by David Poyer
The guests were silent. He gave it a second or two, for the old salts, the plankowners, those who’d put their youth and dreams into a piece of metal. Then said, “Executive officer: Haul down the colors.”
The guests came to their feet, too, as Juskoviac read from a card concealed in his glove: “‘The commissioning pennant, when hoisted to the mast, symbolizes the moment when the service of a ship begins. Therefore, when the pennant is finally lowered from the mast and handed to the commanding officer, the ship is officially retired.’”
The guests looked upward, shading their eyes as the whiptail crept down, cracking and writhing as if fighting to stay aloft. The jack and the ensign sank with it. Chief Mellows came back aft and handed Dan the pennant.
“Debark the crew,” Dan said.
The passed-on command echoed away into the depths of the ship as the division officers called their men to attention, faced them right or left, and marched them down ladders and over the brow to the pier. They fell into ranks again there, guiding onto duct-tape markers on the concrete, and snapped to parade rest opposite the patient Pakistanis.
“Sir, the watch has been secured.”
“Very well.” Dan turned to Sapp. “Sir, the watch aboard USS Gaddis has been secured.”
“The transfer of ex–USS Oliver C. Gaddis to the custody of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan will now take place. Ladies and gentlemen, Commander Lenson.”
Dan took his place at the mike again. “The document transferring ex–USS Oliver C. Gaddis to the government of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan has already been signed by representatives of both nations in Washington. Admiral Jerry Sapp, USN, will now officially transfer the ship to General Saqlain, for subsequent turnover to her new commanding officer. Ladies and gentlemen, Admiral Sapp, General Saqlain, and Captain Khashar.”
Sapp took Dan’s place. Without a cheat sheet, he bent his height toward the mike and said, “Sir, I present to you the ex–USS Gaddis, the best warship in the United States and Pakistani Navies. I will now introduce the Honorable General Muhammad Saqlain, defense attaché of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan to the United States of America.”
Saqlain dilated on the history of the Pakistani Navy, the long partnership of the United States and Pakistan, and its role in preserving peace in the Middle East. He praised Khashar as an officer of the highest professional accomplishments and a bright future, then, switching to Urdu, spoke for several minutes while the Americans tried to look interested. After he paused, it took some time for everyone to get the idea and clap. “I will now introduce Captain Hussain Khashar, the new commanding officer of PNS Tughril.”
Khashar delivered a few remarks, then switched to English to thank Sapp and the turnover crew for their efforts. He spoke smoothly and with a little smile. Then he asked the guests to rise.
“Commander Irshad: Hoist the colors.”
Both crews came to attention as the Pakistani colors ascended the mast. The band played the anthem. Irshad spoke a few words; then the incoming crew sprinted up the brow. They fell in along the starboard side, facing the pier. Khashar ordered the first watch set, then asked the guests to rise again. Turning toward the frigate, he said, “Blessings be upon thee in the name of Allah, most merciful, most compassionate. May this ship and all who sail in her strike the enemy, with your aid.”
A puzzled silence succeeded when he stepped away. Finally Dan took the mike again, since no one else seemed about to. “This concludes the ceremony. You are invited for light refreshments in the helicopter hangar. Ship’s company”—he looked around one last time at the bright morning, the expectant faces, at the closing of a short and not, after all, a very significant incident in his career—“dismissed.”
* * *
THE windup of the ship’s Morale, Welfare, and Recreation Fund left almost a thousand dollars. When he put the question to the Welfare and Rec Committee, the crew opted for a Farewell Ball. They reserved a hall in town and invited the Pakistanis as well. When Dan had passed this invitation to Khashar, the captain had seemed more doubtful than pleased, especially about enlisted and officer ranks mixing. Dan had pointed out that the fund came from the ship’s store, thus from the pockets of both khaki and bluejackets, U.S. and Pakistani; he couldn’t bar anyone, and having separate events would double the cost. Khashar had said nothing, and Dan assumed that meant he agreed. But now, adjusting his cummerbund in the cloakroom, he noticed there weren’t any Pakistani enlisted here, though all the officers were, gathered around the attaché and his wife, a sylphlike woman in a very smart cocktail dress.
