"G'mornin' Lieutenant. Joe Thornton."
I saluted back, and we shook hands.
"Morning, COB."
"Follow me, Sir. The Cap'ns waiting." He took my seabag.
He stood aside while I climbed up the ladder to the top of the sail. I dropped down to the hatch level where I stepped through the horizontal hatch onto the ladder, grabbed the smooth handrails and allowed gravity to pull me down the ladder into the submarine control room. I stepped aside, and my seabag followed, landing with a thud. Then the COB, landing with the finesse of long practice.
The Chief of the Watch was standing by the ladder. He saluted.
"Welcome aboard, Sir. Sam Gunty. Been looking forward to meeting you."
I returned his salute and we shook hands. I removed my hat.
"How's that, Senior Chief?"
"We heard about your exploit on the Elk River, Sir. That was some kind of shit!"
"All lies, Senior Chief." I grinned at him, and followed the COB down the ladder, really a narrow staircase, and forward to the Captain's cabin. We passed the Wardroom to our right, a comfortable room paneled with simulated wood Formica, built-in maroon Naugahyde benches around a permanent coffee table, and a dining table that could be converted into an operating slab should one be needed while on patrol. The Captain's cabin was just ahead on the left. The small sign on the door read Commander George Jackson, bracketed by two small gold submarine dolphins.
The COB entered and announced in a clear voice, "Cap'n, Sir, El-Tee McDowell."
I entered the crowded cabin and came to attention. In the Navy we don't salute when uncovered.
"Lieutenant J.R. McDowell, Skipper. They call me Mac."
The Skipper stood and approached me with outstretched hand. He was medium tall, a bit stocky, with a full head of copper red hair and a matching full beard, trimmed to regulation length.
"Welcome aboard, Mac."
We shook hands.
"Take a load off." He indicated a leather-like Naugahyde couch across the cabin.
I handed him my papers and lowered myself to the couch. He nodded to the COB who left, closing the door behind him.
"So…you're the hero of the hour."
He looked me up and down, and I probably blushed a bit.
"We don't want any heroics on board Halibut."
I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off.
"No explanations needed. I received a full briefing from Dan… I know what you did… and I'm duly impressed." His face broke into a warm smile.
I paused but he went on, "No… really. I mean it. I know what your quick thinking accomplished. In part, that's why you're here."
He opened a humidor on his small built-in desk and removed a big, unwrapped cigar. He paused to sniff it, savoring the smell and texture before putting it to the fire. Pointedly, he did not offer one to me, so I waited patiently while he puffed the cigar to life.
"You've been briefed, of course?"
I nodded.
"Your troops?"
"On their way. I wanted to check out the system before their arrival."
The Skipper got to his feet, so I did the same. It wouldn't do to get off on the wrong foot with this guy. John Craven had hand-picked him for this job. He was clearly one tough customer.
"We sail in three weeks. Keep me informed of your progress."
I came to attention.
"Aye, aye, Sir!"
CHAPTER FIVE
The sun was setting as I pulled up to the Winnie and Moo. The weather was balmy and it didn't look like rain, so I left the top of my red Vette down. Since it was Friday, the parking lot was already half full.
The building was nothing to look at: Dirty white vertical clapboard with white trim, low, nearly flat roof, small, blanked windows just under the eaves. A billboard-like sign towered over the establishment, graced along the top edge with a submarine silhouette, and bold letters announcing to the world: HORSE & COW. Below the big sign was another, carrying a caricature of a submarine dolphin pin sporting the features of a horse on one and a cow on the other. The words Horse & Cow curved over the "dolphins," and below "We Service the Fleet." I pushed open the door and entered.
The room was dark and filled with noise and smoke. I glanced around as my eyes adjusted. Every wall was crowded with submarine memorabilia, dating back to World War II. There was a plaque from every submarine that ever passed through Mare Island, and even some from subs that never reached the West Coast.
My eyes were getting used to the dim light, so I started across the room toward an elbow-polished oak bar with a brass foot-rail that nearly filled one wall. On the far end was a swiveling stool that used to be the stern planes seat on an unnamed World War II-era diesel boat. I knew enough not to sit there; it remained empty in memory of lost World War II subs.
I spotted Bill, Jimmy, and Whitey crowded around the stern planes seat at the bar. Jimmy and Bill had copped seats, and Whitey was standing. Hanging behind the bar over their heads I could see the stainless steel submarine urinal that was occasionally used to initiate a newly frocked submariner. The newbie would put his unworn dolphins in the urinal, and then everyone at the bar would dump whatever remained of his or her drink into the urinal. All the newly qualified submariner had to do was fish the dolphins out with his lips. Usually, this meant drinking his way down to the pin. As I approached the bar I passed a complete maneuvering stand, replete with mahogany-colored coxcombing, seizing, and Turk's heads tied at each spoke of the helm. Further over stood a shiny silver bow-planes wheel. Behind the bar a ship's bell hung from a brass yoke, and I spotted several more around the room. The bar was populated by young men and as many women, ranging from young and very pretty to well-worn barflies in the waning years of their short careers. The guys sported jeans, shirts, and trimmed haircuts, many with beards. No freaks here; this was a Navy joint. No, strike that! It was a submarine hangout.
"Hey, El-Tee!" Whitey raised his mug.
"Hush Lad," I said, laughing. "I'm slumming tonight."
Whitey's light hair and pale features caused him to stand out, even in this smoky place. He signaled the bartender, who slid a full mug down the bar at me. I toasted the guys, and Whitey and I leaned back against the bar to watch the action. Across the room the ladies room door cracked, and a silhouette appeared in the opening topped with bright red hair. She was pretty enough, but had obviously been around the block several times.
I grinned and waved.
"Snorkel Patty… over here!"
Snorkel Patty looked in our direction, smiled widely, and elbowed her way through the crowd to our piece of the bar. Bill jumped to his feet.
"Have a seat, Lady."
Silence fell along the bar as all heads turned toward us.
"You dog-loving somobitchin, goat screwin, g'dam arshole. Who the fuck you callin' a lady?"
Bill jumped back, obviously shocked by her display. Patty lifted her skirt.
"These knees look like I been kneelin' in front of an Admiral?"
Bill's jaw dropped as he discovered the raunchy tattoos gracing her thighs. Grins up and down the bar.
"Ain't no g'dam for'd battery whore!"
Patty was nose to nose with Bill when the bartender hit the klaxon button. The ah-oooo-ga, ah-oooo-ga drowned out all the noise in the bar. Patty was good. She nearly convinced me.
"Dive! Dive!" The bartender sounded genuine.
Patty reached up and kissed me on the cheek and patted Bill's ass.
"G'dam brass…" She turned to Bill. "Screwed every bubblehead in the Pacific twice, and startin' over; might even turn YOU inside out. No more lady-crap! Siddown!"