Brent said, “Let me relieve you in sonar for a spell, Captain.”
Looking surprised, the captain replied, “Uh … why thanks, Brent. I am pretty damn tired. Maybe I will hit the sack for just a bit. But I want to be called even if you suspect you have something.”
“Of course, Captain.”
Brent knew there was no need for anyone but the watch to be in the sonar shack. The men were more than competent to perform their jobs without officer supervision. But he volunteered for the job to take the edge off everyone’s nerves.
With the captain out of earshot, Brent asked Jack Olsen to join him in Sonar where a heated discussion erupted.
Jack exclaimed, “No way, Brent. You been in the Navy long enough to know you shouldn’t be talking like this.”
“I’m not talking insubordination, XO. The captain’s in trouble, and it’s our job to help him. Did you read the Caine Mutiny?”
“We had to at the Naval Academy.”
Brent went on, “Right. They vilified old Queeg, but the bastards in his wardroom should’ve born the guilt. They let him down. I think the Captain will do fine, but he needs propping up from us. You mind if I talk to him?”
Jack shook his head. “You piss him off every time he looks at you, Brent.”
“Dan Patrick, then?”
The executive officer remained silent.
“Damn it, Jack. I want an answer. We owe the taxpayers a better return than what Denver’s giving right now. Think on it, but if you don’t have an answer by tomorrow, I’m gonna force the issue.”
Lowering his voice, Jack said, “I’ll get back to you, Brent. I hope you realize what you’re laying on me.”
Brent looked Jack directly in the eye and answered, “Yep.” He did not add, and you better do it.
He didn’t have to. Jack read Brent’s mind perfectly.
Dutch Meyer sat in the well-appointed conference room of Pritchett Aerospace Los Angeles Office. He drummed his fingers upon an oak table to relieve apprehension over how he would procure vast amounts of material with only a blank promissory note signed by Eric Danis as compensation. A dainty cup and saucer sat before him. Dutch, happy Pritchett could still come up with good coffee, wrapped a massive hand about the cup, for its tiny handle could not accommodate his fingers.
A handsome, graying man in an impeccable three-piece suit entered the room, smiling warmly. “Good afternoon, Commander. I’m Todd Benson, Marketing Manager. Your visit is unexpected, but welcome. We always make way for the Navy. Is there something I can do for you?”
They shook hands.
Disguising his uneasiness, Dutch replied, “Yes, sir, matter of fact there is. I represent Commodore Eric Danis, Commander Submarine Squadron Three. We’re assembling a temporary Submarine Base on the Washington Coast and I’ve been authorized to requisition equipment and weapons for the initial outfitting.
“How many Tomahawk land and ship attack missiles do you have ready for shipment? We need these immediately. Then, I’d like to see your production schedules for the rest of the year.”
Todd Benson raised his hands in mock surrender. “Oops, you just moved out of my job code. Sounds like you need to talk to the HawkProjOff direct. Let me get somebody.”
When Benson left, an attractive secretary arrived and asked, “More coffee, Commander?”
“No thanks.” He watched her well-turned buttocks sway beneath a tight skirt as she walked away. He thought, Maybe I’m not as old as I think.
Dutch hated acronym buzzwords of the in set. HawkProjOff likely meant Tomahawk Project Office in Pritchett-talk. He felt buzzwords to be good only for covering gaps in real knowledge.
A stern looking man with rolled back shirtsleeves and a loosened tie entered the conference room. “I’m Al Mahler, Tomahawk Business Manager. Is there something we can do for you?”
Dutch liked the cut of this man, less handsomely appointed than Benson and spoke in whole words. He repeated the story given earlier to the marketer.
Mahler barely masked his astonishment. “You’re quite serious?”
“Very serious. Those are my orders.”
In steady tones, Mahler replied, “You understand, Commander, that none of these missiles are ready for delivery.”
The business manager had drawn a line for the company’s position.
“I’ll take ’em in any shape you got ’em, Mr. Mahler.”
Mahler said, “They’re not signed off by the resident Defense Contract Administrator.”
“That’s okay. I’ll sign for him.”
Showing a hint of exasperation on his face, Mahler said, “But they have not completed acceptance testing yet.”
Putting on his grimmest expression, Dutch said, “I promise you, sir, they’re gonna get one hell of a test where I’m taking ’em.”
Mahler shook his head then said, “This is absolutely out of the question, Commander. We can’t do this. Why there’s no—”
Dutch cut him off, “And, there’s been absolutely no wars.”
“You must understand—”
Dutch interrupted him again, “No, dammit, you’re the one that’s gotta understand. We got submarines coming in with empty launchers. We need those bullets to get ’em turned around and back out there into the fight.”
The shaken but determined business manager replied, “I’m not authorized to release these missiles.”
“Well you better find somebody who is, and tell him if action doesn’t start in an hour—” then pointing to a wall clock, he continued, “one hour from now. I’m leaving here and I’m coming back with a detachment of Marines to take those goddamn missiles by force if I have to.”
Dutch hadn’t the slightest idea where he’d find any Marines much less how he’d get authorization to use them. He would do everything possible before he’d return to Eric Danis whimpering over failure to bring home the missiles.
“I’ll get someone,” Mahler said then left the room.
Dutch’s heart skipped a beat when HawkProgMgr himself stood at the conference room door in a blocking stance. He looked sternly at the Navy commander. “I hear you need a few Tomahawks for some empty submarines.”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Helluva good idea. Let me buy you lunch and we can work out the details while we eat.”
A wave of relief surged through Dutch as the two walked off to a plush executive dining room.
The manager apologized, “A hangover from prewar days. It takes us awhile sometimes for the message to sink in, but we’re capable of making things happen pretty quick around here when we have to.”
Over lunch, they formed a plan. Factory acceptance testing would be limited to the flight critical items and done immediately. The birds would be moved to Astoria as quickly as possible. In a few hours, the first truckload exited the plant gate and headed north on Interstate 5.
As Dutch stood up to leave, HawkProgMgr handed him a card. “Here, when this is all over come by and see me. We’ll need a few bolts of your kind of cloth.”
The two men shook hands and a relieved Dutch Meyer made his departure.
Chapter 7
Dave Zane scanned a cove cut into the rugged Washington coast by five million years of punishment from the sea. The harbor opened to pounding Pacific swells, but a sandbar reached northward from the southern end to the entrance. Shallow waters of the bar would permit the barges used to haul in equipment to be sunk to form a breakwater. Only the lack of a suitable overland access had prevented its previous use as a port.