Emerson Goes Navy: An Emerson Adventure, #2

By Arthur Flavell

Emerson Francis Whitman, whose parents are great admirers of philosophy—and philosophers—has the distinction of being the technical representative of Primary Pulse Energy Systems of Research Triangle Park, North Carolina. As a tech rep, Emerson travels to a variety of trade shows and exhibitions to assist distributors and dealers of the company's product line to learn the equipment and to sell more of the same. The work itself is pleasant and relatively undemanding. It allows him to travel across the country in a leisurely fashion, accompanied by his spouse and partner Priscilla Jeanette, aka PJ.

In addition to his technical skills, Emerson also has an unfortunate propensity for becoming entangled in sticky situations…  through absolutely no fault of his own.

Sent to a Navy supply depot in the Pacific Northwest to investigate the cause of an inordinately large number of submarine battery failures, Emerson finds more than either he or the Navy bargained for. Determining the problem with the batteries is child’s play. Deciding what to do about the discovery could have shocking—and possibly deadly—results!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AlaskArt Publications
• Release date: Mar 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9780996158459

Book preview

● Acknowledgements ●

Thanks to my support group of coaches, critics, and cheerleaders – Wanda, Mary, and Helinka. All of your insights and caring are very much appreciated and definitely count... a lot.

Special thanks to Naval Sea Systems Command and photographer Matt Hildreth of Huntington Ingalls Industries for permission to use the cover photo.

● Dedication ●

To ETC Larry McCaslin. Everything a U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officer should be.

● Chapter 1 ●

Kitsap Naval Center ◊ Bremerton, WA

08 July ◊ 0242 PDT ◊ 0942 Z

The clock on the bulkhead above the shipping desk ticked its plodding way to 0242. Logistics Specialist Chief Darryl Martin chewed the unlit stub of a cigar and shifted his coffee cup slightly on the bulging surface of his protruding midsection. Numerous stains reflected accurately the Chief’s disdain of personal grooming. After all, he was only six months from his full thirty. Once he retired, he would never wear another uniform or stand another inspection. The ticking of the clock annoyed him.

They’re late! The cigar stub traversed the width of his mouth.

A Petty Officer Third Class shifted on the seat of a forklift. What's the rush, Chief? It's the only pickup on our whole watch.

I’m losing beauty sleep.

A young Seaman Apprentice standing by the forklift snorted a laugh and tried to cover it with a coughing fit. The Chief glared at him.

The Petty Officer straightened in his seat. I think I can hear them coming now.

The Chief turned his head, listening, but heard nothing. If you say so.

The SA stepped to the edge of the loading dock and cocked his head. I hear it, too, Chief. It’s gotta be them. There’s not much else moving at this time of the morning.

With the rumble of the approaching truck to occupy their attention, none of the group heard the light snick as the door of a black Ford Expedition SUV in the parking area gently closed or the soft footsteps mounting the steps to the warehouse door. A large van with Navy markings ground to a halt in the parking lot. The piercing shriek of a backup alarm sounded as the truck maneuvered into position at the loading bay.

The Chief gestured abruptly with his coffee cup. Get that ramp in place. Let’s get this stuff loaded and so I can get out of here.

The forklift trundled forward, bearing a diamond-plate steel ramp. It bridged the narrow gap between the surface of the loading dock and the truck bed. The Seaman moved forward with a pallet jack to load the first of five pallets into the truck. Each pallet was loaded with two sturdy wooden crates lashed firmly in place.

A soft voice sounded inches from Chief Martin’s right ear. Where is the rest of our shipment?

The Chief started violently and gasped so hard he nearly inhaled the mangled cigar butt. He spat it out on the floor with a curse and turned to look at the intruder.

"What the hell do you want? How did you even get in here?

I want to know where the rest of our shipment is. I want to know what you are doing about it. As for how I got in here—I could have come through the gate in a Russian Admiral’s uniform and no one would have stopped me.

A delayed reaction was embarrassingly evident as the Chief replied. His hand exhibited a slight tremor, as did his now subdued voice.

Perhaps we should discuss this in my office. These grunts don’t have a clue what is going on... and they don’t need to.

The Chief proceeded to his office at the side of the warehouse. He held the door for his unexpected guest and followed him inside, closing the door quietly behind them. He gestured to the visitor’s chair in front of the desk.

The tall, slender man slowly and carefully removed a pair of black kidskin driving gloves and an elegant cashmere topcoat, revealing a well-tailored black suit and blue silk tie beneath. He hung the coat on a wall-mounted hook by the door. He moved at a leisurely pace and settled into the large leather office chair behind the desk.

The Chief bristled momentarily and then thought better of it. He reached for a clipboard resting on the corner of the desk.

Let me get this manifest to the driver so he can get on the road.

The visitor flipped a languid hand granting permission and settled back to wait.

