“1830 is fine. We’ll be in back, under the mango trees,” she placed the receiver back in the cradle.
Jon had been far too anxious for this to be just an unexpected exercise. The highly unusual midnight underway didn’t equate either. Something was happening and it was important enough that SUBPAC had concocted a convincing lie to cover it up. It was too easy for her to double-check this story for the Commodore to make it up on his own. His willingness to drop everything and rush over to a crew wives picnic was equally mystifying. In the past, he had always insisted on a formal presentation at the Sub Base Theater. He obviously wanted to do this quickly and with as little fanfare as possible.
Pondering all this, Peg Hunter began the series of calls that would set in motion the notification process to tell all the wives tonight’s picnic would be more than their normal social gathering. She called Bill Fagan’s wife and the Chief of the Boat’s wife to start the call tree, an established phone calling procedure to disseminate important information quickly. It was almost as fast as the “back fence grapevine” that seemed to spread rumors at lightening speed.
She knew she needed to have the wives hear the official story and to have a chance to ask the Commodore any questions they had, but should she express her concerns about the “official story”? Was it important for the wives to know she felt a great deal more concern than she would about a simple exercise? If not, could she successfully hide it?
08 Jun 2000, 1830LT (09 Jun, 0630Z)
The little white Dodge Neon rolled into the driveway, small blue and white pennants flapping from short poles on both front fenders signifying that the Commodore was aboard. The tiny car was closely followed by a twelve-passenger van. Both had GSA license plates and “Official US Navy Vehicle” stenciled on the front doors.
The driver, dressed in immaculate summer whites, sprang from the car and rushed around to open the Commodore’s door and stand at rigid attention as Carlucci exited the vehicle. He answered the driver’s snappy salute with a casual wave of dismissal.
The scene would have been impressive if not for the ludicrous little white car. Cost cutting dictated official vehicles be purchased with cost and economy in mind. The Commodore reluctantly turned in his full size Ford for the tiny Neon that his position rated in the fiscally strapped environment. He insisted on maintaining all the accoutrements of office and seethed at being seen in that car. The squadron staff learned, at their peril, not to mention his new car; even in jest.
The side door on the van swung open and a cadre of the Squadron staff piled out. First out was the chief staff officer, CDR Austin, a rather portly former diesel boat commander on his last tour before mandatory retirement. The staff JAG officer, the command master chief, and the SUBPAC chaplain followed him. They closed ranks and followed Carlucci to the cluster of ladies assembled under the grove of mango trees in the large lawn behind CDR Hunter’s house.
As they walked into the back yard, several children ran past the group, on their way to play in the small playground across the alley. The narrow alley separated Hunter’s house from his neighbor and the considerable industrial activity on a cruiser in Dry Dock 4. A high chain-link fence overgrown with a lush curtain of brightly colored bougainvillea hid the dry dock. It was curious how the Navy inter-mixed housing facilities with shipyard maintenance and repair activities. They lived in Paradise, but with constant industrial noise and dirt from sandblasting ships’ hulls.
Peg Hunter rose from her chair and walked out into the late afternoon sun. “Good afternoon, Commodore,” she nodded to the others and added. “We have most of the wives here. I have passed out the information that you told me this afternoon and said that you would be over to do a short sort of pre-patrol briefing. Please don’t alarm them.”
The Commodore looked at her quizzically. What did she know? Clearly she knew more than the simple cover story that he had used. Better watch his step and tread lightly. Never could tell when one angry wife could upset a career and this one was not currently happy.
The wives gathered their lawn chairs into a rough semi-circle and listened attentively as the Commodore and his staff made their presentations, the same canned ones that this group had repeated many times to the wives of submarine crews departing on long and dangerous patrols. Many of these wives had attended the briefings before, as well, and knew what to expect.
The JAG officer spoke about powers-of attorney and wills, both superfluous since the husbands were already at sea. The command master chief and the chaplain discussed the various counseling and financial aid services that were available. The chief staff officer spoke about the need for security and passed out family-gram forms.
The only question asked was the one that all the wives wanted to know. When could they expect their husbands back from sea? The Commodore neatly parried the question by answering that the exercise was being delayed by bad weather and that he would keep them informed as it progressed.
10 Jun 2000, 1930LT (0930Z)
“Did you get it in place?" Chief Jones asked the young petty officer.
“Yea, Chief. The relay is up there and wired in. The XO almost caught me, but I managed to hide behind the ductwork in the overhead. He
