Battleship Boys

by Paul Lally

  While those days are long gone, the complex systems were left in place for museum ship visitors to marvel at when she was anchored in Portsmouth, including the Mk 28 gun director on top of the fire control tower and the forward main battery plotting room located below decks.

  Back in her glory days, moving through the ocean in three constantly changing axes and firing live rounds, the Rock’s old-fashioned, yet lethally effective, electro-mechanical analog computer continuously updated bearing and elevation, pitch and roll, and relative wind direction.

  When the time came to pull the trigger, the Mk 8 calculated relative motion between “OWN SHIP” and “TARGET”, including the target’s present position, and the future position at the end of the projectile’s flight.

  Amazing yes?

  Think about it.

  All of this accomplished by an electro-mechanical computer—no transistors, no diodes, no electronics, just wheels, cogs, cams, gears, and dials, that pushed, pulled, rotated, elevated, depressed, turned on, turned off, and by the grace of its genius designers, routinely generated astonishingly accurate target inputs that guaranteed the Rock’s thunderous salvoes landing with a resounding, cataclysmic BOOM upon the unlucky targets and their equally unlucky inhabitants.

  So much so, that when it came time to re-activate the battleship for Vietnam, they left the Mk 8 system in place and fully operational. Ditto during the Gulf War too.

  Proof that when it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

  It wasn’t and they didn’t.

  Back when Tommy Riley served as turret officer in Vietnam, he never had the chance to manually target the guns. That was the Mk 8’s job in the forward primary battery plot.

  But he practiced doing so, because in the highly unlikely event of the GFCS being knocked out, each of the Rock’s four main battery turrets had eight sailors standing by their rangefinders, sighting controls, gun pointers, aimers, and setters just in case.

  When the oil platform heaves into sight tomorrow morning, Tommy will be at his station here in the turret, not to assist a turret captain in maintaining proper order like he did back in Vietnam, but to operate the still-functional manual controls that will target their single gun, and by doing so oversee the death and destruction of a Shell Oil platform in the Gulf of Mexico.

  Abandoned during a long-ago hurricane, stripped of its topside essentials, it awaits the thunderous arrival of Stanley Albertini and Tommy Riley’s hammer to send it on its one-way journey to Davy Jones’ Locker.

  “Where the hell are we?” DEA Agent Jensen says—rather than sees—his counterpart, Capitano Gomez. They and the other hostages have been in pitch-black darkness ever since a disgusting meal of stale tortillas and cold re-fried beans. No hoods now, but the complete absence of light makes it just as effective.

  “Túnelos secretos,” Gomez says. “The secret tunnels.”

  “I figured as much. They give tours down here, right?”

  “Si, but we must be on a branch that only Garcia’s people know about. We suspected Vargas had a drug-making setup somewhere down here but didn’t have the manpower to pinpoint it close enough to stage a raid.”

  “Well, now you know. Too bad nobody else does. Shit, we could be on Mars for all they know.”

  A brief pause.

  In the darkness, the rush of Gomez’s breath feels warm on Jensen’s ear. So surprising is the sensation that he rears back, but the Mexican captain yanks his head closer and whispers, “Give me your hand, amigo.”

  Jensen surrenders. Gomez guides it up to a spot just behind his left ear.

  “Feel that little bump?”

  “Yes.”

  “Implant.”

  “What kind?”

  “RFID-6 chip.”

  “They’ll never read that thing down here. We’re way too deep.”

  “It’s an active implant. Battery lasts three years. Only been in for one.”

  “You’re shitting me. You guys have active RFIDs?”

  “Keep your voice down! Yes, we do. Not all Mexicans work the fields and pick strawberries. Some of us invent.”

  “What’s the range?”

  “Two hundred meters in all directions, including up.”

  “Damn.”

  “By now, my team knows exactly where we are.”

  “Good deal. But knowing is one thing, getting here before they....” he trails off.

  Gomez’s breath catches slightly.

  It’s not like somebody paints stripes on the ocean to designate where ships sail. They follow long established shipping lanes, some created hundreds of years ago when sails ruled the sea.

