Tremain slammed the phone down on the jack and exited the phone booth in the foyer of the Hickam club. Enthusiasm had won out over his misgivings about Ireland. He had taken the old man’s words earlier that day in his office at face value. So he had been trying on-and-off for hours to reach Judy.
“Still can’t get through, Captain?” Cazanavette asked. “No. Here I know that I’m going home and I can’t even tell Judy about it. It’s driving me crazy. Let’s go eat.”
“All right, sir.”
“Look here, Frank. I know we’ve been at sea for nearly two months, but if you don’t stop calling me ‘captain’ and ‘sir’ I’m not going to sit down with you. If I wanted that I’d go eat on board with the duty officer. Hell, I’m being relieved in a couple days, anyway. For all intents and purposes, I’m no longer Mackerel's captain. As far as I’m concerned we’re just two friends having dinner. Agreed?”
Cazanavette paused before his face broke into a wide grin. “Agreed, Jack.”
“That’s better. Let’s go.”
The navy officers’ club at Pearl Harbor Naval Station was a pleasant setting for any sea-weary man of the gold lace, but it paled in comparison to the delightful little club over at Hickam Field run by the Army Air Corps, at least in Tremain’s opinion. The Pearl Harbor club sat in the heart of the busy naval complex and had no view to speak of, which was quite a feat in the Hawaiian Islands. The Hickam club, on the other hand, was tucked away in a quiet corner of an airfield. It was essentially a small building connected to an outdoor pavilion, which stretched over an exquisite green lawn. Only a small sea wall and a few clusters of swaying palms separated the lawn from the rolling ocean. Visitors loved to sit outside under the pavilion and eat or drink enjoying the fresh air and the view. It was the kind of place a person just wanted to pine the night away drinking beer, listening to the waves on the rocks, and feeling the wind.
Tremain had suggested to Cazanavette that they go there for dinner as a sort of “end of patrol” dinner. It seemed like the right thing to do. Tremain had grown to like Cazana-vette as a person and as an XO, and he wanted to show him that he appreciated his hard work during the patrol, not to mention his decision to withdraw the report on the torpedo exploders.
They found a table close enough to the bar with a good view of the water and the sunset. They sat and ate and drank and listened to the music for several hours, talking about anything and everything except the war. Tremain learned just how much Frank Cazanavette missed his family back in his home town of Lincoln, Nebraska. His eyes began to water several times when he spoke of his children and how he had missed much of their infancy. It touched an emotional chord in Tremain. Judy had always wanted children, but he had wanted to bring them up in a stable environment. The navy, with its constant deployments, had made that impossible. He had convinced her to wait until his job would no longer require him to go to sea, until he was confined to some desk in Washington. Now, he was not so sure that waiting was the right thing to do. He would have plenty of time to discuss it with Judy when he got back, he thought. Maybe they could get started on kids while he was in New London waiting for his new boat. The thought of it made him warm inside.
“Jack! Frank! How the hell’re you two sea dogs?” Tremain looked up to see a grinning Sammy Russo standing by their table with his hands on his hips. He looked much different from the broken and dejected man who had stepped off the Mackerel two months before. His eyes were full of life again. He actually looked younger. Tremain was no psychologist but he would say that Sammy had come close to complete recovery.
“How’re you, Sammy?” Tremain said.
“Oh, fine, fine. I just got up to leave and noticed you two sitting over here. Listen, I wanted to congratulate you both on your patrol and your medals. I knew you’d do it, Jack. You’re a miracle worker. Old Ireland was right.”
“We just got lucky, Sammy. Nothing you couldn’t have done,” Tremain said humbly, then changed the subject. “So, I hear you’re operations officer for Division Seven now.” “That’s right.” Russo nodded. “Old Ireland’s got me grinding away day and night. I hear just about everything that’s going on with the boats.”
“Did you hear about my relief?” Tremain asked, reluctantly. “Dave Stillsen or something like that. Ireland told me he’s an—”
“An East Coast sailor?” Russo interrupted, shaking his head. “Yes, I know. The guy hasn’t seen any real submarine combat to speak of, Jack. This is one of those cases where the man’s perfect service record and not his experience got him the job. Which reminds me …” Russo paused and awkwardly glanced at Cazanavette. “I’m sorry, Frank, but I’ve got something to say to Jack in private. You mind excusing us for a moment? It’ll only take a minute.”
“Sure. Take your time,” Cazanavette said, rising. “I’ll go get us some more drinks.”
Russo waited for Cazanavette to leave before he sat down in the empty chair. His face drew suddenly grave, alarmingly different from a few second before. The change got Tremain’s attention.
“Jack, I probably shouldn’t say anything about this, since you’re leaving and all,” Russo muttered, checking over his shoulder, “but I think we both have a vested interest in this matter. It’s something I heard today over at Division about Mackerel’s next patrol.”
“What’s that?”
“Something’s brewing over there between the intelligence guys from ComSubPac and Ireland. Ireland had a meeting with them this morning and then another one this afternoon with the chief of staff. After he got out of that meeting, he ordered me to place Mackerel on top repair priority.”
“Why Mackerel? We …” Tremain corrected himself: “They are not scheduled to leave for another three weeks.” “I asked myself the same question, and it turns out that Mackerel is the only uncommitted boat in port right now that has the capability to leave harbor within two weeks, if we put her on top repair priority. So, I asked a friend of mine over at the intel unit what’s going on.” Russo glanced around the table and lowered his voice. “This is all hush-hush, mind you, but he told me that Mackerel is being sent on some kind of suicide mission handed down from CinCPac himself. One of those missions where the possibility of success far outweighs the risk or the cost, if you know what I mean.” “What?” Tremain’s mouth gaped open in disbelief. “Yes, it shocked me, too,” Russo said. “Especially now that this Stillsen guy is taking over.”
That explains Ireland’s strange behavior the other day, Tremain thought. “Any idea what the mission is, Sammy?” “Not a clue.” Russo shook his head. “Everybody’s tightlipped about it.”
Why on earth would Ireland agree to send Mackerel on such a hazardous mission with a green captain on board? Tremain wondered. It just wasn’t like him. Tremain was half surprised that he himself was not asked, or ordered, to stay on for another patrol. It just didn’t make sense. But then, Ireland was an old friend, one who not only knew him, but also knew Judy, personally. Maybe Russo was right and this really was a suicide mission. Maybe Ireland had intentionally spared him because he didn’t want to make Judy a widow.