And that's what little girls are made of

It's the Christmas season and that means toys...lots and lots of toys being sold. We've got cars and trucks and dolls and blocks and a whole bunch of stuff I've never heard of. I haven't been in the toy business for a long time and, well I'm old.

Most of these toys weren't around or even a conception when I was a lad eagerly awaiting the ripping frenzy of Christmas morning. Even in my toy retail days when I worked for the defunct Children's Palace stores, many of those toys were new to me. My first big 'toy craze' I worked through was the introduction of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Fortunately for me I had just missed the Cabbage Patch phenomenon.

But there are some things that just don't change. There are dinosaurs, action figures, dolls, science toys...wait, did you say science toys? Yes! There are all kinds of toys that let children discover science and the natural world around them. But you know what hasn't changed in my opinion? Parents don't buy these toys for girls.

We hear all the time that parents want more for their girls and they don't want them to just follow the traditional paths laid out for women. But guess what, most don't (in my opinion) begin setting them up for those paths. I've conducted a brief experiment at work asking moms and dads, grandmas and grandpas who they are buying the discovery / science toys for. And guess what? Well over ninety percent of them are buying those toys for boys, not girls.

It's obvious what parents (mostly women and moms buy for their girls because men don't do most of the shopping) buy for girls; dolls, jewelry kits, makeup kits, anything pink and a bunch of cutesy products specifically aimed at girls.

So here's my challenge to the women of this country; if you want your daughters to grow up and become active in the sciences or biology or any of the 'non-traditional' fields we all hear has a glass ceiling it's time to put your money where your mouth is and break the mold. Don't just hope your little girl stumbles into one of these professions, start them on the track at a young age. Even if they don't follow that path, you've set them on a course that offers them insight to a place they may at least have an interest.

Ball's in your court now...

Cowboys and Indians

Yesterday when I was at my day job, you know, that one that actually pays the bills, I was stocking the shelves as it is a common occurrence. This time of year toys are a prime object. Most of the time I don't give much notice to what the toy is. More often than not I have no connection with whatever the toy is to my past. You must remember, most of what is on the shelves these days wasn't around when I was a young lad.

One toy however did give me pause. Like the skillful merchandiser I am, I deftly slipped my regulation safety knife under the cardboard flap and within the blink of an eye had the box open. Of course one has to have a regulation safety knife because everyone who works in the industry these days is too stupid to use a real razor knife without doing themselves some serious harm...but I digress.

Inside the box was a 'replica Black Canyon' western rifle set. It came complete with a rifle just like Chuck Connors had in the old Rifleman television series, however it was orange, not sure Chuck would have approved of that, as well as a pistol and holster for said six shooter. It got me to thinking, do kids these days play cowboys and indians? I'm thinking that's a fantasy that has long since passed into the history books. Even in my day, North of 50 and I never really played that even though we were only a few generations removed from that era. Yeah, I'm a bit old. We were more into playing 'war' being we were fresh off the World War II era.

North of 50 on the left, me on the right

with our trusty rifles

The funny thing about that is we really didn't play good vs bad and make one be the Germans or the Japanese. I guess we didn't think along those lines. Now, the era of cowboys and indians is so far removed from the public mindset that this toy seems like an antique. Not to mention the politically correctness of it being, just not. I suppose unless one lives in the plains states or what would have been considered the 'old west', it isn't something kids gravitate to as that era is well over one-hundred years past.

Even if some kids thought of this these days it would likely be called 'Oppressive White Man vs Native Americans'.

Tales in Time for you

Tis the Christmas season, at least for me. I know for others Christmas is not their holiday of choice so consider this inclusion for the holiday season.

As a thank you to those who have followed along with this blog for either all the years we have written it or, have just jumped on recently, I have a small gift for you. I have written several short stories and put them together in an ebook. It is titled, Tales in Time. It is a collection of short stories that cover a wide range of genres from a gumshoe in the 30's to an old world vampire to a Christmas tale.

If you click on the link provided in the title it will take you to smashwords.com which is a book distributor. At the checkout enter the coupon code LT89M and the book is free. It is my Christmas gift to those who have faithfully followed along. So, if you've ever wanted to see if my writing is up your alley, this is your chance for a freebie.

I wish you all well this holiday season and...Merry Christmas.

9066

These days in America seem to be not only highly politically charged but also socially charged. It is an ongoing battle about whose rights take precedence over other's rights. Social control over issues is no different than government control because the social issues almost always spill over into the government.

If you think that isn't the case, think about what is going on now and is played out in the news nightly. One group of far left liberals tout almost a socialization of America which in my opinion is not sought by much of the middle class. Many of the loudest voices of those policies are attempting to secure their party's presidential nomination. The other side of the political spectrum is fervently fighting against this tide.

