Sweet Reason (9781590209011)

by Robert Littell

  “Affirmative, I can see the target,” said Wallowitch, perched overhead on the tractor seat in the director, his eyes pressed against the twenty-four-power eyepiece of the optical range finder. He twisted a knob and brought the split image of the target together so that he could find the range and shell it and split it into pieces again.

  “What’s the matter with you, Wally?” Lustig asked. Something in Wallowitch’s tone was not quite right.

  “I said I can see the fucking target, what else you want?”

  (“Some human decency,” Lustig thought to say later.)

  On the port wing of the bridge, Lustig, Moore and the Captain steadied their binoculars on the target; a small hamlet named —— —— —— clustered around either end of a steel and concrete bridge that straddled the —— —— River a hundred yards up from its mouth. On the right or higher side of the river were a handful of two-story cement buildings; on the left or lower side a score of thatched huts and a brick church. There was no movement in the town except for some streaks of sunlight glinting, like sparks from an anvil, off the single bell in the church tower and an old man and two small children fishing from the girders of the bridge. The old man seemed to be shading his eyes with his hand, leaning forward slightly, squinting out to sea toward the rising sun, toward the Ebersole.

  —— —— —— was listed in the target assignments as a “key road junction.”

  “Let’s get on to that church right away, eh?” the Captain ordered, his voice betraying his excitement. “They probably have their observation boys up there. Don’t want to give ’em a chance to zero in on us again.”

  “Surface action port,” Lustig called into his headset. “Spot on the church, Shrink.”

  The two forward five-inch mounts on the Ebersole jerked into life, fidgeted back and forth, then swung around to port. Mount 53 on the fantail, under the command of Ensign de Bovenkamp, started to starboard by mistake. “Jesus Christ Almighty,” Lustig screamed into the headset, but before he could say anything else the offending mount froze and, like a mischievous child caught in the act, sheepishly began to make its way back around to port.

  The computer in Main Plot, taking its range and bearing to the target from the Shrink’s optical range finder, generated a solution and sent it out automatically to the gun mounts.

  “Solution,” Seaman Boeth, in charge of Main Plot during GQ, said tensely.

  “Solution,” Ensign Joyce, who was standing next to Boeth, repeated into his headset.

  Across the room Ohm unfolded his betting sheet and got ready to identify the winner.

  “On target, Captain,” Lustig called. “Main Plot is generating a solution.”

  The six five-inch guns, each 190 inches long and rifled to spiral projectiles out like footballs, seemed to take on a life of its own, moving up and down and back and forth in small, squared-off figure eights. Actually they had locked on the target; it was the 2200-ton destroyer that was moving around the guns.

  The sun was full up now, shining squarely into the face of anyone ashore who might be looking out to sea.

  Biting his nails, Captain Jones nodded toward Lustig.

  “Stand by,” Lustig called into the headset. “We’ll put out a spotting round from the port barrel of Fifty-one.”

  In the forward five-inch mount Chief McTigue nodded grimly and helmsman Carr hefted a twenty-eight-pound brass powder case, with the word “flashless” stenciled across it in large black letters, onto the port gun tray.

  Cee-Dee, standing directly in front of Carr, stomped on a red pedal, bringing VT frag projectiles crammed with fifty-four pounds of TNT up the hoist from the handling room. The system was so integrated that the fuses in the noses of the projectiles were set automatically at 14.4 seconds as they came up the hoist on the basis of target information generated from Main Plot. Traveling at 2500 feet per second, the projectiles would take precisely that long to cover the distance between the Ebersole and —— —— ——. Seventy-five feet over the target the projectiles would explode, killing every living thing in the open within 100 feet.

  The Captain, the XO, Mister Moore and the other men on the bridge stuffed small cotton wads into their ears; Tevepaugh, the messenger of the watch during GQ, was afraid he wouldn’t be able to get the cotton out again so he pressed his palms against the sides of his head.

  Overhead the American flag and the Ebersole’s thin, tattered commissioning pennant snapped from the foretop. The air search radar antenna, an ancient apparatus that looked exactly like a bedspring, squeaked as it scanned the skies.

