The Circle (47 page)

“I'd better get on that. Can I get a relief? I need to get my guys ready.”

“Sure. Call Trachsler, why don't you. He can shoot an approach even with a busted arm.”

*   *   *

HE found Bloch, as he'd expected, in the chiefs' quarters. He was sitting in a sweat-stained T-shirt, a cup of coffee in front of him, a cigar sputtering smoke into the air from a stamped aluminum tray. Dan was opening his mouth to ask him what happened to working hours when he saw what he was doing. Enlisted evaluations, scribbled and lined through and erased, covered the table. Bloch glanced up. “H'lo, sir,” he said, his pouchy eyes dull as old sea glass.

“Chief. Look, we just got a message topside—”

“Refuelling at seventeen thirty. Station Two. The boys are on it.”

“Well, okay.” Bloch seemed always to be either ahead of or behind him, but never quite with him. He glanced at his watch. They had an hour yet before fueling would be called away.

“Siddown, sir. Care for a King Edward?”

“No, thanks.”

“Coffee? Hey! Gigolo! Pump the ensign some java.”

The messman slid Dan a cup of joe. He nutated it in the mug, noting the film it left behind, like bunker fuel. It tasted like Bloch had been putting out his cigars in it. He watched the chief work for a few minutes. He finished one of the evaluations, sighed heavily, and reached for the next.

“When are you going to check the rig, Chief?”

Bloch glanced at him under his brows. He sighed again, shuffled the papers together, and rose. He stuck the cigar in his mouth and pulled on his shirt. Together, they went up on deck.

The formation had turned west while he was below.
Ryan
had dropped behind the oiler and was following its broad stern around in the turn. They stood on the Ol level and watched the replenishment team lay out the gear on the forecastle. Rambaugh went from point to point along the distance line, attaching little flashlights. He tested each one, replacing a battery or a bulb here and there.

“Calmer today than ‘twas last time we did this,” said Bloch, waving the butt of the stogie at five-foot swells.

“I hope it goes better than last time.”

The chief leaned against the rail and puffed smoke into the wind. Dan caught a whiff of it, rank as smoldering rope. “You know, sir—”

“What's that?”

“You don't need me on deck. Popeye's been refueling damn near as long as I have. He knows the business. So does Ikey. Least, he should.”

“Well, I guess that's relative, Chief. They don't seem to need me around, either, a lot of the time, but here I am.”

Bloch stared at him. “Hey,” he said. “Good comeback” He slapped Dan on the shoulder. He felt as if he'd been knighted. “Well, what do you say we both just stand around and enjoy the scenery, long as they're paying us to. Better than that fuckin' paperwork. Remember when I was a seaman, on the Unholy
Toledo,
I don't think the division chief could even write. Now it's more like recruiting duty every year. I guess they'll end up makin' us all titless Waves.”

Replenishment stations went as the sky edged toward sunset. The sun hurled its dying brilliance along a vast corridor of scarlet cloud, carpeting the sea with rose like a triumphal avenue. High above arched streaks of thin golden cirrus. The men trooped aft for life jackets. Bloch threw his on, buckled the top snap hook, but let the bottom dangle. He saw Lenson's look and sighed. He buckled the bottom and pulled his belly up with both hands and tucked the loose tie-tie ends into his pants.

They closed slowly on the oiler. Dan, glancing aft, saw that the line handlers were on station, passing jokes and farts, cuffing and shoving each other. Pettus stalked by them and the grab-assing stopped.

“That Pettus, he'll make a good petty officer, he gets some time in.”

“He's kind of got a chip on his shoulder, seems to me.”

“It's not easy, being a new third. You got to leave your pals behind. Maynard's going to do all right.”

“Maynard?”

“Yeah, he goes by Martin, but that's his middle name. Maynard Martin Pettus.”

As
Ryan
closed, the rounded stern of the oiler, outlined black against red sky, looked familiar, like the corner gas station. The gunner's mates waited, line guns lowered. Dan glanced up at the bridge. Trachsler was standing beside the alidade, calling out rudder and engine commands. He felt a twinge of jealousy. It would be a long time before he got to shoot an approach.

