The Gulf (23 page)

“You know what I think, Dick?” interrupted Kearn. “We thought we had EOD hotshots on board. What we really got's a bunch of egotistical civilians who when the crunch comes start shiverin' like a pup shittin' peach pits.”

Gordon didn't say anything.

“Captain, if these asshole Reserves won't do it, I will. I used to swim pretty good. You hazardous-pay part-timers are too weak-kneed to take a chance for the ship, I'm not.”

“Wait, wait, Sapper.” Hunnicutt looked pleadingly at Gordon. “Senior, I understand your concern. But look at it from … Look. If the engine room floods, this ship could go down. We'd have to evacuate to
Sumter.
We could lose a combat unit the Navy badly needs right now. That's why I'd like—”

“
Order
him to do it,” muttered Kearn in his ear as a roll swayed him forward on the bunk. “It's simple, Honey. Apply some size-nine leadership. Then if he won't, relieve him and put his second in charge.”

Hunnicutt didn't answer for a moment. He passed a hand across his scalp. Gordon saw the sweat glitter.

“Okay, you want to push me to it,” he said. “What do you say to that, Senior Chief?”

“What I said before, sir. We don't dive in rough seas in open ocean. It's too dangerous.”

The captain said then, and for the first time his voice sounded calm: “So the bottom line is, you're refusing a direct order.”

“I can't, sir. I can't risk my men in this.”

“Maybe that's the problem. ‘Your men.'” Hunnicutt was looking at his hands. “You Reserves train together, work together, stay together a long time. Right? Know each other's families? Sometimes that doesn't comport with getting the mission done, Senior. If you might have to pay for it in lives.”

“I don't think that's the issue here, sir.” But just for a moment, he wondered whether Hunnicutt could be right.

It must have shown on his face, because just then the sweep officer sniggered. “Changed your mind?”

Gordon said slowly, “I'll do it.
Sir.
But when we get to the Gulf, I'm going to take this up with our bosses.”

“You do that,” said Kearn, lighting a cigar. He blew the smoke into the air and squinted through it at Gordon. “Why don't you just do that. But meanwhile, Farmer John, just lay your ass aft, and do as you're goddamn well told.”

*   *   *

“Now EOD team, lay to the fantail.”

Gordon shook his head angrily; they were all already there. He ducked under a burst of cold Atlantic and circled a finger in the close-it-up sign they used underwater.

“We got to cut out an intake,” he began, and ignoring Terger's startled mutter, explained the situation. He finished, “I don't think it's right but I've been overruled.”

“What about
Sumter
's CO, John? Isn't he in charge of the group?”

“He'll back Hunnicutt. I don't think they understand what they're asking us to do.”

“Yeah, but if we all refuse—”

“There're no strikes in the Navy. That's enough discussion,” Gordon said sharply. “Okay, listen. I'll be diving alone. I'll use the nineties and standard regulator—”

“No,
you
won't,” said Everett. “You are
not
going down alone. You're going down with me.”

“Can't do it, Lem, I need a qualified dive supe topside.”

“
Alors,
you are going with me, John.”

“No, me!”

Gordon saw how it was. “Okay, shut
up!
It'll be Leroy and me. Lem'll supervise. Tony, you're tender. Clint, you're standby.”

“Hold on!” shouted Maudit. They grabbed for handholds as a sea the color of distant mountains lifted to port. So high the wind stopped, its steady pressure left their bodies, cut off by the wave. It hung above the little ship so long Gordon could have memorized every ripple on its glass-slick, curving belly. Beyond it, almost on them, was the gray wall of a squall.

Then it broke, slamming down like a wet white avalanche. When they could breathe again, they stared at one another. “Nobody can dive in this,” shouted Burgee. “This is crazy.”

“You aren't going, Clint, so just listen up. The intake's on the port quarter, just above the turn of the bilge. Any questions? Let's go. I want to get this done before it gets dark. And stay alert up here, too. I don't want anybody washed overboard.”

