My God, it's him. It really is him….
Seaman O'Brien stood at attention in the second rank of Pittsburgh s crew, listening to the change-of-command ceremony on a warm and blustery Monday afternoon. The formation was drawn up on the pier, facing the Pittsburgh; the twin podiums set up on the sub's forward deck, and the ' Burgh's brow were festooned with red, white, and blue bunting, and a blue backdrop had been rigged behind the podiums to support the Navy Seal and to serve as a neutral background for the photographers.
To O'Brien's right was an audience area, consisting of rows of folding metal chairs hauled out from the base for the occasion. At his back was the Parche, with a fair number of her crew gathered on her deck and on her sail-top weather bridge to watch the festivities.
"In the long tradition of naval service," the admiral who seemed to be running the show was saying, "the ceremonies revolving around the passing of command from one ship captain to another have held a special and vitally important place…. "
The man had been introduced as Admiral Hartwell, the commanding officer of Submarine Squadron 5, but he didn't sound as though he were especially excited about being there. He was reading from a prepared speech. The two other officers up there behind the patriotically colored bunting set up around the torpedo-loading hatch sat on their chairs and tried to look relaxed, as Admiral Hartwell's voice droned on from speakers set up on the pier.
O'Brien was still in shock from meeting the man who was going to be his commanding officer, the boat's new skipper… and O'Brien's companion during the four-hour flight across country two weeks ago. He'd only seen Gordon that morning, when he'd come aboard for an inspection with Captain Chase. O'Brien had been in the torpedo room going over his qual requirements with Lieutenant Walberg and the COB when Gordon and Chase had stooped through the torpedo-room hatch.
"Attention on deck!" COB had called out.
"As you were," Chase had said. "Surprise inspection."
And it was a surprise. Generally, word of a snap inspection was passed by various covert means from department to department, giving at least a few moments' warning. O'Brien had already learned how that dodge worked from personal experience.
Gordon had smiled when he'd seen O'Brien.
"Seaman O'Brien, isn't it?" he'd said with a wink. "How are your quals coming along, sailor?"
"Uh… just getting started, sir."
"I'll want this man standing watches down here as soon as possible, Lieutenant," he'd told the others. "He's a smart man, and I want him up to speed as quickly as possible."
"Aye aye, sir," COB had said, looking a bit startled.
O'Brien couldn't take his eyes from the man, now. Commanders and ship captains were such godlike creatures from the perspective of an E-3 fresh out of C-School. And this guy had actually talked to him for the better part of four hours….
He must have known he was going to be O'Brien's CO, and he hadn't said a word, hadn't pulled rank, hadn't acted like anything except a friendly and interested naval officer sharing a few hours of boredom on a transcontinental flight.
What kind of submarine captain was he going to make?
Harwell's "few remarks" came to an end at last, and Captain Chase stood at one of the podiums to give his speech. Overhead, seabirds wheeled and screeched and called, as small whitecaps began kicking up on the waters of the straits separating Mare Island from Vallejo.
O'Brien remained stiffly at attention. His feet were starting to get numb, and he resorted to an old trick learned in boot camp… wiggling his toes hard within the embrace of his spit-shined dress shoes, and alternately tensing and relaxing the muscles of his calves, to keep them from cramping.
Commander Frank Gordon had talked to him. Incredible….
"I stand ready to be relieved, sir."
"I relieve you, sir."
"Very well. The boat is yours. Good luck with your new command."
Mike Chase extended a white-gloved hand, and Gordon accepted it. The small band on the pier struck up "Anchors Aweigh," as the handful of civilians in the folding chairs nearby applauded. Gordon and Chase stood at the podium on Pittsburgh's forward deck for a moment more as photographers snapped pictures. Admiral Hartwell stepped forward and shared a place in several shots, the three men grinning as they repeated handshakes and shoulder claps for the press. A stiff breeze blew across the Mare Island Strait, ruffling the surface of the water and eliciting a whoosh sound from the speakers as it whispered across the microphones, followed by a squeal of feedback.
It seemed a strange way to begin a secret mission, with a change of command in the full glare of publicity, but then to break with ceremony and tradition would have been to invite comment… and suspicion.
The formal ceremonies were over. There would be a reception and dance that evening in the big recreation hall, but the deed itself was done.
Frank Gordon was now in command of a Los Angeles class nuclear attack submarine.
The ship's complement was drawn up in ranks ashore, to the right of the seated crowd, standing quietly at attention. The actual change-of-command ceremony was brief and simple, but vitally important in the routine of Navy life. Since the days of wooden hulls and canvas aloft, ceremonies like this one had served as a visible ritual whereby the absolute authority of command was transferred from one man to another, ensuring that every man aboard was fully aware of the authenticity of the new captain's orders and the legality of his command. While a naval captain no longer held the absolute command of life and death over his crew, he was still, within carefully proscribed limits, the law aboard ship.
And the men had to trust him absolutely, since it was his decisions that determined the success or failure of their mission, and, quite possibly, whether they lived or died.
Gordon was just glad the dog-and-pony-show part was over with. Two years of giving Special Ops briefings in the Pentagon had long ago gotten him over any fear he might have had about public speaking, but it was still a chore he disliked. Politicking was how he thought of it. Trying to buy people, to manipulate them with pretty words.
But his brief speech was over. He'd spoken of the verities, of duty and honor, of sacrifice and trust. His men needed to trust him implicitly, but that trust was two-way. He would need to trust them as completely, as deeply, if this new command of his was to be a success.
"Well done, boys," Hartwell said, as they stepped away from the podium. Ashore, the band had reached the triumphant conclusion of its closing piece. The crowd was standing now, breaking into small knots. It wasn't a large group — twenty-five, maybe thirty people. The Pittsburgh's crew only comprised 120 men, and not that many of them had family living here at Mare Island or within a reasonable drive.
The boat's COB was dismissing the formation. Most of the men began filing back aboard up the gaily decorated brow. A few remained with the visitors, mostly women and children, wives and kids, with a few older couples, proud parents.
Gordon tried picking a few faces out of the crowd. He'd spent the past several evenings going over personnel records, memorizing names, rates, and positions, and now he was trying to attach faces to the descriptions. In the coming months, it was going to be vital that he know each man — not only by name and face, but by what could be expected of him.