To be honest, in the past I've never written anything long than a two or three page email. However, like many other people I simply couldn't let go of the 191 universe so I decided to try and imagine what a follow up book of the 191 universe might look like, so I went ahead and typed a brief segment set in the year 1962. The setting is the bridge of a newly commissioned submarine in the San Francisco bay, and to help things along you can kind of imagine a young Michael J. Fox as the character CPO., Patrick Frost, a young Keanu Reeves as Seaman Apprentice, Sean Enos, and Alec Baldwin as CMDR., Carl Hightower. I imagine the submarine in the below setting to be similar to a Sturgeon class sub in our time line, except the below sub as a titanium hull, and everything else should fall into place. Hopefully. Just for fun.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was a postcard perfect day as the nuclear-powered submarine USS Sealion SSN-638 lay at anchor, just to the south of Alcatraz Island, in the sun speckled waters of the San Francisco Bay. Overhead the nearly cloudless mid-afternoon sky was radiating a perfect shade of incandescent pale blue, and although the area had been lashed by a viscous rainstorm less than forty-eight hours earlier, the weather at the moment was positively gorgeous in every possible sense of the word. A mild sea breeze was presently carrying the fresh scent of the ocean in through the Golden Gate, while the very air itself seemed to be permeated with the celebratory sounds of ship horns, the buzz of the distant crowds lining the busy San Francisco waterfront, and also the occasional booms of illegal daytime fireworks.
Over on Alcatraz, a group of rowdy inmates had come out and made an appearance along the wire-mesh perimeter fence surrounding the federal penitentiary. The boisterous inmates capered about like caged monkeys, and they appeared to be doing their damnedest to be noticed, as they frantically waved their arms in the air, and forcefully bellowed their voices out onto the open waters of the bay. However, at over three hundred yards distance, the burbling shouts of the island bound prisoners were too muffled and indistinct for Chief Petty Officer Patrick Frost to determine if they carried catcalls of disrespect, or hurrahs of encouragement.
“Poor miserable bastards,” Frost said to himself as he scanned the cavorting yardbirds with a pair of powerful navy issue binoculars. Just now a few of the inmates had taken to waving their wool caps above their heads, as though they were trying to hail a passing taxicab, and one particularly brawny inmate had managed to climb part way up the retraining barrier, before losing his grip and doing a black-flip onto his fellow yardbirds below. “Poor sorry miserable bastards,” Frost again said to himself, this time perhaps with just a slight touch of pity in his voice.
A few months back, the news media had run a series of scandalous stories regarding a pair of convicts, whom were widely believed to have staged a successful escape attempt from the infamous island prison, but Frost quickly determined that the sad sack jailbirds now occupying his field of view were unlikely to breakout anytime soon, so he swung his binoculars elsewhere in search of other more likely hazards to his boat.
From his position on the bridge, high atop Sealion's towering sail, Frost had an unobstructed panoramic view covering the entire mouth of the bay, as well as the waters extending well beyond the Golden Gate. At the moment, however, the nearest merchantman vessel that he could spot was transiting well to the north of Alcatraz Island, and Frost felt reasonably confident that the greatest risk that Sealion might face today, would most likely come in the form of a weekend boater falling off of one of the many small civilian pleasure craft currently occupying the crowded waters around the new state of the art submarine.
USS Sealion was America’s newest nuclear-powered submarine, and she was also the second submarine in the US Navy’s new Dolphin-class of fast-attack submarines. She had been launched from nearby Mare Island Naval Shipyard a little over seven months ago, when none other than California’s First Lady, Nancy Reagan had served as her sponsor, by breaking a bottle of sacrificial champagne against her super high-strength titanium bow.
Earlier in the day an elaborate commissioning ceremony had been held at Pier 45 in San Francisco for the purpose of heralding Sealion's placement into active service with the US Navy. Hundreds of official guests, including thousands of unofficial well-wishers had been in attendance, along with hordes of reporters, a dozen or so celebrities, and throngs of other media types. The entire crew had sat chaffing in their stiff dress blue uniforms, many of them with hangovers to beat the band, as they endured a seemingly unending succession of rambling speeches regarding America's rapidly evolving defense needs, and how brave men such as those serving on Sealion’s crew were rising to the challenge of securing the nation’s future.
Finally, the Sealion's own captain took to the podium and read her commissioning orders aloud for everyone to hear. As expected, Sealion had been ordered to put to sea, and to embark on a series of shakedown tests to be conducted off Naval Base San Diego. Depending on the results of her post-commissioning tests, Sealion would then continue onto her home port at Pearl Harbor, where she would then join the rest of the Pacific Submarine Squadron.
Following the conclusion of the official ceremony, Sealion had then been towed out to her present anchorage point, just to the east of Alcatraz Shoal, in order to clear a berthing space at the pier for an incoming ocean liner.
At the moment, only a two man bridge watch remained above deck, while the rest of the crew labored below making perpetrations to get underway. Both of the men now on bridge watch duty had been carefully selected for today's high profile dog and pony show, and it was widely felt among higher ups that both men aptly characterized the face of the new modern navy, which the Department of Defense was now working hard to disseminate to young men of enlistment age all across the country.
Frost had been selected to serve on Sealion's first official bridge watch, because at twenty-six years of age, he was one of the youngest Chief Petty Officers throughout the entire US Navy. Likewise, Frost's fellow watchman, eighteen-year-old Seaman Apprentice Sean Enos had been selected for today's festivities, due to his relationship to his heroic great-aunt, Sylvia Enos.
Back in 1923 Sylvia Enos had famously shot and killed a Confederate submarine commander guilty of torpedoing and sinking a US destroyer during peacetime. Sylvia's husband, George Enos had been serving aboard the sunken destroyer, and Sylvia Enos had sought revenge for her husband's death by killing the Confederate war criminal that had cost her husband his life. Today, Sylvia Enos was widely regarded as a national hero, and even most Southerners old enough to recall the historic event considered her actions to be a case of justifiable homicide.
Frost removed his binoculars in order to take stock of some sort of commotion that was now unfolding down below at the waterline, where the shallow waves of the bay continually slapped against Sealion's torpedo shaped hull.
During the past ninety minutes or so, a small one-man Coast Guard patrol boat had been incessantly droning around Sealion in an entertaining cat and mouse game of keeping the gnat-like civilian watercraft away from the huge whale of a submarine.
Now it appeared that the pilot of the Coast Guard patrol boat had finally had enough, and he was now leaning out the door of his wheelhouse, as he angrily berated a civilian boater who was apparently unwilling to move his outboard motorboat to a point outside the ten yard security zone surrounding Sealion.
A few stray words floated up from the heated exchange below, “..move that god-damned boat right now or I'll have SFPD come out and arrest your sorry ass!”
The civilian boater responded, “I helped install the electronics aboard this thing...something muffled...my son to see her up close...” as he gestured towards a young boy sitting beside him in the boat.
Frost quickly produced a bullhorn from a small storage locker located next to the bridge steering mechanism, “Please observe the ten-yard no entry zone surrounding USS Sealion,” he announced in his most cordial voice possible.
Both the Coast Guard pilot and the civilian boater paused and looked up towards the bridge with mild looks of bewilderment upon their faces. The miffed civilian insolently goosed the throttle on his outboard motor and scooted several yards away from Sealion's hull.
Frost wasn't certain if the civilian had actually moved his boat all the way outside the restricted zone, or not, but for the moment he felt it more important to defuse any positionally negative incidences with the general public, than it was to worry about some shipyard worker in a rinky-dink aluminum fishing-boat. The XO had made it crystal clear that the skipper wanted his new boat to shine a friendly smile today, and having a father and his young son hauled away by a SFPD patrol boat was exactly the sort of situation that would no doubt cause the captain to blow up like a super-bomb. After all, where was the harm in letting people see what their tax dollars were being spent on, Frost thought to him? There hadn't been any people bombs going off in the US for almost seventeen years now, and apart from some highly sporadic labor skirmishes, the nation was now completely at peace with itself.
