by Paul Lally
The throaty sound of the Ducati motorcycle roaring into life makes them pause and look up.
“It’s a sweet bike,” Jack says.
Lawyer #1 says, “Especially when the CFO didn’t pay for it.”
Jack shrugs. “Andy’s done more to make my foundation fiscally secure than a thousand CFOs ever could. And besides, it’s my money, right?”
“Duly noted,” Lawyer #1 says. His smoothly shaved head disguises his male-pattern baldness. He taps his legal pad. “Now then, to the business at hand... we’re billing by the minute, remember....would you like our read-out on your proposed restoration plan?”
“Cut to the chase. “Yes or no?”
A brief pause.
The attorneys lean forward and exchange a silent look that speaks volumes of indecipherable legalize.
Then lawyer #2, with a full head of movie-star blonde hair reads from a piece of paper, “Should the owners of the donated museum ship default on this agreement, the Department of Navy reserves the right to revoke its status and recover it for immediate disposal.”
“They ever do something like that?” Jack says.
“Three times, so far. A light cruiser and two destroyers.”
“Small potatoes.”
Lawyer #1 says, “Agreed. But a battleship is an entire Thanksgiving Dinner for the shipbreakers, with plenty of leftovers.” He checks something on his notes. “Alang Shipyards can’t wait to run her aground and start carving her up. Shree Hariyana’s already started the bid process.”
“What about deep in the heart of Texas?”
“Brownsville’s licking its chops, preparing their bid, waving the flag, and calling it their ‘patriotic duty’. What a joke.”
“How can these scrapyards do it? The Rock’s still anchored here.”
“Word spreads fast. Especially when it’s leaked.”
A brief pause. “You mean Devillar?”
“Who else? From what we can gather, she’s already alerted BuShips to the new arrangement. Back channels of course, but they know the jig is up for the Rock. Our inside guy in D.C. told us she’s a floating orphan, and the Navy hates orphans.”
“Damn it and damn her.”
Jack looks out the dining room’s bow window at the sparkling waters of Little Harbor. A bright yellow, eighteen-foot Hinkley glides along in the distance, its jib and mainsail bowed out with the crisp winds that spring up on a fall day like today. The sight reminds him of the hours he spent with his father as a young boy enjoying the challenge of being on the water, far from shore, at one with the elements.
Both exhilarating and scary.
Feels that way now.
While he can’t see the battleship from where he sits, he can feel her stately presence, floating placidly at anchor, unaware of the popping of acetylene torches in India and Texas. He can’t bear facing his father and having to tell him the news. The man’s heard enough finalities for one day.
When you’re sailing and the wind changes, you change, otherwise, it’s over you go into the drink.
Which way to jib?
Which sail to furl?
Bob Martin had an idea.
How to make it a fact?
He stands and stretches. “How much bond do you think I’d need to convince BuShips I have actual intent?”
“They won’t listen. You’re not part of the battleship museum foundation. ”
“Not yet.”
Tommy Riley grips the binoculars and stares out the window of his small condo apartment overlooking the Piscataqua River. Most folks like to check out what’s happening on the streets of this picturesque harbor town. Instead, Tommy’s checking out the Rock, resting peacefully at anchor, unaware there’s not a soul on board because of Munroe Devillar’s lock on the entrance gate.
“We should have repainted her mainmast by now,” Tommy says. “We had the paint and the volunteers all lined up, for God’s sake.”
JJ Lewis says, “Spoken like a true skipper. You should have stayed in the navy and made a career like me.”
“You bring enough coffee?”
“Gallons. Donuts too.” He checks his watch. “Where the hell is everybody?”
“They’ll be here.”
“Why do you suppose Jack wants to meet with the board? Do you think—”
“—I never assume anything with that boy of mine. You shouldn’t either.”
Fifteen minutes later, all eight members of the board have gathered in Tommy’s tiny place. They’re the usual suspects: grey hair, wrinkled faces, potbellies, knobby knees, and red baseball caps with “BB-70” and “The Rock” embroidered on them. Sailors all, once young, brave, and daring who sailed the high seas in peace and war, now tied up at their final anchorage in a sleepy New Hampshire town.
