The Passage (54 page)

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Authors: David Poyer

BOOK: The Passage
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She brought the child away and looked down at it, then kneaded her breast, looking anxious. She glanced at him quickly. Dan stayed motionless, the cloth shading his eyes.
She reached behind her, felt back into the cuddy, then slowly drew out the bottle, glancing at him again as if confirming he was asleep. He swallowed involuntarily as his eyes fastened to the clear liquid sloshing inside the plastic.
Quietly, she unscrewed the cap and lifted it to her lips. And a sudden cynical anger tightened his jaw, followed, a moment later, by a cynical voice in his head asking him what else he expected. She was just like everybody else, thinking of herself first. What was so surprising about that?
But when she lowered the clear plastic, her cheeks were still distended. She glanced at Dan again, then handed the bottle to Miguel, prodding it against the boy's legs till his hand came up. Then, still not swallowing, she turned the edge of her skirt back from the baby's face.
Bending her face down over it, she put her lips to its mouth.
He felt suddenly shamed, disgraced, as if he'd accused her and been proven wrong. He'd thought she was hoarding the water, keeping it for herself. While actually she hadn't taken any. She'd given it all to the baby and the boy … .
She lifted her head, looked again at the bottle, now back on the thwart where Miguel had set it. She licked her lips slowly. But when she reached out, it was to place it firmly behind her again.
Then her eyes caught his, saw that he was awake and watching.
She brought the bottle back out and held it out to him.
And quite suddenly, staring at what she was offering him, he understood something he hadn't before: what love was, stripped to its barest and most essential elements.
Sitting there motionless, he saw abruptly through a surface that only partially made sense into a depth of meaning that underlay and explained everything. It was like unexpectedly comprehending a language you'd heard spoken around you all your life but had never learned. As he never had. Had never understood, or only glimpsed for a second or two. Only now, in this silent moment, did he finally comprehend how he had denied the best part of himself, the only portion that could regenerate all the rest, to Susan, to Beverly, to his parents, to all those who had loved or tried to love him.
It was as if a light had been turned on back in the dark corners of his soul, and he saw with sudden clarity the dust and rubbish that had accumulated there.
She still held the bottle out to him, and he couldn't stop himself from taking it. He yearned to swallow it all, down to the bottom, and lick the drops out from inside. Instead, he took one mouthful and made himself hand the bottle back.
He took his shirt and dipped it in the water at their feet—the evaporation gave a cooling effect—and draped it carefully over Graciela's and the baby's bare heads.
“
Gracias,”
she whispered.
“It's nothing. Thanks for the water.”
“
¿Cual es tu nombre?
” she whispered.
He didn't speak Spanish, but he understood that. “Daniel.”
“Daniél.”
“That's right. Call me Dan.”
She smiled faintly and pointed to the baby. “Armando Daniél,” she said, and let her eyes drift down, drift closed against the harsh, brilliant sunlight.
He was still looking at her, still dwelling in that timeless place of understanding, when the boat rasped and bumped as something grated again against the frail disintegrating boards.
 
 
THE sun dwelt at the height of the heavens, burning down remorselessly, sparkling off the waves. They rocked lazily in the center of a bowl of light. Gradually, the insight, the sense of peace and happiness ebbed as heat and thirst reoccupied his thoughts. Where the hell was
Barrett?
And where were all the other ships and planes that were supposed to be out helping the refugees? Where was the fucking Coast Guard when you needed them?
He was nodding again when suddenly the boy was at his elbow, shaking him, crying, “¡
Ay
,
mira! ¡Mira!
He grunted and raised his hand to brush him away, like a fly.
“
Barco,
” the boy said. Then, in English, dredged up from where Dan had no idea: “A ship. A ship!”
He jerked upright and craned around, stared upward at what was closing on them. Gray and huge, it towered up into the pale sky. Brown haze boiled the air above its square stacks.
Behind him, the Cubans talked excitedly, happily. The boy pointed to him, talking rapidly to the woman as he touched Dan's insignia. Dan shook his hand off, still staring upward.
It was a ship all right.
But he didn't stand, as the boy did, and tear off his torn T-shirt. He didn't wave or shout.
