by Paul Lally
And while thinking about this impossible scenario, he dreamed up his first invention: a vapor compression distiller that extracts potable water from mud, sludge, swamps, sewage—you name it.
Not exactly water into wine, but damn near as miraculous.
Eighteen years old, Jack was back then. The next day, he stopped long enough to eat lunch at the Jackrabbit Diner in Winslow, Arizona, where, inspired by two orders of bacon and eggs and four cups of coffee, he sketched out the particulars needed for a U.S. patent application for the distiller.
Then—bacon grease spots and all—he hightailed over to the post office and mailed it inside a registered letter to the Patent Office in Washington, D.C.—the historic first of many such ingenious patents that Jack would file in years to come. And by doing so, his teeming, non-stop mind would become a source of revenue that Bill Gates would be jealous of.
But that’s today, not back then, when he finally arrives in San Diego, dusty, tired, and ready for a change. He decides to keep on going—but not on a motorcycle.
So....he sells it, then meets with a friendly recruiter, signs on the dotted line, raises his right hand and solemnly swears “...to support and defend the Constitution against all enemies foreign and domestic....” and by doing so, enlists in the United States Navy.
Two years later, with top student awards from the navy’s advanced electronic technician school in his pocket, and deployed on the Savo Island, Jack finds himself smiling as he yanks a defective circuit board from a Fire Controlman’s console and thinks about how his dad served on the very ship his ship is now protecting.
Damn.
Back to work.
The circuit board, when working properly, is a bewildering number of transistors, resistors, solder joints, and reset buttons but—at the moment—it’s causing a blank screen. Not for long. Jack Riley understands electronics like Mozart understood music.
Jack says to the fire controlman. “Relax, the doctor is in,”
“Hurry up, Riley, company’s coming.”
“Keep your panties on.”
As Jack begins the delicate circuit board swap-out, the radar specialist sitting beside him calls out, “Track 2209, range fifty miles and closing, inbound, four miles off starboard beam.”
The TAC (Tactical Action Officer) seated at the CIC director’s console snaps, “Lock it up.”
Then he glances over his shoulder at the Savo Island’s skipper, Captain James Jeremiah (JJ) Lewis. Long gone in the past are his Vietnam days when he served as a butter-bar ensign on the Rock. Now he’s a four-striper, commanding a guided missile cruiser in a brand-new war.
The intervening years since those days sneaking a forbidden smoke with Tommy Riley have been good for JJ as far as gaining rank is concerned. But hard on his weathered face facing too many harsh seas. His cold blue eyes seem coated in rime ice as they narrow in concentration.
“Got a type yet?” he says.
“Target lock verifies missile.”
“Son-of-a-bitch. The Seersucker that got away.”
JJ’s always in CIC during battle stations and never misses a trick. It’s not only the heart of a missile cruiser during battle stations, but also the soul of warriors who chooses to do battle on the open sea.
Throughout his steady upward climb through the ranks from ensign to captain he’s always had one objective in mind—not unlike young Jack—to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States from any and all aggressors.
You’ll never catch JJ saying this in public, but there’s a fire in his belly that’s been there ever since he raised his right hand at the Naval Academy and took the oath. With the passing years it’s only grown brighter.
The TAC says, “Sea Whiz to auto-fire.”
“Roger, auto-fire.”
Two decks above, the Phalanx CIWS (Close-in-Weapons-System), nicknamed “R2D2” because of its high-domed shape, “wakes up.” Its 20mm gatling gun hunts briefly, then finds the inbound target and trembles slightly, as if unable to wait to blast it out of the sky, should it get within range. But it’s still too far off.
“Multiple tracks converging.”
“Damn. How many?” JJ says.
“Tracking two missiles, sir, same bearing, range closing.”
High above on the Savo Island’s main mast the SPS-49(V)5 long range antenna dish spins like a dervish twice a second, while its AEGIS radar pulse-paints “multiple approaching targets.”
Below in CIC, Jack slides in the replacement circuit board. But no matter how hard he jiggles and jogs, the retaining clips won’t hold like designed.
