He turned to the Anti-Submarine Warfare (ASW) officer, Lieutenant (junior grade) Lincoln Howard, the only black officer in the ship. “Link, you told me you were going to build a program on that desktop we bought for CIC that allows continuous recomputation of the sonar environment. Is that done yet?”
“Yes, Sir, it is. This will give us a good test, too,” said Howard.
“Very good. Make sure we record the entire session, so we can show the Commodore. He was interested in what you were doing.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. That’s no problem.”
Lieutenant Foster had nothing more to present. “Well, we’ll at least get some ASW exercise time out of this,” he said. “Captain, XO, anything else to put out?”
The Captain decided to preempt any further discussion from the XO, and stood up, followed by everyone else.
“These kinds of missions are just part of the job, Guys,” he announced. “Let’s just do it, take a good look, and get back in for the weekend. Try not to run into any fish nets or boats. Thank you, that’s all.”
The officers stood until the Captain and the Exec had left. Outside, in the wardroom vestibule, the Captain signalled the Exec to follow him up to the Captain’s Cabin on the next level. He walked in to his cabin, pitched his Goldsborough baseball cap onto the bunkbed, and thumped down in a chair, motioning for the XO to sit down as well.
“Well, what do you think, XO. We getting picked on again, or what?”
The Exec grinned. They had had this discussion many times. The Captain was convinced that the Group staff, and, in particular, the Chief of Staff, Captain J. W. Martinson, III, had it in for Montgomery, and thereby Goldsborough. Mike was not an innocent bystander in the matter of his relationship with the Group headquarters. He had a penchant for writing messages that were openly critical of the local maintenance and supply organizations when they did less than good work, reflecting his conviction that the shore establishment existed solely to support the ships. Since coming to command, he had gained the distinct impression that some elements of the shore establishment found the ships to be a needless pain in the stern. Mike was also somewhat notorious on the waterfront for his rule that any staff officer who came on board his ship had to see him first. The staff officers were charged by their bosses to keep themselves informed about the material, administrative, and operational readiness of the ships in the Group. When staffies come aboard most ships, they were accustomed to dealing with their department head counterparts. In Goldsborough, they had to deal with a Commanding Officer, who always made it clear that he felt they were meddling. Which they usually were.
“You’re getting paranoid, Captain.”
“Shit, Ben, even paranoids have enemies.” They both laughed at the old joke.
“But what bothers me,” continued Mike, “is that Captain J. Walker Martinson, the turd, knows that I really want to keep Goldy in this upcoming Fleetex. It’s our one chance this summer to get out of Mayport, and the crew is really up for that. It would be just like that prick to find some screwy thing like this to use as an excuse for us not to go.”
The Exec took off his own ballcap, and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. He was a senior Lieutenant Commander and nearly the same age as the Captain, courtesy of several years of enlisted time before he had won his commission. Ben Farmer was a no-nonsense, very experienced seagoing officer; he also had excellent political instincts for how things worked in the Navy. He had accumulated his twenty years, and thereby the rough confidence that the worst they could do to him was make him retire. He tended to speak his mind, but privately.
“I don’t know, Skipper,” he said. “I should think that the Group Chief of Staff has too many things on his plate to have time to hatch a plot like this, even if you do poke a sharp stick in his eye once in a while.”
“No more than once a day, XO.”
“Yes, Sir,” grinned Farmer. “I know. But, actually, this caper has only cost us a day, and the plant will take a few days to cool down anyway. We never really expected to be able to work those main steam valves over the weekend, so we’re not in any jeopardy, schedule wise.”
The Captain sighed. “I guess you’re right, unless some other frigging fishing boat skipper starts seeing things.”
The Exec grinned again. “You live next door to those guys, see them all the time. Why not put the word out to cool it?”
The Captain nodded. “I plan to do just that. I’ll see Chris Mayfield—he’s the daddy-rabbit skipper in the commercial fishing crowd. Tell him to change to a better brand of bourbon, stop these hallucinations.”