When
Ryan
slid into the notch, the guns popped and two lines came sailing across. One plunged incontinently downward and was swept off in the wake. The other dropped across the signal bridge. Greenwald came running back with it. Isaacs passed it through the block and the line handlers hauled away. In a few minutes, the span wire was across and fast and the hose was creeping down it toward them. The line handlers chantied out in rhythm, hauling it down. They didn't sound depressed. Well, a couple weeks exercise, a week in Spain, and they'd be headed home. He felt better, too, thinking about it.

“Start pumping,” Isaacs shouted. The talker muttered into his mouthpiece. The hose began throbbing, the ship sucking black oil like a whale calf at its mother's teat. Dan imagined her sinking under his feet. This would be a long replenishment. They'd burned a lot of fuel screwing around up north.

He stood in the sea wind and thought about home, about Susan, about holding her again. For a little while, he was almost happy.

*   *   *

THEY were still fueling after dark dropped a sable curtain over the sea. The stars gleamed steady and cold between the clouds. Below them the distance line was a swaying catenary of lights, glittering between the mated ships. Dan bent his wrist under the working floods. They had to have the ship darkened by eight, when the exercise began.

At that moment, the phone talker cried, “Cease pumping. Refueling complete.”

The signalman gestured with lighted wands. The throbbing ceased. Men ran about the decks opposite. Dan leaned over the rail, looking aft toward the rig. As the retrieving wire tightened, Isaacs separated the hose. A few gallons of oil splashed out on the deck, then cut off. Hardin bent with a rag and swabbed busily as the hose retreated up the span wire.

“Going nice,” he said to the chief. Bloch nodded, Roosevelting an unlighted stogie between his teeth.

The span was now the only connection between the ships. Above them Trachsler shouted into the pilothouse. Isaacs stepped up to the wire and pulled at the cotter pin.

A vibrating roar came from the stacks and
Ryan
began to gather speed. Isaacs yanked at the pin again, then stepped back and looked at it uncertainly.

Dan stiffened and glanced at the bridge. The conning officer was no longer in sight.

“Go tell 'em,” said Bloch. He was already swinging his heavy body over the rail.

Dan was halfway up the ladder when Evlin came out. He shouted, “Swing back in, Al! It's hung up; it's still attached!”

Evlin's eyes widened. He turned and yelled into the bridge. Dan reversed himself and almost fell down the ladder. The ship began to heel.

Below, at the station, he saw Bloch at the pelican hook. The chief boatswain waved the others back, then stepped forward of the rigid span wire. He lifted a hammer and brought it down, once, twice.

At the third blow, the heavy steel bail flicked open. Dan couldn't see how it happened, but suddenly Bloch was staggering back, clawing at his head. The hammer clanged against the bulkhead. The span wire leapt out into space, coiled itself, and ripped down into the sea.

For a frozen moment, they all—he from the ladder, the men from the deck, Trachsler and Packer and Evlin from the bridge—stared down at the fallen figure in dirty khakis.

*   *   *

HE threw the bloody hammer back into the toolbox with a clatter and looked around at the men. The corpsman had taken Bloch below. His skull was fractured. He was dead. Dan looked away from Isaacs's wet eyes, his trembling hands.

“Petty Officer Rambaugh, you're acting chief as of now.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Secure from unrep detail. Get this all policed up.”

The men saluted. He saluted back. There was something final in the gesture.

The weapons officer and the exec were waiting for him in the breaker. “Everything secured?” asked Norden.

“Yes, sir.”

“Let's go below,” said Bryce grimly. “In my cabin.”

*   *   *

“GENTLEMEN, I was not present at this latest fiasco. This time, it wasn't just the usual substandard performance. This time we lost a man. Mr. Lenson. In your opinion, was Chief Bloch in full command of himself this evening?”

The question took him by surprise. He stammered, “Bloch, sir? He was cold sober.”

“Sober, eh?” said Bryce. He lighted a cigarette deliberately. “‘Cold sober.' Why did that pop into your head, Dan? That you assumed I meant he was drunk?”

“Sir, I didn't mean that the way it came out. I meant only that he was in full command of himself.”

“What about your first-class? The Negro boy, Isaacs?”

“He was … acting kind of slow, sir, but I have no reason to believe that he was under any undue influence.”

“Then why'd you give Popeye the division?” asked Norden, speaking for the first time. “Rather than Ikey? He's next senior.”

