The Marathon Watch

by Laswell, Lawrence K

  “I can’t. We don’t have any paint to cover the blood,” Meyers yelled angrily, then he realized Eickhoff didn’t seem surprised at his statement. Meyers looked deep into Eickhoff’s eyes and tried to figure out what he was hiding. To himself he said, You know we don’t have any paint, don’t you? You bastard. You’re trying to cover something up. You come in here, tear my crew apart, cut the commodore completely out of the loop, and now you try to buy my silence by giving me a command.

  “What? No promotion to commander to sweeten the deal?” Meyers said sarcastically.

  “Don’t push it, Mister Meyers. Be happy with what you got.”

  “I don’t want it. You keep it,” Meyers said.

  Eickhoff got up and put his papers into his briefcase. Remembering something, he reached into the folder, retrieved two pieces of paper stapled together, and laid them face down on the table.

  “You don’t have any choice in the matter, Captain.” The unctuous tone was back in Eickhoff’s voice.

  “I know this morning went by a bit quick for you and you need time to sort things out, so I’m going to leave you alone to do just that; but let me tell you in no uncertain terms, there’s more at stake here than just what meets the eye. In my position, you would have done the same thing. Your official orders giving you command of the Farnley and some additional final orders I have for you are in the papers I left on the table. Good-bye, Captain.” Eickhoff turned and left.

  Meyers was still trying to absorb what had happened in the last thirty minutes. The navy had gone berserk. Stoner saw it and didn’t want any part of it. The admiral is hiding something. I know it. Stoner knows it and didn’t like it. What’s the bastard up to?

  §

  Just as Eickhoff was wrapping things up on the Farnley, Seaman Apprentice Michael Milford Morrison jumped from the shore patrol pickup truck and screwed his white hat down tight over his short blond hair. Through the high chain-link gate, he could see the pier and two beautiful ships. He wondered which would be his.

  Morrison easily snatched the ninety-pound sea bag from the truck bed and hoisted it to his muscular shoulder. He checked with the guard at the gate and asked which ship was the Farnley. He got a curious answer, “The old rusty one.”

  Morrison walked easily down the pier despite the heavy load perched on his shoulder. He didn’t care about old, and he didn’t care about rusty. He was just two weeks out of boot camp, and his life’s dream was about to come true. He was going to put to sea on a man-of-war, a ship with guns, not one of those ugly, defenseless, slow-moving supply ships.

  Morrison felt like a man and was proud that he’d put his bodybuilding surfer boy childhood behind him. He wished his high school buddies back at Santa Cruz could see him now. Surfing at Big Sur was exciting, but Morrison knew it would be nothing compared to what lay ahead. He was on his own now. Everything he owned was on his shoulder, and he was going to sea. The greatest adventure of his lifetime was about to begin.

  He’d practiced the age-old ritual of boarding a ship—salute the Ensign then the Quarterdeck Officer, and request permission to come aboard—a hundred times in his head. He was still afraid he was going to screw it up and look like some kid just out of the sticks. He ran through it one more time, trying to visualize how he was going to add just the right amount of casual salty swagger to his motion and words.

  He’d just stepped onto the brow when out of nowhere an admiral appeared and headed right for him. He was blocking the path of an admiral, and on the narrow brow, he couldn’t escape. His right hand held his sea bag, so he couldn’t salute. Panicked, Morrison dropped his sea bag and tried to step backward. He fell backward over his sea bag, sending his blue bell-bottomed trousers skyward. Lying on his back, he saluted and stammered, “Good morning, Admiral.”

  The unamused admiral returned the salute and replied, “Welcome to the fleet, sailor.”

  §

  Meyers had said a quiet and somber farewell to Lee, then cloistered himself in his stateroom until midafternoon. Of all the things that had gone wrong, Meyers felt the worst about Lee and Ross. He felt responsible for letting them get into trouble. He felt he’d let them down by getting into a position where he couldn’t protect them. The whole thing was his fault.

  He spent most of the time lying on his couch, staring at the same spot on the ceiling. Inside, he felt like a broken jumble of parts, and he didn’t have the strength to be angry at anything or anybody. A distant voice kept coming back deep inside his head, telling him that the bastard Eickhoff had killed Javert. It wasn’t any use. He would never figure it out, just as he would never figure out why Eickhoff had shafted Lee and Ross.

