by David Poyer
“We’re all family here, Tomás. No one here’s an informer.”
“Then where do they come from?”
“Perhaps they would inform on others, but not on their own family.”
“I don’t know—I think Tomás is right.”
“On the contrary, my cousin.”
“This is desperate talk. No one escapes. You hear what happens to those who try. They shoot them, there in the water. Or the sharks eat them. That’s why we never heard from Silvio.”
“Not according to the American radio.”
“We don’t know if those are lies or truth, Cousin. They mention people who make it, but those could be just names they make up. Do any of us know anyone who fled who ever wrote back? The only one we know of who tried was Silvio Padrón, and like you say, we never heard from him. He could be in prison, or shot, or eaten by the fish.”
“Or perhaps he owns a gas station in Miami.”
“This is all foolish talk.”
“They flee from the cities. How can we flee from here?”
“¡Mierda! Fool, we’re closer to the sea here than they are in the cities.”
“Let us not curse each other, my children. We are all God’s fools.”
“Thank you for wise words, grandfather,” said the sarcastic voice.
“Anyway, it’s not true Silvio was the only one. Do you remember Juan Davalos? He and another man from Cayo Sabinal were working here with the tractors. Then one day they were gone.”
“We don’t know if they made it.”
“Carajo, how can we know anything? The government radio says those who reach Florida are put to work in the fields without pay. The Americans call them negritos and treat them with contempt. There is much crime and great poverty. Do we want to live that way, without pride, without safety?”
“The government radio lies.”
“Undoubtedly, but who knows if the Americans are lying, too, with their stories about how wonderful things are in Miami? Such a voyage would be dangerous. They may catch us and kill us. And we are not familiar with the sea. We could all die, you know. That must be considered, in my opinion.”
Graciela had sat silent, as was fitting for a woman, listening to the arguments as rain began to fall, rustling in the leaves before patting cold drops on her back. Now she felt them all tasting the harsh truth in what the last man had said. Yes, they all could die.
“We’re all dying here,” she said then.
“Oh, Graciela.”
“No names, Cousin.”
She felt the baby’s heels thud against her heart, uncomfortable and at the same time thrilling. She’d forgotten what it was like. So long ago, Coralía, then the two lost ones. She said, louder, “We are all dying now; the only difference is, here they do it slow. My husband, they killed him. If my baby Victoria had had food and medicine, she’d still be alive. The food goes to the Bolos; we have nothing. If I die on the way to Miami, that’s better than living here. That is what I have to say. I’m leaving. Are there any men to go with me?”
“Be silent, woman. Don’t speak of what you don’t know.”
“She’s crazy, that one.”
Only Tomás’s voice, slow and serious, didn’t ridicule her. He said, “If we decided to go, we’d have to have a boat. Find one, or build one.”
“This is true.”
“Can we build one?”
“Out of what?”
“We could decide to go if we found one, and if we did not, why, then we’d know it wasn’t possible.”
“It’s also a crime to plan to leave. If they catch us examining boats—”
“Nothing can be done without risk. It’ll take some cojones, chico.”
“And we know nothing about boats. We’re farmers.”
“Gustavo used to be a fisherman,” someone said.
“That was long ago, compadres.”
“I know how to build a boat,” said a high, young voice suddenly. Graciela wasn’t sure, but she thought it might be Manuelito’s.
“What’s that, boy?”
“I have a book that shows how. It shows how the hull is put together and everything.”
“A book?” said someone doubtfully.
“What’s your boat made of, muchacho?”
“Wood.”
“Where would we get wood?”
“It doesn’t have to be wood,” said Tomás. “It can be anything we can scrounge up—plywood, metal, anything. Palm boards. Sheets of tin.”
“Where would we get tin?”
“If we’re leaving, what will we need our roofs for, chico? Look, we are not stupid people here in Batey Number Three. If we all put our minds to it, I’m sure we can build a boat.”