As a rule of thumb, the liberal agenda often is absorbed by younger generations as the way to move forward. Now don't get me wrong, there are plenty of prejudices that should never have happened, such a racism and not so overtly, glass ceilings against women and other groups. Change however isn't always led by the liberal left. Societal change doesn't happen like slamming on your car's brakes and heading in the opposite direction. Societal norms evolve, that is the way the human populace works. It has since we crawled out of the primordial soup and looked around. We evolve. I can't think of an abrupt societal change that didn't lead to near chaos; Germany, Russia, China and other countries have all faced abrupt political changes in their history, many times to the detriment of its own citizens and often the rest of the world.

As you read this, who is of the mindset that "those types of changes couldn't happen here"?

If that is what you believe, if you have your head in the sand, look up 'Executive Order 9066'. It happened in this country less than one-hundred years ago. Many who read this blog likely already know what this order was and what it involved. For those who don't, think of this as a homework assignment. I'm not going to tell you, you'll have to look it up.

On the Eleventh hour

One hundred and one years ago today; "on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, the war to end all wars ended."

This to me has always been a powerful sentence. It is history for all the right and wrong reasons. This nation has almost always been shrouded on a war footing. In the long-ago days of my youth I learned the reasons for most of them. Obviously the American Revolution that began this country was to overthrow rule from a land far away. Even then this country was becoming a melting pot and we were no longer 'English'. The next was 1812, often noted as the second war of independence. Along the way were various other skirmishes, not including the Civil War. That was a dark time all of itself.

And then the War to End all Wars. It was the first global conflagration, a scale almost unheard of on a historic level. Due to our involvement America was thrust onto the world stage teetering on the brink of becoming a world power. From there the country slid back into partial obscurity. Even though our military might turned the tide in WWI, this country was not part of the prevailing power structure.

But then the unthinkable happened. World War II almost made WWI look like a skirmish. With the advancement of technology, death was delivered on an unprecedented scale to both military and civilian populations.

So, what's the point of this ramble on Veteran's Day you ask? Perhaps it is my age, perhaps it is how my views have changed on the world and how I view the leaders of this nation. There was a time when I believed there was an underlying moral purpose to these conflicts and that this nation did what it needed to do. Perhaps it is simply naivete. But now in this day and age I no longer believe we hold the moral compass for engagement in a war. They have now come about due to political expediency and the whims of our national leaders. How else do you explain the protracted military presence in the middle eastern countries? Any visceral reaction due to 9/11 is to be expected, however our stay in that part of the world should have ended long ago.

It's time we thank all those who have served and served bravely in defense of this nation and the best way to do that is to pull them back to home shores. It's time we let our economic might as a nation defend our world policy and stop needlessly putting young men and women in harm's way. Our military might should be used when this nation is directly threatened and no longer be used as an instrument to police a world half a globe away.

Going Home

There's an old saying; you can't go home again.

Well, what does that really mean? I'm sure most people think it's about moving back into your parents home or revisiting family after a long absence and expecting, or at least hoping everything would be just like it used to be. I suppose that's one way to look at it.

I'm sure there are other scenarios that come to mind for many. I also think there are those who don't want to revisit 'home' or their past lives whether it refers to family or not. Perhaps that's why home isn't a place to revisit.

For me it takes on a different aspect. I've never been one to be tied to places or things. I've lived in several houses from childhood to adulthood. All of them have been 'home', but I don't have a longing to return to a specific place. It's like things, I'm not tied to specific things or items like personal belongings or cars. I simply don't wrap my identity around the tangible world. Houses are not my home, people from my past are my home.

I don't think that has ever been driven 'home' to me more so than it has recently. Although I have long time friends from school that I haven't seen in years there are several I could sit down with and have a conversation like I saw them a week ago. But I didn't grow up around them. We lived sort of off on our own from my school friends. None of them lived in my neighborhood. There, I had another group, two specifically that were like family and in the last month or so I have had the chance to reconnect with one of them.

Billy. I haven't seen him in years. We lost track of each other at some point in high school. He went off to the closest public school and I off to the Catholic school. Recently through the magic of Facebook we have been able to reconnect. To me, even though we are older, wiser and both grandfathers, it's almost like we were never away from each other. I can still hear his infectious laugh. Back in those days there were few times we weren't around each other. We rode our bicycles all over the place. We'd ride for miles and miles away from home even into surrounding suburbs. In those days no kid would have worn a helmet and our parents 'kinda' knew where we were...sort of. We ate meals at each other's home and slept out in tents in the back yard. Gee, no mischief to get into doing that.

We are different people than we were back in those days, obviously, our childhood up to early teen years. He is a successful entrepreneur who has built his own company and lives in a big city on the east coast. I live near where I grew up and have lived a comfortable life. There is one characteristic that I haven't mentioned; Billy is a Black man and I am a White man. Guess what, we were Black and White back then too. His was the first Black family that I can remember to move into our neighborhood. That was a shock to many who lived on the block and I'm sure his family felt the sting of that reality more than he ever recounted to me.

But that single fact never affected our friendship. We were nearly brothers for those years and reconnecting with him after all this time is really the point of this ramble. Some day we will get together, I have no doubt of that and when we do I know we'll be able to pick up a conversation like we saw each other two weeks ago.

