The Circle (44 page)

Norden propped a foot against the binnacle. “Couple hours. You?”

“Don't know how much, but I was out like a dead dog.”

“Good.” Norden looked out at the sea, checked his watch. “Pretty quiet right now.… I'll give you the conn back after a while.”

Dan understood that as an apology for snapping at him. He checked the radar, swallowed the last of the bun, and after a time thought of the division. He went to the window and looked down on the fo'c'sle in the pewter light. The safety lines were still rigged, but the life nets had been triced up again. A tatter of blanket flapped at the corner of the gun mount. There was no one in sight, though. He went out on the wing and looked aft. The breeze was fresh but already seemed less frigid. No one there, either, not at the swung-in whaleboat, not in the breakers, no one at work on deck at all as far as he could see. He went back inside.

“Pettus, what did we do for quarters today?”

“Exec said muster on station, Mr. Lenson.”

“Thanks.” Great, he thought; if the guys were getting their heads down without Bryce objecting, he was damned if he would. “You catch up some on your sleep last night?”

“Yeah. Mr. Evlin got some of the signalmen down here, said there wasn't anybody for them to wave their skivvies at, anyway. They spelled the lookouts some. We broke guys off to go crap out.”

*   *   *

THEY pitched steadily southward through the morning watch. At noon, Ohlmeyer relieved him. Dan went below to find a hot lunch waiting: bean soup, swiss steak, collard greens, peach pie. The wardroom was crowded for the first time in days. Weaver, the comm officer, had the latest poop.
Ryan
would be steaming with the task group for two weeks, screening the carrier during an exercise west of Ireland. Then they'd put into Rota, Spain, for five days alongside the tender before heading home.

“Do you know why they diverted us, Ralph?” Dan asked him.

“Boiler explosion on
Jonas Ingram,
DD-nine thirty-eight. Burned a couple guys pretty bad.”

“Do they know about our damage?”

“I don't see everything that goes out, but I think so, yeah. We were putting out two reports a day during the
Pargo
play, and then every couple of hours while we were tracking the Russian. The captain reported all the equipment casualties and gave the weather data. But he always finished up by saying we could continue the mission. I guess they needed us more here than they did in Newport.”

“Won't we need an air-search radar to play with the carrier?”

“You're thinking again, George. Leave that to people with more than one stripe, okay? They got a cruiser with a lot better air picture than we'd ever get. Usually, we just plane guard, tag around after the flattop in case one of the fly-boys has to punch out.” Weaver returned his attention to his pie.

Dan was back in his room, torn between another nap and a long-overdue start on a letter to Susan, when the phone squealed. “Lenson,” he snapped.

“Dan? This is Commander Bryce.”

“Uh—yes, sir.”

“I can't seem to locate Mr. Norden. Could you find him and come down to my stateroom, please?”

He suddenly remembered the search of the compartment, the interviews, his confrontation with Lassard. It seemed like months ago. But it had only been days. The executive officer wouldn't have forgotten. He hadn't been standing watch, or missing sleep.

“Aye, aye, sir,” he said, hearing wariness and hostility edge his voice. “We'll be right down.”

*   *   *

HE knocked at the exec's door with the same fatalistic dread he remembered from Plebe Year. When the drawl soaked through the aluminum he took a breath and pushed it open.

“Ensign Lenson, sir.” God, how he hated that rhyme.

“Come in, Dan. So, hear you played Charge of the Light Brigade out there last night.”

Last night? Had it only been last night? He sat on the sofa and looked at the XO with a strange mix of feelings. He still hated him, but the fat lieutenant commander looked less intimidating now. Compared to forty feet of oncoming sea, or a live torpedo, or an armed Soviet sailor.

“Popeye and the other men did most of it, sir. I just sort of supervised.”

“That so? I heard different. Heard you did us proud.”

He didn't know how to respond to a compliment from Bryce, so he didn't say anything. There'd probably be something less pleasant along pretty soon, anyway.