“Like trying to keep flies off shit,” Frost remarked with just a touch of minor irritation in his voice.
“You got that right, sir. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear that the Pittsburgh Steelayers must be playing the Philadelphia Eagles right here on our main weather deck,” Enos said as he indifferently observed a small flotilla of inexperienced weekend boaters that were slowly drifting in the direction ofSealion's starboard flank.
“Well, San Francisco has always been a military town, and the US Navy either directly or indirectly employs tens of thousands of civilian workers throughout the entire San Francisco Bay Area,” Frost said as he gave a hearty wave to a passing City of Oakland fireboat that was cheerfully spraying several tall plumes of water high into the air, as it repeatedly tooted its flat fog horn. “Also, add to that the fact that the San Francisco Bay Area is one of the most politically conservative metropolitan areas throughout the entire nation, and then you can understand why so many of these fine people have come out to gawk at our magnificent new submarine as though she were hosting an AFL game on her topside.”
In reality, however, with Sealion's overall length at roughly three-hundred feet, and with a beam just under thirty-two feet, placing an official sized gridiron, along with two teams of twelve players each, on her main weather deck was completely outside the realms of possibility. In fact, the only ships in the US Navy large enough to possibly carry off such a stunt were the new class of sixty-thousand standard ton Theodore Roosevelt supercarriers that were just now beginning to enter service. All the same, Frost mused to himself that it was unlikely that either of the two Roosevelt class super carriers currently in service would ever be used to host a professional sporting event anytime in the near future.
Enos momentarily considered Frost's rundown on the affairs of the greater San Francisco Bay Area, as he began to pay closer attention to the flotilla of amateurish boaters that were now clearly starting to drift inside the ten-yard security zone around Sealion's hull. “I see, well, I guess that it makes sense then that so many of these people have come out to give us a big send off on our first voyage,” Enos said hoping that his superior would not find fault with his remark.
Inwardly, however, to Enos it actually made very little sense that so many people would willingly choose to spend an entire afternoon crouching in small boats next to the hull of a nuclear-powered submarine, when clearly there were so many better things that they could be doing on a sunshiny Saturday like today. However, past experiences had taught him that attempting to discuss such an opinion with a by-the-book NCO like Frost was an extremely bad idea, so he simply opted to keep his thoughts to himself instead.
A troop of boy scouts aboard a 1930's era speedboat shouted for Enos' attention as they held up a handmade banner reading “GO SEALION!". However, at the moment Enos was lost in his own heartsick feelings regarding a girl he had recently met in San Francisco's Chinatown, and he barely noticed the hand painted tarpaulin that was being held up in his honor.
All the while, Frost blithely continued his soapbox patter as he authoritatively proclaimed, “If this boat were being commissioned in a more liberal part of the country, say down in Pascagoula, Mississippi, for example, then you probably wouldn't see half the number of people showing up that you see right here in Frisco.”
As someone who had never traveled further south than Washington DC before joining the navy, Enos was more than willing to accept Frost's lecture on regional politics as the gospel truth, but he was still having trouble understanding how the christening of a new submarine should be so vitally urgent as to keep him from his cherished Li Na Wong. After all, Enos personally knew of several families along the Boston waterfront who still relied upon commercial fishing for their livelihood, but he could not recall ever seeing anyone back home getting so hot and bothered, just because a new fishing trawler happened to be putting out to sea for the very first time.
As if Enos' woes weren't already enough of a heavy burden, Frost continued to drone on unrelentingly in the background as he expounded upon a new breed of congressmen from the former Confederate states, who were now beginning to push for a reinvigoration of the Bill of Rights, as they simultaneously called for the US to return to its roots as a nation based upon the principles of liberty and justice.
Nobody bandied about the now heavily sullied word “Freedom” very much these days.
At the moment, however, Enos couldn't possibly give a rat's ass about some stodgy political manifesto being put forth by a group of namby-pamby Republicans from the New South, but he dutifully feigned interest by reciting the catch phrase “Oh yeah, those darned liberal Republicans,” while for the umpteenth time this afternoon, his adolescent brain began to wonder what the beautiful Li Na might be doing at that very moment. Probably waiting on tables in her parent's restaurant, Enos decided to himself, as he mentally conjured up an image of his heartthrob gracefully turning and pirouetting between crowded tables with a row of serving plates delicately balanced on each of her long graceful arms.
Just then, the lilliputian Coast Guard patrol vessel came scurrying around Sealion's stern like a mischievous pup to chase away the small group of boats that Enos had been so keenly observing. With nothing else in the nearby vicinity that was remotely interesting for him to monitor, Enos lifted the heavy pair of binoculars that were hanging from his neck, and he began meticulously scanning for anything that might serve to distract him from the stale monotony of his current duties, as he continued to sound off an occasional “That's amazing, is that so? I didn't realize that,” in response to Frost's ongoing monologue.
Off in the distance, some sort of futuristic looking train was making its way westward across the lower level of the Oakland Bay Bridge, heading towards San Francisco. Enos zoomed in with his binoculars to get a closer look. The passing train had a surprisingly boxy shape to its overall design, dark tinted windows, and the entire thing appeared to be made out of aircraft aluminum. What did Li Na say the thing was called, a BART train? One thing was certain; it sure looked different from any of the creaking old subway trains that Enos was used to ridding on back in Boston. The ultra-modern looking train suddenly disappeared behind the forest of downtown high-rises as it descended into the city, so Enos allowed his binoculars to stray elsewhere to see what they could find. His attention briefly settled upon a speed contest between a pair of colorful dragon boats. Each boat had its own drummer to keep the thirty to forty hard working paddlers in sync, and the outlandish craft glided over the bay at a respectable clip. However, he quickly grew disinterested after one of the boats seemed to inexplicably pull farther ahead of its competitor.
At last his eyes settled upon the San Francisco waterfront, where a diamond shaped formation of US Navy fighter jets had just arrived to begin buzzing the crush of people standing shoulder-to-shoulder along the crowded piers. The fighters moved with incredible speed, and they appeared to function in perfect unison as they continually looped and rolled in close knit formation directly above Fort Mason and the predominately Italian neighborhood of North Beach.
Without warning, the blue and gold adorned fighters abruptly darted away from North Beach, and within the space of a few short seconds they were suddenly performing a series of incredibly complex aerobatic maneuvers over the northern tip of Treasure Island out in the middle of the bay. Following the rapidly moving jets with binoculars proved too difficult a task, so Enos watched with his unaided eyes as the Blue Devils performed their incredible death-defying stunts at less than three hundred feet above the artificial island.
Enos had finally found something to at least temporarily take his mind off Li Na, and for the moment his mind was absolutely captivated by the incredibly swift swept-wing fighters that he was now watching. Meanwhile, Frost appeared to have become deeply engaged in a two way radio conversation with the pilot of the now motionless Coast Guard patrol boat, via the telephone-like bridge communications console.
Suddenly the Blue Devils broke away from their performance over Treasure Island, and Enos stared transfixed, like a deer in the headlights, as the powerful attack jets lined themselves up for a direct run on Sealion herself. Before he could move a muscle, the Blue Devils were suddenly rocketing along the length of Sealion's hull, not more than thirty feet over the heads of the two crewmen standing on her bridge.
The shadow of the passing jets produced a startling flash of darkness, and Both Frost and Enos were momentarily caught off guard by the sudden roar and tremendous blast of wind created by the lighting fast planes. In less than two seconds the meteoric fighters were already over one hundred and fifty yards distance from Sealion. The forty-nine star Navy Jack flying from Sealion's bow violently snapped around towards the Golden Gate for several long seconds before finally resuming to its gentle easterly flutter in the mild on shore breeze.