In the past, Tommy chaired bi-monthly meetings in the Flag Admiral’s quarters onboard the ship. A proper location that pleased JJ no end.
Despite the fact that he never held the high honor of commanding an entire naval fleet, he gets goosebumps thinking that the legendary Admiral “Bull” Halsey once trod that very same green linoleum floor while in search of Japan’s 2nd Air Fleet, and Admiral “Oley” Oldendorf sucker-punched Japan’s Southern Fleet during the Battle of Surigao Strait.
So much history happened within those steel bulkheads. Famous photographs, flags, and honor abound. JJ loved it.
That was then, however. This is now; a retired vice admiral marooned in Tommy’s cramped townhouse, while Stanley finishes off his third Dunkin’ Donuts donut.
“These things are damn good,” he says. “When do we weigh anchor?”
“Soon as Jack gets here,” Tommy says.
He no sooner finishes saying this than the click of a key in a lock, the door swings open, and Jack Riley sweeps in, his face bright with promise.
Tommy knows that “look.”
JJ whispers, “Methinks yonder bear hath shat a gold brick.”
Tommy nudges him quiet.
“Hi, everybody, glad to see you, sorry I’m late and thanks so much for coming on such short notice.” He scoots over to the galley kitchen. “You got coffee? Awesome, let me at it. Donuts too? Damn....Even better!”
In between wolfing down a chocolate donut, Jack greets the familiar faces. Ranging in age from early fifties to Stanley Albertini’s astonishing 93 years, these men are the spirit of the Rock. Without them, she’s just a hunk of floating, rusting steel, not even a “she” anymore, but an “it.”
The men sit and stand, not quite able to find a comfortable spot in the condo’s tiny living room. They’re missing the Admiral’s port quarters, that’s for sure.
Tommy sends Jack “the look” which means “get on with it,” and so he does.
“First things first, gentlemen,” Jack says. “I lied.”
He pauses for effect.
“To the Navy’s Bureau of Ships.”
Frowns and puzzlement.
“But you have the power to turn that lie into the truth. Want to know how?”
Stanley says, “You get crazier every day, Jack.”
“Yes or no?”
Stanley grumbles. “Seeing’s how you ate the last of the donuts, I’ll hear you out.”
“As of one hour ago, BuShips has granted us a six-month extension to find a new home for the Rock.”
He pauses and lets that sink in. The board members exchange looks of surprise.
“Of course, if we don’t, they’ll absolutely and irrevocably turn her into a pile of scrap metal.”
Tommy says, “If it pleases Your Honor, explain ‘we’. You’re not on the museum board.”
“Good point. That said, when I wired my bond-assurance money in the amount of one-point six million dollars, BuShips said we had a deal. For six months.”
“I repeat, ’We?’”
“I told them that due to the dilemma of losing our anchorage, the board of directors had unanimously elected me to be the interim executive director until we find a new harbor to drop anchor.�
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Total silence.
Jack calmly polishes off the rest of his donut and the last of his coffee. “Where would this world be without Dunkies, right?”
Silence continues to reign supreme.
He finally says, “All in favor?”
“Of what?” Tommy says.
“Of hearing my plan.”
“Out with it.”
“No dice. Not until you and the board members elect me as its interim executive director. I don’t want to live a lie, Pop.”
While their shocked silence continues, Jack roots around in the Dunkin’ Donuts box but only finds a few random sprinkles and dabs them into his mouth.
“Clock’s ticking, fellas. The future of the Rock needs an answer. So do I.”
Stanley says, “Let me get this straight, kiddo. You won’t tell us your fancy-ass plan until we vote you in?”
“Affirmative.”
Admiral Lewis clears his throat. “Any man who has the brass balls to lie to BuShips and actually get away with it has my vote. He snaps off a crisp salute. I vote ‘Aye.’”