My parents are long ago deceased and I miss them dearly, but to me, that is what it means to me to go home again.

Hope springs eternal

Hope is something we all cling to for various reasons. Is it what drives us forward or just a random emotion that kicks in periodically? Is hope for you or for others? Let me tell you, it's for us all.

Tonight, a little boy with the biggest smile you ever saw did what everyone else hoped he would, hoped he could do.

Christopher; he's a little heavier than the other kids. He runs a little slower but his heart is as big as anyone's. Christopher plays little league baseball with my grandson Ragin Cage. He usually plays right field. He doesn't throw the ball very far but he's out there every practice and plays in every game. He plays football as well but his father and mother also wanted him to branch out and play other sports.

For two years now he has played baseball in the fall and in the spring. This season we are down to the last one or two games, tournament time before the boys of summer pack up their bats, stow their gloves in their packs and put them up in the garage or the basement until next year.

Every time Christopher stepped up to the plate his teammates and bystanders, coaches and former coaches held their collective breath in hopes that he would get a hit. Each time he swung and missed and each time he turned with a big smile on his face before he went to sit back down on the bench. But each time his swing got a little better. Each time his bat was a little swifter, but each time he struck out. But he kept at it, never down and never angry.

And tonight on this twenty-first day of October, this little boy of summer, this little engine with the big smile got his first hit, a rocket into the outfield that drove in two runs and pushed him all the way to second base. The diamond erupted on both sides of the field. Parents from both teams and coaches on the other side yelled and screamed and clapped for joy. His teammates stormed the field as he walked off the dirt infield and mobbed him, because they cared. They never doubted him, never doubted his heart.

In a world where we usually only hear about the negative aspects of youth sports and the stupid things their parents do, wonderful things do happen between the lines and that is what sports for little boys and girls should be.

Congratulations Christopher.

Shootout

I follow sports, multiple ones but my passion for viewing is college football. To me there is nothing like it; the rivalries, the passion, the events themselves. Although I have a favorite college team O H - I O, I can still watch games from around the country. Most hold my interest. I'd much rather watch two college teams I have no heavy connection to than most pro games.

Today, a rare Saturday off from my job and the Buckeyes having to play the notorious 'Bye' team I was able to settle in and watch the Oklahoma vs Texas Red River Shootout. The problem here is most people no longer call it that. In this world's climate of PC correctness, the RR Shootout is now called the RR Showdown. It's been call the Shootout for many years and is a fierce rivalry, so much so that before today's game even started the referees threw a penalty flag for unsportmanlike conduct on both teams...yeah, they can do that.

Somewhere in this whacked society the term shootout has become offensive to a group of people and their heightened and pathetic sensitivity has even invaded college football. I'm sorry to tell you PC people that I will never refer to it as that. Gee, you're offended...too damn bad. You have now disrespected (usually I hate that term) the life of the cowboy and the western culture. PC people want to have all cultures respected but in your zealousness to make everyone think the way you do you have now trampled on the toes of the culture that moved this country west. That's not being very inclusive, PC people. There is nothing wrong with the term shootout. It is a heritage, not something you can just wash away from history like you try to do with every other historical terms you disagree with.

College football has a history all its own, good and bad like nearly everything else. Though I root for a different team and conference, some things should be left alone. Oklahoma vs Texas football will always be the Red River Shootout.

A New Website

New website - new ideas 

robertthomasbooks.com 

Welcome to my new and redesigned website. I have recently changed hosting providers as I was unhappy with my previous company. I guess who it was doesn't really make a difference. For what I have this site for their costs were significantly higher and were increasing every year. As well, their site was constantly changing and it was difficult to navigate even for someone who has been using it for several years.

I understand they are a business and that's what they do, but they must also realize they aren't the only kids on the block. There are now many more choices than there used to be. My new hosting provider, Wix is much easier to use and for that reason alone I will likely be updating the site on a more frequent basis.

I hope you follow along on my writing journey. Drop me a note, a line or sing me a song...okay, you really don't have to sing a song but I'll take feedback on any and all my books and writings. That's how we as writers improve. Not everyone likes everything and I will take constructive criticism under consideration but I know you can't please all of the people all of the time.

Thanks for following.

Robert Thomas ... author of some note (at least to myself)

Shake it up

Times change and culture changes. There is no denying that. What we used to take for granted such as simple gestures or greetings evolve over time. Sometimes those changes can be abrupt leaving some in limbo as to how to proceed.

What the heck are you talking about Robert?

Handshakes!

Huh?

Handshakes. I grew up in a world where people shook hands. It didn't matter if you were greeting your best friend, your uncle, your aunt or the guy who carried your mail. Okay, now don't everyone get there undies in a wad since I said 'guy'. Back in the olden days women weren't 'mailmen'. Men were mailmen.