  Meyers found himself saying over and over that he didn’t want command of the Farnley under these circumstances. Being given his first command, he knew that this should be the happiest day of his career, but instead, a lonely, hollow ache gnawed at him.

  Meyers finally realized he was wallowing in self-pity, and the anger returned. He told himself that what happened wasn’t important anymore. The past is past. You’ll go on. The Farnley will go on. Like it or not, you’re a captain and have three hundred and fifty men depending on you. You’re not important anymore; it’s all about them. It’s time to take care of your men and your job.

  Slowly, the realization came to him. Eickhoff’s actions were directed not just at two men. Either on purpose or accidentally, Eickhoff had assaulted the Farnley and the crew. The orders he left behind were the last nail in the coffin, and he wasn’t going to take it lying down. He knew a way to fight Eickhoff and screw up his plan, no matter what it was.

  Meyers walked through the wardroom and headed for the engine room. As he climbed down the ladder, he could hear the metallic tink of his feet on the rungs. The silence was sepulchral. There were no sounds in the engine room except for the echoes of his footsteps on the ladder. When he reached the bottom, he saw that Ross was seated on a shiny white enameled bench. On the deck plates in a semicircle around Ross, Stucky and several other men sat in the same general pose, shoulders rounded, head hung down, and their hands hanging limply in their laps.

  None of them had turned to look at Meyers but sat unmoving as if listening to some silent dirge. Meyers started to walk over to them but felt unwanted, as though he were intruding into their private grief. Instead, he turned from the bereft group and walked to the railing to give himself time to think of something to say.

  Meyers looked over the maze of pipes, turbines, and equipment for several minutes before he realized what he was looking at. Every pipe was the same color and had the same clean white sheen as Ross’ bench. The overhead was the same as the pipes, as were the turbines and every other piece of equipment.

  He looked down at the lower level and could see the clean, polished steel deck plates along the catwalks. A glance back across the main level deck toward Ross revealed the shining circular swirl marks left by a floor buffer on steel plate and confirmed what he had expected. Meyers turned and looked down into the lower level. The bilges were clean and dry, and despite the shadows, the white enamel sparkled. Meyers slowly turned a complete circle. Everywhere he looked, he saw white except for the valve wheels painted in green, blue, and red. The bulkheads; everything was white and immaculate.

  Meyers had seen many engine rooms before, but none that came close to this. He knew Lee had done a good job, but this was exceptional even under the best circumstances.

  Meyers took slow, careful, lingering steps toward Ross and his group. When he reached the outer edge of the circle, he stopped so he wouldn’t enter it. He waited for someone to speak. No one did.

  Softly, Meyers asked, “Do you know what happened?”

  Ross turned his head slightly and glanced up at Meyers. “Yeah. I could smell it coming. I told him, I warned him this would happen, but he just wouldn’t listen. I told him it wouldn’t be worth the effort and that all he’d do is get himself and the men hurt.”

  Ross paused, then continued, “The least t
he admiral could have done was let us say good-bye to him. I warned him. I pleaded with him, but he wouldn’t listen, then I got swept into it. It’s my fault.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Chief. Lee was his own man, and he did what he felt he had to do. Lee had high standards, and he couldn’t have lived with himself if he’d done any less,” Meyers said.

  Ross pulled the orange shop rag from his pocket and held it in his hands, inspecting it. “What next?”

  “Under way tomorrow,” Meyers replied.

  “When we gonna get a new skipper?”

  “I’m it, Chief,” Meyers said. The question in Ross’ eyes made him continue. “I’m not a temporary. It’s my ship, just like any other command. There’s no spot promotion with the job. That’s it.

  “I wish I could say congratulations,” Ross began ruefully, “but I just don’t have it in me right now. I know you busted your butt for this ship, and you’ll be a good skipper.”

  “Thanks, Chief. I understand,” Meyers said softly, then fell silent. After a moment, he had summoned the strength needed and took a deep breath. “There is something else you don’t know about.”