Evilia Beard looked professional in women’s mess dress, a dark blue skirt and jacket. Dan joined her in the receiving line to welcome the guests. The first one through was a frail lady who told him she was Oliver Gaddis’s half sister; she’d been there with the ship’s sponsor, his daughter, during the christening at Avondale. Since then the daughter had died, such a lovely girl, but here she was still. He said, “Ma’am, you need to be in this receiving line.”
“Oh, no, I’d rather just sit and look at the young men.”
Dan smiled and pressed her hand again, feeling the fragile bones beneath the satin skin.
The guests passed and the crew. Chick Doolan pushed a tiny woman huddled in a wheelchair. She was child-small and one shoulder angled forward. Her face, ovoid and pale beneath short strawlike hair, was that of a suffering angel. The husky weapons officer bent to take her hand. “Honey, this is Captain Lenson,” Doolan said. “Sir, this is my wife, Jill.”
“Chick’s told me a lot about you, Captain. He’s pretty impressed.”
“Call me Dan, please. He’s done most of the impressing around here, Jill. Getting those twenty-millimeters installed practically singlehanded. You can be pretty proud of him.”
When the receiving line drifted apart Dan joined the other dignitaries in front of an immense sheet cake. FAIR WINDS PNS TUGHRIL, it said in pink icing on a green sugar sea. Strobes flashed as Khashar cut it. Dan blinked, chasing afterimages.
He moved aside and stood watching the room for a time, now and again digging a fork into cake he didn’t really want. Maybe it was knowing the ship wasn’t really his. Or maybe this was the isolation of command he’d heard so much about. But looking at his officers, his chiefs, and his crew, watching them enjoy this respite, he realized how solitary and isolated he felt from them.
It was a puzzling feeling, depressing, too, and he dug into it as Yeoman First Ribiero, who was DJ tonight, kicked the first tape into the sound system. A jangle and purr of electric guitars, then Bonnie Raitt’s whiskey voice filled the room.
When he’d been just another guy, it seemed like he’d known the men around him a lot better than he knew Gaddis’s crew. As if being a CO, even an acting one, meant you saw them from a higher angle, an elevated distance from which you saw only the glinting surface of their personalities. It was a hard concept to articulate, and he stood struggling with it for a few seconds. It seemed important, something he needed to understand to understand himself.
Juskoviac sauntered by. When their glances crossed the XO’s went elsewhere, like a refused épée. He and the exec had had an unpleasant encounter yesterday, when Dan had called him in to read his detachment fitness report. Juskoviac had quivered in injured innocence. He’d said they were both in exactly the same position, waiting for boards. He’d helped push the ship through the yards in record time. He would most definitely be submitting a statement in response to this unfair fitrep. The implication was clear: Dan’s adverse grading of him was nothing more than knifing his temporary subordinate in order to make his own chances better.
Robidoux, carrying punch for a platinum blonde in a pale sheath dress who reminded Dan of a Q-Tip. Sansone, alone, shifting from foot to foot as he listened to an older gentleman in a Pearl Harbor Survivors Association ball cap. Dave Zabounian, with his wife, Sarah. Zabounian, Dan had noticed, wore the maroon good conduct ribbon that identified ex-enlisted, what the Navy called Mustangs. H
e had four small children, whose photos he kept in the card pocket inside his cap. His wife had a stunned look, like an axed steer. Zabounian, Dan remembered, was on the list for the MTT: the Mobile Training Team, the remnant of the U.S. crew that would ride the ship from the commissioning port to the receiving country.
“Marsh” Mellows, beside him. Dan lifted a glass to the towering chief master-at-arms. “Marsh, how you doing. Ceremony went real well.”
“Thanks, sir. Nice speech.”
“You didn’t invite your wife? Correct me if I’m wrong—you’re married, right?”
The broad smiling face didn’t alter. “Was, sir. You know how it is when you deploy. Haven’t seen the ex for five years. The kids have got a new dad now.”
