The Next Best Thing

INTRODUCTION

’If only I knew then what I know now.’ How many times have you heard that expression? How many times have you said it yourself? Well Cobber, I have come upon the next best thing. Why don’t you pour yourself a good healthy drink and I’ll tell you the damnedest story you ever heard.

THE BEGINNING

I did just that. And for the next hour I listened, dumbfounded, as my two dearest friends described how they were about to transfer his intelligence, his life experience they called it, to a living clone and how she was almost certainly a space alien.

You’re shittin’ me. Right? I said, but knowing Chris and Abra as I did I knew they weren’t joking. We talked well into the night and agreed to pick up the conversation in the morning. Since I was staying at The Complex for a few days during a plant shutdown it was all very convenient. They planned it that way, I realized as I walked to the guest suite. That’s why they wanted me here alone, to tell me this facockta story.

The Complex, as we called it, was a combination ultra high tech production laboratory and living quarters that my company had built for Chris’ company in the middle of nowhere. We had joked about the property centerline coordinates falling exactly on the cen-terline coordinates of Nowhere. How the hell did a short fat kid from South Philly ever get involved in this, I thought? I laid back on the bed staring at the ceiling and tried to piece things together.

Best to start at the beginning, I said out loud. Jesus save me, I’m talking to myself, out loud again. The effects of the evening’s conversation and the three doubles I drank were taking their toll on my mind.

I thought back to my first meeting with Christian Stevenson almost five years ago. His company: CSI, had awarded my company: Steco, a contract to design and build The Complex. This was the most ambitious undertaking in Steco’s five-year history. We pulled out all the stops to get this job and turned in a bid of sixty-five million dollars, Guaranteed Maximum Price (GMP). That included engineering, design and construction. We were all more then a little nervous about our bid, but we had done our homework and the potential to make a huge profit was usually accompanied by the potential for a huge loss. In this case though the huge loss part could wipe us out. GMP meant just that. No matter what the final cost, as long as the client made no changes, we could charge no more to meet the original contract requirements.

My partner and I arrived at the CSI computer plant for the contract award meeting and Chris met us in the parking lot. I recognized him as he walked toward us from a picture I had seen in a magazine article. Otherwise I would have never guessed that this guy, dressed in khakis and a sport shirt, was the mysterious mega millionaire computer genius who had built an empire.

The magazine write-up had described him as being a youthful, lanky, free spirit. They seemed to have gotten that right. He looked to be about six feet tall or so and could have easily passed for ten years younger then his published age. His slightly tousled blond hair hid the gray nicely, even close up. He had friendly blue eyes and his easy smile gave him an open, approachable appearance. He looked like a regular guy. I introduced myself, only slightly awkwardly.

He stuck out his hand and said, Christian Stevenson, please call me Chris. I’m really glad to finally meet you, Stephen. I can’t tell you how happy I am that Steco won the contract award.

I’m very glad to meet you, Chris. I’m also very happy that Steco won the award.

We laughed and I instantly liked Chris and knew that we would become good friends. In fact I felt like we already were friends. I introduced him to Stephen Jr. This is my senior partner and chief engineer, my son Steve.

They shook hands and Chris said, I am very impressed with your section of the contract proposal on voltage regulation, Chief. I understand you are the inventor of the constant wave regulator. Very, very impressive.

His genuine admiration of my son’s achievement in an extremely complex field and the fact that he addressed him as Chief endeared him to me at once.

Stephen and Steve, huh, Chris said, catching on immediately. Is that the way you keep the distinction between your same names?

I never liked the J-R, Steve said. This kind of evolved during my childhood.

Chris chuckled his approval and put his arms around our shoulders. Okay Stephen and Steve, come on inside and let’s get the papers signed. As we walked he looked at me and said, After the formalities let’s have lunch and get shitfaced. What do you say, Cobber?

Cobber? That took me by surprise. No one had called me that since my submarine days. It was a term that meant Dear and special friend, and although it was an Australian word I had never heard it used outside the Navy. Maybe he calls everyone cobber, I thought.

The contract signing went off without a hitch. Both sets of lawyers, his and ours, had dotted all the I’s and crossed all the T’s days beforehand. This was more a formality than anything else. Although Chris’ partner was not present, all the documents were properly pre-signed by her and in good order. He made her apologies to us explaining that she was out of the country on business.

After the signing ceremony, Steve excused himself and brought our copy of the contract back to Steco. I knew there would be Champagne corks popping in our offices upon his return.

Chris and I did indeed have lunch and get shitfaced. He took me to his favorite in-town lunch restaurant, as he called it, for the occasion.

He couldn’t wait to tell me what he had learned during the security check on my company. Chris’ outfit, CSI, was very secretive. No one even knew for sure what the letters CSI actually stood for. We guessed it meant Christian Stevenson Incorporated or Industries or something like that but, no one knew for sure. Anyway, in order to be allowed to bid on the contract all contractors had to submit to a thorough background and security check. The contractor to win the award would be further investigated and each member of the project team would have to sign binding security agreements with CSI. There were further stringent requirements regarding the security of the work place. Steco had no problem with any of it. That gave us another edge on the competition. Two of the five bidders, the biggest two, declined to bid because of it.

