidated or frightened, but he looked wary, and O’Toole liked that. “Tell me, Captain,” O’Toole began, “are you ready for sea tomorrow? Are you staying on board tonight?”
Flannery obviously thought these were trick questions, since in O’Toole’s navy, there was only one answer. “Yes to both questions,” Flannery replied.
“Good.” O’Toole said, softening his voice. “Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about the uniform inspection yesterday.”
Flannery immediately stiffened in his chair. “Commodore, with all due respect, I thought the men looked great. I felt you were a bit hard on them.”
O’Toole had expected that response. “You don’t need to defend your men,” O’Toole said before dropping the bomb. “I didn’t s
ee a thing wrong with their uniforms.”
“You didn’t?” Flannery replied, dumbfounded.
Before Flannery could recover, O’Toole interjected, “Do you know your ship’s readiness rating is the eighth highest in the navy, and that this squadron is rated the second highest in the navy?”
Puzzled, Flannery responded, “Yes.”
“Have you told your men that?” O’Toole asked, but before Flannery could answer, O’Toole continued with a wave of his hand. “Anyway, back to the inspection. You probably think I was looking at the uniforms. If so, you missed something important; I was looking at their eyes.”
Flannery shifted in his chair and frowned as if he was trying to recall any regulation about eyes that he might have missed. O’Toole saved Flannery from the embarrassing silence. “Their eyes told me they were afraid I would gig them for some uniform discrepancy. There was fear in their eyes.”
Immediately Flannery replied, “Commodore, again with all due respect, I think that’s only natural. Do you know what they call you?”
O’Toole smiled. “That’s the point. They call me ‘Terror O’Toole’ on the Vreeland, too. When I inspected them, every man glanced at his captain first, stuck his chin out, and dared me to find something wrong. Their eyes were saying, ‘Take your best shot, you SOB.’ I could see it in their eyes. In the end, I grumbled and spit a little fire, but I gave them an adequate rating.”
“I’m sorry, Commodore, I still don’t know what you’re getting at,” Flannery said.
“I know,” O’Toole began. “Tell you what. Let’s go over to the officers’ club and have a few drinks and talk this over.”
“Commodore, I appreciate the offer, but we’re getting under way tomorrow morning, and there’s a thousand details, and—”
“And, believe it or not,” O’Toole interrupted as he stood and headed for the door, “your ship will get along quite well without you for a few hours. Tell your executive officer you’re going ashore.”
Flannery chased O’Toole, who was already out the door, babbling something about his private stock of good Irish sipping whiskey.
§
After O’Toole and Flannery left the ship, the evening passed quietly until just before ten. Brightly illuminated in a blue-white light from the floodlights, the pier was almost deserted and, like the ship, was silent except for the constant hum of machinery. It was almost Taps.
With little to do, the quarterdeck watch, an officer, a bosun, and a messenger, casually chatted under the white canvas awning strung from the aft gun mount. The conversation was interrupted by singing on the pier. “Too-ra-loo-ra loo-ra, Too-ra-loo-ra-li.”
“What the hell,” exclaimed the quarterdeck officer as he turned to look down the pier. O’Toole and Flannery were staggering, arm in arm, down the pier.
The singing continued, “Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra, Hush now don’t you cry…”
The bosun’s mate of the watch screwed his white hat down tight on his head and chuckled. “Do you know who the loud out-of-key one is?”
Trying to control his laughter, the quarterdeck officer asked, “How can you tell the difference?”
Seeing that they now had an audience, the two officers turned up the gusto on their evening serenade. “Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra, That’s an Irish lul-la-byyyyyy.”
Carried by their forward momentum, the duo missed the end of the gangway and tried to execute a U-turn to come back to the foot of the brow. O’Toole turned left; Flannery turned right. With their arms locked, they both fell to the pavement, landing squarely on their stern sheets.
“Didn’t I say right rudder?” the giggling O’Toole asked.
Regaining his feet, Flannery replied, “No, I distankly hear you think lef rubber.”
With both men leaning on the brow railing, O’Toole looked at Flannery and said, “Right! Thafs what I thought I thought.”
The bosun mate of the watch looked at his wristwatch and said to the quarterdeck officer, “Sir, it’s ten.”
Still enjoying the show, the quarterdeck officer replied, “Go ahead, I’ll take care of this.”
Flannery bowed and waved to O’Toole. “Senior ossifers first, Commode-adore.”
O’Toole returned the bow and started across the gangway. When O’Toole’s foot hit the deck of the Wainwright, his legs gave way, and he fell to the deck.
“Whoops!” Flannery was giggling.
The bosun mate keyed the microphone on the ship’s public address system. The ship’s speakers carried his solemn, controlled voice through the night air, “Taps, Taps. Lights out. Maintain silence about the decks. The smoking lamp is out in all berthing spaces. Now, Taps.”