“System’s up and running, thanks, Riley” the rating says.
“Not so fast. It won’t stay put if I let go.”
“Then don’t. Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. I got a signal, so don’t fuck with it, okay?”
Jack kneels there like the “Little Dutch Boy” with his finger stuck in the dike to stem the flood. But in this case, he’s keeping the AEGIS targeting subsystem alive as it feeds real time range and bearing into the Mark 41 rail launchers armed with RIM-7 Sea Sparrows and ready to launch on command.
Captain Lewis stands there, arms folded, patiently allowing his TAC to do his job of stopping the missile attack.
Meanwhile, his radar operators chime in on the various threat actions the other ships in the strike group are taking; a frigates fires a cluster of Mk36 SRBOC chaff rockets, The chaff clouds are trying to lure the Seersuckers’ single-minded brains to aim for the aluminum shards of chaff that mimic the mass of a larger target. Another ship pops anti-missile flares. If the enemy missiles are using infrared sensors, they may swerve away and head for the white-hot magnesium cores of the burning flares instead.
But nothing doing.
Both Seersuckers maintain their collision course with the USS New Hampshire, appearing as a tiny green pulsing dot on the radar screen, but in reality, a 68,000-ton warship packed with over two thousand men.
Captain Lewis spots Jack kneeling against the console, one leg stretched out straight to brace himself while kneeling on the other as he continues jamming the circuit board in place to keep the unit operational.
He looks like he’s sliding into second base. A trickle of blood oozes down his right arm. The teeth of the defective locking device have taken a bite out of his hand.
A good skipper misses nothing in his war room. JJ is a damn good skipper. “You all right over there, sailor?”
“Affirmative, sir. Emergency field repair.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Not much, sir.”
JJ clamps his hand on the TAC’s shoulder. “Let’s get this shit show on the road, lieutenant. We got us a kid bleeding in the CIC and bad guys trying to clobber the most beautiful Goddamned battleship in the navy. Can we—"
Before he can finish his love-song for his former ship, the TAC turns from his display screen and raises both hands as if it’s a stickup. “Target lock. Request weapons release, SIR!”
JJ’s cold blue eyes get even colder. “Fire at will.”
On the command video display screen what happens next is without sound and in black-and-white. But on the foredeck it’s high noon in the middle of the night as Sea Sparrow #1’s dual-thrust engine lights off with an explosive WHOOSH and leaps into the air.
Nanoseconds later, #2 follows suit.
The instant both are airborne, the launcher’s twin-rails tip vertically, deck magazine hatches open, and two more Sea Sparrows slide up like arrows from a quiver and lock into place.
Meanwhile, the already-airborne anti-missiles quickly reach Mach 2 as they drop to wavetop height in search of the approaching Seersuckers. They jink and juke as each receives real-time target updating and tracking data from the Savo Island’s multi-function phased-array radar and keep on keeping on.
From CIC target acquisition to this moment in time, maybe three whole minutes have elapsed. That’s 180 seconds. There’s no after-action-report record to be found that co
nfirms this fact.
But Jack’s right knee does.
A troublesome feature because he hurt it playing a punishing game of flag football with half-drunk teenagers in high school, it’s giving him hell. As for the blood from his cut hand, his denim work shirt’s mopping it up just fine, thank you, as he keeps on jamming that damned circuit board’s fifty-pin male connector into the female connector, minus the locking clip.
But he must.
Without tracking data, those Sea Sparrows will dive into the sea like pelicans in search of a meal.
Thanks to Jack, however, Sparrow #1 accomplishes its mission in a blossoming explosion as its warhead punches the first Seersucker straight in the nose.
As for the second Seersucker, a half-mile to starboard, one mile aft and still coming on strong, the blast debris from the first explosion deflects it to port. But only long enough for the Sparrow #2’s 90-pound warhead to rip into its flank instead of its nose.
The fire controlman pounds his console and shouts, “Two hits confirmed, SIR! Targets destroyed.”