The restaurant was clean and functional and vaguely familiar looking. It took me a moment to realize that it was fashioned after a submarine’s mess hall, but on a bigger more commercial scale. The walls were decorated with Submarine Service Memorabilia and the ship’s seals of several famous World War II submarines.

We were greeted by a hostess who obviously recognized him. She and Chris exchanged pleasantries during which he nodded to a corner booth well away from the other people in the restaurant. It didn’t escape me that, with one slight gesture, Chris had indicated where he wanted to sit and she was only too happy to accommodate him. I got the distinct impression that Chris was used to getting exactly what he wanted.

Let me order for both of us, Okay Cobber? Chris said, as we sat down in the booth he had selected. He didn’t wait for a reply. Two submariner specials, he said to a waitress who had appeared as if by magic, and, two doubles to start us off.

Guess who was born in the Saint Agnes Hospital on the afternoon of February sixth, Nineteen forty-one? Chris asked with a smile, after the waitress retreated. "And guess who graduated Submarine school in

October of fifty-nine? Again he didn’t wait for a reply, You and me, Cobber."

Chris told me that the detailed information on my background check was reviewed by his partner and himself after they selected Steco for the project. He stressed the word after. This coincidence had nothing to do with their selection. They were astounded at the similarities in our pasts. We were born around the same hour, in the same hospital.

Our Moms were in labor together for heaven’s sake, Chris said as the drinks arrived. We toasted the old days and as I sipped my drink I tasted the unmistakable flavor of Chivas Royal Salute. Either he knew this was my favorite Scotch or he had taken a really lucky guess, I thought. I learned later that this was the only kind of Scotch he would ever drink.

Chris was excited as he continued his story. He lived just a few blocks northwest of my boyhood home. We lived on either side of a school district boundary; otherwise we would have gone to the same schools as well.

We exchanged stories of the old neighborhood and discovered that we had several mutual acquaintances. Lunch arrived and it was another nostalgic moment. A petit filet mignon with a strip of bacon wrapped around its edge, a baked potato and a green salad. I hadn’t seen a filet prepared that way since my days in the submarine service, or, on the boats, as submariners fondly referred to their service.

Do you remember when we used to eat like this Cobber? he asked, genuinely satisfied with his selection.

I began to eat with some trepidation. My family had all but given up red meat years ago. Now was not the time to be disagreeable, I thought. Besides that Chris seemed so delighted I didn’t want to offend him.

I only eat beef once a quarter or so, and this is where I do it. The chef here is a retired chief cook off the boats. Actually he owns the place. His menu is right out of the submarine force mess manual, Chris said, as he dug into his meal.

We spent the afternoon there talking, laughing and drinking. Our conversation drifted from the old neighborhood to our days on submarines. We traded sea stories and discovered that each of us was very proud of being there at the beginning of the Nuclear Navy. And we concluded by giving each other the short version of how we got to where we were today.

CHRIS

Chris’ tale was considerably more heart wrenching then mine. He was a, 9901, in the Navy. A billet offered to exceptionally talented electronics types that carried a six-year commitment price tag. Three of those years being spent in various electronics, nuclear power and submarine schools almost insured a Chief Petty Officer’s hat by the end of the hitch. This made most 9901’s lifers and earned them the nickname Ninety-nine-oh-fuckin’-one’s by envious shipmates. I’d rather have a sister in a whore house then a 9901 for a brother was an often-heard put-down in the fleet. Anybody with half a brain could figure out that a 9901 would rise to senior rank very quickly in the Navy. And one who didn’t stay in the Navy would be a very valuable commodity in civilian life. Hence the good-natured jealousy.

When it was time for Chris to go to sea, at the beginning of his fourth year of service, he selected Pearl Harbor as his homeport. After attending five of the toughest schools in the Navy in places like Idaho Falls, Idaho; New London, Connecticut; and Great Lakes, Michigan the thought of a sub out of Pearl was too much to pass up. He was chomping at the bit to be a deep-water sailor and as luck would have it the Navy assigned him to the newest boat in the Pacific Fleet.

A nuclear sub is the very cutting edge of technology. Back then we were really just beginning to comprehend the potential of the combination of electronics, computers and nuclear power. Chris was a natural. He was one of those people who actually understood what he was doing. He absorbed everything and in a short time he began to help develop new and better ways of doing things. Chris was one of the most respected men on the boats out of Pearl. He was truly in his element.

He rose in rank as quickly as the rules of the Navy permitted. Each step in the Petty Officer ranking system required a minimum amount of time spent in your present rank, successful completion of certain prescribed courses, demonstrations of practical proficiency and finally the dreaded fleet wide written examination. The Navy would only promote as many people as it needed in each category. If it only needed one hundred first class electronics technicians, for instance, it would only promote the people with the top one hundred scores. Those people would get rated. They would be elevated in rank. The rest would be passed over and have to retake the exam the next time it was offered. While most of us who passed the exams had to sweat out waiting to find out if we would get rated, Chris passed each examination with such outrageously high scores there was never any question of the promotion coming through.

