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Authors: David Poyer

BOOK: The Passage
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Williams took a breath, but he was wound up now, not hesitating anymore. “OPSPEC-four-eleven sets the protocols for the handoff. That's maybe where the screwup is. Something in there is scrambling the data.”
“Great,” Dan said, hoping to cut to the chase. “Can we get it running? Or do we need to ship it back and stay with Version Two till they fix this one? We've got to have everything up by next week.” That was when they were going to test-fire the guns and missiles.
“Well, sir, it's like this … .”
He spent several minutes trying to pry the bottom line out of Williams and Dawson, but they were still going in circles when the 1MC said, “Lieutenant Lenson, Lieutenant(jg) Deshowits.” Mainhardt punched buttons into the phone and held it out. “Quarterdeck,” said a voice over the clatter of a needle gun.
“Lieutenant Lenson, you just passed the word for me. What's up?”
“XO wants you an' Mr. De Shits—I mean Deshowits—in his stateroom, sir.”
“Got it.” He rattled the phone down. “Okay, stay on it. If it looks like something serious, let Mr. Harper know we need to start screaming.”
“Aye aye, sir,” they muttered, already reabsorbed.
Dan turned back from the doorway. “Where's Sanderling?”
“Captain's stateroom.”
“What's he doing up there?”
“Fixing the entertainment system.”
“Yeah, sure … been a lot of trouble with the captain's stereo lately,” said Williams, blinking with reddened eyes at a printout as it chattered out.
 
 
HIM and Deshowits in the XO's stateroom … Dan wondered as he rattled down the ladder why Vysotsky needed both of them at the same time. Only thing he could think of that he and the damage control assistant had in common was they both had beards. Outside Vysotsky's stateroom, a petty officer was tagging out an emergency power panel. Dan stopped to make sure the OOD had signed the tag-out. Deshowits came around the corner and Dan tapped on the door. “Come in,” came Vysotsky's gravelly baritone. Then, as they stepped inside, he said, “Uh, give me another minute with this. Have a squat on the settee.”
George Vysotsky was medium height, with a squarish head and blond hair that stuck up in back for a day or two after a haircut. He had full lips, strong white teeth, strong-looking hands with golden hair on the backs. Right now, he had reading glasses on. His broad shoulders hunched over the desk as he rapidly scanned down the unit manning document, making corrections and insertions in #2 pencil. While they waited, Dan looked at the swords racked over the doorway. The bottom one was a standard Navy dress sword. The others were older, one a saber with a broad nicked-up blade, the other with a basket-style hand guard.
“How'd the audit go?” Vysotsky asked him, not looking up from the roster. His voice was hoarse, as if his vocal cords had been damaged. Occasionally, Dan had noticed him massaging his throat after he spoke.
“Nothing new, sir.”
“No rabbits in the hat?”
Dan shook his head. “They're talking about some kind of suit. Sipple left a house and some insurance, apparently. The auditor said they were going after his wife.”
“Be tough on Jerrie … but if he misappropriated funds …” Vysotsky pulled a stamp out of his desk, stamped the roster, and pushed it into his out box, then leaned back like a gun going into battery. “How about the CMS inspection?”
“Classified materials, that's Felipe's department, sir. The comm officer, Mr. Van Cleef.”
“Mark, how's that lagging job going?”
“Bulkhead's done. Two days' work left on the lines.”
“We be ready to steam next week?”
“Steam, sir? We'll give you something a lot better.”
Vysotsky grinned back but looked tired. That seemed to be all
the time he had for pleasantries, because he bent forward again—to his in box, from which he extracted a message. While Lenson was reading the headers, the XO said, “You've both already seen it—the one about beards.”
“I haven't seen this.”
“Beards, sir? No, sir,” said Deshowits. Vysotsky looked displeased but just said, “I told Radio to slot you copies. Bottom line is, those beards are history.”
Dan said, surprised, “It's regulation, sir. Trimmed and everything.”
