by David Poyer
“Don’t apologize. You did great for somebody who looked as bushed as you did. Are we going to lie around here all evening?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Are you really that sleepy?”
“No.” He rubbed his eyes. “What do you want to do?”
“It’s almost dinnertime. Then I have to make this reception, at least for a little while.” She half-rolled, then stopped at his choked protest. “Have I got something caught?”
“Let’s just say I’m not in a position to object.”
“I sense signs of returning life. Let’s investigate.”
Looking down at her shining hair, he lifted his body in a half-protesting arch, then resigned himself to her frictionless caress. A moment later she mounted him, taking him with a sudden ferocity that matched the mouthwatering impulsion he’d brought to his first ingress, and rode him to her own eye-clenched climax and then, changing rhythm and grip, with a mischievous grin and quick vertical strokes brought him to a second exquisitely near-painful discharge that left him sagged back sweating into the damp, wrinkled sheets as she swung a leg off and went briskly into the bathroom.
* * *
THE restaurant was dim and the chandeliers glittered above white linen. After some encouragement he ordered braised Norwegian salmon and black truffles. Blair decided on lamb en crèpinette.
“So how’s the overhaul going?”
“We should be done in two more weeks. Maybe sooner, if the hydros go well.”
“You were having trouble with the foreign commanding officer, weren’t you?”
“Actually, that’s smoothed out. Khashar doesn’t do things the way I would, that’s for sure. But he’s not actually around all that much. I wind up dealing with Commander Irshad; he’s the operations officer and general whipping boy.”
The wine steward. She ordered a pinot noir. He asked for orange juice and tonic.
“The trouble is, you get attached. I have to keep reminding myself she’s only mine for a little while. Unless the transfer’s preempted by operational considerations—”
“Meaning Desert Shield.”
He nodded, wanting to ask her if the Allies were going to attack but knowing he had no right to. He had no doubt she knew, though maybe not the exact hour. He couldn’t ask her about Gaddis, either, whether Munro’s charge to him was based on a concrete plan for canceling her transfer. So instead he asked about the base closing commission, and she sketched diagrams on the tablecloth with her fingernail to show how reduced infrastructure translated into force modernization.
“That’s why all our ships are going away?”
“There’s no reason to keep them. Iraq, Iran, North Korea—none of our remaining potential adversaries is a sea power.”
“What about five years down the road? Ten years?”
“I don’t want to get into an argument with you. But there’s a real question how much insurance an obsolete ship actually represents.”
“It’s a lot quicker to install up-to-date equipment and put an old hull to sea than it is to design and build a whole new one. We proved that with the battleships. Missouri’s on her way to the Gulf right now, loaded with Tomahawks.”
“I take your point, but we have to look at political realities. The shipbuilders don’t want those old hulls around. The Navy would rather build something glamorous like Arleigh Burkes and Seawolf. Weighing it all, we’ve approved leasing or selling them. We get a political advantage out of it; the smaller allies are happy; on paper there’s even a cash flow.” She waved a hand. “Anyway. Have you been back home?”
“Yeah. I went to see my mom.”
“How is she?”
“OK.”
“I haven’t met any of your family yet.”
“Yeah, sometime I’ll have to take you up there.”
She was silent for a time, then said, “What is it? You look uncomfortable. You don’t want to talk about your family. And now I think about it, you never have. Have I said something wrong?”
He looked at her, shining in a simple black evening dress, and admired that poise, that coolness she could turn on and off like flipping a switch. “It’s nothing you did. I’m just not used to all this.”
“You mean this hotel? The restaurant? What?”
“All of it. I was pretty poor growing up.”
“But it’s all show. No one here sees you as a poor kid, with holes in your shoes.”
“I know. It still makes me nervous, though.”
“Like you don’t belong here? You’re some kind of impostor?”
“Right. I know; it’s silly.” He was also, though he didn’t mention it, remembering another woman, one who’d thought whatever you had beyond your needs was not far short of theft from others. To her this sumptuous display, these rare foods, would have been an obscene theft from the poor and the homeless.
