The Marathon Watch Read online

  He’d feared Javert would take off on another of his tirades and had prepared himself for it. He had to maintain his composure. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Captain, I’m not trying to quote regulations to you. It’s a matter of interpretation, but my responsibilities are clear.”

  Glaring at Meyers, Javert crossed his arms and yelled to drown out Meyers’ voice. “XO, if and when you get your own ship, you can interpret the regulations your way. Until then, you’re on my ship, and I won’t have you questioning my authority. Do you understand?”

  The growing truculence in Javert’s voice made it difficult for Meyers to control his own. “Captain, I’m not questioning your authority. Look at the facts. We’re just limping along and—”

  “Getting the job done!” Javert interjected.

  Meyers lowered his head for a second trying to summon some inner strength. “And most of our equipment is inoperable or barely working. The ship is getting dangerous, and our responsibility is to prevent that.”

  “Mister Meyers, our responsibility is to meet our operational commitments, period!” Javert said, waving his arms for emphasis.

  “Nowhere does it say we’ll be excused just because we have a few little problems. All the other ships are in the same navy, and they get along just fine because they have excellent loyal officers… and… and I’m tired of your weak sister behavior, your whining, your disloyalty, and the way you keep trying to undermine my authority and make me look bad. Like I said before, if and when you get your own ship, you will understand that every little problem you report is a mark against you because, as a captain, your job is to handle those problems and not, I repeat, not trouble your superiors with them.”

  Familiar with Javert’s tactic of diverting the discussion, Meyers ignored the insults. He had to get Javert back to the central issue.

  “Captain, this has nothing to do with bothering our superiors,” Meyers pleaded.

  “The hell it doesn’t, mister,” Javert screamed. “You don’t even understand the basics. The navy’s rubric is clear. An officer follows orders, never admits it can’t be done, never questions, never bitches, and never, never challenges the authority or competence of his superiors. All you do is bitch, bitch, bitch about supply. I know the supply system; it’s a good system. If there are problems, there has to be a good reason. An officer would never add to the problems of his superiors by creating a fuss. Other ships manage with the same supply system, and it’s our job to manage the Farnley.”

  Meyers couldn’t take it any longer. He wasn’t bitching at Javert. Javert didn’t know what real bitching sounded like. He was the one everyone on the crew was bitching at. He was the one who was taking the heat.

  “Captain, I resent you saying that I bitch about problems or that I’m disloyal. I’m not,” Meyers said.

  “The hell you’re not, the way you’re always trying to coddle the crew.”

  “I don’t coddle the crew. Every time I try to enforce discipline you stop me. Look at the facts, Captain, that’s all I ask. Take the supply situation, for instance. I’ve seen the supply system lose a ship for a few weeks after they deployed to a different operating area, but never for thirteen months. Captain, something is wrong, and they might not even realize it. It can’t hurt to ask.”

  “Don’t you follow up on requisitions and try to expedite?”

  “You know damn well I do.”

  “Then you’ve asked! You should have faith in the navy like I do. I know supply is doing its best, and that we’re getting the same treatment as every other ship.”

  “That’s not true, Captain. I spoke to the XO on another—”

  “You what?” Javert screamed.

  “Captain, I was just—”

  “Trying to subvert me at every turn.”

  “Captain, I’m just trying to help. Damn it, Captain, can’t you see that?”

  “Mister Meyers, all I see is you yelling and cursing at your captain. Your behavior borders on mutiny, and I could have you brought up on charges for that. This conversation is over! Get out, now!”

  Meyers didn’t think he was being mutinous, but with his frustration-fueled rage building, he was afraid he would cross the line and enter that no-man’s-land. He had no choice. He quickly left, slid down the ladder to the main deck level, and stepped into the wardroom.

  Roaches, small black spots in the red lighting, darted for shelter as he entered. Everywhere he looked, he saw the evidence of his failure to keep the Farnley functioning as a naval vessel. If this was the officer’s quarters, what type of hellhole must the men be living in?