These days, I have no idea how to greet someone. Everyone seems to have a different way to do this and I have no idea who does what. Some fist bump, some hug, some shake hands and then 'bring it in', some slap hands back and forth like they're swatting at a fly and the traditional handshake is becoming a thing of the past. Now, I'm not against anyone who wants to do some of these things with people they know or who they are close to, but all these other types of contact should fall away when you are acknowledging someone you don't know very well.

I greet people routinely at my job, especially when a person is applying for a job and when I reach out to shake their hand they almost have no idea what I'm doing. I see there eyes widen and they limply reach out with a hand about as firm as a wet noodle. Sometimes it is cultural as we invite more and more people into the US from other countries. I understand their hesitancy. However the youth of this country needs to be taught again how to shake hands. It's time for the fathers of this country to undertake this challenge and bring stability back to this once, tried and true greeting.

Now, bring it in...

Worlds apart

This ramble is actually a few states in the making. Over this last week I was out of town for a work conference. It was a jaunty trip over to the Jersey coast and Atlantic City. My buddy and I drove across the great, very, very wide state of Pennsylvania. It took us through the skyrise metropolis of Philadelphia and the hustle and bustle of a huge east coast city.

I reside outside what I believe now is the fourteenth largest city in the U.S., Columbus. But although they are perhaps only five-hundred miles apart, these two cities reside in different worlds. (Had I the time I would have looked up my child-hood friend Billy Wilson whom I believe resides somewhere in that area. Just for anyone who is interested,  he has started a company named On Doc. But that ramble is for another day).

The notion of this ramble didn't come to fruition until I sat waiting for my haircut. I picked up a magazine from the rack, one of the housekeeping genre with all the good stuff coming for the autumnal equinox. That's Fall for you unenlightened. Within its pages were the recipes and crafts of the upcoming season. It dawned on my from my recent trip that many of these pages seem to be geared to the Midwestern area of the country and/or the rural vastness of this great country. I pondered what it would be like to live in a highly urbanized area of the country and have these images before me.

I wouldn't think they would strike the same chord in places like Philly, New York City or any of the other megatropolises we have scattered around the country. Pictures of pumpkins and cornstalks, bales of straw and scarecrows somehow seem to ring hollow in my mind in these mega-cities.
Perhaps it is my own naivete of the world that leads me to this conclusion. I have only lived in this part of the country and my experience reflects that viewpoint. But what else it tells me is, though we are all Americans we might as well live in different countries sometimes. Their world is not my world and vice versa. My semi-rural upbringing has different roots and different customs. Perhaps one day I will again meet my friend Mr. Wilson and we will sit down to have a beer and discuss my notions.

I hope so. Even after forty years, he is a good friend.

41

It's amazing what grabs our attention as a little child and how we think of things at a young age. As a little boy I grew up a Minnesota Vikings football fan. That's kind of strange since I live nowhere near Minnesota, being an Ohio boy and all. What is even funnier is I rarely got to see the Vikings play. You have to remember back in those days there were only three television networks (yes folks, Fox wasn't even around then) and Sundays only had two football games on TV. The CBS network here in CBUS is channel 10 and they carried the NFL later NFC games. The NBC station is channel 4 who carried AFL then AFC games. That's the way it was for many years.

Being in Ohio we saw a lot of Cleveland Browns games which is why they are likely the team I'd call my second favorite, but, somehow the Vikings grabbed hold of me. I think it must have been the purple uniforms with the horn on the helmet and a little quarterback named Fran Tarkenton that would run around for his life trying to throw a pass. In the early days I remember them playing the Packers and usually losing. The Vikings weren't very good back in the day.

But the one player that for some reason stood out to me and became my favorite was a running back named Dave Osborn. He was my football hero. He wore number 41 which is why it has always been my favorite number. As a young lad, I thought he was the greatest running back in the league.

This is where you look fondly back on your memories and Google squashes them with a heaping dose of reality. A few months ago I googled (I guess it's a verb now) Dave Osborn of the Minnesota Vikings. To my utter astonishment and amazement I learned his stats tended to classify him as nothing more than a very average running back, although he lasted twelve seasons in the NFL which is a remarkable accomplishment especially back in those days. My boyhood hero never once rushed for a thousand yards in a single season.

It's amazing looking back at our childhood through adult eyes and experiences and seeing the world how it truly was. I guess sometimes it's better to just have memories and not worry about how the world turned when you were a little boy on a Sunday afternoon in the middle of winter watching football.

41 is still my favorite number...screw you Google.

It's the weekend

Well, it's not really the weekend any longer. That ended a day ago. But then it really doesn't matter to me. It's kind of a pet peeve.

The weekend? A peeve? Sure. We've all been brainwashed, well, at least most of us. I was listening to the radio on the way home when it started again last Friday.

What? you ask.

The brainwashing. If you listen to radio or even television, primarily newscasts, as Friday closes down they always mention the coming weekend and everybody takes off from work. That's a bunch of poppycock.

