The Marathon Watch Page 5

  O’Toole was right but had forgotten the political realities. Durham closed his eyes for a second before responding. “We have three issues here, Pat. First, the battle readiness of the fleet concerns me, and say what you might about Eickhoff, we have to grant him one point; we don’t have any data that tells us what will happen in a protracted naval war. If our ships are unreliable, thousands of men could die. The data we’re collecting is valuable.

  “Second, if we scuttle Operation Marathon, the political hacks on Capitol Hill will have a field day. Our appropriations will get cut back so far, we won’t be able to buy coffee.

  “Third, given the first two issues, how do we keep this operation safe so no one gets hurt or killed?”

  “The biggest problem is safety,” O’Toole began. “The supply system has orders to withhold almost seventy percent of supply part requisitions. The problem is they can’t distinguish between a repair part, a light bulb, or a fire pump. Thank God they know what toilet paper is. The five remaining ships need a safety inspection. Safety items must get through.”

  The recommendation made sense to Durham, but he would have to find a way to do it without violating Operation Marathon security. He was about to respond when he saw that O’Toole had something else on his mind.

  O’Toole, shaking his head, said, “I know you’re in a box on this one, but understand, we’re flirting with disaster. I just hope I’m wrong.”

  “It’s worth the risk,” Durham said, hoping he was right.

  “It’s your decision, Ron, and I respect that. I’m just sorry I couldn’t come up with an alternative for you. Anyhow, it’s all in my report,” O’Toole said, sliding a small three-ring binder across the desk toward Durham, ending the discussion.

  Durham bit his lip, then said, “Pat, are you sure I can’t get you to take an admiral’s star?”

  O’Toole, startled by the question, stood up, looked around the office, and began shaking his head.

  “No way,” he said, patting Durham’s desk. “Whatever I command will be cutting blue water, not beached on a blue carpet like yours. I prefer the honesty of a good nor’wester and the genuine feel of a bucking bridge deck.”

  Durham knew O’Toole was right. He’d never survive behind a desk. Despite the lack of recognition, O’Toole was happy with what he was doing, and Durham knew that “Terror” O’Toole did it better than any man alive. Durham envied him.

  “You’re a stubborn old Irishman, O’Toole,” Durham said with a chuckle, then, after a second of thought, added, “Pat, keep your bags packed. If this thing goes sour on me, I’m going to need your help.”

  “Don’t worry, Ron. You move me around so much, I have to keep one bag packed just to stay in clean skivvies.”

  “Thanks,” Durham said.

  O’Toole winked at Durham and headed for the door. When the door clicked shut behind O’Toole, Durham hastily drafted a message and gave it to an aide with instructions to send it immediately. With that done, Durham picked up the phone to call Commander Beetham, the senior communications watch officer and an expert on the navy’s elaborate communication system.

  Beetham listened carefully, and when Durham finished outlining what he wanted, Beetham replied, “Putting a complete communications watch on a couple of ships is easy, but doing it without attracting attention isn’t. Give me some time to figure it out.”

  “Thanks. I know you’ll do your best,” Durham said, putting the phone back in the cradle.

  §

  In the dark Mediterranean night, the USS America, the Sixth Fleet flag ship, steamed southward off the coast of Sardinia. On the America’s flag bridge, Admiral Eickhoff and Lieutenant Pew watched the dazzling light display of nighttime flight operations.

  Eickhoff loved the sight; the lights were like Christmas in motion. Washed in a dim red glow, men with green and red wands led aircraft on their sinuous journey through a maze of other small lights. With their brilliant multicolored strobes impatiently slashing at the darkness, aircraft rolled into launch position. In a burst of golden-white light, their engines illuminated the flight deck and the jets climbed into the sky until their lights were but a twinkle against the blackness.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Eickhoff said to Pew.

  Pew didn’t answer, but nodded his agreement.