The wait was a brief one. The Chief re-entered the room within five minutes and sat in the visitor’s chair.

Where is the rest of our shipment? The man behind the desk waited calmly for an answer, seemingly unperturbed by the delay.

The Chief shook his beefy head. I don’t know.

The lean man straightened in the chair and leaned forward menacingly. His voice was very soft – just above a whisper – but well-modulated.

Why not?

All I know is there is some kind of snag in the supply line. I don’t know any details about that part of the operation and I don’t want to know. He shrank visibly in the uncomfortable straight chair and sighed. All I know is I got a heads-up from a buddy of mine in Japan. He called me on the QT and said someone was nosing around the operation and making everyone very nervous. He really didn’t know any more than that.

The visitor sat silently for several minutes. What was the shipment tonight?

The Chief reached for his clipboard and read the manifest. There were ten PDX-59 batteries.

That is all? The visitor stood abruptly. There were supposed to be three of the PDX-57s as well. He slammed his hand onto the desktop, making the Chief jump. Do you realize that the ten PDX-59s together weigh as much as only one PDX-57? His voice was rising steadily. Do you know what the contents of those three items are worth on the open market?

The Chief wagged his head emphatically.

Ninety million plus! We are ninety million dollars short because of a snag in your supply system.

The man rose, walked slowly to the coat rack, and removed his overcoat from it.

That is why we pay slugs like you! To prevent the snags and keep the merchandise moving. If you cannot do that, we will make other arrangements. He turned and looked at the Chief the way an eagle looks at a rabbit. I do not think you or your ‘buddy’ in Japan would find those arrangements very pleasant at all.

The door opened and closed quietly as the visitor vanished into the night.

• • •

A diesel engine coughed into life and the truck pulled away from the loading dock at the Northwest Supply Depot with a rackety roar. The driver turned the vehicle north and followed W Street until it gently curved and merged into Farragut Avenue. A turn to the west led to the guard shack of the Charleston Gate. The driver slowed, extinguished his headlights, and left only the parking lights on.

A lone sailor approached the driver’s window and asked for the vehicle’s load manifest. Petty Officer Charlie Mason was a freshly-minted Master-at-Arms Third Class, just promoted from Striker status. He was intelligent and extremely conscientious. He frowned as he looked over the manifest, noting the strange origin and destination codes as well as the priority designations. He did not know what, exactly, but he knew something was far wrong.

He looked at the driver. You mind if I take a look at this load? It wasn’t really a request. The guard was simply being polite.

The driver shrugged. Fine by me. Knock yourself out.

The gate guard moved to the rear of the truck. The driver could hear the door swing open and felt the truck body move as the man climbed into the cargo area. He reached out and briefly flicked his headlights on and back off.

A block ahead, outside the gate, a mini-van was parked on the roadside in front of the active duty personnel’s parking garage. Both front doors of the van opened simultaneously and two black-clad figures emerged and headed for the rear of the truck standing stationary in front of the guard shack.

The two figures climbed lithely into the cargo area of the truck. Moments later, the truck rocked several times on its suspension—then was still. A black Ford Expedition pulled up behind the truck and the tall, slender visitor to Chief Martin’s office emerged.

A low-voiced command sent one of the assailants into the guard shack. He returned moments later with a shiny DVD disk containing the security camera recordings. He handed it to the tall man and left with his partner to return to their van.

The tall man walked to the driver’s window of the truck and spoke a few low words. The driver’s head nodded and the truck moved ahead in a cloud of diesel smoke and clatter. The mini-van fell in behind as the truck moved toward Charleston Boulevard and a private airfield outside Tacoma some forty miles to the southeast.

● Chapter 2 ●

Oregon Convention Center ◊ Portland, OR

08 July ◊ 1600 PDT ◊ 2300 Z

PJ Whitman waited in the wings backstage as her friend, helpmeet, and lover of thirty years' standing completed his presentation to the audience of the Western Alternative Energy Symposium. His talk was on the newest hi-tech methods of restoring battery function in an increasingly energy-hungry world. The response was loud and prolonged, with many on their feet. Emerson bowed shyly and waved, mouthing his thanks to the audience. He was finally rescued by the M.C. announcing refreshments and a meet-and-greet in the suite next door. People began filing towards the doors and Emerson walked to where PJ stood waiting for him.

She smiled at the look of excitement on his face and could tell he was thrilled to be part of this.

You seem to be getting pretty good at this.

He ducked his head momentarily in embarrassment. I don’t think it’s that I’m getting better, it’s just that I am intensely interested. The things I have learned and the equipment that Primary Pulse produces not only helps people deal with their energy needs and applications... it is saving them money, too.

PJ shook her head in mock aggravation. Save the sales pitch for them as needs it. She grabbed Emerson by the arm and started for the gathering next door. Come on before I have to tie a rope around your ankle to keep you from floating away.