O’Toole raised his head and in a childish voice exclaimed, “Nighty night.” He closed his eyes, and in less than a breath, his head was back down on the deck.
“Commodore, you can’t go to sleep here,” the quarterdeck officer pleaded.
O’Toole began to snore. Giving up on O’Toole, the quarterdeck officer looked up to find Flannery standing almost nose to nose with him.
“Guess whaf?” Flannery asked.
Flannery’s breath made the quarterdeck officer recoil. The young officer smiled at his captain and said, “A… the Commodore tried to drink you under the table, but it looks like you won, Captain. Now, I think it’s time you turn in.”
“Right.” Flannery exclaimed, then in a bewildered voice asked, “Where to turn in I?”
“Your quarters are up forward, Captain,” the young officer replied.
Flannery executed a left face and started wobbling toward the stern. “Do you need some help?” prompted the young officer.
Flannery continued his aftward wobble. “Negative. Anyone who can out tip the Terror can turn hisself in.”
“Excuse me, Captain,” the young officer said while exchanging glances with the bosun, “but you’re headed toward the blunty end of the ship. Forward, where your quarters are, is toward the pointy end.”
Spinning on unsure feet, Flannery bellowed, “Who shipped my turn around?”
Flannery’s spin had left him with a precarious list, and the bosun caught Flannery just before he would have capsized. Leading Flannery forward, the bosun said, “Don’t worry, Skipper, we’ll put it back the way it was by morning. Come on, I’ll show you where we put your cabin.”
When Flannery and the bosun were out of sight, the quarterdeck officer looked down at the snoring O’Toole. To the messenger he said, “I’ll be damned. The skipper’s a closet hell-raising SOB. Wonder if he did this to get even with the commodore for the uniform inspection. Wait until the crew hears about this.”
O’Toole gurgled something, and the quarterdeck officer asked the messenger, “What was that?”
“Don’t know. Sounded like he said something about…villagers?”
§
The next morning on the bridge of the Farnley, Biron was almost through his underway checklist. They would be under way for Naples in a few more minutes.
“Bridge, main control. This is Ross. Engineering’s ready for sea,” the bridge intercom blared.
Biron looked at his watch. It was five till six, and Ross was right on schedule.
Biron looked at the black clouds rolling in from the west. The forecast had been right; a big storm was brewing. He just hoped they would make it to the open sea before it hit.
The morning was a bit warmer than it had been the day before. The wind held the Farnley off the pier as she rocked in the choppy waters of the bay. Mirroring the day, Captain Javert, drawn and gray, sat sullen in his captain’s chair.
The crew had been pulling together over the past several weeks, but this morning, something had happened. Maybe it had been the brawl. Despite a large black and purple bruise on his left eye, a smiling Portalatin anchored the other team members at their stations, and they stood equally battered but alert, proud, and erect.
The static hiss of the radios charged the air with electricity. The men were speaking in low, urgent, sharp to
nes, and every piece of equipment contributed its own electrified whir to the oneness of the sounds.
Biron let the excitement flow through him. He loved it. It was the way things were meant to be.
Biron stepped from the crowded bridge house to the bridge wing and joined Meyers, who, looking puzzled, was staring at the Raynor.
“What’cha looking at, XO?” Biron asked.
“The Raynor. She’s a brand-new ship and probably has two of everything she needs, but look at her. Just on this side, she has two fire hoses missing, and the one aft fire hose is missing a nozzle. I didn’t notice that yesterday. It just doesn’t figure.”
“Maybe they took them inside to clean them or something,” Biron guessed.
“Come on,” Meyers said with disgust. “They aren’t old enough to be dirty. She’s only been out of the yards for thirty days.”
Biron returned to his mental checklist and, turning to one of the phone talkers, said, “Tell the signal bridge to hoist the call letters.”
Biron and Meyers watched as two sets of four brand-new flags snapped to the top of Farnley’s port and starboard yardarms.
“Oh God.” Meyers said. To Biron’s surprise, Meyers ran up the ladder to the signal bridge and returned within seconds, yelling, “Execute an emergency departure drill. Get us the hell out of here. Now.”
“Single up all lines. Rig in the brow,” Biron yelled, a bit confused.
Immediately, the phone talker replied, “Brow is in. All lines are singled up, Sir.”
The report confused Biron. They couldn’t have completed those actions that quickly, but looking over the side, he could clearly see that the report was correct.
Biron, turning to Meyers, asked, “What’s going on?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Know what?” Biron persisted.
“We got new signal flags. None came through supply. I asked a signalman where he got them, and he said, ‘You don’t want to know.’”
Biron looked at Meyers, then at the Raynor. “Bring in all lines.” Biron shouted. To Meyers he said, “The wind will blow us away from the pier; I won’t have to twist out.”
The Marathon Watch Page 21