The Passage (17 page)

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Authors: David Poyer

BOOK: The Passage
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“I don't want to piss in your milk, my friends,” said the sarcastic voice, “but even if you build a boat without the police or the CDR getting suspicious and sail it away without anyone seeing you, you are still only on the
bahía.
Beyond that are the cays. How will you cross them without the security forces seeing you? And beyond that are the border guards and then the maritime guard. Only past them all is the sea, and then you will need a second boat, for you can not carry the first one across solid land.”
“These cays, they are islands, no? That means there must be a way through them by water, no?”
“But who among us knows it?”
“Your cousin's right. We'll need a map.”
“There are many things we'll need. Food, water, a compass. How would we make a boat go? Sails? Oars?”
“There are motors in the warehouse,” said a voice. “The Russian ones, for the pumps. They're shit, but perhaps one could be fixed to drive a boat.”
“We should have a sail, too.”
“This is all a dream, a fantasy,” said the unhappy voice.
“It's not a fantasy,” said Graciela. In the dark, it didn't seem out of place to speak up, even if she was a woman. She felt the child stir again under her heart, and somehow that gave her courage. She could not bring another life into this place. “It's true: We may not make it. We may die. But is this living, without food, without hope? We've been slaves too long. I say we have to leave while there is still breath in our bodies.”
“She's right,” came the strong, deep voice. “You know there's no other way. So let's agree now to try, and set a date, too.”
“Why?”
“I learned in the army if there's no date, there won't ever be a plan. I propose the twenty-sixth of July.”
Scattered laughter from the dark. It was the most famous date on the revolutionary calendar, the day Castro's forces had attacked the fortress of Santiago. “Why then,
chico
?” the sarcastic one asked.
“It's the holiday. Everybody off work, drinking and dancing in Alcorcón. That's the time to go.”
“Wait. Wait,” said the frightened voice. “You're going too fast.
This is dangerous. What if they find out what we're doing? We can all go to prison.”
“Things can happen on the sea, too,” someone else put in.
“Yes, yes. I don't think it's a good plan, and I don't agree with it,” said the frightened voice.
“That's fine with us if you don't want to go, but you have to keep quiet. Understand? You have to swear.”
“That's not enough,” Graciela said.
“Yes, sister? Speak up.”
She said loudly, “It's not enough to have that person swear. We all have to swear—not only not to talk but to kill any
chivato
who goes to Colon or the police. Even if he's our brother, cousin, father—the machete. One by one, we must give our names and swear it, by the Virgin or by Ochún, and by our blood.”
Tomás's shadow loomed as he stood. “
Sí
.
Es verdad
. We'll swear that we will never tell who met here or what we're planning, and that we'll kill any informer, no matter who. After that, those who do not want to go to Miami with us can go home. Everyone understand? I'll swear first. I, Tomás Guzman Arredondo, swear to this by the Virgin, by the blue goddess, and by my own blood: And should I break this oath, I ask you to kill me swiftly, as I will no longer be worthy to be called a man. Now you, to my right.”
The next man's voice cracked, but he coughed and spat and then spoke out. Beneath the palms, beneath the flickering shadows chased by the racing moon, they spoke on, man after man, woman after woman, old and young, some in a mutter, others loud and angry. And in the end, even the frightened voice added after the oath, “I, too, will go. I can't stay here if you all leave. What would they do to me then?”
“There. It's done,” Tomás's deep voice said slowly, heavily. “
Y que el Señor nos proteja
—and may God help us all.”
U.S. Naval Base, Charleston
“
N
OW station the special sea and anchor detail. Make all preparations for getting under way,” said the 1MC.
“Fog, damn it.”
“I hate this fucking river.”
Dan rubbed his hands on his trousers as he half-listened to the enlisted men behind him. They were getting under way this morning for the test shoot, and it was foggy as hell. Well, at least he hadn't been worrying about it for days. Vysotsky had only mentioned it at breakfast, as in “Oh, by the way, you'll be taking her out today, Dan.”
He liked shiphandling, but he wasn't used to the river, and he wasn't used to handling
Barrett
yet, either. She was a lot bigger than the destroyers and frigates he'd learned on.
Moving his mind on, he looked down at the forecastle, where men scurried in the mist, getting the lines ready to take in. White tendrils blew between the vertical arms of the missile launcher. He could make out the bullnose, but past that, milky haze curtained the river. Not as thick as the Arctic-he remembered times he couldn't see
Ryan
's forward gun—but heavy enough that he couldn't make out the channel buoy a hundred yards off the pier. Fortunately, this was a low-key under-way-no brass bands, no families. If the tests went well, they'd be back in tomorrow night.
Behind him, the bosun piped, “Attention,” then announced, “Damage control petty officers check the setting of material condition Yoke. Make Yoke reports to the boatswain's mate on the bridge.” Dan glanced up at the alert console above him, then around at the gradually filling bridge. With a new wardroom, the senior lieutenants carried the burden of sea and anchor details. Ed Horseheads, the junior officer of the deck, was finishing the checklist. The talkers were hooking their phones over their ears, faking the cords
to run clear. Just then Dave Cannon, the navigator, touched his shoulder. “Dan. Papa Jack's here.”