  “All right, Mister Lustig,” the Captain said, doing a jig on one foot. “The hell with Sweet Reason — let the bastards have it, eh?”

  “Commence fire,” Lustig called into his headset. “Commence fire.”

  Tevepaugh took one hand away from his ear and pushed down the lever on the 21MC marked “Director.” “SHOOT, SHOOT, SHOOT,” he screamed, and clamped the hand over his ear again.

  Richardson Tries to Figure Out What It All Adds Up To

  Two decks below Richardson worked his way with a single minded concentration through another stack of bills. “Twelve thousand eight hundred sixty; twelve thousand eight hundred eighty; twelve thousand nine hundred.”

  And he reached over and put another tick in the hundreds column.

  Lustig Invokes the Love of God

  “Well, what are you waiting for, Shrink,” Lustig yelled into the sound-powered phone, “an engraved invitation? Commence fire, huh.”

  “What’s the trouble?” the Captain asked impatiently. “What now?”

  “We only have six minutes on target on this course, Captain,” the XO called from the pilot house.

  “You can’t what, Shrink?” Lustig asked into the phone. “What do you mean you can’t?” As Lustig listened to the answer, his mouth fell open and his eyebrows arched up.

  “Well?” asked Jones.

  Lustig turned to the Captain and stared at him until Jones said, “Spit it out, my boy.”

  “The director’s out, Captain. Probably the, eh, firing circuit. We had trouble with the firing circuit in the Caribbean last year, remember?”

  “Jesus, this is one hell of a moment for the director to go out.” Jones glanced nervously toward the shore as if he were afraid the target would get away. “Can you switch to local and fire from the mounts?”

  “Can you switch to local, Shrink?” Lustig asked. A pleading note crept into his voice. “Can you let the mounts do the firing?” Instantly Lustig brightened and nodded. “Okay, stand by Fifty-one,” he called into the phone. “We’ll fire the spotting rounds in local control. It’s your baby, McTigue. Commence fire. Commence fire.”

  Tevepaugh punched down the lever on the 21MC marked “Mount 51” and yelled: “SHOOTS, HOOT, SHOOT.”

  Still no sound came from the port barrel of Mount 51.

  “What now?” Jones whined. Beads of perspiration collected on his forehead and dripped into his eyes, then continued on down his cheeks as if they were tears of frustration.

  Lustig paled. “Could you repeat that again, Chief?” he called into the phone. Then, softly, he said: “I suppose you know what you’re doing.”

  Lustig turned back to the Captain. “McTigue says the local control firing mechanism contacts have burned out, Captain. He says you can only fire Fifty-one from remote.”

  “What in God’s name is going on here?” Jones said. He was biting his nails now, jerking his head around from one face to the other. He darted into the pilot house, pushed Tevepaugh aside and depressed the “Mount 52” lever on the 21MC. “Listen, Fifty-two, this is the Captain speaking. I want you to put out a spotting round. I don’t care which barrel you use. Just load and shoot. You got that, load and shoot.”

  There was a burst of static, and then Quinn’s voice filtered through the crackling. “I’m sorry, Captain, but Fifty-two’s crapped out. I think it’s the electric servo coupler. Yeah, it must be the electro servo coupler — t
he servo just don’t seem to want to couple.”

  “I know your voice, Quinn — I know it’s you. I’ll see you rot in hell for this, in hell, you hear me, I’ll see you rot —”

  “Three minutes left on this course, Captain,” the XO called from the chart desk.

  His jaw quivering, Jones flipped down the “Mount 53” lever on the 21MC. “Who’s in charge there?” he asked.

  “I am,” de Bovenkamp called back over the squawk box.

  “Who the hell are you?” Jones yelled.

  “It’s me, Captain — Ensign de Bovenkamp.”

  “Ah, de Bovenkamp.” Jones wiped the perspiration away from his eyes with the back of his shirt-sleeve. “Listen, my boy, I want you to load one of your barrels and fire off a spotting round. Do you understand?”

  “Hot damn,” de Bovenkamp called back. “Port or starboard?”

  “Port or starboard what?” Jones asked. He was making a visible effort to control himself.

  “Do you want me to load the port gun or the starboard gun, Captain? Lustig always specifies.”

