by David Poyer
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.
The Navy was a ticket out of poverty, if he worked hard, if he succeeded.
If, he thought, leaning forward and sweeping the glasses through the great arc of darkness. But would he freeze or panic in the crunch, when it came? Was he as good as the others, the admirals’ sons who were awarded stripes while he’d scraped along in ranks?
“Mr. Lenson?”
“Yes?” He straightened, felt his heart accelerate.
“OOD wants you, sir.”
Crap, he thought. How long had he been daydreaming out here? A look at the other ship reassured him. He wiped his nose hastily and went inside, hearing as he came in the rattle of a headset returned to its holder.
“You wanted me, Lieutenant?”
“Yes. You don’t want to linger on one side of the ship too long. Keep moving. Keep an eye on everything.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“What’s your first name again?”
“Dan, sir.”
“Well, Dan, let’s see. Did they teach you the three-minute rule?”
“Yes, sir, hundreds of yards traveled in three minutes equals the speed of the ship in knots.”
“Right. The radian rule?”
He didn’t know it. The Academy response, then. “I’ll find out, sir.”
“Man overboard, port side. Orders?”
“Left standard rudder, life ring, smoke float, break Oscar flag, six short blasts, notify ships astern, execute Williamson turn.”
“What’s the safe sector in a hurricane?”
He stumbled through that, remembering that it was the left hand in the northern hemisphere, but unable to explain why.
In five minutes, Evlin had picked him clean of what he knew about the sea. It didn’t sound like much. He waited, fists clenched, then checked the radar. The merchant was nearing her closest point of approach. He told Evlin so.
“Very well. Tell me, Mr. Lenson, what would you do if you suddenly saw a red light on that ship?”
That would mean she’d altered course to starboard. He thought hard, trying to come up with the difference between the other ship’s course and theirs; that would determine whether it was a meeting or crossing situation, and thus what the rules of the road required. “Ah, I’d hold course. We’re still privileged vessel, so—”
“Don’t say vessel. Captain doesn’t like it. No, Dan, take a look out there.”
He looked. The freighter had closed alarmingly, swelling out of the night into rows of portholes, light-limned masts and booms. Her lights blazed across the water. A curl of water shimmered at her stem.
“The minute we see him come right, we blow six short blasts, go to flank speed, and put the rudder hard right.”
“In spite of the rule, sir? It says we hold course till we’re in extremis.”
“She’s three miles away, Dan. Far as Captain Packer’s concerned, that’s in extremis. The way it was explained to me”—and the silhouette leaned across the stars toward him—“is like this. A surgeon trains for years, because one slip of his knife means death. Well, down below, we’ve got three hundred men asleep. We slip up and they can all die. Quick, in a collision, or slow, one by one in the water. It won’t matter what the rules said then. Do you know what existentialism is?”
For a moment, he thought he’d heard wrong. “What was that, sir?”
“The belief that we’re free in an amoral universe, and have to determine our own standards of right and wrong. That we make our own rules, and evaluate our lives according to how well we fulfill them.”
“Well, I saw Waiting for Godot,” he said, not sure he was following Evlin’s drift. He looked out at the freighter. “Are you … are you an existentialist, sir?”
Evlin laughed. “Personally? No. But as a professional—sure. There are sanctions against wrongdoing and incompetence, but in the end we do what’s right because we choose to. We build our lives around self-imposed intangibles like duty and honor.”
Dan said cautiously, “I think I see. But it seems to me you could justify evil that way just as well as good. Also, I don’t—well, how does all this relate to the rules of the road?”
“Maybe it doesn’t.” Evlin chuckled again, softly, and turned his head. Beyond the open window, the freighter loomed close, its lights paving tapered paths of yellow and white on the sea. Dan could hear it now, a whooshing hum carried down the wind. “Or maybe it does. The old man’s lying awake down below. He’s thinking, a mile and a half, thirty knots closing speed, that gives Evlin and the new ensign three minutes to act if something goes wrong. And not just us: the helmsman, the engine-room throttleman, after steering; if one man hesitates or screws up, that won’t be enough. He’s waiting to hear that whistle. He
’s waiting for that phone to buzz.”
The ship rode steadily by them. Now they could see it through the wing hatch. The green light suddenly winked out.
Evlin reached down, then held something out. “Here.”
He took it. It was the phone. Before he had time to get nervous, he heard the voice in his ear, alert, crisp, not the voice of a man just awakened, though it was 1:00 A.M. “Captain.”
