The Edge of Honor

by P. T. Deutermann

  It was moving. Maybe, maybe he could get clear. Which way’s it going?

  Where— And then the water came rushing back for a third time. Used to it now; you know what to do. Let it come. You’ve got lots of air. Wait it out, wait for it to retreat. What’s that, what’s that on my arm? My arm! An immense, crushing, amputating steel weight settled down on his arm and he forgot about the water, forgot his face was submerged, forgot there was no air, and opened his mouth and screamed his way into eternity.

  This time, the water stayed.

  Brian left Combat, checking both the damaged and undamaged modules once more to make sure no one had been left behind. He hurried out to the catwalk on the port side and then headed aft to reach the ladder leading up to the signal bridge. The signal shack was empty and the door locked.

  The night was clear, with stars visible and a cool wind blowing out of the northeast. The ship rolled slowly, with no way on, but the blowers were still going high up on the forward stack, which meant the snipes still had one boiler on the line in the forward plant. The two Spook directors towered above him in the darkness; they were slewed out on the port beam, one pointing high, the other almost flat. System Two. He walked over to the forward end of the signal bridge area and looked down on the forecastle. There he could see several dozen men congregated, with the uninjured staying separate from the area behind the missile-launcher ramp where the docs had set up. Someone had energized the forward replenishment lights; the entire forecastle was bathed in red light, lending a hellish appearance to the scene. Brian looked around at the horizon, but there was only darkness. The nearest ship was Preble, and she was sixty miles out to the southeast. He assumed that she would be on the way by now.

  He went back down the ladder, stopping on the last rung to look down two levels to the boat decks. Under the glow of the midships’ red replenishment lights, several men were gathered in damage-control gear, some wearing OBAs, others tending portable fire pumps and eductors. A thick cloud of black smoke interlaced with streaks of steam boiled out from somewhere low on the port side and from two exhaust vents at the after end of the boat decks. A diminishing cloud of low-pressure steam vented from the after stack, which meant that Two Firehouse was out of business. There must be a hell of a damage-control battle going on inside, he thought.

  Then he realized he was standing just about level with and behind the EW module in CIC. He quickly walked forward along the catwalk on the starboard side to the pilothouse. With the power out on the 03 level, the only energy left on the bridge came from the battery-operated battle lanterns. The radar repeaters and other bridge instruments were lifeless. Brian checked to make sure Folsom had taken the deck log. He thought about the captain back there in the wreck of Combat, probing the brains of a five-hundred-ppund high-explosive bomb with morphine sulfate flowing in his veins and a cancer dining on his belly. He shivered and headed for the interior ladders to get down to the forecastle, holding his hand over his face against the rising pall of oil smoke.

  He arrived on the forecastle and found Jack Folsom conferring with the medical officer behind the missile launcher. Folsom had the deck log rolled under his arm like a morning newspaper. They stopped talking when he walked up. The medico went back to the triage station.

  Folsom started right in.

  “Mr. Holcomb, I’ve got the chief radioman rigging an HF portable set up on the bow. The docs have set up a triage station out here and they’re treating people in the wardroom.”

  Brian had a quick vision of the Berkeley’s wardroom and shuddered, but Folsom was talking again.

  “I guess you’re still technically in charge of the watch section. We got Mr. Austin out here in the triage area.

  He’s out of his head, babbling on about how he ran away, how ashamed he is. He’s really carrying on.”

  “I don’t know what he’s talking about,” Brian said. “I never saw him run. But look, we need to get a guy on the One JL circuit right away.

  And where’s the exec?”

  “XO’s running the damage-control effort amidships, sir. Mr. Benedetti’s in DC Central, and the XO’s amidships, directing traffic from the sounds of it. They’ve got all three repair parties working the midships damage, but the rest of the ship seems to be okay. Everybody’s at their GQ station except the people who had to evacuate amidships and the injured from Combat and the main spaces, and we’ve got comms with all the major GQ stations. The after plant is out of commission, with Two Fire Room flooded out and Two Engine Room smoked out. Forward plant is running and we have power everywhere except where there’s been damage.” Folsom looked around for a second and then asked in a lowered voice, “Sir, what’s the story with that unexploded bomb?”

