by Paul Lally
Out comes Stanley, all smiles. In his right hand the hammer, in his left, an ancient pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes in a green package.
“I wondered what the hell I did with these things—okay try it now.”
One of the Bath Iron workers yanks up on the lever and the door glides open. Ditto for closing too.
Everybody’s all smiles.
One of them says, “What’s with the smokes?”
Stanley regales them with the story of hiding the pack of cigarettes one day during the war, when the turret gunnery officer called a surprise inspection. Because of the danger of explosion, you weren’t ever allowed to bring any kind of smoking material into the turret.
Stanley forgot that day, and as gunnery captain he would have gone “before the mast” for disciplinary action, not to mention losing his hard-earned position as the team leader for his Mark 7.
“Buddy of mine, Bob Weinacht, one of the loaders, he says, ‘Toss ‘em here, Stanley.’ Which I do. He’s a little guy, so he ducks inside that very scuttle over there and jams them up just behind the ratchet release—which, by the way, was the problem that the hammer solved. Hung up on one of the teeth. Runs fine now.”
“How come you never got them back?”
“We saw action that afternoon. Forgot all about it.” Stanley sniffs the open pack, carefully slides one out, and grins. “Who’s got a light?”
Heads shake all around.
Stanley snorts. “Figures.”
To celebrate the Rock’s impending release from drydock prison, a flotilla of tugboats churns the waters like wedding guests outside the church tossing rice at the married couple. But instead of rice, their firefighting nozzles spout water in high, crisscrossing arcs.
Up on the drydock, Jack points to the tugs’ traditional marine celebratory display. “Won’t be needing our friends out there, once sea trials are over.”
Tommy says, “Azipods that good?”
“Wait until you see the Rock turn on a dime. Her bow thrusters are the latest version.”
“When do we head out?”
JJ says, “We board this afternoon. Acceptance trials first thing tomorrow morning.”
Jack says softly, “Here she comes….”
At first, all that’s visible is the tightening of the sagging, ten-inch towing hawser leading from a tugboat to a deck bollard on the Rock’s towering stern. The tug’s propellers churn the waters of Casco Bay into a foamy froth from the effort.
Simultaneously, two smaller tugs stop their fire nozzle water display and snuggle closer to the drydock and take up position amidships, at the ready. Once the Rock advances further aft, they’ll rig lines to her center lead so they can steer her port or starboard.
The battleship continues easing aft from the confining walls of the ABSD, now half-submerged in the harbor waters. According to Frank Marchetti, a month from now, the ABSD (Advanced Base Sectional Drydock) will be at the Brownsville breakers, already sliced into chunks of steel ready for the smelters.
But at this moment, she’s much more than just a drydock. She’s a cocoon, inside of which a rusting, unappreciated wartime relic magically metamorphosed itself into a freshly painted capital warship whose graceful lines become more and more evident until her gracefully curved forecastle emerges at long last.
For the past hour, more and more water traffic has appeared; small fishing boats and workboats, mostly, attracted like moths to the flame. It’s not every day a fully restored Montana-class battleship takes up this much real estate along the waters of Fisherman’s Wharf.
Because it’s a bone-chilling cold February day, with snow squalls swirling around now and then, you’d think Portland folks would not be inclined to make this a party.
But the parking lot adjacent to the drydock—nearly deserted this dismal time of year—is jampacked. A winter-coated, boot-wearing, hat-warming, glove-equipped crowd has gathered along the shore to regard the magically moving ship. For months. this mysterious, half-hidden visitor has been taking up the skyline and politely ignored due to a total lack of interest.
Not anymore.
Where else can you behold a marvel of marine engineering that’s not only as big as a high-rise office building—laying on its side—but does so while gliding through the water with firm purpose?
Being towed at the moment, of course. That comes later.
When she’s free of the bay and her new engines engaged she’ll have a mind of her own. But for now, the tugboat flotilla nudges, nuzzles and slowly rotates the Rock 240-degrees so that her bow faces northeast. Then the stern tug churns the waters in reverse as it brings her to a standstill.