When he came up again, carrying his gear, the motion was less violent, the seas slightly less mountainous. He looked out and saw why. A hundred yards off, between them and the wind, rose the gray flank of the landing ship. Heaving, glistening dully with spray,
Sumter
was rolling almost as badly as the sweeps. To the west, her other ducklings,
Resolute
and
Illusive,
had lengthened their tows and were riding nose to the swells.

“Heads up!”

He hadn't heard the shot over the wind's howl, but now Kearn's gang swarmed out on deck. The shot line, bellied by the wind, drifted gracefully down out of the sky. They grabbed it and began hauling off. The chief boatswain leaned to his ear. “Gonna make up with a line forward, one aft, keep her steady while you're down, buds.”

Gordon nodded wordlessly as the squall hit. Cold rain rattled on the deck. He shucked off his instantly soaked greens and stepped naked into the wet-suit bottoms. He zipped the top on and sat down on a chock. Maudit handed him in turn buoyancy compensator, knife, fins, depth gauge, and gloves.

He turned his head to see Terger's face disappear under a hood. He shook his head, preferring to leave his off. Everett finished making up the tank set and lifted it with a grunt. Gordon stood. He thrust his arms through the straps and pulled them taut. Bit the mouthpiece, and took a tentative breath.

He nodded. His mouth was dusty-dry, and not only from the canned air. Supported by his dressers, he shuffled through the dancing rain toward the side.

“Hold up, damn it,” shouted the boatswain. “We're not fast to
Sumter
yet.”

He returned to his perch, turning his mask this way and that. Terger waited too, the black rubber over his barrel chest bleeding with rain. He shouted, “Actually I'd rather be teaching electron balances.”

Gordon grinned back, but his heart wasn't in it.

A capstan hummed. The after line rose dripping from a wave, then suddenly grew taut as nine hundred tons of minesweeper lunged against it. He glanced at the seething gray above the masthead, then at his watch. Dusk would be falling soon.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” Kearn's voice, high, pissed-off.

“You ready for me to go?”

“All intakes closed. Ship's tagged out and word's been passed we got divers over. Get moving, we can't hold this fucking lee all day.”

The cofferdam, a heavy pine box about the size of a peach crate, was already over, hanging on a hogging line. Gordon waddled to the side—the boatswain had taken down a section of the brass railings aft of the sweep gear—and without stopping or saying anything grabbed his regulator with one hand, his tank boot with the other, and went in feet first.

He hit hard, and wrong. The roll was faster than he'd expected and he fell an extra five feet. The flat of a wave smashed him in the face and dislodged his mask. He let himself sink through the shock, and eight or ten feet down came to a stop.

And hung there, suddenly suspended in peace like a fly in gray amber. The demented howl of the wind, the shouting, the clatter of blocks, all were obliterated by the sea. All it held was a deep thrum, the landing ship's screws, and the hammer thud of his heart.

He got his mask adjusted and cleared just as he bobbed back up. Terger was at the deck edge. A wave covered him; when it passed, his partner was gone. In the lower half of his mask, a vague plume of bubbles blossomed.

Gordon took a last look around, at the iron-gray sky, the dripping line from
Sumter
leaping again into that terrible tautness. Faces lined the rail of the reeling minesweeper: Maudit dressed and ready; Everett gripping the lifeline, the other hand holding a stopwatch, his eyes fixed on the sea.

Gordon's left hand moved then. Bubbles roaring in his ears, he sank away from the light.

*   *   *

Visibility was okay, but there was even less illumination penetrating than he'd feared. This would have to be done quickly.

Terger came into view. A double trail of bubbles showed he too was valving buoyancy. Gordon pulled out his buddy line. One end snap-hooked to his belt, the other to the other diver's line. That should give them enough room to work. He glanced at his gauge and signaled. Terger nodded and they finned toward the vague shadow above.

The stern came into clear view, the twin screws and rudders motionless, sharp-edged and black. They were heaving up and down, dragging down clouds of salt foam. Again Gordon felt the same dry dread he'd breathed on deck, waiting to go in.

There are things, if a man's promised to do them, he ought to no matter what.

He swam forward along the port side until the cofferdam came into view. A dirge boomed through the water as it battered against the planks, twisting and turning on the hogging line. He waved Terger off and made for it.

