Long Voyage Back (25 page)

Frank stared down at him where he lay on an inch-thick mechanic's mat covered by the sail cloth they had used for the stretcher. He couldn't tell if Seth was delirious or not. Ìt wasn't the Russians and their missiles that got you,' Frank said. 'It was . . . an American.'

Ì know,' said Seth. 'They warned us about that, too. Someone predicted that the Russians would win a full-scale nuclear war because their citizens were unarmed and thus unable to wipe each other out.' He grinned up at Frank as if it were all a good joke. Ì . . . ah . . . I'd like to go to the refugee centre and check on Jeanne,' Frank said. 'You think you can . . ah .. . handle yourself okay until the doctor comes?'

Òf course,' Seth replied, still smiling. 'I have exactly those qualities which in this world make me safe.'

`What's that?' asked Frank.

Ì'm useless and destitute,' said Seth. 'I'm even less likely to be visited by a pirate than by a doctor.'

Ì . . . I've got to go,' Frank said.

For the first time Seth was silent, staring past Frank at the ceiling, his grin frozen and lifeless.

`Will you come back?' Seth asked in a low, totally different voice. Ì . . . sure,' Frank answered. 'I'll come back this evening.' Ì'd like that,' said Seth, still looking past Frank at the garage ceiling.

`So I'll be seeing you,' said Frank.

`Please come back, Frank,' Seth whispered desperately through gritted teeth, and Frank, sombre, rose and left.

Jeanne had no illusion about the difficulties she would encounter as a war refugee in a strange town, but as she had told Neil, the sea was no home for her; every moment she'd been aboard Vagabond her heart had been eyeing the horizon for land. Although she anticipated scarcity and crowding, when she entered the long, low, modern high school building she knew that her anticipation wasn't going to make it any easier. The hall she entered with Jim, Lisa and Skip was crowded with people as wet and wearylooking as themselves. The hard floors were covered with mud and water. People were shouting and a round man with a red nose and bloodshot eyes was trying to herd people into line; twenty-five or thirty confused refugees stood or sat against the walls, a few crying, many looking sick. Four or five had visible burns. Skippy was pulling at Jeanne's belt and periodically questioning her about nothing. She could feel a numbness creeping into her as if her life were again being threatened. With all the sick people around she wondered whether Jim had brought her by mistake to the hospital rather than the refugee centre, but on the walls were the familiar official graffiti of a school: `Seniors taking SATs report on Tuesday to Mr Owens', `Graduation rehearsal at 3:00 on Thursday', and '

Support your Tigercats!'

`Mother, let's not stay here; Lisa said, looking frightened. `There's no place else to go, honey,' Jeanne answered mechanically.

`We should stay on the boat,' Lisa insisted.

`We've got to try this,' Jeanne replied, fighting off the panic she could feel invading her as it had Lisa. The boat was a

refuge of last resort - it had only a few days supply of food left. This was now how people lived on land: it was necessary to try.

It took more than an hour before they were 'registered' and assigned to a room. Jim said an awkward goodbye to Lisa, leaving her stricken and silent, and left to sneak back to the boat. They hiked down the hall to find their room; there a large matronly woman welcomed them 'to the third grade'.

Forcing a smile, Jeanne stood tentatively at the entrance and finally urged Skippy and Lisa ahead of her into the room, which was occupied by four other families, only one with a male adult member. Each group had set up a little personal space by arranging the desks as a low wall. Although no mattresses were available, most families seemed to have sleeping bags or blankets, as did Jeanne. The lights were off and with the wind and rain slashing against the big windows, the interior of the room was dark and depressing. Skippy, however, seemed to relax in the presence of desks and toys and began to play by himself with some blocks not far from another child his age, the other occupying his family's walled-off space. There were seven children in the room. In the next few hours, leaving Lisa to stay with Skip, Jeanne toured the building and got to talk with half a dozen or so of her fellow refugees. She began to realize how lucky she had been. Many had been a hundred miles from the nearest blast yet been overtaken by radioactive fallout and taken sick. Whether ill or not, most of those she talked to seemed confused and numb rather than terrified, and manifested a debilitating passivity. They accepted instructions, food, friendship and hostility with a numb equanimity which was a symptom not of spiritual maturity but of giving up.

