Sex and the High Command (3 page)

Hansen reached first for the Bureau of Personnel’s all-Navy bulletins to see if any of his classmates had been appointed admiral—an eventuality he did not expect for another five years—but he did not start to read immediately. Tapping his fingers on his desk top, he gazed idly out of the porthole at a honey barge moving across the Roads. Everything was shipshape, too shipshape.

On the morning of the first liberty in Norfolk, a shore-patrol paddy wagon should have been on the dock, MP’s with brassards and billies on the quarterdeck, and bluejackets scurrying to catch the roll call. Ever so slightly, it seemed to Hansen, reality was out of focus.

Commander Reed, the ship’s executive officer, entered bringing the eight o’clock reports. All were present and accounted for but Commander Johnson.

“Probably fouled up in the Suffolk traffic,” the captain commented. “Send him to me when he reports in.”

Hansen sipped his coffee and turned his attention to the ship’s paper. A digest of the international news carried the item that the Red Chinese had dropped another practice missile, this one close to Johnston Island. In ten years they’d be lobbing them ashore at Crescent City, California. On the second page of the paper, he found an item he considered raw:

According to skirmish reports coming from the port watch, Norfolk is having a cold wave in August. Only CWT McCormick scored, as expected. Go it, starboard!

He’d have to speak to the recreation officer. This paper went into the homes of ratings who lived in the Norfolk area.

Again the captain was interrupted, by the officer of the day who entered, hat under arm, visibly shaken. “Captain, I’ve just got the word that Commander Johnson killed himself.”

“By heavens! Who told you that?”

“His wife, sir. I called his house and asked Anne where he was and she said he was dead. She said he shot himself because she was pregnant. Sir, I was shocked. I said, ‘What are you going to do, Anne?’ and she answered, calm as you please, ‘Why, I’m going to bury him.’ Captain, I thought she was crazy. So I called the Suffolk sheriff’s office and the poop checked out.”

“I would never have thought this,” the captain said. “Ralph Johnson was the Rock of Gibraltar. But it happened ashore, so it’s out of our hands. Notify Mr. Reed and the chaplain and enter it in your log.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Hansen sat down, far more upset than he had let the junior officer know. Improbabilities were happening faster than probabilities. Commander Johnson had been phlegmatic to a point where a dressing down or a “Well done” were all the same to him. It was inconceivable that Ralph could arouse himself to suicide. But if Hansen assumed that he had erred in his estimate of his navigator’s stability, there remained the wife’s infidelity.

Anne Johnson had been a visitor at his home, but he would have remembered her if he had seen her only once. Legs as uniform as pipe cleaners balanced a pelvis relatively forward of a spine which, fortunately for her balance, was not top-heavy except in appearance—she wore her hair in a bun. Her most commendable feature was the manner in which her eyes followed her husband, not the eyes themselves, which were gray and bulbous. She hung on Ralph’s words, though they were few and commonplace, and even clung to his silences.

Hansen felt that Anne was incapable of dalliance, even if she had been eager for it. He leaped to the idea that she might have been raped on a moonless night by a near-sighted sex lunatic, and as tenuous as the theory was, it was the only explanation of her pregnancy.

Helga’s flirtation with a peace movement was easily dismissed as a passing fad. His wife read books. But the cold wave in Norfolk was perplexing. He could see a statistical improbability falling on any given day in a port such as Hamburg, Marseilles, or, remotely, Vallejo, but Norfolk? No!

Hansen slowly shook his head. In his approach to his profession Hansen was practical, forthright, and logical. He analyzed ship movements with his viscera, and the problems of command had long ago been thought through, solutions found and tested. Extraneous problems he resented—if an officer came to him for guidance or advice on personal or domestic problems, Hansen would deliver a few homilies and ship the man out. Technical problems he delegated to specialists who were held responsible. Captain Hansen considered it his duty, as a naval officer, to be single-minded.

Now, these intrusions.

Very well, he would accept the improbable as probable and act accordingly. If he were standing on the bridge when Gabriel blew his horn, Hansen would come to attention and hold a hand salute until the last note died. By accepting the improbable as probable, he reasoned, he could maintain his sanity and, more important, his decorum as a naval officer.

Johnson was dead and the ship’s table of organization called for a commander as a navigator. Although the
Chattahoochee
was scheduled for dry dock and he was up for a tour of shore duty, the ship needed a navigator.

