by David Poyer
The ship picked her way among them, angling from boat to boat in what seemed like random course changes. But after a while, he figured it out. If the boat had a sail and people waved, Barrett proceeded past. If they seemed unusually agitated, had no sail, or the lookouts saw no motion, Leighty hove to and checked them out. The captain came back to the fantail each time, personally deciding whether simply to pass down supplies and give them a quick navigation lesson or to take them aboard. Gradually, a crowd of men and a few women gathered inside the hangar, where Oakes had assembled blankets, water, sandwiches, and hot coffee. The corpsman worked at a table, dressing scrapes and cuts. Some of the crew drifted back and sat around the flight deck, attempting to communicate in broken phrases.
When they finally reached Area Bravo, the clouds to the northeast, toward Andros, glowed with the milky reflected light that meant breaking surf. Cannon recommended a two-leg course along the southwest edge, and Leighty agreed. They maintained steerageway at five knots, rolling about fifteen degrees. The captain watched the sea for a time, then lowered the motor whaleboat. It lay to a mile south of them, and when boats sheered toward it, the boat crew intercepted them. They reported back by radio, and Leighty, running things from his seat on the bridge, decided whether to take them aboard or let them go on. As far as Dan could see, he turned no one back to Cuba, despite what the message had directed.
Additional ships kept reporting in: a British destroyer, HMS Rhyl; a Dutch frigate, Van Almonde; the Venezuelan gunboat with whose crew Dan had gotten drunk, Federación. Munro gave them areas stretching up the eastern side of the Santarén Channel. The hydrofoils from Key West reported in and were assigned stations to the west. Aircraft droned over, and once the whaleboat was vectored south to assist a boat that appeared to be on fire. They rescued the crew and brought them back to the growing group in the hangar.
Dan caught a short nap, knowing there might not be much sleep if the weather kept worsening. The center of the storm was due to pass over Nassau early the next morning. Then it was time for watch again. The wind was whistling in the signal halyards and antennas as he climbed back to the bridge. Barrett was rolling in earnest now, taking long swoops as the beam seas marched past.
Harper had the deck. “What’s going on?” Dan asked him. “Still steaming back and forth?”
“That’s right. Basically, we’re just here showing them where to go, keeping them off the rocks. The wind’s picking up, though. Looks like the bad shit will pass closer than they thought.”
“Great.” Dan looked out toward where the seas, black and huge, came roaring out of the afternoon mist. He checked the fathometer next, then checked the reading against their satellite navigation position. He felt slightly less comfortable when he recalled that the satnav software was running on the AN/UYK-7s. Fortunately, they had loran here, too. He confirmed that the quartermasters were taking fixes every fifteen minutes.
“Want to stay off those rocks,” he told Morris.
“You got it, sir.”
“Captain on the bridge, Jay?”
“Yeah, he’s over there in the chair. Got his eyes closed.”
“What’s the whaleboat doing?”
“We recovered it twenty minutes ago. They’re refueling it, putting more food and water and gas aboard. Going to swap out crews and put it back in again, keep it out till dark.”
Harper sounded on top of things this afternoon. Good, maybe his counseling had taken effect. Then what he’d said about the whaleboat penetrated. “Till dark? In these seas?”
“That’s the word.”
“What’s the gas for?”
“Apparently, a lot of these boats are out of gas because they’ve been fighting this son-of-a-bitching wind, and they didn’t have much to start with because it’s rationed.”
Quintanilla, behind them: “Dan, how you fixed for sleep?”
“Not great, but I got my head down for an hour. Why?”
“We need an officer on the whaleboat.”
“I’m just getting ready to come on watch. Anyway, is this a good idea? It’s awful heavy weather out there.”
“That’s when they need us. Every gallon of gas we can hand out could save a life tonight. That’s what the captain says, and I think he’s right. I’ll take OOD. Can you do it?” Felipe insisted. Dan shrugged, then added, “Okay. Just let me get my boots on, all right?”
HE got his steel-toed boots, foul-weather jacket, ball cap, and flashlight from his stateroom, then reported to the whaleboat just as the rain clamped down again, heavy and drenching.
