There were red lights flashing, a crowd gathered along the bridge rail on the lower level. At least half of them were in blue uniforms. Police. As the submariners watched, the blue uniforms gathered together, wedged what were evidently onlookers away from their focal point of interest. Then Richardson saw it.
“There’s a man down there,” he said. “He’s sitting out on the edge. Just sitting there. It looks like the police are after him, but they can’t reach him without going out there too.”
“It’s a suicide,” said Keith.
“The cops are getting a man out over the rail with a rope around his waist,” said Buck, “but it’s pretty far, and they’re moving slowly. They’re afraid he’ll go ahead and jump if they get too close too fast.”
“We’re heading to pass about underneath him,” mused Richardson half to himself. “If he jumps at the wrong time he might land on deck. That wouldn’t be very pretty to see.” Irresolutely, he lowered his binoculars, looked at his companions, put them back up again. “I suppose we ought to stand by to help the police pick him up if he does do it,” he said. Still no answer from Keith or Buck. The submarine and tug drew nearer to the span. So far as anyone on Eel’s bridge could tell, the tug skipper, still steering his craft himself, was paying no attention to the drama taking place high above him.
“At least, we ought to alert the tug to what’s going on,” said Keith. “He’ll probably alter course to pass under the other span, well clear of where the man might hit the water.”
“If I were going to jump off the bridge, I’d want us to get out of the way too,” said Buck. “Landing on a steel hull with hard-looking things like hatches and girders wouldn’t be quite as clean a way to go as dropping into the bay. I guess the cops hope he’ll wait until we’re clear. The extra time might be just what they need to reach him, or talk him out of it, or something.”
“That’s it!” said Rich, impulsively snapping his fingers. “Buck, you get down on deck to relay word to the tug! Tell the skipper to put us right under that fellow up there. I’ll help him conn from here and pass any changes to him via Keith and you.” Startled, both younger officers glanced away from their binoculars, still holding the glasses up as before, stared at Richardson. Buck recovered first.
“I’ve got it! Great! This may give them some time!” He swung himself through the bridge railing, climbed down to the main deck, ran aft. In a moment he could be seen talking earnestly through cupped hands to the tugmaster, who had placed his megaphone to his ear the better to hear over the noise of his diesels. Buck ran back alongside the submarine bridge. “He says okay, he’ll do it. But he can’t see straight up out of his pilothouse, so he’ll need you to tell him which way to go. Also, maneuvering sideways will be tricky with the current through here, so try to anticipate your orders as much as you can.”
“Tell him to put a line on his best swimmer and be ready to send him after the man if he does jump into the water!”
“Roger, Skipper!” Buck ran back to his station.
The welcoming committee at the San Francisco Naval Shipyard, Hunter’s Point, was within minutes of becoming vocally impatient when Eel and her tug finally appeared off the designated berth. There were some quizzical looks cast at her smashed bridge bulwark and the new scratches in the weathered gray paint as the tug brought her in starboard side to the pier. The ComSubPac representative on the scene was nevertheless able to report by telephone to the Twelfth Naval District Commandant, and by official letter to the Submarine Force Commander in Pearl Harbor, that the aristocratic Brazilian naval officers had been well impressed with the condition of their newest acquisition. They had felt particularly honored, he said over the telephone, that her wartime commanding officer and two others of her wartime complement, albeit in civilian clothes, had been on board to assist in the arrival inspection. And they deeply regretted that the unexpected lateness of the hour had made it impossible for Capitao-de-Mar-e-Guerra Richardson, Capitao-de-Fragata Leone and Capitao-de-Fragata Williams to attend the reception they had arranged in honor of the transfer of the submarino Eel to their Navy.
Richardson, Leone and Williams were in the landing pattern at Idlewild International Airport as the morning editions of the San Francisco Examiner and Chronicle came off the presses. They never saw the little articles on the third and eighth pages, respectively, of the two newspapers, detailing that rescue of a would-be suicide from one of the main spans of the Bay Bridge had been possible because of the curiosity of a tug and decommissioned submarine which had stopped to rubberneck directly beneath her. The woman, who gave her name as Mrs. Susie Glotz of upper Geary Street, said she had prepared for the attempt by dressing in trousers and a jacket belonging to her estranged husband, but had lost her nerve for fear she would be horribly mangled upon striking the ships beneath. While she was thus delayed, a minister who happened upon the scene was able to dissuade her from her purpose, and police took her into protective custody.
The Chronicle also carried a short editorial in the same issue, decrying the morbid curiosity of those who would go out of their way to see someone commit suicide. It noted that in this instance at least, as a sort of poetic justice, the lugubrious onlookers below had unknowingly prevented the very tragedy they had stopped to watch.
7
“No one’s ever figured out Admiral Brighting, Peggy. You’re wasting your time.” Laura had not intended to speak sharply, instantly realized her impatience with Peggy Leone’s growing obsession had shown in her voice. She tried to smooth over the momentary awkwardness. “Now that our husbands are nukes, I guess Brighting is just someone we’ll have to learn to live with. Rich says he’s a totally dedicated individual, one of those people who put their whole personality into what they’re doing.”
“Keith says the same thing.” Peggy raised her cup to her lips, thoughtfully sipped the hot light brown liquid, looked appraisingly at Laura. “He told me some of the things that went on out in Idaho, though, and I’m surprised you can defend him after the way he treated your husband.”
“Maybe Keith took more offense than Rich did. He’s one of Rich’s best friends, ever since the war. Anyway, the big thing was to be nuked, as they say. They all got that, and they think the training was great. I’m like you, though, I’m glad it’s over and finished.” Laura consciously kept her voice light. Peggy’s single-minded concentration on finding fault with the Navy was becoming vaguely unsettling. She changed the subject. “When does Keith get in with the Cushing? Have you gotten any letters from Cape Canaveral?”
“He’s been so busy with those ship qualification tests he’s only written a couple of times. They’ll be back next week. I thought you would know that.”
Again there was something accusatory in Peggy’s comment, some fine edge of feeling not yet out in the open. The warm midmorning sun streamed through the kitchen windows, dappled the floor with the pattern of lace curtains. Peggy was a small, intense, very pretty woman, apparently immune to the large quantities of sweets she habitually consumed. Her increasingly frequent arrivals at Laura’s door were always preceded by a polite phone call citing an errand bringing her across the Thames River to New London, and initially Laura welcomed the resulting morning coffee break. Lately, however, she had begun to realize that the growing regularity of Peggy’s visits must be more than mere happenstance. “I guess I did know it,” she carefully replied. “Rich says Keith’s got his crew very well checked out. The Cushing’s flying through her tests and he doesn’t think there’ll be any holdups. But it is a pretty strenuous time for them. It ought to be easier — more regular, anyway — when they finally start going on patrol.”