by M L Maki
“Fantastic. Ready to report for duty.”
“What did the doc say?”
“He’s still waiting. I can muscle through this.”
“I’ve got another plan for you.”
“Shit.”
“I talked to Admiral Klindt. He needs you.”
“Me? Why me?”
“His organization is thin on qualified submariners. The problem is your rank. A second class can’t get done what he needs to get done.”
“Then I can go back on the boat?”
“Kichiro, do you trust me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Raise your right hand.” Bewildered, Kichiro complies. Morrison opens the folder he brought and reads the oath. Kichiro, in dawning surprise, repeats it. When they finish, Petrea shows Kichiro the lieutenant’s bars and pins it onto his pillow.
“Lieutenant, sir?”
“It’s what Admiral Klindt told me to do, and I agree with him.”
Kichiro starts crying, “Me, sir?”
“You.”
“If only my wife could have seen this.”
“I agree.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“I know you will. We brought your sea bag. I pulled out your enlisted stuff for the lucky bag. The tailor should be up shortly to measure you for your uniforms.”
“Tailored uniforms? Sir, that will cost a fortune.”
“Admiral Klindt is taking care of it. I’m getting you everything, except a sword. When you get a chance, you should get one when you get stateside.”
“Why, sir.”
“Because you’ll be working for an Admiral. We have to assume you will be attending formal events. Now, I also bear some bad news. In a week, or two, you’ll be standing your submarine officer board. Backes, Miller, and I will help you prepare. We’ll also be sitting your board.”
“But, sir, for a pin, I have to qualify all the watches and be a nuke.”
“Not if you’re going to serve in a diesel boat. That might be what he has in mind. He may also be thinking you’ll have an easier time directing construction with a pin on your chest. Remember, the dolphins were approved in 1924, so folks now know what they mean.”
“But, sir, can I really earn them? If I don’t earn them, I don’t want them.”
“We’ll have to cut some corners to get you qualified. Most of the stuff you already know. Keep in mind, when you return to sea, it will be to a new submarine class, or as a nuke officer on the San Francisco. Either way, you’ll have to qualify the boat.”
“Do we have a nuclear power school?”
“We do. I don’t know if that is what you want, or what the Admiral wants. We’ll have to play that by ear.”
“Yes, sir.”
The tailor comes in and Petrea steps out. Morrison helps him get the measurements. When the tailor is done and has gone, Morrison says, “One more thing. Cumberland will have a cow if he finds out about his. Let’s keep him in the dark.”
“Yes, sir.” Kichiro smiles, “I think he would explode.”
“Probably. I need you to rest now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Morrison puts Kichiro’s rank bars in his bag and leaves.
Once out of the hospital, Petrea says, “That was a really good thing. It felt good.”
“Yeah. Kiche is a good duck.”
Morrison drives them to Olivia’s Tea Garden south of downtown. Waiting outside are Gloria, Sam, and two men. One has the bone structure of a Native American, and the other is a guy of average height in a perfectly tailored and sharp uniform. All four are in aviation green uniforms.
Sam says, “Commander Morrison, Commander Petrea, our RIO’s Eric Hawke and Byron Standley. Guys, John Morrison and Liz Petrea.” They shake hands, then go into the tea room. A young woman seats them, “Do you need a minute to look over the menu?”
Sam asks, “Guys, to do you trust me?” They all nod. “Good. We’ll have the high tea with the salmon, cucumber, and cheese. For tea’s; Earl Grey, Darjeeling, and the China black. Thank you.”
“Of course. It will be just a moment.”
Sam grins at them, “Gentlemen, is this your first high tea?”
Eric and Byron nod, and John says, “No. Scotland.”
She grins, “Okay, don’t stick your pinky out. It’s pretentious and silly. The sandwiches and scones are finger food. The cakes need a fork. These are fun, so relax.”
Eric, “You’re asking the impossible of Byron.”
The pilots chuckle.
John, “Guys, can I ask your call signs?”
Erick, “I’m Puck.”
Byron, “I’m GQ.”
Liz, “Are you a Shakespeare fan?”
Eric, “Flight training roll call, ‘Hawke, E.’ Puck.”
They laugh. Young ladies come out with the three tea pots, cups with saucers, cream, and milk. Sam, “I’ll be the mother,” and she serves the tea.
Gloria, “It’s a shame other communities do not adopt call signs. Your captain would be officially known as ‘Shit Head’.”
John nearly spits out his tea.
GQ, “We heard about your rating who was assaulted. How’s he doing?”
John, “He’s rather upset that he’s being transferred to D.C. We’re still waiting to see how bad his kidney and liver were damaged. Oh, and he isn’t a rating anymore. I swore him in as a lieutenant this morning.”
