“It’s called ASW/SOW, for Anti-Sub Warfare Stand-Off Weapon. Basically, it’s a Tomahawk-family cruise missile that can be fired from a torpedo tube.
With a range of up to 300 miles, the missile would then drop a Remotely-Guided Autonomous Lightweight torpedo, or REGAL, by parachute.
When REGAL hits the water, an acoustic array containing a small computer and a sonar transmitter separates and sinks to a pre-set depth. Meanwhile, the torpedo begins propelling itself in a slow search pattern, awaiting a signal from the sonar array to trigger its advanced-capability motor and run the target through.”
Cooksey shook his head in admiration.
“I’d say that such a system sounds too good to be true.”
The admiral beamed.
“Well, believe it or not, two of the prototype ASW/SOW units will be loaded into the Triton tomorrow morning. Though still officially an experimental system, I’d say that the Alfa, or whatever else the Soviets may throw at us, has finally met its match.”
Expecting a bit more emotion from Cooksey, the admiral watched him stifle a wide yawn.
“Are you all right, Michael? You look a bit tired.”
Fighting to restimulate himself, Cooksey silently cursed the admiral’s awareness.
“I’m feeling fine, Admiral. Guess I could have allowed myself a couple of additional hours of shut-eye last night.”
“It’s more than that,” added the hawk-eyed sailor.
“You seem tense. Not at all like the old Michael Cooksey I used to know. What are your plans for your two-week leave coming up?”
Cooksey shrugged his shoulders.
“I really didn’t have anything set. Just thought I’d hang out around Honolulu.”
“If I remember right, you were quite a golfer in your college days.
When’s the last time you took some time out to hit the old ball around?”
Cooksey had to think a minute before answering.
“I don’t know, I guess it’s been around five years.”
“Five years! No wonder you look a bit peaked. Old Doc Miller here has the perfect prescription for charging up that sagging system of yours.
Betty and I keep a little place near Princeville, on the northern shore of Kauai. Next door, there’s one of the prettiest 36-hole courses that you ever set eyes on. It my memory serves me right, the place is vacant at the moment. You’re most welcome to make it your home for the next two weeks.”
“It sounds inviting. Admiral,” Cooksey said cautiously.
“But if the Triton is going to be fitted with a new weapons system, I’d better be around for the installation.”
“Let your exec handle it,” retorted Miller.
“I’m afraid that I couldn’t ask that of my XO at the moment, sir. As it looks now. Lieutenant Commander Craig is going to be spending the week in the maternity ward.”
The admiral thought a few seconds before responding.
“Is Chief Bartkowski still aboard the Triton?”
Catching Cooksey’s affirmative nod, he continued.
“With all of that man’s experience, I don’t think you have a thing to worry about. Captain. Old Bartkowski can Handle those new missiles just fine.”
Still conscious of Cooksey’s blase demeanor, Broderick Miller knew that the young officer needed a break to refresh himself. Standing, he decided to play his trump card.
“I wasn’t supposed to be letting this out so soon, Michael, but chances are excellent that the Triton will be getting its second consecutive battle-efficiency award. You’re earned a rest, son, now take it.”
Pleasantly surprised by this revelation, Cooksey broke into a warm, satisfied grin. Such awards were all that he and his crew worked for.
Their first citation was reason enough for celebration. For them to get two in a row was incredible. Relieved that a lifetime’s goal had been more than achieved, he decided that he deserved to give himself a real vacation.
Standing, he accepted the admiral’s invitation with a smile and a handshake. Who knew — perhaps he’d even be able to get some proper sleep once again.
Twenty-four hours later, Cooksey found himself landing at Kauai’s Lihue Airport. Following Admiral Miller’s advice, he rented a jeep and was soon barreling along Highway 56 toward the northern edge of the island.
Happy to be behind the wheel again, he steered cautiously up the narrow roadway.
The scenery was magnificent, with the crashing Pacific on his right and endless acres of verdant tropical growth to his left. Though the sun had been out in all its glory at Lihue, as he passed through Kilauea the sky clouded up. Minutes later, he was in the midst of a torrential downpour. Just as he thought that he may have to pull off onto the shoulder to let this storm vent itself, the rain stopped, the clouds parted, and blue skies again prevailed. Such cloudbursts were to be expected, for less than ten miles inland was Mount Kawaikini, the wettest known spot on earth.
The jeep’s windshield was barely dry by the time he reached the Princeville exit. It didn’t take him long to spot the condo in which he would be staying. It was set high on top of a green volcanic bluff, beside the eastern edge of Hanalei Bay. Again he followed the admiral’s directions and found the signs that pointed towards the Princeville golf course. Directly opposite the entrance to the club was a private asphalt road, protected by a closed steel barricade.
Utilizing his heavy-plastic card key, Cooksey opened the security gate and began his way up the mountainside.
The condo development was comprised of two dozen individual units. Each was two stories high, designed simply from dark-stained native wood.
The Millers’ place occupied the northern edge of the grounds. This gave him a spectacular view of Hanalei Bay in the front, and a panoramic landscape of lush, tropical mountains behind them. As he parked the jeep, Cooksey could just make out one of the golf course fairways visible down below; a single cart could be seen innocently crossing its length. Anxiously, he switched off the ignition and unloaded his two bags.
The first thing that Cooksey noticed as he proceeded inside was the utter quiet. The second was the moist, heavy floral scent that totally permeated the air.
The interior of the unit was decorated almost completely with rattan furniture. Huge picture windows dominated the walla, producing a light, airy atmosphere. All he would need now were groceries, and he could pass the two weeks quite comfortably.
A set of golf clubs sat in the hall closet as promised.
Since it was still early, Cooksey could think of no better way to spend this first day on leave than to check out this course that the admiral constantly bragged about.
Noon found him at the club’s pro shop, signing up for his first round of golf in five years. The metallic clatter of his spikes brought back many pleasant memories, for this was a sport he had enjoyed since childhood. Known as a promising amateur, he had won dozens of trophies during his junior high and high school years. College brought his game to a new plateau when he was named captain of the Citadel’s excellent golf team. Always one who thrived on competition, there was even a time when he had toyed with the idea of turning professional, until his naval obligation diverted his talents elsewhere.
Two decades of service, and Cooksey could count the rounds of golf he had played during that time on one hand. He supposed this was due to the fact that his trusty clubs were packed up in his parents basement back in Richmond, Virginia. Yet, he knew that was a poor excuse. The cold truth was that he just didn’t allow himself any time for game-playing.
A long-absent surge of excitement possessed him as he introduced himself to the pro and paid his greens fee. As it turned out, there was another single waiting to go and, with Cooksey’s consent, a twosome was formed.