“Son of a bitch!” Frost proclaimed as he used one hand to return the corded communications handset to its cradle, while simultaneously using the other hand to hold the cap of his service dress blue uniform in place against the passing turbulence. Enos likewise clutched at his own cap as he gazed open mouthed, and attempted to keep his eyes fixed on the incredibly fast moving jet formation that was now heading off towards the west.
“I sure am glad that those guys are on our side,” Enos remarked as he pointed towards the Blue Devil jets now reduced to the size of tiny insects due to their increasing distance. Frost gazed in the direction of Enos' pointing finger, and he found himself looking at a widening trough of intense foamy water that had been cut across the surface of the otherwise calm bay by the low flying Messerschmitt Me 662s. The Blue Devils were at the far end of that expanding wake of turbulent bay water, and just now they were flying directly below the cantilevered roadway of the Golden Gate Bridge, out towards the open sea.
“Yeah, me to,” Frost thoughtfully responded as he watched the Blue Devils perform an inverted loop back over the center cantilevered arch of the Golden Gate Bridge. Actually Frost was fairly certain that the little stunt just carried off by the Blue Devils probably violated half-dozen federal regulations, and for a moment he considered contacting Alameda Naval Air Station across the bay to report the incident. However, after a moment's pause he used his binoculars to tap Enos on the shoulder and said, “Check your side of the boat and make sure that none of our friends have fallen overboard. If those hotdog fighter jocks have managed to splash a civilian, then there's going to be plenty of hell all around for everyone to pay.”
"Aye aye, Sir," Enos instantly recognized Frost's instructions as a direct order, and not merely a friendly request. Enos quickly scanned the waters immediately to the south of Sealion for any signs of trouble. Although a few of the weekend boaters had managed to get themselves drenched in saltwater kicked up by the whirling vortices of the passing fighters, nobody was in the water, and nobody was calling out for help. If anything, the half-wit civilian boaters that he was looking at appeared to be having the time of their lives, as they laughed and hooted amongst themselves. Apparently they seemed to view getting a face full of salt water from a passing jet plane to be something akin to riding the roller-coaster at an amusement park. “All clear over here sir.”
“Good job, now let’s just spend a few moments scanning the area to make doubly certain.” Enos continued to search his area for any signs that someone might be experiencing an emergency, but the closest thing that he could find was a photographer, most likely a reporter from some paper, who was upset because he didn't have the right film in his camera when the Blue Devils passed directly over the crewman atop Sealion's sail. “It could have been an award winning front-page photo,” the photographer bemoaned.
Just then a voice came booming up from the open access hatch located in the middle of the bridge deck. “Permission to enter the bridge!”
Frost instantly recognized the voice as belonging to Sealion's second in command, Commander Carl Hightower. Speaking of the devil he thought to himself. “Granted!” Frost promptly responded. Both Frost and Enos sucked in their guts and saluted as an intense man in his mid-fifties with an average build, beady eyes, and charcoal hair emerged from the open hatch. Hightower was also still wearing his dress blues from the commissioning ceremony earlier in the day, and he sported an impressive collection of ribbons and badges across his chest.
“What's the situation up here, Chief?” Hightower said in an amiable enough tone.
“It's been a bit of a zoo, Sir. A few moments ago the Blue Devils buzzed our heads at less than fifty feet off the deck, and few minutes before that our friend here from the Coast Guard was about to arrest a father and son for getting too close to our boat,” Frost said as he gestured towards the patrol boat now idling near Sealion's bow.
“No one got arrested though, right?” Hightower's voice took on a minor tone of unease as he raised his hands in a gesture of warding off bad luck.
No Sir, no one was arrested, and I asked the pilot of the Coast Guard boat not to take any action, unless he observes someone actively attempting to board us,” Frost reported.
“Alright well done then, Hightower said with relief. Meanwhile I've just learned that the Blue Devils are extending their show to a full ninety minutes, which means that the skipper wants you two up here a little bit longer for public relations purposes.
“Understood, Sir,” Frost replied smartly.
“Right now everyone from the Secretary of the Navy on down is screaming about how low our recruitment numbers are right now, and thanks to the booming economy, the dewdroppers coming out of high school have too many other options available to them besides joining the military.” Hightower then paused to slap the palm of one hand with the back of the other before then adding, “Were just not getting the type of quality recruits that we were getting a decade ago.”
“That may be true, Sir, but from what I understand all branches of the service are experiencing a recruitment slowdown,” Frost offered.
Hightower suddenly seemed to become aware that Enos was standing next to him. “Seaman Enos, how's that cousin of yours, George Enos, doing? Is George going to be joining us in the navy?” Hightower asked in a syrupy friendly tone that seemed just somewhat out of character, giving his normally crusty nature towards enlisted crewmen.
It was widely known that the powerful Kennedy clan maintained a close rapport with the Enos family stretching back to the early 1920s, and everyone in the country had seen the famous Time Magazine cover photo of Vice President John F. Kennedy placing his arm around Enos' shoulder following Enos' graduation from submarine school this past summer. It was also widely understood amongst navy brass that the vice president had taken a special interest in young Enos, and that he was a special case. Christ, how I hate having celebrity crewmen on my boat, Hightower thought to himself.
Enos answered, “George is doing fine, Sir, but he still has three more years before he's old enough to enlist”.
Hightower was relieved to find that Enos had apparently not picked up on his somewhat disparaging remark regarding the poor quality of today's enlistees. Well, he always has seemed a little slow on the uptake, Hightower reminded himself. “Seaman, why don't you take up watch on the starboard fairwater plane?” Remember to look sharp and to wave to all the cameras you can find.”
"Aye aye, Sir," Enos enthusiastically responded. Apparently he was greatly relieved for the opportunity to be out of the presence of the XO, and he quickly scampered down the access hatch with the agility of a feral cat. A few short seconds later he popped out of a side hatch and assumed a position of at ease upon one of the huge wing like structures protruding from either side of Sealion's massive sail, as Hightower watched from above.
Hightower removed his cap and theatrically used the sleeve of his uniform to wipe across his forehead, as though he had just dodged a deadly near-miss accident. Seeing that Frost wasn't necessarily going along with his performance, Hightower replaced his cap and said, “So how is old chowder head working out in the Supply Department anyway?”
“Things got off to a rough start, Sir, but he's definitely pulling his weight now. Anyway, if he wasn't I'd be ridding his ass like there was no tomorrow.”
Hightower casually leaned his backside against the metal barrier surrounding the bridge cockpit, and stared off towards the Berkeley shoreline on the eastern edge of the bay. “Don't throw your career away because of that kid. He's dangerous, and he's got a pipeline running all the way up to the very top, trust me I know.”
Yeah, no kidding Frost thought inwardly, as he recollected upon a private telephone call he had received from Vice President Kennedy, shortly after Enos had magically returned from a forty-eight hour AWOL last month. The vice president had compelled Frost into taking young Enos under his wing, and to straighten the young seaman out. Kennedy had also sworn him to an absolute vow of secrecy, and had strongly implied to him that his path to becoming a commissioned officer would become much smoother, if he could assist the vice president with this particularly thorny issue.
Frost weighed his response before answering. “I think that the most of his earlier disciplinary problems were being caused by his friendship with Freddie Kennedy, and all the bad advice that Freddie Kennedy was most likely spoon feeding him.”
Hightower gave a derisive snort and then added, “Fucking Freddie Kennedy, that sluggard signs up for a four year enlistment in the army, screws up everything he touches, and then somehow manages to get himself an honorable discharge after only eighteen months of service. No real surprise that someone like him would turn out to be a bad influence,” as he shook his head in disgust.
“Well, we both know that the two of them were together when Enos went AWOL from Bremerton last month.” Frost paused to let that sink in.
“Well, if it were up to me, I'd ship Seaman Apprentice Sean Enos' worthless carcass all the way up to that new acoustic research facility the navy has out in the middle of Idaho, and I'd let him spend the rest of his enlistment stuck out there on guard duty.” Hightower said as though he'd already given the matter a great deal of thought.
