The Passage (48 page)

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Authors: David Poyer

BOOK: The Passage
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“That's my job, sir.” Harper nodded toward the sea. “Looks like the fucking America's Cup out here.”
“Sure does.”
“Yeah, we ought to get some pictures. Then when anybody tells you communism's so great, show them these guys. Imagine wanting to get away from something so bad that you'll go to Miami.”
Dan stared down, overcoming his shock at their craft long enough to study its passengers: two emaciated men of indeterminate age. The white-eyed faces that turned upward from time to time could not be read in terms of the emotions he knew. Bacallao turned the bullhorn on and off, making a loud clicking noise, watching the captain.
“But what happens when they get there?”
“Yeah, good point. Too fucking many Cubans in Florida already.” That wasn't what Dan had meant, but Leighty was saying something. When he stopped, making an abrupt gesture toward the men below, Bacallao lifted the loud-hailer and shouted a question. They responded with weak cries. Dan moved up a couple steps to hear the petty officer translate. “They say they have food but no more water. They don't know which way to go. They want to know how far America is.”
“Mr. Paul, send them down some water. Chief Warrant Officer Harper—”
“Here, sir.”
“Jay, we need to break out some of that landing-party gear. I want compasses, ponchos, groundsheets. Get it all staged up here; there're going to be a lot more boats in this condition.”
Harper hesitated. “Sir, I'm on the security team.”
“I don't think we need to worry about their taking over the ship, Mr. Harper,” said Leighty. His eye caught Dan's and he smiled faintly, then turned back to the rail and the emaciated men on the oversized air mattress. Then he turned back and waved Lenson up.
“Did you ever get through to the OTC?”
“On what, sir?”
“On the political question—whether they'd be repatriated, held, whatever.”
“Oh. No, sir, I didn't. I'm sorry, I misunderstood—”
“That's all right; maybe I didn't make myself clear.”
The sky broke open in a spatter of rain. Cold, heavy drops clattered
down from the whirling gray above to the heaving gray deck. The boatswains had slid down plastic jugs and the Cubans were drinking, holding grimly with one hand while the other held the containers to their lips. Water ran down thin throats.
“Think they'll make it?” Leighty muttered.
Dan looked around at the sea. The shelter of
Barrett's
towering sides had damped the waves, but the raft was still going up and down so violently, he could barely follow it with his eyes. Outside the lee, the seas were high and cruel. He could only imagine what they looked like to the men below. The Cubans were shouting something now. Their voices arrived all but drowned in the roar of the wind, inhuman, shrill, and distant, like the piping of seabirds.
“They might, sir. The wind's bad, but the Stream's with them. You can go a long way in a small boat. Look at Captain Bligh.”
“Bligh was a seaman. And he had a longboat, not something stitched out of canvas and inner tubes.” Another man joined them and Leighty said, “George, what odds you give 'em?”
The exec stared down, mouth tightening as he watched the light raft soar skyward. As it reached the crest, Dan leaned forward, fingers going white on
Barrett'
s sturdy lifeline. The wind had caught and lifted the corner. For a moment, it teetered on the brink of capsizing, or maybe just dumping everyone off and soaring away downwind, skipping from crest to crest like a runaway balloon. But one of its occupants rolled over just in time, plunging the errant end so deep green water covered it and him. They clung grimly as the raft rode down the glassy back of the wave.
Vysotsky said hoarsely, “I don't know. Fifty-fifty?”
“That high? That thing's not going to hold air forever.” Leighty snapped to the interpreter, “Ask them what they are. Fishermen? Sailors? What?”
Ballacao said, after an exchange that was interrupted when the boat veered dangerously close to the side, “They say they worked in a cigar factory, sir.”
Leighty suddenly looked angry. “Okay, that's it. Get them aboard.”
Heads snapped around on the fantail. “Sir?” said Dan.
“I said, get them aboard. Jacob's ladder to port. Get moving!” he snapped at the astonished boatswain's mates. “Have heaving lines ready in case one of them slips.”
Beckoned aboard, the men hesitated, then unshipped lengths of board and began rowing furiously. The boatswains hauled in on the line. Ensign Paul jumped forward, shouting, but too late. The raft was pulled under the counter, out of sight. For a terrible moment, Dan thought the screw had gotten them. But they must have jumped at the last minute, because they appeared pale and shaken
at the top of the ladder. The sailors hauled them aboard, where they stood dripping and shuddering, looking around apprehensively. Up close, they were younger than Dan had thought at first. Their inflamed eyes seemed to pulsate as they looked around. Raw bloody patches showed at ankles and knees, where the canvas had rubbed. “Get the chief master-at-arms,” Leighty snapped to Vysotsky. “Get them some clothes. Find a space to bunk them. Have the corpsman look them over before they eat.”
One man, cheeks hollowed around a cigarette, started suddenly toward the captain. Leighty shook his head brusquely and started off. “Sink the raft,” he called over his shoulder.
“I'll take care of it, sir.” Harper unslung the riot gun.
Leighty went forward, apparently back to the bridge. Shortly thereafter, white sea shot from the screws and
Barrett
got under way again, into the teeth of the wind.
Dan stood under the outstretched barrel of the five-inch, wondering if he would have the guts to put to sea in something like that. They could have no idea of what lay before them—except a damn good chance of dying. But still, they'd done it, and made it. Or at least two of them had.
What horror lay behind them, that they'd risk their lives to escape? He'd heard a lot about Cuba, but now, looking at the men's backs as they were led away, covered with olive drab blankets, he realized how little he really knew. You heard about torture and forced labor. But then you read that they'd conquered illiteracy, distributed land, that medical care was free … . In the end, you didn't know what to believe, except that a bearded man in fatigues had come out of the mountains and overthrown a dictator, then become one himself; that the CIA had tried to kill him, and failed; that the Russians spent $10 million a day in aid, and that Cuban soldiers were fighting in Angola, Mozambique … .