For me, I've never had a job - ever - that didn't require me to work on the weekends. From when I started out as a paperboy, a job that has almost vanished, to the car wash to all my years in retail. I've worked weekends all my life. But what annoys me is the thought that most people get to kick back and have two days off for the weekend. It's a hoax, a lie, a falsehood.

So, who works weekends? Everybody. Unless someone sits behind a desk for a living there's a good chance they work the weekends unless you're retired. Think about it. I'm sure the list of working is a lot longer than those who don't. If you work in a restaurant, you work weekends. Retail? Weekends no matter how large or small the company is. Heck, even banks have hours on Saturdays in these times. Oh, and don't forget about police, firefighters, most everyone who works in a hospital, well okay, we all know that most doctors don't really work on weekends. What about those who support the weekend newscasts? Yup, them too, and anyone who works in the hospitality industry, hotels, cooks, maids, etc. I know a zoo keeper. You think she gets the weekends off? Hahahahaha...

See what I mean? The list is getting longer the more you think about it. I remember a time when gas stations were closed on Sunday. If you wanted to take a Sunday drive you better make sure you filled up the gas tank on Saturday because you weren't going to find an open one on Sunday. Yup, I remember when almost all businesses were closed on at least Sunday. But those days are gone so lets start stop with all the 'here comes the weekend' crap.

I'm not really bitter about it. There's plenty of special activities that come to life for the small amount of folk who don't work on the weekends, I just get tired of hearing about it.

Okay, maybe I am bitter... maybe.

A July sale

Welcome to the month of July. Believe it or not, the year's half over. Less than six months of shopping before Christmas...(okay, I just had to say that).

If you've never had the opportunity to read any of my books, or were just too cheap to buy them at full price, (hey, I've gotta make a living too), now is your chance to pick up the titles I write under Bob Thomas. These books are of a more contemporary nature in how they are written as opposed to my fantasy books.

For the month of July, my sci-fi Home World series books and my cold war style novel are all on sale at smashwords.com. The are all 25% off for then entire month through July 31st.

Sooooo...., time to give me a look and a read.

 The Bear

 Star Eagle Six

Ghost Fleet

 Battle Wagon 

 

No turning back

Tomorrow is a momentous day in my life; it's my birthday. Yea me! But it's a different one. Well, every one is a different one Robert, you say. True enough. But this one sticks out.

I've never been one to worry about how old I became. I actually still don't. It never bothered me when I hit my thirties, forties, fifties or even sixties. I know some people this really bothers. I have always joked that middle age is ten years older than whatever age I currently am. The flaw in that is, I'm guessing middle age isn't when one is seventy years old. At least I have outlived that joke.

I was born in the fifties, grew up in the wild sixties which was really the decade that changed much of America and continued into the next decades. That also means I've lived in two centuries, which really isn't all that common these days. I am now living one-hundred and one years after my father was born. That kind of makes your head spin. Although he has been gone now for several decades, I still remember him before his heart issues. That's generally now I remember my father.

So, what is this momentous day? Tomorrow I turn 61. Sixty years of age is now behind me. You'd think that would be more of a nerve-rattling number than 61. But for the first time I've come to the realization...there's no turning back.

Happy Birthday to me! I hope everyone else enjoys their day as I hope to enjoy mine. 60 didn't hurt so I'm guessing 61 won't either.

NIght 3 - Still on Patrol

As a much shorter story than The Dragon and The Princess, this is the last installment of Still on Patrol. I hope all who find their way to this blog enjoy the work offered on these pages. Special thanks to the men and women of our Armed Forces to whom this is dedicated.

Night 3 --

     Frey stood to his full height and began to swing his hand down again onto the console but stopped himself. He had to stay calm. That was his job. He was captain of the boat and all his men looked to him. He needed to have nerves of steel.

     “What are they gaining by this?” the captain asked himself out loud.

     “If it is the North Koreans,” Torres replied, “maybe just to see if they can. A sub lost in the middle of the Pacific without proof to the outside world it was them.”

     “An astute hypothesis Mr. Torres,” Frey said as he looked up to him. “You a student of International Studies?” he asked with a slight grin.

     “International politics actually Captain. It was my major in college.” Torres looked down at the console as the number ticked off. “Do we return fire?”

     “Thirteen-hundred feet.”

     “Rules of engagement allow it,” Frey replied. “We have to have a target though.”

     “What if we launch decoy and let them fire? That’s should give us a firing solution.”

     “The other choice is to stay quiet. We can outlast them if they’re really diesel boats,” Frey replied.  “They’ll have to snorkel in a couple days.”

     “But I don’t like sitting here like a target.”

     “Me either.” Frey picked up the mic as he looked across the console at his XO. “Torpedo room, ready a decoy. Launch to starboard in three minutes. Set to course zero-nine-zero.”

     “Torpedo room aye,” came the reply.

     “Sonar, plot a firing solution from the decoy.”

     “Sonar aye.”

Silence hung over the close space, the narrowness of the small room becoming uncomfortable as the next two minutes passed as they waited ... waited.

