The Passage

by David Poyer

  “Okay … that’s all I have, sir.”

  Vysotsky took the mike back. “Thanks, Gary. Okay, where are my department heads? Instead of eight o‘clock reports tonight, let’s do them right here, let the whole crew know where we stand. Mr. Giordano, are our engineers ready? How do we stand on the louver intake heaters?”

  “We got the parts kit, but the bolts are the wrong size, sir. Anyway, that won’t hurt us tomorrow. We got a problem in the number one gas turbine generator, the fourteenth stage bleed adjust valve, but I think we can get it fixed tonight. The fire pumps—”

  “What’s wrong with the fire pumps?”

  “Number three motor is grounded. We can maintain loop pressure, though.”

  “Even in a casualty mode?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Giordano. “Aside from that, my major worry’s water. SIMA overhauled the pumps in the distillate plant, but we broke the flex pipe putting them back in. That and the way the safeties keep lifting on the waste heat boilers means we may have to go on water hours in Guadeloupe.”

  “We’ll be able to get fresh water there. I’m more worried about tomorrow. Mr. Quintanilla?”

  “Sir, the starboard anchor windlass is back in operation. No other casualties in the Operations Department. Comms will be set up in accordance with Annex K of the CTG forty-three point two opgen.”

  “Combat systems?”

  Dan stood and said, “Phalanx electronic cooling system, the water low-flow switch is inoperative. Parts are on order. No operational impact.”

  “How do we stand on alert status, Mr. Lenson?”

  “Sir, all the ships in port have been issued new targeting plans, comm plans, and call for fire procedures. We can control aircraft, as well. If they want us to come on-line to defend the base, we can.”

  “Okay, the big question: Are we going to be able to fight the battle problem in full auto, like we committed to?”

  Dan took a breath. “We’re going to try, sir.”

  Vysotsky went down the other departments, then looked around. Dan did, too, but Leighty still wasn’t there. The XO cleared his throat. “Well, that’s about it. The overall score so far is forty of forty-eight evolutions sat. Not terrific, but enough to pass if we ace this bear tomorrow. If we don’t … we’ll just do it all over again.

  “I guess that’s all … . Any questions?”

  “Any word on that hurricane, sir? Is that going to hurt our liberty?”

  “Lieutenant Cannon?”

  The navigator: “Don’t worry about the weather. It’ll be a little rough, but the storm should pass to the north of us.”

  There were no other questions. Vysotsky dismissed them, and the men stood slowly and began to file out.

  DAN made a last check of his spaces, telling people to knock off, get some sleep. Shrobo and Chief Dawson were optimistic about the ACDADS fix, which cheered him up. He turned in a little before midnight.

  Then he lay wide awake in the darkened stateroom, brain buzzing like a cycling relay. Through the hiss of the ventilators, he could hear an occasional clank as the boatswains finished rigging something. His eye returned to the green luminescence of his clock. In four hours—no, three and a half now—reveille would go. And it would be time to find out if all their work would succeed … or go for nothing.

  He forced himself to close his eyes.

  HE was jerked awake in the dark by the phone. He heard the cursing from the bunk below as his roommate groped for it, listened, then said, “It’s yours.” Dan leaned over and the smooth curved plastic found his hand.

  “Dan? This is the XO.”

  “Yes, sir.” He blinked sleep scum off his eyeballs, trying to make sense of the clock. “Is it … is it reveille yet, sir?”

  “No,” said Vysotsky. “It’s only oh-three hundred. But I need to get you on your feet, give you a quick heads-up to what’s going on.”

  “Okay, sir, what’s going on?”

  “We’re not doing the battle problem today.”

  “We’re not?”

  “No,” said the heavy grating voice. “We’re still getting under way, but not for that. That’s all on hold now. There’s been … a little change of plan.”

  IV

  THE EXODUS

  30

  At Sea

  THE sun came out for an hour around noon, briefly gilding turbulent swells the color of new cane leaves. Then waned again, veiled by high wispy clouds, aligned as if radiating from some far-off point beyond the view of the fifteen people in the two small boats that tossed and rolled in the grip of the sea.