But people kept trying to escape. And wasn't that, finally, the proof of the matter? They hid in the wheel wells of jets, hijacked passenger planes, swam to Guantánamo, crossed barbed wire and minefields and seas. Only God knew how many of them didn't make it.
He stood on the fantail for about an hour.
Barrett
passed boat after boat, all tossing madly, all headed somewhere between northwest and west. Some passengers waved, but in others they saw no motion at all.
The ship picked her way among them, angling from boat to boat in what seemed like random course changes. But after a while, he figured it out. If the boat had a sail and people waved,
Barrett
proceeded past. If they seemed unusually agitated, had no sail, or the lookouts saw no motion, Leighty hove to and checked them out. The captain came back to the fantail each time, personally deciding
whether simply to pass down supplies and give them a quick navigation lesson or to take them aboard. Gradually, a crowd of men and a few women gathered inside the hangar, where Oakes had assembled blankets, water, sandwiches, and hot coffee. The corpsman worked at a table, dressing scrapes and cuts. Some of the crew drifted back and sat around the flight deck, attempting to communicate in broken phrases.
When they finally reached Area Bravo, the clouds to the northeast, toward Andros, glowed with the milky reflected light that meant breaking surf. Cannon recommended a two-leg course along the southwest edge, and Leighty agreed. They maintained steerageway at five knots, rolling about fifteen degrees. The captain watched the sea for a time, then lowered the motor whaleboat. It lay to a mile south of them, and when boats sheered toward it, the boat crew intercepted them. They reported back by radio, and Leighty, running things from his seat on the bridge, decided whether to take them aboard or let them go on. As far as Dan could see, he turned no one back to Cuba, despite what the message had directed.
Additional ships kept reporting in: a British destroyer, HMS
Rhyl;
a Dutch frigate,
Van Almonde;
the Venezuelan gunboat with whose crew Dan had gotten drunk,
Federación. Munro
gave them areas stretching up the eastern side of the Santarén Channel. The hydrofoils from Key West reported in and were assigned stations to the west. Aircraft droned over, and once the whaleboat was vectored south to assist a boat that appeared to be on fire. They rescued the crew and brought them back to the growing group in the hangar.
Dan caught a short nap, knowing there might not be much sleep if the weather kept worsening. The center of the storm was due to pass over Nassau early the next morning. Then it was time for watch again. The wind was whistling in the signal halyards and antennas as he climbed back to the bridge.
Barrett
was rolling in earnest now, taking long swoops as the beam seas marched past.
Harper had the deck. “What's going on?” Dan asked him. “Still steaming back and forth?”
“That's right. Basically, we're just here showing them where to go, keeping them off the rocks. The wind's picking up, though. Looks like the bad shit will pass closer than they thought.”
“Great.” Dan looked out toward where the seas, black and huge, came roaring out of the afternoon mist. He checked the fathometer next, then checked the reading against their satellite navigation position. He felt slightly less comfortable when he recalled that the satnav software was running on the AN/UYK-7s. Fortunately, they had loran here, too. He confirmed that the quartermasters were taking fixes every fifteen minutes.
“Want to stay off those rocks,” he told Morris.
“You got it, sir.”
“Captain on the bridge, Jay?”
“Yeah, he's over there in the chair. Got his eyes closed.”
“What's the whaleboat doing?”
“We recovered it twenty minutes ago. They're refueling it, putting more food and water and gas aboard. Going to swap out crews and put it back in again, keep it out till dark.”
Harper sounded on top of things this afternoon. Good, maybe his counseling had taken effect. Then what he'd said about the whaleboat penetrated. “Till dark? In these seas?”
“That's the word.”
“What's the gas for?”
“Apparently, a lot of these boats are out of gas because they've been fighting this son-of-a-bitching wind, and they didn't have much to start with because it's rationed.”
Quintanilla, behind them: “Dan, how you fixed for sleep?”
“Not great, but I got my head down for an hour. Why?”
“We need an officer on the whaleboat.”
“I'm just getting ready to come on watch. Anyway, is this a good idea? It's awful heavy weather out there.”
“That's when they need us. Every gallon of gas we can hand out could save a life tonight. That's what the captain says, and I think he's right. I'll take OOD. Can you do it?” Felipe insisted. Dan shrugged, then added, “Okay. Just let me get my boots on, all right?”
 
 
HE got his steel-toed boots, foul-weather jacket, ball cap, and flashlight from his stateroom, then reported to the whaleboat just as the rain clamped down again, heavy and drenching.
The crew was climbing in, getting ready to lower. Dan stood close to the bulkhead, checking the crew. BM1 Casworth was the coxswain, with EM2 Reska, two boat hooks, McMannes and Didomenico, and the translator, Bacallao. Casworth told him he'd already done the inventory. They had two radios, two loud hailers, a hand searchlight with signaling capability, two battle lanterns, spare batteries, an M14, a .45, flares, and a kit of tools to fix motors and patch holes. They had food and water, individual kits prepackaged on the mess decks in taped-up trash bags. Each kit also included a photocopied chart of the Straits of Florida, a pack of Kents, and a butane lighter with the USS
Barrett
crest, the last two items outdated ship's store stock Cash had kicked in. Finally, they had a hundred gallons of P-250 stabilized gasoline in ten-gallon jerricans and two lashed-on fifty-five-gallon drums of diesel fuel.
“How do we transfer it?”
“Pumps and hoses, we float the hose downwind lashed to a life jacket.”
“They know what to do with it?”

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