The DSRV’s practicality was significantly augmented by the fact that it could fit into the cargo hold of a C5A transport plane, allowing speedy access to the far corners of the globe.
When he had first set eyes on the Marlin, the fifty foot-long, black-hulled, cigar-shaped vessel had been sitting rather inelegantly on the back of a flatbed truck. Fresh from a touchdown at Hickam Air Force Base, the Marlin had just arrived at Pearl when Blackmore had been guided onto the sub base for his very first visit. It wasn’t long afterwards that he had been introduced to the vehicle’s present Officer-in Charge Commander Will Pierce.
Dressed in a pair of grease-stained khakis, Pierce had appeared nothing like the dapper, nattily uniformed officers Blackmore had been exclusively exposed to in ROTC and later at New London. This disparity had been even more obvious when a crude selection of four-letter words had flowed from the commander’s mouth, after one of the hoist operators had prematurely begun lifting the Marlin. A heavy feeling had filled the newly arrived junior lieutenant’s stomach when introductions and handshakes were later exchanged.
Completely grayhaired, yet tanned and in amazingly excellent physical shape, the forty-seven-year old commander had checked Blackmore out with a probing, blue-eyed stare. A veteran of Viet Nam, and over a dozen different surface vessels and submarines, Pierce had silently appraised his new lieutenant, and Blackmore had somehow felt that he had already failed. Inexperienced and naive to the workings of the real Navy, the all-too-recent college graduate only knew the world through books and research. Little had his hundreds of hours of classroom work prepared him to meet the commander’s stare of inspection straight on, instead of cowering like a frightened child. From that moment on, their relationship had seemed to steadily deteriorate.
Merely contemplating this initial confrontation caused Blackmore’s already low spirits to additionally sour. Not even the magnificent scenery so readily visible around him helped alleviate this feeling of depression. This had been their second day anchored there in Maui’s Lahaina Harbor. It was one of the most visually stunning areas on the entire planet, and one couldn’t ask for a better setting. Lying to their left was Auau Channel. This glistening blue expanse of water stretched to the western horizon, where the island of Lanai was visible, its distant shoreline rising like an encroaching sentinel.
To their right, less than a half mile distant, was Lahaina, one of Maui’s most quaint, picturesque villages. Set on the island’s northeastern sector, Lahaina was a mecca to locals and tourists alike, who were drawn to its unique boutiques and excellent restaurants. Once a bustling whaling center, the town had been restored to capture its past splendor. Walking down Lahaina’s narrow, cobblestoned streets, which were given added character by the brightly painted, wooden buildings with open verandahs that lined each side, one indeed got the impression that he had been magically conveyed back a century or two.
Lance Blackmore knew, from the way the crew had acted the previous night during shore leave, that the Marlin’s complement could be easily mistaken for an unruly gang of decadent whalers. This lack of discipline was visible even today, with a trio of beer sipping skin divers lying on the Pelican’s bow.
Watching them with disgust as they soaked up the morning rays, Blackmore silently cursed his bad duty draw.
This was not the gentleman’s Navy he had dreamed of serving in since childhood. Why couldn’t he have been sent to a Trident or a 688? Such duty would certainly be more to his expectation. But no, he had to be sent to an outlaw ship, where discipline meant merely getting the job done. And who knew if they’d ever even get a real chance to show what they could do?
Distracted by the excited cries of their potbellied chief petty officer, who had just hooked into a large fish from the Pelican’s fantail, Blackmore failed to notice that he was no longer alone on the bridge.
“Oh, sweet Lord,” pleaded the newcomer painfully.
“Will someone please turn off these lights!”
Shading his bloodshot eyes from the morning sun, Ensign Louis Marvin leaned up against the bridge’s railing. Blackmore couldn’t help but find his mood lightening upon examining the pitiful sailor who stood beside him, naked except for his skivvies.
To a detached observer, the two officers appeared as a study in contrasts. Though both were twenty four years old, they had nothing else physically in common. The most obvious difference was their height. Blackmore stood a solid six feet tall, while his skinny coworker barely reached Lance’s broad shoulders.
Whereas Blackmore sported a thick head of close-cropped blond hair. Ensign Marvin was almost completely bald, except for two unruly strands of frizzy black wool that lay behind each of his rather large, pointed ears. In need of a shave, the Ensign massaged his creased forehead.
“Never again will these lips sample another sip of rum. Oh my poor aching head!”
Lance found it hard not to have compassion for his hungover shipmate.
“Those pineapple coconut drinks start out innocent, but look out.”
“Now he tells me,” replied the Ensign mockingly.
“Of course, you could have stopped after six drinks,” continued the taller of the two men.
Marvin gently rubbed the back of his neck.
“Who in the hell was counting? Boy, was that some party! Did everyone make it back to the ship all right?”
Nodding that they had, Blackmore found his mood darkening as the Ensign began a blow-by-blow description of the previous night’s shore leave. It had all started out well, when a group of them had had dinner at an excellent outdoor seafood restaurant. By dessert, it had gotten completely out of hand.
To begin with, one of the barmaids had taken an immediate interest in their senior diver. The big Californian was far from the shy type and had been quick to take advantage of the situation. After consuming his share of chi-chis, the diver had playfully pulled the longhaired Hawaiian onto his lap. Unknown to everyone present, however, the girl’s insanely jealous boyfriend had been watching from across the street. With a trio of good-sized locals at his side, the boyfriend had crashed into the restaurant and immediately started swinging. Seconds later, a fullsized brawl had begun taking shape. Only the arrival of a single individual had kept the situation from getting completely out of hand.
Commander Pierce had been in the process of taking an innocent stroll along the streets of Lahaina, when he had passed the seafood restaurant just as the first punches were being thrown. Quickly realizing that it was his own crew that was involved, Pierce had jumped over the verandah and headed straight into the action. Oblivious to the greater sizes and younger ages of the combatants, he had picked out the troublemakers and cold-cocked two of the locals with a flurry of expertly thrown punches. With the battle now diffused, Pierce had herded the lot of them hastily outdoors. With a promise to behave themselves, the group had sworn to continue its drinking in more friendly environs. Not doubting their word, the commander turned to continue his stroll, whistling a tune from South Pacific and appearing as innocent as a newborn lamb in his starched Navy whites.
Needless to say, Pierce’s heroics had been the talk of the rest of the evening. Since he was already a larger-than-life figure to the majority of the crew, the commander’s past service record had been rehashed in intricate detail. This had been the first time that Blackmore had been privileged to hear these stories.
But though Pierce had certainly had his share of colorful close calls, the Lieutenant still held fast to his belief that this wasn’t the type of man they should be emulating. A brute, coarse individual, prone to overindulgence in both drink and women, Will Pierce was an anachronism. He had no place in today’s modern, high-tech Navy.