Choices

'As long as there are destructive forces in the world, as long as there are secrets of nature to be probed, there'll be work for us…'*

They were home. As they got closer to Santa Barbara the lightening of Crane's demeanour had stopped, then reversed. He retreated into a darkening quietness that bordered on silence. Something weighty seemed to be pressing on his mind. When he was in the nose he appeared preoccupied and distracted, later sinking into melancholy. Then he stopped coming to the nose at all. Those who went to his cabin taking food, checking on him, saw only a grey-faced, hollow-cheeked, dull-eyed shell of the Skipper.

Lee sat at his desk. The same questions raced around his mind constantly. Could he in honesty stay as captain of Seaview when he couldn't answer those questions?

He did it this once, didn't talk under torture, or so the men thought. But he didn't do it; it was luck, the luck of a mistaken assumption. He could only have done it because they never asked him. Once they brought out that chain they would have had all the talk he could give them — if they had asked him. He knew he would have told them. He didn't deserve this tender care from his friends and his crew. Their pride in him was misplaced.

His body was healing, there would be lasting scars, but if faced with a similar situation could he take that again? Could he stall under torture to give his men time? A chance? And if he could, would he? When whatever choice he made couldn't save his life, would he just give away whatever the enemy wanted to get a quick death and leave the consequences to the living?

What was the point of it anyway? Someone wanted revenge, someone wanted access to missiles; his life was just a blip on the radar of hate, international intrigue, and politics. His life or his death meant nothing to those who pulled the strings. Did his life matter at all; or his life's work, for that matter? And that question always lead to Farrell.

Farrell? Knowing now his worthlessness, his inadequacies, how had he ever had the gall to let Farrell die? That man had trusted him to speak and save his life but he hadn't. He and Nelson had made a swift silent agreement to keep silence, but he had made no agreement with Farrell. He had held that man's life in his hands and let it slip away. Not slip, splatter against the wall. How had he gained the imperious arrogance to usurp that man's right to life? How had he assumed supremacy to decide that the theoretical many outweighed the actual one? That guilt was as deep and eternal as the ocean itself.

The guilt was overwhelming, but most humiliating of all; he had failed the Admiral, his best friend. That failure haunted him, taunted him so mockingly he could barely look at his friend, the man that in his heart he called a brother. How could the Admiral see anything in him but that failure? He had failed there on so many levels that he didn't know who he was anymore. That was another unanswerable question. Who am I — now?

If he couldn't find answers, reasons to carry on, then he would be doing the men of Seaview a disservice to stay in command. They trusted their Skipper to make the right choices, the hard choices, the choices that saved them or killed them. Could he? But Seaview was his boat, captaining her that one job in a million, that privilege beyond compare. It would rip him even more to leave her. He couldn't eat, sleep, think. His mind wouldn't stop asking the questions.

In light of the Skipper's declining status the Admiral had made a return trip to the Institute by flying sub the day before they were due in port. He hadn't been able to convince the staff there by radio that a big welcoming wasn't welcome, would actually be detrimental. He felt compelled to fly in ahead of time to ensure a calm, undemonstrative homecoming.

When he got back and informed Lee of the expected docking time Lee had nodded, all he said was, "Thanks, Admiral." Crane never asked why he made the trip. Preoccupied as he was he really didn't care enough to ask. All he could think of was stepping ashore from his boat not knowing if he would board her again. Torn apart.

Now they were home, Seaview in her berth. Lee was getting ready to disembark. His uniform, put on for this homecoming, hung loosely on his gaunt frame. He was dreading this arrival at the Nelson Institute almost as much as another round with Messer. He cringed at the thought of meeting all the well-meaning, chatty, and curious staff. He shrank anticipating greetings, questions, and small talk. He couldn't find reasons to talk to his closest friends anymore and now he must run this gauntlet. He just wanted to be home. But home was a vacant apartment.

The Captain came down the spiral stairs to the nose. The Admiral was waiting there. Facing each other with all the uncertainty and irresolution floating between them neither found anything to say. Never explicitly stated, both knew what was in doubt and at stake.

Nelson's haunted eyes asked for reassurance. Crane's compressed lips, and bowstring taut tension didn't give it. Not knowing was shredding the Admiral. Lee was wracked with guilt; he was hurting the Admiral even now. Nelson's questioning glance into his Captain's eyes was probing but brief. Lee's pained eyes didn't give an answer. Neither knew.

