by David Poyer
The door unlocked and he caught a glimpse of an armed sailor outside as a skinny, pimpled Mongolian-looking kid in a stained apron slid a steel tray onto the floor, giving Dan a curious glance as he backed out.
It held black bread, thick and still warm; six slices of salami, the chunks of fat thicker than the chunks of meat; and a heavy mug that when he gulped thirstily from turned out to be not water, as he’d assumed, but straight raw vodka. He coughed it out explosively and peered into the cup. Actually, he wanted it, but maybe he’d better keep his head straight till he found out where things were going. He set it aside and ate the bread and salami dry.
Then he waited.
While he sat on the bunk, a lot of things went through his mind. Would Graciela and Miguel and Armando Daniel make it without him? Unless someone picked them up today, he didn’t think so. He wasn’t in such a great situation himself. Would the Soviets torture him if they thought he had useful information? Unfortunately, he knew quite a few things that fell into that category—details about Navy sonar processing, the complete weapons load-out of Kidd-class destroyers, ranges and characteristics of sensors, the tactics carrier battle groups practiced against multiple Backfire attacks.
Yeah, he knew some things that might interest them. Making it worse was that no one knew the Russians had him. As far as the U.S. Navy was concerned, Daniel V. Lenson was currently missing, presumed lost at sea. The Soviets could keep him, take him back to the USSR. And no one would ever know.
Half an hour later, he heard voices outside. Dan stood up, clenching his fists, expecting the Cuban in fatigues, an angry confrontation. Instead, it was six sailors with cameras. He smiled rather foolishly as they glanced at the light above his head, set their apertures, clicked away. Then the guard started yelling, obviously telling them that was enough, get the hell out now they had their pictures. The door locked again.
When it opened an hour later, the guard was at attention, assault rifle gripped stiffly across his chest. The blond officer, the one who had translated on deck, looked curiously in, then said something to the guard and stepped inside, nodding to Dan. The door stayed open. He felt grateful for that. One thing was quickly becoming evident, that Soviet combatants didn’t have very good ventilation.
“I am sorry, the fight. Our Cuban comrade was angry to lose his pistol.”
“Uh, I can understand that.”
“He will have much papers, much explanation to make on return, why he lost it.”
Dan nodded. He felt like saying that if the bastard hadn’t threatened women and children, he wouldn’t have lost his gun, but that might lead to renewed disputes, and he didn’t want those. If at all possible.
“That is why the captain has forbidden him to see you; he is angry. You understand?” He picked up the mug, glanced at Dan. “You don’t like vodka?”
“I’d rather have water.”
“Voda. Skaray,” the lieutenant yelled out to the guard, who looked startled and vanished. To Dan, he said, offering his hand, “I am Captain-Lieutenant Gaponenko. First name, Grigory. Your first name?”
“Daniel.”
“Very good, your family name and rank please?”
“Lenson, Daniel Lenson, Lieutenant, U.S. Navy.”
“Your serial number and unit, please.”
Dan told him and Gaponenko noted it down in a black wheel book, writing out the roman letters rather laboriously. “Now. Again, what you were doing in boat with worms.”
“With what?”
“Our Cuban comrade, that is what he calls those who desert their motherland. Why were you in boat with them?”
“I told you. We were rendering assistance in the storm. By accident, I was separated from my ship’s whaleboat and left with the boat you saw.”
“Your ship does not search for you?”
“I’m sure they are, but you found me first.”
“So you are adrift, you say. You have papers proving you are U.S. officer?”
Dan recalled his wallet, still buttoned securely into his shirt pocket. Odd that they hadn’t searched him. He took it out and opened it carefully. From a mashed wad of cards and receipts, he extracted his green ID. Laminated, it had held up to the water pretty well. Gaponenko examined it curiously, then turned it over and looked at the back. His lips moved as he read.
“So, what do you plan to do with me?”
“With you?” The Russian shrugged. He held up the card. “I take, make copy. All right?”