Jack laughs. “Never thought I’d see the day a hard-assed three-star salute an ordinary seaman.”
“You are far from ordinary, Mr. Riley.”
“Thank you, sir, but BuShips almost had me on the ropes.”
Stanley says, “Yeah, but money talks, don’t it?”
“Always. As of today, the United States Treasury’s general fund is one-point-two million dollars richer—providing I default, which I damn well will not. I’m here to save that ship and you can take that to the bank.”
“They already did,” Stanley says. His eyes dance with pleasure at this crazy kid.
Tommy exchanges a quick look with JJ, who nods in agreement. Tommy raises his hand. “I hereby yield my executive directorship and vote ‘yes.’”
Then, like a halyard of multi-colored signal flags climbing out of a ship’s “flag bag” six other right hands raise as one, along with a chorus of “ayes.”
“Thank you, gentlemen.”
Jack drains the last drop of coffee out of the cardboard cup. “Full disclosure: a buddy of mine came up with the initial idea, and then we fleshed it out together. Are you ready?”
They lean forward in anticipation.
“My fellow board members...we are about to go for a ride.”
“In what?” Tommy says.
“The Rock, of course.”
Pins dropping everywhere in the deafening silence.
“She ain’t raised steam in twenty years.” Stanley says.
“Not talking steam, Mr. Albertini. Talking Azipods—ever heard of ‘em?”
Heads shake in ignorance, but not JJ, who says, “Self-contained propulsion units. Company over in Finland makes them, as I recall. Damned efficient.”
“Exactly. I’m thinking three should do the trick. One centerline and one each, port and starboard. What do you think, sir? Overkill or underkill?”
“Let me get this straight. You’re proposing to restore the Rock to seaworthy status?”
“Not proposing, sir. We’re going to damn well do it.”
A grin here, a surprised look there.
“But...” Jack licks his fingers of the last of the donut sprinkles. “You can’t go for a ride unless you got an engine. And you can’t find a new home unless you start looking. My buddy Bob Martin thinks a “farewell cruise” will be a great publicity stunt to drum up interest in saving the Rock. Goodbye Portsmouth, hello, world. That sort of thing.”
“How?”
“For starters, I retained his advertising and public relations firm to plan a raffle for a two week, all expenses paid—including airfare—ocean cruise for any navy guy who’s ever served on a battleship; officer, enlisted, doesn’t matter.”
Jack pauses. More puzzled faces. “We’re going to raffle off two hundred fifty spots—excluding you guys of course, you’re automatically coming on the cruise, and all the Rock’s volunteers who want to go as well—with one caveat.”
Stanley says, “Here comes the fine print.”
“Not really, but this is going to be a ‘guys-only’ cruise. I know we have some terrific female docents, but we’re going back in time to when only men served on ships. Besides, my legal counsel said there’s no way to get an insurance rider on something as crazy as this if we make it co-ed. It’s going to be hard enough as it is, anyhow.”
“A raffle.” Admiral Lewis says the word like it’s roadkill, “Did I hear you right? A raffle?”
“Affirmative. National exposure, flood the media and every other outlet Bob’s folks can get our story to.”
Tommy says, “Where are we bound?”
Jack shrugs. “Need to get her seaworthy first. But in the meantime, Bob has some terrific ideas.”
“I’ll bet.”
“It’ll be something for us board guys to sort out all in due time.” He checks his watch and says brightly. “Any other business, gentlemen?”
Stanley says, “What if we don’t find a new home for her?”
“Good question. But we already know the answer. After six months, BuShips will move forward to—and I quote—‘recall the USS New Hampshire (BB-70) and duly designate it for dismantling.’”
He lets that fact settle in.
And in that silence. Jack catches his father’s eye. They grin at each other like the old days, when life was nothing more than sailing out to the Isle of Shoals, Tommy’s strong hand on the wheel, ready to call out the tack, and ten-year-old Jack ready to release the jib sheeting and make her come about to head home.
