Battleship Boys

by Paul Lally

  “Sir, it’s the only one that has a chance to work, considering mission constraints. Every other scenario we gamed blew up within two hours of team insertion: too many people know what’s going on in that town. Cartel guys’ll wipe out those hostages in a heartbeat the instant they find out—and they will, guaranteed. But not if we get there first.”

  “You said that about the Bin-Laden mission, as I recall.”

  “Yes, sir, I did. But thanks to you and Admiral Lewis backing me up, the Navy finally changed their perimeter planning and...well, we both know what happened to that 911 asshole—excuse my French again.”

  A brief silence as each takes the measure of the other.

  The general slowly shakes his head. “Tell me one more time how someone as talented as you can’t seem to get above O-4. You’ve been a major—how long, now?”

  CW rubs what’s left of the Marine buzz-cut on his male-pattern baldness head. “Too long, sir.”

  Richardson leans forward. “You screw the pooch on this, and I’ll be joining you as a fellow major—if I’m lucky.”

  “Never happen,” CW says.

  “Why not?”

  “Because we’re gonna save those guys, grab that son-of-a-bitch Vargas by the short hairs, and bring his sorry Mexican ass to justice.”

  “For the record, he’s Maya,” Goldstein says softly.

  “For the record, I don’t give a shit...ma’am.”

  Unfazed, Commander Goldstein glances over to General Richardson.

  He nods in silent agreement then says, “And that—SNAP—Major Williston—SNAP—is why you will forever be on my shit list.”

  CW snaps off a razor-sharp Annapolis salute. “As always, an honor and a privilege, SIR.”

  The general locks eyeballs with each of them in turn.

  “It’s against my better judgement—SNAP—but since Mainiac’s on board with your plan and I trust him farther than I can throw him...” He checks his watch. “Mission authorized as of twenty-three hundred hours—SNAP—Good luck, good hunting. Dismissed.”

  “Stanley! Something’s wrong with this damned diopter,” Tommy Riley hollers as he presses his eye tightly against the rubber eyepiece of the Mark 53 Range Finder. “I can’t get the reticules to align.”

  “No way, José. I checked it out an hour ago and it works fine.”

  Stanley scrambles aft through the central hatch in the transverse bulkhead separating the gun room from the turret officers’ booth, where Tommy sits at the manual range finder operator’s station.

  During wartime, the Rock’s main and secondary battery plots, safely buried deep inside the ship, controlled the guns’ sighting and firing by remote control. But should they be disabled for any reason, or lose connectivity to individual turrets, each gunhouse had the ability to take over manually. Not radar-controlled sighting and firing, mind you. Only what the eye could see.

  In Tommy’s case, not much.

  He’s been trying to focus on the fuzzy outline of the abandoned Gulf Oil drilling rig two miles away, shimmering in the hot sunlight, its skeletal, picked-over framework waiting for the first of the Rock’s high explosive shells to send it to the bottom.

  Stanley leans over Tommy’s shoulder. “Switch places, lemme’ take a gander.”

  He squints into the eyepiece for a brief moment...shakes his head, leans back, and then fusses with the diopter ring. “Mind telling me how come you set this to position ‘three’?”

  “It’s what I used.”

  “Back in ‘Nam.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “And tell me...exactly when did you get that fancy-ass cataract surgery you’re always bragging about?”

  “My implants? About five years ago.”

  “And you don’t use readers, correct?”

  “Not anymore.”

  Stanley shakes his head. “Your eyes are in great shape, but your memory’s for shit, Lieutenant Riley. That was then. This is now.”

  He fusses with the diopter until the focusing mechanism “clicks” a couple times.

  “See for yourself.”

  Tommy sits down, looks into the view finder, grins, and leans back. “I’ll be dipped in shit. Clear as crystal.”

  “Lieutenant, SIR, do you mind entering the range and bearing so me and the guys can get to work?”

  Tommy plays his hands over the familiar rotary dials and knobs of the Mark 53. “That I can do in my sleep.”

  “Standing by!”

  Stanley scuttles back to the open hatch leading into the gun room, ducks inside and inside and shouts, “Get ready, fellas!”