  The “lanes” themselves are fluid in their dimensions, with radar and GPS being the “traffic cops” that safely guide shoebox-shaped container ships, vehicle-jammed Ro-Ros, and LNG behemoths across the world’s oceans from continent to continent.

  Like water, the precise spot where the Rock currently sails is equally fluid. Long before departing Boston, Captain Koga consulted his first officer, a Malay who’d seen his share of sunrises over the Atlantic and Pacific. Together, they agreed upon a course that’s currently keeping them eight miles off the Georgia coastline; well inside the “territorial sea;” a maritime zone over which the United States maintains sovereignty that extends to airspace above and seabed below.

  Tommy Riley and his son Jack are bundled up in winter jackets and watch caps, braving the cold air in the open space of the “dashboard,” the docking bridge directly above the navigation bridge. A familiar spot for Tommy, back when he and JJ were butter-bar ensigns, now he and his son, binoculars in hand, scan the waters to starboard. The late afternoon winter sun flirts with the western horizon.

  “The glare makes it hard to see anything,” Tommy says.

  “They said they’re about a half-hour behind schedule.”

  “Typical. Some things never change in this man’s navy.”

  “Except for women.”

  “Touché.”

  “Why don’t you head below, Pop? There’s plenty of room on the navigation bridge—or with the admiral down in his royal roost.”

  Tommy laughs. “He’s eating up the flag bridge that’s for sure.”

  “Not every day you get to enjoy the red carpet as you cruise on a battleship.”

  Tommy lowers his binoculars and looks hard at Jack. “Have I told you lately how grateful I am—how we are—that you’re doing this...this amazing thing?”

  Jack grins but doesn’t say anything. He scans the horizon for a while, then turns to his father. “Sometimes you have to do something to find out if it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Jump in with both feet, you mean?”

  “Like you did with your law practice. You didn’t know if things would work, right? That you’d get paying clients.”

  “Not a clue. And with mom pregnant with your sister. Scary times.”

  “But you did it anyhow.”

  “Feet first.”

  “What if it hadn’t worked out?”

  Tommy gives this some thought. “You know, I honestly think that if you approach it the way I did—or the way you’re doing with this ship and all the other things you do with your life—that somehow, someway it always works out because you’re working, not waiting.”

  For an uncomfortable instant, Jack thinks about Bianca up in Anchorage, Alaska doing God knows what, but not doing it with him, that’s for sure. And if his dad’s right—and the son-of-a-bitch is rarely wrong—then he didn’t jump in feet first with her. Not ever. He just dipped his big toe in the water is all.

  Whereas she, on the other hand...

  “I love you, caro mio,” Bianca said to him in the beginning, “I can’t help it, I just do. Wherever you go, I’ll go. I want to take care of you until I can’t take care of you anymore, because I love you, caro mio, I can’t help it, I just do.”

  Uncomfortable with hearing Bianca’s low, throaty voice sounding loud and clear in his head, Jack lifts his binoculars to scan the sea.
What before was the empty grey nothingness of the ocean now has a visitor.

  “Contact! Bearing zero-three-zero, range ten thousand yards.”

  Up go Tommy’s binoculars, too. “What do you make her?”

  “Destroyer...or frigate of some kind.”

  Tommy examines the distant target. “From the way her mast is stepped, I’m guessing a destroyer. Probably Arleigh Burke-class. Navy’s got scads of them.”

  Jack scoots over to the port side of the docking bridge to where Bob Martin huddles with his camera crew.

  “You don’t mess around!!” Jack says. “You wrangled us an official welcoming committee, no less.”

  Bob’s all smiles. “We’re going to drone the shit out of this ocean meet—am I right, Robbie baby?”

  The hefty videographer crouches over an equally hefty drone on the deck that Bob proceeds to brag about like a newborn baby. He goes on and on about how this is not one of those toy-like birds that buzz around like angry sparrows with a dinky smartphone clipped onto it.

  No sir, no way.