“There's a revision to uniform regs coming down the pike. The new CNO's cutting out a lot of the stuff Zumwalt let go by. Part of that, he's banning beards aboard combatant ships.”
“On what grounds, sir?” said Deshowits.
“The message sets out the reasons, Mark. Uniform appearance, adherence to tradition, and you can't get a proper seal on oxygen-breathing apparatus or gas masks.”
Dan said,
“Beards
aren't traditional, sir?”
“A clean-cut appearance is traditional,” said Vysotsky patiently.
“Sir, I don't want to step out of line, but whoever said that had better go back and look at Farragut and Porter.”
Vysotsky sighed.
“Well, that's secondary, sir. I just don't think the Navy's necessarily got the right to tell me how to do everything. Isn't that what we're on duty for—to defend freedom?”
He felt the ridiculousness of the words even as he said them. Vysotsky wasn't interested in arguing; he just wanted them to shave. And sure enough, he didn't bother to answer. He just cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Deshowits? Any comments from your side of the settee?”
“On the mask issue, sir. I went through fire fighting last month and I've been to chemical, bacteriological, radiological school. I never had any problem getting a seal.”
“That it?” The XO slammed his chair down. “Okay, I heard you out. Blowing off steam is all well and good, but there's no point arguing. You want to haggle about tradition, how about the tradition of a cheery aye aye?”
Dan found himself getting mad. It wasn't so much the beard—he hadn't had it that long—but so far he hadn't heard anything like a reason. Just that an order was an order. Maybe that was good enough at the Academy, and he'd obeyed as fast and unreflectingly as the next guy there. But a few years in the fleet had changed his mind about blind obedience. He tried a joke. “Well, we're kind of attached to them, sir. And I'm as cheery as the next guy, but this is a little sudden.”
“You sound like a sorehead right now, Dan.” Vysotsky glanced at the swords. “Let me tell you a story.
“My grandfather was in the Tsar's Navy. But one day, the fleet mutinied. He came this close to getting shot by his own crew. He picked the wrong side when the civil war came, fought with Kolchak, and when the Whites lost, he never could go back home.
“We had to make it here. And we did, but it hasn't been easy. I was at comm school, and one day the head honcho from Schools Command is reading the roster. Suddenly, his eyes get big. He says, ‘Why are we teaching a Russian?' and he sends the master-at-arms to pull me out of class. I had to be twice as good as the guy in the next seat whose name was Smith. Understand what I'm saying?”
“Well, I certainly do, sir,” said Deshowits.
“Maybe you do at that … . Dan?”
“Uh, I understand about your name, sir. But I'm not sure what the point is that you wanted to make.”
“The point, Dan, is that the Navy is not an organization that exists to dispense perfect justice. We all have to live with that fact. Okay? Think of it like an egg.”
“An egg, sir?” said Deshowits, sounding interested. Or maybe, Dan saw, he was leading the XO on, flicking the cape in front of him. Whichever, Vysotsky nodded and said, “Yeah. We're the hard shell. Inside, it's soft. But if there wasn't a shell, the guts would run out.
“When you join the Navy, you give up certain rights other Americans take for granted—what to do, what to say. And what you look like, damn it: uniform and grooming. But we go along with it to protect the rest of America.”
“We have to have clean chins to protect America?” said Dan, but not loudly enough to stop the XO, who was still going. “The Navy gives us security and opportunity. But it's a trade-off. You want to express your individuality, this is not the place. The service is going to a more professional image. So beards are out. End of message.”
Deshowits spoke up. He explained calmly that he had no problem with that reasoning but that he was also responsible to another, higher authority. “I have to choose between obeying orders and the dictates of my religion. Do you remember our yarmulke discussion, sir?”
Vysotsky looked uncomfortable. “Uh, yeah, I remember that … . The message doesn't say anything about exemptions … . I'll have to get back to you on that.” He switched blue eyes to Dan. “You got a religious problem, too?”