As he passed the turn of the bilge, the surge caught him, sucking him violently up and down, five or six feet with every roll. He didn't try to fight or resist, just kept grimly swimming until he was up on the flailing box. He stopped a few feet off, sculling with his hands, searching along the hull.

A faint tapping forward … he moved up a few feet and saw it. The inlet was covered with a slimy bronze grating. He saw Terger's eyes fasten to it, too.

Well, no point in waiting. He finned forward and grabbed the box with both arms.

The surge spun him instantly and slammed him headfirst into the hull. He blinked broken light out of his eyes and tried to fend off with his elbows. He soared up till it was bright, then down till it was dark. Bubbles seethed around him. The box was too high. He yanked on the line, and it suddenly came loose and fell over his head. Holding his breath, he untangled it from his regulator, then vented the last bit of air from his vest.

Should be a rope inside the box … there it was, the end neatly whipped with small stuff. This had to go through the grate. Hugging the splintered pine to his chest, he fought his way back to the inlet. It went up and down at a dizzying rate. Again the surge sent him tumbling. Confused, disoriented by repeated blows, he began to suspect this wasn't going to work.

He felt Terger next to him. The other diver grabbed the cofferdam and shook the rope at him. Gordon nodded, released the box, and got the fingers of his left hand into the grate.

It was like grabbing a maddened whale. His arm was almost wrenched off as the hull dragged him through the water. He hugged it, reducing his resistance, and poked the whipped end through. He fed in four feet of it before letting go. As he did so, he pulled out his knife and rapped hard three times with the butt.

A pinging crack in his ears. One of the cherry bombs they signaled with. He'd come up in a minute. They were almost done.

Suction, and lots of it. They must have opened the flapper. He pushed off from the grate, signaling to Terger. The other diver, six feet away, had oriented the box with its open side toward the ship, and now lunged in with it.

It suck-slammed into place over the grate. They hammered with fists and knife until it slid sideways, centered. Simultaneously, they thrust themselves away and swam clear.

Or tried to. But the ship's motion had changed. They were being sucked backward. He saw with horror Terger slammed against the skeg, then dragged aft toward the screws. Sharp as they were … he twisted to brace himself and hauled with all his strength on the buddy line. The other man saw his danger, too, and kicked, fought, till his shadow separated from the hull.

They surfaced into a rage of water, wind, and rain. Lifted on a monstrous crest, Gordon saw for just a second the minesweeper drifted sideways out of the lee, the steadying line trailing from her stern. Then the squall wiped everything away.

He felt rather than saw Terger surface beside him, then fight his way over. When they were face-to-face, he raised his wrist. Gordon nodded. There was blood on the other diver's mask, but he'd gotten a compass bearing. He raised his hand and jabbed his thumb down violently.

At ten feet, they joined up and swam due east. The sea had gone mad, tossing them about so swiftly the needle on his depth gauge ticked like a windshield wiper. Then something dragged across his back. He flinched, then realized what it was. He turned over, grabbing for the wonderful rough thickness of the steadying line, snapped near the mother ship but streaming back from the minesweeper's stern.

They pulled themselves up hand over hand, and broke surface again thirty feet off
Audacity
's stern. It loomed above Gordon huge and unclimbable as a bucking cliff, stained and splintered with decades of collisions and patches. At one moment, he could see the eroded tips of the screw blades; at the next, green sea gnawed at the deck and he looked down at the now brightly lit fantail. There was no hope of yelling above the scream of the wind, but he waved.

One of the boatswains saw him. Faces swung. A moment later, a heaving line uncoiled in the air, the yellow monkey's-fist wind-lofted far beyond them. He ignored it. There was no way they were going back aboard over the stern.

Or the side, either. In fact, he had no idea how they were getting back aboard.

The sea lifted them again and he glimpsed Lem Everett, momentarily at eye level, hanging on to the boatswain, shouting into his ear. The wave dropped away and Gordon sank dizzily. But the next time he came up he saw seamen at the starboard davit, struggling to swing it outboard.