She was appalled when told by a young woman who was caring for those with radiation sickness that only one doctor was available to come to the centre and he could come only for an hour each day. Most of the sick were too weak to go to the hospital and had been instructed to stay in the school

where conditions were, in fact, better.

Àre you an official here?' Jeanne asked the young woman, almost afraid to look at the line of ashen, slumped figures propped up against one wall of the large fifth-grade classroom.

`No,' the woman answered. 'I'm just doing what I can to help. My name's Katya.'

Katya was a petite, ashen-haired woman in her early twenties wearing jeans and a sexy peasant blouse with a deeply scooped neckline that seemed strangely inappropriate for treating a roomful of sick and dying people. Wearing no make-up she was not so much pretty as she was striking, especially her dazzling green-blue eyes. Although Jeanne could feel herself shaky from the aftereffects of her seasickness, she worked for almost two hours with Katya, lugging buckets for potties, cleaning up vomit, relaying messages, bringing water and food, and answering questions. At first she was disturbed at Katya's indifference and even disobedience to various officials who appeared sporadically throughout the afternoon - one even ordering them to leave the room because 'you aren't sick or dying' -but she soon came to feel that the only worthwhile things getting done were being done spontaneously by volunteers rather than through any official system.

After they had fed those of their patients who wanted to eat anything, at six o'clock Jeanne went with Katya to get Lisa and Skip and go to the school cafeteria to eat a meal themselves with the other refugees. A tall, skinny young man with spectacles, apparently Katya's boyfriend, joined them at their table.

The food was fried fish, onion soup, and water. The cafeteria was packed and the refugees elbowed into line as if after first run theatre tickets. Ì've been here almost three days,' Katya said when questioned by Lisa about the food. '

We had some meat the first day, but since then it's been all eggs, fish, and a few vegetables, mostly onions. I think we had some apples the second day, but otherwise no fruit.'

Ànd the portions keep getting smaller,' commented the young man, whose name was Sky. He cleaned his plate offish away with amazing rapidity and eyed Jeanne's plate with interest.

Ì'll give you a joint for half your fish,' he offered.

It took Jeanne a moment to absorb the suggestion. `No . . . thank you,' she replied. 'What I don't finish I plan to save for my children.'

`That's cool,' said Sky, although clearly disappointed. `Where are you working?' Jeanne asked him, more to make conversation than out of interest.

`What do you mean?' asked Sky.

`Katya and I are working with the people in the fifth-grade classroom,' she explained. 'I wondered . .

Òh, no. Katya likes to keep busy,' Sky said. 'I like to take things easy.'

Òh,' said Jeanne.

Àctually I volunteered to help in the kitchen,' Sky continued brightly. 'But they had enough people there already.'

`What . . . what about military service?' Lisa asked. `Medical disability,' Sky answered. Òh.'

`My mind's all screwed up,' Sky explained.

Katya was eating quietly as if indifferent to the conversation.

`Do you plan to stay here?' Jeanne asked, trying to address her question as much to Katya as to the young man.

`Long as the food holds out,' Sky answered, grinning.

`Not me,' said Katya, her eyes flashing. 'The first two days I felt safe here. No more. I'd be out in a second if I could figure a way.'

`Where would you go?' Jeanne asked, scraping the last of

her fish from her plate on to Lisa's. Skippy was having trouble finishing his. Às far away from where the bombs are going off as I can get,' Katya answered. 'If it's like this now,' she went on, motioning at the crowded cafeteria and by implication at the whole refugee centre, 'I hate to think how bad it will get.'

`Perhaps we've already seen the worst,' Jeanne suggested.

Àll I know,' Katya countered, 'is that the alive people seem to leave this place after only a day or two. Most of those who stay have already given up.'

`What about me?' asked Sky with a sly smile.

`You gave up so long ago you can't even remember when.' `Thanks.'

`But . . . then why do you work so hard here?' Jeanne asked. `When there's work to be done, I do it,' said Katya. `Where there's work to be done, I avoid it,' said Sky, grinning.

Frank appeared suddenly at their table, on his face a look of relief at having located Jeanne.

Jim's drafted,' he announced, standing behind Katya and across from Jeanne. 'No punishment, but they were marching him through the street when I was on the way here. I ought to be happy . . . I feel like shit.'

`Where will they send him?' Lisa asked, looking up wide-eyed.

`No one knows,' Frank said. 'He's alive, he's being fed,

eventually he'll be able to serve: that's all that counts.'

