The Passage

by David Poyer

  “Dan, are our Phalanxes in automatic? All weapons stations manned? As soon as we have a clue where that missile came from, I want a Harpoon out there.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. CIWS is in automatic mode. Sir, based on the fact that we have no air or surface contacts in range, I call that as a submarine-launched missile. Victors aren’t supposed to have them, but our intel could be wrong. I recommend all screen units go to active search.”

  “Okay, do it.”

  He put the word out through Kessler, at the ASW console. A moment later, the outgoing sonar pulse sang through the nowvibrating fabric of the leaning ship. He glanced at the rudder-angle indicator above his head, to find it at left full.

  “Combat, Bridge: Lexington is launching aircraft.”

  It’s started, he thought. There was no time to think it, but the knowledge filtered between the race of precautions, reactions, orders he had to give. A knowledge that obliterated everything else, that condensed a numb dread into his bones. Radiant was the proword for “I am under surprise attack.” The equivalent of “Air raid, Pearl Harbor.” Now the bombers and escort fighters were catapulting off Lexington’s decks toward the Soviet battle group.

  They were at war.

  Yet something was missing. The screens were blank, where there should, by all rights, be a coordinated wave of missiles overwhelming and obliterating their defenses. All the tactical references and briefings, the discussions and drills agreed. The Soviets didn’t have the command and control to feint and maneuver. They’d open battle with a single crushing mass assault. The first blow had descended; surprise had been complete—but where were the other missiles? He stared at the plot, thoughts skittering across its surface as across ice, seeking a purchase but finding none. A one-shot attack made no tactical sense.

  “Sir,” said Mallon from the big SSWC scope. “Dahlgren’s turning.”

  “Say what?”

  The petty officer put his finger on the pip. “Coming around to the new course. Lagging behind, but they’re not dead in the water.”

  “They’ve still got power, steering control, then.”

  “But something hit them. That flash. Then they dropped all their comms.”

  The beep and squeal of the scrambled circuit caught his ear. He reached up to adjust the volume as a breathless voice said, “CTF One forty-two, this is Voge, over.”

  “CTF, over, make your transmission short.”

  “This is Voge, reporting accidental launch. Over.”

  “CTF One forty-two, say again, over.”

  “This is Voge, reporting accidental launch of one of our Sparrow missiles. It is … possible that the missile impacted USS Dahlgren.”

  “Oh Christ,” Dan heard somebody whisper. He couldn’t see who. “Christ,” the voice said louder. It was Vysotsky.

  “This is CTF One forty-two.” A pause, then the same voice again, but gone hard: “Investigate and report back as soon as possible. Out.”

  Several minutes later, just past midnight, Voge came back up. She confirmed that one of her RIM-7E Sea Sparrow missiles had been fired accidentally on an approximate bearing of 215. They were investigating to determine the cause. Glancing at the maneuvering-board sketch of the formation taped by the TAO’s chair, Dan said, “That could put it on Dahlgren all right.”

  “Oh my God.”

  They stood and sat frozen in place around the slanting, vibrating space. Dan knew they could still be under attack, the word from Voge could be wrong. But presently, Larson—it had to be him—came back on the HICOM and canceled his Radiant message. He added a code group that Dan didn’t recognize but that must mean “equipment failure, accidental firing.” Dan didn’t envy whoever had to account for this.

  Canisteo reported flames off her starboard quarter.

  Not long after, Larson ordered Barrett alongside Dahlgren to investigate and report, rendering assistance as necessary.

  HE was on the bridge when Barrett drew alongside, the helmsman warned to be ready to sheer away instantly if the other ship started to come around. Dahlgren had way on, but she was only making about ten knots. Calling in speed adjustments, micrometering the rudder a degree or two right or left, Leighty conned slowly up on her until the two ships rolled along together, side by side, less than a hundred yards apart.

  The other destroyer was a long black mass lighted only by flame and the firefly searching of battle lanterns. The fire was centered in the high, slightly out-thrust bridge area. Then the wind blew the flames back, and he saw the sickening writhe of buckled plates, the gape of holes punched through the thin superstructure plating. There didn’t seem to be any forward director.

