instant dislike to one another at their first meeting. It was Mike’s bad luck to be one grade junior, and two levels in the chain of command beneath Martinson. Martinson’s reputation as a jerk was secure; it was commonly acknowledged that the only thing good about him was his beautiful wife. But the burden of comity was on Mike to get along with his seniors. As the old Navy saying had it, a personality conflict between a Captain and a Commander had two elements: the Captain had a personality, the Commander had a conflict.
A yeoman put his head into the office. “Commodore will see you now, Captain Montgomery.”
“Thanks,” said Mike. “Bill, be good. See you around this weekend, maybe.”
Barstowe stood up. He was a year senior to Montgomery, and also senior by virtue of his staff position, but he affected a reverse rule of military courtesy, calling all the commanding officers Sir, and acting generally as if they were all senior to him instead of the other way around. It was a small flattery, but it was one of the secrets to both his popularity and his effectiveness as the Chief Staff Officer.
“Don’t forget, Mike—reception for P-3 guys tonight at 1800. You were planning to be there, right?”
Mike groaned. He had forgotten all about it. On purpose. Another goddamned reception. This one was one of the Admiral’s pet rocks—to get the ship drivers and the antisubmarine patrol bomber guys together to build “intercommunity spirit.” Just what everyone needed on a Friday night. Barstowe was watching, his eyes amused. Mike settled his face into a polite smile.
“Why, of course,” he said. “I wouldn’t miss it. It will be the perfect cap to a perfect week, talking to a bunch of overpaid aviators. Arrrgh!”
Barstowe laughed, and pointed him down the hall, to the office with the plate glass window. Mike walked past the junior staff officers’ cubbyholes, and knocked on the Commodore’s door, or actually, door frame. The Commodore had a set of wooden bat-wing doors, reminiscent of a western bar, the legacy of a past incumbent who had tried to make the office look like Chester Nimitz’s World War II Pacific Fleet headquarters office.
“Yeah, come in,” called the Commodore. Mike went in and walked over to the imitation leather chair positioned exactly in front of the Commodore’s large desk. The Commodore did not stand up, nodding instead with his head for Mike to sit down. Eli Aronson had an oversized head and upper body attached to legs which yielded a grand total of five feet, five and one-half inches of overall height when standing very straight. He would have had to crane his neck up several degrees if he stood up to greet someone as tall as Mike. He was Jewish, and pugnaciously proud of it. His
hooknosed face reminded Mike of one of the ancient patriarchs, missing only a flowing white beard to bring a picturebook image of Moses to mind. He was reading a message, marking certain lines with a yellow hi-liter, as Mike sat down. He read on for a minute, and then discarded it into a pile of messages. He looked up, fixing Mike with his bright, dark eyes.
“So, a good week at sea? The plant all right?”
“Yes, Sir. Pretty productive, although I’ve got to chase down some HP drain valve leaks this weekend. We’re looking forward to going on the Fleet-Ex.”
Aronson nodded. “Yeah, I suspect you are. Beats sitting around here. How about that submarine report—anything to that?”
Mike shook his head. “No, Sir. We discovered the Gulf Stream, but that’s about it.” His attempt at flippancy appeared to fall flat.
“That’s been done, already,” said Aronson. “Figured it was a waste of time, but you never know about submarines.”
“Did anyone cross check with our guys, or with the intel people, to see if—”
“No,” interrupted Aronson. He had a habit of cutting people off in mid-sentence.
“Fisherman reported seeing a sub, and the Coast Guard forwarded it to us. If the
A yeoman put his head into the office. “Commodore will see you now, Captain Montgomery.”
“Thanks,” said Mike. “Bill, be good. See you around this weekend, maybe.”
Barstowe stood up. He was a year senior to Montgomery, and also senior by virtue of his staff position, but he affected a reverse rule of military courtesy, calling all the commanding officers Sir, and acting generally as if they were all senior to him instead of the other way around. It was a small flattery, but it was one of the secrets to both his popularity and his effectiveness as the Chief Staff Officer.
“Don’t forget, Mike—reception for P-3 guys tonight at 1800. You were planning to be there, right?”
Mike groaned. He had forgotten all about it. On purpose. Another goddamned reception. This one was one of the Admiral’s pet rocks—to get the ship drivers and the antisubmarine patrol bomber guys together to build “intercommunity spirit.” Just what everyone needed on a Friday night. Barstowe was watching, his eyes amused. Mike settled his face into a polite smile.
“Why, of course,” he said. “I wouldn’t miss it. It will be the perfect cap to a perfect week, talking to a bunch of overpaid aviators. Arrrgh!”
Barstowe laughed, and pointed him down the hall, to the office with the plate glass window. Mike walked past the junior staff officers’ cubbyholes, and knocked on the Commodore’s door, or actually, door frame. The Commodore had a set of wooden bat-wing doors, reminiscent of a western bar, the legacy of a past incumbent who had tried to make the office look like Chester Nimitz’s World War II Pacific Fleet headquarters office.
“Yeah, come in,” called the Commodore. Mike went in and walked over to the imitation leather chair positioned exactly in front of the Commodore’s large desk. The Commodore did not stand up, nodding instead with his head for Mike to sit down. Eli Aronson had an oversized head and upper body attached to legs which yielded a grand total of five feet, five and one-half inches of overall height when standing very straight. He would have had to crane his neck up several degrees if he stood up to greet someone as tall as Mike. He was Jewish, and pugnaciously proud of it. His
hooknosed face reminded Mike of one of the ancient patriarchs, missing only a flowing white beard to bring a picturebook image of Moses to mind. He was reading a message, marking certain lines with a yellow hi-liter, as Mike sat down. He read on for a minute, and then discarded it into a pile of messages. He looked up, fixing Mike with his bright, dark eyes.
“So, a good week at sea? The plant all right?”
“Yes, Sir. Pretty productive, although I’ve got to chase down some HP drain valve leaks this weekend. We’re looking forward to going on the Fleet-Ex.”
Aronson nodded. “Yeah, I suspect you are. Beats sitting around here. How about that submarine report—anything to that?”
Mike shook his head. “No, Sir. We discovered the Gulf Stream, but that’s about it.” His attempt at flippancy appeared to fall flat.
“That’s been done, already,” said Aronson. “Figured it was a waste of time, but you never know about submarines.”
“Did anyone cross check with our guys, or with the intel people, to see if—”
“No,” interrupted Aronson. He had a habit of cutting people off in mid-sentence.
“Fisherman reported seeing a sub, and the Coast Guard forwarded it to us. If the
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