He felt suddenly cold as he looked up at the sheer flaring bow, the high pyramidal gray superstructure, each level crowded with fire-control directors and search radars. From forward to aft, his eye moved slowly over antisubmarine missile launchers, rocket launchers, surface-to-air missiles, torpedo tubes, guns.
He knew that silhouette well, had studied it in the recognition manuals. It wasn't
Barrett,
or any other U.S. ship.
It was a Soviet
Krivak-
class destroyer. At first, it had been crossing their horizon and the extension of its course in a straight line would have sent it past a mile away. But someone had noticed Miguelito's excited waving. Pitching deliberately, the long gray hull shortened as it came around, sharp, high bow still throwing up a creamy wave that glowed in the sunlight as it steadied, heading directly for them.
E
VEN through his shock, he had to admire their shiphandling. The sea crinkled aft along the hull, then a backwash at the stern told him they'd backed engines. The high gray block of the forecastle slid between them and the sun, casting a shadow that sank slanting into the sea. He lifted his eyes unwillingly.
A
Krivak—
a new class, the most advanced destroyer type the Soviets had. He noted the distinctive break halfway up her sheer and the large white Bloc-style hull numbers: 812.
Krivak
s were officially frigates, not destroyers; they were half
Barrett'
s displacement, but as usual with Soviet combatants, they were very heavily armed. He noted through numbness the four-tube surface-to-surface missile launcher flat along the forecastle deck; the two reloadable antiair launchers; two 100-mm guns on a low afterdeck. This smaller ship matched
Barrett
missile for missile, gun for gun. The intel data said they had advanced electronics and sonars, too.
His memory's prattle ceased as the boy grasped his arm again. Dan shook him off, still staring up. The bridge: looking down from it were impassive men in blue. Binoculars glinted. Sailors stared curiously from the rail. A party of men stood around a launcher. Yeah, midmorning, about time for the daily systems tests … . Suddenly one of the men on the bridge pointed. The binoculars came up again, and several more officers emerged onto the wing.
A puff of topaz haze emerged from the stacks, hovered for a moment above the upperworks, then blew down. It smelled just like
Barrett'
s turbine exhaust, familiar, yet in these surroundings disorienting and disturbing. Unable to move, he watched the bow nudge closer. Was that the stir of a bow thruster under the surface?
As gray steel eclipsed the sky, he heard shouting, then looked up again to sailors with AK rifles lining the rail. He half-rose, then
saw the ladder. A sailor tossed off the last lashing and put his foot to it. It fell, unrolling, splashed into the water a few feet away from the bobbing boat, and swayed, clattering tantalizingly against the hull.
The man on the bridge pointed down, directly at him, then swept his arm up in a broad gesture of invitation—or command.
“Daniél?”
He half-turned, to see Graciela and Miguelito staring at him, puzzled. Obviously, they thought this was his ship. Crap, he couldn't think, couldn't decide what to do. Which was better, to stay out here, possibly to drown, or to be rescued by the Soviets? Two
Krivak
s had been reported with the battle group to the west. This was either one of them or a reinforcement steaming to join. Either way, once on their deck, Graciela, Miguelito, and the baby would be headed for Cuban soil again. He couldn't see them wanting that. Then, too, she was in no shape to climb that ladder. He turned back, spread his arms, and shook his head. He made signs for eating, signs for drinking.
His answer was a threatening shout, followed by a clacking rattle of bolts charging the first round. Then the short barrels came over the lifeline to steady on them, like cold black eyes on steel stalks.
“Wait here,” he said to Miguel. “Here. In the boat.
Comprenez
?”
“Aquí, sí.
”
At least, he thought as he slipped over the side, the shark had glided off as the ship made up on them. It was probably hanging around a few hundred yards off, waiting its turn.
The sea was a warm bath. He crawl-stroked clumsily in his soaked clothes the few yards to the end of the ladder, seized it, and started pulling himself up. He felt either astonishingly heavy or incredibly weak. The ladder swayed under his weight. It didn't really seem as long a climb as it ought to be. In fact, he reached the deck above too soon for his taste. The sailors were falling back in a semicircle, and one was helping him over the lifeline.
