Returning to the open Attack Center area Jack Olsen announced in a loud voice, “Let the turkey go, Skipper. Bring the straight scoop back on what these bastards are up to and we’ll bust a lot more than an Oscar junkyard. Letting this guy go will make us look a hell of a lot better than we do already.”
Bostwick, concerned an ASW aircraft would fly down the TSAM contrails and put a weapon on Denver, flooded with relief at Olsen’s recommendation. “Good thinking, XO,” he announced in a loud voice. “Now, let’s concentrate on getting this crew back to the States for some well-deserved rest.”
Bea called out as she returned to the Digs early from shopping, “Dad, are you home?”
Dave replied, “Uh … out on the deck.”
He appeared to be gasping and out of breath. He wore sweats and looked as if he had been exercising.
Curious, Bea asked. “What’s this all about, Dad? When did you stop conserving energy for filling and lifting vino glasses?”
“Oh,” Dave said, looking a bit startled then explained, “lotta work at the Pitstop and I gotta stay fit.”
An implausible answer, she thought, but she did not push it and only murmured, “Mmmm.”
Eager to change the subject, Dave said, “Got some good news. Brent should be back in about a week. Keep that under your hat though. No one’s supposed to know.”
Bea’s expression revealed her elated feelings. “Oh, Dad, that’s great. When did you hear?”
Putting on a serious expression, Dave said, “Gotta be careful about that. Let’s just say I know and Eric cleared me to tell you.”
“Tell Eric I said he’s a sweetheart. Is there room for Denver? How many are in already? Three at least and the Idaho makes four.”
“When your old Dad makes a refit base, he includes room for everything. Actually, we can handle up to eight but only reach four with the crane.”
Bea had no interest in details but her dad loved to go over them so she listened.
“We got transformers and can provide shore power for all of ’em. Hell of a lot better than sitting alongside with reactors critical. Or worse, those noisy damn diesel generators.”
Bea asked, “Aren’t Idaho and Newport due to leave?”
Dave shook his head. “No secrets ’round here. Where’d you hear ’bout this?”
“Common knowledge, Dad, Pitstop’s the biggest business in Grays Harbor County. Local prices rise and fall on that kind of news. Don’t think any of it’s shared with the Soviets.”
“This is what we get for living in a free society.”
“A lot better than the alternative. Am I mistaken or is this what the war and the shooting are all about? Yet you get plenty of security when you need it.”
“I suppose you’re right, little girl. Now let me see what you got in those paper sacks.”
“Feast your eyes, Dad. Then go fire up the grill and we’ll feast the bodies.” She held up a pair of Spencer rib-eye steaks for her dad’s approval; after Dungeness crab, his favorite food.
Patting his stomach, Dave said, “Be sure to trim the fat off mine. Gotta get this middle under control so start watching what I put into it.”
Bea thought, What’s going on here? First the exercise, now the diet. And a ‘lotta work at the Pitstop’ doesn’t hold up. She made a mental note to coax the truth from her father but not now.
Dave fired up the grill then disappeared into the bathroom. He emerged a short time later, changed from the grimy sweats into jeans and a plaid shirt, his face scrubbed and shaven.
“I’m honored, Dad. What’s the occasion?”
“Oh, nothin’. Just felt grubby and thought I’d buff up some. How long till dinner?”
“About half an hour,” Bea said, believing her father would use this to gage whether he had enough time for one or two glasses of wine.
“Good. Gives me time to walk up and get the mail.”
“Dad, the mail hasn’t been delivered since the war started.”
Dave said with a deliberate nonchalant tone in his voice, “Person up the road agreed to pick it up and drop it by.”
Bea went on with dinner preparations but wondered about her dad. Twenty minutes passed and he had not returned so she walked to the door for a look toward the mailbox. A woman who looked to be in her forties stood beside her bicycle and chatted with her father.
Bea thought, So much for the Pitstop story.
Captain Bostwick announced, “The last place they’ll expect us to exit is over the same track we entered by.”
Brent knew the captain to be capable of sound thinking. He can be good when he has to. If only he’d be consistent. They knew the type and depth setting of the minefield and avoided it, another sound decision initiated by Bostwick.
The executive officer conducted religious services for the two Denver seamen as they passed the site where they had died in battle during the minesweeper fight.
Denver pushed out into the expanse of the Pacific and headed for home. The probability of a chance encounter with the enemy almost nonexistent, the men relaxed. The crew took time for reading, studying for advancement in rate examinations and reflection on the impact war would have on individual life game plans. They experienced emotions not felt by American submariners for nearly forty-two years: the constant pressure of being in a combat zone where at almost any moment, an enemy device could fracture their fragile cocoon and admit the deadly ocean. With all this behind them, it felt as though a great mantle had been lifted from their shoulders
A man of his word, Jack Olsen could be counted on to defend Brent’s interests as he had promised so Brent gave a lot of thought to what the future held. But Bostwick, a clever man, would not be easily fended off. Destruction of Brent’s career had become a vendetta for Bostwick. Brent hoped Olsen would be successful.
What of Brent’s relationship with Bea? The thought of seeing her again excited him. She had shared love with him like none before. Thoughts of having her by his side for the long pull pleased him. He had stored details of their time together in his mind for easy recapture.
Beautiful Bea put up a halfhearted struggle against his efforts to fondle her breasts while riding back from Seattle on the dark fo’c’sle of a late ferry. It had been a great evening on the town together. They’d spent the night in an available room at Bangor BOQ. Before dawn they’d arose and hastened to the Zane home, before Dave awoke, to preserve appearances. Then, throughout the day, both paid the price for their sleep-robbed night. Brent’s daylong fatigue kept him mindful of the beautiful feeling growing between them and their need to acquiesce to it. These thoughts and others filled extra time afforded by the combat-free long transit.
His second passion, undersea warfare tactics needed to get the war turned around. He frequently dueled with his favorite competitor, Dan Patrick and often engaged him for long discussions.
Sitting in a tiny stateroom they shared with two other officers, Brent opened with, “Dan, how do you figure we oughta deploy the new Sealance? We gotta think it through ourselves. The war won’t let it get to the range so we can screw around with it there. Instead of practice rounds on fleet exercises, it’ll be the real thing, where we gotta get it right the first time.”
“I haven’t thought that much about it, Brent. Captain says the DCNO, Submarine Warfare, OP-02, all but killed it. It’s a long-range weapon and the threat got too quiet to be tracked at those distances. He says a high-speed, short-range, quiet torpedo is needed. I think he’s right. We’d have a lot more scalps in our belt than the one Tango with a weapon like that.”