by Paul Lally
“Including you.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Jay regards the low-ceilinged crew mess hall. Designed to serve a hungry horde of enlisted in a short amount of time, the space is uber-functional; every single item has a specific purpose; steel columns support the deck overhead, crisscrossed with a welter of white-painted steam pipes, electrical conduits, dotted here and there with humming florescent lights. Directly beneath, regimented row after row of four-seat tables with swivel chairs bolted to a steel deck covered with brightly polished, dark blue linoleum.
A long serving counter fills the starboard side of the mess hall. If steam tables could talk, these would have stories to tell. Over the past seventy-five years of fighting wars and securing peace, countless sweating, tired, cooks spent their duty days scooping, slicing, chopping, pounding, and then serving hundreds of thousands of recipes prepared from the venerable Cookbook of the United States Navy.
Like it says in the book’s forward, “Personally tested by commissary personnel of the Navy, and developed and tested for practical use in the Navy”, one can only imagine the officers and enlisted wolfing down dubious delights like:
Beef and Gravy with Tomato Dumplings
Hash, Corned Beef, Baked
Macaroni and Corn au Gratin with Bacon
Fried Chicken Maryland Style.
None of that stuff this time around, though. Yesterday, Curcio’s team packed the Rock’s larders, refrigerators, and freezers with high-end cuts of meat, fresh fruits and vegetables, fresh pastry and pasta dough, and enough beer, wine, and hard stuff to supply “steel beach” picnics on the after deck of the ship. Two are planned so far, one outbound, one inbound.
The lucky sweepstakes winners will gaze upon Curcio’s menus with selections like:
Flame-roasted Pork Chops
Grilled Red Snapper
Broiled Lobster Tail
Fluff Blueberry Pancakes
Caramel Cheesecake
There’ll be no pained looks in the chow line this time around. Just happy grins from the Battlewagon Boys who—thanks to Jack—will not only journey back in time to magically experience their wild and wooly youth, but also appreciate it with the wisdom and perspective of age.
And gain five “ocean voyage” pounds while they’re at it.
“Slow down, damn it, I can barely understand you,” Iván Zambadas says. “Who had backup?”
“They did.”
“Who’s ‘they?’”
The SIU agent takes a deep breath. “Vargas’s men. At least twenty in a van, shadowing the cucumber truck the whole time. When the DEA started the snatch, they came out of nowhere and broke up the grab. Nobody ever said anything to me about backup. Shit, shit, SHIT!”
“But you said they got him, right?”
A long pause.
Iván reads the tea leaves on this one. He’s lifting weights in his bedroom instead of lifting a woman into bed. The SIU agent’s hesitation triggers a tingle of sweat on his naked back—not from exercise.
From fear.
“Tell me they got Vargas.”
A half-hysterical laugh. “They got a Vargas, all right. The wrong one. His brother Ernesto!”
The boarding continues on both the Ocean Princess and USS New Hampshire. Aerial gangways suspended from the main building make the job easier. No trudging up a steeply angled ramp, a demanding effort for some of the older veterans with arthritic knees and bad backs.
Instead, the ex-sailors walk directly across to the Rock’s main deck, where they turn and salute the flag (old habits never die) then turn to face a team of bright and beaming college-age “stewards” dressed in navy blue jumpsuits, eager to escort them to their respective berths.
Recruited from the University of New Hampshire Hospitality Management School, the cheerful, eager faces of these young men and woman are bright reminders of what it’s like to be starting a journey through life.
They’ll spend the next ten days hustling below then topside, deck after deck, level after level, answering the calls and serving the needs of happy old sailors staying in a one-of-a-kind warship/hotel bound for the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico and the hot sun beating down on their weary bones in Cancún.
Why?
Because once upon a time they served on a battleship, It’s that simple. They entered Bob Martin’s much publicized sweepstakes, then most likely forgot all about it, until somebody somewhere pulled their name out of the pile of over two thousand entries nationwide.
Like anything that begins with “Once upon a time...” this cruise has a magical feel to it.
Of course, the secondary story line in the wind and on the mind of everybody is that the Rock is also “looking for a home.” But when you think about it, each and every one of these former sailors, both officer and enlisted, when his feet land on the teak deck and he plunks down his carry-on luggage and salutes the flag, he is home.
While the honored guests meet their stewards, Jack beckons one of them over; Francine (“Franny) Elmendorf, one of three young women, who along with over one hundred UNH hospitality students applied to be on the cruise. Jack happily accepted them all.
“Ready for a bunch of guys being guys, Franny?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You won’t feel outnumbered?”
The sturdily built young woman tugs on the front of her jumpsuit to smooth the folds and stands tall. “Got four older brothers, sir.”
“Say no more.”
She beams. “Thanks for letting me work the cruise, Mr. Riley—seeing it’s a guys-only thing and all.”
“Back when these men served, women weren’t allowed on ships. All that’s changed nowadays, of course.”
“I’m glad.”
“Me too—now go have fun.”
She hesitates and points back at Turret 4. “We’re really going to fire the guns?”
“One of them, yes. That a problem?”
“Just the opposite, sir. I can’t wait!”