The CIC erupts in applause as the tracking display screen echoes the successful intercept.
In the midst of the jubilant conversational buzz, Jack unbends his knee, winces in pain, and straightens up. “Can I take you offline for a second?”
“Hell, yes.”
Out comes the problematic circuit board. Jack wraps his wounded hand with a handkerchief, pulls out a small penlight and peers inside to see what the hell’s the matter. He’s too absorbed to notice someone approaching and standing beside him.
“Any luck with that thing yet?” Captain Lewis says.
Jack’s back to JJ and totally absorbed in the task at hand, he doesn’t know it’s the skipper. “Piece of shit after-market circuit boards. You’d think procurement and supply would know better than to accept these damn things. Almost cost us the bad guys.”
A brief pause.
JJ says quietly, “Almost cost us the Rock, too. How’s your hand doing?”
“None of your damned business.”
It’s only then Jack recognizes the captain’s voice and spins around to face him. “Sorry, sir, didn’t know it was—"
“—I say again, hand status?”
“Uh...fine, sir.”
“And your knee?”
Jack rubs it. “Never better.”
“Good to hear. When you’re done here, limp yourself below to sick bay and see if you need stiches. While you’re at it, get an X-ray on that knee of yours.”
“Sir, I don’t—"
“When I pin that Navy Commendation medal on your skinny-ass chest, I don’t want to bend over a wheelchair to reach you. I’ve got a bad back.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“Without that radar unit online we never would have stopped those damned missiles.”
“With all due respect, sir, our systems are fully redundant.”
“Roger that, but it takes on average a minimum of fifteen seconds for target re-acquisition. Correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And by the time that happened, the Rock would have taken two missiles down her throat.”
“She’s a tough ship.”
“For sure, but her men are flesh and blood.”
Jack chooses silence rather than refute the skipper’s irrefutable logic.
Captain Lewis turns to leave, then turns back. “Be sure to tell your dad what happened, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell him how you saved the Rock to fight another day.”
“Sir, I—”
“That’s a direct order.”
USS New Hampshire (BB-70)
Philadelphia Naval Shipyard
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
April 14, 2010
S hips don’t rust as fast in fresh water as they do in salt water. Barnacles don’t hang on for as long either.
Which is why for the past nineteen years “The Rock” (USS New Hampshire BB-70) and “Ghost Rider” (USS Montana BB-67) have been rubbing hulls in the Navy’s Inactive Ship Facility located where the Delaware River meets the Schuylkill River, just south of the ”City of Brotherly Love.”
The two aging, WW2-era battleships are in good company, along with a dwindling fleet of gray-painted, rusting relics from a different time and place in history.
Two Forrestal-class aircraft carriers, three cruisers, and a twin row of destroyers join them in the silence of a job well done, with no place to go but the shipbreakers or—if they’re insanely lucky—into the hands of a museum ship organization with enough money, political clout, and willing volunteers to save them from the arc-welder’s fiery torch.
Over the years, there’ve been a few successful battleship museum ships. The USS Missouri is happily anchored at Pearl Harbor near the final resting place of the USS Arizona, the pre-war battleship that took over a thousand sailors down with her to a watery grave on December 7, 1941.
Out in sunny, warm Long Beach, California, the museum battleship USS Iowa attracts eager flocks of visitors, while 2700 miles back east, the USS New Jersey does the same thing, including overnight trips for Boy Scouts who want to experience what it’s like to live in a city made of steel—not to mention eating popcorn, staying up late, and tying sailor knots.
The two battleships rusting away here at the shipyard are the last of the Montana-class super-battleships. The remaining ships of their class, the Maine, Louisiana, and Ohio, went to the breakers in the late 80s and early 90s.
Only memories now, their high-grade steel, copper, brass, and everything salvageable in between, have been made into something that’s got nothing whatsoever to do with winning wars and making the world safe for democracy.
