The Marathon Watch Page 6

  In the early dawn light, he stepped out of his gray Chevy Impala, brushed back his red hair, and placed his uniform cap squarely on his head. With a smile, he inhaled a deep breath of air through his nostrils and savored the aroma of the sea air, marine growth, and fuel oil. It invigorated him, and he briskly headed to the pier where the Wainwright was berthed.

  On the pier, he found himself alone except for a single sailor walking twenty paces ahead. The sounds of the pier, the airy whine of blowers, and the sounds of the ships’ powerful machinery were familiar to him and put him at ease. Quickening his step, he kept his eyes trained forward, resisting the urge to look at the three-deep nest of sleek gray destroyers on each side of him. There would be time for looking later. For now, he was content just to feel their presence and smell the mixed aromas of ships and sea. He was home again.

  In less than a week, he would take command of Destroyer Squadron Twenty-Three. He’d stopped counting the number of squadrons he’d commanded, but was sure it had been three in the last two years alone. For other commodores, a tour was two years, but for O’Toole, it was six months because that was the length of his unofficial postgraduate curriculum in military seamanship. He knew that dozens of admirals owed their stars to the training he’d given them. Still, he refused promotion. He saw no incongruity in this and thought of himself as a simple teacher, and the subjects he taught best were leadership and the art of command at sea.

  Destroyers, the navy’s answer to the foot soldier, were his home. He could see it no other way. When the admirals order the fleet to stand in harm’s way, destroyers would take the point and carry the battle. The first flashes of battle in predawn twilight would come from the muzzles of destroyers and the last flashes from destroyers pursuing a shattered enemy or covering the fleet’s retreat.

  O’Toole had experience in both outcomes and knew the prerequisites to victory were the skill, steel, and audacity of command. Defeat, which had no prerequisites, was measured in the blood of fine young men.

  O’Toole studied the sailor walking down the pier. The man, who had a large sealed manila envelope clamped under his right arm, was carrying a heavy sea bag on his left shoulder and a medium-sized suitcase in his right hand. O’Toole liked the cut of his jib. His rolling gait had a broad beam to it that would serve him well in a blow. O’Toole didn’t have to guess; his morning companion was a seasoned tin-can man.

  The man was struggling under the heavy load, so O’Toole jogged several paces to catch up with him. As O’Toole came abreast of the man, the manila envelope slipped from its position and fell to the concrete.

  “Let me help you,” O’Toole said, picking up the envelope and snatching the suitcase from the man’s hand.

  Relieved, the sailor started to say thank you until he saw his Good Samaritan. As they made eye contact, O’Toole took a quick step forward to indicate that a salute was neither expected nor necessary. The early-morning hour absolved them both from formality. Besides, this was just a matter of one tin-can man helping another.

  “Where’re you headed, sailor?” O’Toole asked.

  Startled and a bit surprised to see a flag officer carrying his suitcase, the sailor replied, “Good morning, sir, and thank you for the help. I’m headed for the Wainwright. Commodore O’Toole?”

  It was O’Toole’s turn to be surprised. The man knew him, but O’Toole’s normally infallible memory for names failed him. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name. Who are you, sailor?” O’Toole asked.

  “Electrician’s Mate Second Class Maholic, sir. DESRON Eight, San Diego, last year.”

  O’Toole smiled instantly. “Now I remember. Come on. I’m headed for the Wainwright myself. Starting next week, she’ll be my flagship.”

  Both men began walking again, and after a few seconds, a devilish grin spread across Maholic’s face. “Excuse me, Commodore, but are they expecting you?”

  “Of course not,” O’Toole said, returning the grin. “Do you think I get up this early for the hell of it?”

  Maholic’s reply was immediate. “Commodore, would you mind if I wait on the pier until you get aboard?”

  O’Toole permitted himself one last chuckle. “Not at all; just promise you won’t tell on me.”

