Firespill (3 page)

“Engineering Officer?”

“Sir?”

“Diesels fully charged?”

“Yes, sir, and all air banks fully charged.”

Kyle grinned slightly. “Good, but never volunteer additional information.” The others laughed, and the moment of tension when a new commander first meets his officers was over. Kyle went on. “But seeing as you’re so keen, Chief, how about the compressors? All operational?”

“A-l, sir.”

“Good. Navigating Officer?”

O’Brien stepped forward. “I’m doubling up for that, sir.”

“Right. How about our charts?”

“Everything we need, sir.”

“Sea of Japan?”

O’Brien was impressed. The Old Man might look like a museum piece, but he was certainly up to date. “Yes, sir, I know it’s just been revised. It came down this morning.”

Kyle nodded. “Fine. Weapons Officer?”

O’Brien spoke again. “He’s been held up in traffic, sir.” Kyle glanced disapprovingly at his watch. “Hm. Well, he’d better hurry it up. Can you tell me what fish we’re carrying?”

O’Brien opened his tunic pocket and flipped over some pages of his notebook. “Six war shots and eight exercise, sir.”

Kyle nodded. “Right, carry on. I’ll discuss our course with you later, Mr. O’Brien.”

“Yes, sir.”

After O’Brien showed the captain to his tiny cabin, the two men went up to the bridge so that Kyle could inspect the new compass mounting. They were just in time to see a crewman coming down the gangplank. Pretending not to see them, the sailor raised his hand in a particularly sloppy salute to the Canadian flag astern instead of to O’Brien as officer of the watch. O’Brien called out angrily to him.

“Lambrecker!” Lambrecker wheeled a little unsteadily and walked up to the bridge without answering, openly scowling at the first officer.

“Lambrecker, why didn’t you salute the officer of the watch?”

Lambrecker stared ahead. “Didn’t see you. Sir.”

Kyle had noticed something odd in the way Lambrecker had swung about in response to O’Brien’s call. He stepped forward. “Are you ill?”

Lambrecker stared ahead.

Kyle’s face flushed. “I asked you if you’re ill.”

“No.”

“No
sir!”
bellowed O’Brien.

“No, sir,” answered Lambrecker sourly, still staring ahead. Kyle turned to O’Brien, who by now knew as well as the captain what was the matter. “This man’s drunk. Put him on a charge.”

“Yes, sir. Lambrecker, follow me.”

Applying extraordinary concentration to his walk, Lambrecker endeavored to walk a straight line behind O’Brien. As he disappeared down the conning tower he shot a defiant glare at Kyle. The captain shouted after him, “Come back up here, you!”

Lambrecker hesitated for a second, then crawled up. As regulations dictated, he stood at attention; but his slovenly demeanor plainly teetered on the brink of insolence.

Kyle’s face was purple. Nothing enraged him more than this kind of unspoken insubordination. He came across it daily on shore. The “democratization” of the navy. Well, “democratization” or not, the only way to deal with old-fashioned insubordination was by the old-fashioned method—let the smartasses know that you weren’t going to tolerate it.

“Stand up straight, man,” Kyle snapped.

“I am. Sir.”

“You listen to me, sailor. You look at me like that again and there’ll be trouble. Understand?”

Lambrecker looked down at O’Brien as if utterly confounded, then turned back to face Kyle. “How are we supposed to look? Sir?”

Kyle ignored the baiting tone. “You’re supposed to look respectful.”

“Of what? Sir.”

O’Brien glanced first at the deck, then out to sea. Jesus, he thought, what a start to a three-month cruise, and a training one at that.

“Respectful of rank, sailor—that’s what,” answered Kyle.

“Oh,” began Lambrecker, and belched, issuing another cloud of spirit fumes. “Oh, now I remember, sir,” he said facetiously. “It’s not the man we salute; it’s the rank, isn’t it?”

Kyle had not known such anger since the war. The veins in his temples bulged and he clung desperately to his self-control. “Get below!” he snapped. “Long voyage or not, sailor, you ever turn up in this condition again and you’ll be more than on the charge sheet. You’ll be in front of a court-martial. Now get yourself sober before we cast off.”

Lambrecker saluted and descended the conning tower for a second time, grinning smugly to himself.

O’Brien climbed to the bridge again. Quite unreasonably, he somehow felt responsible for the crewman’s condition. “Sorry about that, sir,” he said apologetically.