At the same time he was rising through the enlisted ranks, he set a record becoming qualified in submarines. This procedure required each new crewmember to learn every system on the boat to such an extent that you could successfully operate it, literally, with your eyes closed. As each system was successfully mastered you would demonstrate your newfound skills to a senior member of the group in charge of that particular system. Progress would be painstakingly recorded on your qualification card. The senior man would sign the card and you would move on to the next system.

Everyone in the submarine service was required to qualify, even the cooks. The idea was, if a number of people were killed or disabled in combat, their jobs could be carried out by any other crewmember enabling the sub to continue its mission. Most people take about nine months to qualify. It takes the same amount of time for a good man to earn his dolphins as it takes a good woman to have a baby. We heard that quote more then once while we were busting our asses learning everything there was to know about our ships. All of this was going on while we were working twelve-hour days seven days a week at sea doing our regular shipboard jobs.

We longed for the day the thirty some lines on the card would be filled with signatures and we would walk through the boat with an officer, selected by the captain, to prove our competence. I remember my qualifying officer putting his hand over a valve handle, only one of seven or eight hundred such devices on the ship, and asking me whether it was open or closed. It was open. And what would happen if he closed it. That kind of detailed knowledge was the level of intimacy required of a qualified submariner. That’s one of the reasons the Navy holds submarine qualification in such high esteem and requires the twin dolphin emblem be worn above all other awards on a submariner’s uniform. It even adds the designator SS, Submarine Service, to his rank.

The award of the dolphins also meant an easing of endless studying and a little more free time aboard. Most submarines set a time limit of one year to qualify. Chris did it in four months.

He had indeed passed the Chief Petty Officer’s exam on his first try and decided that the Navy was what he wanted. He had reenlisted for another four years to the delight of his Captain, his Squadron Commander and the Navy in general. He used part of his reenlistment bonus to treat his parents to a Hawaiian Vacation. He had only seen them once in the three years he was stationed in Pearl and he couldn’t think of a better way to spend his money then to share it with them. His parents planned to meet him in Honolulu the day his promotion to Chief became effective. It coincided with the return of his sub to Pearl.

This would be like a second honeymoon for them but more importantly they would be with their only child on his day of days.

The Chief Petty Officer’s uniform is distinctly different from the traditional Navy enlisted man’s uniform; most notably the white sailor’s hat is replaced by an officer’s type cap. In that respect it identifies the wearer as being very special. It is something everyone in the Navy respects and all enlisted men aspire to. To earn the hat, represents reaching the top, achieving a very serious goal.

Every Chief in the Navy can tell you a story relating to the first time they wore their new uniform. Chris’ story broke my heart.

Their plane went down over the Rockies. He said it quietly, reverently, almost whispering. I could feel the sadness radiating from him. They never even made it to the West Coast.

There were no survivors of the plane crash. The bodies of Chris’ parents were eventually recovered and sent to Philly for interment. Chris didn’t wear his new uniform until the day of their funeral.

"I wanted to somehow show them the respect they deserved. I felt responsible for what happened, Cobber. Even today when I think of them I feel a little pang of guilt. I know that’s irrational but I’ve learned to live with it.

Anyway, I went a little crazy. We were very rich in friends but had no family. No brothers or sisters or anything. My parents’ best friend, my Godfather, was the executor of their will. I went back to Pearl the day after the funeral leaving all the details to him. I told him to do what he thought best with the house, insurance and so fourth and fled as fast as I could. My life seemed empty and meaningless at that point. I felt disconnected. The thought of being an orphan, even at that age, hit me like a ton of bricks. It took me a long time to come to grips with myself. The sadness was out of his voice now. After another patrol, I knew I had had it with sea duty. I had lost the edge. The thought of another sixty days under water drove me even crazier then I already was. So, I applied for shore duty.

In a rare expression of compassion the Navy agreed that Chris could best serve in another capacity. He was sent to San Diego and bummed around doing whatever job they could find for him until he was reassigned to computer school in Bainbridge, Maryland.

Bainbridge, Cobber, can you imagine, he said with a laugh. I didn’t know what the hell the computer school was all about and I didn’t give a damn. I was going to Bainbridge, land of the Wave boot camp.

All the young women who joined the Navy did their basic training in Bainbridge, Maryland. To be stationed there was a sailor’s fantasy. For a young, good looking Chief Petty Officer wearing Dolphins it was like an endless porno film.

"The computer school was the Navy’s way of keeping ahead of technology. This was definitely a pivotal point in my life. I took to computers like a duck takes to water. Between learning everything there was to know about computers, women and sex and with the passage of time, I was able to finally get past loosing my mom and dad. I spent a year there and the Navy sent me to Langley to work with Naval Intelligence. I left just in time too, because the base commander was really pissed at me. It seems that I had developed somewhat of