  “Feast your eyes on a Matrice 800,” He announces. “A full-fledged, heavy-lifting aerial platform with integrated gimbals that allow 360-degree vertical and horizontal movement, not to mention...”

  On and on his college friend goes, blah-blah-blah—a mind-numbing data-dump unless you’re a full-fledged techie like Bob Martin.

  Jack waits him out before finally saying, “How many arms did you twist to divert a destroyer?”

  “Zero arms. When both are long enough to scratch each other’s backs at the same time, you have a win-win.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, sharing dual-purpose footage for the Navy’s ad agency. We use it for our publicity purposes, and they use it in their latest recruitment campaign. Nothing better than kick-ass shots of a World War Two battleship going flank speed alongside a modern-day ship of the line.

  “Add that to the daily B-roll stories we’re feeding the media—including the meet—and the Navy brass is madly in love with the idea of being part of the Rock’s farewell tour.”

  “And we get out of this—other than eye-candy footage—what exactly?”

  Bob taps his forehead. “We turn this ship into a regular Barbra Streisand or Cher.”

  “Huh?”

  “Those ladies go on farewell tours all the time.... but they never say goodbye.”

  “But you can’t stay at sea forever.” Jack looks around. “The Rock is not the Flying Dutchman.”

  “Neither are those ladies. They both have homes. And the Rock will find hers too. Mark my words.”

  Tommy’s eyes are as good as ever, because the approaching ship is indeed an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer; the USS John S. McCain, fresh from a major refit at Norfolk and preparing to deploy back to the Fifth Fleet in the Persian Gulf. But not without first paying homage to a legacy battleship, the USS New Hampshire.

  The modern-day destroyer’s packed with surface-to-air missiles, anti-ship missiles, and anti-submarine rockets unerringly guided by an Aegis phased-radar system that multi-tasks like nobody’s business. The ship’s wide flaring bow and water-plane area-hull form slashes through the roughest seas at high speeds while remaining a stable weapons platform—not to mention a stable stomach platform for the officers and sailors who serve onboard.

  The McCain’s low-slung, menacing silhouette is on majestic display as she races to catch up to the Rock. A foaming white “moustache” on her bow indicates her flank speed as four gas turbines crank out over 80,000 horsepower to drive the ship over 34 knots. She’ll back off, once in position for the parallel course planned by Bob Martin and approved by the powers-that-be back in Washington, D.C.

  The difference in size between the two ships is breathtaking to say the least. “David and Goliath” springs to mind. Except in this case, both combatants are on the same side.

  Only half the length of the 900-foot-long battleship, the McCain continues pulling forward to take up position about two hundred yards off the Rock’s port bow. As she does so, the drone camera, now aloft and a tiny dot in the sky, races forward to take up its first position.

  Onboard the battleship, word spreads fast. The vets crowd the rails, bundled up in their pea jackets to stay warm. By now, Admiral Lewis and Captain Morrison have joined Jack and the others on the docking bridge to witness the pass-by salute as the McCain’s sailors “man the rails” to render honors to the Rock and her ship’s complement.

  While Robbie the cameraman works twin joysticks on a control unit suspended by a chest harness to capture the moment, the others gather around a field monitor to observe his shot. The group alternates between watching the real scene taking place off the port bow and the bright and beautiful images on the video screen.

  JJ shakes his head. “That tin can’s going to leave us in the dust.”

  “Not for long, sir,” Bob says. “Once she’s on station she’ll pace us for the flyby.”

  Heads turn at that.

  Especially the admiral’s. “I thought that item was dead on arrival.”

  “Did a little Heimlich maneuver, sir, and out popped the Blue Angels.”

  “Tell me you’re joking.”

  “Sir, I’ve never served in the armed forces, but I have enough common sense never EVER to bullshit a three-star.”

  “Retired three-star.”

  “Makes no difference, sir.”

  Bob waves to a production crew member who’s wearing a headset. “Status, please, Rick?”

  “Angel Flight’s ten minutes inbound. S-turning at hold station Alpha until green light.”

  “Fabulous,” Bob says.