  Eickhoff smiled. That was one reason he liked Pew. He knew when to keep his mouth shut, which was most of the time. The son of some politician, Pew wasn’t a career officer, but Pew understood the importance of patriotic veterans on Election Day. He was an ambitious man carefully building his resume far from the politically troubled shores of Viet Nam.

  By Eickhoff’s assessment, Pew, whose only liability was his appearance, knew how to play the game and appreciated the value of information. Eickhoff understood Pew and had briefed him on Operation Marathon before stationing him in Naples as Sixth Fleet Liaison Officer.

  Occasionally, information valuable to those who knew how to use it flowed through the NATO base at Naples. Another reason Eickhoff liked Pew was his uncanny ability to piece together vast mosaics of information from apparently random and unconnected fragments.

  “Would you like some coffee, Admiral?” Pew asked.

  Eickhoff nodded and turned to look at the lights of the screening destroyers. Eickhoff had to find out where he stood with Operation Marathon. In some respects, Operation Marathon had worked better than he’d expected. In other respects, he’d lost control of Operation Marathon due to O’Toole and Durham’s interference. Their interference was an unforeseeable event, and one Eickhoff didn’t like. He never liked leaving his future to chance.

  Eickhoff had immediately recognized the potential of the report Senator Carmichael gave him. One thing had led to another, and after he submitted his article to the Naval Review, Operation Marathon took on a life of its own. So far, the results had been beneficial. Durham, true to plan, had given him command of the Sixth Fleet so he could be directly involved in the operation. It was the least Durham could do after he reorganized the entire operation at the last minute. He owed it to me. The Farnley was now Eickhoff’s responsibility.

  Eickhoff turned to Pew. “I need comprehensive intelligence on the other Operation Marathon ships. Do you have any ideas?”

  Handing a mug of coffee to Eickhoff, Pew responded. “No. Durham completely shut down all information on the other ships. When I protested, they told me politely it was the way Durham wanted it. Each admiral would have to decide independently when to withdraw his ship from Operation Marathon. He didn’t want anybody to be influenced by the condition of the other ships.”

  “There has to be a way,” Eickhoff said.

  “I could go back to Washington and ask around.”

  “Without some cover story, it would be too obvious,” Eickhoff began while shaking his head. “Besides, Durham won’t release the names or locations of the other Operation Marathon ships. The first problem is ascertaining their identity and location.”

  Pew puckered the lips on his narrow tapered face and began cautiously, “Maybe our approach is incorrect; our assumptions fallacious. If you tell me what concerns you, we might be able to find a solution.”

  Thinking, Eickhoff looked carefully at Pew, who had all the features of an effeminate weasel. Let me have men about me who are fat, Marcus Antonius. Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous. Eickhoff decided not to mention the message he’d just received from Durham, but saw no harm in outlining what Pew probably had figured out.

  “Operation Marathon is operationally complex. Durham may have structured its command and control aspects so it’ll fail and pull me down with it,” Eickhoff began. “The Farnley, the last of the World War II ships, is the control ship, and that’s why I have command of her. Since all the other ships will be measured against her, every move I make will come under scrutiny. If I’m too lenient on her, they’ll criticize the results and invalidate the experiment. If Operation Marathon doesn’t prove
my point, or if the results are invalidated, all my effort will be wasted. I must know the status of the other ships before I make any more decisions about the Farnley.”

  Pew waited until the crackling roar of a launching phantom jet faded away. “I don’t see it that way. Your handling of Operation Marathon has been masterful. Durham had no choice but to modify Operation Marathon’s structure. He’s in control now, so if a problem arises, it’s his fault, but if it succeeds, you can take the credit. As for the other matter, Durham wouldn’t try to rig the operation or pull you down. He’s too scrupulous for that.”

  Taking a sip of his coffee, Eickhoff peered at Pew over the top of his mug. “Go on,” he said.

  “You have been relentless and as demanding on the Farnley as the guidelines permit. You’re immune from criticism, but you probably can criticize the other admirals for being too lenient on their ships. That only makes your position stronger if someone wants to debate the results. I don’t see how you can lose.”