  Brian filled him in. Folsom shook his head. “He’s gonna try to defuse that thing? They’ve got EOD guys down on the carriers; they can probably have somebody here in a couple of hours!”

  “We may not have a couple of hours. That thing is armed and ticking, Jack. He used to be EOD himself, and he thinks it’s going to go off. And there’s … well, there are other factors involved that I can’t get into right now. Get a guy on the phones with him, and then I want to get on the circuit myself. Where’s Garuda?”

  “He’s helping the radio pukes set up the emergency radio.”

  “Get him over here and get him in contact with gun plot. I want them to energize the SPG-fifty-three gunfire control radar and start sweeping the horizon with it. If the bad guys are listening to us electronically, I want them to see fire control. Even though they lost all their planes, this would not be a good time for a second air raid. And if he can put the SPS-ten or the forty on the air, even better, although I think we’d have to reenter Combat to do that. Then see if Main Control can give us the starboard main engine, and let’s head south at ten knots; steer from after steering. Go.”

  Folsom ran off to get a man on the phones and to talk to Garuda. Brian found the 1JV talker crouched down at the base of the missile launcher, wedged between his phone box and the base of the launcher to stay upright against the slow roll. The paint on the deck crunched under his feet; all the missile launches had burned the deck paint and nonskid to a crisp. The stink of boosters was still very strong. The chief boats would have a fit, he thought idly. He wondered what Martinez was doing right now. Probably standing in front of the fuel fire and pissing on it. The phone talker, a sonarman, was tied into a barrel switch, which gave him access to any sound powered phone circuit in the ship. He tapped the man on the shoulder.

  “If you’ve got midships, see if you can get the XO on the line, and then give me the phones.”

  The talker did some talking and then nodded at Brian, handing him the headset.

  “XO?”

  “Yeah. What are you doing up on the fo’c’sle?”

  “Sir, can you get to an admin phone? Or a barrel switch?”

  “Admin phones are out. I can get to a barrel switch.

  What circuit you want?”

  “Let’s try JX.” JX was the communications circuit, and the primary stations, Radio, the signal bridge, the bridge, and Combat had been evacuated; it ought to be private.

  The talker switched over to JX for him and Brian waited. When the XO came up, he gave him a quick update, describing the damage to CIC, the unexploded bomb, the orders he had given since arriving on the forecastle, and what the captain was doing. The talker’s eyes widened as he listened, but Brian couldn’t help that.

  There was a long moment of silence. Brian could just imagine what was going through the XO’s head, but this was an open line to every major GQ station in the ship if anyone had switched to JX when they had.

  “Okay,” the exec said finally. “You stay with him on the JL phone circuit. We’ve about got this fire under control here, but some of the burning fuel got inside and we’ve got a long night ahead of us with the flooding problem. Two Fire Room is open to the sea; there’s nothing we can do about that. We’re shoring like bastards in Two Engine an
d in the engineering admin spaces, and the repair guys are trying like hell to get the smoke out of the ship so we can see what we really have inside.

  Once the smoke got loose, everybody just had to bail out. We’re presuming the BTs in Two Firehouse are goners—the guys in Two Engine heard main steam get loose in there. How far away’s the nearest ship?”

  “Preble’s about sixty miles to the south. If the BAR CAP’s on the ball, they’ll have sounded the alarm. That’s why I’m trying to get the forward plant on the line, so we can start south.”

  “There’s some kind of problem in the starboard shaft alley, although the shaft is apparently able to turn. EM One Wilson—he was the investigator—says the space is flooded to the mark, though. But go ahead with the starboard engine. If the shaft will turn, get her going.

  May even stop this god damned rolling. But you stay on the phones with the Old Man. Soon’s I feel this shit’s under control, I’ll come forward and take over. I may even go up there with him.”

  “He said not to do that, XO. If that thing blows, we lose the CO and the XO.”

  There was a moment’s silence on the line. “You and him have a talk, did you?”

  “Yes, sir, we did.” Brian hesitated. “I understand a lot more than I did.”

  I”Do you understand that by fucking with our system here you have a lot to answer for tonight?”

