by Paul Lally
“Two months! The DEA pays me to know what’s going on down here. This will look like I’m not doing my job.”
“And I pay you to keep quiet until it’s time to spread the word. Not before. ¿Los entiendes?”
“Si.”
“Aún no tienes alas y ya quieres volar.”
“But I already have wings!”
“Of a sparrow. For you and me to fly all the way to America and be welcomed as heroes when all this is over, we need the wings of eagles.”
Silence while the SIU agent ponders the “bait” of leaving his two-bit town and two-bit life as a cop and being hailed in America as a hero in the drug war. Not to mention helping Garcia’s second-in-command, Iván Zambadas, escape from an endless life of corruption and greed by opening the door wide enough for him to see a way to a brighter, safer, happier life in America.
At least that’s what the SIA agent thinks is going on.
After all, didn’t he recruit Iván himself? Didn’t he encourage him to turn away from the dark side and seek the light? And didn’t his prized convert start delivering information that helped DEA and Mexican authorities crack open a lesser cartel that was climbing to potential dominance?
Today, its leaders are captured, convicted, and staring at four prison walls without windows, their lackey henchmen on the run somewhere down in South America, their delivery system dissolved, and the battle won.
Not the war, mind you.
Wars take time, and besides once there’s peace, there’s no work for secret operatives like him. So... when he and Zambadas blow up Garcia’s invidious network, it will be like Waterloo, the Defeat of the Spanish Armada, and Hiroshima all rolled into one.
Glorious victory, and to the victors belong the spoils; one of which is the SIU agent’s name proudly gracing a United States passport; a new identity for him and his family up north, and a life free from the heat, mosquitos, stink, death, and destruction found on every street corner in the run-down, washed-up, miserable town of Campéche.
All thanks to Iván Zambadas. Our wolf in perfect sheep’s clothing is being oh, so careful not to smile, lest Señor Garcia see his sharp “teeth.” A wise man, he is.
Or so our SIU agent thinks.
He is to be forgiven. Such are the delusions of a man who wants something so bad he overlooks behaviors warning him just the opposite is happening.
Here’s the truth: pure and simple: Iván has no intentions of busting up the Garcia Cartel.
Quite the opposite.
He wants to run the outfit when Garcia hands over the reins to him instead of that mestizos bastard Miguel Vargas who showed up out of nowhere and has become the apple of the old man’s eye—not to mention his daughter. But after Vargas falls into the baited trap waiting for him at the U.S. Customs border crossing in Brownsville, Garcia will have no choice but to anoint him as the rightful heir.
Iván says, “By the way, my friend, expect a gift tonight.”
“Another one?”
“Los Cobras free-lancers. Caught them nibbling at the edges of Señor Garcia’s dinner plate. Had to teach them a lesson.”
A sigh. “Some people never learn.”
Including our smug, unsuspecting SIU agent, more puppet than person, too desperate to see what Iván’s doing behind his back. Instead, he’s focused on imagining a dark blue passport with American Flag watermarks, his photo on it, and the bright, shining promise of paradise to come.
Poor guy.
A late October, no-nonsense thunderstorm the night before snatches any autumn leaves that remain on Portsmouth’s trees and batters them into submission. Following the storm, a temperature drop of over twenty degrees and the morning sun fails to bring anything more than pale daylight to this sleepy harbor town. A pitch-perfect setting for the glum activity taking place over at Phillips Metals, LLC.
The time has come for the Rock to go.
Despite a series of newspaper articles, television and radio news stories, social media postings, and general town gossip; “The battleship’s leaving, did’ja hear?” it’s not caused much stir at all.
The Rock’s a forlorn sight as a quartet of tugboats chugs its way over to the waiting vessel. They’re not coming for a social visit. They’re coming to haul her out of town. But, thanks to Jack Riley’s efforts, not to the scrappers. Instead, she’s heading north to Bath Iron Work’s floating drydock for a new lease on life.
