My Journal

By Harriman Nelson

11

“In spite of the lab results,” I told the gathered scientists, including the prime minister, earlier today, “there is no guarantee my formula, once released into seaweed beds, will work, however, aside from destroying the affected seaweed beds, it’s the only other choice I can offer.”

“I’d like to thank you for all of your time and effort in this, Admiral,” the prime minister said. “I’ll present your findings to parliament and we’ll take it from there.”

“Sir," I said with a little bow.

As the crowd dispersed, and I took a drink from the water fountain outside the conference room,  Akemi approached.

“I would have thought you’d be more certain of your formula,” she said.

“It’s untried in the field. I only have the lab results.”

“Well, you tried. That’s all anyone can do.”

Dr. Wixom approached and took her hand, “Enough talking shop. Now, tell me, Admiral, did you always have this much trouble with Captain Nelson-Crane aboard Seaview? He seems to be rather trouble prone, from all the news reports I’ve been seeing on TV. Perhaps it’s for the best that he was blinded rather than continue in command your submarine.”

“And perhaps it’s for the best,” I said fuming, “that you keep your opinions to yourself.”

I was glad that no one from Seaview was there.  No doubt Lee’s crew would have beaten the man to a pulp. Well, perhaps not. But I knew they’d want to. I know I did.

I hadn’t cooled off much by the time my cab reached the dock and was glad that I at least remembered to tip the driver generously, as was my custom.

“Let’s go home, Chip,” I said as soon my feet reached the deck from the Control Room’s ladder. “We’re done here.”

“As soon as Cookie returns from a supply errand, sir. By the way, Admiral Cartwright of ONI wants you to call.”

“Have Sparks pipe him through to my cabin...by the way, what’s for lunch?”

“Welsh Rabbit. That’s why Cookie went ashore. Needs beer, otherwise it’s just plain old melted cheese.”

“Does beer really make that much of a difference?”

“He insisted on it, sir, but...”Chip hesitated.

“Well?”

“We might want to delay sailing. The alcohol won’t burn off completely. Cookie says it wouldn’t be enough to make much difference unless a crewman had the entire pot of the melted mixture. Still...”

“Can he use that nonalcoholic stuff?”

“I suggested it. In fact, he’s picking up both so he can prepare both and we can compare the two.”

“Very well. Extend shore leave. We’ll sail tomorrow morning.”

I hesitated calling Cartwright. He’d been a thorn in my flesh ever since he’d continually drafted Lee away from Seaview for some damn assignment.

“Admiral,” he said after he came in view on my cabin’s videophone. “I need to get in touch with Jackson. He didn’t update his contact info with us after he left the agency, and the number he has on file with the Navy is temporarily out of service. We know he’s gallivanting off with Crane in Europe...”

“That’s Nelson-Crane and just what do you need with Jackson?”

“You must know that Ozno could be a problem. We may have to draft the Commander back to the agency for a little undercover work.”

“You said last night that you weren’t overly concerned about Ozno. He’s in his seventies….”

“Age is not a factor for terrorists. And true, we’re not overly concerned at this point in time. However, he has friends...and they have funds...add them together and there could be a problem. It’s a kind of a wait and see business. Now, give me Jackson’s cell number. And before you complain, I know all about how you wheedled him away from his posting just to babysit Crane. You can always get someone else to fill that function. Maybe one of your crew.”

“Commander Jackson is Lee's traveling companion, if you will, a good friend of Lee's. And you have other agents in the field you can call on. Jackson’s busy.”

“Look, I’m not drafting him yet. Just giving him a heads up. Of course we have other agents. They’ve already been put on assignment. But…”

“But you actually want Lee. Admit it. Contact Jackson, and he tells Lee, and Lee volunteers. That it?”

“Damnit, yes, I want the captain! Even a blind man can have his uses. I could ask the  SecNav to order your cooperation, Harriman.”

“And I could let it leak to the press that  the U.S. Navy wants to put a handicapped man at risk. Wouldn’t go very well, would it. I’m surprised you haven’t called Lee yourself!”

“His damn voicemail box ‘hasn’t been set up yet’. At least it won’t take any messages.”

“Good!” I yelled and shut down the videophone. 

I couldn't  tell if the beer made much of a difference, but Cookie’s Welsh Rabbit was delicious. He’d included a little mustard and eggs with the beer cheese goo that might also have added a little something to the beer. What the origins of the dish are, one can only wonder. There are undocumented tales of a joke passed around in the olden days when there was no meat available, and the cheese became the Welshman’s rabbit, but who’s to say.