The last of the sweepstakes winners carefully steps onto the teakwood deck and slowly salutes the stern-mounted American flag. Then he turns and salutes JJ Lewis who, despite wearing a dark blue navy peacoat and watch cap, still looks like the flag officer he once was.
The old man’s voice, thready with age, gathers strength as he says, “Morrison, Robert A., requests permission to come aboard, SIR.”
JJ returns the salute. “Permission granted, Captain Morrison, and if I may say so, you’re late as usual.”
Two smiles as bright as the sun as the friends shake hands, thump backs, and embrace.
“How’s Mrs. Morrison?” JJ says.
“Dotty’s happy to get me out of her hair for a while—you know, she still can’t believe I won a spot. Neither can I.”
“Luck of the draw, sir.”
Morrison draws back and looks sharply at his fellow shipmate. “Nothing untoward in my selection?”
“Completely above board, sir. You taught me well.”
“That I do not deny, but you earned each and every one of your admiral’s stripes.”
JJ brushes his empty sleeve. “All in the past, now.”
Morrison’s bushy eyebrows raise like flags. “An admiral never really retires, you ought to know that by now.”
“I do, sir. But it helps to say it out loud.”
The elderly captain slowly takes in the Rock’s superstructure towering above them. Another smile, this time much broader. JJ says nothing. He knows exactly what’s going through his former skipper’s mind.
“After all these years... it’s good to be back on board.”
“We cast off within the hour, sir.”
As Morrison shakes his head in happy amazement, Hospitality student Franny Elmendorf sidles up and takes the captain’s luggage. “May I show you to your stateroom, sir?”
Morrison’s weathered face shifts into an impish grin as he turns to JJ “Did she say stateroom?”
“We’ve upgraded some of the quarters,
sir. You got one of them.”
“Never had service like this when I had the conn.”
“The Rock was busy fighting a war.”
The old man makes a face. “Desert Storm was hardly that.”
“I respectfully disagree. The warheads on those Seersuckers we shot down that day had her name on them. Maybe yours too.”
Morrison considers this, and then nods. “You never were afraid to voice your opinion.”
“I had a good teacher, sir; you.” He nods toward Franny. “Please show Captain Morrison to his quarters.”
“Yes, SIR!”
As the young woman snatches up Morrison’s bag, JJ adds, “Once you’ve settled in, would you care to join me on the bridge for departure?”
“Don’t want to get in the way.”
“Sir, may I remind you that you were the commanding officer of this vessel during wartime. Captain Koga respectfully requests your presence on the bridge. He considers it an honor. As do I.”
Every wrinkle in the Ancient Mariner’s face gathers force into a smile that would light up all of Boston. “I’ll be there, soon as I’ve stowed my gear.”
A half-hour later, a visibly eager Captain Morrison arrives on the navigation bridge and comes to a dead halt, eyes wide, mouth open at the sight of all the modern-day equipment at Captain Koga’s beck and call.
JJ crosses over to welcome him. So does Koga. The three men do so with certain ritualistic formality, like friendly royal potentates from distant kingdoms, each officer acknowledging the other’s power but yielding not one iota of his own in the process.
Koga, a master of Japanese subtlety, delivers a formal bow at a precisely determined angle not only deferential to the elder mariner’s status, but also demonstrating his own authority as the duly licensed master of the USS New Hampshire.
“How long has it been, captain?” Koga says.
Morrison glances around. “Almost thirty years.” He takes a deep breath and inhales in the distinctive aroma of the ocean, fresh paint, and warm electronics. “Feels like yesterday—that is, providing I don’t get near your fancy-ass control panel over there.”
Koga extends an inviting hand “May I show you its functions?”
Morrison follows like an eager student.
While the two discuss the modern-day simplicity of sailing a battleship across ocean using only toy-like joysticks and a GPS-driven navigation tracking system, the OOD (Officer of the Deck) continues his work.
At first glance, the youthful-looking Malaysian seems too young for such responsibilities. But if you observe the precise way his hands grasp the binoculars and how his mouth tightens in absolute concentration as he analyzes the movement of the deckhands gathered around the foredeck bollards, you see something quite different: an experienced maritime professional about to give an order.
Then he does so, quietly, firmly, and with absolute authority. “Single up fore and aft lines. Prepare to cast off.”
Moments before, the navigation bridge could have been a window-filled, brightly lit conference room with men standing and sitting at their various duty stations. But the OOD’s command instantly transforms the space into a highly functional nautical entity with a single purpose; to set sail upon the ocean for points beyond the horizon and to make her presence known, 16-inch guns and all.
Tied up forward of the Rock, the Ocean Queen continues packing her eighteen decks with more and more passengers. She’s only half-way through boarding the 5,412 souls who will proceed to gorge themselves in the ship’s fourteen restaurants and then collapse in neatly turned-down berths in cramped staterooms as the “hotel-with-a-hull” plows through the waves to the Caribbean to rinse and repeat for the next ten days.
A nearby flotilla of tugboats cool their jets, awaiting the call to take up hawsers and lines, and slowly nudge the monster vessel out into Boston Bay and send her packing.
