by Bob Purssell
Finally, he smiled and said, “My compliments, Lieutenant O’Leary. Ladies, Gentlemen.” His visit over, we saluted the admiral, and he abruptly turned away and exited the room.
I sensed the others, like me, were trying to determine how Admiral Sanzone felt about the lieutenant junior grade who had turned his exercise inside out.
* * *
A few days after the war game, we docked in Singapore. One evening, Kelly and I left the ship and had dinner at a recommended Chinese restaurant.
Kelly had shot down three planes in the exercise and that had opened the way for the flight of bombers that sank the Vinson. This unexpected triumph had galvanized my roommate. At one point in the meal, she put down her chopsticks and told me, “Barbara, I can do it.”
“Do what, Kel?”
“Be the best.” Before I could speak, Kelly expanded on her thought. “If I put my mind to it, if I work at it, kind of like you do, I can be the best pilot in the squadron.”
“Do you want to make that level of commitment?”
“Before the exercise, I would have said yes, but I wouldn’t have followed through. But now, it’s different.”
“You think so?”
“Hell, yes. I’m ready. I kicked ass, and I’m ready to kick more.”
I smiled. The thought of Kelly as all business touched upon the absurd.
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you thought it, right?”
“Kelly Murchison, tigress of the stratosphere.”
“You can laugh now, but you watch. No more bouncing, no more jiggles.”
“Is that anatomically possible?”
Kelly stuck out her tongue and then said, “You just watch the Strato-tigress.” Then to emphasize her point, she made a fierce face and growled.
* * *
Kelly, to my great surprise, was good to her word. She began to crack the books and fly the simulator. Over the next two months, her skill level probably improved, but the benefit was not immediately noticeable. Her opposition probably made a few adjustments, flew somewhat better, and once again prevailed. All this drove Kelly nuts.
One evening, frustrated, angry at herself, angry at the injustice of it all, she ranted, “What’s the use?”
“Kel, you’re getting better.”
“How would you know?”
“Because you’re practicing; you’re studying.”
“But I’m still getting my ass kicked,” she protested.
“Would you consider taking some advice?”
“I’d try anything.”
“Maybe you have to practice smart, not hard.”
Kelly thought about what I had said and then asked, “What do you mean?”
“When I was doing a lot of karting, I couldn’t beat this group of guys; they were always faster than me.”
“So, Ms. Jefferetta Gordon,[38] what did you do?”
“I practiced and practiced and practiced, but I wasn’t closing the gap. My father, who was always my biggest fan, took me aside and told me, ‘Work on being consistent.’” I paused, figuring Kelly would interrupt again. When she remained quiet, I continued, “At first I ignored what he said, but eventually, I became so frustrated that I decided to follow his advice.”
Kelly demanded, “So what did you do?”
“I studied how I was driving. That’s when I noticed my variability; I never drove a corner the same way twice. Now I understood what my father was trying to tell me.”
Obviously thinking about her own situation, Kelly asked, “Did working on your consistency help?”
“Yes, and when I got consistent, my lap times improved. That was the secret: you have to be consistent before you can be good.”
The light went on. Kelly gave me a hug, and then added, “You’re pretty smart … for a girl.”
* * *
Commander Sorensen sent me a file that contained the draft of a report entitled, Preliminary Analysis of the Successful Penetration of CVN-70’s Encrypted Communications. Asked to review and comment, wondering what the DOD experts were thinking, I read the report with great interest. Starting with a summary of the exercise, the report next briefly described how the Reagan’s communication center, using intuitive objects, had attacked the codes used by the Blue Force (primarily the Carl Vinson strike group). The report then went on to describe, in great detail, a major error in the setup of the encoding software used by the Vinson’s strike group. The error, while subtle, undoubtedly made the job of penetrating the Blue Force’s coded message traffic anywhere from a million to a billion times easier. The authors of the report concluded that this setup error, not the intuitive objects, was primarily responsible for the Reagan being able to penetrate the Blue Force codes. To support their conclusion, in an appendix, the authors outlined how a more conventional attack on the codes—one that did not use intuitive objects—could have succeeded in roughly the same time using the same resources.
Of course, I felt the authors had slighted the contribution made by the intuitive objects. Yes, the setup error on the Vinson had made penetration easier, but not trivial. Even with prior knowledge of the flaw, using an approach tailored to exploit that flaw, the authors of the report calculated the Reagan’s massively parallel supercomputer would still take many hours of computation to penetrate the Blue Force’s message traffic.
In my review, I made the point that the intuitive objects, working solely from intercepts, without prior knowledge of the flaw in the Vinson’s encoding software, had found the weakness unaided and had successfully exploited the flaw. In my e-mail reply, I emphasized to Commander Sorensen that the authors of the report had failed to give this point proper weight. In his prompt reply, he acknowledged my observation, but did not indicate what action he intended to take vis-à-vis the report.