A new “home” awaits the battleship, and Tommy, too, based on the doctor’s grim prognosis. One watery, the other heavenly. Neither one is certain just yet, but one thing is: you might be able to save a battleship, but you can’t save your father.
So... the next best thing Jack can do is take him on one hell of a ride.
No telling what might happen.
While the board of directors make their farewells at Tommy’s condo, another farewell’s happening in Councilman Charlie Stein’s townhouse bedroom, not five miles away.
Munroe wiggles into her stretchy black Spanks while Charlie admires the view from the tangled wreckage of his red satin sheets and pillowcases. He fingers the slippery material.
“These things cost me three-hundred bucks.”
“Consider it an investment.”
“What’s my return?”
She spins around to face him, Spanks on the bottom, nothing on top.
“Me.”
He takes in the view and smiles. “What’s for dinner tonight at the Devillar’s?”
“Eating out. David and I are celebrating.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“His ship came in with the BEA stock split. He got in at the bottom and hopped out at the top, just in time.”
“Your ‘ship’ is about to do the same, sweetheart.”
“Big time. Old man Riley’s one pissed-off sailor.”
“He’ll get over it. The city needs what you’ve got on the table.”
On goes her black bra trimmed with just the right amount of lace.
“Wave goodbye to your favorite twins.” She tucks her ample breasts into D cups.
Charlie manages a languid wave of his hand, now holding a marijuana joint. “Want a toke?”
She shakes her head. “Need to stay sharp.”
“Your old man’s a lucky guy.”
“How so?”
“He’s got a sweet wife to come home to every night. Me? I smoke a joint and say goodbye.”
Munroe slips her tan, Tom Ford-embellished mini-dress over her head and smooths its shape to her curvy contours. She kneels by the bed.
“Zip me.”
He does.
She takes his head in both her hands.
“Look at me.”
“I’m looking.”
The day will come, my darling Charlie...”
“Promises, promises.”
“We both need a change of scenery. With what I stand to get out of this deal, and the friends I’ve got in Amalfi. It’ll be our time at last.”
He digests the meaning of her words. “You were fantastic at the hearing. Never saw anything like it, and I’ve seen my share of city development pitches over the years, I can tell you.”
She kisses him. “And you’re going to be equally fantastic when you break the logjam with your vote.”
“The mayor has her doubts.”
“But I have you.”
“She can smell a rat a mile off—make that two miles.”
“Oh, Charlie...” Munroe rubs her hand on his hairy chest, then nuzzles a bit. “All she’ll ever smell is your awesome scent. I’ll see to that.”
He takes another hit on the joint. “What’s the final number they offered?”
“It took a little back-and-forth on my take. The Abenaki lawyers wanted a higher percentage take for the tribe’s casino—no surprise there, but...” Her face grows as serene as a New Hampshire pond at midnight. “When the dust settles on the takeout financing, ten-point-seven million dollars drops into my hot little hands. No more rust piles, no more salt piles, no more battleship bullshit, just the Italian Riviera, plenty of sunshine, and you.”
He ponders this happy news, and then closes his eyes and smiles. “Amalfi, huh?”
“Si, carissimo. Amalfi.”
Two weeks later, quiet reigns inside Jack’s Enstrom 480B helicopter during their flight up to Portland, Maine. It’s not that he and his father and JJ can’t manage a conversation. The soundproofing inside the bright-red, four-seat chopper tames the howl of its Rolls-Royce 250CW turbine engine to a muffled whine.
No, it’s just that when we humans fly, especially at a thousand feet above the ground, the visual experience is so dramatically unlike what we experience on a daily basis that we feel like birds—if only for a little while.
Plus, as the crow flies from Portsmouth, New Hampshire to Portland, Maine, the 45-mile hop in a chopper cruising at 140 miles-an-hour takes less than 20 minutes.
Barely enough time to admire the fall foliage rushing past below. Still plenty of gold and scarlet leaves down there, but even traveling this short distance up the New England coastline—into colder temperatures—many of the leaves that once graced the vast swaths of Maine’s forests during the summer have already hit the ground.
