The Circle

by David Poyer

  I don’t care, he said to himself. I won’t condone it. Not the way he does it. I won’t condone and I won’t forgive and I’ll never be the way he is.

  He shivered then and recollected and searched around what he figured to be zero-five-five relative. At last he made out a blue pinprick haloed by mist, or moisture in the old binoculars. Without the glasses he couldn’t see it at all. He went back in. “That’s the carrier?”

  “Yeah. Dimmed stern light. Need bearings on it every ten minutes. Can do?”

  “Can do, sir.”

  He sensed the unseen existences of Coffey, Connolly, Yardner, and Pettus as he crossed to the centerline gyro. A red spark on the wing caught his eye. “Bos’n.”

  “Sir.”

  “No smoking under blackout conditions. Make the lookouts ditch their cigarettes. Don’t let them light up again.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Stay on them tonight; we’re depending on them, with the radar off.”

  “Aye aye,” said the third-class resentfully.

  He decided to use the centerline alidade; it was warmer inside the pilothouse. He focused it on the faint luminosity Evlin had said was Kennedy. “Zero-six-six, Lieutenant.”

  “Very well. Keep an eye on her.”

  He marked the time on his watch with a grease pencil. He felt groggy and disoriented. He slapped his face, then the other cheek. It helped. He went to the chart table and shielded his flash over it.

  The task group was in the same formation he’d plotted yesterday. The carrier was in the center. Talbot was due north of her at six thousand yards. Calloosahatchee was northwest, tucked inside the screen at four thousand. He picked up a dim glow that might be her stern light. Dewey, with the best antiair armament, was to the east, seven thousand yards out in the direction of the enemy threat. Garcia was to the southeast at five thousand yards. He went outside again and tried to pick each of them up. He caught an intermittent twinkle far out to starboard but couldn’t tell whether it was Dewey or the frigate.

  Christ, he thought, how are we going to maintain station like this? It was like asking blind men to juggle. But they’d done it in World War II, and before. No radar then. He thought about that. Then went back inside and got another bearing.

  “Guide’s dropping aft, sir.”

  “How much?”

  “Two degrees in ten minutes.”

  “Engines ahead standard, indicate ninety rpm.”

  He studied the diagram again, rubbing his mouth. Evlin was slowing. That should make them drift back onto station. But how had he figured out how much to slow, and converted that to rotations per minute of the screws?

  The lieutenant muttered, “Making out okay?”

  “Yeah. Just trying to figure out what we’re doing.”

  “It’ll make sense after a couple of nights. Just keep those bearings coming.”

  He stood uncertainly for some minutes, musing over his problems. At last his mind switched off and let the anxiety gnaw at his guts without putting words to it.

  “You’re quiet tonight.”

  “Yeah, guess so.”

  “Too bad about Bloch.”

  “I should have been down there with him.”

  “Blaming yourself doesn’t do any good.”

  “I guess not. But I still feel guilty. Then all the shit they found.… Bryce’s got us where he wants us now.”

  Evlin was silent. Then he said abruptly, “Come out on the wing.”

  They leaned against the shield, and out of habit, Dan screwed the glasses into his eyes. Nothing showed. Not even a star. The overcast must have closed in again, he thought. Well, we had blue sky for a day.

  “You’re taking this pretty hard.”

  “What do you mean, sir? My chief’s dead, leading PO’s in the brig, my whole division’s under suspicion. How would you take it?”

  “Are you responsible for any of that?”

  “Damn it, they’re my men. Of course I’m responsible.”

  “In a legal sense. In a real sense—what any reasonable man would take into account—you’ve only been aboard for two weeks.”

  “You think my fitness report will include that little fact?”

  “You’re not really worrying about that, are you?”

  “Well … no.”

  “I hope not. Isaacs was on the sauce long before you got here. Those drugs came aboard before you did. From what I’ve seen, you’ve been trying your best to recoup a difficult situation. And maybe even making some headway.”

  “Thanks, Al. But I still feel I could have prevented Bloch’s death … and what they’re going to do to Isaacs.…”

  “How? It was a combination of a green conning officer and a piece of metal that didn’t do what it was supposed to. An accident.

