The Marathon Watch: Second Edition Ross Read online

  THE MARATHON

  WATCH

  “ROSS”

  SECOND EDITION

  Larry. Laswell

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, events, characters and locations are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any similarity between the names, events, characters, and locations described in this book with real events, people, and locations—past, present, or future—is unintended and coincidental.

  Copyright © MMXV Marshell Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  DEDICATION

  To all the men of the USS William M. Wood DD-715 and to Captains Barker, Tsantes, and Castano—three of the finest captains it has been my honor to serve.

  On his way to the US Embassy in Athens where he was stationed as naval attaché, Captain Tsantes and his driver were gunned down by a terrorist on a motorcycle in 1988.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To Carol, whose interest, assistance, and support rekindled the fire I needed to finish The Marathon Watch.

  Special thanks to Lindsay and my friends at Vistage.

  PROLOGUE

  In the early 1970’s, the world lived under the threat of nuclear annihilation. The United States and Russia had thousands of nuclear-tipped missiles aimed at each other, and Cold War tensions grew greater every day. With no effective defense against a nuclear attack, Pentagon strategists created a doctrine of deterrence they called MAD (Mutual Assured Destruction).

  A limited nuclear exchange of two to three dozen nuclear warheads was the only nuclear war scenario one could contemplate. Either national leaders would use restraint, or the human race would go extinct. War strategists believed that a limited nuclear exchange would devolve into a protracted naval war of attrition.

  During this period, the compass of military doctrine was swinging towards today’s high-tech military. The Pentagon had several high-tech weapons on the drawing board: Aegis for the Navy, stealth technology for the Air Force, and the M1A1 Abrams tank for the Army. The budgets for these systems were both historic and enormous.

  Against this backdrop, the highly unpopular Viet Nam war raged on. Without any clear objectives or progress in the war, the American people had lost faith in their military. The My Lai Massacre, the napalm bombing of Trảng Bàng, and the Kent State Massacre fueled massive anti-war street demonstrations.

  Congressmen and senators walked a political tight rope to show support for a strong military on the right, and support for anti-war sentiment on the left. Pentagon bashing became the political game du jour on Capitol Hill.

  BREAKDOWN

  August 1971, The Aegean Sea off the coast of Greece

  Operation Marathon: Day 399

  Ross hated August north of the equator. The hot, humid August days made engine room conditions almost unbearable. The USS Farnley’s engine room ran hotter than most others, and today, August served up its hottest day yet.

  Seated on a battered wooden bench, Master Chief Machinist Mate Ross kept an eye on his throttlemen. Stucky and Burns both jerked their throttle valve open another eighth turn. That was the third time in the last past five minutes, but their speed held steady. Things weren’t adding up.

  Ross scanned the twenty-odd gauges mounted on the white enameled board above the throttlemen’s heads. Steam pressure held at six hundred pounds, temperature at six-eighty, and vacuum at twenty-nine inches. The readings seemed okay. I must be getting paranoid, he thought.

  Out of habit, Ross checked the gauge board again. This time he didn’t see the gauges; instead, he took in the entire board. A year ago, the white enameled steel board had glistened; now it was covered in grease and grime. The board disgraced him. He told himself he didn’t care. It was impossible to maintain his self-esteem aboard this bucket. It wasn’t worth the effort.

  Ross bent forward to rest his elbows on his knees and think. He hated the Farnley and wished he could forget the last year of his life. Except for dreaming about the day he would leave this ship, his present assignment held no hope and no pleasant memories.

  Why the navy decided to shaft the Farnley, her crew, and him was a mystery. It wasn’t fair; that wasn’t part of the deal. He was tired and wanted to get off the Farnley and out of the navy. He just needed to survive eleven more months without screwing up.

  Do your time, retire, and escape.

  Ross’ mind wandered, but the feeling that something was wrong pulled him back. He twirled his screwdriver in his fingers to give him something to do. Dozens of problems worth worrying about could cause an increase in steam demand.