He stood dripping on the fantail, looking around. Scared as he was, mouth dry and heart pounding, he reminded himself to observe. No one he knew had actually stood on the deck of a Soviet warship. Anything he could describe—if he ever returned, that is—would be valuable. He stared into the eyes of the sailors. Only one had on the old-style blue jumper. The rest were just wearing flat white hats, rather grimy red-and-white-striped undershirts, leather belts with big tarnished buckles, paint-stained, scuffed boots; obviously they'd been working on deck just before the ship hove to. The Kalashnikovs looked serious, though, short rifles with big curved magazines.
Here came the brass: a paunchy gray-haired man in a white undress
shirt and a combination cap, looking angry, and a younger officer trailing behind, blond, mouth anxious. Dan made the older one as either the captain or the exec. He started talking at once, glaring at Dan.
“Good morning,” said the younger officer, translating.
Dan cleared his throat to keep his voice from shaking. He felt wet and dirty and slovenly, but he came to attention. Out of nowhere came the thought, I'm glad I got my pants back on before these guys showed up. “Good morning,” he said, and saluted the older man, who hesitated, then returned it.
“The commander would like to know, this uniform, you are U.S. Navy?”
“That's right.”
“What are you doing in boat with criminals?”
“My ship was rendering assistance to these refugees. We were separated in the storm.”
“Your ship, her name?”
He stared at the guy—call him a lieutenant; they were about the same age—then at the “commander.” What was the Geneva Convention rule about this? The Code of Conduct? Hell, he thought then, we aren't at war. How could the Russians get them to
Barrett
if he didn't tell them he belonged to her? Finally, he said, “What do you plan to do with us?”
“Your ship, her name.”
“USS
Barrett,
” he said. Then, hearing a shout from below, he stepped to the rail and waved down at Miguelito. The kid waved back, looking, Dan thought, scared now, as if he realized something was wrong. He turned back to the Soviets. “See that woman in the boat? She had that baby last night. She can't climb a ladder. You need to lower a boat, put her in it, then hoist her aboard. That's how I'd do it.”
As the lieutenant was translating this, a black man in fatigues pushed through the sailors. He had a pistol on his hip and a red star on his fatigue cap. And his Russian had a Hispanic sound. He and the commander had a short, rather angry talk. Fatigues looked over the side, sneered in disbelief at the skiff, then at Dan, who thought, I've got to learn some Russian, I really do.
“Can we get them aboard?” he asked the lieutenant. “They have no water and no food.”
When the Cuban heard this, he seemed about to burst. He spat something short and angry at Dan, then stepped to the lifelines. The holster unsnapped and he whipped the pistol out.
He was actually aiming down when Dan lunged. He didn't have anything definite in mind, just to stop him from shooting, but somehow as they were wrestling there at the rail, the Russians so taken aback that for a moment they did not react, the gun squirted free,
escaped both their hands, and spun away and down, making a modest-sized splash between the frigate's hull and the skiff. As they watched it vanish, a small dark shape tumbling down into the blue, Dan gulped.
The Cuban swung around and punched him in the stomach, and he bent over, gagging. Then there was a lot of shouting and hands grabbed him. When he got his head up again, the sailors were holding him and the Cuban apart. Shit, he thought, I didn't exactly make a foreign friend with that move. The Cuban looked ready to kill him. Maybe he'd just been bluffing, or showing off. But then, maybe not. Maybe he had orders to shoot deserters, or whatever the regime considered people who tried to escape.
While he was thinking all this, the commander shouted up to the bridge. A hand lifted in reply, and a moment later Dan heard the whine of the turbines spinning up. “No!” he yelled, lunging against the arms. He tried to drag them with him toward the lifeline, not really thinking what he was going to do, maybe jump overboard to Graciela and Miguelito and the baby. But five Russian sailors didn't drag. Still struggling, he saw the sea begin to move past, the skiff drop aft and whirl bobbing in the pale green whirlpools of the wake, saw a thin dark arm lift, fingers splayed out in pleading, or farewell.
 
 
NO one hit him again, but they kept their hands on him as they prodded him forward along the starboard side. Still breathless—the Cuban had gotten him right where it paralyzed you, just below the breastbone—he tried to keep observing, as much to counteract panic as anything else. His legs were shaking and he couldn't see too well, yet at the same time he saw and heard everything very clearly indeed. He kept listening for shots but didn't hear any.
