“If you’ll excuse me. Lieutenant, I’ve got a helicopter to catch,” he managed, as calmly as possible.
Not to be denied, Samuels stepped in front of Moore.
“Not so quick, sailor. In the U.S. Navy that I serve, we’ve learned to take care of our problems amongst ourselves. The way I hear it, too many good men have had their service records irrevocably blemished during that captain’s mast, and all for consuming a little stimulant to help keep them working harder.
We’re a family here aboard the Iwo Jima, and we don’t take lightly to outsiders coming in and sticking their noses where they don’t belong.”
Moore reacted to this accusation with an icy stare, and he attempted to step around his accuser. Samuels stepped sideways to block him.
“Do you hear me, sailor?” he questioned as he poked Moore’s shoulder with his right index finger.
Instinctively, Moore reached up and slapped away the supply officer’s hand. Yet before Samuels could react to this unexpected movement, the deep, authoritative voice of the ship’s CO, Captain Andrew Ritter, boomed out in the background.
“Chief, can I see you a minute?”
Lieutenant Samuels instantly went at ease. He backed away, and after leaving Moore with his best “I’ll deal with you later” sneer, strode past the captain with a crisp salute, and exited the compartment.
“What was ole spic’n span’s problem?” asked Ritter as he walked over to join Moore.
“I guess he just didn’t like the shine on my shoes, Captain,” answered Moore with a wink.
“Come to think of it, they could use a bit of polish,” said the captain, who warmly smiled and added, “Commander Moore, I just wanted to thank you again before you left us.”
“I appreciate that, sir,” returned Moore, who accepted Ritter’s firm handshake.
“But the way it looks, I’ll be getting off the ship just in time. It seems that my cover’s been blown.”
“Well, no matter. Commander. Your work here is over, and I’ll be certain to pass on word of a job well done to your superiors back at NIS.”
“I hope that I haven’t caused a lot of hard feelings among your crew. Captain. These sting operations can be painful.”
“Nonsense,” replied the captain.
“In fact, all of them owe you their gratitude, especially the men that I just got through sentencing. Hopefully, we got to them in time to break their habit. And with a lot of hard work and luck, we’ll get them back on the clean and sober path to normalcy once again.”
Moore transferred his seabag to his other hand and looked down at his watch.
“What time’s your flight?” asked Ritter.
“The chopper’s supposed to leave in another ten minutes, sir.”
“Then I won’t keep you any longer. Have a safe trip, Commander, and make certain to give my regards to our shore-based shipmates inside the Beltway.”
Moore flashed the senior officer a thumbs-up, and headed out the forward hatch. A series of passageways and ladders took him through the bowels of the ship and up onto the flight deck.
The fresh air topside was cool and refreshing, and smelled of the sea. The sun was high overhead in a clear blue sky, and Moore realized that he had almost forgotten how good it could feel on his pale skin.
Six CH-46 Sea Knight helicopters were parked forward of the ship’s island. The rest of the Iwo Jima’s flight deck was empty, except for a single SH-60 Seahawk parked by the stern. This sleek chopper was painted white, and had several crewmen congregated beside it. It was obvious that this platform would be his transport to Sasebo, and he proceeded over to it without delay.
“I bet you’re our passenger,” greeted a bright-eyed airman dressed in a green flight suit.
“I’m Petty Officer Michael Knowlton, the ATO.”
Without bothering to introduce himself, Moore got right down to business.
“How soon until we get to Sasebo?”
The air tactical officer beckoned towards the open fuselage door.
“We’ll have you there in time for early evening cocktails at Mama San’s. Hop in, grab a helmet, and make yourself at home.”
Helicopters were definitely not one of Moore’s favorite methods of transportation. They were cramped, noisy, and frequently leaked hydraulic fluid. Yet the Seahawk did offer him a quick, convenient way to make good his exit from the Iwo Jima’s crowded confines, and he gratefully settled inside the chopper’s main cabin without further complaint.
Five minutes later, they were airborne. True to form, the helicopter’s twin turboshaft engines produced an incredibly loud racket. And by the time the Iwo Jima faded in the distance, his khakis were stained with a foul-smelling substance that constantly dripped from the ceiling above. Oblivious to these distractions, Moore wrapped himself up in a blanket and nestled into a vacant space situated beside the sonobuoy launcher. In a matter of seconds, he was sound asleep.
In his dream, he was back home in Alexandria, Virginia, on his favorite ten-speed, taking the bike path to Mt. Vernon. His wife Laurie was beside him on her mountain bike, and together they sped through the swamps and forests that George Washington once explored.
The Potomac flowed beside them, and in a heartbeat, he was transferred to a compact racing sloop, running before an angry thunderstorm.
Strangely enough, Laurie had disappeared, and there was genuine fear in his heart as he vainly scanned the flooded cabin searching for her.
A jagged bolt of lightning exploded from the black heavens and struck the sailboat’s mast with a thunderous crack. Temporarily blinded by the ensuing flash, he suddenly found himself back on his bicycle. He was coasting down a steep hill, with Laurie a good distance ahead of him. The wind felt cool on his face, and as he reached for the brakes, he was shocked to find them totally inoperable.
Heedless of his own safety, he cried out to Laurie to slow down. Yet she couldn’t hear him. Nor could she see the fully loaded tractor-trailer that was approaching from a side street at the bottom of the hill.
Thomas Moore’s dream turned to nightmare as he tried with all his might to catch up to Laurie. With his legs weighted down by inexplicable fatigue, he could only watch in horror as the truck continued speeding towards the bike path, on a certain collision course with his wife, who remained totally unaware of the tragedy that would soon befall her.
“Commander Moore,” spoke a concerned voice in the far distance.
“Commander?”
It proved to be a gentle hand on his shoulder that awoke him from his deep slumber, and Moore looked up into the searching eyes of the ATO. Quickly now, his nightmarish vision faded, to be replaced by the steady chopping roar of the Seahawk’s rotors and the deep voice of Petty Officer Knowlton.
“Excuse me. Sir, but the pilot would like to talk with you.”
Knowlton pointed towards the cockpit. Moore acknowledged him with a curt nod and stiffly sat up. The cabin was wildly vibrating around him as he carefully made his way forward.
“Commander Moore,” greeted the pilot, who sat on the left-hand side of the equipment-packed cockpit.
“We just received a top-priority, scrambled transmission from CINCPAC, ordering us to an alternative destination.”
“But I’ve got to get to Sasebo,” countered Moore, his thoughts still partially clouded by his dream.
“Afraid not, sir,” replied the pilot.
“My new orders specifically state that you’re to be transferred to these new coordinates at once, sir.”
“I hope they’re not sending me back to the Iwo Jima,” said Moore.
The pilot answered while unfolding a chart on his lap.
“Not unless that gator freighter’s travelled a hundred nautical miles in the last hour.”
He circled a portion of ocean off the west coast of the Bonin Islands and added.