GQ, “Why?”
Sam, “Klindt.”
John looks at her surprised, then smiles, “Yeah. He’s reporting to Admiral Klindt’s staff.”
Sam, “Oh, good.”
John, “You know him?”
Sam, “I was part of Captain Johnson’s brain trust. Admiral Klindt ran it.”
Liz, “When Klindt got his stars, he had Sam pin them on.”
Sam, “John, do you know him?”
“Yeah, we served together on the sub tender Fulton. He was a lieutenant and I was a JG. We became good friends.”
Sam, “And Liz, you served under him?”
Liz, “Yeah. “We’ve figured it out. Have you?”
“He outright told me. Yeah, I get it.”
Puck, “Get what?”
John, “Admiral Klindt is choosing officers to mentor and asking those officers to choose more.”
Puck, “Does this club have a secret hand shake?”
Sam, “No, but it does have plenty of meetings.”
GQ, “You four are in? Are we being invited?”
Sam, “You are. Both of you.”
GQ, “I doubt he wants me.”
Sam, “I want you in the club, Byron, so you’re in the club, unless you want out. If that is what you want, that’s fine.”
GQ makes eye contact with her, “I want in.”
Puck, “Me, too, if Indians are invited.”
John, “Native Americans are needed, Eric. You’re probably the highest ranking Native American in military service. I’m sure I’m the highest-ranking person with Asian blood. It’s central to what he’s doing.”
GQ, “So, he’s trying to integrate the Navy. I’m for that. Where do I fit in?”
The food is brought in on three-tiered silver services.
Sam, “As the Navy ramps up the war, it has less than three thousand pilots of all types. By the end of the war, we’ll have twenty times that number. When we came back, we had about eighty pilots and flight officers, and we’ve had losses. Who’s going to lead all the new jet squadrons? Some will be led by very competent 1940’s naval aviators. Most will be led by successful 1990’s aviators. We understand how to use the technology. I hate counting kills, but we four are leading the pack. Our squadron is leading the pack. That will matter. If we don’t screw up, all three of you will have your own squadron within a year or two. John, you’ll have your own boat. Liz, if you don’t end up in a design bureau, you’ll have your own command.”
Liz, “A woman?”
Sam grins, “I have my command. Nimitz made that decision, by the
way, not Klindt.”
John, “Liz, what kind of command would you want?”
Liz, “I can’t command a carrier, and I couldn’t serve on a submarine. I don’t know if it could be done.”
Sam, “That’s what you don’t want.”
Liz, “I would have to think about it. I have trouble imagining me running a battleship.”
John, “Sam is right. Wakefield has her command. If you want it, one is coming for you.”
“Okay, John, but I don’t feel ready.”
Sam laughs, “Oh, I know that one.” She’s quiet, looking out the window, “You know, Admiral Lee and I had that conversation. You’re never ready. No one is. He said that when you look up to those leaders above you, you think you see wise, and maybe even, noble people. What you are really seeing are old people trying really, really hard not to screw up. What matters is character. You see, those people who take command as their right, instead of their duty, are unsuited for command. Those people who worry primarily about their subordinates, and how to take care of them, have the right character and attitude for command. Guys, with the right leaders, that have the right attitudes, and serve in the right positions, we can change the Navy for the better, and give our country, and the world a better future. That’s what Admiral Klindt is working for; nothing less than a better world.”
CHAPTER 17
USS SAN FRANCISCO
1530, 9 February, 1942
Mallory is checking the alignment on one of the pumps when Gustaf sits down beside him, “Dude, where have you been?”
“I’ve been busy, why?”
“You fucking disappeared with that red-head and I ain’t hardly seen you since. Does she put out, or something?”
“What happened to you and the blonde?
“We talked a while. We walked the Victoria market and I bought her lunch at a little place. After that, she took me to her house. It’s way west of here. Anyway, her dad came home when we were making out on the couch. He had a fucking cow and threw me out. I wasn’t feeling her up or anything. We were just kissing.”
“I told you they were nice girls. So, you haven’t seen her again?”
“Oh no. We met yesterday. I took her shopping and now I’m broke. What happened to your red-head? Did she part her legs for you?”
Mallory, “Will you stop with the fuck language.”
“Why? You’re not fucking marrying her, are you?”
“Drop it.”
“You are. The president of the he-man woman hater’s club is getting hitched. My God. She must have been an incredible fuck.”
In a flash, Mallory has Gustaf by his shirt front, and is picking him up, one-handed, until Gustaf’s feet are off the deck. He holds him there for a moment, “Don’t fucking talk about my wife that way. Clear?”