     “Fourteen-hundred feet.”

     “Launch decoy,” Torres announced into the mic.

     “Decoy away,” came the reply.          

     The torpedo carrying the decoy launched with low pressure so not to make a discernable noise. It carried a recording of what a Virginia class submarine would sound like. If the decoy could draw fire, they would have a target.

     “Decoy tracking to course zero-nine-zero,” sonar announced.

     “Fifteen-hundred feet.” The Officer of the Deck looked around the control room at the faces he served with. He wasn’t the only one who looked at the inner hull of the boat. The Virginia hadn’t been this deep since refit.

     “Pressurized noises aft, high speed screws, heavy cavitation off the starboard beam.”

     “Second set of screws aft Captain,” Marchi announced. “Very loud. Six thousand yards dead astern.”

     “Third boat?” Frey asked wide-eyed. “Con, emergency flank, left full rudder!”

     “Helm, emergency flank, left full rudder,” Office of the Deck ordered.

     “Second set of screws port to starboard across the line of the boat dead astern.”

     “Con, belay that order!” Frey announced.

     “Contact Alpha heavy cavitation, popping noises,” Marchi announced.

Frey watched as his sonar operator lifted his hands to the headphones clamped to his ears and gently pulled them away. The acoustic hull of the Virginia vibrated with the pressure wave that washed over the boat as Vic Marchi let his headphones come back to rest on his ears.

     “Sonar, residual noise from contact alpha?” Frey asked.

     “Only miscellaneous sounds sir. Presume contact destroyed.” Vic leaned in toward his station as he screwed his eyes shut. “Heavy cavitation port beam, eleven-thousand yards. Fading.  Sounds like contact Bravo is moving off Captain.”

     “Do we have a savior?” Torres asked.

     “No other boats in this area I’m aware of,” Frey replied. “Recommendations?”

     “Slow surface,” Torres replied.

     The next sound vibrated throughout the hull, the tone distinct and clear, a sound every man whom ever wore the dolphins on his collar knew instinctively.

     “We’ve been pinged Captain,” sonar announced.

     “I’m aware of that Mr. Marchi,” Frey replied. “Con bring us up, surface.”

     “Helm, ten degrees up bubble on the planes, all ahead one-half.”

     “Helm aye, ten degrees up bubble on the planes, all ahead one-half.”

     The next thirty minutes was agonizingly quiet within the boat as the USS Virginia began her slow rise to the majestic surface waters of the South Pacific. Stephen Frey had undergone his first live fire engagement as captain of the boat. It was something he had hoped he would never come to realize, never have to face in the real world. But his was a world of secrecy, the secrecy of a world few would ever know.

     Stephen Frey pushed the hatch open on the top of the sail climbing up into the fresh air and sunshine of the southern world. He scanned the horizon quickly catching the dark shape off in the distance, the black line cutting through the waters that rose to a submarine’s sail. It was fading into the distance, its course not aligned with his own. His XO slipped up beside him and trained his glasses on the boat.

     “There’s a number on the sail,” Torres said.

     “We don’t do that any more,” Frey noted. “They stopped doing that several years ago. What’s it say?”

     “593”.

     “Are you sure? Look again.” Torres nodded as he noted the sudden agitation of his captain.

     “Yes sir, 593,” he replied as he lowered his glasses. “Something wrong sir?”

Stephen Frey’s face went ashen as the realization of that number made his frame shiver, his body breaking out into a cold sweat as he watched the boat in the distance slide silently back beneath the waves of the warm Pacific.

     “Mr. Torres, do you understand the phrase ‘eternal patrol’?”

     “I’ve heard of it Captain. Why?” Torres looked out at the sail of the distant object sank below the waves. “Whose boat is that?”

     “That number belongs to only one boat,” Frey replied as he looked somberly back out to sea... USS Thresher.”

In April 1963 the US Navy submarine USS Thresher

was lost at sea with all hands. She is considered

still on patrol by the Navy

Dedicated to those men who never made it home

 And are on Eternal Patrol

Special thanks to former Petty Officer James E. Walker

USS Sea Devil (SSN-664) - United States Navy

For his expertise on this subject

Still on Patrol © Robert Thomas 2019

Still on Patrol - night 2

Welcome to night two of the short story Still on Patrol. This is a different type of story than most who may have followed my writings are used to. It is a present day military story set aboard a United States submarine. This story will wrap up in another night or two. I hope you enjoy the passage for this evening.

Night 2 --

     Frey looked up to his XO with a frown. “Sonar, what do you have?”

     They could feel the vibration in the water as the torpedo exploded one-hundred yards to starboard aft quarter.

     “That was too close,” Torres said.

     “Nothing Captain. Towed array shows nothing.”

     “Run a diagnostic as quickly as possible.”

     “It was fully functional at sea trial,” Torres commented.

     “I’m aware of that,” Frey replied. “We wouldn’t have put to sea if it wasn’t.”

