Long Voyage Back

by Luke Rhinehart

  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

  voice. 'We have no authorization to receive you. You'll have to leave the ship.'

  `May I have permission to speak to your Captain?'

  `You may not. Escort this man off the ship, Mr Haynes.'

  Discouraged and angry, Neil was led back to the boarding ladder and down off the Haig. But in the open dock area he noticed and accosted another lieutenant and, with Mr Haynes looking on uncertainly, explained his situation again to this officer.

  `The class of '71, is it?' the officer asked. He was a tired-looking, sloppily-dressed man about Neil's own age from the severely damaged destroyer.

  `Yes, sir,' said Neil. 'If you have anyone aboard from '70, '71 or '72 they'll probably know me . . . or know of me.'

  `Know of you, huh?' the lieutenant said, eyeing Neil speculatively. 'Are you famous for something?'

  Ìt was a suggestion,' Neil said, side-stepping the question. Ì have none of my papers with me.'

  `There are . . . were half a dozen Academy boys aboard this ship, but none that I can think of during those years. Maybe Captain Cohen. You know him?'

  `No, I don't.'

  `Then you're out of luck, I guess.'

  `Could I see your commanding officer?' Neil persisted. Ì'm afraid Commander Bonnville wouldn't appreciate being disturbed by something as . .

  `Bonnville?' Neil interrupted. 'Greg Bonnville?'

  `That's right,' the lieutenant said, looking surprised. 'You know him?'

  Ì served with him for eight months in 'Nam.'

  The lieutenant hesitated, his exhausted face in a frown. `Maybe you should see him.'

  Ì'd like to.'

  In ten minutes Neil had been escorted up on to the destroyer Arcady. The Arcady was a mess. All its topside paint was blistering, its portholes and bridge windows shattered, bloodstains still evident, damaged weapons and debris everywhere. The Petty Officer who received him aboard looked sick, exhausted, or both. It took almost another ten minutes to complete communication with the Duty Officer and receive permission to see Commander Bonnville.

  Greg Bonnville had been Neil's group leader for ten months in the South China Sea off Vietnam. He had been a fierce, dedicated, by-the-book officer who had made Neil for that first year in Vietnam a believer in going by the book. Two years later when he'd learned that Neil planned to resign his commission he had telephoned from Manila, where he was then stationed, to urge Neil to change his mind. As Neil was being taken to the bridge to see him again he felt a pleasant excitement, an excitement that was sickeningly dashed the moment he saw Bonnville. His old friend seemed to have aged twenty years beyond Neil rather than the ten years of their age difference. Slumped behind his desk in his cabin, he was grey-faced and hollow-eyed. His once eye-catching mane of dark hair was gone; he was almost bald. Scar-tissue marred his forehead and one cheek. He trembled when he stood to greet Neil, his lanky body badly stooped. 'I'm afraid I can't say "welcome aboard", Neil,' Greg Bonnville said. 'The Arcady is a deathship.'

  Neil stood facing his friend uncertainly. Around him Greg's captain's quarters were strewn with clothes, books and papers. The ship's logbook lay on the floor propped up against a leg of the desk. Greg sat back down with a groan.

  `What happened?' Neil asked.

  `Wrong war,' Greg answered gloomily, not looking up. `We were steaming south fifteen miles off Cape Henry, probably thirty from Hampton Roads when "boom", we got . . . permanently decommissioned.'

  `Did you . . . personally get hit?'

  Ì look it, don't I?' he replied. 'I got some mild burns and cuts from the initial blast, but it was the radiation all that

  morning that clobbered us. The only healthy men who may come through were the engine-room crew. Anyone who had to be out on deck or on the bridge that night is probably . . . not going to live.'

  Ìncluding you?' Neil asked softly.

  Òbviously including me.'

  Neil turned and paced over to the shattered porthole and stared out over the waters of the Turning Basin towards the ocean.

  Ìs the ship still contaminated?' Neil asked quietly.