Dan had been steeling himself for an interrogation on Barrett’s combat systems, speed, and capabilities. He’d already decided that he was going to present himself as the supply officer. After going through the audit, he figured he could fake being Norm Cash. But Gaponenko hadn’t asked him what his job was aboard ship or whether Barrett carried nuclear weapons. He just wanted to copy his ID card. “I guess that’s all right,” Dan said cautiously.
“This Barrett, she is where?”
“You mean her station?” He reflected on this and again couldn’t see any good reason not to answer. “On the north side of the Old Bahama Channel. Due north of Cayo Caiman Grande.”
“That is far distance east of here.”
“The storm must have taken us west, that and the current.”
“How long you adrift?”
“Me? Overnight. Maybe … fifteen hours.” Jesus, now that he thought back on it, it seemed like a hell of a lot longer. Then, with a stab of anxiety, he remembered they were still out there, no food, no water at all now … . “The others in the boat, the ‘worms’ you call them, you didn’t help them at all.”
Gaponenko scowled at the bunk. “We did not help them, or hurt them.”
“But international law requires you to assist people in distress at sea.”
“We assisted you,” Grigory pointed out, slightly nastily, Dan thought. “Although I do not hear you even say thank you. Why should we help those who abandoned their country? Let them do for themselves; that is the way they wanted it.” He stood up as the guard reappeared. “Here, this is gasified water.”
Dan said, “Thanks. And, uh … thanks for picking me up.”
“Anything you want else?”
“No, I guess not … except, when do the political people arrive?”
“Who?”
“The secret police. The commissar. Isn’t there one aboard every ship? Is he going to interrogate me?”
“Oh, commissar. Yes, I am the politruk. You want to be getting more interrogation, that is what you say?”
“You?”
“Yes, you want me to interrogate you more so? I can do, you want.” Then he saw Gaponenko was joking, and he smiled and shook his head. “All right,” the Russian said, beckoning to the guard. “Now, no one is going to harm you, but we don’t expect you, you see? The captain has to inquire instructions, you understand? Otherwise, there may be trouble. Cannot let you out. I saw you looking at things. You would allow Soviet officer to look around your ship, the Barrett? If I come aboard someday?”
He was starting to understand Russian humor. “No, probably not.”
“How is the Barrett? She is good ship, happy ship?”
“Oh, relatively,” said Dan, thinking, I sure as hell would like to be back aboard her, happy or not.
“We have dinner later. You sleep now.”
“Just a minute,” Dan said. Gaponenko halted but glanced at his watch. “This ship, it’s a Krivak, right?”
“That is the NATO designation. Not what we call it, of course.”
“Of course. It’s very attractive, well maintained. Uh, what is its name? I told you the name of my ship—”
“Oh, that is what you want?” He shrugged. “It is written on the … on the … it is written on the back part of the ship; it’s no secret. This is the Razytelny you are aboard. All right? How hot it is here … . I leave this door open, but don’t go out. Don’t talk to the guard. Now, you sleep.”
HE slept, eventually, but his dreams were crazy mishmashes o
f Nan being attacked by tigers, himself defending her with his bare hands. Of being back in the boat—a knocking against the bottom, then the black fin breaking through … . He woke in rigid terror, to find the overhead light still burning but turned down from outside to a dull red heat, like a waterlogged flashlight. He stared at it for a long time, sweating, till finally, without foreknowledge or even expectation, he fell again into the black.
“PREHADETYE! Edeetee skaroy!”
Before he was really awake, his reflexes shot him out of the bunk and dropped him to the deck. One of his legs cramped and he almost fell as it buckled under him, but he caught himself on the bunk frame and hobbled out into the passageway as the sailor with the gun gestured angrily. What was going on? Now, the midnight interrogation? Still groggy, he let them half-lead, half-push him down the passageway to the ladder well.
Outside, he blinked and lifted his arm to shield his eyes from the morning. He couldn’t believe he’d slept the night through. The flood of brilliance actually hurt them, like tacks pressed into his corneas. The overarching sky was intense blue, and Razytelny was cutting through it at a brisk pitching pace, blowers whining and flags snapping in the breeze. Steaming into the wind. Then, as the guard led him aft and down toward the stern, he saw why.
