As the boats approached the ship the photographers were invited to the little amidships quarterdecks, where they snapped pictures of the carrier and watched the coxswains steer. The gray hull of the carrier appeared gigantic from a sea-level perspective, a fifth of a mile long and rising over six stories from the water. As the boats neared her she looked less and less a ship and more and more like a massive cliff of gray stone.
At the officer’s brow the journalists found themselves under the overhang of the flight deck. Sailors assisted them from the bobbing boats to a carly float, and from there up a ladder to the ceremonial quarterdeck where they were met by several junior officers. Several journalists were struck by how much alike these men, all in their early to middle-twenties, looked in their spotless white uniforms. Of various sizes and racial groups, these half dozen trim, smiling young men still looked as if they had been punched from the same mold as they saluted and welcomed the tour group aboard.
The journalists were led down a series of ladders in groups of five and through mazelike passageways to a large, formal wardroom deep within the ship. Spread on tables covered with white cloths were plates of cookies, a pile of coffee cups and glasses, and several jugs of an orange liquid. “It’s Kool-Aid,” one of the young officers informed a Frenchman after he sipped the sugary orange stuff and stood looking at the glass as if he had just ingested a powerful laxative.
“Good morning.” The speaker was an officer with four gold stripes and a star on each of his black shoulder boards. His white shoes, white trousers, white belt, and short-sleeved white shirt were accented by a yellow brass belt buckle and, on his left breast, a rainbow splotch of ribbons topped by a piece of gold metal. The touches of color made his uniform look even whiter and emphasized the tan of his face and neck. He stood a lean six feet tall. Clear gray eyes looked past a nose which was just slightly too large for his face. His thinning hair was cut short and combed straight back.
“I’m Captain Grafton. I hope you folks had an enjoyable ride out to see us this morning.” Although he didn’t speak loudly, his voice carried across the group and silenced the last of the private conversations. “We’re going to give you a tour of the ship this morning when the cookies are gone. We’ll break you up into groups of five. Each group will go with one of these young gentlemen who are standing over there watching you eat cookies. They had some before you arrived, so don’t feel sorry for them.”
Several of the journalists chuckled politely.
“Captain, why was this group invited to tour the ship?” The question was asked by a woman in her late twenties with a hint of Boston in her voice. She wore a bright red dress and carried an expensive black leather purse casually over one shoulder.
“And who are you, ma’am?”
“I’m Judith Farrell from the
“Well, we often entertain groups aboard, and starting this Mediterranean cruise with a tour for you ladies and gentlemen of the European press seemed appropriate.”
“Are you saying the invitations had nothing to do with the American request for a French port visit for this ship in June?”
The gray eyes locked on the woman. “No. I didn’t say that. I said a tour of the ship for you folks of the European press seemed appropriate.”
“This ship is nuclear-powered?”
“Yes, it is. You may wish to examine the fact sheet that Lieutenant Tarkington is handing out.” An officer immediately entered the crowd and began distributing printed leaflets.
“What assurances can you give to the people of Europe in light of the recent revelations about the extent of the Chernobyl disaster?”
“Assurances about what?” The captain glanced from face to face.
“That your reactors are safe.” Judith Farrell replied as she tossed her head to flick her blond hair back from her eyes.
“The Russians didn’t build these reactors. Americans did. Americans operate them.”
Judith Farrell flushed slightly as her fellow reporters grinned and nudged each other. She was inhaling air for a retort when a well-dressed woman with an Italian accent spoke up. “May we see the reactors?”
“I’m sorry, but those spaces are off limits except to naval personnel.” When he observed several people making notes, the captain added, “Only those sailors who actually work in those spaces are admitted. I might add that, outside of the Soviet Union, you are far more likely to be struck by lightning than you are to become a victim of a nuclear accident.”
“Captain …,” said Judith Farrell, but Grafton’s voice was covering the crowd: “Now if you folks will break up into groups of five, these officers from the air wing will show you around.” Everyone began talking and moving toward the door.
“Captain,” said Judith Farrell firmly, “I do not appreciate that evasive answer.”
“Mister Tarkington, include Miss Farrell in your group.”
“It is ‘Ms.,’ not ‘Miss.’”
“Please come with me, Ms.,” said a drawling voice at her elbow, and she turned to see a tan face framing perfect teeth. The grin caused his cheeks to dimple and deep creases to radiate from the corners of his eyes. The innocent face was topped by short, carefully combed brown hair.
“I’m Lieutenant Tarkington.” The captain was walking away.
In the passageway she asked, “Lieutenant, who is that captain? He’s not the ship’s commanding officer or executive officer, is he?”
“He’s the air wing commander, ma’am. We call him CAG.” Tarkington pronounced “CAG” to rhyme with “rag.” It was a fifty-year-old acronym from the days when the air wing commander had been known as Commander Air Group, and it had survived into the age of jets and supercarriers. “But let’s talk about you. Whereabouts over here on this side of the pond do you live, ma’am?”
“The pond?”
“Y’know, the puddle. The ocean. The Atlantic.”
“Paris,” she said in a voice that would have chilled milk.
“I sure am glad you’re touring this little tub with me this morning, ma’am. All my friends call me Toad.”
“For good reason, I’m sure.”
Lieutenant Tarkington smiled thinly at the other members of his group, all men, and motioned for the little band to follow him.
He led them through pale blue passageways with numerous turns, and soon everyone except Tarkington — who frequently looked back over his shoulder to ensure his five were following faithfully — was hopelessly lost. They passed fire-fighting stations with racks of hose and valves and instructions stenciled on the bulkhead. Above their heads ran mazes of pipes, from pencil-thin to eight inches in diameter, each labeled cryptically. Bundles of wires were threaded between the pipes. Every thirty feet or so there was a large steel door latched open. When asked by one of the men, Tarkington explained that the doors allowed the crew to seal the ship into over three thousand watertight compartments. He paused by a hole in the deck surrounded by a flange that rose about four inches from the deck. Inside the hole was a ladder leading to the deck below. Above it a heavy hatch on hinges stood ready to seal it.
“When the ship goes into battle,” Tarkington said, “we just close all these hatches and this ship becomes like a giant piece of Styrofoam, full of all these watertight compartments. The enemy has to bust open a whole lot of these compartments to sink this bucket.”
“Just like the
“A bucket?” one of the men murmured in a heavy French accent.
Tarkington led them on. The smells of food cooking assailed them. They looked into a large kitchen filled with men in white trousers, aprons and tee shirts. Each wore a white cap that covered his hair. “This is the forward crew’s galley.” Huge polished steel vats gleamed amid the bustling men, several of whom smiled at the visitors. “They’re fixing noon chow. The ship serves eighteen thousand meals a day.”
Beside the galley was a cafeteria serving line with steam tables, drink dispensers, and large steel coffee urns. Huge racks of metal trays stood at the entrance. “The men go through here and fill their trays,” Tarkington said as he led them into the mess area, which was filled with folding tables and chairs. “They find a chair and eat here.” The overhead was a latticework of pipes and wires. Around the bulkheads were more fire-fighting hoses and numerous buttons and knobs to control machinery which wasn’t visible. Large doors formed the forward