Eager to change the topic Frost asked, “Sir, may I ask if we've been given any special directives on how we're supposed to increase recruitment during a special event like this?”
“Just stay sharp and wave to the natives, that's about all we can do.” Hightower paused before then adding, “Just between you and me, either Congress is going to have to increase the base pay for new enlistees, or they are going to have to think about instituting a draft. It's a cinch that no self-respecting politician is going to risk talking about a military draft during peacetime, and in my opinion, all this brouhaha about low numbers is really just a ploy to get the folks in DC to open up their purse strings a little bit more.” Behind Hightower's head the Blue Devils were making a screeching U-turn above Yerba Buena Island, as they oriented themselves for yet another run on the crowds along the San Francisco waterfront.
Frost nodded his head, content that he was no longer discussing Enos, “Let's hope they do something soon.”
“At any rate, low recruitment is a problem for the top brass to worry about, and I wish they'd stop haranguing the lower echelons about it. In the meanwhile take a look at this.” Hightower removed a newspaper that he had been carrying underneath his armpit, and he swatted Frost in the stomach with it. Frost took the newspaper in his hands and unfolded it. The wind kept flopping the top of the paper over on him, so he moved it down lower out of the breeze to get a better look at it. It was today's edition of the San Francisco Chronicle, and the date at the top of the front page read: Saturday, October 13, 1962. Below the date the huge banner headline announced: CANADIAN PRESIDENT PURPOSES NORTH AMERICAN TREATY ORGANIZATION.
As someone who had grown up on an apple orchard outside Wenatchee, Washington, Frost did not have a strong love for anything associated with Canada, and he had acquired much of his staunch anti-Canadian sentiment from his older male relatives, who had served in the US Army during both Great Wars. “God-damned Canucks,” Frost said softly. “First they badger us into giving them their independence, but the very first time they run into trouble with one of their neighbors, they want us to come along and bail them out.”
“Trust me, it's really not that simple,” Hightower said. “Here let me show you.” Hightower took the paper from his hands and opened it up to middle of the international news section. A smaller sized secondary headline proclaimed PRESIDENT DIEFENBAKER CITES RUSSIAN WEAPONS SMUGGLED INTO ALASKA - (Continued from page one). Frost quickly perused the paragraph next to Hightower's finger. In so many words the Canadian president blamed Moscow for establishing a series of secret bases along the Alaskan coast, and for using those bases to smuggle weapons to Communist subversives located in both Alaska, and adjacent areas of Canada. The article concluded by saying that Congress was expected to vote on the matter before Thanksgiving, and that US President Richard Nixon fully supported the idea of a North American Treaty Organization, or NATO as the writer of the news article commonly referred to it. Next to the article was a black and white photo of Canadian President Diefenbaker standing next to a large strategic map depicting Siberia, Alaska, and the Canada's Yukon Territory, as he used a wooden pointer to illustrate the growing Red menace emanating from Russia to a joint session of The United States Congress.
“Mark my words,” Hightower said. “By the first of the new year we are going to be up north patrolling the Aleutian Islands, looking for Russian ships smuggling illegal weapons into Alaska! Read on there and take a look for yourself.”
During the past several weeks Frost had been deeply engrossed in Sealion's final rounds of pre-commissioning sea-trials, and he hadn't really paid much attention to international events. Now as he flipped back to the front page of the Chronicle, to get the rest of the story, he anxiously tried to wrack his own memory regarding the situation up in Alaska. However, the only pertinent information that he could recall off the top of his head was that the US had approximately 15,000 occupation troops garrisoned in former Russian military camps, along with 5,000 Canadians, and perhaps an additional 2,000 – 3,000 Québécois troops to round things off. Jeez, that's not enough manpower to keep a handle on such a large occupation zone, no wonder they're having so much trouble up there.
Frost refolded the newspaper and returned it to his superior officer. “Sir, I broke family tradition and joined the US Navy over the army, because at the time it appeared that there would never be another shooting war on North American soil. Now I'm beginning to wonder if I made the right choice?”
The XO quickly responded, “Oh don't you worry, Chief, if an armed conflict breaks out between the US and the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic, then the bulk of the fighting is going to have to be out at sea, somewhere in the North Pacific. After all, I can't see us landing any type of significant invasion force in Siberia, and once we throw up our blockade, the Reds will never be able to slide enough men and material into Alaska in order to take it back.” Strangely, both men failed to consider the possible role of long range strategic bombers in such a conflict.
Just then a low-level clamor of male voices came drifting up from the deck area immediately aft of the sail. Both Hightower and Frost craned their necks in order to peer over and around the trailing edge of the colossal sail. A congregation of crewmen had emerged from the main access hatch, some of them in their service uniforms, others still dressed in their dress blues, and at the moment they were milling about the main weather deck as though they were attending a picnic. That looked like the entire Weapons Department down there?
“What in the hell?” Frost said in bewilderment. Technically he was the Officer of the Deck at the moment, and he should have been notified that these men were coming topside.
“I meant to mention it earlier, but we both got a little sidetracked with the misadventures of Seaman Apprentice Enos. I've given the crew permission to come up, one department at a time, and to take some pictures before we depart from San Francisco.”
A crewman appeared topside carrying an expensive looking handheld camera, and after a few moments of consultation the rest of the crewmen quickly arraigned themselves on the aft weather deck, with the taller crewmen standing in back, and the shorter men kneeling down in front. Sealion's stern was pointing westward towards the strait, and the intricate cantilevered structure of the spanning Golden Gate Bridge would no doubt provided the perfect backdrop for the day's group photos.
At just over 907 feet in height, the world famous landmark bridge drew tourists from all over the world, and it was also proudly listed as one of the seven wonders of the industrial age. The image of the enormous international-orange monument had become an unofficial symbol for both the US, and for California, and depictions of the bridge appeared throughout the world on everything from packages of table salt, to noir movie posters. Gazing upon the complicated myriad network of riveted steel girders and trusses gave one a visual impression similar to staring at the now bygone Eiffel Tower. However, in actuality just one of the Golden Gate Bridge's complex cantilevered arms was many times more massive than the now vaporized tower that once stood in Paris, and the incredibly long main span of the Golden Gate seemed to defy gravity as it soared 235 feet over the open waters between the Marin Headlands, and Fort Point at the Presidio in San Francisco.
Enos stood alone upon the fairwater plane as he watched the Blue Devils performing their stunts above the bay. Of course he waved to the occasional passersby, as the XO had instructed him to do, but for the most part he continued to be totally fascinated by the cutting edge fighter aircraft as they continually spiraled and looped over the water.
The 1940s era Saxony-class carrier USS Oahu was steaming out of Alameda to join her battle group outside the Golden Gate. The jet-powered Grumman A7 Sabercats lining her deck looked almost as menacing as the German fighters that the Blue Devils were now putting through their paces over the bay. In a few hours Sealion would be joining the Oahu’s battle group, and would tag along with the formation of ships as the group made its way down the coast towards San Diego.