  “Look, I’ve been watching you work. You make errors, but you don’t make the same one twice. When you’re not actually conning, you’ve got some pub out studying. You’re capable and conscientious, and you’ll do fine, no matter what your first fit rep says. And Isaacs—you’re right, that’s a travesty, but it goes on Bryce’s account, not yours.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Stop arguing and listen. The one thing I see wrong with you is that whenever something goes wrong, you condemn yourself. You talk about Bryce suspecting everybody? You suspect Dan Lenson.”

  “I just think—”

  “I said listen. Keep your ideals. But don’t be too tough on yourself. You’re as good as the next man. If you act like you’re not, you’ll end up convincing everybody you’re right.

  “You can’t control the world, Dan. Sometimes I think that’s what the captain’s trying to do. He’s trying so hard to make everything right, trying so hard not to make a mistake, that he gets tired, he misses things—”

  “Somebody’s got to be responsible.”

  “Of course. But we’re only human, Dan. You’ve just got to do your best, and after that, let go. The Gita says we have the right to labor; but we have no right to the fruits of our labor. That’s what it means. Doing our best, then—letting go.”

  Dan felt like punching the bulkhead. He should have relieved Isaacs from the refueling detail after the first screwup. He’d failed leading the division, failed with Lassard, failed with Bryce. He’d dicked up all along the line, from the moment he’d stepped aboard.

  He saw now where Evlin was wrong. Men weren’t fundamentally good. Maybe in an ashram, with a bunch of saints. Not aboard ship. They were greedy, vicious, lazy, incompetent. They needed discipline and punishment. If they kept screwing up, they had to be purged. Bryce’s methods were questionable, but you couldn’t argue with his goals.

  Tears stung his eyes, welling up from some vast reservoir of pain and anger and guilt. He’d wanted to succeed on Ryan—to accomplish something, to be someone. But he’d failed.

  Who could he blame for that? Somebody else, like the XO did?

  “Do you understand .me, Dan?”

  “Yeah,” he said. His throat ached. There were tears on the eyepieces of the 7 × 50s. “I hear you, sir.”

  * * *

  AT a little past two A.M. the pritac came on, a soft mutter. He reached for the message log. “Angelcake, this is Beacon. Message follows. Turn niner. Execute to follow. Over.”

  The screen ships answered one after the other. When Ryan’s turn came, Evlin said briefly into the handset, “Snowflake, roger, out.” The transmit light died. Dan heard him fumbling in the dark. “Captain, Bridge.”

  Silence. Then, “Sir, message from force commander, changing course ninety degrees to starboard, execute to follow.”

  Pause. “New course will be one-zero-zero, sir. Figure they’re getting ready to recover the air strike.

  “Roger, sir. Aye aye, sir.” The phone holder rattled.

  “Angelcake, this is Beacon. Turn niner. I say again, turn niner. Standby. Execute.”

  “Right standard rudder, steady one-zero-zero,” said Evlin to the helmsman. Then, into the transmitter,
“This is Snowflake, roger, out.”

  Packer came up after they steadied. He bumped into Dan, sneezed, and muttered, “Sorry.” He and Evlin huddled over the chart table. Parallel rules clicked. At one point, Dan heard them arguing. He was on the wing and caught the tones rather than what they said. The captain sounded tired.

  He felt sad again, then angry. Over a pound of marijuana in bags, and more in cigarettes. Plus pills. That fucking Lassard. It had to be Lassard’s. He could be wrong, but he couldn’t be that wrong.

  At the thought, he glanced around. Where was the port lookout? He found him at last curled into a corner away from the wind. “Lookout,” he said.

  “Ay.”

  “Slick. What the hell are you doing?”

  “Nothing, man. Nothing. Nada, rien, nyetu.…”

  “Goddamn it, Lassard, you’re on watch! I’ve warned you before. What good are you doing down there?”

  “Who you puttin’ on? It’s pitch-dark, man. There’s nothing to see.”

  “Do you know what’s going on here? We’re steaming in close formation. There’s no radar. Do you know where the carrier is?”

  “Sure, man.” The slouched figure gestured vaguely. “Out there.”

  “Okay,” Dan said. The dragging, vague voice told him clearly enough what Lassard had been smoking. “That’s it, that’s enough. I’m through screwing around. You’re on report.”