Then a heart-wrenching choreography of missed steps was danced. In his familiar mannerism when troubled, Nelson shifted awkwardly putting a hand in his pocket, the other rubbing his chin. At that very moment Lee, uncharacteristically on this casual boat of back slaps, tentatively put out his hand to shake the Admiral's. Nelson looking at it hesitated, afraid it was a confirmation of the unwanted. Lee, scourged by that hesitation, in acute embarrassment quickly withdrew his hand ducking his head and averting his eyes, not seeing the Admiral belatedly putting his hand forward as he turned away. Nelson dropped his hand in regret. He was just too late.

Before he was gone, before it really was too late, Nelson found something to say, "Lee." Crane stopped frozen as Nelson spoke to his ramrod straight back. "Seaview will be waiting for you. That is, if you still want her."

Crane, flinching to this brine, closed his eyes with a stifled gasp of suffering. A moment passed, he let out his pent up breath, blinked his eyes open. Walked away.

Too little, too late, Nelson with a twisted look of pain feared he had just made things much worse.

The Skipper's eyes swept over Riley as he turned toward the ladder and the keen, eager, confident, and hopeful look of that young man at the start of his career burned on his retinas, the stark contrast to his own hopeless defeat adding to the misery. He started his climb to the deck with Kowalski and Patterson going behind and before.

The Admiral was remaining aboard for a while to tuck Seaview in. Nelson couldn't face watching Lee step ashore when he didn't know if there would be a returning. As Crane disappeared up the ladder Nelson and Chip exchanged a look.

Morton in his quiet, forthright manner asked, "What are the odds, do you think, that he will be back?"

With a discouraged look Nelson shook his head, "I'm afraid it's about 40:60 at best." There was a pause as both men contemplated that unknown. "I don't understand. He is strong. We all watched him take on Hendley with an empty gun. He seemed to be doing well for a while. There's just something … " Nelson stopped. He couldn't fathom it, how that strength, determination, endurance, and immutable concern for his crew could be so far adrift as to be lost at sea. He was loath to admit that despite their efforts they had lost their Captain.

After a moment of solemn reflection he continued, "There won't be any hero's welcome for either of you at the Institute today. I made sure of that. I had to smooth a lot of ruffled feathers yesterday as they had plans already in the works. I'm sorry, Chip that you won't get your share in that, you deserve it, your Slip is the talk of the town there."

"Don't apologize, sir. I understand. If anyone deserves one though, Lee does."

"Yes, but I don't think he sees it that way."

Before Lee went silent, Nelson and Morton had both had conversations with him. Confidential ones that they couldn't share so they would never compare notes, but their eyes met in understanding. Where they, and all the crew, saw integrity and valour unbelievable strength of will, Lee, full of self-doubt, saw failure and ignominy.

Morton nodded in agreement, "No, I don't think he does."

They had just expressed their own opinions and understood they could not say more; Lee's confidences were sacred. They had done their best for him and gotten him on the road to recovery but they could only help him so far along that way. Ashore, at this abrupt narrowing of the path, they couldn't walk abreast. Only Lee, solitary now, could carry on, push through the torment on his own.

"I'm sure there are several people who will still want to talk with him. I don't think he is really up to that. Do what you can to keep this from tipping the scales the wrong way, Chip." Nelson, unsettled at this inconclusive end to the mission, fidgeted and impatiently shushed Chip with his hands, "Off you go."

"Aye, sir."

Chip climbed the ladder to catch up to the Captain on deck.

Nelson looked around the control room then turned back to the plot table, bracing himself with two hands, his head dropping. The Seaview bereft of her Captain seemed suddenly a sad and lonely place. The Chief and Riley, part of the skeleton duty watch, saw his defeated body language with waning hope. They had all witnessed the Skipper's retreat into silence the closer they got home and didn't understand it.

On deck Captain Crane waited for Chip steadying himself with one hand on the metal plates of the sail. He felt the warmth of the sun on his face, the kiss of the breeze on his cheek, breathed deeply of the fresh salt air. Everyday sensations made sweet by life in a submarine. With Mr. Morton's arrival on deck it was time to go. Crane looked up at the sail, face set like stone, and with a brisk nod gave the plates a couple of pats, his fingertips lingering on the sail as if in a parting caress. Then his hand dropped, he turned away toward the waiting gangway. Behind him Morton, Kowalski, and Patterson exchanged worried, questioning looks. Had Captain Crane just said au revoir or goodbye to Seaview?