Bryce didn't offer him a cigar this time. Instead he pulled out a file. The XO looked rested and chipper as he studied it, then laid it aside. He lighted a Camel, then leaned back, smiling. It wasn't the same smile at all—it wasn't dreamy or remote—but it still made Dan think of Lassard.

“I think we have something to talk about. That is, you—you and Norden—I know a lot's been going on, but I believe y'all still owe me a report on that there investigation. That right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well? You got one?”

“Yes sir.”

“Where's the lieutenant?”

“Up forward, sir. He asked me to send his respects and report that he had to supervise the dewatering of the powder magazine at present.”

“Oh?” Bryce frowned. “I guess we'll have to make do with you, then. Okay, proceed.”

“Sir, an exhaustive investigation was conducted over a period of two days,” Dan began, slipping into the official passive of Navy correspondence. “The bunkroom was searched from deck to overhead, and compartment cleaners and personnel who bunked near the site of the cache were interviewed. I then proceeded to interview every member of First Division. That process was completed, uh—two days before yesterday? Anyway, just after
Pargo
left. Sir.”

“So, good; I was afraid the two of you would slough it off, try to pass off some phony gun-deck job on me. Did you find out whose it was?”

He felt dismay. The way the exec had phrased it made it impossible to wriggle out of the question. He said slowly, “Yes, sir. I found out—whose it was.”

“Good! I'll teach him to possess unauthorized drugs on my ship. Who is he?”

“Sir, I have to say this carefully. The guilty man is in my division. But I gave him my word that what we had discussed, including his name, was between the two of us.”

Bryce looked at him for a moment without really having an expression on his face. He tapped the file folder on his desk. It gaped open for a moment, and Dan saw that it was empty. After a moment, the XO shook out another cigarette. He measured the end slowly with flame.

“I'm not real sure I understand what you're trying to tell me here, Lenson.”

“Well, sir, it went this way. I interviewed every man, from senior to junior. I kept the one I suspected most till last. I had no leads. Nobody knew anything. When he, too, admitted nothing, I was faced with failure of the investigation.”

“Go on.”

“To avoid that, I tried as a last resort to get him to talk to me man-to-man, off the record. He laughed and agreed. He then admitted that the marijuana was his, that he had more, and that he sold it among the crew along with other drugs.”

He had thought about this up till the Soviets had diverted his and everyone else's attention. It was a fine question: his responsibility to the ship against his word to Lassard. He knew it wouldn't go over well. He wasn't even sure it was right. But it was what he'd done.

“Okay.” The XO leaned back again, blowing a smoky circle in the direction of the ventilator. “Now I hear you. I like quick thinking in a junior officer. So, who was this trusting lamb?”

“I can't tell you, sir.”

“Lassard, right? Just nod.”

He didn't nod. “I can't tell you who it was, sir.”

“I know, he told you in confidence. That's fine. I like to see a sense of honor, too—as long as it's balanced against efficiency and safety.

“Now, I'm sure you can understand my position here. The safety and welfare of the crew, that's my bailiwick, Dan. Jimmy John deals with the relations of the command with outside security. But he leaves the day-to-day management to the exec. As he should. As long as he shows he can handle it, that is. And that means solving knotty little issues like this.

“Now, you know you just gave the game away. You said you went from senior to junior and the guilty man was last, and Slick, course he's a seaman recruit—can't get any more junior than that. So let's just say it's understood. Now we've got that out of the way, where do you think we should put the nails?”

Dan stared at Bryce's little eyes. The XO had trumped him. He tried to keep his tone neutral. It came out stubborn instead. “No, sir, that's an incorrect inference. The rank order was not that rigid.”

“Do you
deny
it was Lassard?”

“I'm not
denying
it, sir, I just can't answer that question.”

“Can't, or won't?”

“Can't, sir.”

Bryce examined the overhead. “Mr. Lenson, without some kind of backup in the way of proof—such as this here confession you got—I can't do squat to Mr. Dope Pusher. Those goddamn shoreside sea lawyers would tear me up one side and down the other. This is all well and good, but what use is it to us if we can't bend your damn scruples a little, like we all have to once in a while, so we can get anything done? Will you tell me that?”