Chip turned on the monitor for the latest news, as we ate. We switched channels before settling again on the good old reliable BBC. Naturally, they’d have more first hand coverage of Lee’s adventures while he was in the United Kingdom than any other news network.

 After a rather interesting report ( at least to me) on repairing ‘Big Ben’s chimes, the image faded to scenic Scotland.

“We’re here at historic Sterling Castle,” the reporter said, “ where Captain Nelson-Crane was supposed to rejoin Mrs. Piccadilly’s Culinary Tour group, some of whom you see here, but never showed. Dinner was in the great hall and we’re told included Haggis and Bannock buns.”

“If you’re looking for the Yanks,” a teenage boy said, “I heard they were planning on kayaking in Loch Lubnaig. Maybe they just weren’t brave enough for the Haggis.”

“Shut your mouth, Angus!” his mother said, at least I think she was his mother.

“Aye,” another person said, “if the Cowboy Captain can handle fried rattlesnake  and  Adder, he can certainly stomach Haggis.”

“Has Captain Nelson-Crane actual experience as a cowboy?” the reporter asked.

“Well, I hear,” a woman said, “that he’s been on a number of riding trails in the states, and maybe even roped cattle on a ranch, or maybe he was only at a  Dude Ranch. I’m not sure what I actually heard. It was a while ago.”

“Dude ranch and nature trails,” a familiar voice said from behind the gathering.

“Captain Nelson-Crane!” Mrs. Piccadilly gasped in delight, and shock, as Lee and Joe, both rather disheveled, (and wearing kilts!) walked toward her. “Sorry we missed dinner," Lee said. "We lost track of time kayaking and getting to the hotel, but we decided we just had to pay our respects to the men lost at Sterling Bridge.”

“So,” Jackson said, “we figured we should go in uniform, sort of, well, hey, kilts are kind of iconic for Scotland, even though they hadn’t been invented yet in the time of William Wallace and his cohorts. We even got a English/Gaelic phrase book,  translated some words that we wanted to say on the bridge into Gaelic. We found a kilt shop but  Lee didn’t want to have to decide between a Crane or a Nelson tartan, so he bought both. Oh, these aren’t the real bone fide custom made kilts like you all have for real family members. We got them off the rack…not quite as detailed in the plaid.”

“Tartan,” Lee corrected.

“Yea, well, anyway, Lee decided to wear the Nelson, and let me use the Crane.”

“I’m just glad,” Jackson said, “for these sporran things to keep the skirt from flying up in the breeze.”

“You know," Lee said, "the movies got a lot of things wrong about  Wallace and the battle.  But it was a very awesome experience standing there on the part of the actual bridge still standing, where the first battle for Scottish independence was won. A lot of brave men died, on both sides. I just wish we didn’t have the same problems today when men have to kill each other to prove a point or to change things for the better or worse, depending on your point of view.”

Just then Jackson’s stomach rumbled.

“Well, you may have missed the feast in the castle,” Mrs. Piccadilly said, “but I’m sure we can find you something to eat in the village.”

“Actually,” a man in full medieval costume said, emerging  from the crowd, carrying a platter heaped with food, “we still have some Haggis leftover from the feast. Already cut into bite sized pieces. Help yourself, Captain, Commander.”

“Er, thank you,” Lee said and allowed his hand to be guided to a piece as Jackson helped himself to one as well. I could tell, everyone could tell, they were a bit apprehensive, but both chewed and swallowed.

Lee licked his lips theatrically, “Not bad. But an acquired taste, I believe.”

“I don’t suppose there’s some beer to wash it down with?” Joe asked.

“Come along, gentlemen,” the man said, “follow me to the great hall and the kitchen. I’m sure there may be a few other leftovers as well. Maybe even some roast beef. So, let me tell you all about the ghosts of Sterling Castle and the dungeons.”

As the boys followed, Joe turned, “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow, Mrs. P?”

“Glenlivet Distillery and taste testing.”

“Now, that’s my kind of tour!”

As the newscast moved on to other topics, I wondered if I should call Lee later to find out what the problem was with Joe’s ‘temporarily out of service’ phone number. They both seemed so happy. Lee was distracted from his blindness simply by enjoying the friendly comradery with his friend, and ‘sightseeing’.  I wished it were me accompanying Lee. But then, I’d never have agreed to a kilt!

But Cartwright outranked me, (when I was called to service, that was) and Ozno was a potential danger, so  I asked Sparks to call Lee at a time when he and Joe would both most likely be back in their hotel. Even if they were asleep.