The salutes as Captain Crane disembarked were crisper, more deliberate and heartfelt than was usual for the crew of the Seaview under Crane's relaxed command style.

Chip accompanied Lee to the Institute offices to process his leave papers. Nelson had arranged to streamline the process as much as possible so Lee could get home. Chip took his responsibility to see Lee through this unscathed very seriously.

As they went down a corridor, Katie who had contrived a reason to be on this spot at this moment, approached from the other direction. "Here are our heroes! Lee! How nice to see you! You're far too thin, Lee. We'll need to fatten you up a bit. Good to see you too, Chip. It sounds like you might go down in history for your submarine manoeuvring."

Chip had often wondered about Lee and Katie. Katie was powerful, assured, and dynamic, very much an equal match for a man of command like Lee. He had heard the two of them exchange very sharp-witted, suggestive, and lively banter at different times. Lee greeted her with a brief smile, uncomfortable and unsure of himself. Chip glancing worriedly at his friend made sure that after some further pleasantries they carried on. Lee looked like most of the grit he had summoned up to get through this day with had just been sanded away. Katie looked after them quizzically, that wasn't the Lee she knew.

The radio shack lay on the way to the Personnel Department and Tish saw them as they went by. Tish Sweetly was one of the Institute's radio operators, a young lady who really lived up to her name, sweet and lovely. She rushed forward to hug them both. She gushed as she sometimes did. She had been so worried about Seaview when it disappeared, so upset to hear that Lee was injured, was proud of Chip for his manoeuvre, asked how he had done it, told them she loved them both. Chip saw only polite smiles from Lee who shuffled his feet, holding his cover in front of himself with both hands a bit like a shield. Lee was suddenly exhausted once again, face drained of all colour. He couldn't wait to get out of here. He'd had enough. Chip shepherded him along.

The Personnel Department were ready for him, kind, matter-of-fact, dispassionate, and prompt. Nelson had made his expectations well known to the staff there and they saw to it that this process wasn't overly demanding on Lee's now obviously fading stamina. Chip was grateful now for Nelson's trip home yesterday.

Finally, after they finished up in Personnel and headed to Nelson's office to drop off the resulting paperwork, they bumped into Miss Hale. She was professional, competent, efficient and no-nonsense at work, but capable of some teasing banter in the right social moment.

With Lee so grey and ragged at his side, Chip in an instinctive movement of protection, unconsciously stepped slightly forward as shield to take the brunt of whatever social interaction might come next.

Miss Hale looked them both up and down, immediately taking in and understanding much without needing anything explained.

Then something happened, Miss Hale made a choice with lasting impact. A quiet courtesy was extended and in response to that simple kindness somewhere deep inside the overthrown Captain the debilitating shame, dejection, and worthlessness shifted.

The all-consuming, and detracting sense of failure moved to someplace where it could and would ultimately be dealt with and integrated into the new whole; a glaze on the bisque.

With no expectation other than making a wounded, obviously discomfited man feel less singled out and uncomfortable, Miss Hale, intuitively wise in this critical moment, and recognizing that desperate times called for desperate measures, ignored the usual conventions and intentionally greeted Morton first, honouring his role as breakwater for his Captain. Requiring nothing from either of them she very professionally extended her hand to shake Chip's. "It's good to see you, Mr. Morton. I'm glad you are back safe. It's nice to speak in person instead of by radio." Only then had she turned to Lee to extend her hand, and speak very matter-of-factly, acknowledging his current state, asking no questions, expecting no answers or social niceties in response. "Welcome home, Captain Crane. I hear you have been in the wars lately. I wish you a complete recovery."

Although he never found the words to reply, while standing there in silence, in a fizzing jolt of insight he found the reasons to carry on. The protection of innocent lives, like those of Miss Hale and Miss Sweetly, so they could live in peace and contentment, so young people like Riley had bright futures to look forward to, gave meaning to all the trials. Inside Captain Crane the indecision, the doubt, and the insecurity exposed by adversity, those unwelcome interlopers shook hands with the strength that never left. It was a meeting not a melding but the first hurdle was crossed.

Lee took her extended hand and suddenly, unwittingly found himself holding Lola's hand just a bit longer than strictly necessary. The persistent, background tensions of his body and mind relaxed for the first time in weeks. As he nodded his thanks, unexpectedly, right here at the Nelson Institute, he found he was home.

ooOoo

* Eleven Days to Zero