Months back when the vice president had first introduced him to the US Navy recruiter, the recruiter had assured him that nuclear submarines were the wave of the future, and that he to could have a bright future in nuclear submarines, if he agreed to enlist immediately without any delay. However, he had found submarine training to be extremely boring, worse in fact than high school biology, and the three weeks that he had spent aboard USS Dolphin had turned out to positively be the worst experience of his life, thus far. Things began to improve somewhat since his transfer out of Sealion’s Administrative Department, a few weeks ago, but he still didn't care very much for life in the navy. But then, that was all before he had laid his eyes on the incredible fighter planes of the Blue Devils. Now he knew that his place was in the cockpit of a jet fighter, and that he no more belonged on a submarine, than a dairy cow belonged on the deck of a fishing-trawler. One way or another, he would have to find a way to get himself transferred into one of the navy's air-wings, and already a crude plan of action began to form in his eager young mind. Enos shook his head as he realized that just twelve hours earlier he and Li Na had lain naked next to one another, as the two of them conspired to run away together to Hong Kong. How would he break this latest news to Li Na? He supposed that he’d have to give her a telephone call the first chance he got in San Diego.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was a postcard perfect day as the nuclear-powered submarine USS Sealion SSN-638 lay at anchor, just to the south of Alcatraz Island, in the sun speckled waters of the San Francisco Bay. Overhead the nearly cloudless mid-afternoon sky was radiating a perfect shade of incandescent pale blue, and although the area had been lashed by a viscous rainstorm less than forty-eight hours earlier, the weather at the moment was positively gorgeous in every possible sense of the word. A mild sea breeze was presently carrying the fresh scent of the ocean in through the Golden Gate, while the very air itself seemed to be permeated with the celebratory sounds of ship horns, the buzz of the distant crowds lining the busy San Francisco waterfront, and also the occasional booms of illegal daytime fireworks.
Over on Alcatraz, a group of rowdy inmates had come out and made an appearance along the wire-mesh perimeter fence surrounding the federal penitentiary. The boisterous inmates capered about like caged monkeys, and they appeared to be doing their damnedest to be noticed, as they frantically waved their arms in the air, and forcefully bellowed their voices out onto the open waters of the bay. However, at over three hundred yards distance, the burbling shouts of the island bound prisoners were too muffled and indistinct for Chief Petty Officer Patrick Frost to determine if they carried catcalls of disrespect, or hurrahs of encouragement.
“Poor miserable bastards,” Frost said to himself as he scanned the cavorting yardbirds with a pair of powerful navy issue binoculars. Just now a few of the inmates had taken to waving their wool caps above their heads, as though they were trying to hail a passing taxicab, and one particularly brawny inmate had managed to climb part way up the retraining barrier, before losing his grip and doing a black-flip onto his fellow yardbirds below. “Poor sorry miserable bastards,” Frost again said to himself, this time perhaps with just a slight touch of pity in his voice.
A few months back, the news media had run a series of scandalous stories regarding a pair of convicts, whom were widely believed to have staged a successful escape attempt from the infamous island prison, but Frost quickly determined that the sad sack jailbirds now occupying his field of view were unlikely to breakout anytime soon, so he swung his binoculars elsewhere in search of other more likely hazards to his boat.
From his position on the bridge, high atop Sealion's towering sail, Frost had an unobstructed panoramic view covering the entire mouth of the bay, as well as the waters extending well beyond the Golden Gate. At the moment, however, the nearest merchantman vessel that he could spot was transiting well to the north of Alcatraz Island, and Frost felt reasonably confident that the greatest risk that Sealion might face today, would most likely come in the form of a weekend boater falling off of one of the many small civilian pleasure craft currently occupying the crowded waters around the new state of the art submarine.
USS Sealion was America’s newest nuclear-powered submarine, and she was also the second submarine in the US Navy’s new Dolphin-class of fast-attack submarines. She had been launched from nearby Mare Island Naval Shipyard a little over seven months ago, when none other than California’s First Lady, Nancy Reagan had served as her sponsor, by breaking a bottle of sacrificial champagne against her super high-strength titanium bow.
Earlier in the day an elaborate commissioning ceremony had been held at Pier 45 in San Francisco for the purpose of heralding Sealion's placement into active service with the US Navy. Hundreds of official guests, including thousands of unofficial well-wishers had been in attendance, along with hordes of reporters, a dozen or so celebrities, and throngs of other media types. The entire crew had sat chaffing in their stiff dress blue uniforms, many of them with hangovers to beat the band, as they endured a seemingly unending succession of rambling speeches regarding America's rapidly evolving defense needs, and how brave men such as those serving on Sealion’s crew were rising to the challenge of securing the nation’s future.
Finally, the Sealion's own captain took to the podium and read her commissioning orders aloud for everyone to hear. As expected, Sealion had been ordered to put to sea, and to embark on a series of shakedown tests to be conducted off Naval Base San Diego. Depending on the results of her post-commissioning tests, Sealion would then continue onto her home port at Pearl Harbor, where she would then join the rest of the Pacific Submarine Squadron.
Following the conclusion of the official ceremony, Sealion had then been towed out to her present anchorage point, just to the east of Alcatraz Shoal, in order to clear a berthing space at the pier for an incoming ocean liner.
At the moment, only a two man bridge watch remained above deck, while the rest of the crew labored below making perpetrations to get underway. Both of the men now on bridge watch duty had been carefully selected for today's high profile dog and pony show, and it was widely felt among higher ups that both men aptly characterized the face of the new modern navy, which the Department of Defense was now working hard to disseminate to young men of enlistment age all across the country.
Frost had been selected to serve on Sealion's first official bridge watch, because at twenty-six years of age, he was one of the youngest Chief Petty Officers throughout the entire US Navy. Likewise, Frost's fellow watchman, eighteen-year-old Seaman Apprentice Sean Enos had been selected for today's festivities, due to his relationship to his heroic great-aunt, Sylvia Enos.
Back in 1923 Sylvia Enos had famously shot and killed a Confederate submarine commander guilty of torpedoing and sinking a US destroyer during peacetime. Sylvia's husband, George Enos had been serving aboard the sunken destroyer, and Sylvia Enos had sought revenge for her husband's death by killing the Confederate war criminal that had cost her husband his life. Today, Sylvia Enos was widely regarded as a national hero, and even most Southerners old enough to recall the historic event considered her actions to be a case of justifiable homicide.
Frost removed his binoculars in order to take stock of some sort of commotion that was now unfolding down below at the waterline, where the shallow waves of the bay continually slapped against Sealion's torpedo shaped hull.
During the past ninety minutes or so, a small one-man Coast Guard patrol boat had been incessantly droning around Sealion in an entertaining cat and mouse game of keeping the gnat-like civilian watercraft away from the huge whale of a submarine.
Now it appeared that the pilot of the Coast Guard patrol boat had finally had enough, and he was now leaning out the door of his wheelhouse, as he angrily berated a civilian boater who was apparently unwilling to move his outboard motorboat to a point outside the ten yard security zone surrounding Sealion.
A few stray words floated up from the heated exchange below, “..move that god-damned boat right now or I'll have SFPD come out and arrest your sorry ass!”
The civilian boater responded, “I helped install the electronics aboard this thing...something muffled...my son to see her up close...” as he gestured towards a young boy sitting beside him in the boat.
Frost quickly produced a bullhorn from a small storage locker located next to the bridge steering mechanism, “Please observe the ten-yard no entry zone surrounding USS Sealion,” he announced in his most cordial voice possible.
Both the Coast Guard pilot and the civilian boater paused and looked up towards the bridge with mild looks of bewilderment upon their faces. The miffed civilian insolently goosed the throttle on his outboard motor and scooted several yards away from Sealion's hull.
Frost wasn't certain if the civilian had actually moved his boat all the way outside the restricted zone, or not, but for the moment he felt it more important to defuse any positionally negative incidences with the general public, than it was to worry about some shipyard worker in a rinky-dink aluminum fishing-boat. The XO had made it crystal clear that the skipper wanted his new boat to shine a friendly smile today, and having a father and his young son hauled away by a SFPD patrol boat was exactly the sort of situation that would no doubt cause the captain to blow up like a super-bomb. After all, where was the harm in letting people see what their tax dollars were being spent on, Frost thought to him? There hadn't been any people bombs going off in the US for almost seventeen years now, and apart from some highly sporadic labor skirmishes, the nation was now completely at peace with itself.
“Like trying to keep flies off shit,” Frost remarked with just a touch of minor irritation in his voice.