“Uh, Lenson, sir, junior officer of the deck. Sir, contact ‘Tango’ is passing down our starboard side, range three thousand, now opening.”
“Bearing drift?”
“Rapid right, sir.”
“Very well. Keep an eye on it. Any other contacts ahead?”
“No, sir.”
“You up there with Al?”
“Yes sir.”
“We’re still in the coastal shipping lanes. Stay alert. Call me if you’re in doubt.”
“Aye, sir.” He waited, but there was only a rattle as the handset below found its holder. So he hung up, too.
“Okay?”
“He said, ‘Very well.’”
“That wasn’t too bad, was it? Remember: Stay alert, take action early, keep the captain informed. Those’re rules one, two, and three on Ryan.”
“Thanks.” He hesitated. “Look, sir—the captain, he—why’s he so wired? He sounds like he’s just waiting for somebody to make a mistake.”
“It isn’t what you think.”
“What did I think?”
“That he’s a sundowner. He isn’t. No, James John Packer—you didn’t read about him in the papers? Whipple, off the DMZ two years ago?”
“I guess I missed that one, sir.”
“He put her in commission on the West Coast. A brand-new DE. Took her on her first deployment to Vietnam. Then he refused a fire mission. They pulled him off for the investigation. Apparently, he was right, because he got exonerated. There was press interest, so the Navy had to give him another ship. But they didn’t have to give him a new one. Bottom line: He’s walking a tightrope. So he watches everything real close.”
“Oh.”
“Now, we were talking about Sartre’s central premise, that we are alone; that there are no absolute moral standards to guide us.…”
Dan grinned in the dark, and settled in to begin his military education.
* * *
WHEN the boatswain’s pipe drilled through the metal walls, he burrowed deeper into the bunk. But only for a moment. You learned the first week at Bancroft Hall to roll your unwilling body out no matter how much it craved sleep. He threw back his sheet—it was heavy with sweat—and dangled his bare feet over the edge, yawning and looking down.
The junior officers’ stateroom was eight feet by seven. Four bunks were stacked vertically along the bulkhead. He blinked down from the topmost at a slowly slanting tile deck, a 1944-style steel washbasin, dented sheet-metal lockers. The overhead, at his eye level, was a dusty jumble of cable runs, piping, valves, and stuffing tubes. He wiped perspiration from his hair, recalling a shred of dream; he’d been wandering in a hell of dripping pipes and hissing valves, offering his soul for water. But there were no takers.
“Hey, Mark, Tom. Reveille. You guys getting up?”
“In a minute.”
“Uh.”
He contemplated caulking off for a few more seconds, too, then told himself sternly that he had a division to take over this morning. He groped for a handhold and swung himself out, hung for a moment, then dropped to the deck.
It seared his bare soles. He hopped about wildly. “Ouch! Goddamn!”
“Use my slippers,” a sleepy voice muttered. “By the shitcan. We’re right over the fireroom here.”
He danced into the shower thongs, still cursing. Still, it was better than enlisted berthing. They bunked five deep, forty in a compartment. He shaved quickly and pulled on a set of wash khakis. He set the gold bars at the collar, considered, then added his midshipman-issue name tag. He checked himself in the mirror, rubbed the bill of his cap with his sleeve, and slid out into the corridor.
The wardroom was in full swing for breakfast, hot, crowded, noisy. He squeezed in between Talliaferro and a sleepy-looking Ken Trachsler, who’d been in CIC during the midwatch. Coffee came by and he sloshed a cup full, yawning so hard his jaw cracked. The wardroom began to tilt. Beside him, Trachsler balanced his mug; above him, Mabalacat steadied himself with a hand to the table as he set down hash and eggs. When Dan pricked the yellow hemispheres with a fork, an orange stream made for the edge of his dish.
“Where’d that one come from?”
“Getting ’em on the starboard bow now.”
“A love tap. Wait till we hit fifty-five, sixty, they get some fetch behind them.”
“How’d your watch go?” Talliaferro asked him.
“Not bad, uh, Ed.”
“What are you guys standing up there?”
“One in three. Four hours on, eight off.”
“That’s what we’ve got down the hole, too. Be nice to get back to one in four someday.”
While he was wondering where “the hole” was, Norden came in, small and blond and glittering, and sat across the table from him. He’d shaved this morning; he looked perky and inspection-ready. “Bacon, eggs, grits,” he said to the steward.
“No bacon. Hash today.”
“That’s what I said, hash. How’d it go, Dan?”