  Tomás had put up the mast pole, a piece of pipe stolen from the sugar mill, and set the sail. The wind was strong and steady, and as soon as the crazy quilt of stitched sacking climbed the pole, it bellied out, cracking and slapping. But after half an hour of shouting and adjusting ropes, both craft were scudding along, zigzagging as Augustín fought the tiller.

  As they gathered speed, something funny happened. The waves were still huge, but they didn’t jerk and slam them about as they had before. Now they lifted the boats gradually, the skiff first, then the bigger boat. Tilted them forward, making them race along for a few yards, and then let them down again, where they swayed, the sail slatting and sagging, till the next wave rose astern.

  And gradually, Augustín learned to guess what the sea would do, and their rippling trail unrolled across the murky heaving surface nearly in a straight line—headed west.

  The people from Batey Number 3 lay in them, heads nodding with each roll, sprawled out with shirts or arms over their faces, legs propped on thwarts or each other’s stomachs. They looked like two boatfuls of dead rocking across the sea.

  When Graciela woke, she felt dizzy and a backache pounded at her kidneys. She lay inert, feeling the boat roller-coastering forward under her, listening to the sea bubble past. It wasn’t uncomfortable, really, except for her wet clothes and the itching where they chafed. Of course, she hadn’t been able to stretch out for two days and nights. So that now lying in an inch of water in the bottom of a pitching boat was actually almost comfortable. The backache, sure, but after three times she knew that this close to the parto, she could be in a feather bed and her back would still ache.

  Then her mind moved beyond and she remembered the day and the night before. She’d left the graves of her children and husband, and Coralía, too, behind forever. A thin sharp knife turned in her heart, bittersweet, relief and regret and longing all mixed up so that she didn’t know what she felt. Then, lagging it by only a moment, came fear. She lifted her head, to see a bare thin back, bony shoulder blades like incipient wings. The boy was sitting in the stern, looking out.

  “Miguelito.”

  His head jerked around. “Tia Graciela. ¿Estás despierta?”

  “Help me up, chico. Where is grandmother Aracelia?”

  “Up front, with Julio and Gustavo.” He got his arm under her and helped her onto the thwart. When she was arranged, she turned her head to the others. They nodded back, eyes red and sleepy. She bent, the boat tipping even under that tiny shift of weight, and glanced down. Clear water rolled back and forth over her bare feet.

  “More water’s coming in. The boat is leaking.”

  “I bail it every couple of hours. It’s not much. Don’t worry, Tia.”

  “You’re a good boy, Miguelito.” She blinked and rubbed her eyes, realizing only now how hungry and thirsty she was. The sky seemed very bright. The sun struck through the thin high clouds. She seldom got sunburn in the fields, but already her cheeks stung. Moving awkwardly—big as she was, the least motion was difficult—she dipped a corner of her skirt into the water and patted her face and neck with it. That refreshed her, and straightening her back, she looked around.

  The sea was so much bigger than she’d expected. It made her feel small and alone, like standing in a field at night, looking up at the stars. But what was that they were saying about other boats? Clinging to the gunwale, she searched nearsightedly around as th
ey rose to a swell. She didn’t see anyone else. Then, surprise, she did, a little boat not all that far away. She lifted a hand tentatively, and to her delight the people in it waved back. They were Cuban all right; no one else could smile as lightheartedly out here. Ahead of the skiff, a dripping rope led to the stern of Tomás’s boat, and above it, surprising her before she recognized it, was the sail—her sail, the one she’d stitched together out of the sacks the rice came in. The patchwork expanse bulged as if it had swallowed the wind and the wind was trying to get out. She examined it worriedly, but her doubled seams seemed to be holding. Below it, Xiomara caught her eyes. Graciela smiled back, but just then the skiff fell forward off a wave and she felt water spring into her mouth. If only it would stop, just for a moment, she’d be fine. But it never stopped … .

  “Tia Graciela, you all right?”

  She felt Gustavo’s wiry arms around her as she retched. It was terrible, being sick when you were this pregnant. She felt miserable, dirty, sweaty, and turgid. Then she felt something else, and her hand dropped to her stomach. Tight as a drum already, it was growing harder.