“You got that right, sir. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear that the Pittsburgh Steelayers must be playing the Philadelphia Eagles right here on our main weather deck,” Enos said as he indifferently observed a small flotilla of inexperienced weekend boaters that were slowly drifting in the direction ofSealion's starboard flank.
“Well, San Francisco has always been a military town, and the US Navy either directly or indirectly employs tens of thousands of civilian workers throughout the entire San Francisco Bay Area,” Frost said as he gave a hearty wave to a passing City of Oakland fireboat that was cheerfully spraying several tall plumes of water high into the air, as it repeatedly tooted its flat fog horn. “Also, add to that the fact that the San Francisco Bay Area is one of the most politically conservative metropolitan areas throughout the entire nation, and then you can understand why so many of these fine people have come out to gawk at our magnificent new submarine as though she were hosting an AFL game on her topside.”
In reality, however, with Sealion's overall length at roughly three-hundred feet, and with a beam just under thirty-two feet, placing an official sized gridiron, along with two teams of twelve players each, on her main weather deck was completely outside the realms of possibility. In fact, the only ships in the US Navy large enough to possibly carry off such a stunt were the new class of sixty-thousand standard ton Theodore Roosevelt supercarriers that were just now beginning to enter service. All the same, Frost mused to himself that it was unlikely that either of the two Roosevelt class super carriers currently in service would ever be used to host a professional sporting event anytime in the near future.
Enos momentarily considered Frost's rundown on the affairs of the greater San Francisco Bay Area, as he began to pay closer attention to the flotilla of amateurish boaters that were now clearly starting to drift inside the ten-yard security zone around Sealion's hull. “I see, well, I guess that it makes sense then that so many of these people have come out to give us a big send off on our first voyage,” Enos said hoping that his superior would not find fault with his remark.
Inwardly, however, to Enos it actually made very little sense that so many people would willingly choose to spend an entire afternoon crouching in small boats next to the hull of a nuclear-powered submarine, when clearly there were so many better things that they could be doing on a sunshiny Saturday like today. However, past experiences had taught him that attempting to discuss such an opinion with a by-the-book NCO like Frost was an extremely bad idea, so he simply opted to keep his thoughts to himself instead.
A troop of boy scouts aboard a 1930's era speedboat shouted for Enos' attention as they held up a handmade banner reading “GO SEALION!". However, at the moment Enos was lost in his own heartsick feelings regarding a girl he had recently met in San Francisco's Chinatown, and he barely noticed the hand painted tarpaulin that was being held up in his honor.
All the while, Frost blithely continued his soapbox patter as he authoritatively proclaimed, “If this boat were being commissioned in a more liberal part of the country, say down in Pascagoula, Mississippi, for example, then you probably wouldn't see half the number of people showing up that you see right here in Frisco.”
As someone who had never traveled further south than Washington DC before joining the navy, Enos was more than willing to accept Frost's lecture on regional politics as the gospel truth, but he was still having trouble understanding how the christening of a new submarine should be so vitally urgent as to keep him from his cherished Li Na Wong. After all, Enos personally knew of several families along the Boston waterfront who still relied upon commercial fishing for their livelihood, but he could not recall ever seeing anyone back home getting so hot and bothered, just because a new fishing trawler happened to be putting out to sea for the very first time.
As if Enos' woes weren't already enough of a heavy burden, Frost continued to drone on unrelentingly in the background as he expounded upon a new breed of congressmen from the former Confederate states, who were now beginning to push for a reinvigoration of the Bill of Rights, as they simultaneously called for the US to return to its roots as a nation based upon the principles of liberty and justice.
Nobody bandied about the now heavily sullied word “Freedom” very much these days.
At the moment, however, Enos couldn't possibly give a rat's ass about some stodgy political manifesto being put forth by a group of namby-pamby Republicans from the New South, but he dutifully feigned interest by reciting the catch phrase “Oh yeah, those darned liberal Republicans,” while for the umpteenth time this afternoon, his adolescent brain began to wonder what the beautiful Li Na might be doing at that very moment. Probably waiting on tables in her parent's restaurant, Enos decided to himself, as he mentally conjured up an image of his heartthrob gracefully turning and pirouetting between crowded tables with a row of serving plates delicately balanced on each of her long graceful arms.
Just then, the lilliputian Coast Guard patrol vessel came scurrying around Sealion's stern like a mischievous pup to chase away the small group of boats that Enos had been so keenly observing. With nothing else in the nearby vicinity that was remotely interesting for him to monitor, Enos lifted the heavy pair of binoculars that were hanging from his neck, and he began meticulously scanning for anything that might serve to distract him from the stale monotony of his current duties, as he continued to sound off an occasional “That's amazing, is that so? I didn't realize that,” in response to Frost's ongoing monologue.
Off in the distance, some sort of futuristic looking train was making its way westward across the lower level of the Oakland Bay Bridge, heading towards San Francisco. Enos zoomed in with his binoculars to get a closer look. The passing train had a surprisingly boxy shape to its overall design, dark tinted windows, and the entire thing appeared to be made out of aircraft aluminum. What did Li Na say the thing was called, a BART train? One thing was certain; it sure looked different from any of the creaking old subway trains that Enos was used to ridding on back in Boston. The ultra-modern looking train suddenly disappeared behind the forest of downtown high-rises as it descended into the city, so Enos allowed his binoculars to stray elsewhere to see what they could find. His attention briefly settled upon a speed contest between a pair of colorful dragon boats. Each boat had its own drummer to keep the thirty to forty hard working paddlers in sync, and the outlandish craft glided over the bay at a respectable clip. However, he quickly grew disinterested after one of the boats seemed to inexplicably pull farther ahead of its competitor.
At last his eyes settled upon the San Francisco waterfront, where a diamond shaped formation of US Navy fighter jets had just arrived to begin buzzing the crush of people standing shoulder-to-shoulder along the crowded piers. The fighters moved with incredible speed, and they appeared to function in perfect unison as they continually looped and rolled in close knit formation directly above Fort Mason and the predominately Italian neighborhood of North Beach.
Without warning, the blue and gold adorned fighters abruptly darted away from North Beach, and within the space of a few short seconds they were suddenly performing a series of incredibly complex aerobatic maneuvers over the northern tip of Treasure Island out in the middle of the bay. Following the rapidly moving jets with binoculars proved too difficult a task, so Enos watched with his unaided eyes as the Blue Devils performed their incredible death-defying stunts at less than three hundred feet above the artificial island.
Enos had finally found something to at least temporarily take his mind off Li Na, and for the moment his mind was absolutely captivated by the incredibly swift swept-wing fighters that he was now watching. Meanwhile, Frost appeared to have become deeply engaged in a two way radio conversation with the pilot of the now motionless Coast Guard patrol boat, via the telephone-like bridge communications console.
Suddenly the Blue Devils broke away from their performance over Treasure Island, and Enos stared transfixed, like a deer in the headlights, as the powerful attack jets lined themselves up for a direct run on Sealion herself. Before he could move a muscle, the Blue Devils were suddenly rocketing along the length of Sealion's hull, not more than thirty feet over the heads of the two crewmen standing on her bridge.
The shadow of the passing jets produced a startling flash of darkness, and Both Frost and Enos were momentarily caught off guard by the sudden roar and tremendous blast of wind created by the lighting fast planes. In less than two seconds the meteoric fighters were already over one hundred and fifty yards distance from Sealion. The forty-nine star Navy Jack flying from Sealion's bow violently snapped around towards the Golden Gate for several long seconds before finally resuming to its gentle easterly flutter in the mild on shore breeze.
“Son of a bitch!” Frost proclaimed as he used one hand to return the corded communications handset to its cradle, while simultaneously using the other hand to hold the cap of his service dress blue uniform in place against the passing turbulence. Enos likewise clutched at his own cap as he gazed open mouthed, and attempted to keep his eyes fixed on the incredibly fast moving jet formation that was now heading off towards the west.