The crew was climbing in, getting ready to lower. Dan stood close to the bulkhead, checking the crew. BM1 Casworth was the coxswain, with EM2 Reska, two boat hooks, McMannes and Didomenico, and the translator, Bacallao. Casworth told him he’d already done the inventory. They had two radios, two loud hailers, a hand searchlight with signaling capability, two battle lanterns, spare batteries, an M14, a .45, flares, and a kit of tools to fix motors and patch holes. They had food and water, individual kits prepackaged on the mess decks in taped-up trash bags. Each kit also included a photocopied chart of the Straits of Florida, a pack of Kents, and a butane lighter with the USS Barrett crest, the last two items outdated ship’s store stock Cash had kicked in. Finally, they had a hundred gallons of P-250 stabilized gasoline in ten-gallon jerricans and two lashed-on fifty-five-gallon drums of diesel fuel.
“How do we transfer it?”
“Pumps and hoses, we float the hose downwind lashed to a life jacket.”
“They know what to do with it?”
“We done it six times so far, sir. Seems to work.”
“Okay, how about the standard equipage—anchor, grapnel, fire extinguisher, line—”
“Yes, sir. I sighted all that.”
“Any other problems?”
“The motor cut out a couple of times. It always started again, but Reska just swapped out the filters. He thinks that’ll take care of it.”
Dan nodded. He couldn’t think of anything else they might need. He moved forward into the rain but stopped at the gunwale just before he stepped into the boat, looking into it, the men waiting, the gear and supplies that covered the floorboards.
He hesitated there, struck by a suspicion he’d done this before. Then he realized he had. Only the chiefs name then had been Bloch, and the coxswain’s, Popeye Rambaugh. The crew Rocky, Brute Boy, Ali X, Slick Lassard. A black night with the wind coming off the Pole. And beneath the swaying keel of Reynolds Ryan’s whaleboat, a sea black as used motor oil, its surface dull and somehow viscid, gruel-like, as if it were kept from solidifying into black ice only by unending motion. And beyond it, a swell and another swell, and after that, utter dark and a thousand miles of dark till the coast of Norway.
Casworth must have thought he was scared, because he muttered, “It’s like they say in the Coast Guard, sir. You got to go out. You don’t got to come back.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said. It was true. Looking down at the seas sweeping away from the ship, he really didn’t want to go down there. Then he thought of the refugees, without motors, without sails, some without even boards to paddle with. While he had a stout boat with a good diesel, a good crew, and a ship within call if they got in a jam.
He made himself step over the coaming, grab the monkey line, and nod to the boatswain at the lowering gear. “Lower away,” he yelled.
34
SWAYING out over the murky, storm-lashed green, the men on deck shouting and tending steadying lines as the whaleboat pendulumed, Dan thought with resigned dread that he’d never seen a boat launched in heavy seas without confusion, screaming, and near disaster. This time was no exception. As soon as they hoisted away, Barrett began a series of vicious rolls. The boat swung, slowly at first, but rapidly increasing its arc. The crew flinched and crouched as it came within inches of slamming into the hull.
He clung grimly to the rough knotted line as the winch drums turned, reeling them slowly downward. If anything let
go, it would be all that would save him. The sea looked more terrifying the closer they got, foaming and seething. The frightening thing was that they were still in the lee. As the keel took the water, a wave charged in on the bow. It sucked the boat down, then thrust it up again. The heavy releasing hook clacked open suddenly, jerked free of McMannes’s hand, and darted aft, straight for Dan’s skull. He ducked as the crewman jerked it back by the safety lanyard. Beside them, Barrett’s sides heaved and sucked as the ship rolled. He blinked, unwilling to credit that he’d just caught a glimpse of the bilge keel.
“Cast off, you stupid asshole!” Casworth screamed, bent to the throttle. The bow hook, face crimped in sudden fear, jerked the sea painter free. The boat plunged and he staggered, almost dived overboard as the line flew upward.
The motor roared, and the boat heaved, yawed, and toppled, brushing paint and fiberglass and a strip of trim off against Barrett’ s side as the hulls kissed. Then, gradually, it drew away. The coxswain increased the rudder as they turned, glancing back to check the position of the stern. The wind and rain and spray hit them as they emerged from the shelter of the gray steel walls, drawing a translucent curtain over the fading outline of the destroyer as it increased speed again, moving off, leaving them behind.