An hour earlier, thick nylon hawsers holding her close to shore for almost fifteen years were loosened and recovered. Now only spring lines hold her fast to what used to be home. Desultory dock hands stand around, working on their cigarettes and trying to stay warm with Dunkin’ coffee. All that’s left to do is wait for the command, “Let go all lines.”
A steady stream of traffic on the street that parallels her anchorage; commuters heading for the I-95 on ramps and jobs, both south in Boston and north in Portland. Nobody bothers looking, and that’s understandable. They’ve seen the familiar sight of this ship day in and day out for years, resting in well-earned peace in “Battleship Memorial Park.”
But by this time tomorrow, they’ll be able to see the Sarah Long Memorial Bridge plain as day, whereas today it still hides behind the towering steel mass of the Rock’s complex and imposing superstructure.
Tommy Riley stands by the boarding ramp that, up until a month ago, allowed the rare visitor or school kid to come onboard and tour the historic vessel. Tomorrow the ramp will be gone, and bulldozers will clank across the parking lot. on their way to obliterate the buildings, storage facilities and any other physical traces of the museum’s ship presence.
The towing crew has already boarded the battleship; ten hulking young men with bulky shoulders made bulkier by their neon-green life jackets and matching neon-green hardhats. Three of them huddle at the ship’s bow, deep in conversation about how they’re going to rig the central towline.
Yesterday, they removed the fifteen-ton port anchor, craned it onboard and lashed it down. Then they winched up twenty feet of chain from the Rock’s anchor chain locker, each rusty, paint-chipped link weighing a hundred pounds, and laid it out to receive the tow chain that’s due any minute.
Below them, a workboat bobs in the river current (tide’s still coming in, fast like it always does). Using a pneumatic line-thrower a deckhand “shoots” a line up to the bow where three men wind it around a generator-powered capstan and start winding. Within seconds, two hundred feet of towing chain emerges dripping from the water like a sea serpent. The work boat creeps forward as the tow chain rises, until a thicker, two-and-one-half-inch braided tow wire lifts dripping from the water.
The other end’s attached to a powerful winch mounted on the broad stern of a brand-new tractor tug in the Moran Towing fleet, Sarah Ann Moran. Her twin Caterpillar engines can put out 6000HP and exert 110,000 pounds of bollard pull without raising a sweat.
Because the journey north to Portland, Maine is relatively short, four “assist” tugs will accompany the tow. Proceeding at a cautious eight-to-ten knots, the sixty-five-mile journey will take approximately eight hours, arriving at the floating drydock in Portland harbor sometime around five o’clock in the evening. After an overnight stay at anchor, they’ll ease her into the drydock first thing the following morning.
The ritual continues as the towing crew shackles the braided towline to the tow chain. A secondary, emergency tow wire is draped alongside the length of the ship and attached to a stern buoy. In case they should lose the main tow line for any reason, quick breakaway connections will deploy the buoy and restore the tow.
All is in readiness.
Nothing more to do than await the final hour before high tide. Because the Rock’s draft is so deep, she’ll run aground if they go any sooner.
Which suits Tommy Riley just fine.
He stands apart from the small crowd of volunteers who’ve gathered here and there in small groups. Breath vapor fills the air as the unexpectedly cold temperature catches everyone un
awares. Some shivering here, lots of hunched-up shoulders there. As usual, winter is sneaking up faster than anybody wants.
Especially these folks.
The average age of the docents and volunteers is late middle age. Arthritis and mysterious aches and pains caused by cold weather add an additional chill to their already shivering hearts, made extra cold by the sad fact that other than the Rock’s loyal volunteers, there’s not a soul in sight to bid her farewell. The citizens of Portsmouth, it seems, have already moved on and left the ship and what she meant to the city and to those who served her high and dry.
Tommy thinks about all this, of course.
But he’s also thinking about his late wife Eileen and how this fateful day would have broken her heart. The eldest daughter of a retired Chief Petty Officer, she was the prettiest Navy brat Tommy ever set eyes upon. The kind of woman who unabashedly wept whenever the city shot off Fourth of July fireworks from a barge anchored in the middle of the river, close enough to light up the already lit up battleship, where on the fantail the First Naval District Band always played “America the Beautiful.”