Not so on the Rock as Captain Koga nods to the OOD, who says quietly into his two-way radio, “Veer and haul lines.”
The Rock’s patiently waiting deckhands on the foredeck and after deck spring into action, first loosening the multiplicity of hawsers holding the Rock to the dock bollards, and then waiting for the dock hands to loop them free to be retrieved back on board.
Koga says, “Sound departure.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The boatswain’s mate of the watch reaches above his head and tugs a small brass lever. A half-second later, high on the Rock’s forward stack, a deep-throated, three-pipe whistle BOOOOOOOMS across the harbor.
Nothing but smiles on the bridge, especially from Captain Morrison, who, at the invitation of Captain Koga, now sits in the hallowed “Captain’s Chair,” a pylon-mounted swiveling armchair reserved for the commanding officer.
It took Koga two polite suggestions before Morrison agreed to witness the ship’s departure from his former “office.” Despite their difference in height (Morrison’s impressive 6’4” versus Koga’s diminutive 5’2”), the authority in the Japanese mariner’s voice was enough to make the old captain comply after only the faintest of objections.
Koga’s all business now. With a sharp nod, to the OOD, he says, “I have the conn.”
“You have the conn, sir.”
Koga pauses for a brief moment, then says, “Bow thrusters starboard ten percent, engines one and three, fifteen. Centerline ten.”
Tugboats bob around far below, twiddling their thumbs and watching the battleship’s bow thrusters and Azipods do what they’re designed to do: maneuver a ship out of tight anchorage and send her on her way without any outside aid or assistance.
The helmsman begins the process by dialing in the Koga’s thrust commands for the ship’s state-of-the-art propulsion system. Within seconds, onboard diesels ramp up RPMs to feed generators, which in turn, send fifteen megawatts of direct current to DC electric motors wedged inside bulbous Azipods pods aft and the transverse bow thrusters, forward.
The battleship churns up the murky waters of Boston Bay. But as with any object weighing close to 70,000 tons, change of position comes slowly. At first, just the merest sliver of daylight appears between the Rock’s freshly painted “ghost-grey” hull and the dark oak timbers of the terminal dock. But as her engines continue working, the space increases from one foot to three, then five...
Crowds of rubbernecking passengers fill the Ocean Queen’s multi-deck stern and gape at the long, lean and lethal warship ever-so-slowly gliding sideways into the narrow channel leading out into Boston Harbor.
The harbor pilot patiently waits to practice his craft.
But at the moment, that involves nothing more than standing directly behind Captain Koga and—like the tugboats—cooling his jets until the ship’s successfully cleared the terminal and her bow points due east.
Then, and only then, is she ready for him to demonstrate his years of knowledge gained from navigating around Boston’s shoals, sandbars and other obstacles that could run the battleship aground and turn an elegant warship into a marooned and motionless hunk of steel.
After ten minutes of careful maneuvering, Captain Koga turns to the Boston pilot and bows slightly. “Mr. O’Rourke, my ship is ready in all respects for the sea.”
The florid-face gentleman, a full-blooded Irishman if there ever was one, touches his porkpie hat in a half-salute and then smiles. “It’s not my first time on a ship, captain, that I can tell you, but it’s my very first time on a battleship.”
“Mine as well—but not Captain Morrison. Am I right, sir?”
The older gentleman, nods from his Mount Olympus pylon chair.
Koga looks at the elder statesman of the sea. “Captain, I would be honored if you would be so kind as to give the first order.”
Morrison nods. And with that gesture, his aged and sea-worn face tightens into the firmness of his long-ago command. “Mr. O’Rourke, you have the conn.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Hard enough to stumble along with your hands trapped in zip-tie cuffs behind y
our back while somebody prods you with the barrel of an automatic rifle.
Worse, the cloth bag tied over your head makes you blind and every breath a battle. But DEA Agent Chris Jensen persists as he always has, ever since when he was a young marine-recruit and raised his right hand to take the oath.
He keeps mentally repeating those long-ago words to keep from panicking in front of his Mexican captors.
"I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God."
From the multiplicity of footsteps, he guesses the small group of captured DEA agents and Mexican Infanteria de Marina shock troops remains intact. But for how long? And where the hell are they taking us?
And why?
When first captured after the botched raid, the cartel goons heaved them into the back of the step van like sacks of garbage. Lying there on the truck’s bare metal floor alongside the dead bodies of their comrades, the bound and head-bagged survivors huddled in silence. F
or a solid hour—or as close a time as Jensen can estimate, they hummed along on what passes for superhighways in the Yucatán.
Then the bumps and bouncing began.
Then the van stopped abruptly.
Doors banged open.
Grunts and muttering as the goons dragged the dead bodies out of the van, one by one.
Distant shouting, laughter, and somebody even whistling, for God’s sake!
Sporadic small arms fire, but clearly celebratory not defensive.
More laughter.
Then bumpy riding again for a long while before the sound of singing tires on smooth macadam meant some kind of major highway.
Finally, slowing down, stopping and starting, with turns left and right. Sounds of horns, both from outside and from inside the step van, too.