He turned to salute a heavyset older man. “Good morning, sir. Lieutenant Lenson.”
“Will you be conning her, Lieutenant?”
“That's right, sir.”
He hung on every word as the pilot began explaining the courses they'd steer. The pilot would advise him if he was standing into danger, but the responsibility for any mistake or accident was still the ship's.
And Charleston was the toughest channel on the East Coast, so narrow and shallow a dredge worked 360 days a year to keep it open. The river wound like a corkscrew, with a tidal current that clipped along at up to eleven knots, though usually it was more like six. If it caught you broadside, you were helpless; you'd just have to spin around as you were swept downstream, praying you didn't hit anything before you headed fair again. Two months before, the captain, OOD, and navigator of a nuclear sub had been relieved for going aground off Shutes Folly Island. They'd been only twenty yards outside the channel.
An unfamiliar face distracted his attention: pale, round, with gold-rimmed glasses. “Who's that?” Dan asked Horseheads.
“Name's Lohmeyer, sir. He's fresh off an amphib.”
“What's he doing here?”
“He's Deshowits's replacement.”
“His
replacement?
What happened to Mark?”
“They're holding him ashore for out-processing. Wouldn't shave off his beard, what I heard.”
Dan rubbed his own chin, torn between anger and awe at the speed and ruthlessness of the Navy's response to what it perceived as insubordination. They'd obviously done a one-for-one ethnic swap to avoid the appearance of being anti-Jewish. “That's not gonna help us at Gitmo, having a brand-new damage control officer.”
The boatswain said into a microphone, “The following is a test of the general, chemical, and collision alarms from the bridge. Disregard.” He pressed colored switches one after the other, sending an assortment of bongs, blips, and wheeps through the ship, then announced, “Test complete. Regard all further alarms.”
Papa Jack put a tobacco-stained finger on the chart. “Watch this left turn off Drum Island. The bar's creeping farther out every year. Got a current behind you going out. We wait too long on that, we'll be in trouble.” He fixed Dan with a gimlet eye. “Sure you want to get under way now? Can't wait till she clears?”
“All the services are scheduled,” Vysotsky said, behind Dan. “We pretty much have to get out there now, yeah.”
“Okay … but I tell you it's time to get your rudder over, best not be occupied with anything else.”
“I understand, Captain,” Dan said. You addressed pilots as “Captain,” which led occasionally to confusion at critical times. He studied Cannon's penciled courses on the chart: twelve different courses and turns.
“Captain's on the bridge.” Leighty returned a general salute to everyone and swung himself up into the starboard-side chair reserved for the commanding officer. He adjusted his cap carefully, peering into the window. Dan wondered if he was judging the fog or just admiring his reflection. Then he was swung back by voices clamoring for attention, acknowledgment.
“Draft report, sir. Thirty-four feet, two inches forward.” Horseheads: “Yoke is set throughout the ship, sir. All preparations completed for getting under way. Bridge, CIC, and nav detail are fully manned. Forecastle and fantail report ready to get under way.”
“Who's on the fantail?”
“Lieutenant Kessler.”
“Sir, you have bridge-to-bridge on the walkie-talkie, charged and tested.”
“Main Control reports ready to answer all bells.”
He said “Very well,” told Horseheads to test the rudder and lee helm, and took another deep breath. No point getting nervous, he told himself. This was just another evolution. He glanced toward Leighty. The captain was leaning back, reading his morning traffic. He looked relaxed. It was his head, too, if Dan dicked up, but he didn't look worried. That's my problem, Dan thought. I don't have any fucking confidence.
“Now all hands to quarters for leaving port.”
“Combat, Bridge: how's traffic look in the channel?”
“Two small contacts downriver. Upriver is clear.”
Dan saluted Leighty. “Sir, we're ready to get under way.” “Let's go.”
“Mr. Lenson?” He turned, to find Sanderling at his elbow, holding out a chit. “Sir, yeoman said if you could sign this before we cast off, he could get it in today's mailbag.”
“Get out of here, Sanderling! Get off the bridge!” He stared after the seaman, then forcibly erased him from his mind. He looked around one last time, at the captain, the pilot, the fog French-kissing the windows. Then took a deep breath. “Take in lines two, three, four, and five,” he said. “All engines, back one-third.”
 
 
HE had a few anxious moments getting
Barrett
away from the pier. The current pinned her against it broadside. He had to spring the bow out by hauling in on the stern line and pivoting her on a camel, a wooden float, between her and the pier before giving a standard ahead bell. She responded faster than he'd expected, shooting out into the channel. Then he had to stop nine thousand tons of rapidly moving ship before she went into the mud on the far side. By the time he got her headed fair, his shirt was soaked. He'd trained on steam-powered ships, where it took time for a command to take effect. Not only did
Barrett'
s gas turbines respond faster but she had controllable-pitch screws. The shafts rotated at a constant speed, and you simply changed the pitch to vary the thrust or back down. You could go from full ahead to full astern in seconds. He knew that, but his shiphandling reflexes hadn't adapted yet.