“I sure am glad that those guys are on our side,” Enos remarked as he pointed towards the Blue Devil jets now reduced to the size of tiny insects due to their increasing distance. Frost gazed in the direction of Enos' pointing finger, and he found himself looking at a widening trough of intense foamy water that had been cut across the surface of the otherwise calm bay by the low flying Messerschmitt Me 662s. The Blue Devils were at the far end of that expanding wake of turbulent bay water, and just now they were flying directly below the cantilevered roadway of the Golden Gate Bridge, out towards the open sea.
“Yeah, me to,” Frost thoughtfully responded as he watched the Blue Devils perform an inverted loop back over the center cantilevered arch of the Golden Gate Bridge. Actually Frost was fairly certain that the little stunt just carried off by the Blue Devils probably violated half-dozen federal regulations, and for a moment he considered contacting Alameda Naval Air Station across the bay to report the incident. However, after a moment's pause he used his binoculars to tap Enos on the shoulder and said, “Check your side of the boat and make sure that none of our friends have fallen overboard. If those hotdog fighter jocks have managed to splash a civilian, then there's going to be plenty of hell all around for everyone to pay.”
"Aye aye, Sir," Enos instantly recognized Frost's instructions as a direct order, and not merely a friendly request. Enos quickly scanned the waters immediately to the south of Sealion for any signs of trouble. Although a few of the weekend boaters had managed to get themselves drenched in saltwater kicked up by the whirling vortices of the passing fighters, nobody was in the water, and nobody was calling out for help. If anything, the half-wit civilian boaters that he was looking at appeared to be having the time of their lives, as they laughed and hooted amongst themselves. Apparently they seemed to view getting a face full of salt water from a passing jet plane to be something akin to riding the roller-coaster at an amusement park. “All clear over here sir.”
“Good job, now let’s just spend a few moments scanning the area to make doubly certain.” Enos continued to search his area for any signs that someone might be experiencing an emergency, but the closest thing that he could find was a photographer, most likely a reporter from some paper, who was upset because he didn't have the right film in his camera when the Blue Devils passed directly over the crewman atop Sealion's sail. “It could have been an award winning front-page photo,” the photographer bemoaned.
Just then a voice came booming up from the open access hatch located in the middle of the bridge deck. “Permission to enter the bridge!”
Frost instantly recognized the voice as belonging to Sealion's second in command, Commander Carl Hightower. Speaking of the devil he thought to himself. “Granted!” Frost promptly responded. Both Frost and Enos sucked in their guts and saluted as an intense man in his mid-fifties with an average build, beady eyes, and charcoal hair emerged from the open hatch. Hightower was also still wearing his dress blues from the commissioning ceremony earlier in the day, and he sported an impressive collection of ribbons and badges across his chest.
“What's the situation up here, Chief?” Hightower said in an amiable enough tone.
“It's been a bit of a zoo, Sir. A few moments ago the Blue Devils buzzed our heads at less than fifty feet off the deck, and few minutes before that our friend here from the Coast Guard was about to arrest a father and son for getting too close to our boat,” Frost said as he gestured towards the patrol boat now idling near Sealion's bow.
“No one got arrested though, right?” Hightower's voice took on a minor tone of unease as he raised his hands in a gesture of warding off bad luck.
No Sir, no one was arrested, and I asked the pilot of the Coast Guard boat not to take any action, unless he observes someone actively attempting to board us,” Frost reported.
“Alright well done then, Hightower said with relief. Meanwhile I've just learned that the Blue Devils are extending their show to a full ninety minutes, which means that the skipper wants you two up here a little bit longer for public relations purposes.
“Understood, Sir,” Frost replied smartly.
“Right now everyone from the Secretary of the Navy on down is screaming about how low our recruitment numbers are right now, and thanks to the booming economy, the dewdroppers coming out of high school have too many other options available to them besides joining the military.” Hightower then paused to slap the palm of one hand with the back of the other before then adding, “Were just not getting the type of quality recruits that we were getting a decade ago.”
“That may be true, Sir, but from what I understand all branches of the service are experiencing a recruitment slowdown,” Frost offered.
Hightower suddenly seemed to become aware that Enos was standing next to him. “Seaman Enos, how's that cousin of yours, George Enos, doing? Is George going to be joining us in the navy?” Hightower asked in a syrupy friendly tone that seemed just somewhat out of character, giving his normally crusty nature towards enlisted crewmen.
It was widely known that the powerful Kennedy clan maintained a close rapport with the Enos family stretching back to the early 1920s, and everyone in the country had seen the famous Time Magazine cover photo of Vice President John F. Kennedy placing his arm around Enos' shoulder following Enos' graduation from submarine school this past summer. It was also widely understood amongst navy brass that the vice president had taken a special interest in young Enos, and that he was a special case. Christ, how I hate having celebrity crewmen on my boat, Hightower thought to himself.
Enos answered, “George is doing fine, Sir, but he still has three more years before he's old enough to enlist”.
Hightower was relieved to find that Enos had apparently not picked up on his somewhat disparaging remark regarding the poor quality of today's enlistees. Well, he always has seemed a little slow on the uptake, Hightower reminded himself. “Seaman, why don't you take up watch on the starboard fairwater plane?” Remember to look sharp and to wave to all the cameras you can find.”
"Aye aye, Sir," Enos enthusiastically responded. Apparently he was greatly relieved for the opportunity to be out of the presence of the XO, and he quickly scampered down the access hatch with the agility of a feral cat. A few short seconds later he popped out of a side hatch and assumed a position of at ease upon one of the huge wing like structures protruding from either side of Sealion's massive sail, as Hightower watched from above.
Hightower removed his cap and theatrically used the sleeve of his uniform to wipe across his forehead, as though he had just dodged a deadly near-miss accident. Seeing that Frost wasn't necessarily going along with his performance, Hightower replaced his cap and said, “So how is old chowder head working out in the Supply Department anyway?”
“Things got off to a rough start, Sir, but he's definitely pulling his weight now. Anyway, if he wasn't I'd be ridding his ass like there was no tomorrow.”
Hightower casually leaned his backside against the metal barrier surrounding the bridge cockpit, and stared off towards the Berkeley shoreline on the eastern edge of the bay. “Don't throw your career away because of that kid. He's dangerous, and he's got a pipeline running all the way up to the very top, trust me I know.”
Yeah, no kidding Frost thought inwardly, as he recollected upon a private telephone call he had received from Vice President Kennedy, shortly after Enos had magically returned from a forty-eight hour AWOL last month. The vice president had compelled Frost into taking young Enos under his wing, and to straighten the young seaman out. Kennedy had also sworn him to an absolute vow of secrecy, and had strongly implied to him that his path to becoming a commissioned officer would become much smoother, if he could assist the vice president with this particularly thorny issue.
Frost weighed his response before answering. “I think that the most of his earlier disciplinary problems were being caused by his friendship with Freddie Kennedy, and all the bad advice that Freddie Kennedy was most likely spoon feeding him.”
Hightower gave a derisive snort and then added, “Fucking Freddie Kennedy, that sluggard signs up for a four year enlistment in the army, screws up everything he touches, and then somehow manages to get himself an honorable discharge after only eighteen months of service. No real surprise that someone like him would turn out to be a bad influence,” as he shook his head in disgust.
“Well, we both know that the two of them were together when Enos went AWOL from Bremerton last month.” Frost paused to let that sink in.
“Well, if it were up to me, I'd ship Seaman Apprentice Sean Enos' worthless carcass all the way up to that new acoustic research facility the navy has out in the middle of Idaho, and I'd let him spend the rest of his enlistment stuck out there on guard duty.” Hightower said as though he'd already given the matter a great deal of thought.
Eager to change the topic Frost asked, “Sir, may I ask if we've been given any special directives on how we're supposed to increase recruitment during a special event like this?”