Three months ago, a shipbreaking company down in Brownsville, Texas put in a bid to rip apart both the Montana and New Hampshire from stem to stern and run their innards through the shredders. Turns out, they’re only getting their white-hot acetylene torches on one of them.
That’s because on this crisp fall October day in 2010, the USS Montana remains deserted, rusting away, lifeless, alone, awaiting her ultimate, inescapable fate.
By contrast, a small group of people stand on the forecastle of the Museum Ship USS New Hampshire and gaze down upon a bobbing cluster of tugboats churning and chuffing like mother hens as they fasten tow lines to her bow and stern.
That’s because the Rock’s not heading to Texas to face the torches and shredders like her sister. Instead, she’s heading northeast to the welcoming waters of the Piscataqua River and her final anchorage in Portsmouth, New Hampshire.
It wasn’t easy convincing BuShips (Bureau of Ships) that members of the USS New Hampshire Battleship Memorial Association could provide a safe anchorage for a vessel in such a way that warranted denying the United States Treasury millions of dollars gained from “marine recycling.”
But thanks to this small group of men and women on the ship’s deck, and scores of volunteers and financial donors back home in New England, the battleship will drop anchor in a safe harbor instead of losing her gallant, multi-war history to the blueish white “POP” of cutting torches, and along with it, her loyal heart.
One of the distinguished members of the group is Vice Admiral James Jeremiah (JJ) Lewis, USN. The 2-inch wide gold “lacing” stripes on his uniform sleeve denotes his three-star rank is in stark contrast to the civilian garb of the others But his beaming smile matches theirs, tooth for tooth.
His former shipmate, Tommy Riley, stands beside him, binoculars to his eyes, observing the towing lines forward.
“Be great if the Rock could do this on her own—heading out, I mean.”
“Still can’t believe it,” JJ says. “Last week BuShips said, ‘Forget it, you guys.’ And today...”
Tommy lowers his binoculars. “Never underestimate the power of a closing argument, admiral.”
“Wish I could have been there, counselor.”
“Hey, you’re a busy guy who’s still on a
ctive duty—how many districts you oversee now?”
“Too many.”
“Poor baby. Must be hard saluting with all that gold on your sleeves. Weigh you down much?”
“I work out—something that wouldn’t hurt you any.”
Tommy pats his ample belly. The years have been good to him both professionally and culinarily. His law practice in Concord just opened a satellite office up north in Littleton. By this time next year, he’ll have a legal team doing the same down south in Nashua. The bulk of his firm’s work is elder law, with the tedious twists and tiring turns that come with wealthy estate management. But his secret passion is trial law, pro-bono-style, whenever he gets the chance.
As long as citizens try to be civilized, there’ll be bad guys doing their best to reverse that process. A fact of life. But everyone—including the guilty—remain innocent until proven otherwise. Tommy’s always loved the other side of humanity’s coin, the underbelly, the dark side, those that fall afoul of the law and don’t have money to defend themselves.
While it’s true, he’s lost more pro-bono cases than he’s ever won—juries and judges tend to be set in their ways—the few he’s managed to win made his heart sing. To see the look on his client’s face when a jury reads the “not guilty” verdict, to see the relief, the astonishment, the joy....
Make no mistake, Tommy’s not religious. Far from it. He’s spent too much time on this earth to believe in pearly gates above. But there’s something to be said for how Jesus must have felt when he proclaimed, “Lazarus is not dead, but sleepeth. I say unto thee, arise.” And damned if the young man didn’t come back from the dead. And how his mother must have screamed for joy when her “dead” boy stepped forth from the tomb, alive and well.
That’s how Tommy feels when he hears the “not guilty” verdict.
As for Admiral Lewis, he followed a different path.
After serving on the flag admiral’s staff until the end of his Vietnam tour of duty, he took the plunge and underwent tortuous training and superhuman effort to qualify as a Navy SEAL.
The joy of his life came when they pinned the coveted gold combat badge on his uniform and he proudly traced his fingers over the Special Warfare Insignia with its intertwined eagle, anchor, trident and pistol–a memory he will treasure forever.