  Tommy fusses with the sound-powered microphone, then says, “Turret Four to bridge. Target acquired. Request permission to open fire.”

  JJ’s voice is faint but clear. “Permission granted. Fire at will.”

  Up on the navigation bridge, Captain Koga lowers his binoculars and turns to the retired admiral. “Rudder amidships, vessel hove-to, thrusters maintaining current position until otherwise directed.”

  “Outstanding, captain. Get ready to plug your ears.”

  Koga smiles slightly. “The moment has arrived at last.”

  “Has it ever—c’mon Jack, it’s party time.”

  They exit the navigation bridge and hustle aft to the secondary battery director and join the crowd of eager onlookers. Situated three decks above the weather deck, the battleship vets are high enough to see the action but far enough away to be safe from the muzzle blast.

  In the distance, the offshore deep water drilling platform is visible to the naked eye. Not much to look at by now, of course. By now, “pre-salvage” ghouls from BDR have chopped off the rig’s drill string, sealed the drill template, and hauled away what they could.

  Last year’s Hurricane Medusa scoured the Gulf like a toilet brush and knocked out of commission fourteen similar platforms during eighteen long hour of howling madness. Seven of them permanently, including this one. Seems Mother Nature is not fond of humans drilling into her hide for heavy crude.

  On the Rock’s weather deck directly below the onlookers, Turret 3 sleeps the sleep of the just, its guns horizontal, trained toward the stern. But further aft, Turret 4 has already rotated 90-degrees seaward to port. While its right and left guns remain horizontal, the center gun continues elevating until it stops precisely at a 41-degree angle.

  Jack says, “I read somewhere that it’s loud as hell out here when the gun fires, but not so bad inside the turret.”

  “Affirmative. Tons of heavy armor between them and the muzzle, plus a breech block that absorbs the concussion.”

  “Borrow your binocs, sir?” Jack says. He scans the distant horizon and frowns slightly. “Wish it weren’t so damned hazy.”

  “Your dad’s rangefinder optics are much better than binoculars.”

  JJ points at wing-like protrusions on the rear of the turret, one on each side. Inside, where Tommy’s hard at work, a barrel-shaped tube spans the width. Filled with mirrors and reticulated parallax lenses, and guided by Tommy’s manual input, the range and bearing are determined, then inputted into the sight pointer and trainer’s controls.

  Once Stanley and his team’s completed their loading work—which will be any second now, Tommy will change hats and take over as the turret officer and manually fire the gun.

  JJ says, “What’d you end up telling the Gulf Oil folks that made them turn over the rig?”

  “Money talks.”

  “Yours, that is. And lots, am I right?”

  “My team managed to get hold of their salvage estimates and—”

  “—How the hell did you—”

  “—Like you, admiral, I know somebody—anyhow, they were prepared to spend almost one-point-two million to blow the thing up. I offered to pay one-point-five, instead.”

  “They must have loved your math.”

  As a result, the men on the Rock now regard a hurricane-battered, forlorn-looking, four-legged platform floating in the middle of the ocean that’s ab
out to go away. Assorted leftover single-story structures dot its surface, slowly baking in the hot Gulf of Mexico sun—so too, are the guys on board the battleship.

  A few days ago, they shivered and shook as they boarded in freezing cold Boston. Gone are the peacoats, watch caps and gloves. In their place, T-shirts, open-collar, short-sleeves, and baseball caps have become the uniform-of-the-day for all the happy hands.

  Jack shields his eyes from the glare. “Must be hot as blazes down in that turret.”

  “Their blood’s up, won’t matter.”

  The distinct, single-toned “double-beep” main battery firing alarm sounds loud and clear over the ship’s P.A. system. Like a single beast responding to the familiar call, the former battlewagon sailors jam their fingers in their ears. They know what’s coming.

  “Here we go!” JJ says.

  Ears firmly plugged, 257 pairs of eager eyeballs focus on the center barrel of the three-gun turret as it seems to tremble in anticipation of Tommy’s final aiming adjustments.