  Why should I care? This isn’t my engine room, and it isn’t my ship.

  Elmo, a cockroach and engine room mascot, scurried across the deck plates toward the bench, providing Ross a welcome diversion. On any other ship, Elmo would be a problem but not on the Farnley. Ross told himself he didn’t care and shook his head to convince himself.

  Hundreds of roaches infested the engine room and thousands infested the ship, but everyone knew Elmo. The crew envied his gift for not caring and for not being bothered by anything. Like all cockroaches, Elmo was the quintessential survivor, so the crew accepted him as a fellow shipmate and honored him. After painting a single red chevron on his back, they gave him the honorary rank of petty officer third class.

  In a sharp movement, Stucky spun his throttle open an additional half turn.

  “Stucky, what’s your speed?” Ross yelled over the noise.

  Stucky checked his shaft tachometer and turned his head to see Ross. “One hundred ten revolutions. Making turns for ten knots.”

  “You been holding steady?”

  “Absolutely, Chief.”

  “Then why do you keep opening the throttle?”

  Stucky shrugged. “Don’t know. Didn’t think it was worth worrying about.”

  Ross hated the words not worth. Most everything on the Farnley was not worth doing or worth worrying about or worth the effort. Every time he said those words to himself, a piece of him died, but it wasn’t worth the fight; he couldn’t win.

  Burns jerked his throttle open a quarter turn. Something’s wrong, he thought. You always tell your men, “Always stay alert down here. Your life and your shipmates’ lives depend on it. The machinery can eat you alive. The high-voltage wiring can fry you, and six-hundred-pound steam’ll cook you dead in seconds.”

  Pay attention.

  Ross scanned the gauge board again. The condenser vacuum was falling. The problem centered on the condenser. Ross thought he could make out a high-pitched sound barely audible over the noise, but he couldn’t be sure. He strained to pick the sound out of the cacophony. It eluded him. Perhaps it was something he felt, or he might have been imagining it. Nothing was ordinary on the Farnley. The engine room was full of sick equipment making unnatural noises.

  The sound Ross heard came back a bit louder. The tormented scream was familiar, and his ears picked the sound out of the chaotic racket. What was it? Screaming in agony, a bearing sang its high-pitched song of death. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and the shock wave of adrenaline blasted through his body. The main condensate pump was about to seize.

  With only one of four pumps operational, the situation was critical. If the pump failed, a wall of water would back into the steam turbines. When solid water hit the high-speed turbine blades, the result would be explosive. The resulting hail of hot metal shards would tear a human body to bits. For anyone aft of the gauge board, death would be horrific and instantaneous.

  Ross bolted from his position and slid down the ladder to the lower level. His feet hit the lower catwalk deck plates with a metallic bang. Heads turned.

>   He yelled, “Clear the lower level! Everyone forward! Now!”

  Dropped tools rattled into the bilge as firemen clattered across the web of catwalks. Ross kept moving. He flung himself over the railing and dropped the last four feet into the bilge. His feet splashed in the half inch of black, oily water. He was right; the high-pitched sound he heard was coming from the condensate pump.

  Despite his forty-seven years, Ross vaulted over the catwalk guardrail and ran up the ladder to the main level. On the main level, he pushed through the excited firemen, reached for the bridge intercom, and yelled, “Bridge, Main Control! Request all-stop. We’ve got a problem down here with the condensate pump.”

  The reply was immediate. “Main Control, this is the captain. Negative on the all-stop. If you have a problem down there, fix it.”

  Shit, why is the captain always on the bridge? Ross thought for a second and pressed the send button again.

  “Captain, this is Ross. If we lose the pump, we lose power and probably damage the pump. We need time. I told you this might happen with only one pump.”

  “Chief, if you have a problem, fix it. You’re not stopping my ship in the middle of the ocean so you can baby one of your pumps. We’re going to continue making turns on both screws. Those are my orders. Do you understand?”