During a procedure that takes almost an hour—moving that much steel with tugs is a complicated business not served well with haste—Jack and the gang have made their way down to a Bath Iron workboat tied up at the drydock’s stern.
Hardhat-wearing VP Frank Marchetti acts like a maître d’ at an Italian restaurant as he breezily escorts the men across the boarding ramp and onto the boat. All that’s missing are tall menus and crisp tablecloths, but not his smiling face.
“The day has come, gentlemen. Who would have thought?”
“Not me,” Tommy says. “Not in a million years.”
“How about you, admiral?”
JJ nods toward Jack. “Never underestimate the power of a determined sailor to get what he wants.”
“Especially an enlisted one,” Jack says.
That gets a cheerful salute from the ex-admiral. “Message received, Seaman Riley.”
Ask sailors what it feels like to leave the relatively calm waters of a sheltered bay and encounter the first deep swells of the open ocean. Or similarly, ask airplane pilots the same question; what it’s like to leave the runway and encounter the supportive cushion of air?
Likely as not, they’ll smile slightly before answering.
Their explanations will differ because people are different, but the smile says it all. “We’re going where we don’t belong.”
And they’re right.
From the first prehistoric fish with primitive legs that slithered out of the water and crawled up onto the ground, human beings have evolved over time to become two-legged, land creatures at home in the trees and forests but strangers to the sea and air.
And yet... here we are.
In the air and on the sea, because the ancestors of Captain Koga, Admiral Lewis, Stanley Albertini, and Tommy Riley looked out upon the waters and up at the clouds and said, “Why not?”
Today, their descendants stand on the Rock’s navigation bridge: Jiro Koga’s dead center, feet planted, binoculars to his eyes, scanning the open ocean ahead. Alongside him, the helmsman operates a control console that rivals Cape Canaveral.
Yes, the Rock’s traditional wheel, compass, and engine telegraph controls remain in place. But like a horse and buggy is to a race car, they’re relics of the past worth revering on a museum ship but have nothing to do with the way a modern ship sails the high seas.
And make no mistake, the Rock’s going to do just that. And do so in style. To accomplish this, it takes a command center like the one Bath Iron electronics technicians installed during her refit. It somewhat resembles an airplane’s control panel in layout design: magnetic heading, echo sounder, wind, speed, engine RPM, bow thrusters, and Azipod controls.
Then there’s AIS (Automatic Identification System) that shows the Rock’s exact location at all times, and ECDIS (Electronic Chart Display Information) that relegates paper charts to the history books.
As proof, a flat screen display currently indicates the Rock’s performance-evaluation location to be 43˚37’13.30 North by 70˚09’23.30 West; fifteen miles due east of Cape Elizabeth, Maine.
Captain Koga lowers his binoculars, glances briefly at the electronic-display map, nods once, then says with complete assurance, “All ahead full.”
“All ahead full, sir,” the helmsman quietly says.
In the movies, there’d be a great fuss and bother wi
th close-up shots of hands swinging the brass handles of a clocklike engine telegraph forward and backward until the indicator arrow reached the box that says FULL. Lots of dinging annunciator bells down to the engine room, too, that say, “Hey, we heard you and we’re changing speed!”
No movies here up here on the navigation bridge today.
Real life instead.
Using his thumb and forefinger, the helmsman moves the throttle-like handle of the propulsion order telegraph. The signal instantaneously travels to the Rock’s newly installed generators that increase RPMs to match the requested speed and by doing so, feeding more DC current to the triple Azipod motors.
Result?
Even at anchor, the elegant, low-profile of a Montana-class battleship makes her look like a greyhound born to run. Today, on the cold Atlantic Ocean, beneath a leaden February sky, the USS New Hampshire resembles her sister ship as her bullnose bow bites into the oncoming waves with a new purpose.