Crouched to keep his balance in the bucking, reeling boat, Dan aped his way toward the stern. He had to brace himself with both hands to keep from being slammed into the molded-in thwarts and seats. Casworth gripped the big chromed wheel like a wrestler locked with his opponent. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder, gauging a whitecap as it took shape out of the gray. Suddenly he whipped the wheel hard left. The stern dug and the boat spun just in time to catch the sea dead aft. Dan clutched the gunwale as she rushed forward, rising, then swallowed his lunch again as she dropped out from under his feet. Didomenico, McMannes, Bacallao, and Reska huddled on the thwarts, looking like fat, wet ducks in the shiny green hooded ponchos pulled on over their life preservers.
When he looked back again, the ship was just a shadow in the storm. Then she was gone. Christ, he thought angrily. They couldn’t even see the ship, let alone another small boat. He tried the radio and got a loud-and-clear. “How are you doing?” Chief Kennedy’s voice asked him. “Over.”
“It’s rough out here. Over.”
“If it gets too hairy, sir, let us know and we’ll come over and pick you up. That’s from Mr. Quintanilla.”
“Uh, Barrett One. That’s good to know, Chief, but I think we can take this as long as it doesn’t get any worse. Where you want us? Over.”
“Head out around two-two-zero magnetic. We got a couple of pips out there, we think. We don’t have a real good radar picture in all this spray and seas, sir. Just try not to run into anybody. Over.”
“Roger, Barrett One, out. Casworth! Two-two-zero magnetic.”
“Two-two-zero, aye.”
They made their way through a heaving, roaring dimness like early dusk. A sea came over the gunwale and soaked them all in warm brine, floating the ration packs into a tilted shoal against the port side. The murky water sloshed over the floorboards, then disappeared, sucked down into the bilge pumps as the motor hammered steadily. Dan hunched his shoulders against the rain and spray, wishing he’d put on a poncho before he was soaked through.
THEY ran out along 220 till Kennedy advised them they were a mile or so out from the ship, right about where the captain wanted them.
On the way, he had time to think about what they were supposed to be doing. He’d reported to the whaleboat without really thinking it through. Now he was having doubts. Too late, as usual, he thought. They were running downwind now, the easiest reach. It’d be a lot rougher trying to maintain position. If Casworth screwed up and broached, it would be touch-and-go if the whaleboat would stay upright. The water was warm, but he didn’t relish the thought of going into it in these seas with only a kapok life preserver.
In the second place, he wasn’t sure they were going to be able to find anybody, much less help them. The whaleboat didn’t have radar, and in this rain and spray, they couldn’t see more than a hundred yards. A whole flotilla could drift past, and they wouldn’t have a clue.
Finally, he told Casworth to start sounding the horn. If anybody was out here, maybe they’d call out, and then they could find them by steering for the sound.
After an hour, though the seas stayed high, the squalls seemed to slack off. Gradually, the mist thinned. He could see the sky again, low, tarnished, swollen-looking clouds that raced by about two hundred yards above the crests, it looked like. Horizontally, he could see maybe half a mile, but the waste of gray-green sea was empty now. He wondered where the regatta had gone.
Around 1500, a craft appeared to the west, rolling hard in the swells. Casworth spotted it first and spun the wheel to make for it. Dan clung to the gunwale, trying to keep from barfing but realizing it was a battle he was going to lose.
It was about forty feet long, an old-fashioned wooden fisherman with a scabby white hull and faded pink upperworks and a juryrigged mast lashed upright on the foredeck with yellow plastic rope. It bucked wildly as the waves creamed by beneath it. A streamer of cloth fluttered at its head, almost like a burgee, but actually tatters of blown-out sail. As Casworth maneuvered them alongside, five men came out of the cabin, waving and gesturing them in. Dan told Casworth to hold off while Bacallao checked things out with the loud-hailer. After a spirited conversation, he reported that the boat was out of Neuvitas, that they’d been under way for a day and a half, that they knew approximately where they were, had a working compass and a chart, and knew how to dead reckon. They needed food, water, and fuel. “Gasoline or diesel?” Reska said, rubbing his hands.
