Day 12

It was a little after midnight and Sharkey downed yet another cup of coffee in my office while we waited for Seaview’s arrival.

“It’s been too long Admiral! What if something’s wrong? What if they can’t call? What if...”

Just then he was interrupted by the sound of cheering and applause outside.

At first the monitor showed nothing but the inky blackness of sea and sky melded together with no horizon. Adjusting the rotator controls of the camera I stopped. There she was, the light from her view ports and strobe light illuminating the sea above her as she rose higher from the depths. It was an almost mystical.

As the conning tower broke the surface, I could have sworn the reverberating  noise from of the gathered crew and ‘family members’ (that ONI had provided for the returning ‘passengers’) made my window rattle.

“Ready, Harry?” Edith entered, pretty as a picture in a hot pink suit complete with little hat. Sparks, in full dress uniform as Sharkey and I were, was with her.  

“I’ll admit I’m a little weak in the knees, sweetie. Chief?”

“Right here, sir,” he said as he handed me the briefcase in which was the fake NIMR check.

“Now, remember Harry,” Edie took my arm, “we’re here to give ‘Schwartz & Schwartz Tours’ their money back and accept delivery of Seaview, not to meet Lee.”

“Yes, Edith,” I said, irritated. How many times had Admiral Cartwright told me the same spiel to pull this ruse off? But damn it, my boy was on that boat! How long would I have to wait to greet him like he deserved?

By the time we made our way through and past the crowd in the cordoned off Press and Visitor area, Seaview had already docked. Even without the evening’s amber light of the loading dock, I would have seen the large ragged gash along her starboard side.  Perhaps those seamounts weren’t as innocuous as I’d thought.

Gamma and his cronies were first to leave the boat. He was carried via stretcher to the waiting ambulance, his cronies, sedated as well, I’m sure, were ‘helped’ down the gangplank to ‘Gamma’s black sedans by some of the Schwartz Tours maintenance crew. Almost as soon as their luggage was also secured in the vehicles, they were whisked away, unbeknownst to the public, to a maximum security prison for safe-keeping and eventual trial.

Next came the rest of the ‘passengers’ waving to the reporters who were hounding them with questions as they joined their ‘families’ and ‘friends’  near the tour bus waiting to take them to the dock that  they’d originally departed from. In minutes they were gone too.

Almost ignored by the press now, which was rapidly deserting NIMR after the more newsworthy passengers, a  ‘crew’ member, carrying  a small black box, headed down the gangplank and handed it to one of the Schwartz ‘executives’, who shook his head sadly and headed to the company mini-van. Little did any of the few remaining reporters realize that instead of the malfunctioning Captain Computer, that box contained a vial of the biohazard that nearly cost them their lives.

“That’s your cue, Harriman,” Agent Catfish said.

“When did you get here?” I asked, surprised I hadn’t noticed her before.

“Never mind  that.  Go on, they’re still waiting.”

And so, while the  slot machines and gaming tables were being removed from Seaview to a waiting truck, Edith and I approached the remaining Schwartz executive. I opened up my briefcase and removed the check which Edith sweetly took and handed over while he in turn gave  me Seaview’s ownership papers. (Actually copies of some of my patents). A few more words and shaking hands, and he joined his colleague in the van (probably a HMRT team), and drove off, the truck following soon after.

For all intents and purposes, the ‘show’ was over and soon, we were rid of the remainder of the press and out the public eye. I swear it looked as if Seaview herself sighed in sheer relief.

 “Where is he?” Sharkey whispered, as if speaking out loud would jinx Captain’s Crane’s return. Indeed, it was pretty damn quiet as hardly anyone dared to breathe.

Finally, a ‘janitor’ in a rather dirty white jumpsuit, backed out from the conning tower hatch, limping a little, and closing the hatch, leaned against the cold wet metal and stroked it, almost lovingly.

We knew then. By that simple act of giving his boat a well done, up close and personal, we knew.

Finally he turned, band aid above his eye, bruises on his face, and was greeted with the loudest cheering anyone in the history of  the free world had ever known.

It didn’t matter to any of us if his name was  Lee Crane or Porky Pig, he was ‘The Skipper’, and by whatever name he (and the President) deemed he take, the important thing was that he was alive. And he was home.

As he limped down the gangplank, the crowd still cheering, Doc made a show of swinging his bag up the gangplank and retrieving an especially large needle, waving it in Lee’s face. Morton came to Lee’s rescue and pumped his hand and with Doc helped him down the rest of the way.

For a moment, I wanted to run away. Would he even talk to me? How dare I offer my hand in friendship when I’d called him some pretty bad things before the ‘accident’. What if he never wanted anything to do with me again?

Then I saw his eyes. Half fearful,  half hopeful, boring into my very soul.

As he set foot on the dock, I grabbed his shoulders, pulled him close. “Oh,  Lee, Lee, Lee!” the  tears of happiness were rolling down my face in sheer relief. I think I even kissed him on the cheek, but I’m not sure now. I was pretty overwhelmed. But then my greatest fear set in, “Please, please forgive me the terrible things I said to you that day. I didn’t mean them, I didn’t mean them, lad...I didn’t...” I lost it and began to bawl.

“I know...I know. It’s okay, Harry, it’s okay,” he let me sob as he held me close and patted my back, then looked at me with moist eyes himself.

Then, changing the subject, and looking for all the world like a little boy expecting the worst, but hoping for clemency and ice cream, “I’m afraid I, well, kind of scratched the paint.”

“As long,” I wiped my eyes, “as long  as you resume command of Seaview you can scratch the paint as much as you like!”

For a moment I held my breath. The President had warned me he might not. After the way I’d treated him?

 For a moment we just looked at each other, then  he grinned.

“Try to stop me,” he said. And the crew went wild.

It took a full ten minutes to walk from the loading dock to the office, as each and every man and woman of NIMR and Seaview had to shake his hand, touch him, smell him, anything to convince themselves that it wasn’t all some kind of mass hallucination.

I’m still having a difficult time believing it myself and here it is tomorrow already. ( It wasn’t until the wee hours that everyone finally left to allow Lee and I a little time to ourselves.)

At first it was hard to say much to each other. We just sort of sat like twins, our hands folded in front of us, almost praying for a place to start.  Then the flood gates opened and our feelings poured out. Mine of anguish over Lee’s ‘death’ and the things I shouldn’t have done but did, and the things I should have done and didn’t do; his of a heart broken in two between duty and the love he had for me, his mom, his Seaview family and friends.

Then he began to cry, overcome by it all. Probably the first time he’d been able to vent his feelings since the whole damn business started.

I tried to comfort him, patting his hand, little good it did,  but then I decided it was best to just let him get it all out. Still, there was something that might help him after the tears had abated somewhat...

 It was nearly noon, when Angie knocked gently at my open door. If she was surprised by my EZ Bake Oven that I’d called and asked Sharkey to go get and bring to my office at 4 A.M, or the sight of Lee and I both sound asleep, legs sprawled out in front of us on the floor, each leaning against the sofa, with  cookie crumbs all over the plates (and on us) she never showed it.

“Sir, the President will be on TV in five minutes.”

So this was it. The Decision had been made if Lee was still Lee Crane of if he would spend the rest of his days as some kind of John Doe. Hell, what did I care. Lee had a better name, better than even Lee Crane. All I had to ever had to know was that his name was ‘son.’