“Z’dayss. Na prava!”
The flutter-clatter of rotors grew louder as the helicopter made another pass only a couple of hundred feet above their heads. A flag broke on the mast, and the aircraft banked sharply left. He shaded his eyes, thinking perhaps it was an SH-2 or a Huey, but then his heart faltered as it came out of the sun and he saw that it wasn’t an American helicopter at all. But as it closed, he saw the Dutch roundel, blue and white and red, and his heart started beating again.
Gaponenko was standing by the after mount, hat under his arm, watching the helo steady up. He caught Dan’s eye and nodded curtly. He didn’t seem nearly as friendly with others watching, Dan noticed.
The copter settled in a clattering roar that backed the watching sailors and officers away. Gaponenko gestured angrily at him, and Dan set his face, too, catching on to his role, and ran, bending into the rotor wash, and hauled himself up into the helicopter. He’d expected fair Dutch faces, but the passenger compartment was solid Cubans. More refugees, he suddenly understood. But his weren’t among them. Then the blades sliced the air and the horizon tilted and Razytelny and the knot of stolidly watching Russians slowly slid off and away into the rolling, tossing sea.
“BARRETT,” he yelled to a crewman, who nodded and spoke into his chin mike. They stayed low, and the seas flashed by. He wedged himself next to a window and looked down, anxiously searching for a half-awash skiff. But nothing showed on the furrowed sea except one lonely inner tube, adrift all by itself. Twenty minutes later, the helo landed on a ship that Dan guessed to be Van Almonde, the Dutch frigate. They hot-refueled, with everyone aboard and the engines still turning, took off again, and shortly thereafter the familiar silhouette of USS Barrett poked over the curved sea. As she wheeled, growing quickly larger, he saw a crowd of people moving off the helicopter deck, another throng in varicolored clothing covering the stern.
AFTER he’d explained everything to Leighty and Vysotsky in the captain’s cabin, he stood momentarily irresolute in the passageway. The air-conditioned, filtered air felt great; the faint smells of paint and ozone smelled like home. Even the slow roll of the deck under his damp boots was familiar and reassuring.
He’d stepped out of the helo, to see the open hangar filled with watching faces. And Vysotsky, there to meet him, had explained. Barrett was packed with refugees to the extent that right now they outnumbered the crew. These were the people he’d seen crowding the deck and fantail as the Dutch Lynx came in to land—471 old people, men, women, children, babies, plucked from dozens of foundering craft or the water itself and flown or boated to Barrett from the other ships involved in the relief effort.
And more were coming. In his cabin, the captain told him that Commander, Seventh Coast Guard District, had ordered all ships to transfer their rescuees to Barrett, except for those needing immediate medical care; the latter would be flown directly to Miami from the small airport at Key West. Barrett would detach tomorrow morning and head up the Straits to Miami, where Customs and Immigration was making arrangements to concentrate and process the refugees. Straight shot from Area B to Port of Miami was 190 nautical miles, an awkward distance, so Leighty had decided to proceed relatively slowly, stay out overnight, and go to sea detail around 0700 day after tomorrow. Their orders called for refueling at the terminal and a night of liberty for the crew, then they’d probably come back on-line, since the human flood showed no signs of abating.
The scuttlebutt hummed beside him, the compressor starting up, and he bent to it, sucking icy water till the back of his throat ached so badly he had to stop. He was thinking now of the strained and oddly formal interview that had just concluded. The captain seemed embarrassed as he explained how he’d searched through the night, finally finding and recovering the whaleboat but losing the skiff in the darkness and the storm. Dan said he understood; visibility had been nil. Both officers frowned as he told them about Graciela’s delivery and nodded as he’d explained what he’d had to do.
Things chilled, though, when he told them who had picked him up. But after an exchange of glances, Vysotsky had seemed interested in his impressions of the Krivak, and Leighty had directed him to draft a message summarizing his evaluation of Razytelny’s combat and damage-control readiness, his descriptions of the interior, his sense of the relationship among officers and crew, and the attitude of the Soviets toward an American.
