Hunter was troubled and angry. He held the offending message tightly wadded in his hand. Admiral O'Flanagan had sent him a "Personal For" message last night that recounted the terrorists taking Peg and the girls hostage. It told of the rescue and reassured Hunter that his family was safe and healthy. The closing paragraph ordered Hunter to not divulge any of this. The story was to die behind a veil of secrecy.
Hunter breathed deeply. The warm air tinged with the scent of land calmed him. On the one hand, his family was safe. That was an immense relief. On the other, the fact SUBPAC had waited three weeks to tell him was infuriating.
“Captain, XO on the JA,” Jeff Miller turned around and handed Jon Hunter the handset.
“Skipper, Harbor Control has requested that we stay out here for a couple more hours. They request an ETA at Papa Hotel of zero-eight hundred,” Fagan relayed from control.
Papa Hotel was an imaginary point outside the channel entrance to Pearl Harbor. It had been established in the late 60’s after the QUEENFISH had run aground on the coral reefs returning from an important mission on Christmas Morning. Papa Hotel was the final checkpoint before entering the harbor. The ship had to be completely ready for navigating the narrow entrance channel and had to receive permission from Harbor Control before venturing beyond Papa Hotel.
“Alright, XO. We can kill some time out here. Come on up and enjoy the view. Send the messenger to get a couple of cups of coffee,” Hunter answered. He needed to talk to someone and forget that message for a while.
Fagan made the long climb up to the bridge and took a seat on the Number 2 BRA-34 ice cap. The messenger delivered the steaming coffee in large white Navy mugs.
Together they gazed out toward the dimming lights of Honolulu and the blazing orange-red sunrise. After a long pause, Hunter commented, “We’ve learned a lot on this time out. It’s time for both of us to move on. You’re ready for your own boat. And, it’s time I went ashore for good. When you have your own boat, remember this. Enjoy the moments, it doesn’t last forever.”
13 Jul 2000, 0800LT (1900Z)
The immaculate white barge, really a thirty-foot motor launch but nautical tradition dictated that an admiral’s boat be called a barge, flew a blue pennant with two white stars. It lay quietly waiting for the approaching submarine, bobbing gently in the swell. Two side-boys in dress white uniforms stood at parade rest against the stern rail. Rear Admiral O'Flanagan and several of his senior officers stood in the covered cockpit, behind the coxswain.
As SAN FRANCISCO slid alongside, Hunter could make out a yellow sundress peeking out from under the awning. Then he could see Peg waving gaily. It was good to be home.
The barge picked up speed and matched SAN FRANCISCO's progress. Hunter could see a line being tossed from the barge. The COB caught and tied it to the number three cleat. The crew on the barge passed a short gangplank over to SAN FRANCISCO. Rear Admiral O’Flanagan charged across the gangplank, pausing at its end to salute Old Glory, flying proudly above the submarine's sail. His staff and, finally, Peg along with the XO’s and COB’s wives followed him onboard the sub.
As the sub entered the confined dredged channel through the coral reef, CDR Hunter saw that Jeff Miller and his lookout were struggling with something being pushed up through the bridge hatch. A large duffel bag was slowly emerging. Reaching down, he grabbed a handle of the bag and chided Miller to pay attention to where the sub was going.
As he opened the duffel bag and handed the lookout one end of a long rope with cloth flowers tied along its length, he asked, “Can you imagine the headlines, “Sub runs aground while Skipper and OOD tie Lei around Sail”? That wouldn’t look very good for either of us. You drive the boat. We’ll handle the lei.”
Hunter saw a flash of yellow coming up the ladder to the bridge. Unfortunately it turned out to be Admiral O’Flanagan’s gold shoulder boards and not the pert yellow sundress that he had hoped to see emerge from the hatch.
“Jon, damn good work. Welcome home,” the gruff admiral growled through the unlit, but well chewed, cigar as he climbed out of the bridge cockpit to join Hunter on top the sail. “Sure hope you’re not planning on spending much time at home. You’re scheduled to give your post patrol debrief to the Joint Chiefs and SECDEF in five days. Beautiful morning up here, isn’t it?”
Hunter greeted the admiral heatedly, "Sir, I don't know whether to welcome you aboard or to tell you what a cold son-of-a-bitch I think you are. It'll be a while before I can forgive you for not telling me about Peg and the girls being hostages. Damn it, they're my family. I should have been told."
Admiral O'Flanagan took the cigar out of his mouth and jabbed it toward Hunter, "Just a minute, Jon. I understand you being upset. Look at the big picture. There was nothing you could do but worry. You had a job that had to be done. It wasn't an easy decision, but it was the right one."
Hunter, the anger still hot in him, growled, "That's bull-shit.