Kyle, by now somewhat cooler, waved it aside. “Not your fault. Is that his usual style? Or is he a newcomer?”

“No, he’s one of the old hands,” answered O’Brien, looking puzzled. “Matter of fact, I don’t recall him ever being drunk before. He’s a bit moody at times, but he’s not normally the drinking type—or I didn’t think he was.”

Kyle raised his eyes from the new compass mounting. “Hmm. He did at least salute the ship. But it’s his attitude that I mind. I’ve seen that bitter look before, and it’s poison, especially among new recruits. How’s he get on with the rest of the old crew?”

O’Brien shrugged. “He’s quiet—very quiet. But I’ve had no complaints.”

“We’ll keep an eye on Mr. Lambrecker just the same. Don’t want any of the new lot bothered by him.”

“No, sir.”

“Then again,” added Kyle, “maybe I shouldn’t have chewed him up so much, but dammit, you can’t let that kind of thing pass.”

“No, sir, I agree.”

There was a long silence. Then Kyle said hopefully, “’Course, he was probably working off a head of steam. No doubt he’ll be a new man when he sobers up.”

“I expect so, sir.”

Kyle looked at his Rolex Oyster. “We cast off at 1500, Number One. Call me at ETD minus five.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

In crew’s quarters Lambrecker, having arrived earlier than most of the men on shore leave, tossed his seabag onto the lower bunk, which he considered his by right of long service. His eyes didn’t seem to be focusing properly, so he didn’t see another seabag whose owner had chosen the same sleeping space. Before the double occupancy registered, a young, fresh-faced seaman, obviously a newcomer, rushed to apologize. “Sorry, sir.”

Lambrecker scowled. “Don’t call me sir.”

“No, sir. I mean no. Sorry.”

Lambrecker swayed a little, steadied himself against the upper bunk, lit another cigarette, then stuck out a callused hand. “Name’s Lambrecker.”

“Naim,” said the newcomer quickly, only too anxious to make friends.

Quite apart from Lambrecker’s drunkenness, there was something about the way his pale blue eyes seemed to look right past you as he was talking which immediately put the youngster on his guard.

“You want the bottom slab?” grunted Lambrecker in the friendliest tone he could manage.

“Oh, doesn’t matter. I just tossed my kit there,” answered Naim. “Not much room, is there?”

“It’s yours,” said Lambrecker, throwing his seabag onto the top bunk.

“I don’t mind really—” began Naim.

Lambrecker cut him short. “It’s yours,” he said, dragging out his tin of homemade cigarettes and offering it to Naim.

“No thanks. I don’t smoke, but thanks for the bunk.”

Lambrecker didn’t answer. He pulled down a few things from his bag and stuffed them into a small drawer in the dull scratched aluminum locker. Naim, not sure what to do, tried to think of something to say. He lifted up the leaves of a small wall calendar hanging on the side of the locker. Each month’s leaf had a British Columbia mountain scene on it, and as he flicked up June to see what July’s mountain was, he said lightly, “Going to be a long one.”

Lambrecker dragged himself laboriously up to the top bunk, wanting to get some sleep before the sub got under way and he was required on station. Thinking that Lambrecker hadn’t heard him, Nairn spoke again. “They normally this long? The patrols, I mean.”

“All fucking long,” answered Lambrecker, dragging a blanket up to his shoulders.

Nairn nodded slightly. “Ah, would you like some coffee? I managed to find the galley.” There was no reply.

When he returned from the mess, Naim sat down on the bunk and drank the lukewarm liquid. It was the worst coffee he’d had for weeks, but he drank it all, partly from habit, partly for something to do. It wasn’t until he got up to wash out the sandy dregs from his cup that he noticed three leaves missing from the calendar. June, July, and August had been tom off and lay crumpled on the honeycomb decking. He glanced up at Lambrecker, who now lay smoking and staring at the metal deckhead no more than two or three inches from his nose. The steel plate that seemed to be pressing down on Lambrecker reminded Naim of stories he had heard at training school about men going claustro, raving mad in close confinement. The thought made him feel uneasy. He looked at the calendar again—at September—and then up at the top bunk. He wondered what would happen when Lambrecker’s hangover had passed.