  “I can’t stop the inevitable. Christ, Captain! You could kill somebody down here.”

  “Chief, it’s not inevitable for someone who knows what he’s doing. I’m tired of your insubordination and won’t take any more. You have your orders. Make them so.”

  A year earlier, Ross would have bristled at those words. He wanted to now, but his pride failed him. It was no use arguing with an ass like Captain Javert.

  What’s the use? It’s his ship, not mine. Eleven more months. Survive. Follow orders.

  Ross hit the send button again. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  To the six firemen huddled behind the gauge board, Ross said, “All of ya, out of here. Get me a cup of coffee or something, but get back quick when the lights go out.”

  Ross turned his attention to the gauges as the six men scrambled up the ladder like terrified plebes. Stucky, still at his throttle, wiped his sweaty hands on his tattered dungarees. “What now, Chief?” he asked.

  “Stay on your toes.”

  The expression on Stucky’s freckled face told Ross he hadn’t answered the question. Without looking, Ross knew the eyes of the four remaining men were asking the same question. “You’re safe forward of the gauge board,” he yelled so everyone would hear.

  Ross thought about warning Fireman Canterbury and his boiler room crew. With only fourteen months aboard the Farnley, Canterbury was the senior man on the boiler team. Ross cursed to himself. By normal standards, it takes four years’ experience to run a boiler crew. Damn this ship! Ross knew what was going to happen. No danger there.

  Ross stepped onto the wooden bench and stretched to reach the wheel on the main steam stop valve. His hands slipped on the warm, oily metal of the thirty-inch valve wheel. He wiped his hands on his trousers and tried again. This time, his purchase held. With a hand on each side of the valve wheel, Ross stood spread-eagled. He listened and waited.

  The scream of the bearing became clearly audible. Ross braced himself to close the valve to shut off the flow of steam. The bone-chilling screech from the pump peaked. Ross tugged at the valve wheel. It gave a few inches, then jammed.

  The pump’s scream rose to a crescendo and abruptly ended as the pump seized. The turbines’ whine turned into a growing deep, ominous growl. Within seconds, the turbines would explode. “All-stop! Close the throttles,” Ross screamed as loud as he could.

  The growl of the turbines held steady for a second, then died away as the panic-stricken throttlemen closed their valves.

  Ross pursed his lips as the dial on the steam pressure gauge inched toward the danger zone. The boiler room crew wasn’t paying attention.

  §

  In the boiler room, the boilers continued to produce steam with nowhere to go. The boiler room crew, standing in glazed-eyed boredom, didn’t notice. Within seconds, the boiler pressure rose to almost seven hundred pounds and forced the safety valves open.

  The explosive venting of steam through the stacks blocked out all other sensations. The sound possessed the boiler room. Canterbury’s organs shook, his stomach quaked, and his lungs tingled from the vibration. Scarcely aware of the warm, moist burst of urine on his leg, Canterbury yanked the boiler’s emergency kill switch. He was the fourth of six men up the escape ladder.

  §

  Deprived of steam, the electric generators spun to a stop, and the ship went dark. In Main Control, Ross waited for the battle lanterns to click on. Deprived of electricity, the Farnley’s motors, blowers, and other equipment went silent. Only the distant lapping sound of the ocean and an occasional echo from a drop of water falling into the bilge could be heard. A wave of angry despair washed the energy from his body.

  This wasn’t the deal. It wasn’t the way his navy worked. He wanted to be able to do his job, to teach and mentor his crew. He wanted his pride and sense of accomplishment back. The heartbreaking silence shamed Ross.

  Stucky turned toward Ross. “What happened, Chief?”

  With a tired, fluid movement, Ross retrieved his screwdriver and turned toward the freckle-faced sailor. “Son, we’ve just done got Farnleyed. Again.”