  She clung to the gunwale, staring into the swirling green. She dreaded what she was about to pass through, but at the same time she wished the baby would hurry and come. No, no, she didn’t mean that! She had weeks yet to go. If he was born in Miami, he’d be an americano, no?

  She clung grimly to the wood, and after a time the giant hand that had been squeezing her slowly opened.

  MIGUELITO sat in the bow, looking at his hands. He remembered when they’d been a baby’s, small and soft and unable to grab anything but his mother’s dress. Now she was dead and he was big, and he could do almost anything he wanted with them … . Why, he was a man. And someday, they’d be hard and stiff like old Gustavo’s, and in the rainy season he’d complain that they hurt, deep inside.

  Or maybe that didn’t happen in America … .

  He wondered what it was going to be like. He’d listened on the radio, tuning in secretly to the Voice of America with the high whistle of the jamming. He heard Cuban voices talk about their crossing and how free and rich and happy they were in the great country to the north. It was like eavesdropping on the saints, hearing the testimony of those who had gone to heaven. He’d even dreamed about it last night. Yes, he’d forgotten when he woke, but now he remembered it again.

  He’d been drifting in the water, all alone, at night. But as dawn approached, he’d seen a light and started swimming toward it. As the sun came up, the light faded, but he saw land in the same direction, with white clouds stacked above. He paddled weakly toward it, like a drowning dog. The current swept him along the coast and for a long time he was afraid he wouldn’t make it, that he’d be dragged past. Now he could make out bushes or small trees. A point of land reached out for him, but the current moved faster. His arms were so heavy … . As he rounded the point, he saw a bay, a lighthouse rising from an eminence. He kept swimming and passed the peninsula a hundred yards from the surf, which he heard clearly.

  The current changed then and pushed him in toward a stone jetty. The waves jostled him as he drew slowly nearer. But when he reached it at last, the stones were too huge to climb. Barnacles covered them, razoring his hands like broken black glass. The current carried him, screaming, off the seawall’s end, around it, and into a harbor.

  In the bay, white boats lay at anchor. Beautiful women lay on the decks, sipping fruit drinks in the sun. They didn’t look down. They talked to one another as he swept by, struggling, crying out, drowning.

  Then all at once, he realized he didn’t have to struggle. He didn’t even have to swim. He rose from the sea and began walking toward the shore, toward white and gold buildings towering against the blue sky. He could hear many bands playing all together, like at the Carnaval. As he drew closer to the beach, people gathered to greet him—beautiful blond women in bathing suits, strong men with black hair and white teeth. They carried him gently from the water and up onto the sand, speaking rapidly in a strange, beautiful language that had to be English. The sand was white and, to his surprise, soft. He smiled up at the circle of concerned faces. Someone gave him a Coca-Cola to drink. They were so friendly, the Americans.

  Then he saw that they weren’t smiling; they were laughing. Only then did he realize that he was lying naked before all of them; the women were laughing and pointing. His clothes were back in Cuba. He had to return, go back to his father’s hut … .

  “¡Hola!”

  He snapped his head around, to see the other boat not far away at all. It had come up on them gradually. His eyes ran over it curiously. It was almost square. Above it rose a curious double mast and a slanted boom with a brown sail. It was green, the part the people sat in, and looked familiar. He sat astonished for a second, then laughed out loud. It was a truck bed. They were using a truck bed as a boat!

  “Hello!” he yelled back.

  “Where are you from?”

  Tomás’s bellow answered before he could. “Alcorcón,” he shouted.

  “Where?”

  “Camagüey. Where are you from?”

  “Puerto Vita.”

  “That is far to the east,” Gustavo muttered. “Way down in Oriente.”

  “It’s in Holguín Province now,” Miguelito told the old man patronizingly. “There’s no more Oriente.”

  “It’s still Oriente, boy, no matter what the Communists call it.”

  “How long have you been at sea?” Tomás shouted across.

  “Two days, chico. Hey, how far to Miami?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Any extra food?”

  “We have just barely enough. Are you out?”

  “No, we’ve still got some boniatos.”