  “Flashing light from aft.”

  He shifted his attention back along the dark length of the ship, to see a lamp blinking from abaft the after stack. He caught the last few letters: A-T-I-O-N.

  The signalman shouted down, “Signal from Dahlgren. ‘I am still on station.’”

  “That’s after conn.”

  “Their radios must be out.”

  Dan had an idea. He went back inside and found the bridge-to-bridge walkie-talkie in the chart room. Sure enough, someone was calling them on Channel 13. “This is Barrett,” he said, turning the volume up so the others could hear, too.

  “Ah, this is Lieutenant Abbott.” Dan remembered a huge soft hand gripping his, an indignant voice: “I resent comparin’ me to some faggot. It’s natural bein’ black.” “I have control from emergency conn. I don’t get any response from the bridge.”

  “What happened, Lieutenant?”

  “Ah, I don’t know. I was down in Combat, getting ready to take over the watch. All at once, there’s a hell of a blast. Guys go down, fragments come through the overhead. Power, lights, everything dies. I don’t think there’s anybody left on the bridge. They’re fighting the fire up there now. I came back here to try to keep us in formation, fight the ship. We don’t have any radars up, but if you can pass us oral designations, we can fire in local control.”

  Dan thought about how to tell him, but to his relief Leighty took the radio out of his hands. “Lieutenant, formation course is now one-two-zero true. I believe that will be about one-two-four by your magnetic compass. Speed is twenty-seven, but I don’t think we’ll be at that much longer. You can secure your men from battle stations and turn everyone to, to fight the fire. We are not being attacked. You were struck by a missile from Voge. An accidental launch.”

  “A what? Accidental—”

  “Voge’s missing one of her Sparrows. Canisteo saw it crossing the formation in your direction. The guidance must have enabled and it guided into you.”

  “Oh Christ.” The transmission clicked off and on. “All those guys blown away up there. You saying it was a screwup? Jake and Larry and Ming—all the guys, the lookouts—”

  “Take it easy; we’ll stay with you. If you need help, we’ll put people aboard. We will close in and get water on the fire from here. Go ahead and check, then call us back. Barrett out.”

  A deep howl, a thundering rumble, and they looked up, to see five double cones of flame pass slowly between them and the stars. Then, spaced seconds apart, three more groups. The strike was orbiting while Larson decided whether to call it back aboard. Dan felt both sick and grateful. At least planes were recallable. If it had been missile-to-missile, their own salvo might already be on its way now, beyond recall. And the result … war by accident, wanted and intended by neither side.

  HE went back down to CIC, following what was going on alongside through an occasional eavesdrop on the damage-control circuits. Barrett stayed with the stricken ship, gradually edging in while her damage controlmen got hoses rigged to the 03 level, midships. From there, when they were close enough, they could pour foam across and down into the cratered inferno that was Dahlgren’s bridge area.

  At 0032, the carrier began taking the air strike back aboard. Now the atmosphere turned edgy again. The missile burst over Dahlgren had cut the formation’s long-range antiaircraft
defenses in half. And until the attack aircraft were refueled, Lex couldn’t launch another strike. If the Soviets wanted to clobber them, this was their chance. Dan hovered behind the petty officers on the scopes, scrutinizing the blank airspace to the southwest. He wondered what Gaponenko was doing, the other officers and men on the Razytelny. Were they hovering over their consoles, too? Anxiously inspecting each sparkle on their screens for the first sign of an incoming bomber? Or were they even now listening to the shriek and thunder of their own missiles going out?

  “Man, this sucks,” muttered Lauderdale.

  Dan said, “We ought to have some other way to hit them … besides aircraft.”

  “We’ve got Harpoon. And the Standard, in antisurface mode.”

  “Harpoon’s okay, but sixty miles isn’t that far. And you’ve got to have a helo up to provide targeting. Standard’s an antiair weapon; the warhead’s all wrong. I mean something big and long-range,” Dan said. “Then if anything happened to the carrier, we could still carry out some kind of attack.”