The report, in a secondary finding obviously directed at me, criticized the Reagan for using unauthorized software in an operational communication center. Worried about the impact of this criticism on my performance rating, concerned that I might have embarrassed my superiors, I tentatively broached the subject with my CO. She informed me that the ship viewed my actions as an example of a junior officer showing initiative. Seeing my relief, she added, “We can do this because the ship did well in the exercise. If we hadn’t, you and I would be having a very different conversation.”
Wondering if I should ask Commander Sorensen what he intended to do with my review comments, I asked Kelly’s advice. She counseled, “Everybody says that you did great in the exercise. If I were in your situation, I’d quit while I was ahead.”
* * *
As the cruise went on, I realized Kelly and I were sailing different courses. She was moving from newbie status into the accepted category, becoming one of the ship’s favorites, a sort of Billy Budd[39] of the twenty-first century. I, however, was increasingly becoming a creature of the communication center, seldom seen in public, the ship’s nameless, faceless spook[40]. I did not want this dubious honor; it just seemed to happen. Next to the popular, sought after Kelly, I felt like the forgotten plain Jane.
I attributed a lot of my isolation to my appearance. I kept these thoughts to myself until one night when Kelly and I were alone in our stateroom. Sensing something was bothering me, she encouraged me to open up.
“Everybody says being tall and slender is so great, but they don’t hear what I hear.”
Since I seldom have emotional outbursts, realizing something was cooking within me, Kelly asked, “What did you hear?”
“Some of your pilot buddies were-were talking about me.”
With anger in her voice, she demanded, “What did they say?”
“They made jokes.”
“What kind of jokes?”
Taking a breath, pained, I said, “They say I’m flatter than
the flight deck.”
Angry, Kelly exclaimed, “Don’t listen to them; they’re a bunch of jerks.”
With a tear running down my cheek, I replied, “But it’s true.”
I told her about how I felt about being so thin, so pole-like. Expressing my hurt feelings, I told Kelly how in high school Billy had called me an androgynous bitch; how I envied her shape; and how I hated mine.
Sitting next to me on my bunk, she responded, “Girl, you’re not keeping up with current events. You need to employ the miracles of medical science.”
Being less than truthful, I whined, “I don’t want a boob job.”
“I’m not talking about surgery.”
Curious, I asked, “You’re not?”
“Look, Barb, there are hormone treatments. They help your body do what it didn’t do when you were growing up.”
The wiseacre in me replied, “Take two of these pills and a half an hour later you’ll wound two innocent bystanders when all the buttons explode off your blouse.”
“Don’t be such a wiseass. If you’ll promise to listen, I’ll tell you.”
Really curious, I replied, “I promise to zip it. Now tell me.”
For the next half hour, Kelly went through a detailed description of how BetterYou, with offices in Houston and a clinic on a Caribbean island, uses a hormone treatment that causes your body to grow mammary gland tissue. I listened, more out of hope and desire than conviction. Finally, skeptical me asked, “How do you know so much about all this?”
“How do you think?”
“You did it?” I all but shouted.
“Yessiree, ma’am.”
“Bullshit!”
“Look, I was a skinny little runt. When I joined up, I took my signing bonus and decided to make some changes. I did it; so can you.”
Pointing at Kelly’s ample bosom, I said, “So they’re not natural?”
“They’re real alright. They’re you-can’t-tell-with-an-X-ray real.”
“Nobody asked you during your physicals?”
“Why should they? They think—if they think at all—that I’m just a big girl.”
I pondered all Kelly had just told me. Perhaps realizing she had planted a seed, with a sly smile, Kelly said, “Think it over.”
Just after Christmas, the Reagan headed for Sydney, Australia, her last port of call before returning to the United States. Having heard about the wild celebrating the Australians do at New Years, excited, Kelly and I planned our next adventure. As the ship approached the harbor entrance, the XO summoned me to his office.
* * *
The news of my father’s death blindsided me. Given compassionate leave, I left the ship on New Year’s Eve and, in a daze, flew home.
The message had merely stated the fact of his death. I did not know the cause, other than it was accidental. On the long trip home, I did not speculate. It was pointless. I would learn soon enough.
Instead, as I passed the hours in one plane after another, I reflected on the man. What had motivated him and my mother, both already in their fifties, to adopt a child? In high school, I had asked them at dinner one night. My mother had nodded, and my father answered, “We needed you to make our lives complete.”
The way he said it left no doubt that he was using the word “you” in the singular. You, Barbara; you, among the vast number of children waiting for adoption; you, the special one.
How did they find me, little me? Was it just an accident? Simple luck? Divine providence? Was there some hidden agenda? Did my father have a past that somehow connected us? I thought about that, off and on, throughout the trip. I always ended up with one answer: I would never know.