  The slow voice became drugged with contempt. “Yeah? You scare me, Lenson. Know that? You really do. Really do … you haven’t got a thing on Slick Lassard, man. You’re clueless what’s going down on this ship. Everybody, they all laugh at you, man. Call you Cadet Cuboid, call you Milk Duds, call you Ensign Fuzz, call you Dudley Dickhead. You’re one sorry, lost, lying motherfucker.”

  “That’s it, Slick. I don’t know how you got through that search clean. But this time I’m writing you up myself. I—”

  “Go fuck yourself, Officer Pig.”

  Dan grabbed a handful of foul-weather jacket and jerked the seaman upright. He shoved him toward the shield and heard binoculars clang against steel. “Do your fucking job!” he shouted.

  “You’re dead, Lenson. For that, you’re a dead man. Slick’s friends’ll see to that. They’ll find you driftin’, man. Then we’ll all go fuck your slant-eye bitch wife—”

  Dan cut him off. He had to leave or he’d hit him, beat his face in, kill him. “We’ll talk at captain’s mast. Shut your face and stand your watch!”

  “Yeah, you and the XO, we’ll see you later.”

  He was shaking with rage when he got back inside. Evlin was by the radio and the captain had settled into his chair. He listened to them with half his attention. The other half was occupied with Lassard’s threat. How had he known about Susan?

  “Darn. I forgot my pipe.”

  “Why don’t you go below and get it, sir?”

  “Al, you know as soon as I leave, they’ll put a signal in the air for us to take plane guard.”

  “Then I’ll take us there, sir.”

  “Suppose they come around to two-five-zero, two-six-zero, like they did to launch. What’ll you do?”

  “Same as last time. Come around with ten degrees right rudder. That’ll give us a turning circle of twelve hundred yards. Steady on two-six-zero, slow to fifteen knots. I’ll wait for Kennedy to pass us, then come right and fall in astern.”

  “No, damn it. It’ll—wait a minute.” Dan heard Packer coughing. “It takes forever that way. No, when she comes around this time I want you to come right to one-three-zero, kick us up to flank, and go down the bird farm’s port side. Once you’re past, swing hard left and you’ll be in the slot.”

  “Sir, that’ll be faster, but it’ll put us a lot closer to the carrier. She’ll be turning into us. And we’ll be crossing her bow at some point.”

  “It’s too slow your way. Bring that board over here.”

  They conferred for a while. At last Packer swung down. “Captain’s off the bridge,” Pettus announced.

  “What was that all about?” asked Dan.

  “Oh, changing station. I’ll go over it with you after we’ve executed.”

  They stood in the dark for some minutes. Then the pritac began muttering again. “Angelcake, this is Beacon. Signal follows, execute to follow. Foxtrot corpen two-six-zero. Foxtrot speed twenty-seven. Over.”

  “Well, he called that one,” said Evlin. “Soon as he goes below, things happen. Kennedy’ll execute in a minute. But he didn’t—” Dan heard the rattle of the handset. The transmit light glowed. “Beacon, this is Snowflake. Do you desire us to take Station Two? Over.”

  “This is Beacon,” said the speaker faintly. “That is affirmative. Break. All units, turn two-six-zero, speed twenty-seven. I say again, turn two-six-zero, speed twenty-seven. Standby. Execute. Over.”

  “Right standard rudder, steady course one-three-zero, engines ahead flank for twenty-seven knots,” said Evlin.

  The enlisted men repeated it in bored tones. The telegraph pinged. Dan took a bearing on the carrier. The stern light had disappeared and new ones, a pattern of them, prickled the night. All were fuzzed as if by mist. “She’s coming around,” he reported. “Now bears zero-six-three.”

  “Very well,” said Evlin. “Bos’n, we’re going to plane guard again. Get the boat crew up. Have them make preparations to lower at three minutes’ notice.”

  “Steady on one-three-zero, sir,” said Coffey from the wheel.

  “Very well. Mr. Lenson, bearing to the guide?”

  “One-six-five again, sir.”

  “One-six-five?”

  “I mean, zero-six-five. Sorry, sir.”

  “Keep them coming.”

  The door opened and someone came on the bridge. Dan could tell by the cavendish scent who it was. He felt a twinge of annoyance. A pipe didn’t break blackout, he supposed. But he’d just told the men not to smoke.