`How can we see him?' Lisa asked. Frank glanced at her

painfully and shrugged.

`Sit down, Frank,' said Jeanne, standing. 'I'll go get you something to eat.'

Ìt's too late,' said Sky. 'They're closed up for the night. You've got to get here early.' He turned to grin up at Frank.

Frank walked around the end of the table and came up to Jeanne.

`You okay?' he asked,-after a cold glance at Sky.

Ì'm tired,' she said. 'I'd like you to meet the woman I worked with most of the afternoon. This is Katya. Katya, this is Frank.'

`Glad to meet you,' he said.

`You own the trimaran, right?' Katya asked immediately. `Yeah, I do. How'd you know?'

jeanne's been telling me her adventures,' Katya replied. Ìf you decide to sail again I'd like to join you.'

Ì'm afraid I don't think we're sailing.'

`You plan to stay here?'

Ìt seems that way,' said Frank neutrally.

Ì'm getting out of here if I have to crawl,' said Katya, her eyes again seeming to flash angrily.

Lisa and Skip now stood up too, Skip pulling his mother's hand to lead her away. As they started to leave, Sky looked up at them glowy-eyed and grinned.

`Never knock a place that serves free food,' he said.

The two US Navy ships moored to the deepwater pilings in the Turning Basin had both been disabled on the first day of the war. The larger of the two, a destroyer, looked like it had felt the effects of a not-distant-enough nuclear blast. Its paint was blistered, portholes shattered, struts and rigging broken. The second, an anti-submarine vessel about two-thirds the size of the destroyer, was less visibly damaged, but it was listing to port like an old man with a bad back. Two Navy men, a Petty Officer and his messenger, stopped Neil at the gate. Both wore side arms.

`Captain Neil Loken reporting for duty,' Neil said.

The Petty Officer eyed him sceptically. Neil was still dressed in his jeans and boat shoes.

`You have a pass, captain?' the Petty Officer asked.

Ì've got nothing,' Neil replied. 'All my papers were destroyed in Washington. Let me speak to the Officer of the Deck.'

`You say you want to report for duty?'

`That's right.'

`Where's your regular unit?'

Neil shook his head.

Ì'm presently unassigned,' he answered. 'Let me speak to your Duty Officer.'

The Petty Officer stared a moment longer at Neil and then went back into a small makeshift guardhouse and spoke into a walkie-talkie phone. When he emerged he said to the other man on guard duty: 'Take this guy . . . Captain Loken . . . to Lieutenant Margolis.'

Neil was then forced to proceed with the guard across the open dockyard area to the boarding ladder of the antisubmarine vessel, the Haig. It felt strange to be boarding a combat vessel in jeans and a tee-shirt rather than regulation Navy attire. The ship seemed in good order, and the messenger guard, as was proper, turned him over to the Petty Officer on Watch, who walked Neil briskly forward. The Officer of the Deck, Lt Margolis, was on the foredeck supervising the unloading of munitions from the large forward hatch.

`What is it, Mr Haynes?' he asked the Petty Officer. Lt Margolis, a slight, pinch-faced man, looked at Neil with distaste.

`This man asked to speak to you, sir. He says he's reporting for duty.'

`He does, huh?' Lt Margolis said. 'Well, sailor,' he went on to Neil. 'What's your story?

Where have you been the last five days?'

Ì'm Captain Neil Loken,' Neil replied. 'Annapolis, Class of 1971. I just got in from sea. I want to be of service.'

Trying unsuccessfully to mask his surprise and uncertainty, Lt Margolis continued to stare at Neil. 'Were you on active duty when the war began?' he asked.

`No,' Neil answered. 'I resigned my commission in 1975. I haven't served since.'

`Then what are you doing here?' the lieutenant asked with careful neutrality. Ì served in CPBs in Vietnam,' Neil said. 'I believe I can be of more use on a combat vessel than anywhere else.'

Lt Margolis frowned. 'That's hardly your decision to make is it?' he said. 'Certainly we have no authorization to take in men . . . officers . . . from the street.'

`No doubt,' said Neil. 'Still, I imagine this war is going to necessitate quite a bit of improvisation.' Neil could sense the officer struggling with the paradox of having to address a civilian in canvas shoes who claimed to be his superior in rank. Ì'm sorry, Mr Loken,' Lt Margolis finally said in a cold