  Ìt's pretty clean except in the aft hold, which we've closed off,' he said. 'They almost wouldn't let us put in here 'til they got their own geiger counter man aboard and cleared us.'

  `May I sit down?' Neil asked.

  `Please,' Greg responded. 'You make me sad standing so erectly.'

  Neil sat down on the edge of Greg's berth. 'What are your orders?' Neil asked hesitantly. Greg looked up blankly and then snickered. 'Stay here and die,' he replied.

  `You're kidding.'

  Àbsolutely not,' Greg countered. 'And damn good orders they are. This ship is dead and the engine-room crew has been transferred to the Haig. The rest of us will work with our little individual timebombs by ourselves. Whoever can walk off in a week will be reassigned.'

  `Living Jesus,' Neil muttered.

  `Quite an end to a distinguished career.'

  `There's nothing you can do?' Neil asked, looking up at his friend as if appealing for himself.

  `Remain on standby and if, by some miraculous stroke of luck, a Soviet sub should amble up the Morehead City Inlet, go down with my ship.'

  Ì see,' said Neil, standing and again passing to the porthole, where pieces of shattered glass were resting like a cache of diamonds on the circular sill. 'Look, Greg,' he went on, turning back to his friend, who was slumped forward on his desk, staring down. '

  What do you know about the overall military situation?'

  Greg lifted his head and the two men gazed at each other. Àll I know is what I can read between the lines of the radio communiques and orders.'

  `That's something,' said Neil. 'What do you think?'

  Ì think we're planning to evacuate all remaining Naval personnel from the whole east coast. I think it's rapidly becoming a war of individual initiative, just the type we always wished we could be in.'

  Tut where's the enemy?'

  Àhh,' said Greg, straightening himself with a grimace. `That's the new twist. The enemy is in the sky, in the food chain, in the rain, in my bloodstream.'

  Ànd the Russians?'

  `They've shot their bolt,' he said. `There've only been two or three incoming missiles since the second day. Their Mediterranean and Indian Ocean fleets are gone. Their population has been decimated - which probably means wiped out. Any warfare still going on is only the last twitching of two corpses. The Russians and our
selves will probably fantasize to our last breaths of snatching victory from genocide.'

  Neil looked at the sunken face of his friend and saw no sense of triumph.

  `We ... ah . . . we've won?' Neil asked, feeling feeble and foolish. Ìf we've won, it's as the Arcady has won . . .' He looked dismally around the room. A third time Neil walked away to look out of the shattered porthole. Outside he saw the Coast Guard patrol launch begin its turn to sweep back out of the channel in its systematic guarding of the inlet.'

  Ì've been ordered to report to duty,' he announced with his back still to Greg.

  `Here?' Greg asked, astounded.

  `No. To report somewhere. All men are supposed to report.'

  `How'd you happen to end up here?'

  Turning back, Neil briefly explained his voyage on Vagabond. Ànd you're all leaving her for here?' Greg asked in a low sad voice. Neil shrugged. 'The law . . .' he began.

  `Neil, I told you,' Greg said, leaning painfully back in his chair and almost glaring at Neil. 'This has become a war of individual initiative and . . .' He grimaced and groaned once. . And the enemy,' he continued after a pause, 'the sole enemy . . . is death.'

  Ànd the US Navy?' Neil asked softly.

  Greg slumped forward again.

  `Wrong war,' he replied in a low voice.

  After Neil had left Captain Bonnville he searched out the infirmary and drug dispensary. There he found a sailor kneeling in front of two open drawers and a clutter of bottles and little cardboard cartons strewn around him on the floor. When the sailor looked up at him Neil saw that he was stoned. He was probably searching for some sort of dope - morphine or codeine or barbiturates, from the dull look in his eyes. Slowly a look of bewilderment made its way on to the young sailor's round face as Neil stood stiffly over him but dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt.

  Àll right, sailor,' Neil said firmly. 'I don't have to ask what you're doing here, but I want you to find me any antibiotics that are still around.'

  The small, weary-looking young man, his face pale and his eyes bloodshot, hesitated, still in confusion, still stoned.