They said gasolina, and got twenty gallons of it in jerricans and five ration-and-water packs. Dan made sure they knew about the reefs to the north and Cuban waters to the south. Finally, he waved and Casworth pulled away. “Buena suerte,” Bacallao called. “Vaya con Dios.”
“Those guys don’t seem to be in such bad shape,” McMannes yelled as the old-fashioned vertical stack puffed smoke and the boat turned its head slowly westward. “Yeah,” Dan yelled over the steady roar of the wind. “They look like they just might dock in Biscayne Bay.”
THE afternoon stretched on. The wind gusted and dropped, gradually hauling around, but the waves kept rolling in. Didomenico lost his balance and fell against the lashed-in drums, gashing his forehead, but insisted that they stay out. Dan gradually went through the seasickness and got his small-boat legs. They encountered and succored two more boats. One had ten refugees aboard, the other fifteen. He judged they could ride out the night, so he let them go on without taking anyone aboard. Watching them draw away, he wondered what had happend to the rafts. The answer that seemed most likely—that they’d broken apart—he didn’t like to think about. He concentrated instead on keeping alert. Each time the whaleboat rose in the gradually waning light, his horizon expanded dramatically to a mile-wide circle of wild green sea. He remembered how cramped the straits had seemed from Barrett’s chartroom. Now they seemed immense.
“Whatcha think, sir?”
“It shouldn’t get any rougher than this, BM One.”
“That’s about what I think, sir. It’s bad in those squalls, though.”
“You’re doing a good job, Casworth.”
Watching the clouds scud overhead, he remembered that when you faced the wind in the northern hemisphere, the center of a rotating disturbance lay behind your right shoulder. He swiveled in the blowing rain and figured that the storm lay to the northeast. A stroke of luck it hadn’t come through here. None of these people would be alive now.
“Barrett One, Barrett,” the walkie-talkie crackled, startling him. Good thing it was waterproof, since it was resting in an inch of water in the bottom of his pocket.
“Barrett One, over.”
“This is the XO, Dan. Captain wants the whaleboat back aboard. We hold you out at two-three-seven true, eighteen hundred
yards. Over.”
“Roger, sir, we’re heading back. Over.”
Vysotsky signed off, and Dan lurched upright, got a hand on Casworth’s shoulder. He shouted into his ear, “Just got the word to recall. Make it about zero-five-seven. We’ll call them after we figure we’ve gone a mile if we don’t see ’em by then.”
As they turned into the seas, the ride got rougher—a lot rougher as their forward speed added to the impact of the wind and sea. The boat hammered its way up each comber like a bulldozer climbing a hill, then toppled over, hitting with a crash that whipped the hull and threw curving sheets of clear water to either side. Dan’s crotch chafed with salt water. His head felt light from the continuous motion. Yeah, it was getting dark. This was the right decision, getting them back aboard. As to the refugees … it would be a long, rough night.
He was thinking ahead to hot strong coffee, a hot meal, sleep when McMannes yelled, “Something ahead.”
He shielded his eyes. The spray lashed them and he gasped, then squinted again where the crewman pointed. A shape loomed mistily from a wave, then sank from sight.
“Head over there, sir?”
“Yeah,” he yelled back. “Didn’t look very big, though. Might just be wreckage.”
Didomenico bent and plugged in the searchlight. McMannes crouched in the bow with the boat hook, grapnel and heaving line ready by his boots. Casworth flicked a switch and the running lights came on, startlingly bright. Dan realized only then how dark it had gotten. The boat climbed a long swell, dropped with a shudder that made the running lights flicker, then started climbing the next one. The stinging rain started again, whipping out of the gray murk like
.22 bullets. The shadow didn’t show for a while, then it did, closer. Dan saw that it was smaller than the others they’d seen that afternoon, lower, too. In fact, when he glimpsed it again, it looked awash, barely afloat. He was leaning forward to shout this to Casworth when the coxswain leaned on the horn. It droned out over the heaving sea, ludicrously faint in the roar of the wind. Nothing moved.