  He already knew the answer to his own question; he toured the ship every day. It was his daily exercise in frustration. As executive officer, the cleanliness of the ship was his responsibility, but normally he would have the authority to get the job done. Javert withheld all authority to enforce discipline and order, so every day, Meyers tried to make the men care. Failing that, there was little he could do without disobeying a direct order from Javert.

  He could hear Javert now, ‘Reports of increased disciplinary problems only show superiors that a captain isn’t doing his job. Good captains don’t have disciplinary problems.’ For once he was right, Meyers thought bitterly. Good captains don’t have disciplinary problems. They handle the crew with a velvet glove, but inside the glove is a fist of steel.

  In a rage, Meyers threw the steel desk chair out of the way as he entered his stateroom. The chair banged against the steel bulkhead, but the momentary act of violence did little to drain his frustration. He turned toward the sawdust filled sea bag he’d hung from a pipe near his shower stall.

  As he looked at it, a voice inside his head screamed the litany of his frustrations. I’m responsible for the condition of this ship, this floating rust heap. I can’t get paint. I can’t get parts, but that’s okay ‘cause they won’t give me men who would know what to do with new parts if I had them. I asked for a man with five years’ experience, and what do they do? They send me five men with one year’s experience. I have half the officers I need. Will they give me more? No! But that’s okay. Meyers can handle it. But just in case we missed something, let’s give ‘em a shithead for a captain, like Javert.

  The voice kept screaming and screaming. The more Meyers stared at the sea bag, the louder the voice became. With a scream, Meyers threw an overhand jab at the bag. His fist landed on the shiny round spot in its midsection, which had been worn smooth over the months. The off-angle blow sent spears of pain shooting into his shoulder socket.

  Swinging away from the first blow, the bag retreated from the assault. He pursued it. The coarse twill of the bag grabbed, tearing at the skin of his hands. The pain only served to increase his rage. The voice was still there, but it wasn’t getting louder. He growled and screamed at the bag with every blow, pummeling the bag with all his strength. His arms became leaden. He screamed louder to drown out the voice. The harder he punched, the quieter the voice became. Gasping for breath, he tried to punch faster. His hands began to bleed, but the voice wouldn’t die. Slowly, exhaustion reached down to claim his legs. With his knees too weak to stand, he collapsed onto the built-in Naugahyde couch. The voice was gone.

  He lay there for several minutes before the world began to return. The unmistakable hum of the engines and the slow rise and fall of the bow told him the ship was under way. He held his hands up and looked at the gelatinous blood collected around the gouged skin under his Annapolis class ring. His hands hurt, and the dried blood on his knuckles cracked as he spread his fingers to remove his ring. He rubbed his thumb across the ring’s large blue stone. The ring was the symbol of Annapolis and Annapolis the symbol of the navy’s officer corps. It stood for greatness; for duty, honor, country and all the laws and traditions he had learned there.

  The first thing he’d learned at Annapolis was that the navy demands more of its officers than mere technical excellence. A captain of a naval vessel was in a position unlike any other military commander. Alone
on the ocean, a ship can’t retreat, can’t dig in, can’t take cover, and the captain can’t get on the telephone to ask for advice. Whether the adversary was a declared enemy, a terrorist, a two-bit dictator trying to make a name for himself, or the sea itself, a captain must face the challenge alone, armed only with his experience, skill and courage.

  With such responsibilities comes authority commensurate with the task. For centuries, a captain’s power over the life and safety of his men has been unlimited. Captains must be men of character, compassion, conviction, and men not corrupted by absolute power.

  Belligerent nations have harassed warships, so captains must be men who would calmly stare down a hostile foe. A defeated captain who would strike his colors usually pays with the lives of his men, so captains must be men who would chuckle at adversity and wouldn’t be afraid to look the devil in the eye. In this century alone, storms have claimed dozens of ships, so captains must be men whose whispers could be heard above a shrieking gale.