“I know just exactly what you mean,” said Dan, thinking of Susan and Nan and the dermatologist, what was his name, Feynman. The showcase house in Utah. But he didn’t want to think about that; the taste was too bitter. “Your name’s on the MTT list, too, isn’t it?”
“Yessir. Been a while since I’ve seen that part of the world.”
“Just stay out of Captain K.’s way.” They both chuckled, and Dan added, “Seriously, Marsh, you’ve been a big help, keeping the two crews working together, backstopping the exec as chief master-at-arms. I really appreciate it.”
“It’s not that tough keeping the guys in line, sir. Just make it your business to know everything that’s going on. Know what makes ’em tick. A little reminder here, a little favor there. Long as they figure you’re gonna find out whatever’s going on, they’re not gonna give you much trouble.”
“Well, I appreciate your fine work. I signed your evaluation out yesterday. Should help you on the E-8 board.”
Mellows’s smile dimmed a few watts. “I’m not gonna be going up, sir. This here’s my last tour.”
“You’re getting out? You don’t have thirty yet, do you?”
“No, sir. It’s a physical problem.” Mellows didn’t elaborate, and Dan didn’t get the impression a probe would be welcome. He lifted his beer bottle and Dan nodded farewell and the broad back drifted off toward the chief’s table.
Someone took Dan’s arm. When he turned, there was Captain Munro. “Commander. Sorry I haven’t been much use to you the last few weeks.”
Actually, he’d seen the chief staff officer exactly once, after the at-sea tests, when he came aboard for a hurried lunch. Khashar had been there, too, so Dan had been hobbled in discussing both his doubts about the incoming crew’s readiness for sea and the question that had nagged him ever since he got this assignment. So that now, free in the hum of chat and music to speak, he said, “Nice to see you, too, sir, but … I sort of expected to hear from you before this. Before the turnover, I mean.”
“You expected to hear what from me?”
“About what you mentioned when I relieved.”
The CSO smiled politely. “Sorry, I’m not certain what we’re talking about.”
Dan struggled to keep his tone level. “I was under the impression—what you said to me, just before you left that first day. At the brow, on your way over the side. You said to get her in shape; we might need her. Or words to that effect. I took that to mean that in view of what was happening in Kuwait, there was some consideration going on of retaining her on the active list.”
Munro looked over his shoulder, obviously not riveted by the conversation. “Retaining her? No, I never heard anything along those lines. I may have said something encouraging, but I don’t think I said that. Excuse me a minute, OK? Talk to you later.”
Dan stood still, seething with disappointment and anger. Cursing himself for being credulous and overbearing, for having sacrificed his own work and his crew’s arrangements on the basis of a misunderstood phrase.
But, goddamn it, that was what Munro had said. It wasn’t possible he’d misunderstood or misheard.
Foley walked by, beer in hand, giving him a respectful nod. Dan forced a smile, fighting for calm. He knew why he’d done it, of course. For Gaddis, for a ship that for one bright moment he’d thought of as his, hoping against hope he could save her, almost singlehanded.
Instead his destiny was a pookah in Norfolk, checking the message traffic every day to see whether he’d been promoted. If he wasn’t, he’d have to retire.
All he’d ever wanted was to be allowed to do what they’d trained him for. Could it really be that acting CO of Gaddis would be the closest he’d ever get to having his own ship?
He stared at the wall with unseeing eyes, then gathered the saliva in his mouth and spat the cloying taste of too-sweet cake into his paper napkin.
* * *
HE was heading for the exit, making his bird, when he saw Beard and Admiral Sapp vectoring to intercept. He forced another smile. “How you doing, sir? Good to have you with us.”
“A well-run ceremony,” said Sapp. “A good-looking ship. I had seen her before, when Dan Ottero had her. You’ve done a job, turning her around.”
Dan wondered about the slip, calling Ottero “Dan” instead of “Dick.” But instead of correcting the admiral he just said, “Thank you, sir.”
“Did you get to speak to the general?”