Torres stepped back letting his captain have full access to the console. He’d misspoke wanting to have something to say.

     “Captain, all sonar systems seem to be functioning to specs,” the operator announced. “Still no signal to detect.”

     “How is that possible,” Frey muttered to himself.

     “Whoever this is, they may have been waiting for us.”

     “That’s a distinct possibility Commander. I can’t believe we wouldn’t have heard something, anything.”

     “Do was have any analysis of the torpedo?” Torres asked.

     “Washing it through the computer now sir.” It took only seconds before Torres had a reply.              “Computer has it as a Russian 111 torpedo.”

     “Russian!” Torres said. “Damn.”

     “Contact aft. Eight-thousand yards,” sonar called out.

     “Designate Alpha,” Frey ordered. “Signature?”

     “Just a low hum so far Captain. Then it cut out.” The sonar operator looked up toward the center of the boat. “Nothing now,” he replied as he pressed his hands against his headphones again. “Wait ... hum again. Very low frequency.” He looked up again. “Captain, this isn’t coming from the same direction. Port beam, approximately ten-thousand yards.”

     “Is that firm?”

     “No sir,” Ensign Vic Marchi replied. “It was only there for a couple seconds. I need a longer signal to dial it in.”

     “Two boats. Damn.” Frey looked up to his Exec. “Options.”

     “We move dead slow Captain. The pulse drive will have no cavitation noise for them, whoever they are to draw in on. Right now, we’re as big a hole in the water as they are.”

     “And they’ve shown their hand,” Frey replied.

     “Have they?” Torres looked directly at his commanding officer. “Sir, we don’t know that there are only two. We’re guessing.”

     “Point taken.” Frey turned back to the sonar operator. “Run your acoustic signature through the computer.”

     “Already done Captain. Nothing firm but best guess is Russian diesel boats. Not enough to guess at a classification.”

     “They could be boats sold off to China or worse, Korea,” Torres said.

     “A distinct possibility with the current state of affairs above the water,” Frey replied. “I have a hard time thinking Russia would just lay in wait to ambush a boat. They’ve got nothing to gain.  Now North Korea, yeah. They’re just crazy enough to do that.”

     “How would they even know where we were?”

     “A leak, Mr. Torres. Remember, this isn’t a military mission. There are all kinds of ways this thing could have leaked out to someone we aren’t friendly with.”

     Frey looked around the control room of his boat. This was the first time his command had come under live fire. Everything else had been drills; so called live fire events that really weren’t live fire. You couldn’t risk a 2.4 billion dollar piece of equipment with an accident. The tension was thick. He could see the small drops of sweat running down the faces of nearly everyone within view; except his XO.

     “We go down,” Frey announced. “Con, ahead dead slow. Take her down easy. No noise. Make your depth fifteen hundred feet.”

     “Con aye,” came the reply. He could see his officer swallow hard. “Helm, ahead dead slow. Making depth for fifteen-hundred feet.”

     “Steer for heading one-five degrees.”

     “Steering for heading zero-one-five degrees aye.”

     “If they don’t read us we’ll be able to slip directly away from them,” Torres said.

     “If they don’t hear us Mr. Torres,” his captain replied. “If they don’t hear us.”

     “Popping noises aft Captain,” Marchi announced.

     “That’s odd,” Frey said as he looked to his XO. “Distance.”

     “Nine-thousand yards.”

     “Either they don’t think we’re still here or they have an older boat,” Torres said.

     “I wouldn’t make the assumption we weren’t here if I just fired on someone.” Frey turned back toward the sonar station. “Anything on contact Bravo?”

     “Nothing sir.”

     “Eight-hundred feet,” the Officer of the Deck called. “Coming up on heading zero-one-five degrees.”

     “Heavy cavitation! High speed screws aft!” Marchi yelled.

     “Full speed,” Frey called. “Left full rudder.”

     “Nine hundred feet.”

     “Screws are coming nowhere near us Captain.”

     “Damn!” Frey yelled as he slammed his fist on the console. “They needed us to let them know where we were and I walked right into it.” His face reddened with a menacing scowl.

     “High speed screws in the water starboard. Five-thousand yards.”

     “Ready counter measures. Launch at fifteen-hundred yards,” Torres ordered.

     “Counter measures aye,” came the reply.

     “Steady on turn,” Frey announced. “Come to new heading two-seven-zero degrees. He looked over his crew again. Gone were the initial jitters he recognized when an action first begins. His crew was settling into the jobs. Jobs they’ve been training for years to do.

     “One-thousand feet,” came the call.

     “Inbound screws at fifteen-hundred yards,” Marchi called out.

     “Torpedo room,” Torres said loudly into the mic, “launch noisemakers.”

     “Eleven-hundred feet.”

     “Right full rudder,” Frey called.

     “Right full rudder aye.”

     “Screws fading away, passing aft seven-hundred yards.”

     “Thank you Mr. Marchi,” Frey said. “Con, come to dead slow, continue decent. Make your heading three-six-zero degrees.”