  His teachers taught him it took more than study and hard work to earn the singular title captain. The navy looks for leaders, for those few who stand a little taller, who walk a little different, and who have a voice that exudes contagious confidence. From the millions of officers who come and go each century, perhaps a few thousand are granted the sacred trust and honored with the title Captain. These few special men who become captains, as singular as their office, stand before God as masters of their vessels. Their unrelenting responsibilities are enormous, their authority absolute. For those who would dare challenge these singular men, for those who would challenge the sacred trust, the navy has a singular word—Mutineer.

  Meyers felt the navy had made a tragic mistake by giving Javert command of the Farnley, and had thrust Javert into a situation he wasn’t equipped to handle. In a way, he felt sorry for Javert, but he grieved for the Farnley and her crew.

  Meyers put the ring down on his desk, and as he’d done every night for the past nine months, began making his daily diary entry. In it, he recorded everything he could remember about the day—the funny, the sad, the mundane, the exciting, the inane, and the inept actions of a man unfit for command.

  It was just past midnight when Meyers fell asleep exhausted. His dreams were of the men it had been his honor to serve; those few singular men the navy honored with the singular title—Captain.

  ADMIRALS

  August 1971, The Pentagon

  Operation Marathon: Day 403

  It didn’t surprise Captain Patrick “Terror” O’Toole to learn that Admiral Durham would be late for their four o’clock meeting, but it bothered him when the aide insisted he wait in the admiral’s office. O’Toole disliked special treatment, but when the aide said Durham had insisted, O’Toole relented. What really bothered him was that there were only three or four men in the world who rated being shown into the office of the Chief of Naval Operations unescorted. O’Toole knew he wasn’t one of them.

  Even though he disliked the special treatment, O’Toole welcomed the chance to be alone with the glass-encased model of the USS Constitution along the far wall. Maybe if he had enough time to study it, his obsession with it would ebb. Perhaps it wasn’t the model but the ship itself, Old Ironsides, that fascinated him. Or maybe it was the heritage and traditions she embodied.

  O’Toole surveyed the small, almost bare office. Like most things ashore, the feel of the office, the hushed whoosh of cool filtered air, the thick deep-blue carpet, the silence, and the dead rock-solid deck filled O’Toole with uneasiness. This wasn’t his element; it lacked the sting of life and its immediate reality.

  He appreciated the office’s quiet nobility, its understated feeling of overwhelming tradition, and the way it could awe and humble even the most ambitious men. O’Toole supposed such things were necessary in a town like Washington. Still, O’Toole preferred salt in his eyes, a steel deck, and a dirty coffee mug.

  Since their years at the academy, he and Durham had steered different courses. By choice, O’Toole was still a captain and would have it no other way. By acclaim, Durham was now the Chief of Naval Operations. Durham once confided in him that he wished they could trade places.

  Under the circumstances, that was understandable, but O’Toole knew he didn’t have the skills or patience needed to deal with the political machine in Washington. Durham had those skills, but sometimes it took more than skill to kill projects like Operation Marathon.

  Operation Marathon was the brainchild of Admiral Eickhoff. O’Toole had watched Eickhoff’s meteoric rise from lackluster lieutenant commander to admiral with disgust. It was a classic case of Washington at its worst.

  Eickhoff had parlayed three liaison positions to political leaders into a key position on the White House staff. He’d spent the last five years either on Capitol Hill or in the White House.

  Each assignment came with an unearned promotion paid for with political IOUs. Clearly, Eickhoff had collected many friends and markers on Capitol Hill. That grated on O’Toole, but his dislike for Eickhoff was more basic. Eickhoff’s hubris was exceeded only by his lack of scruples. Operation Marathon was but one example.

  All Washington witch hunts hide behind the facade of high ideals. In the case of Eickhoff’s Operation Marathon, it was fleet readiness. Eickhoff wanted to prove that the newer high-technology ships would ultimately break down in a protracted naval war. To accomplish this, a group of ships would be subjected to wartime conditions to determine their long-term reliability.