  §

  Minutes earlier, perched in his captain’s chair, Commander Alan Javert carefully released the intercom’s send button with his left toe, then froze in position as he listened to Ross’ reply of “Aye, aye, Captain.” He worried that the bridge crew would notice his awkward movement. He hated his Ichabod Crane body because it made it difficult to look and move like other ships’ captains. Careful to make his movements deliberate but graceful, he withdrew his foot from the intercom and settled back into his chair to study the horizon.

  Despite his effort, the movement still felt awkward. It was impossible to make his long, skinny legs move with the sure grace of an athlete. He told himself his body wasn’t his fault and focused his thoughts on what to do next. He didn’t know what to do. Mentally he panicked. What could he do? What should he do? Why was the world against him?

  Javert couldn’t tolerate challenges to his authority. He was the captain. He had to be decisive; that’s what captains were. He couldn’t fall behind schedule and let the world know he couldn’t get the job done. Fearful the bridge crew would see through him, he kept his outward appearance calm as if he’d accepted Chief Ross’ “Aye, aye, Captain” as a fait accompli.

  The knot in Javert’s stomach hardened into a painful, tight ball of muscle, and dizziness swept over him. Fearful he would fall from the chair, he clenched the arms with both hands. He riveted his eyes on the horizon and hoped its stability would give him equilibrium. He fidgeted and tried to compose himself. Composure was another captainly trait he tried to imitate.

  The Farnley’s problems weren’t his fault. He was a good captain with the experience and qualifications for command. His real problem was the incompetent group of disloyal officers and men the navy had given him. Other captains wouldn’t put up with the derelicts he’d been given. He’d done the right thing by putting Ross in his place, but that didn’t fix the pump. He had to do something. Other captains would. If he didn’t do something quickly, the crew would know he didn’t know what to do.

  Anxiously, Javert turned to look across the gray, shadowy bridge to find Biron, the conning officer. All he could see was shadows. Half panic-stricken, he started to get out of his chair until he spotted the brown smudge of a khaki uniform in the distance. Standing on the far bridge wing, Biron leaned on the rail and calmly watched the sea. Reassured of Biron’s location, Javert cleared his throat and settled back into his chair. What have I done wrong? he wondered.

  When Javert had taken command of the Farnley, he’d forgotten about the cliquish nature of a destroyer crew like the Farnley’s or t
he Renshaw’s, where he’d been the gunnery officer during the Korean War. At OCS, they told him that the unique culture aboard a ship was almost tribal. He remembered how the crew revered the captain, loved him, respected him, feared him, and would die for him. At the time, he’d assumed crews always treated their captains that way because captains demanded it. Now he understood he had had it backwards; the crew demanded it of the captain. The captain had to come up to the crew’s standards.

  Javert tried to be likable, and failing at that, he tried to earn their respect by being commanding. That wasn’t working either. Javert suspected the men had lost respect for him. He could see it in their looks, and he heard it in Ross’ voice. They no longer followed his orders willingly or paid attention to his wishes. He’d done everything he thought other captains would do. Still, it wasn’t enough.

  The abrupt roar of escaping steam rent the quiet evening air. At first, Javert thought a CO2 fire extinguisher had discharged, but the sound was far too loud.

  The status board keeper went rigid. “Sir, aft lookout reports lifting safeties.”

  Biron, already back on the bridge, shouted, “Very well!” as he headed for the intercom. Passing the helmsman, he yelled, “All-stop. Rudder amidships.”

  The roaring sound of escaping steam stopped as suddenly as it had begun. As Biron reached for the intercom, relays clicked, and in unison, red indicator lights dimmed, then blinked out. The ship went silent, lifeless, dead in the water.

  Javert, self-conscious about his awkward body, resisted the urge to stand. Carefully controlling his voice, he turned to Biron and said, “Find out what happened and get it fixed. Get the emergency diesel started so we have power. I won’t allow us to fall behind schedule.”

  Without power, the intercom was useless. Biron removed the sound-powered telephone handset from its cradle and turned his back to Javert. “Bridge, Main Control. What’s your status?”