  “Load the port gun, Mister de Bovenkamp, and if for any reason that doesn’t function, load the starboard gun and shoot that one.” Jones leaned closer to the mouthpiece and lowered his voice. “You know, Mister de Bovenkamp, I’ve always had a special trust and confidence in you. I want you to know I’m prepared to forget about the unfortunate business with the whales this morning. And I won’t hold it against you about breaking the model of the Ebersole — accidents can happen to anybody. I simply want you to shoot. You’re a good officer, a good American, and I expect you to do your duty.”

  “You can count on me, Captain,” de Bovenkamp said. “I’m ready to shoot, ready and willing.”

  Jones nodded at Lustig, who spoke into the sound-powered phone. “Commence fire, commence fire,” he called. Tevepaugh leaned over the Captain’s shoulder, pushed down the “Mount 53” lever and yelled: “SHOOT, SHOOT, SHOOT.”

  On the bridge, everyone craned toward Mount 53 back aft. De Bovenkamp’s guns gyrated for a moment as if they were about to shoot, then lost their erection at the crucial moment and wilted to the deck.

  Sobbing, half-hysterical with fear, de Bovenkamp’s voice crackled over the 21MC. “Captain, sir, they won’t let me. I tried, I swear to God I tried, but they won’t let me.”

  Shaking violently, Jones stood in the pilot house door staring out across six miles of ocean at —— —— ——.

  Lustig tapped him on the elbow. “I can try Main Plot, Captain. Fifty-one is still loaded. McTigue said you could shoot from remote. We’ll get Boeth to fire from Main Plot.” When Jones didn’t respond Lustig spoke into the phone. “Joyce, are you there? Joyce? Hey, Poet, are you on the line? Where the hell are you, Main Plot? Why don’t you answer?”

  Lustig turned back to Jones with a defeated look on his face. “Main Plot doesn’t seem to answer, Captain,” he said in a whisper.

  “One minute more on this course,” the XO called. “One minute left.”

  Jones exploded. “It’s this goddamn Sweet Reason,” he shrieked.

  “Sweet Reason has nothing —” Lustig started to say, but the Captain drowned him out. “You’re the gunnery officer here,” he screamed. “Your career is riding on getting those guns operating.”

  “For the love of God,” Lustig cried into the headset, “somebody shoot.”

  “I’m trying, I’m trying,” de Bovenkamp shouted back.

  Locked on target, Mounts 51 and 52 continued to twitch as if they had life left in them. But the only thing the Ebersole bombarded the shore with was silence.

  Ohm Passes the Buck

  “Thirty-eight thousand six hundred, thirty-eight thousand six hundred ten —”

  There was a loud knock on the supply office door. “Hey, Mister Richardson?”

  Richardson didn’t look up. “Thirty-eight thousand six hundred twenty —”

  “Mister Richardson, it’s me, Melvin Ohm.”

  “Thirty-eight thousand six hundred thirty —”

  “You in there, Mister Richardson? Open up, will you?” Ohm knocked again.

  “What is it, Ohm?” Richardson called. “What do you want?”

  “I got to see you a second, Mister Richardson — it’s about the bet you laid on the shoot this morning.”

  “Don’t tell me I finally picked a winner?”

  “Nobody picked no winner, Mister Richardson. We never shot — didn’t you not hear it?”

  “I’ve been tied up in here all morning,” Richardson said. “What happened?”

  “Search me,” Ohm said. “I keep my nose clean, right. All I know is there wasn’t no shoot.”

  “Well, if we didn’t shoot what you come down here for?”

  “I come to give you your buck back,” Ohm said unhappily. “No shot means no bets. No bets means I got to give the bread back. Open up so I can let you have your buck.”

  “Listen, Ohm, I’m really busy. Just slip it under the door, will you?”

  Ohm squatted and pushed a dollar bill under the supply office door, along with the betting sheet. “Would you mind putting your initials next to your name. You’re in square number forty-one. Got to keep this all legal and aboveboard, right?”

  Richardson pocketed the dollar, scribbled his initials alongside his name in square forty-one and slid the sheet back to Ohm under the door.

