Nacho broke the silence he had maintained since Pablo mentioned his search for officials.
“I may know someone you might want to meet. And this is the second time I’ve said that to someone about your new project,” smiled the second of the Marzán brothers.
Nacho’s silence wasn’t because he was enjoying his Cruzcampo or because of the scenery. He had been deciding whether or not to introduce his candidate to Pablo. Not because he wasn’t suitable, Nacho was sure that he was the best he could find, but exactly because he was so good he might steal the spotlight from his brother as far as being the captain of Albatros. And he knew that although he was excited about the project, Pablo couldn’t help thinking about commanding that ship. He knew it because he would feel the same way, and Javi would too.
For his part, Pablo suppressed leaping for joy. A possible candidate this soon was more than he had ever expected.
“Who is it?” he asked.
Nacho sighed. There was no turning back.
“His name is Gabi Huesca Perez,” and that’s all he said. He knew Javi would finish the story.
“Is that the number one from your class at the academy that just got fired because the ship he was commanding was grounded?” the eldest of the brothers asked.
Nacho was right, the Navy was a great little family and everyone knew each other.
“One and the same. I just came from the trial in Madrid. The verdict said something to the effect that it’s not his fault but as he was the commander he is responsible.”
He said no more. The comment was not intended as criticism. Everyone knew you didn’t delegate responsibility. A commanding officer is fully responsible for everything that happens.
Nacho continued, “Apparently it was night. He was sleeping. His Executive Officer3 was on duty and drove the boat into a rock. The breach was so great that they almost sank right then and there. And they’re saying there’s no way to fix it. It’s unbelievable! He told me that as soon as he took command he knew that Lieutenant Junior Grade was useless. But it’s like everything. You can’t do anything about it, but if something happens it’s your fault.”
Pablo didn’t interrupt. He knew full well how hard it was for Nacho to see something happen to a colleague knowing that the same could happen to him at any time. What’s more, he remembered Gabi, Nacho and him were great friends. The fact of having fought for being number one in class for five years at the Naval School had not affected a great friendship.
“Anyway,” continued Nacho, “he’s obviously out of work now. But he has been in command although it was cut short. Also, he’s been in Somalia a couple of times on board Castilla and Alvaro de Bazan if I’m not mistaken.”
“Sounds perfect,” Pablo said. And his expression showed that he too realized Gabi could become a rival. “Do you think he’ll like the project?”
“I don’t know,” Nacho said. “He’s going through a tough time. It depends on how I present it. But let me tell you, he’s the best of the best. I don’t know anyone better than he is, besides Javi.”
The oldest of the three bowed his head feeling somewhere between grateful and embarrassed.
“I’ve also heard very good things about him, though we have never met.”
Pablo had already made a decision. As incredible as it seemed (he had even surprised himself), he had come to the conclusion that if Gabi was better than him, then he should be the captain. And if he wasn’t, then by Nacho’s description, he would make the perfect right-hand man.
“Give me his number.”
#
The next morning, Pablo was driving his VW Golf along the road to Rota. There had been an idea running through his head for the last couple of days. And the day before, he had talked about it to his brothers. After thinking it over and weighing pros and cons, they had encouraged him to try it.
That was why he was going to Grease’s Auto Repair Shop in the town of Rota. The owner, Thomas “Grease” Johnson had been a senior chief (non commissioned officer) mechanic in the US Navy who had retired early at 45 to set up a garage next to the neighboring Rota Naval Base.
The Texan was in love with Spain, and his knowledge of Spanish (as spoken in Texas and some parts of Florida) together with his expertise in engines had turned his workshop into a favorite of Americans on the Base and half the people in Rota.
Pablo had met him while Grease was practicing his other hobby, sailing. No one would have thought that a Texan who loved spark plugs and pistons would be so passionate about a sport that used none of those things. But Pablo knew very few trimmers as good as he was.
Fate had wanted them to be part of the same racing crew for three years and Pablo wanted to exploit that relationship to make the Yankee an unexpected offer.
He had no doubt Grease was the right man to be Albatros’ chief engineer. But even if he knew how to navigate perfectly, the American had no title that allowed him to act as deck officer on a ship of those characteristics. However, he had decided to take it one step at a time. He would solve the deck officers issue later. For now, getting a good chief engineer was essential.
While Pablo parked the car he thought he was having too much luck to try to push it. Someday it would have to end.
With a pull of the parking brake, he erased the bad omens in his mind and got out of the car. When he was a few feet from the shop, a middle-aged man with brown hair, large but not fat, medium height with light skin and eyes and a small mustache under a small nose came in and greeted him with a slight American accent.
“Hey, Pablo. What are you doing here? Is there something wrong with your little car?” he said looking at his VW Golf.
Like most Texans, he was a lover of big cars and, even after all his years in Europe, he continued to make fun of compact cars.
“Huh? No, my car is fine.”
Grease looked puzzled as he shook Pablo’s hand.
“So what brings you here?”
Pablo looked at the bar across the road.
“I’ll buy you a beer.”
“Can’t say no to that,” Grease said.
The two crossed the street under the scorching sun and on entering the bar Pablo went to a secluded table where they could have some privacy. The waiter approached them.
“What can I get for you, gentlemen?” The waiter asked with a strong Andalusian accent.
“Two beers please,” Pablo said, and turning to Grease he asked, “How’s business?”
“It’s going well man, I’m making a profit on the expansion from last year, more and more people come. In fact, I already have six employees.”
“You’ve become quite the businessman!”
“Actually I never dreamed I would do so well,” Grease said. “If I had known it was going to be this good I would have left the Navy long before.”
Pablo began to fear that his plan was ruined.
“Are you telling me you don’t miss sailing?”
Grease looked at him carefully. After a few seconds, it seemed he decided that Pablo would fit within that small circle of comrades to whom he could make a personal confession, although perhaps it was more professional than personal. But that’s the magic of being a seaman, the bonds with your mates, even if you didn’t know them that well.
“I’m