  Up until this instant, the activity inside the turret has been fast and furious, starting with hoisting an HC (High Capacity) shell from the projectile handling flat to the center gun. Simultaneously, six propellant charges rose from the magazine flat as well.

  Gun Captain Albertini resembles Golum in the Lord of the Rings; stripped to the waist, skinny as a rail, and sweating like mad. He swings opens the Welin breech, points at the rammer who slides the projectile deep inside, adds six propellant bags, SLAMS the breech plug shut, locks it, and hits the “ready-to-fire” button.

  Fifteen feet behind him in the turret officer’s booth, Tommy stands in front of a pedestal with three polished brass pistol grips that allow manually firing each of the Mark 7 guns; left-center-right.

  He grasps the center grip with his right hand, crosses his fingers, then, closing his eyes and smiling, he YANKS the trigger.

  Topside, the muzzle’s white-orange flash and thudding BOOM vibrates the deck and rattles the sailors’ teeth, both false and real.

  Because of its trajectory, the black dot of the shell is briefly visible as it reaches its apogee, but soon vanishes as it races away from the Rock on its six-second journey to the platform, two miles away. At that distance, not much to see. But when you’re firing 16-inch guns, it’s best to keep your distance.

  A ragged cheer and burst of applause at the sight of an orange flash and vertical white streak marking water impact as the warhead explodes, then a slender finger of black cloud climbs to the sky.

  “A miss,” JJ says. “Not bad for a ranging shot.”

  “Dead-eye Dad won’t miss next time,” Jack says. “How many shells we bring? I forget.”

  “Enough.”

  “Fabulous.”

  The gun barrel lowers ten degrees below horizontal like a dancer taking a bow. A jet of compressed air WHOOSHES through the gun tube to eject leftover explosive gas and propellant particles that jet out in a white puff that the wind whisks away. Inside the turret, Stanley’s team is quickly re-loading and soon waits for Tommy’s target adjustments based on the shell fall.

  Jack says, “To think, you guys used to do this while steaming at twenty-five knots. You had those amazing gun directors. Electro-mechanical computers no less. Not a transistor or diode in sight.”

  “We also had amazing guys like Stanley and your dad who knew how to operate them. But we didn’t sail at speed and blaze away like cowboys. Most of the time we maintained station and pounded the shore to smithereens.”

  “And the enemy on it.”

  “Today the enemy is a rusting steel platform.”

  “I’ll take that any day.”

  The “firing” double-beep again, and again a moment of hushed silence from the gathered group as they plug their ears. Some of the smarter ones who’ve experienced being on deck during bombardment, open their mouths to equalize eardrum pressure.

  FLASH and BOOM, and another shell is on its way.

  A bigger cheer this time as the projectile lands with a telltale flash of light that means impact on a hard object.

  Once upon a time, the original deep-water platform was a welded and riveted steel creation whose sole purpose was to support a multi-million-dollar drilling rig. If it struck oil, then faithfully supported an equally expensive pumping complex to extract the “black gold.” Now, it’s slowly but surely becoming a torn and twisted pile of steel bound for King Neptune’s world.

  By the fourth round—another direct hit !—one of the three massive flotation legs supporting the platform collapses, causing a steep list to starboard. By the sixth—and final—round, another leg gives out, and the blasted wreck tips over like a dead dog.

  With three broken “legs” stiff in the air, it’s not long for this world as seawater rushes into the ruptured buoyancy tanks, causing it to sink lower and lower.

  After Admiral Lewis gives the “Cease Fire” order, Captain Koga orders “flank speed” to move the Rock closer to the scene of the crime. When they’re less than a half-mile from the wreck, one of the platform legs rises higher from the waters of the Gulf, seemingly “giving the finger” to its murderer.

  But the gesture doesn’t last long. A hissing rush of mist-filled air spurts from the bottommost section of the leg as the ocean claims its victim at long last.

  To the deep-ocean drilling rig’s credit, it begins the journey to the seabed slowly. Only as the final fifty feet of the platform legs remain visible, does King Neptune grow impatient and “drag” the steel down to his waiting arms, squealing and groaning as it goes.