I reflected on my father. Loving, he showed me his warmth in ways large and small. He spared no effort in giving me the best upbringing he could, often putting his own wants and desires aside to ensure mine. He commanded my respect, insisting that I always do the right thing. My mother, who was a powerful figure in her own right, would tell me, “Your father is the boss.” Thinking back on our lives together, I agreed. I had been lucky; miraculously so, considering my circumstances at birth.
My father was nearly eighty when he passed away. An actuarial table would have told me he would leave my life in the not too distant future. His loss was not a case of me missing something he could give, but rather the loss of something we could share. No longer could I call or write to avail myself of his counsel or share both triumphs and disappointments. That was what I would miss.
* * *
After several connecting flights, I completed the final leg of my odyssey. Standing on the tarmac, the bitter cold was a shock after the warmth of the Indian Ocean. Retrieving my bag, I met Elizabeth Sue and Mrs. W. In the car, Elizabeth Sue was particularly distraught. “If I hadn’t gone away for a couple of days after Christmas, all this wouldn’t have happened.”
“You can’t blame yourself,” I replied. “Going away is not doing something wrong.”
“But if I had stayed home none of this would have happened.”
“You helped my father; you took care of my mother. You’ve been wonderful. Please don’t think you did something wrong. There’s no need for self-recriminations.”
Elizabeth Sue and Mrs. W both asked if I wanted them to stay with me. Knowing I would not be able to keep my emotions in check, I told them, “I’d like to be alone.”
When they left, in private for the first time since learning of my father’s death, my emotions burst forth. I cried and cried. Then tired and spent, I went to bed. At three in the morning, I heard a sound. Someone was moving about. Could it be? No, of course not? But maybe?
I got up, went to the kitchen and turned on the light. The mouse stared at me.
Was he or I the stranger?
I got back into bed and tried to accept the fact that my father was gone.
* * *
In my absence, Mrs. W had taken it upon herself to arrange the funeral. When I tried to thank her, she told me, “Your folks were wonderful to us, particularly Elizabeth Sue. With you off serving our country, it was the least I could do.”
At the wake, one of my former teammates from the high school hockey team, Tommy, who was now a police officer for the county, took me aside. “Barbara, I was the investigating officer for your father. If you want, the coroner and I would like to stop by and describe to you what we think happened.”
“Yes. I’d appreciate that.”
“Good. I’ll set it up for the day after the funeral.”
* * *
They came over at nine. Dressed warmly—the temperature was well below freezing—we went outside and began crunching through the snow single file: the police officer, the daughter and the coroner.
We were silent until we reached the eastern boundary of our property. Tommy, who would do virtually all the explaining, began. “Your father walked the boundaries of his property every day.”
“Yes,” I replied, “he called it his constitutional.”
“The day he died he was here, heading north, toward the northeast corner. You can see his footprints still.”
The freshly fallen snow had partially obscured those last steps. We were a hundred or so yards from the northeast corner, where a brook—my father called it the Blue Danube—crossed into and then out of our property.
What was he thinking? Was he thinking of me, of my mother, or of some karting race? Did he realize his time was about to come?
“We measured the steps. They were regular. He was walking normally. We don’t think he was having any trouble. That’s important.”
Trouble? Important? I started to ask but kept silent.
We moved on toward the brook.
“He took a break. We found the snow pushed away from the bench he sat on.”
Years before, my father had built a table and benches. He would
come out here and sit. The farmer who owned the adjacent property had a dog who would visit. What was his name?
“For some reason, and we don’t know why, your father got up and walked over to the brook. That’s when he fell.”
“Fell?”
“Yes,” answered the coroner. “When I examined your father, I found that his left thigh bone was broken. He couldn’t have walked out here with that injury.”
An old man with a broken thighbone. How common? How unremarkable?
Tommy continued. “We believe he ended up on the ice. That’s when he made his decision.”
“Decision?”
“Yes, you see the bank on your side of the brook is about five feet high, but on the other side it’s only about two feet at the most. From the snow, we think he tried to crawl up the high bank, but couldn’t. Eventually he decided to head for the neighbor’s house.”
“But that’s a quarter of a mile…”
“Yes,” replied Tommy, then before I could speak, he added, “but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Leading the way, Tommy went part way down the embankment, turned and extended his hand to me. I smiled for the first time in three days.
“What?” he asked.
“I was the one who taught you how to win a face-off. Remember?”
Tommy started to say something but then just shook his head.
I went down the embankment and punched him in the arm.
He gave me a hug. “Welcome back.”
The coroner, a portly man nearing retirement, tentatively started down the embankment. Both Tommy and I guided him to the bottom.
Tommy led the way following the disturbed snow.
“He couldn’t walk, so he crawled.”
Following my father’s trail, we stopped at a wire fence.
“By the time he reached the fence,” explained Tommy, “your father had covered one hundred and thirteen yards.”
The coroner added, “Crawling is a very inefficient means of locomotion. Considering his age, seventy-nine, and his injury, he must have been very tired, probably approaching exhaustion.”