  STRAITS OF MESSINA

  August 1971, Straits of Messina

  Operation Marathon: Day 407

  Protected from the hot evening sun by the bridge house shadow, Lieutenant Steve Biron relaxed on the bridge wing, gazing at the headlands of Italy and Sicily rising peacefully above a cerulean sea. The shadow was as welcome as cool grass in the moist shade of a maple. After the futile gunnery exercises and the exhausting pace of the six days past, the evening was a just reward, like a sleepy Sunday afternoon in a tree-lined park.

  Older than most would guess, Biron had just turned thirty, although his boyish features, blond hair, and blue eyes made most people miss his age by a good five years. His circular steel-rimmed glasses added to his youthful appearance and identified him incorrectly as a member of the sixties generation. Javert had told him, “Get rid of those damned hippie glasses.” Biron hadn’t seen the problem, so he’d kept them.

  “Hey, I hear Sixth Fleet is coming for a visit while we’re in Naples.”

  Biron glanced to his right to see Petty Officer Sweeney standing next to him mirroring his pose against the bridge railing. Sweeney, the pudgy Okie, lacked appreciation for the solitude of a bridge wing. Whenever his duties permitted, Sweeney kept close station to the bridge officer so he could snatch any morsel of new information. Biron liked Sweeney, the natural nerve center of the ship’s unofficial rumor mill. Sweeney proudly told newcomers, “Round here, I’m the scuttlebutt king.”

  “That’s the word. Admiral Eickhoff is coming for a visit,” Biron answered matter-of-factly.

  “How come?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Then what was the gunnery exercise all about, Mister Biron?”

  Sweeney was pushing and by his tone was on another fishing expedition. Biron didn’t mind his questions, and in fact he found Sweeney’s nonstop information-mongering an amusing diversion. Sweeney’s nimble mind could connect two unrelated facts in a heartbeat. He could produce three opinions on anything and had an angle on everything. Guessing what tangent Sweeney would take next was an endless challenge.

  “Don’t know. What’s the skinny?” Biron asked.

  “Me, I don’t know nothin’. Nobody tells me anything,” Sweeney said innocently. “I just thought you’d know what the exercise was all about.”

  Biron smiled. A quest it was, and an intriguing one at that. He didn’t have an answer for Sweeney but decided to throw him an unrelated fact. Perhaps something would sprout. “Ever been to ‘Nam?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, that’s what we did there. We ran in a circle providing gunfire support in the day and rearming at night.”

  “That was different. You were doing something. This was practice. It doesn’t take twenty hours of firing to teach the mount crews what to do.”

  “Don’t know what to tell you, Sweeney,” Biron said.

  Of all the natural structures Biron knew, the Strait of Messina was his favorite. The fjord-like strait was possessed by some presence far mightier than man. His memories of the strait were as unchanged by time as the sea itself, its weather always the same as it was today. The air was always quiet, heavy, and somber. The waters were forever a dark brooding slate gray while the currents, perpetually shifting on the smooth oil-like surface, were etched with eddies, rips, and whirlpools. It was a place worthy of the gods and the songs of Homer. It was mystical.

  “What’cha lookin’ at, sir?

  Sweeney’s question brought him back to reality, but Homer lingered in his mind. “This is an ancient land, Sweeney. It’s a land of gods and monsters.”

  “Monsters?”

  Biron was accustomed to Sweeney’s appetite for mythology and sea lore. “To the ancients, the strait was home to twin monst
ers, Scylla and Charybdis,” Biron began. “Do you know who the Sirens were?”

  “A bunch of gorgeous broads who suckered sailors in by singing to them, right?”

  Biron never thought of comparing the Sirens to waterfront B-girls before.

  Sweeney continued, “Charybdis? I think I heard that name in some monster movie once.”

  “Probably a different monster,” Biron said.

  A voice from inside the bridge house announced, “Sir, it’s twenty hundred hours. Range to point alpha is three-thousand-five-hundred yards.”

  It was time to go to work. Biron acknowledged the quartermaster’s report and turned to Sweeney. “Set the navigation watch.”

  Only vaguely aware of Sweeney’s voice blaring over the topside speakers, Biron took a last leisurely look at the calm sea and the majestic headlands. The sight tugged at him gently, and he realized how much he loved the sea, her beauty, her myths, her poetry, her fury, her tranquility.