Tommy can’t help but think, “Those were the days, baby.”
Because they were.
Both for him and his wife, and for the freshly painted, well-attended floating monument to American Democracy. Not what she has become on this icy cold, late fall morning: a rusting, neglected, abandoned battleship that nobody cares about except the ones who loved her.
And still do…
Tommy spits on the ground and digs his hands into the pockets of his thin fabric jacket. “Screw you, Munroe Devillar, and the horse you rode in on. And Walter, why in blue blazes did you forget all about us? What the hell were you thinking?”
The heavens remain silent.
Tommy turns up his collar, stifles a shiver and looks around the deserted parking lot. Where the hell is JJ? From the way activity has picked up on the Rock, it’s time for him to get on board. Even though the ship’s traveling “dead,” he wants to be on her for the journey. JJ too.
Stanley wanted to come but has to stay home and run his deli, because his granddaughter had to travel on business. Jack’s caught up in his own business—as usual. After saying goodbye and wishing them good luck his son headed off for a “quick conference call back at the ranch.” Another gold brick about to be shat, no doubt.
A taxi pulls into the parking lot and bounces over the frost-heaved, in-need-of-repair asphalt before coming to a stop.
“About time,” Tommy mutters and heads over.
Admiral Lewis hops out. But instead of closing the door he reaches inside and pulls out a piece of carry-on luggage.
“Hey, we’re only staying overnight,” Tommy says as he approaches. “Why all the—”
“—Got it, captain,” JJ says to someone inside the taxi.
“Tomadachi arigatō.” A muffled voice from within.
Seconds later, the door opens on the other side of the cab. A Japanese gentleman hops out as if fired from a gun. Black suit, black Homburg hat, white shirt, black tie. No overcoat. He glides around the back of the cab and comes to a halt in front of Tommy. A slight bow—not too much, just enough—as he says quietly, “Riley-san Kaga sencho.”
JJ says, “Tommy, meet Captain Koga. The Rock’s new skipper.”
“Say again?”
Koga bows, and then sticks out his hand and says in perfect English. “An honor and a privilege to be a part of the historic restoration of a United States Navy battleship.”
Tommy reflexively takes his hand, but his facial expression remains astonished.
The admiral says, “I guess I forgot to tell you about all this.”
“I guess you sure as hell did. How about telling me now?”
“Jiro, why don’t you fill Tommy in on our plan—wait a second, before you start....” JJ puts his arm around the diminutive man’ shoulders. “We go way back about—about how many years, now?”
“Almost twenty, JJ-san.”
“Jiro served in the Japanese Navy. Exec officer on a frigate back in the mid-nineties when I was doing the same with DESRON. At the end of his hitch, he leaves to join Hanjin Shipping and I stay in. He climbs the ladder to become a full-blown captain of big-ass container ships while I pick up my stars. Tell Tommy about Hanjin.”
Koga’s face falls. “I prefer not to.”
Tommy says, “That the South Korean shipping company?”
“The former one. Yes. Went bankrupt last year. Big time. C’mon, Jiro, tell him. You’re among friends.”
“I prefer not to.”
JJ turns to Tommy and shakes his head. “Koreans and Japanese. Oil and water. Each drives the other one nuts—am I right or am I right?”
Jiro says nothing but he manages a tight nod.
“Okay, I’ll spill the beans.” JJ heads toward the Rock, pulling Koga’s carry-on. “Here’s the deal...”
While the trio proceeds, the retired admiral describes how during the recent economic downturn, the South Korean shipping company, once flush with success with sixty-plus ocean-going container ships and LPG carriers busy circling the globe and making a tidy profit, how it suddenly goes belly up because try as it may, it can’t restructure a five-billion-dollar debt.
Surprise, surprise. Not a soul tosses them a life preserver.
Hanjin’s stunned by the shipping industry’s instant abandonment to their fate. Declares Chapter 15 bankruptcy and files for receivership. The creditor sharks move in and seize assets, including vessels.