  “We don’t have much for ourselves.”

  “I understand, amigo. Shall we stay together?”

  “Sure. We’ll stay in sight.”

  “Vaya con Dios, okay?”

  “Vaya con Dios. See you in los Estados Unidos.”

  They waved, and Miguel gave them a salute as the boxy hull turned away, the slanted bow crushing down the waves.

  THAT evening toward sunset, an airplane came over—a big one, with a white belly and a long tail like a dragonfly. They waved, but it didn’t turn or indicate in any way that it had seen them. It just flew on steadily, then disappeared to the right of the setting sun.

  “It’s going back to America,” Julio said, and the people in the chalana looked after it, each thinking his own thoughts.

  They ate plantains, then finished the water in the bottle. They passed it around one last time, her, Miguelito, Gustavo, and finally Julio. The young man made a gesture of renunciation, but Gustavo said, “Drink, chico, you must stay strong in case we need you.” So he took it and drained the last clear fluid, then held it up.

  “Empty,” he said. Then he turned, cupping his hands, and yelled across the foaming murky track that separated them from the others, “Hey! Tomás! We’re out of water!”

  Guzman came out of the cockpit, hair snarled. He looked like he’d been asleep. “¿Qué pasa?”

  “We’re out of water.”

  “What, you guzzled that up already?”

  “We haven’t ‘guzzled’ it. It was only one bottle, and that was since yesterday.”

  Tomás looked worried, or angry, but he nodded. He glanced around, looked up at the sky, and then ducked back into the cabin.

  He reappeared with another bottle cradled in his stumped arm and began crawling aft, bracing himself as the sail rattled and boomed and the boat pitched. He got to the stern and looked back at them. “Pull yourself up here. Use the rope.”

  Julio bent to the line and started shortening the distance, hand over hand. Gustavo coiled the soft worn manila neatly as it came in. But when they were only a few feet away, a wave suddenly lifted their stern. They coasted forward, sliding down its slick slant, and crashed into the back of the bigger boat so violently splinters flew. Julio shot forward, almost
jerked out of the skiff. “¡Mierda! Be careful, carajo!” Tomás yelled.

  “The water!” Xiomara screamed, pointing, and they all, in both boats, turned and looked at where the plastic glinted and rolled in their wake. Augustín yanked the tiller over, but Tomás put out his hand, guiding him back on course. “It’s gone. Nenita, hand me another,” he said quietly.

  Colon came out of the cabin. He said, so loudly that Graciela could hear him even over the wind, “They already had their water. They fucked up and lost it. No more for them.”

  “Hand me another bottle, Temilda,” said Tomás.

  Colon adjusted his pistol belt. “Did you hear me, Guzman? I said, they had their chance.”

  Tomás glanced at him but didn’t argue, didn’t respond at all. He took a piece of wire from his pocket and twisted it around the neck of the new bottle the twins passed up. Colon frowned but didn’t say anything else. He just stood watching, hands on his hips, swaying as the boat rolled. Tomás looped the wire over the rope, then pushed it down toward the skiff. It hesitated, disappearing under the sea as the line slacked. Then, dragged by the current of their passage, it slid the last few feet.

  Julio held it up, flourishing it like a trophy. Xiomara and Nenita, looking back, smiled. But Graciela saw Colón’s scowl as he turned away, bent, crawled back into the darkness of the cabin. Tomás had humiliated him, shown the others he had no cojones. For that, she knew, a man must have revenge.

  THE sunset that night was the most beautiful she’d ever seen. High thin clouds all aligned like the plowed rows of a field. At first they glowed like hot wires, then gradually cooled through copper to gold before fading away at last into black tiger stripes on a cobalt night. Just before they disappeared, she felt something on her thighs. Turning her back to the men, she gestured Aracelia over. Then she lifted her skirt a few inches, exposing a rash on her calves and painful raw patches where the skin had rubbed off her knees.

  “Oh,” the old woman whispered. She glanced quickly at the men, who were looking at the sky, and unwound her head cloth. She splashed water quickly on Graciela’s belly, wiping off the blood and mucus. Graciela gasped at the salt sting.