“What did you plan to do, sir?”

“God
damn
it!” The exec threw down his cigarette, which bounced off the ashtray, throwing sparks. He retrieved it hastily from the carpet, but the accident seemed to irritate him further. He started to stub it out, then changed his mind and lighted another from it. “This is too much,” he muttered. “Okay. The book says, confine the suspect till we get back to Newport, then turn him over to the Naval Investigative Service. But I don't see no point in doing that till we give him a chance to straighten out and fly right from now on.

“So what I
planned,
Ensign, if you don't
mind,
is to confine the goddamn suspect in the supply locker, then have him up to mast in front of the captain and bust—well, we can't bust a seaman recruit, but we can sure as hell make sure he doesn't draw a dollar of pay or walk on grass again till his enlistment expires, that's for damn sure. Does that satisfy you? He's selling drugs through the ship. Isn't he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You condone that shit?”

“No, sir,” said Dan miserably.

“Look here, boy. I understand your problem. Honor, honesty, they're important. But discipline is, too. I don't believe you've got the right perspective on this business. That Annapolis stuff may be all right when you're dealing officer to officer. But this here's the real world. You can't have people working on engines, and guns, and such as that with their heads in a cloud of dope.”

“I'm sorry, sir. I guess I screwed up, telling him that.”

“No, goddamn it, I already said you handled that part right. Look.” The exec hitched his chair forward. “I've had a bellyful of this crap! There's other people trying to stop me establishing naval discipline aboard this ship. You know who I mean.”

“Well—no, sir, I don't.”

“I mean my laid-back, liberal, let-the-animals-pee-on-the-carpet department heads. People like them are handing out a load of hokum all over the country, and I don't need to tell you who's behind it all. You can see the sorry results of that, goddamn sandals on the steps of the White House! You can see it on
Ryan,
too. And how they turn yellow when the chips are down.” The avuncular tone was gone; as Dan was wearily becoming aware, it was only another tactic. “So, let's just cut through the bullshit. Give me his name and everything goes smooth. You don't, then far as I'm concerned, you're making yourself a party to it. And once I start hoeing that row, I'm telling you now, I go all the way to the end.”

He wanted to apologize, to explain, but he'd done that already. He stared at the exec helplessly.

“For the last time: You won't tell me?”

“Sir—believe me, I'd like to, but—”

“Hold it right there,” said Bryce. He lifted his chin a little and suddenly looked shrewd. “Yeah … tell you what. Seems to me maybe that crack on the head got you a little confused. Maybe you need time to think about this. Considering how important it's going to be when it comes time for me to write your first fitness report.” He picked up the folder again. In a dry, uninterested voice, he added, “We'll talk about this later, Ensign. Dismissed.”

Outside the door, Dan paused. He looked at his hands. They were shaking. Thoughts bounced around his mind like scared rabbits. Bryce didn't seem so harmless now. He'd rather face the forty-foot sea. At least if it got him, Susan would be taken care of. But if Bryce shafted him, he'd never get promoted, and if he didn't get promoted, he'd be out, with a wife and infant on his hands.

He thought very clearly: Maybe I should tell him. USS
Reynolds Ryan
wasn't the Naval Academy, Bryce was sure as hell right about that. Did you have to keep your word with scum like Lassard? He'd laugh if you expected him to keep his. If someone else, if the captain had asked him … anyone other than Bryce …

But what was this business about giving Slick a chance to “straighten out”? Something didn't sound right about that. It didn't sound like the way Bryce operated, to give anybody a second chance once he had them on the deck looking up.

He wanted to go back inside so much, he made himself turn and walk aft. Away from the gray door. No, he thought. I made a mistake promising Lassard confidentiality. I shouldn't have given him the opening. I screwed up again trying to waffle with Bryce. Breaking his word would just be another wrong move. He'd never get to whatever made Slick Lassard run then.