“No, sir,” he said, swallowing his suspicion that there was no reason, that it was arbitrary and meaningless. It didn't matter what
he knew or how well he could do his job. What mattered was whether he scraped his chin with a piece of steel every morning.
Vysotsky said hoarsely, “Okay, we've had our little discussion. You've got three days to comply. You have people working for you; pass the word to them, too. Clean shaves on USS
Barrett.
Mark, I'll get back to you on your question.”
Bitter at heart, he slammed the door on the way out, knowing Vysotsky would remember it, but not caring. Christ, he thought. What a petty, asinine two-bit order. What a petty, asinine organization.
Suddenly, he needed a drink.
Thirty Miles North of Charleston
“
A
CCURIZED that baby myself. National Match barrel, handlapped to the muzzle bushing; recoil buffer; Bo-Mar sights; hand-tuned trigger,” Harper said as Dan wrapped his hand around the grips of the .45 Colt automatic.
The blast rolled back from the pines of the Francis Marion National Forest. “Not bad,” said Harper, bending to a spotting scope. The chief warrant was in civvies today—a khaki bush jacket with shoulder tabs, twill pants, shooting glasses. “You're flinching, though. Go on, fire off the clip. I brought plenty of ammo.”
“Thanks, once is enough.” Dan laid it gingerly on the shooting bench, massaging his hand as Harper showed him the next gun.
“Now, this is an AK-forty-seven, Chinese-made. We can't fire it full auto, not with these rangers around.”
“Isn't that illegal? Where'd you get that?”
“Took it off a dead gook. I was walking down this trail and there he was. I got a long piece of bamboo and poked him. Then I went through his pockets. Then I took out my Ka-Bar and cut his nuts off.”
“You cut his—Why?”
“To eat,” said Harper, then threw back his head and cackled. “Joke, shipmate. I bought it off a guy when we put in to Saigon, delivering helos.”
Dan cleared his throat and looked away, around him. The morning sun fell through the pines and glittered off hundreds of spent cartridges littering the ground. Saturday morning, and the first thing Harper wanted to do was hop into his red jeep and go shooting.
No doubt about it, the chief warrant was a marksman. The .45 automatic was notoriously hard to handle, but he'd put six rounds offhand into the black bull's-eye. “Out of practice,” Harper had said,
pulling the punctured target down and stapling another up. “The National Match, Camp Perry, I was chewing the guts out of Tommy Ten-ring.”
“Where'd you learn to shoot like that?”
“On the Navy-Marine Corps Pistol Team. Would have gone to the Olympics, but fucking Carter pulled us. Can you believe it? The one time Jim boy stands up to the Reds, and who has to pay? The people who trained for years to beat 'em. What a clown.”
“You like Reagan, huh?”
“Ronnie's a politician, too. There's not a lot of difference, just what brand name.”
“So what are you?”
“A libertarian. There's only one person knows what's best for you.”
“Your mother?”
“Funny.
Yourself
, shipmate. The government's not going to solve our problems. What can government do? Only two things: redistribute wealth or take away rights. Right?”
“I guess.”
“So they do. The fucking Democrats got the welfare sluts and all the fucking liberal bureaucrats standing around with their hands out. The Republicans, their fat-cat banker buddies are three deep at the trough. And funny, no matter who's running things, the government keeps getting bigger. I think government is the problem.” He held up the rifle. “Mao Tse-tung: ‘Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.' A fucking Commie, but on that he was right on the money. They take these away from us, God help America.”
“The range is clear,” someone yelled, and Dan stood back as Harper slapped in a magazine and the pop and roar swelled into a rolling rumble of gunfire as sand dust and pine needles spurted off the embankments.
 
 
WHEN they were through, Harper suggested they stop at his house on the way to the marina. They pulled off at the Mount Pleasant exit, and a few miles on left the pavement for a gravel drive that wound toward a brick ranch. Water glittered beyond dogwood and forsythia. The garage door was up; a Triumph and a late-model wagon were parked inside. Harper braked and swung down. “Hungry? Let's grab a sandwich. Maybe see what game's on.”