“I don’t want to piss in your milk, my friends,” said the sarcastic voice, “but even if you build a boat without the police or the CDR getting suspicious and sail it away without anyone seeing you, you are still only on the bahía. Beyond that are the cays. How will you cross them without the security forces seeing you? And beyond that are the border guards and then the maritime guard. Only past them all is the sea, and then you will need a second boat, for you can not carry the first one across solid land.”
“These cays, they are islands, no? That means there must be a way through them by water, no?”
“But who among us knows it?”
“Your cousin’s right. We’ll need a map.”
“There are many things we’ll need. Food, water, a compass. How would we make a boat go? Sails? Oars?”
“There are motors in the warehouse,” said a voice. “The Russian ones, for the pumps. They’re shit, but perhaps one could be fixed to drive a boat.”
“We should have a sail, too.”
“This is all a dream, a fantasy,” said the unhappy voice.
“It’s not a fantasy,” said Graciela. In the dark, it didn’t seem out of place to speak up, even if she was a woman. She felt the child stir again under her heart, and somehow that gave her courage. She could not bring another life into this place. “It’s true: We may not make it. We may die. But is this living, without food, without hope? We’ve been slaves too long. I say we have to leave while there is still breath in our bodies.”
“She’s right,” came the strong, deep voice. “You know there’s no other way. So let’s agree now to try, and set a date, too.”
“Why?”
“I learned in the army if there’s no date, there won’t ever be a plan. I propose the twenty-sixth of July.”
Scattered laughter from the dark. It was the most famous date on the revolutionary calendar, the day Castro’s forces had attacked the fortress of Santiago. “Why then, chico?” the sarcastic one asked.
“It’s the holiday. Everybody off work, drinking and dancing in Alcorcón. That’s the time to go.”
“Wait. Wait,” said the frightened voice. “You’re going too fast. This is dangerous. What if they find out what we’re doing? We can all go to prison.”
“Things can happen on the sea, too,” someone else put in.
“Yes, yes. I don’t think it’s a good plan, and I don’t agree with it,” said the frightened voice.
“That’s fine with us if you don’t want to go, but you have to keep quiet. Understand? You have to swear.”
“That’s not enough,” Graciela said.
“Yes, sister? Speak up.”
She said loudly, “It’s not enough to have that person swear. We all have to swear—not only not to talk but to kill any chivato who goes to Colon or the police. Even if he’s our brother, cousin, father—the machete. One by one, we must give our names and swear it, by the Virgin or by Ochún, and by our blood.”
Tomás’s shadow loomed as he stood. “Sí. Es verdad. We’ll swear that we will never tell who met here or what we’re planning, and that we’ll kill any informer, no matter who. After that, those who do not want to go to Miami with us can go home. Everyone understand? I’ll swear first. I, Tomás Guzman Arredondo, swear to this by the Vir
gin, by the blue goddess, and by my own blood: And should I break this oath, I ask you to kill me swiftly, as I will no longer be worthy to be called a man. Now you, to my right.”
The next man’s voice cracked, but he coughed and spat and then spoke out. Beneath the palms, beneath the flickering shadows chased by the racing moon, they spoke on, man after man, woman after woman, old and young, some in a mutter, others loud and angry. And in the end, even the frightened voice added after the oath, “I, too, will go. I can’t stay here if you all leave. What would they do to me then?”
“There. It’s done,” Tomás’s deep voice said slowly, heavily. “Y que el Señor nos proteja—and may God help us all.”
14
U.S. Naval Base, Charleston
“NOW station the special sea and anchor detail. Make all preparations for getting under way,” said the 1MC.
“Fog, damn it.”
“I hate this fucking river.”
Dan rubbed his hands on his trousers as he half-listened to the enlisted men behind him. They were getting under way this morning for the test shoot, and it was foggy as hell. Well, at least he hadn’t been worrying about it for days. Vysotsky had only mentioned it at breakfast, as in “Oh, by the way, you’ll be taking her out today, Dan.”