  “You start the turn, Al?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where’s Kennedy? I can’t see her.”

  “Off the port bow now, Captain.”

  Packer crossed the bridge with heavy, dragging steps, and went out onto the wing. Dan saw his face lighted momentarily by the alidade, heard muttered speech. Actually, he thought, there’s a little light. He could see better now than when he’d come on. Could see silhouettes, at least.

  The captain’s bulky shadow came back in and stood looking forward. “Damn it, Al,” he said, sounding irritated. “What are we doing? Come left. Left standard rudder, come to course zero-nine-zero.”

  “Left standard rudder, zero-nine-zero,” repeated Coffey in a slightly less bored tone.

  “Captain, have you taken the conn?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got the goddamn conn, nobody else up here seems to know what to do with it. What speed are we at?”

  “Twenty-seven knots, sir.”

  “Let’s kick her up. Give me ahead flank, twenty-nine.”

  Connolly, the lee helmsman, repeated the order as he racked the handles ahead.

  Dan went out on the wing. The alidade was slightly off and he centered it on the carrier. It was dead ahead now and the lights had changed from a line to a cluster. Some were white, some red, some green or greenish white, low in the water. They seemed to be closing; he could see them plainly now without magnification. He couldn’t tell what angle he was seeing the other ship from. He went back inside. “Bearing zero-eight-zero,” he said.

  “To what?” said the captain. Evlin was bent over the chart table.

  “To Kennedy, sir.”

  “Sir,” said Evlin, “this course puts us only four hundred yards from the carrier’s track.”

  Packer peered forward. Dan went out on the wing again. The lights ahead were getting brighter. A few seconds went by. He heard Evlin say something else. Almost at once then the captain called out, quite loudly and clearly, “Increase your rudder to left full.”

  “Left full, aye,” said Coffey. He sounded alert now.

 
; Dan realized suddenly the carrier was much closer than he’d thought. The small lights were not in her superstructure but at the leading edge of the flight deck. He went inside in time to hear Evlin say, “Sir, we’re closing way too fast.”

  “Increase rudder to left hard. All engines ahead emergency flank!” shouted the captain. Evlin left the chart table and ran to starboard. Dan followed him.

  The lights were bright now, imminent, moving from dead ahead to starboard as the destroyer heeled. Bells rang as Pettus, shoving Connolly aside, cranked the engine-order handles from ahead flank to back full and forward again. Evlin hung in the wing door for a moment, muttered, “My God,” and ran back to the helm.

  Dan, left alone on the wing, stood frozen as the silhouette of an aircraft carrier suddenly took shape out of what had a moment before been empty night. Seventy feet high, filling the sky. The lights were steady along the deck edge. The cream of bow wave glowed a lighter black. It could not be more than a hundred yards away, and it was coming directly at him. He gripped the splinter shield, unable to move or breathe. Behind him a cry of “Stand by for collision!” was followed instantly by the electric clang of the alarm.

  The carrier’s bow tore into them a hundred feet behind the bridge. Ryan heeled bodily, knocking him off his feet onto the gratings. A long, terrifyingly loud shriek of tearing steel succeeded the blow. The ship whipped and shuddered under him. He hugged the deck mindlessly, binoculars biting into his stomach. The lights, penumbraed by mist, slid by high above. A scream of rending metal, a roar of escaping steam struggled against the drone of a horn. Something exploded aft, jolting the deck against his cheek and lighting the bridge like instantaneous daylight.

  He scrambled up and was propelled by the lean of the deck into the pilothouse, his legs buckling under him.

  He blinked flash from his eyes, to find its snug familiarity transformed into something new and terrible. Coffey was still at the wheel. Pettus was shouting into the 1MC, but nothing was audible above the din. The chart table light flickered and went out, as did the binnacle and the pilots on all the radios. Packer was clinging to his chair, staring out to starboard. Dan didn’t see Evlin.

  He fetched up against the helm and clung to it, looking out. The deck-edge lights were still sliding by above them, like a train on a high trestle. Then they were gone. The deck shuddered. Another explosion came from aft, a deep boom that rattled the windows. The ship swayed back to vertical, then reeled to starboard with sickening ease. The deck took on a backward slant.