As the
Swordfish
sailed out of Esquimalt Harbor and Kyle slowly began to unpack his seabag, he found Sarah’s note stuck in the socks. He drew the green curtain across his cabin door and sat down on the bunk’s edge. After all these years, he thought, and felt a deep yearning to hold her, to tell her he would be home soon, that he would never leave her again. He unfolded the note and read, “With you always, My love, Sarah.” He put the piece of paper in one of his tunic pockets. As was his custom, he would not look at the note again until they neared the end of the long patrol. In September.

Two

September 21

It was an unusually mild morning as Elaine Horton, whom Kyle and Lambrecker, like so many others, had often seen but never met, walked down one of the wide streets on the outskirts of Sitka in Alaska’s Alexander Archipelago. On either side of the roadway, Colonial-style bungalows, mostly white, lay nestled behind a row of golden-leafed maples, which were interspersed here and there with tall Lombardy poplars whose leaves flickered in the Indian summer breeze.

Elaine wandered aimlessly along the road in the direction of the nearby woods. She shuffled her feet through the summer’s accumulation of leaves in an effort to block out the sound of the footsteps around her. But even when she succeeded in not hearing them, she could sense their owners’ presence. They were always with her. She had managed, miraculously enough, to escape from the scrutiny of the press these last few days, mainly due to a sudden change in flight plans from Washington. They might as well have followed her; the Secret Service agents gave her the same shut-in feeling. She conceded that they were often necessary, particularly in big crowds, but here in Sitka on her holidays? But she could never convince her aide to leave them behind. Miller was rigid in his insistence that the Secret Service contingent must be on hand at all times, no matter where they were, vacation or no vacation.

“But Richard,” she protested, as they continued to stroll, “this is Baranof Island—off the Alaskan Panhandle. No one even
recognizes
me here.” He was about to answer, but was interrupted by a small group of schoolchildren who had suddenly materialized and who were gaily rushing Elaine for her autograph.

Miller stood by smugly while the Secret Servicemen carefully watched the cluster of well-wishers. After the group had departed, Elaine turned to Miller. “And if anyone does recognize me, it’s precisely because this platoon of yours immediately draws attention to us.”

Miller, choosing not to dispute the point with his boss, looked around him at the near-deserted street. “Ma’am, I feel safer in New York than I do here.”

Elaine snorted. “You can’t possibly mean that.”

“Yeah. I mean it’s so—so open up here. No protection.”

“Open, my God! That’s exactly why I came here. I can’t fish in Manhattan. I’m tired of skyscrapers and pushy crowds. I like the openness.”

“That’s why we need all these men,” said Miller, shaking his head.

“Well, I warn you, Richard. First gap I see, I’m off.”

Miller smiled indulgently yet with dutiful respect. “You’re welcome to try, ma’am.”

Despite the lighthearted exchange, Elaine really did mean to have some privacy. The pressure was getting to her. She wanted to push Washington out of her mind, to forget about the daily invasion of her desk by hundreds of reports, all crying catastrophe. Long gone were the days when the Vice-President of the United States was considered little more than a parrot of the President. There had been six assassinations of key political figures since Kennedy, so now the Veep was expected to know as much as her boss, in preparation for the chilling possibility of waking up one morning and being addressed as President.

Elaine Horton, at thirty-seven the youngest-ever Vice-President, had once been described by an elderly Republican congressman as a “captivatingly plump” brunette. When she heard about it, Elaine had rolled her hazel eyes in pleased surprise and smiled—captivatingly. Soon the sheer force of her ebullient personality and her easy, efficient style had won over her potentially hostile male colleagues, not only in Congress but in the White House as well. And because she was attractive but not what the society journalists called one of the “beautiful people,” she was not perceived as a social threat by those women in Congress who relied upon makeup as much as brains in vying for the prestigious administrative jobs close to the President. She had been raised on the homespun and oft-caricatured virtues of self-discipline and restraint and had carried them with her through a brilliant college career and into the cynical political arena.

The Vice-President became aware of someone coughing nearby. It was Miller’s usual way of drawing her attention. She had been so preoccupied that she had not realized she had reached a cul-de-sac and had been standing still for several minutes. The Secret Service was trying to look inconspicuous, peering apprehensively through the trees that stretched far beyond the street. The Secret Service did not like trees. Too much cover. The chief agent had been frowning at Miller to do something, to keep the Vice-President moving. Already the long limousines had slid up behind her, engines purring faintly, sending out long breaths of grey-blue exhaust into the still, clear air. “Perhaps you’d like to ride for a bit,” Miller suggested diplomatically.