     “Twelve-hundred feet.”

     “All ahead dead slow,” the Officer of the Deck announced. “Steering to heading three-six-zero degrees.”

     “Making ourselves a hole in the water again sir?” Torres asked.

     “We are.”

We'll do this again

If you've been following along recently you (hopefully) read over a series of seven nights a fantasy short story I wrote in the past month. I enjoyed doing that so much I thought I would post another short story I wrote earlier this year.

This one is quite different however. It is present day military. The title is 'Still On Patrol'. This one is a little shorter than The Dragon and The Princess so it may not take as many nights to put up, but here is tonight's first installment.

Still On Patrol

     “Dive, make your depth six-hundred feet. Helm, all ahead one-third.”

     “Six hundred feet, aye.  Five degree down bubble. Make depth for six-hundred feet. All ahead one-third.”

     “Five degree down bubble, all ahead one-third.” came the reply.

     Captain Stephen Frey leaned in over his command screen and scanned the data rolling up. He watched the display as the electronics on his Virginia class sub continued to change according to his orders. He could feel the boat change attitude as they passed five-hundred feet. Most wouldn’t notice, but he’d been doing this quite a while. He looked at the chronometer overhead; 18:05. At that moment his XO stepped into the control room.”

     “You’re late Commander,” he said.

     “Sorry sir, my stomach’s been acting up. Not feeling so well.”

     “You able to skipper my boat?”

     “I’m up to it sir. Stopped by to see the doc,” Lieutenant Commander Eugene Torres replied. “He gave me something to quiet it down.”

     “Boat level at six-hundred feet,” said the Office of the Deck.

Torres stepped inside the control room and looked down on the screen his captain was again studying. He was new to the boat and needed to make a good impression on his captain.

     “We’re a little deeper than normal as we come up on the abyssal plain we’re to study.”

     “Isn’t it rather odd that a naval attack boat is on a scientific mission?”

     “Not these days,” Frey replied. “It helps to cover the costs of these boats. We’re a bit expensive in some people’s minds.”

     “I understand.” Torres leaned in over the charts and began evaluating their position. “What are these notations here, here, and here?”

     “We’ll be dropping some new sensors developed by Woods Hole to study the subduction zone against the continental shelf. They’ll hit bottom about eleven-thousand feet.” He looked up to his XO with a serious face. “I’ve no desire to test the crush depth specs of this boat, if you know what I mean.”

     “Understood sir,” Torres replied with a slight grin. He wasn’t sure how to read his new captain just yet.

     “Signal me when we get ready to deploy the sensors.”

     “Aye sir,” Torres replied as he watched his captain step out of the control room.

The first officer of the USS Virginia, the first vessel of her class, looked about the control room. He was new to this boat, this crew. He met the gaze of one or two but they casually turned back to their stations. He checked the distance to the first scheduled drop. It would be another three hours. He pulled up the coordinates from the last surfaced GPS readings. They were on course for the initial rise of the continental shelf where the Indonesian archipelago began, a hotbed of volcanic activity where the Australian continental plate slipped beneath. It was generally considered the southern-most point of the Rim of Fire, the volcanic zone that rings the shores of the Pacific Ocean.

     The next hour passed without fanfare, only the routine chatter among the crew, the normal comings and goings of life aboard a submarine. Torres skimmed through the routine orders of the day and generally paced back and forth. Command at this level was different than what he was used to. Other tasks about a submerged boat gave you a focus. Being over everyone else wasn’t focus, at least to him.

     The Virginia being the first of her class had recently undergone a refit. She received upgraded electronics to her bow sonar systems and a slight redesign of the pulse propulsion system along with routine maintenance. This was her first deployment out of the refit trials.

     “High speed screws in the water! Three thousand yards.”

     “What!” The announcement caught Torres off guard. “Emergency flank speed!” he yelled. “Left full rudder. Blow ballast. Ten degrees up bubble.”

He listened as the commands were repeated through the Officer of the Deck and echoed from his helmsman. He could feel the sudden change in the boat. Everyone could. He stabbed at the com button and yelled.

     “Captain to the bridge. Captain to the bridge.” He finished his last word when Stephen Frey came running through the hatch. “Con, mark the time.”

     “What’s going on with my boat Commander?”

     “High speed screws in the water aft,” repeated the helmsman. “Distance now twelve-hundred yards.”

     “Deploy countermeasures. Launch noisemakers,” Frey ordered.

They could hear the compression as the decoys launched. Frey looked down and watched as the numbers rolled up his screen.

     “Four-hundred feet and rising,” came the call.

     “Put it over the speakers,” Frey ordered, and just like they were in a World War II movie they could hear the sonar sounds echoing through the boat.

     “Five hundred yards,” sonar announced. “Object is veering toward starboard decoy.”

     “Trace back the firing line,” Frey ordered. “Con, all stop.”

     “Con aye. Helm, all stop.”

     “All stop,” helm replied.

     “All quiet on the boat.”