He straightened from the bubbler, conscious now that his thirst was slaked that he was hungry, too. But most of all he wanted a shower, a shave, and dry clothes. What he had on chafed painfully, and the salt crystals didn’t make things more comfortable. A water depletion be damned, long, hot freshwater shower, clean khakis …
Instead, he went down and aft, through the interior passageway, and came out inside the helo hangar. It was a mob scene. He picked his way through spread-out blankets, crying children, the sad bundles and wet crumbling suitcases that represented everything someone had managed to salvage of a life. A dolorous Latin refrain throbbed on a guitar. Then Dan saw him, sitting alone. He stood in front of him for a moment before the old man looked up.
“Gustavo?”
The old man stared blankly at him before Dan realized he didn’t recognize him. He said, “I’m the one who was in the boat with Graciela and Miguelito.”
“¿Qué? ¿Graciela, Miguelito?”
Okay, he had his attention now, but he didn’t speak any Spanish. Dan glanced around, and a young woman got up from her blanket. “You want to speak to him? Tell me what you want to say. But slowly, please.”
“Thanks. Please tell him … tell him I was left in the boat, after he was picked up.”
She translated and the old man immediately stood, pouring out a torrent of questions. “Are they alive? Where are they? Did they come back to the ship with you?”
He explained lamely, conscious of the old eyes gradually turning disappointed, of the others who had gathered to listen. When he got to the part where he’d been forced to leave them, the old man looked at the deck and sighed.
“He thanks you for the news, and for helping with the birth. He knew the baby’s father, he says. He will continue to pray for them all. Perhaps God will still bring them safely to land. You will pray with him? he asks.”
Dan nodded, bowing his head. And the people around them quieted, too, some crossing themselves as the old man looked up into the dim overhead of the hangar, speaking to his God.
V
CAY SAL
38
Miami, Florida
TWO days later, he leaned over the wing, binoculars dangling from an aching neck, as the linehandlers backpedaled from underneath the crane-suspended brow. A warning tone beeped with monotonous insistence as the gangway seesawe
d in the breeze. The refugees stood along the deck-edge nets, watching in the glaring sun as one end of the steel ramp anchored itself on Barrett’s deck and the other descended slowly, clanging and grating at last on the hot, scarred asphalt of Berth 5, Platform D, Dodge Island, Port of Miami.
A ragged cheer went up, and a smile touched his lips. To him, to the others watching from Barrett’s bridge, this was just a cluttered workaday slab of sheet-steel piling and rolled asphalt, transit sheds and rail lines and secure areas with hundreds of containers stacked under the baking sun. To the people embracing and dancing, it was what that first glimpse of the Statue of Liberty must have been to his ancestors. Not that long ago, not long at all in the short history of America … and off to the west, windows flaming back the morning sun, stood the skyscrapers, not of Manhattan but of downtown Miami.
The run in had been straightforward. He’d picked up the sea buoys off the beach and run in through Government Cut, then turned left at a gantry crane at the tip of Lummis Island into the South Channel. Following the occasional pointed finger of the pilot, he’d come right to 296, gradually shedding speed till they spotted their berth just past the banana terminal. Even the wind had cooperated, pressing them gently in the last few yards until the lines went straight down to waiting hands on the pier. He looked out through the open windows, relishing a beautiful Florida day.
The trip up had been uneventful, too, except for a fight among the passengers. One man had pulled a machete, and another snatched a fire ax off the bulkhead. The respective families joined in, and Harper had to call away the security team to disarm all concerned. Aside from that, it had been forty-eight hours of hotel services: hot food, blankets, rationed water, medical care, and movies on the flight deck after dark.
And now Barrett was moored bow toward the city, stern to Miami Beach, starboard side to. He went out again to check the placement of the spring lines and whether enough slack was left for tide. As usual, the Navy was berthed at the ass end of nowhere. Across the island, he could see the upperworks of a brand-new cruise ship and two huge containerships. The sticks and stack of a break-bulk moved slowly across the roofs of the passenger terminals, headed out to sea.