  “Oh, you mean there’s more?” Ross said sarcastically.

  “Before the admiral left, he gave me written orders to remove all the parts in the engine room not approved by the navy.”

  Ross snapped to his feet and threw the shop rag down on the deck. “That’ll take weeks.” he shouted.

  “I know,” Meyers said.

  “And when we’re done, this ship won’t be able to go anywhere because I don’t have any other parts to replace them with.”

  “I know,” Meyers’ voice was soft.

  “And you want me to do that?” Ross asked in angry disbelief.

  He looked Ross square in the eye and said in a low, constant-level voice, “I just told you what the admiral ordered me, not you, to do. The engine room is your responsibility. You do what you have to do. I’ll do what I have to do.” Before Ross could respond, Meyers turned and walked away.

  Ross watched Meyers disappear up the ladder. Stucky picked up the shop rag and held it up like an offering to Ross. Ignoring him, Ross walked over to the railing and looked at his engine room. He couldn’t believe it. Why had Meyers looked at him that way? He wasn’t going to disassemble this engine room, and he wasn’t going to let Lee down. What was it Biron had said? Harpies of the shore shall pluck the Eagle from the sea.

  Stucky stood, rag in hand, and started to walk over to Ross but stopped. Ross’ face was red, and he was taking deeper and deeper breaths. With an explosive scream, Ross threw his screwdriver across the engine room. “Not on my ship.”

  Ross’ scream echoed through the engine room as the screwdriver flew across the compartment, striking the aft bulkhead with a sharp bang. No one moved as they listened to the metallic clicks and rattles of the screwdriver fall into the bilge, then roll back and forth across its notched handle and slowly come to a rest. Silence returned.

  OF DRAGONS

  November 1971, Bethesda Naval Hospital

  Operation Marathon: Day 513

  Durham had waited for this day. Nurse Scalzo had finally let him out of solitary confinement and transferred him from ICU to a real room. It was a large private one on the upper floor of Bethesda Naval Hospital.

  Durham wasn’t disillusioned. He knew he was still in enemy hands and took in every detail of the room as they wheeled him in, especially the telephone beside the bed.

  As they wheeled him past the dresser, he finally got to see himself in the mirror. He didn’t think he looked too bad, but he felt the large bandage around his head made him look a little ridiculous.

  The orderlies lifted him to his bed and attached his right leg to the wire and pulley apparatus. Nurse Tufly (her shiny black and white name badge said Lt. Tufly, RN), two-blocked the IV bottles on the pole and played with the tubes as the orderlies worked.

  Nurse Tufly had to be a change for the better; she was young, beautiful, and smelled better than Scalzo. When the orderlies left, she started fussing with the sheets and began her standard prisoner indoctrination.

  “Like I said, I’m Lieutenant Tufly, and I’ll be in charge of your care while you’re here. If we need anything, just push this button.” She pointed to the call button pinned to his pillow, then continued, “We still aren’t allowed visitors or phone calls, doctor’s orders, but if we behave, the doctor will remove the IVs tomorrow and put us on a solid diet. We missed lunch, but we can give you some Jell-O for dinner. What flavor do we want, cherry or lime?”

  Durham, Ronald R., Admiral USN, 432-34-5967, Durham thought, but out loud he said, “Cherry.” He hated lime.

  “Fine, do we need anything else?”

  The Farnley had been on Durham’s mind, and he had to get a message through to O’Toole. He’d planned this moment and knew his first objective was to test the enemy’s defenses. “Yes, there is, Lieutenant. I must see someone.”

  “No, we must not. Doctor’s orders.”

  In all his years of service, Durham never once made an issue of his rank, but he was desperate. “Excuse me, Lieutenant, but do you know who I am?”

  “Yes,” Nurse Tufly replied petulantly, leaving the so what? implied but clearly understood.

  “I have to see someone, and I’m ordering you to deliver a message for me.”

  “Now hear this. Misses Scalzo briefed me on you.” Nurse Tufly put her hands on her hips and rustled her starched white uniform at him. “You may be top swabbie outside, but in here, you’re patient third class. Follow orders or I’ll bust you all the way down to bedpan.”

  “Yes, mum,” Durham replied meekly.