  Eichkoff chose not to tell Pew about Javert, the Farnley’s commanding officer. Javert was his wild card in this game; no other admiral would have picked such a weak man to command their ship. If the Farnley had to drop out, he would blame it on Javert. Eichkoff would get bruised for a minor error in judgment, but that wouldn’t affect Marathon. He wondered if Pew had figured that out. “What about Javert?” Eickhoff asked.

  Pew looked unnerved by the question. Rendering an opinion on a senior officer was always dangerous. “His selection still adheres to the guidelines,” Pew said carefully as if exploring the idea for the first time. “I doubt the other Operation Marathon admirals would have selected a captain with so little sea experience, so that makes Javert a plus for you. Because of the information blackout, your only reasonable course is to keep bearing down on the Farnley. If you relent, the results will be open to question.”

  Eickhoff had been right. Pew was intelligent and that made him even more dangerous. “What if she isn’t the last to drop out?” Eickhoff asked.

  “You can demonstrate you were harder on the Farnley than the other admirals were on their ships. As such, her early demise will be understandable, and you’ll be justified in questioning any conclusion contrary to your theory. If Operation Marathon proves you right, the sky’s the limit. Even in the worst-case scenario, Operation Marathon is worth at least one more star to you.”

  A staff aide poked his head through the bridge door and shouted, “Admiral, time for your staff meeting.”

  Eickhoff nodded, then looked carefully at Pew. Pew was a dilemma. He needed an aide with a soft moral compass but every bit of information he gave Pew could turn dangerously explosive. He would have to promise Pew a huge reward to buy his loyalty. Eickhoff guessed Pew would do well in political life after he left the navy. As they walked off the bridge Eickhoff said to Pew, “This is all interesting, but I need sound intelligence on the other ships. I don’t care how you get it.”

  §

  Aboard the USS America, Admiral Eickhoff’s staff meeting had just ended. Seated in the spacious public section of his quarters that doubled as a dining and conference room, Eickhoff played with his coffee cup while the last of his staff filed out. The message he’d received from Durham had made concentration difficult.

  The information blackout Durham had imposed on Operation Marathon had presented more problems than he’d expected. Operation Marathon was entering a new and dangerous phase. Eickhoff was sure it was the endgame, and with his next few moves, he would either win big or lose it all. His original plan for Operation Marathon was without risk, but Durham’s restructured version increased the risk to Eickhoff dramatically.

  He only knew one thing for sure; the Farnley was still running. Eickhoff had read Durham’s message a dozen times in a vain attempt to glean additional information. The message simply directed the Operation Marathon admirals to inspect their ships for safety and report to the CNO.

  Durham’s attention to this detail nagged at Eickhoff. Why safety? That was part of the Operation Marathon study and should be left alone. Durham was weak and didn’t understand that Congress wanted Operation Marathon to succeed so he could replace Durham and reshape the navy. The stakes were high enough that an injured sailor or two would be insignificant unless the press found out.

  What troubled Eickhoff was that he had no way of knowing where he stood, but he tried to reason his way through the puzzle. By his predictions, the Farnley should be the only operational ship left. However, if that were true, his point would have been made and the operation terminated. Obviously, his prediction was wrong, and that spelled danger.

  Could Durham be looking for more information? But what was it? If only he knew the status of the other ships, he would know what to report to Durham about safety matters aboard the Farnley.

  If his report was too critical, Durham might pull the Farnley out of the operation. If his report was too positive when compared with the other reports, Durham would question his thoroughness. Either outcome was unacceptable; the stakes were far too high. Eickhoff needed answers before drafting his report. Pew’s information, if he found out anything, probably would come too late.

  After the last of the officers had filed out and their footsteps on the steel passageway had subsided, the quarters became completely silent. As the invisible marine guard in the passageway pulled the door shut with a metallic click, Eickhoff dragged two thick computer reports and a binder across the oak table.