  From what O’Toole knew of Eickhoff, fleet readiness was the least of Eickhoff’s concerns. The war scenario drawn by Eickhoff was unrealistic. Besides, any commander worth his salt would know battles were won by men, not ships. O’Toole would rather sail into battle with a good crew on a rusty barge than the grandest battleship with a lousy crew.

  Durham had briefed O’Toole on Operation Marathon the day after he took over as CNO. Eickhoff had his senator friends apply pressure on the Pentagon to conduct the Marathon experiment. Durham had no choice; he had to conduct Operation Marathon or his replacement would. Stuck with it, Durham was doing the best he could.

  Eickhoff had put together a technically flawed plan with a heavy political slant that placed six test ships under his command. Only because of his political backing, Eickhoff had almost successfully pushed the project through before Durham took over.

  Eickhoff’s staffing levels were so low, exhaustion would have overwhelmed the crews within weeks. The supply situation was even worse. Eickhoff’s original plan denied the Operation Marathon ships all repair parts. This was unsafe. Men were going to die under these conditions.

  O’Toole had helped Durham restructure Operation Marathon to feed the political beast while hopefully preventing fatal accidents. Supply had compiled a master list of repair parts and supplies that each ship required. Any requisition for those parts from an Operation Marathon ship would be flagged. The supply system would only deliver on about one-third of those requisitions.

  Despite his dislike for Operation Marathon, O’Toole admired the way Durham had restructured it. With heavy security, the operation would be run as a valid blind test capable of yielding useful information. Dispersing the ships around the globe prevented potential adversaries from capitalizing on a weakened Operation Marathon ship.

  O’Toole heard the door open and turned to see his friend enter. Despite his fifty-seven years, Admiral Durham retained the trim muscular build of his youth. The only concessions to age were the sun-etched crow’s feet behind his steady deep-blue eyes and a few streaks of silver in his black hair.

  §

  “Sorry I’m late, Pat. When did you get back?” Durham said, waving O’Toole to one of the simple teak armchairs in front of his desk.

  “Oh-three-hundred this morning. I hopped a cargo flight back from Pearl,” O’Toole said.

  Durham shook his head and chuckled to himself. O’Toole would never change. He was a senior officer on special assignment for the CNO. He could have arrang
ed a VIP flight home, but he would rather bounce around in a cargo net with enlisted men and junior officers. Durham’s mind returned to the subject of the meeting: Operation Marathon and the latest test ship to drop out, the USS Wilhelm.

  “How’s the Wilhelm doing?”

  “Great! She has a pack of wiry junkyard dogs for a crew. Two months ago, she was ready for the scrap heap; now she’s damned near in yard condition. You know, Admiral Kurtis said he thought Dedek, the Wilhelm’s CO, was going to tear his head off when he told him about Operation Marathon. He was one pee-ohed SOB,” O’Toole said.

  “Don’t say as I blame him. It’s dirty pool that we can’t let the captains know what we are doing to their ships. Well, it will all be over on January first; eighteen months is the Marathon limit.” Durham paused before asking, “Is he calmed down now?”

  “Hell, he’s okay, but I don’t think you could ever call that man calm.” From the response, Durham could tell O’Toole liked Dedek.

  “Tell me what you found out, Pat.”

  O’Toole briefed Durham on the particulars, and when he was done, Durham asked, “Any recommendations?”

  “Ron, I’m sorry, but I just don’t like this little experiment,” O’Toole began. “It’s the biggest load of whale dung to wash ashore on the Potomac. It’s not right to screw with the men like this. I told you before; someone is going to get killed before it’s over.”

  Durham took no offense at O’Toole’s reply. O’Toole was an old tin-can man with more destroyer experience than any other man in the navy, and his opinion was universally respected. O’Toole was just being O’Toole, speaking his truth in a forthright, unambiguous way. He would have used the same words had he been speaking to the Secretary of Defense, the President, or God Almighty. O’Toole was not known for his subtlety, but he was known for always getting his message across. It was why he asked for O’Toole’s help on Operation Marathon.