  “Good. Now, I have to go to the desk and call downstairs and have your phone disconnected so we won’t get in trouble with the doctor.”

  Without another word, she made some notes on his medical chart, holstered her pen, slung her stethoscope over her neck, snapped the metal chart holder shut, and, cradling the clipboard in the crook of her arm, marched out the door. God help me. She’s captain of the third armored nurse’s precision clipboard drill team.

  Durham listened as the sounds of the rustling uniform and the squeaky sneakers subsided down the hall. When he was confident the coast was clear, he started inching his way over to the phone. He knew he had to act fast. Calling a staff aide or even the marines would be useless. Tufly and Scalzo would cut them down before they got to the front door. He picked up the phone and dialed quickly. When a voice answered at the other end, he said, “Commander Beetham?”

  §

  Captain John Flannery sipped his coffee and listened to the other seven ship’s captains gathered in the Wainwright’s wardroom. Most of the talk was speculation about what O’Toole was up to this time. Flannery didn’t have to speculate. He knew even his wildest nightmares couldn’t predict O’Toole’s next move. Flannery looked at his watch. It was one minute until nine. Less than three hours ago, O’Toole had ordered them into Charleston, then said they would be back under way by six that afternoon, and now this unexpected meeting.

  Highly unusual for anyone except O’Toole; all-in-all, it was shaping up to be a fairly typical day. Flannery reached for the coffeepot to refill his cup but withdrew his hand when O’Toole blew through the wardroom door.

  “Be seated. We have work to do,” O’Toole said before anyone had a chance to snap to attention. O’Toole tossed the armload of charts and navigation tools into the center of the table and headed for his chair.

  “Golden Lance,” O’Toole began, “you know the drill. We’re the Red Force, the bad guys. We’re supposed to be bent on blockading the Panama Canal. We have six destroyers, one oiler, two subs, and recon aircraft out of Pensacola. The good guys, Force Blue, are going to try to stop us. They have a sixteen-ship carrier battle group formed up around the Forrestal.

  “Red Forces never win one of these exercises. We’re the punching bag, and we’re supposed to get creamed. That’s not going to happen. To re
ach the Canal all we’ve got to do is take out the carrier battle group. I’m open for suggestions.”

  Flannery scratched his head. They were outnumbered three to one and outgunned at least twenty to one. All we’ve got to do is take them out. Simple. He’d been right on all accounts; it was shaping up to be a fairly typical day.

  Borger, the Foster’s skipper, spoke up. “Commodore, as soon as the Forrestal gets her aircraft up, it’s all over. It’s not a matter of whether they find us; it’s when; and when they do, it’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel.”

  “When?” asked O’Toole.

  “When what?” Borger replied.

  “When will she get her air cover up?” O’Toole asked in a sing-song voice that made Borger recoil.

  Flannery’s mind was reeling at O’Toole’s suggestion. He looked closely at O’Toole, trying to gain a hint as to what he was thinking. Nothing.

  Months ago, he had lost his fear of O’Toole. The only thing that frightened him anymore was the thought of earning O’Toole’s displeasure. Thankfully, that hadn’t happened for over a month.

  Now he would do anything to earn a single, solitary compliment from the man, but the best he’d been able to do was earn O’Toole’s indifferent silence. It was the same with the rest of the squadron ships because no matter how hard someone tried, no matter how well someone did, the best outcome was not getting chewed out. It was simple. O’Toole had set some high standards, which Flannery had initially felt unattainable. Live up to O’Toole’s standards and nothing happened; fall short and all hell broke loose. Flannery felt like a boy trying to earn the approval of a distant perfect father.

  “Well,” Flannery began, trying to buy time to think, “officially the exercise started an hour ago. Forrestal should be under way, and her flight wing will fly out from Pensacola after lunch. They gotta get their act together and refuel, probably tonight. They’ll start flight operations tomorrow morning.”

  “Where?” O’Toole asked.

  Borger’s response was immediate. “She’ll head west of Cuba and take up a defensive position north of the canal. It makes sense; carrier skippers hate green water, and there’s plenty of blue water north of the canal for her to operate. To get to the canal, we’d have to go right through her.”