  He didn’t have time for this; he had a job to do. Jerking his body away from the bridge railing, he stepped into the bridge house. Within minutes, the bridge overflowed with sailors, and extra lookouts were posted. In bored monotonous voices, men called out bearings, and the status board keeper tracked every surface contact. As safety observer, Ensign Hayes took station behind Seaman Portalatin, the navigation detail helmsman.

  With the navigation detail assembled, Biron walked to the center of the bridge, just forward of the helm where he had room to move and an unrestricted view of both bows. Biron blocked out the commotion around him and was only remotely aware of the presence of Javert and Meyers. He concentrated on the only three things that mattered: the sea, his ship, and his helmsman, Portalatin.

  Portalatin was the best helmsman he’d ever seen. He had both the gift and the natural physique for the job. Portalatin was tall with broad, muscular shoulders, and his arms seemed to hang almost to his knees. Everyone on the crew called Portalatin Kong.

  Biron’s voice rose above the din. He spoke his words with a slow, fluid cadence. “Right standard rudder, come to new course zero-three-zero.”

  “Right standard rudder. Aye, sir,” Portalatin replied, echoing Biron’s cadence.

  Biron listened to the sound of the wheel as it spun slowly under Portalatin’s hand. The turn would be a slow, graceful arc, just as he had requested.

  The constant drone of contact and bearing reports continued. Biron didn’t need the reports, but he checked each against what he could see, then filed the information away. He was proud of his ability to con a ship by eye, the way sailors had done for centuries before gyrocompasses and radar.

  Everything was as it should be. Biron relaxed. The coastal traffic was light, and he had a few minutes until his next turn. It would be his easiest transit yet.

  Meyers walked over to Biron, chuckling. “Have you heard the latest?” Meyers asked.

  Biron shook his head no before Meyers continued. “The reason Admiral Eickhoff is visiting us in Naples is to give us new orders. The word is the navy is pulling us out of the Med next month and sending us to Viet Nam for gunfire support.” Meyers could hardly control his grin.

  Biron wanted to change the subject but didn’t know how. “No kidding,” he replied weakly.

  “Yeah, it’s all over the ship. I heard it coming up here.”

  Biron feigned a smile. “Too bad. I really like the Med. I’ll sure miss the scenery.”

  Meyers looked out the bridge windows toward Sicily, nodded his head to indicate something outside the bridge, “It’s beautiful isn’t it?”

  Relieved, Biron turned in the direction Meyers had indicated to look at the high southern shore, and tried to formulate a response. It was more than beautiful. The power and character of the massive granite cliffs spoke silently of strength in words unspeakable. The strait was as irrepressible and ageless as the gnarled trees that clung tenaciously to every crag; as irrepressible as its people. The strait was nobility.

  “Yeah, but the word doesn’t seem to capture it,” Biron began as he adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “Until you see this, you can’t fully understand why this land gave birth to the indomitable legions of Rome. Or how it inspired Fronto and Marcus Aurelius in their pursuit of Stoic philosophy and reason. Why the centurions and generals of Rome believed in death before dishonor. The Caesars, Rome, her legions, are all products of this land. Even today, the Sicilian Mafioso clings to the death before dishonor ethic. The land is harsh and unforgiving. One couldn’t expect less of its people.”

  Meyers was shaking his head and grinning. “Biron, where do you get all that stuff?”

  From Meyers’ expression, he knew he had gone far beyond the simple answer expected. It embarrassed him, and he attempted to recover. “My majors were history and literature.”

  “That’s a strange mix. Why history and literature?” Meyers asked.

  The question struck Biron as strange. “Sounds natural to me. You find the greatest literature in history, and the best history in literature,” Biron responded, wondering if he had answered the question. Meyers, chuckling, slapping Biron on the back and said, “Well spoken, Sir Biron; and to think I just thought of this place as plain pretty.”

  Meyers was teasing him; it was all in good fun. With a sheepish grin, Biron ended the conversation by raising his binoculars to get a closer look at the ferry.

  “Sir, distance to point Bravo, one-thousand-five-hundred yards.”

  “Sir, nearest shoal water one-thousand yards off the starboard bow. Sixty yards right of track.”