He liked shiphandling, but he wasn’t used to the river, and he wasn’t used to handling Barrett yet, either. She was a lot bigger than the destroyers and frigates he’d learned on.
Moving his mind on, he looked down at the forecastle, where men scurried in the mist, getting the lines ready to take in. White tendrils blew between the vertical arms of the missile launcher. He could make out the bullnose, but past that, milky haze curtained the river. Not as thick as the Arctic-he remembered times he couldn’t see Ryan’s forward gun—but heavy enough that he couldn’t make out the channel buoy a hundred yards off the pier. Fortunately, this was a low-key under-way-no brass bands, no families. If the tests went well, they’d be back in tomorrow night.
Behind him, the bosun piped, “Attention,” then announced, “Damage control petty officers check the setting of material condition Yoke. Make Yoke reports to the boatswain’s mate on the bridge.” Dan glanced up at the alert console above him, then around at the gradually filling bridge. With a new wardroom, the senior lieutenants carried the burden of sea and anchor details. Ed Horseheads, the junior officer of the deck, was finishing the checklist. The talkers were hooking their phones over their ears, faking the cords to run clear. Just then Dave Cannon, the navigator, touched his shoulder. “Dan. Papa Jack’s here.”
He turned to salute a heavyset older man. “Good morning, sir. Lieutenant Lenson.”
“Will you be conning her, Lieutenant?”
“That’s right, sir.”
He hung on every word as the pilot began explaining the courses they’d steer. The pilot would advise him if he was standing into danger, but the responsibility for any mistake or accident was still the ship’s.
And Charleston was the toughest channel on the East Coast, so narrow and shallow a dredge worked 360 days a year to keep it open. The river wound like a corkscrew, with a tidal current that clipped along at up to eleven knots, though usually it was more like six. If it caught you broadside, you were helpless; you’d just have to spin around as you were swept downstream, praying you didn’t hit anything before you headed fair again. Two months before, the captain, OOD, and navigator of a nuclear sub had been relieved for going aground off Shutes Folly Island. They’d been only twenty yards outside the channel.
An unfamiliar face distracted his attention: pale, round, with gold-rimmed glasses. “Who’s that?” Dan asked Horseheads.
“Name’s Lohmeyer, sir. He’s fresh off an amphib.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“He’s Deshowits’s replacement.”
“His replacement? What happened to Mark?”
“They’re holding him ashore for out-processing. Wouldn’t shave off his beard, what I heard.”
Dan rubbed his own chin, torn between anger and awe at the speed and ruthlessness of the Navy’s response to what it perceived as insubordination. They’d obviously done a one-for-one ethnic swap to avoid the appearance of being anti-Jewish. “That’s not gonna help us at Gitmo, having a brand-new damage control officer.”
The boatswain said into a microphone, “The following is a test of the general, chemical, and collision alarms from the bridge. Disregard.” He pressed colored switches one after the other, sending an assortment of bongs, blips, and wheeps through the ship, then announced, “Test complete. Regard all further alarms.”
Papa Jack put a tobacco-stained finger on the chart. “Watch this left turn off Drum Island. The bar’s creeping farther out every year. Got a current behind you going out. We wait too long on that, we’ll be in trouble.” He fixed Dan with a gimlet eye. “Sure you want to get under way now? Can’t wait till she clears?”
“All the services are scheduled,” Vysotsky said, behind Dan. “We pretty much have to get out there now, yeah.”
“Okay … but I tell you it’s time to get your rudder over, best not be occupied with anything else.”
“I understand, Captain,” Dan said. You addressed pilots as “Captain,” which led occasionally to confusion at critical times. He studied Cannon’s penciled courses on the chart: twelve different courses and turns.
“Captain’s on the bridge.” Leighty returned a general salute to everyone and swung himself up into the starboard-side chair reserved for the commanding officer. He adjusted his cap carefully, peering into the window. Dan wondered if he was judging the fog or just admiring his reflection. Then he was swung back by voices clamoring for attention, acknowledgment.