Emerson smiled and allowed himself to be shepherded to the festivities. They walked through double doors propped open for easy access. He noted the refreshment tables arrayed across the back of the room and nodded in approval. It demonstrated some clear forethought on the part of the catering staff in that it prevented the guests from gathering in the front of the room and disrupting the flow of traffic.

A slender, balding man wearing a hounds-tooth jacket and ascot tie swooped across the room to greet him. He reminded Emerson of a galleon of the Spanish Armada maneuvering under full sail.

Big smile. Big teeth. Big voice. Small man. Emerson, my friend! A thousand thanks for coming. I am sure your information will benefit many in our energy-challenged little corner of the world.

He turned with even more teeth showing. And this must be the lovely PJ, of whom you have spoken so much. Welcome! His voice lowered conspiratorially. And thank you for allowing him to be here.

Emerson turned to PJ. This is Franklin Dennison, President of the Independent Dealers’ Energy Association—aka IDEA.

PJ beamed at him. How clever! It must be a tremendous job keeping up with all the changes in the energy field.

Dennison smiled deprecatingly. We do our humble best, my dear. He turned slightly to his left and waved. If Franklin was a war galleon, the robust lady rapidly approaching must surely have been the flagship of the fleet. She was equipped with a floor length gown of heavy velvet fabric boasting a hemline of voluminous proportions. She carried a large handbag festooned with ribbons and flowers that probably housed the main battery of cannon. The masthead was topped by an enormous hat that would have caused the ladies at Ascot to swoon with envy. The bow wave as she sailed into port was spectacular.

Franklin Dennison adroitly maneuvered for position. Ah! May I present my better half, Deidre. Dear, this is Emerson Whitman and his lovely wife, PJ. He paused a moment. You know, you two have something in common. Deidre goes by Dee Dee. I presume your initials have further meaning as well?

Priscilla Jeanette. PJ smiled with a bit of twinkle in her eyes. Now you know why I go by PJ.

Franklin laughed appreciatively while Dee Dee turned to Emerson. I notice from the program that you do not resort to initials and that your middle name is Francis. She nodded approvingly. That has a nice, old-timey sort of feel to it – Emerson Francis. Were you named after family members?

Emerson smiled. No. My parents are both enamored of philosophy and even more so of philosophers... warts and all. I am the namesake of two of their favorites – Emerson for Ralph Waldo and Francis for Sir Francis Bacon. As for the Whitman, I suppose it is just serendipitous that we share a surname with old Walt.

Dee Dee tittered. And are you a philosophy fancier as well?

Oh, no. I was inundated with enough philosophy growing up that I can spot a philosopher at thirty paces. He smiled wickedly. "Since the age of twelve, I have been able to outrun almost every one of them.

Franklin and Dee Dee both laughed as Emerson’s telephone began to demand attention. He looked at the caller ID. Please excuse me, duty calls.

Franklin bowed graciously. Certainly, certainly. Thank you again for your participation.

PJ looked at the phone in Emerson’s hand. It’s the Wicked Witch of the West.

The caller ID said, Marian. It is not. It’s my boss.

PJ sniffed and turned away. That’s what I said.

Emerson touched the face of the phone. Hello.

Socrates.

Well, if it isn’t Maid Marian. What can I do for you?

Ask not what you can do for me. Ask what you can do for your country.

Emerson groaned. Have you hired John Kennedy's speechwriter?

Marian laughed. No, but I wasn’t kidding. We have a request for tech assistance from the Navy. It was routed through some fairly stratospheric realms before ending up on my desk.

And now in my lap, I take it?

You guessed it, kid. Marian paused to marshal her thoughts. This could be a manufacturer screwing up or it could be sabotage. Or it could be indicative of something much more serious.

Emerson knotted his brow in thought. What is happening, exactly?

There seems to be an unusually high number of faulty battery units coming from the manufacturer. In the past, this outfit has been like Ivory Soap – ninety-nine and forty-four one-hundredths percent pure. She sighed in frustration. The problem is... no one in the field can determine what the problem is without dismantling a unit. Field technicians are not usually trained for that level of maintenance. Hazmat items go back to the manufacturer for examination or possibly to a repair depot.

Emerson wondered why Primary Pulse Energy Systems of Research Triangle Park, North Carolina was being called in when so many other experts were already in the loop.

OK. Now you have me curious. Why tap Primary Pulse? We are complete outsiders in this whole scenario.

Perhaps that is the very reason we have been called. Apparently, security is an issue here as well.

Emerson groaned. And the plot thickens. What are we talking about here? Is there just one type or more than one?

Marian laughed. You know, Emerson, I didn’t just hire you for your good looks. Occasionally you exhibit traces of primitive brain function as well.

That makes me feel ever so much better. I am sure PJ will be ecstatic at the news as well.

Do the type designators PDX-57 and PDX-59 mean anything to you? A rustling sound reached his