“Okay. It was real pretty last night.”
“Clouds?”
“Some light cover toward dawn.”
“You getting settled in?”
“Yes, sir. But I’m short on uniforms. I didn’t figure on getting under way the day I reported in.”
“Stop by small stores,” said Cummings from along the table. Dan hadn’t seen the acting supply officer come in. “I can issue you some underwear and socks.”
“Thanks, uh, Tom. That’ll help.”
“We need to get you into the divisional routine,” Norden said. “Officers’ call’s at oh-seven hundred. Muster goes at oh-seven fifteen, forward on the main deck. I’ll introduce you to the men.”
“I’ll be there, sir.”
His department head transferred his attention to breakfast. Mabalacat threaded past with a covered tray. The captain’s? Dan mopped up the last yolky trickle and excused himself. He stopped by his room again for the wheel book Vogelpohl had issued him, thrust his arms into a foul-weather jacket, and let himself out onto the main deck.
The morning was blue and chillier than the day before. Save for a few cotton wads of cumulus, their rounded tops shining in the sunlight, the ship was solitary in a vast curving saucer of ocean. Ryan centered herself in it flawlessly, hissing through four-foot seas the color of a drowned Norseman’s eyes. Seabirds dipped along the crests. The deck gleamed with dew and spray, slick where the nonskid had worn away.
Officers’ call was on the Asroc deck, between the stacks. He nodded to the others and leaned against the launcher.
For a few minutes, he gave himself up to contemplation. The sun glittered redly two points off the dipping bow. Every seven or eight rolls, the ship curtsied, making the men lean to keep their balance. He enjoyed the feeling of speed, the cold, clean breeze. The old destroyer’s periodic inclinations were like the lurching stroll of an old salt. He’d worried about getting seasick, but so far he felt great.
Talliaferro, Evlin, and Cummings rattled up the ladder and fell in facing aft. Norden joined them. They chatted in low tones about something called a VDS hoist. The jaygees and ensigns fell in behind their department heads.
At 0700, a cap bobbed above the ladder. The exec’s bulky body followed it. Evlin called, “Attention on deck.” Lieutenant Commander Bryce adjusted his tie, aiming his little smile around at them.
“Carry on. Gentlemen, I believe you’ve all met Mr. Lenson. Say hello, Dan.”
“Hello, sir.”
“He’s going to whip First Division back into shape, give us a red-hot new team out on deck. Or go th
e same way as his predecessor. Right, Dan?”
“Going to try, sir,” he said. He felt Bryce’s eyes linger, and stared straight ahead.
“Lieutenant Norden, you’ll be judged on that basis, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So. As the captain said yesterday, we won’t have much good weather this trip. Items requiring clear skies or steady seas should be accomplished as early as possible. That means start today. We still have a lot of crap lying around from the yard, especially in engineering berthing and the shaft alleys. Clean it up! We’ll have captain’s inspection on Saturday, like we used to before the yard. Shakedown general quarters later this morning. Any questions? Very good. Carry out the plan of the day.”
That, apparently, was a dismissal. The officers saluted. Dan did, too. His mind was still on the threat. Had Bryce really said that?
Norden turned, waving in his division officers. He talked with Ohlmeyer and Murphy for a moment, then nodded to Lenson. “Okay, Daniel, this is it.”
“Sir?”
“Let’s go check out the lion’s den. Ha! Get it?”
“Subtle, but I caught it, sir.”
He followed Norden down the ladder to the main deck and forward along the starboard side. The weapons officer pointed wordlessly at a fire station; he saw tools wedged behind hose, a blush of rust already creeping over them. At the turn of the deckhouse, he centerlined his belt buckle and tilted his cap forward.
They rounded the corner, into Bloch’s hoarse “Attention on deck!”
“Good morning, Chief. Have them stand at ease.”
“First Division, at ease.”
The triple line of sailors had straightened slightly at Bloch’s bark. Now they slumped back into slouches. Lenson counted twenty-six, picking out the ones he knew. Coffey, Gonzales, Greenwald, Williams, Connolly, Lassard, Vogelpohl, Hardin, Jones. They swayed as the bow dipped, their jacket collars fluttering in the wind. A gull hovered behind them, as if uncertain whether to join the formation. He noted their ragged dungarees, the mix of dirty white hats and ball caps, the paint-stained boondockers. Here and there he caught an alert glance, a quirk of mouth or eyebrow. But most of the faces held only dullness, apathy, the slack lineaments of fatigue or despair. They looked like a chain gang.