While Koga starts running her through her performance paces, over on the port bridge wing, Frank Marchetti keeps an eye on the small team of Bath Iron technicians checking checklists, marking boxes, making sure the work they did is doing its job as promised.
The Rock reaches 31.3 knots...and keeps accelerating. Koga announces this to Jack and the gang standing over on the starboard wing, gazing out the windows. At the news, like kids at a candy store, grins all around.
JJ gives an appreciative whistle. “She never got near thirty when we were on her, Tommy. We’re going like a rocket.”
Stanley says, “Yeah, a 68,000 ton one.” He looks out over the bow. “Nice view you guys got up here, I must say. But give me the business end of this girl any day.”
JJ says, “Satisfied with your setup in Turret four?”
A look of sly satisfaction. “Home sweet, home, admiral.”
Tommy chimes in. “Those sweepstakes winners are in for the treat of their lives. Watching us fire live rounds on a real target.”
“Damned right,” Stanley says. “Not some bullseye painted on the water, nossir. A genuine target, thanks to Shell Oil calling it quits on that rig—Jack, how much did you pay for disposal rights?”
Jack shakes his head. “I didn’t say.”
“Damn, thought I’d trick you into spilling the beans.”
“Care to make a bet?”
“On what?”
“On how many rounds it’ll take to send that hunk of steel to the bottom.”
Stanley ponders. “Hard to say. Depends on how good our manual range-finders work. The Rock used centralized fire control back in the day, not local. They dialed it in, we loaded the guns, and BOOM.”
Tommy says, “Been a long time since I worked a turret, but I’ve been reading up on it. I’m betting that with four of those local systems to cannibalize, we’ll be able to get one up to snuff. We’re halfway there already.”
Jack says, “Like riding a bicycle, right, Pop?”
“Easier.”
Koga says, “Flank speed.”
“Flank speed, aye.”
Almost never called for in normal operations, flank speed is for when imminent danger threatens, like possible collision or enemy action. Before refitting her propulsion from shaft line to azimuth, the very best the Rock could manage was thirty-four knots at flank speed—and that was on a good day with a clean hull and sea conditions calm.
A different story today.
Within five minutes, the combined output of three azimuth thrusters delivers one hundred megawatts of relentless, gearless, steerable power to reach thirty-seven knots: faster than she’s ever gone before.
Koga glances at the speed indicator; his features implacable. Then a slight tightening around the mouth and narrowing of eyes as he says, “Port, thirty degrees.”
“Port, thirty degrees, aye.”
With the merest twist of the joystick, helmsman rotates the three pods to port, while simultaneously activating the bow thrusters to shove her bow to starboard.
JJ can’t help himself and laughs. “High-speed turns!”
One of the last items on the acceptance trial checklist is slewing the battleship port and starboard through the water in a series of evasive turns.
Seen from the air, the 950-foot-long battleship carves an S-shaped, foaming-white wake in the Atlantic Ocean as the violence of the turning maneuvers cants her deck first to starboard, then port, then back again. If something’s going to come loose, it will, or a fitting come free, this will do the trick.
It’s a time for testing man and machine.
Anyone caught standing on the main deck would need to hang on to something. But at this point, the folks who need to be onboard are at their stations, including Jack and his group, witnessing high-speed turns with a sense of awe at how over seventy-five years ago, marine engineering designed a vessel as big as a small town and then sent it off to win a war.
And having done so, she came home to fight no more—or so she thought—until old men decided to send young men off to fight once again. Then again, as nations continued—conveniently or intentionally—to forget the lessons of the past and used violent means to try and gain dominion over other nations and their people.
They sent the Rock to deter that action. With powerful weapons? You bet: 16-inch Mk 7 main battery guns are nothing to sneeze at. Ditto for her five-inch secondary battery, 40mm quads, and—as time marched on, keeping in step with modern-day warring nations—anti-ship missiles, cruise missiles and CWIS (Close-in Weapons Systems).
Up here on the Rock’s navigation bridge it’s eerily silent as the “born-again” battleship reaches the apex of her final high-speed turn.