“What are all these flowers, Chief Warrant?”
“Red salvia, uh, coneflowers, I think—the pink and white in the shade, that's impatiens. You into flowers?”
“Not really, but they're pretty.”
“Yeah. Bonnie does that,” Harper said, unlocking the door and holding it for him.
The living room had a big fieldstone fireplace with glass doors. “Hell of a place,” Dan said, looking around.
“Four percent VA mortgage. I borrowed everything I could. Wasn't hard to figure where inflation was going after Vietnam. Plus, I don't know if I told you, I own a bar in Subic and one in San Diego. Bought 'em when I was stationed there. Bonnie! Come on out here. This is my department head, Dan Lenson.”
“Pleased to meet you.” The heavy woman in the apron was carrying a tray with beer and pretzels. Harper waved at armchairs in front of the TV and Dan let himself down as Mrs. Harper set out the glasses. Harper went through several channels till he found a game. “Hey, get the girls down here, meet Mr. Lenson,” he said to his wife. She left, and Dan heard her calling. A few minutes later, she ushered in two quiet, pretty teenagers. “Emily, Shannon, Mr. Lenson works with me on the ship,” Harper said.
They smiled and said hello politely. Harper let them each have a sip from his beer, then patted their behinds. “Okay, now let the men watch some ball, okay?”
Dan watched them go. “You got two well-behaved kids there.” “Bonnie's done okay, considering how much I been gone. She's turned kind of sloppy, though. Doesn't take care of herself. Hey! How about fixin' us something to eat, sandwiches or something?”
“BLTs, Jay?”
“Yeah, that's good. Pack some chips and stuff. The lieutenant and me are going out for a sail.”
“Are you coming, Mrs. Harper?”
“Naw, she's no good on a boat … . I took her diving once. Got her the tank and regulator and everything. And she got twenty feet down before she figured out she forgot to turn her air on. Is that stupid or what?”
Dan felt uncomfortable. Harper talked as if his wife wasn't ten feet away, in the kitchen, where as far as he could tell, she could hear every word. To change the subject, he said, “This is a beautiful house.”
“I'd like deeper water, but it's okay. I sure couldn't afford it now, I'll tell you that.”
“You've been in Charleston how long?”
“Three tours. They offered me a job in D.C., but I turned it down.” Harper shrugged. “I'll retire out of here. Do some serious sailing then. Hey!
Oki-san, touchi-ne!
”
As his wife brought another drink, Dan felt envious. Harper had a nice house, polite daughters; nothing flashy, but it was a home. Maybe he didn't treat his wife very well, but at least she was here.
Harper hoisted himself out of the chair. “You done? Had enough? Let's di-di out of here and do some sailing.”
 
 
HARPER kept his boat at the base. They stopped at the beverage store, then pulled into the marina. “There she is,” Harper said.
Dan looked out over the jostling rows of sailboats and motor cruisers. He couldn't see which one Harper meant, but it was a beautiful day, clear and sunny, with a good wind. Engines rumbled as a sportfisherman slid away from the ramp. He pulled a case of Bud out of the back, tucked it under one arm, grabbed a ten-pound block of ice with the other—his shoulder was okay, unless he reached above his head—and followed Harper's slouch down the pier to a kelly green-hulled yawl. The chief warrant looked around as if searching for someone, then hauled in on a bow line. As the boat rolled to his weight, two heads showed at the companionway.
“Come on, come on, they won't bite.” Harper waved him aboard. “This here's Big Mary, and this is Little Mary. Girls, Dan works with me on the ship. Hell, he
lives
on the damn ship. Had to pry him off like a damn barnacle.”
Big Mary was a green-eyed blonde with skin like old leather from too much time in the sun. Older than Dan would usually stare at, but she was built. Little Mary was Filipina, small and slim and brown. They were in bikinis and thongs, both smoking, and they'd helped themselves, apparently, to whatever liquor was aboard; he smelled rum and coconut suntan lotion. Suddenly, they both pulled out guns. They squirted him and then each other, laughing and scuffling in the cockpit.