“Well, you worked your ass off to get here,” Blair told him. “You graduated from Annapolis. You’re commanding a ship. You’ve done damn well, and you have every right to enjoy it.” She signaled to their server. Dan reached for the check, but she was too fast. “Courtesy of the Senate Armed Services Committee,” she told him, scribbling their room number on it. “All right, let’s go do our duty.”
* * *
A SIGN at the entrance of the Museum of Art read: CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC. PRIVATE RECEPTION, but the men in dark suits smiled at Titus and swung the doors wide. She told Dan to keep his cap, not check it, and he tucked it under his arm.
He felt uncomfortable, like a stuffed dummy in service dress, following her into a reception area set up with a drink table and canapés. Titus circulated fast, into each small circle of tanned older men, perfectly groomed women, shaking hands and exchanging chitchat. She knew everyone. She introduced him as “Captain Lenson.” After half an hour she turned to him suddenly and said, “That’s enough of that. Let’s go someplace more interesting.”
She led him into the museum, through dimly lighted display areas, then out a back door and down a flight of stone steps toward the sound of rushing water and the scents of flowers. They strolled through a small wood of azaleas and oakleaf hydrangeas and emerged at the bank of a river. Looking back, Dan saw the classical roofline of the museum and below it the chaste and beautiful pillars of a small Greek temple.
“I remember this,” she said. “I visited the University of Pennsylvania when I was in high school. Thinking I might want to go here. I thought this was incredibly romantic. I remember hoping someday I’d stand here with someone I cared for.”
“You’re right. It’s nice.” He looked across calm water that reflected colored lanterns hung above distant boathouses. In the evening light he could see the line where the calm water broke into falls, the Schuylkill pouring over the race with a dull roar and whirling downstream in pools of faintly glowing foam.
“You really think you don’t deserve anything nice?” she said to him. “Because what that means to me is maybe you think you don’t deserve me.”
“I never said that.”
“I can read it in your expression sometimes. Something not too far from contempt.”
“It isn’t contempt. If it’s anything, it’s intimidation.”
“Dan, these people are no different from you. Surely you realized that when you were in D.C., working for Barry Niles. They may have more money. But they’re not a bit smarter, or harder-working, or more honest.”
He grinned in the dark. For some reason it struck him as funny, her trying to prove to him he didn’t feel the way he felt. “OK, Doctor,” he said. “But you see, it started in my childhood—”
She pinched his arm, hard. “Because sometimes, when you act like you don’t like me very much … I start wondering.”
“About us?”
“About us, yes.” She hugged herself, looking not at him but out over the water. “I mean, it could be perfect. Together when we want to be. Apart often enough we can do what we need to do. Then every once in a while, s
omething wonderful—like tonight. There are lots of navy jobs in Washington. You wouldn’t have to go to sea. I mean, if you didn’t want to.”
He cleared his throat, knowing what he said now counted, the very words he chose mattered. “Sometimes I wonder, too. I mean, you’re there; I’m wherever the Navy sends me. You’re on your way to being somebody. I’m sort of—well, if I make commander, that’s going to be it. All the ups and downs on my record.”
“You have friends, too. People you’ve impressed. If you do a standout job on this assignment—”
“Sure, but you don’t get promoted by being different. That’s the kiss of death.” He pondered. “But the rest of it—I get jealous sometimes. I don’t see you often enough.”
“That’s up to you. It’s always been up to you.”
“I thought it was up to you.”
“Then we were both delegating?” She laughed, but it wasn’t amused; it was almost sardonic. And he couldn’t think of anything else to say or do but back her against the low railing till there was nothing behind her but a twenty-foot fall to the cold-smelling river. Nothing to do but kiss her, amid the scent of the azaleas, and the cool taste of her lips mingled with the dead smell of the dark water rushing past below endlessly out of the hills, out of long-abandoned coal mines where, he could not help thinking, the bones of his ancestors lay.