  “New skunk Lima on collision course. Bearing zero-one-zero, constant bearing decreasing range.”

  Biron had seen it. It was the ferry leaving Villa San Giovanni for Messina, and not a threat. Just wait two minutes, come right to about zero-six-zero to pass astern of her, then swing hard left to stay clear of the shoals; a relatively easy and safe maneuver. He guessed the ferry would follow the normal pattern and increase speed. That only made his maneuver easier and any other course of action perilous.

  §

  Javert, seated in his chair, listened to Biron’s and Meyers’ small talk. It annoyed him. “Pay attention, Mister Biron, you have a ferry on a collision course.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Biron said.

  Meyers left Biron’s side and took a position between Biron and Javert.

  Javert had seen this strait before and knew Biron ignored all the strait’s salient qualities. It was a sharp, craggy channel whose stone bottom didn’t ground ships; it tore their bottoms out. The strait was as absolute and unforgiving as its unyielding stone cliffs could make it.

  “Sir, range to skunk Lima one-thousand yards.”

  “Very well,” Biron replied, acknowledging the report.

  Javert watched Biron and wondered what hold he had on the men. He was always in control, calm, commanding, and confident. The men looked up to him and recognized him as a fine conning officer. Javert’s eyes scanned the enlisted men on the bridge. The men were a dirty, slovenly, uneducated, and unmotivated herd of sheep, yet Biron had some special power over them. Don’t they know I outrank him? Don’t they know I’m the captain?

  The questions, unanswered, echoed through Javert’s mind. His teachers had been right; the society of the sea was tribal. Leaders gained power through strength and gall. No one had the courage to challenge the authority of the other captains he’d seen, all bold and daring men. He had let the challenge to his authority go unanswered. Oh yes, he’d chastised his officers for challenging him, but it hadn’t helped. To prove his superiority, he had to show he was stronger, bolder, and wiser. That was what the crew waited for. If he could show up Biron, the men would follow him. They were sheep. It was tribal.

  “Sir, range to skunk Lima nine-hundred yards. Still on collision course.”

  Javert looked at Biron and tried to guess what he would do. He would do the safe thing, the cowardly thing, and pass astern of the ferry. He would turn right toward the shoal water. A bolder a
ct would be…

  “Sir, range to skunk Lima eight-hundred yards. Sir, navigation recommends new course zero-six-five to avoid.”

  A small smile crossed Biron’s face. His response was immediate. “Right standard rudder. Come right to new course zero-six-five.”

  “Belay that order,” Javert called out in a strong, clear voice. Portalatin froze. His eyes jerked nervously between Javert and Biron. Poised, his right hand hovered motionless above the motionless wheel.

  §

  Shocked, Meyers spun to confront Javert. Javert had entered the gray area between law and tradition. As conning officer, the law held Biron responsible for the ship’s safety. As captain, tradition held that Javert had just relieved Biron of all responsibility by countermanding his order. If anything went wrong, the law would punish one, tradition the other.

  Instinctively, Meyers understood that Biron’s dilemma was untenable. His only options were to follow orders and seriously endanger the ship or disobey a direct order. Even if Biron disobeyed, it was questionable if he could regain control of the bridge crew in time. Anyone who followed Biron’s orders risked court-martial along with Biron. The safety of the ship was his first responsibility. Biron needed to lead; he needed to ignore Javert’s order.

  Javert looked directly at Biron. “That course will take you closer to the shoals. Come to fifteen knots and come left ten degrees, Mister Biron.”

  “Captain, no,” Biron said.

  “I said do it now, Mister Biron. Make it so!” Javert yelled back.

  “Sir, range to skunk Lima seven-hundred yards. Still on collision course.”

  Biron looked dumbstruck.

  “Captain, we have room. We should turn sharply to signal our intentions. It is the safest maneuver,” Meyers said to Javert.

  “Sir, navigation recommends course zero-seven-zero to avoid skunk Lima. Still on collision course.”

  “Mister Biron, that was a direct order. Do it now,” Javert yelled.

  “Three-hundred yards to extremis skunk Lima.”