  Eyes widen along with Martin’s smile as he describes how the Navy’s precision flying team, currently in winter quarters in Pensacola, re-jiggered their operational schedule to include a flyover the two warships as part of the footage Bob will not only use for his daily “farewell tour” feeds to media outlets, but also share it with the Navy’s advertising agency.

  And let’s face it, nothing says “Go Navy” like a bona fide battleship racing across the ocean at top speed to defend America. And nothing says it’s a team effort than a modern-day missile destroyer leading the way. Need further proof? Then hold your ears as five Navy blue FA/18 Hornets howl overhead at five hundred feet, trailing white smoke, then kick in their afterburners and go vertical.

  All of which happens, right on cue.

  A breathtakingly low angle shot, just above the waves as the McCain slashes past. As the destroyer does so, the drone swoops upward like a phoenix to reveal the Rock thundering toward the lens.

  Climbing higher, the drone looks straight down at the battleship’s bristling armament arrayed on her broad decks. One by one, her 16-inch main battery turrets pass in review, along with the lucky sweepstakes winners sprinkled like tiny dots across the vast expanse of her teak decks.

  Traveling at flank speed, the battleship soon exits the frame, leaving behind a broad foaming wake to mark her passage.

  “Hold your shot Robbie... hold it...” Bob says. “And.... CUT!”

  “Asshat’s going to do it,” Chief Master Sergeant Wright whispers.

  “At ease,” Commander Goldstein says. “Walls have ears.”

  She nods her head in the direction of the glassed-in observation tier behind them in SOCOM’s Asset Management Center. At the moment, the space is jammed with enough army and navy brass to sink a ship, except SOCOM’s headquarters are on land. Funny how the White House can get admirals and generals out of bed in the middle of the night faster than reveille any day.

  Despite the ticking clock passing Vargas’s 48-hour deadline five minutes ago, the SOCOM (Special Operations Command) logo remains on the screen as a place marker.

  Sergeant Wright says, “So this DEA agent, Jensen... he’s the vice-president’s kid? How come we never knew that?”

  “Because we’re not God, that’s why. And he’s hardly a ‘kid.’ Early forties, ex-Army Ranger, tough operative. G
ets the job done.”

  “Until he gets ambushed.”

  “Happens to the best of us.”

  “And the veep wants him out. That much I get.”

  “So does the president. And not only him, but everyone else too.”

  “Fat chance. You see this, ma’am?” Wright taps a piece of paper. “Cancun’s a minefield of informers. They’ll know we’re coming before we even lift off from Eglin. No matter how many strings the White House pulls, those poor guys are toast.”

  “Thanks for your confidence vote.”

  Wright shrugs. “Not my first rodeo, skipper.”

  “How many days left?”

  “Ten and a wake-up.”

  “Sure you won’t consider re-upping?”

  Wright’s eyes sweep the room, including the top brass in their glassed-in observation area. “Got a minute for storytime?”

  “For you, always.”

  “So... a three-ring circus comes to town. Big parade down main street; clowns, acrobats, bareback riders, lions, tigers, elephants—the works. Along comes a guy following the animals. He’s wearing dirty grey coveralls, a yellow hardhat, and and shoving a trash can on wheels. Every time an elephant or horse lets fly—and they do let fly—he shovels up the shit and dumps it in the can.”

  “A honey-dipper.”

  “You got it, skipper. So..... a guy standing in the crowd watches this happen, and hollers, “That’s a terrible job, mister. Why the hell don’t you quit?”

  The guy dumps a shovelful of shit into the can, and says, “What? And give up show business?”

  Wright lets the punchline hang in the tense air.

  “No more shovel for you?” Goldstein finally says.

  “All yours now, skipper—and look, here we go.”

  The display screen fades to black, flashes back to the SOCOM logo briefly, then finally shifts to a live video feed from Mexico.

  As it does so, Commander Goldstein barks, “Tracing?”

  “Yes, ma’am!” a voice calls out.

  The image stabilizes to the familiar tableau of hostage videos seen all over the world since time began; bad guys with helpless victims demanding impossible things in the vain hope they will get them... or else.