  While it’s true, these old-timers are not witnessing a sinking ship. It’s just a jumble of steel sliding beneath the waves, but... these are more than bunch of geezers with beer bellies and bald heads standing on a battleship. They’re sailors who have stared at limitless, watery horizons, witnessed sunrises and sunsets, moonrises and moonsets, and beheld an immensity of stars shining down upon the trackless nothingness of the open ocean.

  While doing so, they’ve learned many things landlubbers never learn, including this: safety is yours so long as you are on the ocean. Death awaits if you sink beneath.

  And so it is, that as they witness the platform sinking into the abyss, their minds momentarily—and for some even longer—shudder at the thought and think, “There but for the grace of buoyancy and a forgiving God, go I.”

  After the thunderous display of the majesty and might of the 16-inch/50 caliber Mark 7s, the rest of the day is anticlimactic by comparison as the Rock continues her southwestern journey toward the hot and happy city of Cancún.

  The increasingly warm and balmy weather has turned our sweepstakes winners from winter caterpillars into summer butterflies as they enjoy the outdoor delights of a “Steel Beach” picnic held beneath the upraised muzzles of aftermost Turret 4 and spread out across the helipad.

  Chef Curcio and his catering team have set up barbecue grills, upon which sizzle hamburgers, hot dogs, spare-ribs, and Curcio’s infamous Battleship Buffalo Wings guaranteed to turn an unsuspecting beer belly into a burning battleground, complete with fanning of the mouth and a greasy grin.

  Add to these treats, mountains of potato salad, corn chips, guacamole, veggie dip, and ice-filled, galvanized washtubs packed with chilled beers ranging from the artisanal to your basic Bud Light, and you’ve got yourself a picnic, my friend.

  Almost forgot, soft drinks and seltzer water, too, of course. But it seems there’s an almost primeval urge buried in the limbic system of male brains that cannot help but pop open an ice-cold beer the instant his eyes, ears, and nose register the presence of outdoor cooking of any kind.

  Admiral Lewis and Tommy are perfect examples of this as they make their way toward the beer tubs while balancing plates loaded with goodies.

  Beverages chosen (JJ snatches a Heineken and Tommy a Bud) they weave their way through the crowd, some of whom are seated at tables while others stand, eating with one hand and gesticulating with the other in between mons
trous mouthfuls of fabulous food.

  A small bench in the shadow of Turret 3 claims JJ and Tommy’s posteriors as they settle with happy grunts. Nothing but silence for a while except for chewing sounds and slurping sounds, while over the ship’s P.A. loudspeakers Cher sings one of her hit songs, “If I Could Turn Back Time.”

  Tommy points to the Battleship Boys spread out over the fantail, hip deep in a picnic. “Be wild if her chopper landed now instead of on the way back to Boston. The guys’d be blown overboard, along with the barbecue beans, farting all the way.”

  “Tell me how in hell he did it.”

  “You mean Cher?”

  “Of course I do. How’d Jack get her to do a show out here?. And not only that, but to sing that particular song for real, in front of a bunch of old farts like us right here on the fantail. What’d he do?”

  “Cher has a ‘thing’ about old men.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Tommy takes a slug of Bud and belches. “You do know Heineken beer’s for pussies.”

  “How many you had?”

  “Not nearly enough—and it wasn’t Jack who got her to come out here, it was that sidekick of his, Martin.”

  “How so?”

  “No clue. All Jack will say is that she owes Bob a big favor.”

  “Guess they’ll be even after this.”

  More eating, drinking, thinking.

  Then Tommy says, “You’ve been mighty quiet about that phone call you got from ‘Clark Bar’ last night.”

  JJ keeps on chewing.

  Tommy says, “Your call sign when you were in the SEALS...’Mainiac,’ right?”

  A pause and a nod.

  Tommy shakes his head and grins. “Jesus H. Christ, you still have the touch.”

  “What touch.”

  “Getting all John Wayne on me when it comes to some of the shit you did when you were saluting instead of being saluted. Come clean, pal. Somebody named ‘Clark Bar’ calls “Mainiac” in the middle of the night in the middle of the ocean, and you strap on your six-gun, button your lip, climb up on your pony, and pretend it never happened.