“Draft report, sir. Thirty-four feet, two inches forward.” Horseheads: “Yoke is set throughout the ship, sir. All preparations completed for getting under way. Bridge, CIC, and nav detail are fully manned. Forecastle and fantail report ready to get under way.”
“Who’s on the fantail?”
“Lieutenant Kessler.”
“Sir, you have bridge-to-bridge on the walkie-talkie, charged and tested.”
“Main Control reports ready to answer all bells.”
He said “Very well,” told Horseheads to test the rudder and lee helm, and took another deep breath. No point getting nervous, he told himself. This was just another evolution. He glanced toward Leighty. The captain was leaning back, reading his morning traffic. He looked relaxed. It was his head, too, if Dan dicked up, but he didn’t look worried. That’s my problem, Dan thought. I don’t have any fucking confidence.
“Now all hands to quarters for leaving port.”
“Combat, Bridge: how’s traffic look in the channel?”
“Two small contacts downriver. Upriver is clear.”
Dan saluted Leighty. “Sir, we’re ready to get under way.” “Let’s go.”
“Mr. Lenson?” He turned, to find Sanderling at his elbow, holding out a chit. “Sir, yeoman said if you could sign this before we cast off, he could get it in today’s mailbag.”
“Get out of here, Sanderling! Get off the bridge!” He stared after the seaman, then forcibly erased him from his mind. He looked around one last time, at the captain, the pilot, the fog French-kissing the windows. Then took a deep breath. “Take in lines two, three, four, and five,” he said. “All engines, back one-third.”
HE had a few anxious moments getting Barrett away from the pier. The current pinned her against it broadside. He had to spring the bow out by hauling in on the stern line and pivoting her on a camel, a wooden float, between her and the pier before giving a standard ahead bell. She responded faster than he’d expected, shooting out into the channel. Then he had to stop nine thousand tons of rapidly moving ship before she went into the mud on the far side. By the time he got her headed fair, his shirt was soaked. He’d trained on steam-powered ships, where it took time for a command to take effect. Not only did Barrett’s gas turbines respond faster but she had controll
able-pitch screws. The shafts rotated at a constant speed, and you simply changed the pitch to vary the thrust or back down. You could go from full ahead to full astern in seconds. He knew that, but his shiphandling reflexes hadn’t adapted yet.
But what that also meant, he told himself, was that they had the maneuverability and power to get out of just about any jam—as long as he could see … .
The fog thinned as they approached the Patriot’s Point bridge, but just to keep the pucker factor constant, river traffic picked up. The horn of a ship casting off sounded from starboard. The pilot pulled out a portable radio. He called the freighter, telling him to hug the west side of the channel for a two-whistle passage. He wanted Barrett farther to port, but Dan kept thinking, Yeah, and what if there’s a trawler or something else small coming upriver; he doesn’t have a pilot and he won’t paint on the radar, either? Sweat trickled down his back.
So far, though, they had enough visibility to navigate by. The fog was thinning. Cannon was getting bearings off each pier they passed, and the lookouts could see the top of a TV tower. Plotting those on the chart, he gave Dan updates every two minutes on their position relative to the channel.
A bridge coalesced out of white opacity and swept past overhead, clearing Barrett’s mast top, it seemed, by inches. They were moving a lot faster than the five knots he’d rung up. The current. He wished they could have waited for slack tide. But as Vysotsky had said, their services were already scheduled: aircraft, targets, electronics. The operating area had been declared off-limits to mariners. They couldn’t postpone; they’d be on their way south in a few days.
He sensed the current changing direction, shouldering them left as the bridge passed overhead. Then suddenly, the fog closed down again, heavy, beading the windows with trickling droplets. He could smell it, damp and ominous.
“Navigator reports: lost all visual marks.”
“Resume sounding fog signals. Stand by to let go anchor.” Dan pressed the intercom. “Combat, Bridge: Visibility has decreased to zero. I’m depending on you now.”