5
HIS alarm went off at 0500 on that final day. An hour earlier than usual, but he was determined the last event under his command would go off flawlessly, professionally, and on time. Today USS Oliver C. Gaddis would officially become PNS Tughril, the newest commissioned warship of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan.
They’d taken her to sea for two days after the yard was done with her. The boiler tests had gone well, though the at-sea drills, with the Pakistanis in charge, had been less than inspiring. At one point Khashar had nearly gotten them run down by a supertanker.
Dan pushed that scary memory away, reviewing the schedule of events as he dressed. The ceremony would begin at 1000. The official guests included the base commander, the Pakistani attaché, the deputy chief of NAVOTTSA, and three of Gaddis’s former commanding officers. It promised to be a clear day, thank God, fall-cool but tenable for a ceremony he hoped to hold to an hour.
He found Greg Juskoviac in the wardroom with Commander Irshad. Helping himself to coffee so fresh the brew light hadn’t gone on yet, Dan said, “You two are up early.”
Juskoviac gave him the eager-to-please grin he dreaded. All too often, he’d learned, it masked a lack of follow-through. Dan sat them down and went over the preparations: cleaning, rigging the quarterdeck and flight deck, vans to meet dignitaries at Philadelphia International, escorts, hotel reservations. “And test the PA system again; we got too much feedback at the rehearsal. Talk to the men on the jacks and halliards. Those flags should come down slow, not snap, snap, snap.” The XO noted busily away. Finally Dan said, “Well, that’s all I’ve got; I’ll let you get to it.”
Juskoviac jumped up, upsetting his coffee cup, and ran off. Dan wondered what he should be doing himself, then knew. Paperwork. The final draft of the turnover letter, official thank-yous to the guests, et cetera, et cetera. Then he had to pack; he’d planned a leisurely drive back to Norfolk, a weekend in Georgetown with Blair en route. He called the ship’s office and told them to bring up the morning’s grist.
* * *
HE’D designated Gaddis’s wardroom as a VIP reception area, with his own cabin reserved for the Pakistani attaché and the two-star from Washington, Admiral Sapp. At 0800 he changed into service dress blue with sword, medals, and white gloves and went down to the ship’s office to get out of their way.
When he went back up at 0915 the wardroom was filled with men in business suits and uniforms, women in long dresses. Jim Armey stood against the bulkhead, looking uncomfortable in blues instead of coveralls. Dan squeezed his arm, wondering how he could make the man loosen up. He wasn’t married, hardly ever went ashore, and had no outside interests Dan had been able to elicit. “We enjoying ourselves yet?”
“Not yet.” The chief engineer forced a bleak smile.
“You did a great job getting her ready for sea, Jim. But you can’t stay in the hole forever. Pick somebody out and start a conversation.” Dan drew a breath and plunged into the social maelstrom, forcing a smile to his face and a heartiness into his handshake that he didn’t feel. At 0950 he headed back to the fantail.
The day was bright and thank God the wind off the river not as sharp as it could have been. It set the bunting flapping where it was cable-tied to the helo deck netting. He looked down and across to the pier. The tent for the guests looked crowded. A murmur of conversation swelled across the strip of water. To his surprise, applause broke out as he appeared. He smiled, uncertain how to respond, then threw them a salute and went back behind the superstructure, out of sight. He checked the flat gray Delaware, his mind formulating a vision of an out-of-command merchantman crashing into them as they lay by the pier. As long as she sank after the turnover.… He checked his watch again, startled to see it was ten already. Where the hell was Juskoviac? Dan was on the point of sending a runner after him when the exec bounded out of the quarterdeck shack and took his place on the dais. When Dan nodded, he bent to the microphone.
“Ship’s company: atten-tion. Will the guests please rise for the arrival of the official party and remain standing through the invocation.”
The band swung into ruffles and flourishes as a U.S. admiral arrived. A pause, then more music and piping as a short man in a peaked military cap and British-style uniform overcoat bustled up the brow.
Juskoviac bent to the mike. “Parade the Colors.”