But what that also meant, he told himself, was that they had the maneuverability and power to get out of just about any jam—as long as he could see … .
The fog thinned as they approached the Patriot's Point bridge, but just to keep the pucker factor constant, river traffic picked up. The horn of a ship casting off sounded from starboard. The pilot pulled out a portable radio. He called the freighter, telling him to hug the west side of the channel for a two-whistle passage. He wanted
Barrett
farther to port, but Dan kept thinking, Yeah, and what if there's a trawler or something else small coming upriver; he doesn't have a pilot and he won't paint on the radar, either? Sweat trickled down his back.
So far, though, they had enough visibility to navigate by. The fog was thinning. Cannon was getting bearings off each pier they passed, and the lookouts could see the top of a TV tower. Plotting those on the chart, he gave Dan updates every two minutes on their position relative to the channel.
A bridge coalesced out of white opacity and swept past overhead, clearing
Barrett
's mast top, it seemed, by inches. They were moving a lot faster than the five knots he'd rung up. The current. He wished they could have waited for slack tide. But as Vysotsky had said, their services were already scheduled: aircraft, targets, electronics. The operating area had been declared off-limits to mariners. They couldn't postpone; they'd be on their way south in a few days.
He sensed the current changing direction, shouldering them left as the bridge passed overhead. Then suddenly, the fog closed down again, heavy, beading the windows with trickling droplets. He could smell it, damp and ominous.
“Navigator reports: lost all visual marks.”
“Resume sounding fog signals. Stand by to let go anchor.” Dan
pressed the intercom. “Combat, Bridge: Visibility has decreased to zero. I'm depending on you now.”
Lauderdale's voice from a speaker grille. “Combat, aye. We've got a clear radar picture. Fix in thirty seconds.”
Dan glanced at the pilot. The old man looked tranquil, almost asleep, like he'd been born out here on the river. Hell, maybe he had.
“Bridge, Combat: Based on a radar fix at time oh-nine, we are fifty yards left of proposed track. Nearest aid to navigation, buoy Romeo eighteen on port bow range two hundred yards. Nearest hazard to navigation, shoal water ninety yards off port beam. Depth sounder agrees. Three hundred yards to next turn, two minutes at this speed. Recommend coming left to course one-three-three at time thirteen.”
“Very well,” he muttered. He glanced out to the left, conscious of the shoal water out there, and froze. Something huge was taking shape behind the mist.
The tremendous black silhouette of an aircraft carrier.
His brain stalled, unable to accept what his eyes insisted they saw. Was he hallucinating? Was all this a dream, getting under way, the fog-shrouded river? But no, there it was, emerging more solid and real every second from the blowing fog. The long flat line of deck, the vertical antenna-spiked island amidships … it
was
a carrier. But it
couldn
'
t
be, not to port; that was shoal water; that was
land
. Why didn't anyone scream? He opened his mouth; his hands trembled.
“Slack off, Lieutenant,” the pilot muttered. “That's the old
Yorktown
, tied up at that museum they got over there. You're headed fair, just goin' to have to turn sooner than the radar's tellin' you. Fog's gonna lift once you get out to sea. Coming up on it … . Start turning now.”
He felt his legs shaking. Of course, the maritime museum, how could he have forgotten … but it had been so much like the last minutes of the doomed
Ryan … .
The pilot cleared his throat warningly and Dan raised his voice to the helmsman. “Left fifteen degrees rudder, steady course one-three-three.”
“Left fifteen degrees rudder, steady course one-three-three … My rudder is left fifteen, coming to course one-three-three.”
“Better steady to port of that, current's setting you south something fierce here.”
“Continue left to course one-two-seven.”
“You're doing fine, Mr. Lenson,” said Leighty casually. Dan glanced at him in surprise, wondering what kind of answer you gave to that. Finally, he just said, “Yes, sir.”
Behind him, the talker said, “Combat recommends steadying course one-three-zero. The course just ordered will take us out of the channel to port.”
“They're not taking the current into account,” muttered the pilot. “Steady as you go.”
Cannon's voice cut through the click of the fathometer, the steady hum of ventilators. “Navigator concurs with combat. Sir, recommend coming right now to one-three-zero.”
Dan glanced swiftly at him. The navigator had his faced buried in the hood of the bridge radar repeater. So he was getting radar, too. And the two fixes agreed. “Nearest shoal water?” he asked him.
“Combat, Bridge: Based on a good fix at time thirteen we are one hundred yards left of proposed track and at the edge of the channel. Nearest shoal water is Hog Island,
ten yards to port
. Depth sounder reading agrees. Sir! Combat recommends hard right rudder, come to course one-four-zero immediately to avoid grounding.”

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