“Sir, I can only … I can only say I don't have full confidence in Petty Officer Isaacs's professional ability. That's not to say I think he's intoxicated or drugged, or in any other way … or anything else. Or that he was responsible for the accident. Rambaugh just seems to have more on the ball.”

Bryce squinted thoughtfully, fiddling with a pencil. When Dan stopped he grunted, “Rich, you agree with that?”

“I'll back up my division officer, yes, sir.”

“I see. Well, the Navy doesn't work that way, gentlemen. Can't have a second-class bossing a first. Only one way to clear this up. Get Isaacs up here.”

“Now, sir?”

Bryce nodded curtly. After a moment, Norden reached for the phone.

When Isaacs came in, he was plainly terrified. Tears gleamed on his cheeks. His hands twisted his work gloves. “Stand over there,” said Bryce, distaste in his voice. “You've got oil on your boots, boy, it's getting on my carpet.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“What happened on Station Two, Isaacs?”

“Sir, the ship, she tried to pull away too soon. Got a strain on the span wire. The cotter pin bound up. I couldn't get it free with the pliers. Chief Bloch, he come down and pushed me off, started hammering on it to free it up. That's what I was going to do, sir. When it let go, the bail snapped up and knocked the hammer into his face.”

“Isaacs, are you drunk?”

The petty officer gaped at him. “No, sir, no sir, haven't had nothing to drink for a long time.”

“Smell his breath,” said Bryce. Dan sat still. Norden, his eyes on the exec, got up slowly.

“I don't smell anything, Commander.”

“Get out of the way.” Bryce put his face close to the black man's. “Bend down here. I smell it! I smell whiskey. This man is drunk.”

Dan began to tremble, too. They were destroying Isaacs. And he'd started it, by doubting his fitness to take over the division. He got up and stood next to the XO. His nostrils caught the reek of fuel oil and sweat. That was all. “Sir, I don't smell anything.”

“Well, I do,” said Bryce. He picked up the phone. “Bridge? XO here. Send the master-at-arms to my cabin. With the keys to the supply locker.”

Lenson opened his mouth to protest, but Norden was already speaking. “Sir, wait a minute. I think you're jumping to—”

“That's enough out of you,” said Bryce. Suddenly he was shouting. “You understand me? Enough! I'm sick of coddling drunks and hopheads in your department. I've been through this with Lenson and I've had a bellyful. You're holding a shipwide search tonight. All the weapons spaces. Berthing compartments, heads, mess decks, everywhere. I told you we were riding for a fall when you wanted me to recommend Isaacs for first class. And I was right. Yes! Come in!”

Chief Hopper slid in, a fat, overage clerk with a fistful of keys. “Lock this man up,” said Bryce. Hopper peered around at the officers. “Him! Isaacs! Get him out of my sight.”

“Aye aye, sir. Come on, Ikey.”

The first-class lifted a shaking hand. For a moment it seemed he might beg, or protest. Then Dan saw his eyes drop, his shoulders wilt.

When he staggered out, Bryce collapsed into his chair. “Okay, that's taken care of. Now, this search. I want all petty officers in the search party. Fore and aft. Open every locker. Use flashlights in the overheads.”

Norden's face was pallid. “Sir, I have to say, I think—”

“Do me a favor, Rich. Shut up, get out, and do as you're told. Forget your great-grandfather's brilliant career. Start worrying about yours. You and Evlin've fucked up my ship pretty goddamn thoroughly. Now we're gonna do it my way. I want a report by midnight.”

“Come on, Dan,” said Norden. He pulled at Lenson's arm. “It's no good. Come
on.
”

Dan felt it, but he couldn't move. He was straining forward, his mind blank, staring at the executive officer. So this is the way it is in the Navy, a voice in his head sneered. Lassard's voice. This is how it is on
Ryan,
man. Somebody dies, somebody has to be crucified. You gonna change that, Ensign? He wasn't sure what he wanted to do. No, that was wrong. He wanted to kill Bryce. “Wait,” he said. He felt as if he was choking. “This isn't right.”

“Get out, Lenson. Take him out, Lieutenant!”

Only the last shred of self-control, and Norden's fingers digging into his shoulder, let him turn away at last.