“Yessir, had a few words with him. Nice of him to come down.”
“Sometimes the ambassador makes it. Busy now, I expect, because of their government shakeup.… I was impressed with how quickly you got Gaddis out of the yard. Evilia didn’t think she’d be ready before spring. How’d you get them turned to so fast?”
“Some size-ten leadership, I’m afraid. The shipyard commander’s not happy with me.”
“Don’t worry about him. The staff corps’s there to support the fleet.” Sapp cleared his throat and looked around. “I’ve been getting your turnover status reports. Apparently you have doubts as to their conning and navigation readiness.”
“Yessir. They don’t strike me as fully trained in those areas yet.”
“How about fireroom and engineroom manning? Are they safe to sail?”
This was a complex issue wrapped in a code phrase. “Safe to sail” had several meanings, from material condition, to crew size, to the potential legal issue of whether someone could be held liable for ordering an unready ship to sea. Dan took a deep breath. “Sir, if you want it laid on the line here, the short answer’s no. The CO was on deck for the sea trials. I went below for a few minutes, and he damn near got us run down. The boiler team’s still acting like they’ve never been to A school.”
“They’ve already paid us for this material, Lenson.”
“Yes, sir, understand that, but—”
“Let me make a further point: that the replacement crew’s state of training is not in the end your responsibility. The final responsibility is Khashar’s, as the incoming commanding officer.”
“Well, sir, I understood from Commander Beard here that it was the U.S. skipper who certified them safe to sail or not—”
Sapp smiled grimly. “I strongly doubt CNO would appreciate us having a lieutenant commander vetoing a foreign four-striper. No, the political reality is, they’re going.” He cleared his throat again. “However, I got a call today from Security Assistance Office, Islamabad. The Pakistani government’s asking us to beef up the MTT.”
Dan knew there were normally thirty-some guys who rode the ship over; the officer in charge, usually the chief engineer, and the rest boiler techs, machinist’s mates, and various other senior ratings. “Beef it up, sir?”
“Especially the steaming watches and nav personnel. To ensure a safe delivery.”
“I’d say that’s a good decision, sir. After watching these guys operate.”
“I hope you’re more diplomatic with our foreign friends,” Sapp said.
“I try to be, sir. But I’m down to fifty-five bodies right now, and they’ve all got orders cut, travel requests in—”
“How many engineers?” said Beard, cutting as usual to the chase.
“Excuse me. Evilia, let me see what the two of you f
inally come up with,” said Sapp, and headed off toward the general and his wife.
Dan and Beard went around on bodies and numbers. Finally she said, “So you’ll need roughly fifteen more snipes, three more quartermasters. I’ll hand that to the squadron, see if they can find volunteers.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry if this impacts your personal plans.”
“Wait a minute. My plans? Jim Armey’s heading the training team.”
“We read your reports. About Khashar and that near miss. A collision en route wouldn’t look very good for our training pipeline, would it? We’ll extend your orders and fly you back from Islamabad. Admiral Sapp will be your reporting senior, which will give you a two-star flag endorsement on your last fitrep before the board meets.” She gave it a beat. “Is that all right?”
“Actually, I’m not sure I’ve caught up to you yet. What would be my status?”
“Officially, head of the MTT. Unofficially, you’d be sort of co-skipper with Captain K.”
He thought about it, swirling his drink. It meant steaming Gaddis—no, dammit, that wasn’t her name anymore—halfway around the world. Every destroyerman dreamed of independent steaming. On your own at sea, no tactical commander running you ragged, no carrier to hawkeye around the clock. The divided command didn’t sound so hot. But whoever had dreamed it up was right about one thing: Tughril’s chances of arriving in one piece were a lot better if somebody was backing this bozo up.
Dan had never really been her skipper. But maybe he owed her that, her and the guys who’d take her to sea; yeah, the Pakistani crew, too. It wasn’t their fault their boss was who he was.
He lifted his glass to Beard. “To a swift and uneventful passage.”
“Fair winds and following seas.”
Just then, he noticed Khashar watching them from across the room.