The U.S. color guard stepped high as they proceeded from the head of the pier. The Pakistani guard’s marching was crisper; they swung their arms British-style and stepped out like toy soldiers. The green-and-white moon-and-star met the Stars and Stripes in front of the platform. Marching in step, they did a slow wheel and halted, left, right, halt, facing the guests.
“The national anthems of the United States and of Pakistan,” Juskoviac announced.
Dan stood with the rest of the official party, holding his salute till the last brassy note died away on the wind.
“Post the colors,” said Juskoviac.
Dan bent his head for the invocation, then relaxed into his chair as the crew, lining the rails, snapped to parade rest. He felt inside his blouse for the square of paper. His remarks.
“I now introduce Rear Admiral Jerry Sapp, Deputy Commander, Naval Office of Technology Transfer and Security Assistance.”
Sapp acknowledged the general, the former skippers, the family and friends present, “shipmates, and guests.” He focused his opening remarks on Gaddis’s service career. “Designed and has performed as a mainstay and a workhorse.… Carried our nation’s flag during the closing phase of the cold war … a total of fifteen deployments literally spanning the globe, most recently during Operation Checkmate, interdicting drug traffic in the Aruba Gap and Colombia Basin.” He gave numbers and specs, horsepower, speed, weapons. He went on to congratulate the crews who had manned her and the captains who had led her, naming each, nodding to those present on the platform. Dan noticed he wasn’t included, but kept his expression relaxed and benign.
“We gather today to celebrate a job well done. We say good-bye to a ship that has given much, that has been well maintained by the literally thousands of sailors who have passed over her decks.
“At the same time I sense exultation among our friends from Pakistan, a nation with which the United States has long enjoyed a special relationship.” Dan’s attention wandered as Sapp praised the alliance as a force for peace in the Mideast, then returned as the admiral closed with a tribute to the crew that had worked so hard to prepare for turnover. “For you, the journey continues,” he said at last. “To new ships, new places, new challenges. Take the spirit you learned aboard Gaddis with you. Godspeed; fair wind
s and following seas. I will now call the commanding officer forward.”
Dan cleared his throat and rose, but Juskoviac was there before him.
“Ship’s company: atten-hut. General Saqlain will present a letter of appreciation to Lieutenant Commander Daniel V. Lenson, United States Navy.”
Dan stood at attention as the little man handed over the scroll and shook his hand. He saluted him, then glanced at the exec.
“Captain Daniel Lenson, Commanding Officer, USS Oliver C. Gaddis. Ship’s company: Parade rest.”
His turn at last. Snapping open the paper, Dan looked out over the pier, the green cold-looking water beyond, the bright sky. A freighter was coming around Windy Point, windows flashing golden in the sun.
“General, Admiral, sponsors, honored guests, plankowners and former skippers, relatives and friends. Welcome to the official transformation of USS Gaddis into PNS Tughril.
“Any decommissioning is a bittersweet occasion. I myself have only had a few weeks to know her as a ship. But even in that short time I have come to understood what she means to her former crew members. It is hard to say farewell. But in this case we all know the ship we loved will sail on, under a new name and a new flag, but still in the defense of freedom and the maintenance of peace.
“As you see her now, poised to make the transition from U.S. to Pakistani man-of-war, I will say for all the crew: the best of luck to her new owners. What has made these last few weeks special has been the close bonds of friendship that have grown up between the two crews as they worked together, side by side, to pass the skills of one seafaring nation to the seamen of another. And between myself and Captain Khashar. It is a tribute to him, his officers, chiefs, and men, that the process has gone so smoothly and that I can hand Gaddis over knowing she will be well taken care of.”
Hoping he would be forgiven for that, he lowered his eyes to the second page. “I will now read my orders. ‘From: The Chief of Naval Operations. To: Commander in Chief, U.S. Atlantic Fleet. Subject: Decommissioning of USS Oliver C. Gaddis.
“‘You are hereby directed to decommission USS Gaddis no later than 30 September 1990. The ship will be transferred to the Islamic Republic of Pakistan. Upon completion, report same to Chief of Naval Operations. Signed, Frank B. Kelso the Second, Admiral, United States Navy.’”