Mike’s choice of a home was another thing that somewhat disturbed the senior staff officers at the Group headquarters. Mike lived on an elderly, refurbished houseboat down at the Mayport Marina. He was reputed to cut a reasonably wide swath through the nightspots along the Jacksonville beaches, whereas a proper Commanding Officer lived with his wife and children in quarters on the naval station. A proper Commanding officer was not a freewheeling bachelor who drove a sports car and went on liberty like a sailor. No one amongst his contemporaries or on the staffs had ever come right out and said such things, but the expressions of prim disapproval were there if one cared to look, disapproval given impetus by some of the wives’ appraising glances.
“Unless, of course,” said the Exec, “somebody really did see a submarine out there.” He looked serious for a moment.
“Not a chance, XO, not a chance,” snorted Mike. “This whole thing is bullshit, and Martinson knows it. Group’s still mad about that message I sent in on the shipyard’s main steam system valve work. It must really piss ’em off now when I report that they still leak. You watch—he’s just pulling my chain.”
The Exec had some opinions on the fine art of chain pulling in the Navy, but diplomatically kept them to himself whenever his CO got on to the subject of the Cruiser-Destroyer Group Staff.
“Yes, Sir, I reckon so. We’ll give it a good run, and then get back to serious business.”
“Right you are, XO. Whether or not this is Martinson and company, what we really need to be doing is working on the main plant and getting those steam leaks fixed. Let’s go through the motions, send in a sincere message, and get back in.”
FOUR
The Navy Relief Office, Mayport Naval Station, Mayport, Florida, 10 April
Diane Martinson sighed patiently, and decided to try one more time. She was on her third attempt to explain the fundamentals of basic household budgeting to the very young wife of a Petty Officer Third Class assigned to the frigate John L. Hall. She tried very hard not to show her exasperation. Her efforts represented the very essence of the Navy Relief work for which she had volunteered, but sometimes, Lord, it was very tough going.
“Mrs. Esposito, let me try again. This is important,” she said. “We know how much money comes into the bank every month from the Navy allotment, yes?”
Mrs. Esposito, struggling to control a squirming baby on her lap while also preventing an energetic four year old boy from tearing pages out of one of the waiting room magazines, clearly did not understand.
“Señora, I know nothing this allo‘mente; my hosband, he say to me how much money he get paid, an’ how much I spend for everything. It is the bank, they say to me, no write no more checkbooks, why? There is no enough money this month. But last month, it was OK. Ernesto—stop that! Immediamente!”
Diane curled her toes in frustration. The poor woman had not a clue as to how a checking account worked. The local banks were famous for this, happily taking the Navy enlisted wives’ government allotment check, and then casting these innocents loose into a sea of overdraft loans, instant mastercards, and bounced check charges. The woman was bent over in her chair, berating the four year old.
Across the waiting room, a sailor and his wife watched in embarrassed silence. The woman looked nervous; her husband had been giving Diane’s legs occasional appraising glances over the top of his magazine. She pressed her knees together
under the table; her straight skirt was not especially designed for modesty. The small office was hot and humid in mid-afternoon; her sleeveless blouse was damp with perspiration, and her dark hair felt limp at the ends. She often wondered if it was such a good idea to volunteer for Navy relief; her looks tended to distract some of the “clients.” Sometimes she received not so subtle propositions, let’s talk about my problem some more, say, maybe, at the EM Club. She would then let it slip that her husband was the Chief of Staff to the Cruiser-Destroyer Group Twelve, and, most of the time, the propositions died a natural death. She decided to give up on Mrs. Esposito.
“Mrs. Esposito, I think the thing to do here is for you to go back to the bank; they have experts there, some who speak good Spanish, who can explain this better than I can. If I call the bank for you, and make the appointment, will you do that?”
