Charles Taylor - Boomer

“My reason for this overly long speech is not just to congratulate you or build your egos. You know now how I feel, and each one of you should consider himself a king among kings. My purpose is to warn you against complacency — to say that there’s two down and one to go. But that may not be the case. There may be more than that, The next Soviet boomer that we encounter may be the one that hears us first. There is no room for mistakes in our world.

“I also must caution you against rumor. Too often we are willing to accept secondhand information as gospel. Let me assure you that the intelligence received from Admiral Arrow’s office just before our departure indicated that we might encounter this Soviet masking device on this patrol. The XO will concur with that. The intelligence report given to us was very slim. There was nothing to explain how the device worked or even what it might sound like. Perhaps COMSUBPAC’s intelligence people hoped it might be a poor imitation. All they knew was that it existed, and they had to warn us of its existence. Luckily, they were able to tell us when it would be used. When we get back to Pearl, I’ll damn sure tell them it’s a devilish instrument that could beckon the best of us to our death. Although it was intended only for the eyes of the captain and the executive officer, I will be happy to explain as much as I can to any member of this crew who feels the need to know more about it. As a matter of fact, I’ll show you the exact report.

“It is important to understand that our worst enemy could be ourselves if we fall victim to doubts about the identity of solid sonar contacts. We have been assigned the ultimate mission any one of us might ever hope for, and we must perform as if the existence of our country depended on each man aboard Pasadena. I sincerely believe it does.”

Dick Makin picked up the phone as soon as the hum of the IMC clicked into ominous silence. He couldn’t depend on Chief Sanford to keep Tommy Lott under wraps. It had just become the job of the executive officer.

“I hope everyone realizes that if we were a destroyer plodding along in a sector like this, we could have a cookout on the fantail.” Buck Nelson’s voice was loud, intentionally so. He was demanding the attention of everyone in the control room. Outside of the common courtesies when he entered, they had all responded like so many bumps on a log — the drudgeries of patrol, no different from the last, or the next, could quickly make sleepwalkers out of professionals! Every commanding officer was aware of the problem. Breaking this almost hypnotic sensation of boredom had never been complex.

The helmsman was the first to respond. “Any beer at your cookout, Captain?”

“Don’t I wish.” Nelson chuckled. “No, even the skimmers don’t get it at sea, regardless of what they might tell you,” he said, referring to the surface navy. “They’re just like us. They can’t break out the suds until they’re on the beach.”

The quartermaster of the watch grinned at Nelson. “Would this be just a hot dog and hamburg cookout, Captain, or something a little special?”

“Well, what do you guys think? There’re some terrific steaks in the reefer waiting to be thawed, I’m told. I figure if Florida ever has a chance, this crew deserves nothing but the best. Hell, this would be a real barbecue — steaks, maybe ribs, if the cook could whip up some Texas-style sauce and find some good smoke.” Nelson leaned on the chart table and looked back over his shoulder at the OOD, who was watching him with amusement. “What do you say, Jeff, you know good barbecue. Think it could be done?”

“No doubt about it, sir.” His voice carried the soft accent of the southwest. “Just let me find a little wood and I’ll teach those cooks things they never learned in Navy schools.”

“Now you’re talking,” Nelson agreed. “I never figured you were limited just to missile systems, Jeff. Another trade’ll mean a hell of a lot someday, when you’re finished with the Navy.”

“Just one problem, Captain,” the OOD said, winking at the chief who was diving officer on his watch. “There’s just no such thing as barbecue without beer.” His accent grew heavier. “Back home, we used to say that was like going to a nuns’ beach party.”

“Well then, I guess we’re just going to have to wait to the end of this patrol, because I don’t believe in Florida doing anything half-assed.” Nelson grinned at the quartermaster. He’d started out with a little blue-skying just to get their attention. Now it sounded like a great idea, “I hereby promise that when we get back to Bangor and the blue crew takes her out, we’ll have one hell of an outing. No hot dogs or hamburgs. Just steaks and real barbecue, and Mr. Sones is going to teach our cooks what real Texas-style sauce is all about. He loves the hot stuff. And I bet I can have a couple of bags of hickory or mesquite or whatever you need sent over from Seattle. What do you think of that, Jeff?”

“I think y’all got yourself a deal, Captain.” Jeff Sones’s accent brought a snicker from the diving officer.

“We’re all witnesses, sir,” the chief agreed.

“How about the beer, sir?” the bow planesman reminded.

“Beer, too, Cody, As long as we’re ashore, I think everything can be arranged.” Nelson moved over behind the planesmen, his eyes darting from the bubble to the depth gauge. There wasn’t much effort required of a good man to hold depth when you were moving so slowly. He bent closer to Cody’s ear. “You are old enough to drink beer legally, aren’t you?”

Just as Nelson anticipated, that drew a laugh from the watch. Although Cody was near the end of a six-year enlistment, he was baby-faced. “Aw, come on. Captain. Not you, too!”

“Cody, my friend, you offered me a target. I couldn’t resist. As a way of apologizing for teasing you like that, I’ll use my authority right now and appoint you head bartender for our barbecue. How’s that?”

“All right,” Cody exclaimed enthusiastically, taking care that his eyes never left the dials in front of him, “You just hired the best bartender on Florida, Captain.”

“I’ve been watching that depth gauge since I wandered in here, and I don’t think it’s varied a millimeter, Cody. I wouldn’t be surprised if maybe you’re one of the best planesmen, too.”

The helmsman, who also controlled the stern planes, had remained silent until then. “Hey, Captain, Cody’s got the easy job now. Those bow planes hardly do a thing at this speed.” He never looked away from his dials either. “I’ll give him a run for his money any day.”

“I don’t doubt that, Smitty. I guess it’d be unfair to pick out anyone in this watch section or any of the others.” Nelson turned toward his OOD, who was standing relaxed with his arms folded behind the diving officer’s station. “I’ll bet it feels good to have men like this standing watch with you, Jeff. I’m going back to try to get a little paperwork out of the way, so why don’t you run them through some drills. A man can get stale as hell out here.”

“Sure enough, Captain. I was planning on giving you a buzz to get your permission anyway.”

The captain removed his rimless glasses carefully with his right hand at the same time he was pulling a handkerchief from his back pocket with the other. He held each lens to his mouth and breathed on it before systematically polishing each glass. Then he placed them neatly back in position on his head with both hands. “And I want everyone here to remember that barbecue. Mr. Sones has been appointed head chef and Cody’s the bartender.” With that, he left the control room.

Buck Nelson experienced a feeling of self-satisfaction when he settled in the single chair in his stateroom and turned the handle to pull down the desktop. There was no doubt about it. Life could be boring as hell aboard a boomer on patrol. Maybe he’d promote a couple more chefs and bartenders from the other watch sections in the next few days. Florida definitely needed something to look forward to.