“Clear man. Sorry.”
“Yeah, you are.”
“Dude, I was just fucking around. I didn’t know.”
“Well, now you do.”
“You said wife. Are you already married?”
“No, it’s in four days. Wankowski is standing up for me. Her best friend is standing up for her. That gives us time to go to the consulate after.”
“Are you going to send her home?”
“No, not during the war. When it’s over, I’ll come get her.”
“The last time it didn’t end until 1945.”
“I know. I make it to twenty next December. I know they’ll keep me to the end. By then, I should be a chief, or senior chief, with over twenty-two. That retirement is pretty good.”
“Did her dad approve?”
“Yeah, I got his blessing. He’s really cool and he really loves Amy. He loves Amy like I love my boys. She’s so different from Sissy.”
“Where did you propose to her?”
“On a sail boat. I asked her to marry me after the war. That way, if she gave up on me, there’s no paper involved. She said no. She’d only marry me if we did it now. She’s something.”
“Cool. I’m happy for you. Can you teach me how to align motors?”
“Sure.”
WOOLWICH DOCK, WEST OF SYDNEY
1710, 09 February, 1942
It takes Morrison a couple of hours to drive to the dock yard. The Royal Australian Navy gate guard checks their ID and lets them through. As they drive up, they can see the work being done on the destroyer. The new bridge hasn’t been installed yet and there is an erector set of metal pieces on the dock side. A crane is lifting components into place where the bridge used to be.
Morrison, “Damn. Do you know what happened?”
Petrea, “Just that it took a missile in the Japanese attack.”
A yard worker runs up as they leave their car and hands them each a hard hat. The watch at the foot of the brow lets them pass, and they go aboard. As they step onto the Fife, they salute the flag, then the quarterdeck watch, and present their ID. Petrea, “Request to come aboard and speak with Commander Wakefield.”
The quarterdeck watch studies their ID, “Come aboard.”
Morrison, “Is Commander Wakefield aboard?”
“Yes, sir. She’s in a meeting in the chief’s mess.” He gives directions.
Morrison, “Not the wardroom?”
“The wardroom was under the bridge.”
“Understood.” They meet three civilians leaving shortly before they get to the hatch for the chief’s mess. Petrea knocks, and they enter.
Wakefield looks up, a confused look on her face. She stands and offers a hand, “Commander Wakefield. Can I help you?”
Petrea shakes her hand, “Liz Petrea, RTA on the Vinson.”
Morrison shakes Wakefield’s hand, “John Morrison, XO of the San Francisco.”
Wakefield smiles, “Coffee is over there. How can I help you?”
Morrison, “Can we reverse that? How can we help you?”
“Unless you have a miracle or two, I’m not sure.”
John sips his coffee, “Good coffee.”
“You can’t have my yeoman,” Wakefield smiles.
John, “I wouldn’t think of it. Do you know Admiral Klindt?”
“He was the RO on the Vinson. I know he left in Hawaii, but that’s about it.”
Liz, “He has a third star and an interesting gig. His title is Vice CNO for Special Projects, and NAVSEA-08.”
“Wow. But, where do I fit in?”
John, “I served with him when he was a lieutenant and I was a JG. He’s been mentoring me, Liz, and about a dozen other officers, especially minority and female officers.”
“Again, where do I fit in?”
Liz, “I’ve no doubt that what you are doing is hard as hell. Important, rewarding, but hard. Might it give you a little peace of mind to know you have a friend who sits next to the CNO and advices the President directly?”
Wakefield’s eyes widen and her mouth falls open, then shuts with a snap. “What goal is he working toward. Nothing is ever free.”
Liz, “As a start, he wants to integrate the Navy and create protective legislation for women and minorities in the work place.”
John, “There are times when knowing the struggles of people on the ground, as well as their successes is useful to a guy who’s trying to get Congress to move forward with legislation. Also, by helping the next generation of leaders succeed and grow, he’s building a better Navy.”
Wakefield, “So, he’s looking for spy’s in the ranks?”
Liz, “No, Commander, he isn’t some J. Edgar Hoover building a blackmail ring. He’s in charge of all the new technology. He can fast track what we need.”
“Like?”
John, “Like what is your highest priority, torpedoes or ASROCs?”
“ASROCs.”
John, “Do you assume the Navy knows that?”
“Oh, probably not.”
“They will tomorrow, because I’ll pass that along. They’re building new ships like crazy. What systems on your ship would be critical to the success of the new destroyers?”
“Number one is bow and towed sonar. If you can’t find them, you can’t kill them. After that, it’s the torpedo systems, ASROC and ship launched. Guns and missiles are secondary, but should be fitted.”