Mrs. Esposito finally cracked the four year old across the back of his head with a plastic hairbrush. Diane winced. The child began to howl. Mrs. Esposito threw up her hands in exasperation, as if the child had finally passed all limits of propriety by crying. She shook her head over the whole problem of checking accounts, agreed to go see the man at the bank, smiled sweetly at Diane, gathered up the baby, the squalling boy, her diaper bag and her two handbags, and left, thanking Diane profusely for all her help.
Diane sighed. Jenny Frames, the other volunteer on duty, came in from the back office at that moment, and motioned for the sailor and his wife to come over to her desk. Her husband was the Exec on the Dale, the guided missile cruiser based in Mayport. The sailor looked almost disappointed.
“You look like you could use a little Navy relief, yourself, Diane,” she whispered as she went by. “I’ll take care of these people. Why don’t you call it a day?”
Diane nodded. “I think you’re right. The time does fly when, etc.” Jenny gave her a wry smile, and then greeted the couple as they sat down at her desk. Diane pushed back from the table and stood up; there were two splotches of perspiration on the blotter from her forearms; the lone air conditioner in the window struggled mightily, but cooled very little. She was conscious of the sailor’s watchful appraisal as she walked into the back office for her things. She really ought to frump it up a little before coming down here, she thought. Diane Martinson was a tall, elegant brunette whose looks tended to turn heads no matter what the setting, whether shopping in the Navy commissary at ten in the morning, or decked out in an expensive cocktail dress for one of her husband’s many Navy social functions.
She was not a beauty in the conventional, cover girl sense. She had widely spaced, dark eyes, a long and not quite straight nose, finely arched eyebrows, and generous lips; the total effect was to give her face a Latin cast. She was not athletic, which meant that her figure was softer, more lush than many of the wives who were part of the jogging and tennis set on the base. She would not wear shorts, preferring flattering skirts and simple blouses by day, and three-quarter length, designer evening gowns which accentuated her fine legs in the evening. On the beach she would wear a one piece, white maillot bathing suit rather than a bikini, and it was always a source of some frustration to other wives that Diane attracted more attention by covering up than they did by baring almost all.
Diane was by nature reserved; her face in composure projected a presence of cool indifference, especially to men. She had come to acknowledge long ago that she had a disturbing effect on men. It was now simply a fact of her life. She had also learned long ago that flirting always made things worse; now, at forty, she was finding that the shell of distant reserve she projected to keep men at a proper distance made her even more attractive to some of them, especially Navy men, often igniting just the opposite reaction, especially among her husband’s immediate contemporaries, the senior staff officers and commanders of ships and tenant commands at the base.
Her mother, a tall and rather plain woman, had sympathized with her daughter as she tried to understand what all the fuss was about.
“You’ve got ‘it,’ kid,” her mother would say. “You’re just going to have to learn to live with it.”
Nobody could quite explain to her exactly what “it” was, but boys, and later men, all seemed to know.
Diane gathered up her purse and car keys from the back office, and left the small, white Navy Relief building nestled at the foot of the St. Johns River lighthouse hill. She walked quickly across the sandy parking lot and opened both doors of her car to let out the accumulated heat. North Florida in springtime was like mid-summer anywhere else. The heat from the car hit her like a steam blanket, deflating what was left of her hair-do, and molding her skirt and blouse to her body. She finally slid sideways into the still hot car, closed the doors, lowered all the electric windows, squirming around on the hot vinyl seat for a moment, and drove off, not bothering to turn on the air conditioning for the three minute drive to the senior officer quarters area along the beach.
She parked the car in the driveway of the quarters, a three bedroom, ranch style house nestled in tall palms, and went in. All the senior officer quarters in Mayport were centrally air conditioned, which made life bearable in the oppressive Florida humidity. She went straight to the bedroom, shucked her clothes, and stepped into the shower. She stood there for several minutes, letting cool water run over her skin, washing away the traces of desperation from the steady parade of enlisted wives who had taken on married life in the Navy with no idea of what they were doing. Why on earth would any young girl marry a sailor, she wondered. Her conscience responded: you married a sailor. She smiled. Not quite the same; I married an officer, who was already a Lieutenant Commander, and who is now a senior Captain, in line for selection to Admiral. J. W. Martinson, III, was many things, but no one would call him a sailor. She smiled again at the thought.