He noticed the raised fantail structure first—all the way aft, rather awkwardly situated in the line of fire of the number two gun at depressed elevation. So a small boat would have a good chance of surviving a run in from directly astern. Markings for a helicopter pad on top of the structure, but its purpose was unclear—an enclosed mine-laying rail, possibly. Past the guns, he noted wide decks, nonskid in good condition. Sailors turned from painting to watch him being paraded by. They looked young. There didn't seem to be many senior enlisted around.
Up a deck, his escort releasing his hands so he could climb. Now he got a close look at the SA-N-4 launcher. Soviet antiaircraft missile launchers were usually dropped into a well to protect them from weather and ice. Even the type drawings in
Jane'
s, studied during slow hours in CIC, showed them retracted. But this one was being worked on. No cover plates off, just plug-ins, so it wasn't
major repair. Probably just what he'd thought at first, an operability test. A mass of equipment midships … no, he wasn't going to see that; one of the seamen was undogging a door.
Inside the skin of the ship, the impression changed rather abruptly from modern arsenal to something both oddly cozy and less technologically impressive. The air was warm and laden with the strong smells of Slavic food. The overheads were low and he noted more exposed cabling than U.S. practice tolerated. Partitions were riveted instead of welded. Everything seemed to be steel or wood, even where American designers used aluminum or composite to save weight. The wood surprised him. It wasn't permitted aboard U.S. ships at all. The bulkheads looked like they could use a good scrub-down and fresh paint, but damage-control gear was complete and the hoses new and the fittings glistened with fresh grease. A general announcing system spoke hollowly, and he heard the men with him discussing it. They pointed him at a ladder, clattered after him, and continued down two more decks.
Deep within the ship now, in a narrow white-painted passageway. He caught quick glimpses through successive doors of a machine shop, what looked like a stores office, a fan room. Blue flash curtains stirred as the ship rolled. Then a door was unlocked with a jingle of keys and he was pushed in. When he tried the knob, it was locked.
He looked slowly around at a small windowless compartment that was all too obviously a brig. Most U.S. ships didn't have them anymore. But modern Soviet frigates obviously did. It was as bare as any bread-and-water disciplinarian could wish. A narrow pipeframed bunk was chained up to a bulkhead, and there was a sink, but no mirror, no can, no towel. A single bulb burned under explosion-proof glass. He unlatched the bunk and let it down and sat on it, feeling suddenly weak and sick.
The door unlocked and he caught a glimpse of an armed sailor outside as a skinny, pimpled Mongolian-looking kid in a stained apron slid a steel tray onto the floor, giving Dan a curious glance as he backed out.
It held black bread, thick and still warm; six slices of salami, the chunks of fat thicker than the chunks of meat; and a heavy mug that when he gulped thirstily from turned out to be not water, as he'd assumed, but straight raw vodka. He coughed it out explosively and peered into the cup. Actually, he wanted it, but maybe he'd better keep his head straight till he found out where things were going. He set it aside and ate the bread and salami dry.
Then he waited.
While he sat on the bunk, a lot of things went through his mind. Would Graciela and Miguel and Armando Daniel make it without him? Unless someone picked them up today, he didn't think so. He
wasn't in such a great situation himself. Would the Soviets torture him if they thought he had useful information? Unfortunately, he knew quite a few things that fell into that category—details about Navy sonar processing, the complete weapons load-out of
Kidd-
class destroyers, ranges and characteristics of sensors, the tactics carrier battle groups practiced against multiple Backfire attacks.
Yeah, he knew some things that might interest them. Making it worse was that no one knew the Russians had him. As far as the U.S. Navy was concerned, Daniel V. Lenson was currently missing, presumed lost at sea. The Soviets could keep him, take him back to the USSR. And no one would ever know.
Half an hour later, he heard voices outside. Dan stood up, clenching his fists, expecting the Cuban in fatigues, an angry confrontation. Instead, it was six sailors with cameras. He smiled rather foolishly as they glanced at the light above his head, set their apertures, clicked away. Then the guard started yelling, obviously telling them that was enough, get the hell out now they had their pictures. The door locked again.

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