The feeding frenzy gets worse: ports deny them access, no fuel, no business, and the once God almighty shipping giant collapses, workers dismissed—including Jiro—dockyards closed, ships sold, assets dissolved, end of story.
The threesome arrives at the boarding ramp. The other volunteers remain scattered around the parking lot in huddled, forlorn clusters—mute witnesses to the end of an era.
Somebody shouts, “Good luck, Tommy!”
Tommy manages a smile and a wave.
JJ turns to Koga, “What was your last command?”
“TEUs.”
“That stands for the container’s size, right? TEU, Twenty-foot Equivalent Units?”
“Yes. My ship carried eight thousand fifty-two such containers.”
“Length?”
“Feet or meters?”
JJ laughs. “You crack me up. You’re in America now, captain. The land of the free and the brave. Feet and inches are our sacred creed.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Since that is the case, my vessel was one thousand seventeen feet long.”
“Displacement?”
Ninety-six thousand tons.”
JJ points to the Rock. “Then handling a girl like this... regular piece of cake, right?”
Koga ponders. “A ship is a ship, admiral.”
Tommy says, “A battleship.”
Koga slowly swivels his head toward Tommy like a turret training on a target. “One of many that defeated my native country.”
“That we did, big time.”
“And by doing so, America also defeated the fools who led the Japanese people into war, and then left us there to die.”
Tommy absorbs this. “Your family, too....?”
Captain Koga nods. But says nothing.
Tommy reluctantly admires how JJ was savvy enough to get a qualified, licensed master to sign on from the very beginning of the Rock’s restoration.
And while he regrets Hanjin Shipping’s bankruptcy, he’s grateful that Koga brings his experience with modern-day shipping on a trip that nobody knows much about yet. That said, you can’t sail until you have a ship—in this case a battleship.
While Tommy’s running all this through his mind, JJ and Jiro silently regard the towering mass of gray steel about to move for the first time in ten years. Not under her own power, of course. She’s traveling “dead,” rudder locked.
In the distance, the sibilant hiss of commuter traffic goes on and on, getting louder and loud
er. Still just barely after sunrise, but Boston’s an hour away, Portland too. The world of commerce awaits its workers, as does the tugboat Sarah Ann Moran to do what she was built to do.
Tommy raises his hand in a slow salute. “Welcome aboard, skipper.”
Jiro bows deeply this tie. When he straightens up, he seems to have added a few inches to his short stature as he returns the salute.
“Hai.”
He makes it about halfway up the boarding ramp and stops. “The battleship Yamato had twenty-inch main batteries, you know.”
“Affirmative,” JJ says. “But we sank her ass anyhow.”
“But if she had survived the war, JJ-san, I wonder if perhaps Tokyo would have made her a museum ship like yours.”
“Providing you won the war, which you didn’t.”
Koga shakes his head. “The Japanese High Command was never in it to win. They were in it to fight.”
“Makes no sense.”
“I agree. Even though I am Japanese, I still don’t understand the Japanese.”
“That why you went to work for the Koreans?”
Koga snorts, grabs his roller bag from JJ and heads up the gangplank.
“Prepare to cast off,” he says over his shoulder.
A half-hour later, towlines secure, tugs ready, the Sarah Ann Moran gives three short whistle blasts. Even though modern-day communication is by two-way radio, she continues the time-honored tradition in a symbolic way. The other tugs answer in response.
Dockhands free the springer lines holding the battleship to shore. Nothing much happens at first. When you tip the scales at 68,000 tons, inertia is more than just a word.
But eventually, a tiny sliver of daylight appears between her rusting hull and the dock. It continues to increase, a bit unevenly at first as the tugs warp her away from her ten-year anchorage. But then things evens up as the stern tug does its job.
You would think by now, folks would be lining the shore to say farewell, standing shoulder-to-shoulder near the lift bridges to wave goodbye, bands playing, schools let off to let the kids see history. Speeches, cheering....
Nothing of the sort.