  “Thanks, Mister Richardson,” Ohm said.

  “Sure thing,” Richardson said, swiveling around to the money stacked on his desk. “Now where was I? Thirty-eight thousand six hundred fifty, thirty-eight thousand six hundred sixty …”

  Captain Jones Takes the Bait

  Captain Jones was sitting at attention on the closed toilet seat between the metal washbasin and the stall shower. His feet were flat on the deck inside his unlaced Adler elevators. His head was angled back like a praying mantis’s. A wet washcloth covered his eyes. Every few minutes the Captain would wring it out under the cold-water tap and fold it over the top half of his face.

  The door to the cabin was jammed open with a wedge of wood. The Executive Officer and Sonarman Third Dwight Proper had pulled over two seats so they could talk to the Captain through the open door.

  With his head tilted back and his eyes blindfolded, Jones seemed to take on the mannerisms of a slightless person. He listened without turning his head toward the speaker; he spoke to the space between the two chairs.

  “You sure you don’t want me to call the Doc?” the Executive Officer asked again. The ship’s clock had just struck ten — the signal for him to head up to the bridge with his sextant to take a morning sunline. But the XO didn’t have the slightest interest in the sun this morning; the way he saw it, his career would be riding on what happened in the next few minutes.

  “No, no,” Jones said to the space between the two chairs. He waved his hand impatiently. “Let’s get on with it, Proper.”

  “Like I was saying, Captain, I figure we can get Mister Wallowitch, McTigue, Quinn, the Negroes in Mister de Bovenkamp’s mount and Mister Joyce for violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, article —”

  “Never mind the article,” Jones snapped. “What precisely can we pin on them?”

  “Mutiny,” said Proper. “We can get them for mutiny, which carries a maximum sentence in times of peace — which is the category we’re in — of life imprisonment.”

  “Just life?” complained Jones. “What a pity it’s not wartime, eh?”

  “Mister de Bovenkamp is another kettle of fish altogether, if you get my meaning, Captain. Him we can nail for dereliction of duty, which is worth five years if it’s worth a day. Let’s see” — Proper glanced at his notes —“that leaves Mister Lustig and Boeth. Mister Lustig we should be able to tag with knowingly falsifying verbal or written reports.”

  “In simple English, lying to his commanding officer,” the Captain summed up.

  “That’s it in a nutshell,” agreed Proper. “I’m sorry to report
that the most that carries is three years. But I want to hold out the possibility that with further investigation — you realize I’ve only been on this for two hours — I may be able to come up with something more substantial. Now as for Boeth — well, the particulars of Boeth’s case are more complicated.”

  Jones peeled away the washcloth and blinked open his eyes. They were shining with fever. His face was covered with red blotches, as if the blood had rushed to his head and not all of it had rushed back again. Between the blotches the Captain’s skin looked like beeswax that was just beginning to melt, a state of affairs that gave his face a vaguely blurred quality. His lower jaw worked when he wasn’t talking.

  “Good police work, Proper,” Jones was saying. “You’re a credit to this ship, a credit to your country. Isn’t he a credit, XO? All right, let’s go over them one by one. We’ll take Boeth in his turn. Start with that clown Wallowitch.”

  “Aye aye, Captain,” Proper said. He glanced at the XO, then at his notes. “Wallowitch has —”

  “Mister Wallowitch to you,” Jones snapped. “Let’s not forget he’s an officer and a gentleman by act of Congress.”

  “Mister Wallowitch it is, Captain. No offense intended. Mister Wallowitch has confessed everything.”

  “He admits it wasn’t a malfunction?”

  “He admits he didn’t follow a lawful and express order to open fire, yes, sir. He admits it had nothing to do with the equipment not working.”

  “Does he give any excuse?” the XO asked.

  “I guess you could call it an excuse, but I doubt whether it’ll stand up even in a civilian court. What he says is he didn’t shoot — now get this — he didn’t shoot because he wasn’t physically able to contract the muscle in his trigger finger.”

  Jones nibbled on his cuticles, his eyes wide with astonishment. “He wasn’t able to contract the muscle in his trigger finger?” he repeated, contracting the muscle in his own trigger finger several times to show how effortless the motion was.