  “Where would you put it? How would you target it? And where would you get the money?”

  Three good questions. Finally, he said, “We keep throwing money at the carriers; maybe we should use some of that for a backup. I don’t know where you’d put it, though, or how you’d get targeting data.” He stood thinking about it after Lauderdale went back to his console. It kept his mind from other things, such as wondering whether the SS-N-19s were on their way.

  BUT nothing showed; the scopes and plots stayed empty.

  At 0112, Dahlgren came up on the VHF again. She wanted to make a damage report, but the walkie-talkie was too short-range to reach Lexington. Dan arranged for Lauderdale to copy the reports and relay them to the task group commander on the scrambled net. Abbott reported that the fire was out. Four men were dead, seven wounded. They also had five people down with smoke inhalation and burns.

  “Is your commanding officer there?”

  “He’s in sick bay. One of the smoke casualties. I think he’ll be all right, but right now he’s out of commission.”

  “How’s your damage look?”

  “I just got back from forward. The bridge is wrecked. It looks like the warhead went off just above it. The forward director’s knocked out. The ASROC launcher suffered fragment and water damage. We may be able to reactivate CIC, at least partial capability.”

  “Radars?”

  “Have to get back to you on that.”

  “Can you take a helicopter aft?”

  “Yes, sir, believe so. We have power and lighting restored aft.”

  “Good. Get your wounded ready for evacuation. What else do you need?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll start them moving back to the fantail. I think we can cope battle-damage-wise. We could use more canisters for the OBAs, though.”

  “Stand by to receive aircraft. We will disembark your wounded. Out.”

  Lauderdale passed that on the VHF. As soon as he signed off the secure net, Voge came up again. “Voge actual,” her commanding officer. Dan listened with fascinated horror as he tried to explain to Admiral Larson how the accidental firing had occurred. The ship had been at Condition III, with weapons-control stations manned. An internal drill had been under way, one that included simulated launching of the point defense missiles, but safety interlocks had been in place in the weapons-control program. The missile should not have fired.

  “Then why did it fire, Captain?”

  “We’re working on getting you a solid answer on that, Admiral. Right now, I don’t have one. Over.”

  “Very well. I’m launching a helo shortly to evacuate Dahlgren’s wounded. After they’re aboard, I’m sending it out to you with a staff officer, to assist with the investigation. This is CTF One forty-two actual, out.”

  Dan stood motionless. Around him, the circuits and the men were quieting again. Barrett had secured from general quarters. He really ought to turn in. But he knew he wouldn’t sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about Prince’s last riposte on the old destroyer’s quarterdeck. The golden boy, deputy brigade commander. His friend.

  Graciela, Miguelito, the baby, Sanderling …

  How close death was out here! It flowed around them like the dark and bitter sea itself, patiently awaiting the smallest breach—a failure of man or machine, a storm, a broken cable—to stream through, wiping out all plans, all dreams. But wasn’t life itself like that, its end only the hesitation of a heart away, a missed step, the turn of a steering wheel; only that separating you and all you held dear second to second from obliteration, separating love from never-ending loss? And knowing that, how mad war seemed. How insane to plan anything but fiercely clinging to those you loved before the inevitable annihilation. There was so much he didn’t understand. But this, he told himself as he leaned tiredly against a console, yes, this he believed he was starting to understand at last.

  44

  THE rest of the night passed without further alarms. Barrett stayed in company with the stricken destroyer till just before dawn, when they separated again. Sunrise found them miles apart, back in their assigned stations; found the task force steaming unhurriedly across a rolling, empty blue Gulf. Still waiting.

  Dan went up to the bridge a little after the sun popped up. He’d traded breakfast for another half hour in the rack, but a doughnut wrapped in a napkin was jammed under his hat. He stopped at the top of the ladder and looked searchingly around at the sea, the sky, the formation. Lexington was port side to them, about eight miles away. Another sunny, cloudless day roofed the Gulf of Mexico. A light easterly wind harried up three-foot seas blue as the indigoed cloth they sold in bolts at the Old Slave Market.