The name that came first to Hansen’s mind was Frank Hewitt.

Ten years before, Hansen had served as exec on the destroyer
Calicot
, and Hewitt, then a junior grade lieutenant, had been navigator. Frank should have his three stripes by now, and Frank was the son of Admiral Hunnicutt “Flank Speed” Hewitt, ComSowesPacPolSqua. As a floating science lab attached to the Southwest Pacific Polar Squadron, the
Chattahoochee
had been under Admiral Hewitt’s command. When Hansen went up for admiral, Admiral Hewitt would be a logical choice for the selection board.

Young Frank had been a fair navigator. If he requested Hewitt, and some brown-nosing aide to an admiral chose to use this request as an opener for small talk when Admiral Hewitt dropped by Washington, the request for the admiral’s son would not hurt Hansen with the admiral. Hansen picked up the phone and put in a call to the Bureau of Personnel, for Captain Harvey Arnold, aide to Admiral Darnell, Chief of BuPers. After one click, a Wave answered, “Captain Arnold’s office. Lieutenant Byrd, hyo!”

Annoyed by her Britishism, Hansen said, “This is Captain Benjamin Franklin Hansen, of the United States Navy. Let me speak to Captain Arnold.”

“Th’nk yo’p!”

“Walloper, you old polar bear! How was the voyage?”

“Little chilly down south, Harvey, and we hit weather off Hatteras.”

“I’ve been fighting a cold wave in Washington. No pun intended.”

“Same trouble in Norfolk, according to the ship’s paper. Only one of my ratings made out. Harvey, I need help. I lost my navigator last night. Unexpectedly. He’s dead.”

“Sorry, Ben.”

“Yes. All hands are shocked by his death. But I’m looking for a replacement. Some years back. Admiral Hunnicutt Hewitt’s son, Frank, served under me on the old Calicot and I liked the cut of his jib…”

“Whoa there, Ben,” Arnold’s joviality skidded to a halt. “Maybe you were too far south for the scuttlebutt, but Frank Hewitt resigned three months ago for the good of the service.”

Oh, hailstones, Hansen thought, recalling his phrases “served under me” and “I liked the cut of his jib.” Now the request would get to admirals, as many as Harvey Arnold could talk to, but none of those admirals would be Admiral Hunnicutt Hewitt. “Well,” Hansen said, “I’ve been out of circulation for a long time.”

“Don’t let it worry you, Ben. I’m glad to head off the request before it got into official channels. Give my condolences to your crew over the loss of your navigator, and give my compliments to that rating… No, tender my respects to… what’s his name?”

“McCormick. Chief Water Tender McCormick.”

“He would be an Irishman… Well, Ben, next time you’re around the Pentagon, drop in and we’ll have a cup of Java. Over and out!”

Arnold’s phone clicked.

Improbabilities were killing him. Who would have thought it of Frank Hewitt? That boy, Hansen recalled, used to have females lined up three-deep at the dock every time the
Calicot
hit port.

Again Hansen shook his head, reached over, and dialed home. Helga answered in a voice still heavy with sleep, “Hi, Ben.”

“Helga, I intended to call to finalize our luncheon arrangement, but strange things have been happening—Frank Hewitt was cashiered, and Ralph Johnson committed suicide last night.”

“Frank I understand, but do you mean Anne’s husband. Ralph?”

“Yes. We were talking about him last night.”

“You were talking about him, Ben. I was talking about Ben Jonson… So, Ralph killed himself. Well, he must have wanted it.”

“He didn’t want it. He came home after eighteen months at sea and found Anne pregnant. The shock did it.”

“I suppose Anne will be able to support the child on Ralph’s pension.”

“That’s true, Helga, and that’s the irony of it. She kills him and collects his pension.”

“You said he killed himself.” Helga was obviously still half asleep.

“Yes, but morally she’s responsible. Through her infidelity the Navy has lost an officer it took tens of thousands of dollars to train.”

“Training for what, Ben?”

“To navigate a ship. Eventually to command.”

“Doesn’t the
Chattahoochee
have one of those little black boxes ? What do you call it, an inertial navigation device?”

“Yes.”

“They cost about six thousand dollars installed, don’t they?”

“In round figures, yes.”