“Just stay sharp and wave to the natives, that's about all we can do.” Hightower paused before then adding, “Just between you and me, either Congress is going to have to increase the base pay for new enlistees, or they are going to have to think about instituting a draft. It's a cinch that no self-respecting politician is going to risk talking about a military draft during peacetime, and in my opinion, all this brouhaha about low numbers is really just a ploy to get the folks in DC to open up their purse strings a little bit more.” Behind Hightower's head the Blue Devils were making a screeching U-turn above Yerba Buena Island, as they oriented themselves for yet another run on the crowds along the San Francisco waterfront.
Frost nodded his head, content that he was no longer discussing Enos, “Let's hope they do something soon.”
“At any rate, low recruitment is a problem for the top brass to worry about, and I wish they'd stop haranguing the lower echelons about it. In the meanwhile take a look at this.” Hightower removed a newspaper that he had been carrying underneath his armpit, and he swatted Frost in the stomach with it. Frost took the newspaper in his hands and unfolded it. The wind kept flopping the top of the paper over on him, so he moved it down lower out of the breeze to get a better look at it. It was today's edition of the San Francisco Chronicle, and the date at the top of the front page read: Saturday, October 13, 1962. Below the date the huge banner headline announced: CANADIAN PRESIDENT PURPOSES NORTH AMERICAN TREATY ORGANIZATION.
As someone who had grown up on an apple orchard outside Wenatchee, Washington, Frost did not have a strong love for anything associated with Canada, and he had acquired much of his staunch anti-Canadian sentiment from his older male relatives, who had served in the US Army during both Great Wars. “God-damned Canucks,” Frost said softly. “First they badger us into giving them their independence, but the very first time they run into trouble with one of their neighbors, they want us to come along and bail them out.”
“Trust me, it's really not that simple,” Hightower said. “Here let me show you.” Hightower took the paper from his hands and opened it up to middle of the international news section. A smaller sized secondary headline proclaimed PRESIDENT DIEFENBAKER CITES RUSSIAN WEAPONS SMUGGLED INTO ALASKA - (Continued from page one). Frost quickly perused the paragraph next to Hightower's finger. In so many words the Canadian president blamed Moscow for establishing a series of secret bases along the Alaskan coast, and for using those bases to smuggle weapons to Communist subversives located in both Alaska, and adjacent areas of Canada. The article concluded by saying that Congress was expected to vote on the matter before Thanksgiving, and that US President Richard Nixon fully supported the idea of a North American Treaty Organization, or NATO as the writer of the news article commonly referred to it. Next to the article was a black and white photo of Canadian President Diefenbaker standing next to a large strategic map depicting Siberia, Alaska, and the Canada's Yukon Territory, as he used a wooden pointer to illustrate the growing Red menace emanating from Russia to a joint session of The United States Congress.
“Mark my words,” Hightower said. “By the first of the new year we are going to be up north patrolling the Aleutian Islands, looking for Russian ships smuggling illegal weapons into Alaska! Read on there and take a look for yourself.”
During the past several weeks Frost had been deeply engrossed in Sealion's final rounds of pre-commissioning sea-trials, and he hadn't really paid much attention to international events. Now as he flipped back to the front page of the Chronicle, to get the rest of the story, he anxiously tried to wrack his own memory regarding the situation up in Alaska. However, the only pertinent information that he could recall off the top of his head was that the US had approximately 15,000 occupation troops garrisoned in former Russian military camps, along with 5,000 Canadians, and perhaps an additional 2,000 – 3,000 Québécois troops to round things off. Jeez, that's not enough manpower to keep a handle on such a large occupation zone, no wonder they're having so much trouble up there.
Frost refolded the newspaper and returned it to his superior officer. “Sir, I broke family tradition and joined the US Navy over the army, because at the time it appeared that there would never be another shooting war on North American soil. Now I'm beginning to wonder if I made the right choice?”
The XO quickly responded, “Oh don't you worry, Chief, if an armed conflict breaks out between the US and the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic, then the bulk of the fighting is going to have to be out at sea, somewhere in the North Pacific. After all, I can't see us landing any type of significant invasion force in Siberia, and once we throw up our blockade, the Reds will never be able to slide enough men and material into Alaska in order to take it back.” Strangely, both men failed to consider the possible role of long range strategic bombers in such a conflict.
Just then a low-level clamor of male voices came drifting up from the deck area immediately aft of the sail. Both Hightower and Frost craned their necks in order to peer over and around the trailing edge of the colossal sail. A congregation of crewmen had emerged from the main access hatch, some of them in their service uniforms, others still dressed in their dress blues, and at the moment they were milling about the main weather deck as though they were attending a picnic. That looked like the entire Weapons Department down there?
“What in the hell?” Frost said in bewilderment. Technically he was the Officer of the Deck at the moment, and he should have been notified that these men were coming topside.
“I meant to mention it earlier, but we both got a little sidetracked with the misadventures of Seaman Apprentice Enos. I've given the crew permission to come up, one department at a time, and to take some pictures before we depart from San Francisco.”
A crewman appeared topside carrying an expensive looking handheld camera, and after a few moments of consultation the rest of the crewmen quickly arraigned themselves on the aft weather deck, with the taller crewmen standing in back, and the shorter men kneeling down in front. Sealion's stern was pointing westward towards the strait, and the intricate cantilevered structure of the spanning Golden Gate Bridge would no doubt provided the perfect backdrop for the day's group photos.
At just over 907 feet in height, the world famous landmark bridge drew tourists from all over the world, and it was also proudly listed as one of the seven wonders of the industrial age. The image of the enormous international-orange monument had become an unofficial symbol for both the US, and for California, and depictions of the bridge appeared throughout the world on everything from packages of table salt, to noir movie posters. Gazing upon the complicated myriad network of riveted steel girders and trusses gave one a visual impression similar to staring at the now bygone Eiffel Tower. However, in actuality just one of the Golden Gate Bridge's complex cantilevered arms was many times more massive than the now vaporized tower that once stood in Paris, and the incredibly long main span of the Golden Gate seemed to defy gravity as it soared 235 feet over the open waters between the Marin Headlands, and Fort Point at the Presidio in San Francisco.
Enos stood alone upon the fairwater plane as he watched the Blue Devils performing their stunts above the bay. Of course he waved to the occasional passersby, as the XO had instructed him to do, but for the most part he continued to be totally fascinated by the cutting edge fighter aircraft as they continually spiraled and looped over the water.
The 1940s era Saxony-class carrier USS Oahu was steaming out of Alameda to join her battle group outside the Golden Gate. The jet-powered Grumman A7 Sabercats lining her deck looked almost as menacing as the German fighters that the Blue Devils were now putting through their paces over the bay. In a few hours Sealion would be joining the Oahu’s battle group, and would tag along with the formation of ships as the group made its way down the coast towards San Diego.
Months back when the vice president had first introduced him to the US Navy recruiter, the recruiter had assured him that nuclear submarines were the wave of the future, and that he to could have a bright future in nuclear submarines, if he agreed to enlist immediately without any delay. However, he had found submarine training to be extremely boring, worse in fact than high school biology, and the three weeks that he had spent aboard USS Dolphin had turned out to positively be the worst experience of his life, thus far. Things began to improve somewhat since his transfer out of Sealion’s Administrative Department, a few weeks ago, but he still didn't care very much for life in the navy. But then, that was all before he had laid his eyes on the incredible fighter planes of the Blue Devils. Now he knew that his place was in the cockpit of a jet fighter, and that he no more belonged on a submarine, than a dairy cow belonged on the deck of a fishing-trawler. One way or another, he would have to find a way to get himself transferred into one of the navy's air-wings, and already a crude plan of action began to form in his eager young mind. Enos shook his head as he realized that just twelve hours earlier he and Li Na had lain naked next to one another, as the two of them conspired to run away together to Hong Kong. How would he break this latest news to Li Na? He supposed that he’d have to give her a telephone call the first chance he got in San Diego.
Last edited:
