The Circle (7 page)

The men nodded. Packer paused. He lighted his pipe thoroughly, using a butane lighter set high, then went on. “I had a talk with the commodore when we got these orders. He wanted to shift the fish to a newer ship. But operational demands in Southeast Asia mean the fleet's spread thin.
Dewey
and
Beary
were held over in the Med for that reason. I told him we could respond to the tasking.”

Some of the officers leaned their elbows on the table.

“So we're on the line for it. It goes without saying that we aren't in the best shape for the North Atlantic in winter. However, this is the kind of mission that would be demanded of us in wartime, and I judge we can do it. If there's anyone here who disagrees, I'd like to know about it.”

No one moved. “Well then,” said Packer, from behind a thickening smoke screen, “we should have reasonable weather for the first few days. I want to get as much topside work done as we can. And be sure your gear's secured for sea. We can expect heavy weather and ice north of the Circle this time of year.

“Any questions?”

Men stirred, but no one spoke. Dan watched the engineering officer lift his coffee, his brows worried. He was kind of worried himself. He wasn't sure he understood what the captain was talking about. Then he thought, Well, I guess I'll find out.

“XO, anything to add?”

“Not much, sir,” said Bryce. “So, this won't be a Caribbean cruise. But I've always said, there's nothing a crew can't overcome if they work hard and keep their cool. That shouldn't be too tough, north of Iceland this time of year.”

He chuckled, but no one joined him. Mabalacat moved round the table, refreshing coffee from a battered silver server. One by one, the officers excused themselves; the captain acknowledged with a nod. Dan got up when Norden did, but on his way past, Evlin leaned his chair back to bar his passage. “Say, Dan.”

“Yes, sir?” Some instinct warned him to be formal with the senior department head. Precise diction. Short brown hair and mustache. Wire-rimmed glasses.

“We'll be revamping the watch bill now you're here. You'll be standing junior officer of the deck. We're in three sections. You'll be in my section, which means—” Evlin consulted his watch.

“First dog, mid,” said Norden.

“Right. You'll stand your first watch from sixteen hundred to eighteen hundred, then come on again at midnight to four.”

“Aye, sir,” he said, cheerily enough, but he felt his spirits sag. He'd been up since four; he was already tired, and it looked like a long afternoon ahead. Now what sleep he managed tonight would be broken. Disappointment struggled with eagerness and apprehension. His first underway watch. For a moment he imagined the OOD fallen, himself in charge, saving the ship.

As he followed Norden down the passageway, he stepped back, as he had on the pier, taking a moment in the midst of experience to reflect.

He'd seen
Ryan
from stem to stern, from keel to bridge. Had seen the crew in microcosm: the sailors, chief, wardroom; had been admitted for a moment into the mind of the captain. He'd felt her climates, from the roaring swelter of the engine room to the air-conditioned clatter of Radio Central, smelled fuel oil and insecticide, deck wax and electricity, men's sweat and paint. Almost three hundred men, crowded into a steel box the length of a football field but only a quarter as wide. In some eyes, he'd read dedication, competence, and respect. In others, barely repressed violence.

Ryan
was not yet his. Only with work and time would he win his share in her, as crews in the old days won shares in prizes. He wasn't sure why this meant so much to him. But he knew what he wanted of USS
Reynolds Ryan.
He wanted to be tested, and to succeed. To be part of her. To belong.

“This swab locker's yours,” said Norden, banging open a door stenciled
I DIV CLNG LKR.
“And it's a shithouse. The deck's rusting out. See that? Reason is, the spigot's busted. And it'll keep rusting till it's fixed. And it won't get fixed till somebody takes responsibility for making it happen.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I'll get on it right away.”

3

Latitude 40°–51′ North, Longitude 66°–30′ West: 200 Miles East of Cape Cod

SHIVERING in a blast of freezing wind, Lenson stared openmouthed into the immensity of space. Above the midnight sea, the Milky Way was a double rainbow of silver. A billion stars blazed down on him. They had no resemblance to the feeble candles seen from land. These were brilliant and unwinking, cold and close and terrifying as the eyes of God.

He stepped back, grunting as sore feet brought him back to the unyielding deck. After evening meal, Cummings had grabbed him to transfer the mess records. Then Norden kept him busy signing custody cards till it was time for watch. But the eagerness that had come now and again all that day closed his throat again as he leaned with Mark Silver over the glowing circle of the surface search radar.

The jaygee's finger traced the edge of a continent. They gazed like gods on the flaring brightness of mountains, the writhing shadows of bay and valley, the glowing masses of islands. Nantucket, Block Island, the cruel hook of Cape Cod leapt into fluorescent brilliance under the rotating beam, faded slowly, then leapt up anew, twenty times a minute.

Silver muttered into his beard. The rush of wind through the pilothouse, the hiss of radios drowned it. “What's that?” Dan asked.

“I said, ‘contact “Romeo.”'” The offgoing junior officer of the deck's finger lifted, and Dan saw a separate luminescence, focused and hard compared to the inchoate sprawl of land. “Range, eighteen thousand yards, past CPA 'n' opening. ‘Sierra's' up here, course two-six-zero, speed then, just about at CPA at thirteen thousand yards, time zero-five.”

The lieutenant (jg) rattled on, so fast he couldn't follow. Courses and speeds and times, radio frequencies, the status of engines and pumps and generators. When he asked for a repeat, Silver glanced up, the whites of his eyes gleaming weirdly in the phosphor flicker. “What's the matter, Lenson? Haven't you read the night orders?”

“No, sir,” he mumbled.

“From now on, read them before you tell me you're ready to relieve. True wind's from one-two-five at twelve, sea state two—”

At last Silver handed over the bulky night glasses, the badge of office, with the reluctance of a priest blessing a dying mafioso. A shadowy figure stood beside the gyro, outlined against the stars. Silver told it, “I've been properly relieved by Mr. Lenson, sir.”

“Very well.” The shadow's voice was even, clearly enunciated, as if he'd learned English from a book.

Dan swallowed. “This is Ensign Lenson,” he began, saluting in the dark although he didn't have to, then realized he had it wrong. “I mean, sir, I have the watch as JOD.”

“Very well,” said the shadow again. The bridge was so quiet he felt
Ryan
trembling as she drove over three-foot seas. “Mr. Silver, you may lay below.”

Silver left the bridge, exhaling noisily. Someone, one of the enlisted men, chuckled in the darkness.

Dan was too anxious to notice. He lingered near the radar, wondering what to do. Lieutenant Evlin had both the “deck,” the overall responsibility for, and the “conn,” the actual control of the ship. He flipped the straps of the binoculars over his neck, felt the weight settle in. He paced a few feet to and fro, reviewing the layout of the bridge and its manning under way.

Steaming independently, a destroyer had ten men on watch topside. The officer of the deck, or OOD, was in charge. The junior OOD acted as his assistant and makeelearn. There were two senior enlisted men, or petty officers. Of these two, the quartermaster was a skilled navigator; he kept a log and plotted the ship's track. The boatswain's mate passed word, struck bells, and supervised six nonrated men. Of these, one acted as helmsman, both steering and ringing up engine orders. Three were lookouts, to port, starboard, and aft, supplemented in fog by another in the bow. They stood watch in the open, scanning sea and sky. Another seaman manned a phone circuit, relaying reports from CIC. Finally, a messenger cleaned up and fetched coffee and did the hundred other chores nine people who outranked him could think up in the course of four dragging hours.

“Sir,” said the phone talker suddenly, “CIC reports a new contact, ‘Tango,' bearing zero-seven-zero, range twenty-five thousand, course one-nine-zero, speed ten; CPA three thousand yards at one-five-zero true, time four two.”

The shadow stirred. “Have him on radar yet, Lenson?” said the even, precise voice.

Dan started, then fumbled with unfamiliar dials. The green world between his hands shrank and expanded, dimmed and flared. “Uh, yes sir, I think this is him.”

“Mark it. Use the grease pencil on the string.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“See if you can pick him up visually. No, the other wing, you won't see anything to starboard.”

“Yes, sir.”

The port wing was open to the sky. He tripped on a coaming as he came out. Then stood motionless, dazzled by the lavender afterimages the screen had printed on his retina. The wind found him as he waited and thrust icy fingers under the collar of his jacket. He shivered, fumbling the binoculars to his eyes.

He couldn't see a thing through them. Even the stars were blurry and distorted!

Then he realized Silver had set them for his nearsightedness. He calmed down and zeroed them while he did the math. Three hundred and sixty degrees in a circle, with due north at zero-zero-zero true. The radar bearing had been zero-seven-zero, which would be forty degrees left of
Ryan
's course. He steadied his elbows on the rail and searched slowly on either side of the bearing.

There: Two yellow sparks shimmered close together on the black curve of the sea. The right-hand one was lower. The approaching ship's starboard side should be to him. He took a bearing with the port pelorus. According to CIC, she'd pass in front of
Ryan,
assuming both ships held course and speed. There should also be a colored side light—green for starboard, red for port. At twelve miles? He thought it through again, took another bearing, then went back inside.

“Got her?”

“Yes sir. Starboard bow aspect, slow right bearing drift. Too far for side lights yet.”

“Very well. Keep an eye on her.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Dan checked the radar again. The two ships that had passed during Silver's watch were sliding aft, off the screen. He made a second mark on “Tango's” pip, grease-penciled a line to it from the first, and extended it. If they both held course, the pip should go down that trace.

“What's CPA look like?” came Evlin's voice.

CPA was closest point of approach, the least distance between them as two ships passed. He spun the dials and read off the range to the closest point of the extended line. The other ship would pass
Ryan
a mile and a half to starboard. A safe distance, but worth watching; if he altered course, they could be in trouble fast. “Three thousand one hundred yards, one-five-zero, sir.”

Evlin said nothing. Dan looked about the darkened bridge, trying to fix the equipment locations. He could see the blue pilot lights of the radios, but that was all. Their steady frying crackle made him sweat. No, that wasn't it. He was sweating because he couldn't remember what Silver had told him about them. If a call came in, could he find the right handset? He resolved, if he made it though this watch without ignominy, to come up early next time and memorize them. He paced this way and that, checked the compass to see that they were on course, checked the barometer, though he was unsure what its reading meant.

How could Evlin be so calm? The motionless silhouette seemed to be waiting.

Waiting … oh. “Keep an eye on her.” He went out on the wing again.

He could see the other ship with his naked eye now, twinkling in the distance, but through the glasses, at seven magnifications, she was all but on them. The fierce brilliance of the masthead and range, so bright that colored rays danced at the edges of the optical field; a line of smaller lights below them, shimmering on the onyx sea. Portholes. There, a green spark: the starboard sidelight.

He lowered the binoculars and leaned into the wind, trying to bleed anxiety into the night like body heat. So many stars! They seemed alike at first glance. Yet on examination, each had its own color, its own twinkle rate, its own inalienable position in the cosmos.

He gripped the heavy glasses in a sudden, inexplicable return of joy.

In high school, he hadn't dreamed of college. There was barely money for food. But he'd taken the test, afraid to hope—and been appointed. To the Naval Academy, still as prestigious in a small town as Harvard or Yale.

There'd been times at Annapolis, too, when he doubted he'd make it. After Plebe Year had come three more, night after night of calculus, engineering, hard science, tactics. Only once or twice a month could a mid hazard an illegal beer in Crabtown, usually followed by a mad dash back a few seconds ahead of the jimmylegs.

But somehow he had. And here he was. Not aboard the smartest ship in the fleet, not the newest. But a destroyer, built to steam and fight.

Staring at the stars, he thought of how unused he was to contentment. It hadn't come often in twenty-one years. His stomach twisted when he recalled the prying self-righteous caseworkers, the contempt of neighbors for “loafers,” “reliefers.”

The politicians said welfare broke the spirit, made people shiftless. It had made him angry, ready to battle like an animal for accomplishment and respect.

And yet sometimes he still felt inferior, frightened, afraid he wasn't good enough.

He'd been proud when he married Susan, though he felt awkward around her parents. It wasn't that they were Chinese. But their Washington home, their cars, even their diction intimidated him. His roommate had laughed when Dan told him that. He'd laughed, too, but bitterly. Only those who'd never been hungry believed class didn't matter in the United States of America.