It’s as if everybody here feels the insignificance of being tiny human beings onboard a gigantic collection of mechanical and electrical systems, sub-systems, and sub-sub-systems layered deck after deck, from engineering astern to navigation forward, collectively ordered with great precision inside a series of welded steel plates that make up a hull that displaces 86,000 tons of seawater as the Rock slashes her scimitar-curved bow through any waves that dare stop her rising triumphantly from a watery grave lit by the threatening light of a shipbreaker’s torch.
Captain Koga makes a final sweep with his binoculars over the ocean, its surface still displaying feathery white traces of foaming wakes left in the path of the Rock’s high-speed turns.
Then down go his binoculars.
He turns to face Frank Marchetti, who by now has joined him after a huddled meeting with his team.
Frank stands tall as he says, “Captain Koga, Bath Iron Works deems this vessel’s performance satisfactory in all respects. We consider her ready for sea and hereby release her to your cognizance and command. Do you concur, sir?”
Koga gives Marchetti’s formal declaration due consideration before responding. And rightfully so. Whether a rowboat or battleship, the weight of command upon a captain’s shoulders is identical.
A slight frown touches the Japanese master’s face. “I concur... with one regretful exception.”
Collective intakes of breath all around.
“And that would be?” Marchetti says, bracing for what’s to come.
“That I had to wait so long to experience the joy of commanding a vessel so wonderfully made—and so expertly restored.”
He bows slightly. “I hereby accept command.”
Arturo unbuckles his seatbelt that only seconds ago he fastened with great care.
“Didn’t you just pee?” Ernesto says.
“Si. Pero mi tengo que ir de nuevo.”
“Ai, you have the bladder of an old man.”
His driver laughs as he hops out of the Kenworth and hurries back to the always-crowded Gasolinera Chivas truck stop, strategically located a mile south of the Mexico/US border crossing into Brownsville, Texas.
It’s the last chance for truck drivers to get Diesel #2 at a decent price, food that doesn’t taste like rubber, and empty their bladders, because it can take forever waiting to
run the gauntlet called U.S. Customs before heading north into gringo-land.
Even when paid-off officials on both sides know you’re coming and ready to look the other way, and practically wave you through customs with your load of cucumbers and secretly hidden drugs... even with all these caveats in place, the long line of semi-trailers and tankers ahead of you have no such privileges and you must wait your turn.
Ernesto doesn’t mind.
Gives him time to caress the shiny dials and buttons on the dashboard of his brand-new, bright red Kenworth T680, while inhaling the unmistakable “new-car-smell” that smells even better when it’s inside a $158,000 truck.
“Muchas gracias, Miguel.”
“Driver heading for building,” DEA Agent Jensen whispers into his radio mike as he observes Arturo trotting back to the service station.
In the faint, pre-dawn light, his night-vision goggles paint a ghostly-green infrared shape of the cucumber truck driver. Probably heading to empty his bladder. He sure as hell needs to do the same.
“Target still in truck,” he adds.
A series of clicks in his headset as the various FAST team members acknowledge the update.
Tipped off by the SIU agent, the police officer down in Mérida, the fifteen-man, combined-ops assault team’s made up of ten hardcore Infanteria de Marina shock troops and five DEA tacticals.
They’ve been waiting in place for an hour, itching to do a simple “bag and grab.” Any minute now, they’ll get the call from Agent Jensen to do what they’ve trained to do.
At one point earlier, he wondered if the SIU guy had set them up. For good reason; as reliable as these narco-tipsters are supposed to be, there’s nary a human being can resist the powerful lure of bribery from the other side.
Not just Mexicans, Americans are just as vulnerable.
When Jensen shared his concern with his counterpart, Infanteria de Marina Capitano Julio Gomez, a chubby captain in the Mexican Marines, he cheerfully agreed.
“If Mendez lied to us, it won’t be the first time—or the last. But my hunch is, he’s telling the truth—or at least what someone told him was going to happen.”