  Brian paused before answering. The exec was under a lot of stress and was probably exhausted after an hour of leading a firefighting effort, not to mention furious about what had happened.

  “Well, hotshot?”

  “He said that you would say that, XO. And he said that you were wrong. That you were both wrong.”

  This time it was the exec who went silent. There was going to be one hell of an after-action report to do here.

  “All right, Holcomb. I’m not going to talk about this now. Get on the circuit with the captain. I’ll be up on the fo’c’sle as soon as I can.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Brian handed back the phones, instructing the talker to go back to 1JV and keep his mouth shut. When he turned around, Garuda was standing there with Jack Folsom.

  “Well?”

  “Sir, we’ve got an HF circuit up with Alfa Whiskey, but we’ve got no codes, and that’s a very unsecure net.

  He’s got questions out the ass, but—”

  “Tell him we request an immediate—and stress the word immediate—rendezvous with Preble, at my location —say those very words, at my location—and that we need the BARCAP to mark on top. Then tell him this is a no-shitter and go off the air.

  “Sir, you want me to say—”

  “Yes. Do it. They’ll understand. And then send a radioman back into Central to see if you can activate the land-launch UHF circuit, and tie a KY-eight to it so we have a secure circuit. That way, when Preble shows up, we can talk secure. But have him check with me before he goes back up there.”

  Garuda nodded. “I’ll go patch it myself,” he said. “I know the patches as well as any of the radio pukes.”

  “Okay, but check with me before you go back inside.

  Jack, you got me that One JL?”

  “Yes, sir, right over there.”

  Brian walked over to a set of bitts on the port side and sat down on one of them, where a deck seaman handed him a set of phones. He put them on and then called the captain. He was aware that several of the men sitting on the deck nearby were clearly interested.

  “Captain, this is Lieutenant Holcomb. Can you hear me, sir?”

  There was a long silence, although he thought he could hear someone breathing on the line. Then a voice.

  “Yes, Mr. Holcomb. I can hear you just fine. I was looking for the button, but it’s taped down. I’m afraid the medicine has got me just a wee bit spacey at the moment.

  I’ve had to stop. I thought I heard my wife calling me, you see. Knew that was unlikely, but, well, it was not all unpleasant. But it seems to have passed and now I’m going back to work. You and the XO have everything else under control?”

  Brian’s mind raced. The morphine had him. Jesus Christ, he was up there fiddling with an unexploded bomb and he was flying on morphine. Answer him. Talk to him.

  Maybe get him to stop, get him out of there.

  “Yes, sir, I just talked to him. They have the fires amidships under control and they’re working on the smoke. I’ve got comms with Alfa Whiskey, and I think Preble is on her way.”

  “Oh, that’s very good. XO’s very good at what he does. Very good.”

  “Sir, you want to rest for a while? I can come back up there, bring you something”

  “No, no, no, Mr. Holcomb. I’m actually making progress up here. I’ve got the S and A section open. That’s safing and arming to you, Lieutenant; that’s EOD talk. I can see the fuzing circuits. But there’s something in here I don’t quite recognize, so I’m going slow, really slow, until I sort it all out. You’ve got everybody out of the area, right?”

  “Yes, sir, the bridge, Combat, Radio are all clear. XO said he was going to come up there.”

  “No. I don’t want that. I forbid that. Expressly forbid it. Expressly.

  That’s why you keep the CO and the XO physically separated in battle, remember? So you don’t lose them both. I forbid it, expressly forbid it.”

  Brian’s heart sank. He was repeating himself. Babbling. This was a disaster. That damned bomb could go off on some kind of timer, or that sick old man might set it off in a haze of morphine sulfate. He couldn’t let this go on. But he’d need help. The CO had forbidden the exec from going up there. But not Lieutenant Holcomb.

  Garuda. Garuda Barry would do it. He saw Folsom watching and he waved him over.

  “Captain, I’m going to put Mr. Folsom on the line.

  He’s the OOD. I’ve got to see about getting propulsion power back. Mr. Folsom will be right here. You need anything, you tell him and we’ll jump right on it.”