“Ben, I’ll never understand why the Navy spends so much money to train a man to do what a little black box can do.”

“Instruments break down, Helga.”

“You still have the box, Ben. The man broke down.”

There seemed to be an element missing in her conversation. “Dear, you can’t put a money value on a man’s life.”

“I didn’t, Ben. You did. I was recapping your figures.”

She had him there, he had to admit. “I’m upset, Helga.”

“I know, Ben.” Her voice grew suddenly tender. “You were seeking certainties in this, our life. Well, Ralph found his. I’ll arrange for the flowers and go over and help Anne.”

“Then you won’t be aboard for lunch?”

“I don’t think it would be proper. You men will want to be alone with your grief.”

“Helga, there’s nothing I don’t wish to share with you and Joan Paula…” He could feel himself swinging closer to her, feel the beginning warmth of their old intimacy, when the base telephone operator broke into his call.

“Captain Hansen, I have a top-priority call awaiting you from the Pentagon.”

A true Navy wife, Helga heard the operator and hung up promptly.

It was Harvey Arnold. “Ben, I just got the word! Admiral Darnell wants the whole scoop on Chief McCormick—service record, medical log, the works. He’s calling the Norfolk base infirmary to put an analyst on standby, but he wants you, personally, to check out the chief’s story, make sure it’s more than just scuttlebutt…”

“Harvey, doesn’t the admiral consider it below the dignity of a captain to check on…”

“Ben, if McCormick won’t tell his captain the truth, who will he tell? There’s something big breaking here, top priority and top secret, because I don’t know what the hell’s going on, myself. Ring me back, Ben, when you get the scoop.”

“Very well, Harvey. Over and out.”

It gave Hansen short-lived satisfaction to click first. Always it had been his pride as an officer to hoist “execute” promptly, but how did a captain in the United States Navy go about verifying the alleged carnal relations of a chief water tender? “Orderly,” he called, almost wearily, “bring me the service record and medical log on Chief Water Tender McCormick, and pass the word to the quarterdeck for the chief engineer to report to the captain.”

Before the engineering officer arrived, Hansen had read the service record of Angus Hull McCormick, CWT, a native of Cumberland, Tennessee, age thirty-seven, unmarried, with a high school education and nineteen years in the Navy. His medical log showed three venereal complaints. By far his greatest distinction was his proficiency in rating, an incredible 3.9. His military appearance also rated a 3.7.

Hansen laid the records aside when the chief engineer entered, but he did not invite him to sit. The engineer had oil on his dungarees. Besides, he used language suited only for the engine room or for the merchant navy from which he had transferred. Hansen didn’t care to prolong the engineer’s visit. “Chief, I’m trying to evaluate Chief Water Tender McCormick in nonprofessional areas. Does he tell the truth?”

“To my knowledge, Skipper.”

“There’s an article in the ship’s paper about him. Does he brag about his relations with women?”

“No, sir. The story comes from his running mate, Farrel. Those two have a standing bet on who gets first gash when they hit port, and, believe me. Captain, McCormick’s the champ.”

“Very well, Chief. Thank you.”

“Sorry I can’t be more help. Captain. I hit the beach, myself, last night, and I…”

“Chief, my interest in this matter is purely professional. I’m directing you to keep this conversation confidential.”

“Absolutely, Skipper. You can count on me!” It was the first time in his naval career that the captain had seen a leer put into a salute.

Before the captain had a chance to call McCormick, his orderly announced that Commander Morris Gresham wished an audience. Hansen rose to greet his unexpected caller, a commander in the medical corps, slight of build, with bulging brown eyes, a receding hairline on a receding forehead, and a receding chin which gave his pointed nose such prominence that his mustache merely altered his profile from molelike to seal-like.

He carried a briefcase.

“Good morning, Captain Hansen.” The voice was low and well-modulated. “I was free when Admiral Darnell called, and he tells me that you might have one of our profile boys aboard.”

Hansen felt himself strangling in a noose of unreality, but he managed a smile and a wave of the hand. “I’m not familiar with your shoptalk, Doctor, but please join me in a cup of coffee.”

“If you have tea, Captain.”

“By all means. Tea for the doctor, Marcos.”

Hansen turned back to his guest and said, “Have a seat, Doctor. I’ve checked McCormick’s service records. Care to look?”