My Journal
By Harriman Nelson
53
“Well, I don’t understand,” Kowalski whispered to Patterson, as I
busied myself at the plot table, “why go to Spain while the skipper’s in
Greece? Can’t the admiral find something for Seaview to do in the Aegean? Lots
of ancient shipwrecks and stuff he’d be interested in.”
“Because,” Pat said, “it’s what the admiral wants to do. You got a
beef about it? Tell him. Or maybe Mr. Morton.”
“Who, me? I’m perfectly happy going to Spain.”
“That’s good to hear, gentlemen,” I said and moved toward their
consoles, putting my hands on the backs of their chairs. “I know how you must
feel. After the Ozno affair, this cruise must seem pretty tame, even boring.
But it won’t be for much longer.”
“Yes sir,” both said in unison.
“Ah, Chip?” I called out as he entered the Control Room, “may I
see you a moment? Observation Nose?”
“Right away, sir. Continue on course, Lt. O’Brien, dive when we
reach blue water.”
“Aye sir.”
“The men are bored, Chip,” I told him in the relative quiet of my
front porch, the sunset's rays making the surface glimmer, “can’t you do
something about it? Give them some extra tasks that need doing or something?”
“There aren’t any extra tasks that need doing. Everything’s been assigned
and scheduled. It’s just one of those cruises…. Sir, it’s my opinion that we
should head home. We’re not on alert. We’re not conducting any research. We’re
only skirting around the shores of Europe because Lee’s here. And he’s not on
assignment or anything like that; just seeing the sights and eating. Frankly, sir, you’re
wasting our time, and your money.”
“But it’s my money. And the men are on my time. Anything
else?”
“When are you going to sit down with Lee and force him make a
decision?”
“He’s already thinking about it.”
“So he says, but he’s sure taking his sweet time about it.”
“Chip, I think I know Lee a little better than you. If he feels
pressured, he might just forget the whole thing and have done with it. Now,
he’s seriously reconsidering resuming command. Let’s not jinx it. If he sees Seaview at
the ready, with her new paint job, off shore, I’m hoping that he’ll be so overwhelmed
with longing for her that he’ll succumb. He even called her ‘his’ baby the other
day.”
“Figure of speech, that’s all that was. You should have painted
her red if you really wanted him to drool over her.”
Before I could argue, Sparks interrupted.
“BBC coming through with a report on the skipper,” Sparks called
out, remotely clicking on the monitors through the boat.
An image of a snapshot formed of Lee and Melina, both damp in swim
attire, scuba tanks at their feet on a narrow dock in front of a sailboat. She
was gazing at him adoringly, and he was smiling down at her.
“Though the identities of the couple,” the female reporter said, “haven’t
been verified, we have no doubt that the man is
Captain Nelson-Crane, this picture having been taken by tourists on Santorini,
one of the Grecian Isles. We do know that the captain and his traveling
companion, Commander Jackson briefly left Mrs. Piccadilly’s Culinary Tour in
Corfu, and rented a sailboat.”
“Apparently,” another reporter (male) said, “Mrs. Piccadilly
couldn’t provide a dish like that.”
“Should he have been swimming or scuba diving before
those stitches are removed? And he’s still showing the injuries he received in
Stonehenge and Paris....”
“Ah, we’re receiving a few more snaphots from fellow tourists…oh
my...”
Lee was holding up a huge live octopus he’d apparently
caught on their dive.
“Looks like we should congratulate the captain on his
catch.”
“Both of them.”
The reporters laughed and the station went to commercial. Sparks
turned the broadcast off.
“Damn it!” a familiar and irritated voice preceded Will, as he
stomped down the spiral ladder. “Did you see it? He knows better! Seawater!
Filthy, disgusting seawater! Admiral, I want to talk to him as soon as
possible!”
“Will, I’m sure he’s treating his wounds as advised.”
“The damage has probably already been done!”
“It’s not like he just got the stitches...the skin’s probably
already scabbed over somewhat. You said that it would yourself.”
“I still want the flying sub made
ready for immediate launch so I can check on him.”
“Calm down. Do you really think that's necessary? You can
see him on Joe’s laptop and examine him that way.”
“I can’t do a blood test over the damn internet!”
“I think you’re exaggerating things, but...Chip? Go ahead.”
“Aye sir…prepare the flying sub for launch,” he ordered O’Brien,
then “do you need anyone to go with you, Doc? And do you want to pilot, Admiral?”
“I can take what I need,” Will said and hurried aft to collect his
supplies.
“Lee’s going to fight the visit,” Chip said.
“No doubt. Better have Ski accompany us. Might help to prevent Lee
from slamming the door in Doc’s face.”
It wasn’t long before the flying sub took off, and I had to
prepare myself mentally for the fireworks to come. We’d contacted the local
police with the news that our fellow American might have a medical emergency
and to make sure he was waiting for Dr. Jamison. How or where I left to them.
God help us.