  Eickhoff flipped through detailed equipment maintenance reports and found nothing unexplainable. The only thing of note was that the Farnley was overdue for regular hull cleaning and a new coat of paint.

  Next, he turned to his fleet readiness report. He turned to the page that contained the Farnley’s summary and was elated to find she had been given an 87.3 percent rating, a mere 5.5 percent below the fleet average. This was far better than he could have imagined, and he was sure that it had to be better than other Operation Marathon ships. All systems were operational, and none were critically limited in capability. The Farnley was holding together well, certainly better than could be expected.

  He could almost visualize his success. He already knew how he would defend himself against his detractors. To draw his conclusions into doubt, they would quibble over details. He would point out that, details aside, he’d been harder on the Farnley than any other Operation Marathon admiral and had given the Farnley the least experienced captain. With what the Farnley had been through, if she was still operational at the end of the operation, his point would be proven. No one could argue that, hardship for hardship, the new high-technology ships held up better than the Farnley.

  Building from that base of power, he would point out how hard he’d fought for Operation Marathon, and how he alone had been the risk taker. They would question his sincerity and motives. He would explain that, once he had seen the Armed Services Committee nuclear war report, he was the only one who had had the courage and vision to challenge the status quo.

  They would demand to know the source of his data. The information had been available to anyone who wanted it, but he would point out that he was the only one with the vision and insight to put it together. They would be jealous of his political power, and they would grumble about his promotion.

  His detractors obviously didn’t understand the political and populist winds were changing. Of all the potential replacements for Durham, Eickhoff knew he and he alone had the political sense to make the necessary changes to doctrine, ships, procurement, and, most of all, leadership.

  Leaders like Durham were too traditional, too cautious, too analytical. They lacked political savvy, stood on principle, and were anachronisms in modern times. Men like Durham could never make the radical changes demanded by the American people.

  The high stakes justified his treatment of the Farnley. Someday, students would study his handling of Operation Marathon, and teachers would praise his courageous acts.

  Eickhoff was satisfied. When Operat
ion Marathon ended, he would be in a position of strength. He could convince Congress that the hopeful thinking of the current Pentagon leadership was a recipe for disaster. He would become the architect of tomorrow’s navy.

  Eickhoff forgot his coffee and the thick report labeled “Past-due parts requisitions,” and headed toward his desk and the large stack of message traffic waiting for his attention. He looked at the stack and tried to understand why the navy expected admirals to handle such menial drudgery. He would delegate it to a staff aide in the morning. The message announcing his visit to the Farnley in Naples also could wait until morning.

  RETURNING HOME

  August 1971, Norfolk Navy Base

  Operation Marathon: Day 404

  On his drive from Washington to Norfolk, O’Toole’s mind kept drifting back to the model of Old Ironsides in Durham’s office. He was almost obsessed with it.

  He enjoyed examining every part of the model, the rigging, hull, deck, rails, and masts. The care, patience, and attention to detail that had gone into its construction were phenomenal; even the knots around the belaying pins were correct. He’d never met the model maker, but he knew they had much in common and would be best friends. The craftsman had built a fitting tribute to a great ship that, with her crew, had helped build a nation.

  O’Toole would gladly give up his pension to command a ship like her. When he looked at the model, he could feel the exhilaration of wind, sea, and bounding deck as a westerly wind filled her sails and stretched her creaking rigging taut against the braces. She had been a ship for strong men of courage and skill. Her victories reminded a nation of its identity. The courageous acts of her crew had inspired generations of seamen and admirals alike.

  It was just before five a.m. when O’Toole drove through the main gate at the Norfolk naval base and headed toward the pier six parking lot. He’d been stationed on the West Coast for almost a year and was surprised by the number of new patches that had been added to the road surface. He’d heard the base’s ancient sewer system was on the verge of collapse, but he had no idea it was this bad.