She did two stints of volunteer work a week, one day as a Gray Lady at the naval hospital over on the Naval Air Station south of Jacksonville, and a second day in the Navy Relief office here at the Mayport Naval Station. The hospital work was less taxing emotionally than Navy Relief, because the Gray Ladies were able to keep their work pretty impersonal. The nurses were the ones who became emotionally engaged with their patients; the Gray ladies, so named because of their utilitarian, non-descript gray uniforms, did the things the nurses did not have time for, and thus remained in the background. Working in the Navy Relief office, on the other hand, meant going one on one with people in trouble, and it was inevitably depressing, even for just the one day a week she spent down there. Navy Relief was the Navy sponsored charity organization whose dollars and counseling attempted to smooth out the many bumps encountered by young sailors trying to support a family. Navy pay for a single young sailor was pretty good, and it got better with seniority. But for the junior enlisted man who married, and inevitably produced children, Navy pay was simply not enough to allow them to rise much above the trailer courts and food stamps lifestyle. The Navy did not permit the most junior enlisted to live in Navy housing, hoping through this policy to discourage them from getting married until they had achieved a few chevrons on their tunics and better pay.
Senior officers’ wives were expected to contribute their time to Navy Relief, as if by being senior officers’ wives they had accumulated some spare wisdom which might be helpful to the often very uneducated and frightened enlisted wives. Diane found the contrast between her fairly gracious lifestyle as a Captain’s wife, with beachside quarters, two cars, nice furniture and a great deal of social status within the close-knit Navy community a disturbing contrast to the plight of the besieged young women who came through the dilapidated doors of the Navy Relief office. On the other hand, she herself had no children, no career or job of her own, and not much else to do but to tend to housekeeping chores, do the shopping, and go out four evenings a week to dull Navy functions. On their last tour in Washington, she had briefly tried real estate, but J.W. had objected to her being gone evenings and almost every weekend because it interfered with his heavy social campa
ign to maintain visibility at the Navy headquarters. Her new “career” had, therefore, not flourished. She then went back to school and earned a masters degree, which now languished, unframed, in one of J.W.’s file cabinets. She had wanted to hang the certificate on the wall with all of J.W.’s many certificates, but he had protested, claiming the wall ought to reflect his accomplishments; after all, he was the provider, and her MA in English literature would not put food on the table.
Good old J.W. The depression brought on by a day in the Navy Relief office translated smoothly to the familiar pit in her stomach about the future of her marriage. She had begun to realize a few years ago that her main value to this marriage was to be decorously present and politically acceptable, another block checked off in J.W.’s carefully fashioned mosaic of corporate rectitude, aimed, as always, at being selected for Rear Admiral.
J.W. Martinson was more than just determined to make Admiral. He had explained to Diane from the first days of their marriage that reaching flag rank was his pre-eminent life goal. She had to admit: he had not attempted to disguise or minimize what was involved in a campaign to become an Admiral. He was going to do all the things required to make the coveted first star, which meant six month long separations when he was away on overseas deployments, fourteen hour days in the office when he was on shore duty, faithful attendance to Navy social requirements, and total involvement in whatever his current assignment demanded. He often remarked that a Cruiser-destroyer Group did not stop life at 1630; she was expected to understand and accommodate the round the clock aspects of his responsibilities. She would have the children and the household to take care of while he campaigned himself, with her help, of course.
Except the children had not materialized. The subject of children was now a carefully poulticed wound between them. After two years of trying she had suggested testing, but he had refused, declaring that it was almost always the woman’s problem, and that testing would answer a question she might not want answered. She had thought about that for a while, and then had had herself tested, which proved that in this case, J.W. was mistaken. She had not told him, because it was evident to her by then that the ego beneath his smooth, highly polished exterior might not be able to sustain such a hit.
Scorpion in the Sea Page 3
