Ian Slater - World in Flames

“They could be spying on Hood Canal — watching Uncle Bob’s ship…”

Ray had developed a particular sympathy for outsiders since his days in the confinement of the burn unit. “They’re not spying, for crying out loud. Hell, if they were spying—”

“How about all that water poisoning stuff and…” continued Jeannie.

“Hey, Tiger!” said Ray, seeing Johnny walk in. “Are you ready for liberty?”

John hadn’t seen his dad in such a good mood since — he couldn’t remember when. “Yes sir!” said John, saluting.

Ray straightened and returned the salute. “Very good, officer of the deck. What’ll it be? Chinese or hot dogs?”

Jeannie knew John would opt for hot dogs if she didn’t move quickly. “Chinese cookies,” she said. “Yummy.”

“Yeah, Chinese cookies,” said John enthusiastically.

“Very well,” said Ray. “Now, all hands hear this. Liberty boat departs in exactly—” he glanced at his watch, frowning authoritatively “—ten minutes. Go!”

When the children had left the room, Beth ran over and hugged him. “I’m so happy for you… I…”

He said nothing. He couldn’t.

“So they didn’t tell you what it is?”

“Not on the phone, no. But he did say it would be a command. Ten to one it’s a PT boat. I don’t mind. They’re fast, Beth, and they carry a wallop. I don’t mind at all.” He closed his eyes and hugged her. “Thank you.”

“Uh-oh,” called out Jeannie. “My little cooing turtle doves.”

Ray batted her with his cap. “Where’d you hear that, kid?”

“Old movie at school. W. C. Fields. You know him?”

“Wasn’t he some admiral?”

“Oh, Daddy!” Without further ado, she turned to her mother. “Mom, can I tell you what happened at school now?”

“This is an equal employment facility,” said Ray. “Shoot.”

“Guess who won the spelling bee.”

“Oh, Jeannie!” said Beth. “That’s great, honey.”

“Hey, hey,” said Ray. “Atta girl. Give me the killer word.”

“Uh — let’s see—”

Beth was bursting with it all. She hadn’t seen the family so exuberantly happy since—

“Cacklebladder,” said Jeannie.

“What in hell’s that?” asked Ray.

“Right!” put in young John.

“It’s when spies pretend to kill someone but they don’t really,” Jeannie explained.

“That’s dumb,” said Johnny.

“It is not dumb. It makes the other guys think the guy is really dead when he really isn’t.”

“What for?” said Johnny combatively.

“To fool them, silly.”

“That’s dumb.”

“It is not. Besides, you’re too young to—”

“All right, all right,” said Beth, moving in to referee. “No arguments. Let’s go or we don’t eat.”

Heading out to the car, arm in arm, Beth was laughing.

“Cackle — what was it? I’ve never heard of such a word. Have you?”

“No,” said Ray. “It’s all they’re hearing at school now, I guess, with all this espionage business. God knows it’s real enough.”

“You mean you’ve never heard the word?” asked Jeannie.

Ray turned, surprised. “Nope. Never. I’m not a spy. I’m a sailor, Jeannie.”

“Yes,” said Beth, and for a second they savored everything that meant — before the kids started fighting about whether it would be chop suey or chow mein.

Ray’s fortune cookie told him “Your expectations will be exceeded.”

“A destroyer!” said Beth, reaching over and holding his hand. “Or maybe—”

“Shush!” he told her. “Don’t tempt fate.” Then smiling, lowering his voice, “Besides, Jeannie might be right. The cook might be listening.”

It was the fortune cookie he was thinking about two days later when, after a night during which he’d been too excited to sleep, he reported to San Diego and. in the gray morning light, passed ships from a carrier in for refit to a missile frigate like the Blaine —was it the Blaine? He looked more closely through the maze of electrical cables and oxyacetylene torches. No, it wasn’t.

It was muster, and ship’s companies were quietly, quickly assembling on deck for morning assignments by the time he reached “vessel designation IX-44E,” the USS Grace.

It had to be a mix-up. He saw a sailor in oily overalls coming down slowly along the pier, against which the low tide was slopping, the smell of the intertidal life all but lost under the stench of oil-fouled water. He hated the smell of diesel and considered that the greatest single advance in the modern nuclear navy was doing away with the fume-laden, oil-fired steam propulsion of the old days.

“Sailor?” he called out to the man in the overalls.

The sailor stopped, should have saluted but didn’t. Instead, he looked affronted, staring at Brentwood’s face angrily. “Yeah?”

“You tell me where the Grace is?”

“You’re looking at ‘er.” With that, the sailor walked on farther down the pier. Ray felt his stomach go to ice, the enormity of the disappointment hitting him with the speed of a rushing locomotive.

The Grace, a surface vessel, was designated IX-44E. “IX” indicated “unclassified miscellaneous,” “44” indicated “sludge removal barge. Self-propelled.” He didn’t know what the “E” stood for. Dazed, as if he’d been poleaxed, he walked down the bowed plank onto the creaking apology for a deck. It was all wood — old wood — wood that looked as if it had been cut from waterlogged trees eons ago. And grimy. It was 115 feet by 27 feet — or so the lone sailor aboard, who was awakened, cursing, told him.

“What’s the ships complement?” Brentwood asked, his voice strained, barely audible.

“Twenty — ah, maybe twenty-two, Captain.”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Think it’s twenty-one. Sir.”

“Propulsion?”

“Ah — this here barge is self-propelled, sir. Not pushed.”

“I know that. But what pushes it, sailor — an eggbeater?”

“Ha, ha — no, sir. We got a GM 8 down below.”

“Horsepower?”

“Couldn’t tell you that, Cap’n. Two shafts, though. Yes, sir — one of the boys told me that.” The man frowned, looking deeply troubled. “I think it’s two.”

Ray Brentwood, ex-commander of the fastest guided-missile frigate in the United States Navy, took a deep, long breath and immediately regretted doing so. All he could smell was thick, sinus-plugging diesel. “How many officers?”

“Uh — never had one of those, sir. You’re the first.”

“Who’s been in command then?”

“Uh-Petty Officer Beamish, sir. He’s ashore with the rest of the guys. They come on around ten.”

“What’s your name and rank?”

“Able Seaman Jones, sir. Guys call me Jonesy.”

“What are your duties, Jones?”

“Uh — now, that I can tell you, sir. See, we go out, suck up any oil that’s leaked from the bilges in transit up and down the coast. Then that derrick there in the middle—”

“Midships,” said Brentwood, appalled.

“Yeah, well, we lower the suction hose down over the A-frame and slurp! Up she comes. Then we trundle back here to port and dump ‘er in that old scow — the Elaine —up yonder by the big… carrier there— Salt Lake City. Sometimes folks up the coast see a bit of oil and give us a call, so we go and mop ‘er—”

“It’s filthy!” said Brentwood.

“Well, Captain, diesel’s dirty stuff. Course, sometimes we get a few eggheads — uh, sorry, sir — I mean, ocean scientists down from La Jolla and we let ‘em hang some stuff off the stern. They keep track of the oil spills, see? Like every oil cargo is different, sort of—”