  Downtown Charleston, Beverly, Sibylla, his motorcycle … it all seemed like something he’d read about in a book a long time ago. Hell, he thought suddenly, guiltily, I never did write back to Billy.

  Jay Harper was leaning against the radar repeater, pursuing his own contemplation of the empty sea as it slipped past. At Dan’s “Good morning, Chief Warrant,” he started, then returned a curt nod.

  “Anything hot?”

  The rangy warrant shifted his belt higher on his hips. “No, everything cool, very cool. Steaming as before. Barometer steady. Been a quiet watch.”

  “How’s Dahlgren doing?”

  “Can’t see any damage from here. Course, you’re looking at her stern.” Harper took off his cap and rubbed his bald spot as Dan lifted the proffered binoculars. The gray dot off their bow jumped closer, details almost painfully distinct: whip antennas erect at her stern; after launcher vertical in the air-ready position; a light haze boiling the clear air above her stacks.

  “She’s keeping up.”

  “Well, she’s still there.” Harper looked vaguely around the bridge. “Shit, I need to get my head down … . I don’t know why they don’t just detach ‘em and send ’em home. She ain’t gonna do us any good out here now.”

  “Captain up?”

  “He was in his chair till oh-three hundred. I gave him a buzz a little while ago, but he hasn’t come up yet.” The chief warrant polished his glasses with a bit of lens paper. “How you feeling, shipmate? Got over them margaritas yet?”

  “Yeah. No more of those suckers for me.”

  “You know, we hadn’t of got called back, we’d’ve ended up down and dirty with those girls. That Lori was a piece of action. We were out on the dance floor; she was squirming around like a worm on a hot shovel. And that other bitch, I could see you getting ready to come in your pants just staring at those tuning knobs of hers.”

  “Maybe.” Sober, it didn’t seem as exciting, but he had to admit, Angela had been hard to look away from. Harper was probably right: They’d have ended up in bed. But then what? Just chalk up another score, the way the chief warrant did?

  “Hey, reminds me, I ever tell you why the Polack divorced his wife an’ married the shithouse? He said the hole was smaller and the smell was better.”

  Dan grunted and s
teered the conversation back to the weather forecast. Finally, he disengaged himself and went down to Combat. Dark and still, a good sign. The tactical circuits were silent except for a distant hissing like an ice storm. Dan walked around, turning them up, then down again to make sure they were on. “Okay, what you got?” he asked Quintanilla.

  “A new player and new op plan. Came over the wire two hours ago.”

  “A new player? Somebody to replace Dahlgren, you mean?”

  “No. Would you believe, they’re back up on the link, got their air search back up, too? Just got off the horn with them. They’re still conning from aft, but CIC’s manned up again and weapons-wise they’re just about back at C-One, except for the missing director.”

  “Nice work,” said Dan. “Who’s the new player, then?”

  “Nukie boat. Scamp, SSN-five eighty-eight. A significant force addition.”

  “Yeah, that’ll help. When did she slide in?”

  They discussed the employment of the submarine for a while. Subs didn’t operate in an integrated tactical structure. They fought independently, their movements and attacks only loosely coordinated with surface and air forces. Dan hoped their orders included a brief surface-and-radiate, or some other more or less overt reconnoiter of the Kirov group. Just the knowledge a U.S. nuclear attack boat was in the area would have a chilling effect on the Soviets’ movements.

  “More news. Lot of stuff happening. Inchon, Spruance, and Valdez were headed for Brazil. They’re turned around, ETA in the Caribbean day after tomorrow. CINCLANTFLT’s delaying Eisenhower’ s and Virginia’s overhaul, and the Air Force is moving tactical wings down to Florida. Okay, let’s talk about hydrofoils.”

  “Wait a minute. What about the bad guys? Any sign of them reinforcing?”

  “Nothing in the traffic. It’d take them a long time to get here if they did. This is our backyard, but to them it’s halfway around the world.”