  “Jump right on it. Okay. Jump right on it. But no jumping around up here, all right? This is a tricky bomb I’ve got here. Tricky Dicky bomb.

  Something not quite right with it. Not quite right.”

  “Yes, sir. Here’s Jack.”

  Brian stood up and unhitched the phones, handing the set to Jack but putting his palm over the mouthpiece.

  “He’s on morphine, and he’s floating in and out.”

  “Morphine! And he’s fucking around with a—”

  “Right. Maintain contact. Don’t spook him. Just stay with him. Talk to him. Ask him to describe exactly what he’s doing. It’s a long story.”

  “Yes, sir. What are you going to do?” Brian looked at him. Folsom wasn’t dumb; his eyes suddenly widened.

  “I’m going to try to get him out of there,” Brian said.

  “The XO’s coming up here as soon as he can. He was going to go up to Combat, but the Old Man said no, for the obvious reasons. But he didn’t say I couldn’t go up there. I’m going to ask Garuda if he’ll come along.”p>

  “Jesus Christ. All three of you could get—”

  The sound of a Phantom jet cruising overhead at low altitude shattered the night air, making everyone jump. If it had not been such a distinctive noise, the thundering, complaining howl of two J-79 engines operating low and slow, some of the men out on the forecastle looked like they might have gone over the side. Garuda came over, with Hoodoo in tow.

  “Ain’t got a radio, but it sounds like the BARCAP’s back on station,”

  Garuda said with a weary grin. He looked like he was painted for the stage in the garish red lights. Brian pulled him aside and briefed him on what was going on up in Combat. He told him everything.

  “Son of a bitch. No wonder he stopped coming out.

  No wonder he looked like he did. Does.”

  “Garuda, I’m going back in there. I’m going to try to get him out, get him away from that bomb. It hasn’t gone off yet, and Jack reminded me they’ve got real EOD teams down on the carrie
rs.” He looked straight at Garuda, who figured it right out.

  “And you want some adult supervision, right? Somebody who knows where CIC is?”

  Brian took a deep breath. “I sure do. But this is pure volunteer time. I don’t want to think or talk about it much longer or I’ll chicken out.

  But I can’t leave him up there like that.”

  Garuda snatched another cigarette out of his pocket and lit up. “He’s gonna fight it, you know,” he said.

  “There’s more going’ on there than disarming some damn bomb.”

  “Yeah, I figured that. That’s why we’ll need two guys. I hate to ask, but—”

  “But you done did. Let’s rock and roll.”

  Brian saw Fox Hudson come out of the port-side breaks hatch. He told Folsom to brief Hudson and to put Hudson in charge of coordinating with main Control to get the ship moving again. Then he and Garuda headed for the breaks, ignoring Hudson’s questions. Garuda yelled back over his shoulder, “Log it, OOD. That way, we get medals if it goes off.” Folsom just stared at him.

  They went down the breaks and into the port-side weather decks hatch.

  Inside, they encountered a thin haze of smoke and the smell of medicinal ointments.

  Both men snapped on flashlights as they passed the wardroom door, where there were large plastic bags full of bloody dressings scattered around the vestibule. Brian had his foot on the ladder up to the next level when Chief Martinez came clumping up the ladder with Chief Jackson over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The chief had to turn sideways to get both Jackson and his OBA up the ladder. Jackson had a plastic bag over his face. Seaman Coltrane climbed the ladder behind them, his face also covered in a pastic bag. Garuda and Brian helped the chief get Jackson into a better carry, stripped off the EEBD hoods, and then helped to take him through the door into the wardroom. They sent Coltrane out to the forecastle, Garuda snatching his hood off before he ran out of air and suffocated himself. Once inside the wardroom, Brian almost did not want to look.

  The emergency medical lighting had been rigged in the wardroom overhead and the three docs were scrambling with the wounded. Both tables had been covered in green surgical drapes and there were steel trays of instruments, portable respirators, piles of towels and bandages, and a good bit of blood everywhere. With triage being performed forward, the room was not crowded, although every chair, table, and open space on the carpeted deck held men in various states of injury. The medical officer, who was masked, looked over at the trio as they brought Jackson in.