Harper hadn't said anything about women. Dan felt embarrassed, tried not to stare. He looked at the boat instead—not new, but she seemed well-maintained. He put a hand on the boom. It was a solid, heavy light-colored wood under the varnish.
“Sitka spruce, that boom.” Ice crashed as Harper, down below, threw it into the icebox. “You like her?”
“What is it?”
“Alberg. Thirty-five-footer.”
“What's the hull? Wood?”
“Fuck no, fiberglass. All bronze fittings, though. Stainless rigging. Lead keel.”
“Buy her new?”
“I don't buy much new stuff, Hoss. You can get a lot of used boat for not too much, and the nice thing is, taxes are next to nothing.” A whine came from below their feet, then the engine fired, sending a puff of black smoke milling over the pier. “I reengined her, brand-new Westerbeke—now I got a boat that'd cost you a hundred grand
new. Okay, I'm in command now, Lieutenant. Hands off those girls! Get forward and cast us off.”
 
 
HARPER motored them out into an easterly wind, then gave Dan the tiller. He unfurled the jib and sheeted the main tight. When they came right, the boat heeled and began slicing her way through the water. “Cut the engine,” he yelled from the bow, and Dan was still groping when Big Mary reached between his legs and did it for him. The sudden quiet was a shock. He leaned back, holding the sun-warmed wood of the tiller while one by one the piers slipped past.
“There's
Barrett.
” She looked different from seaward. Already her paint looked slightly faded. Faint lines bled down from her scuppers. He'd always thought of her as new, but he suddenly realized she wouldn't always be. One day, she'd be as old as
Ryan
, that last cruise … .
“Cut in toward her,” Harper said, coming back from where he'd been making up lines, and Dan put the tiller over. As they went by, they waved to the men on deck. They were looking disconsolately out over the water, the duty section. One raised a finger.
“Where to?”
“Wherever you want, Mr. L. We could head for Fort Sumter, maybe duck out to sea for an hour or two.”
“Sounds good to me, Chief Warrant.”
“Hell, call me Jay. Long as we're on the boat.”
“Okay, Jay.”
“Is he senior to you, Jay? I thought you told everybody what to do aboard your ship.”
“We work together,” Dan told Big Mary.
Harper took the tiller, and for a while the only sounds were the cries of seabirds and an occasional flutter from the sails. Dan put his arm over his eyes. The sun came bright through his skin, red and warm. Then he felt a hand on his leg. “Want a cigarette?” said Little Mary. She shook out a match and flicked it overboard.
“No thanks.”
“I like your beard.”
“Feast your eyes, babe. That chin fuzz is going the way of the dodo.” Harper chortled.
“What does he mean?”
“I have to shave it off. Just got the word.” Resentment stirred beneath the sun sleepiness. “Can you believe it? It's ‘unmilitary.'”
“That's too bad. I like it,” said Little Mary, petting it.
“They don't. And they own me, not you.”
“I don't wear one, but I know how you feel.” Harper's voice came
from the red warmth. “I mean, when you join up, you realize you might have to put your life on the line some day. I saw my friends fuck up and die. But that's not enough; they got to unload chickenshit on you, too.
“Way I figure it, you can't expect loyalty from an organization, any organization. Ask the guys it owes the most … poor bastards stuck in the VA hospitals … ask them.”
Dan said, “It's not a big deal, but damn it, if you don't happy happy aye aye first time you hear it, you're some kind of disgruntled asshole.”
“That's the Navy—rigid adherence to the cosmetic bullshit, and no attention to the important stuff.”
“What important stuff?”
“The really important stuff. Like, you heard about this strategy, where all the carriers go up to Norway, right down the Russkies' throats. What's it called—”
“The Maritime Strategy.”
“Right. Right. Crazy as hell.”
“It makes sense to me. Bottle up their subs north of the Greenland-Iceland-UK Gap—”

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