by David Poyer
He expected Harper and his entire crew. But the pilothouse was still empty, the helm still humming untended, throttle at stop, 55 rpm, zero pitch. To port, one of the gunboats lay to, rolling, although the sea looked calm, the Cuban ensign hanging limp and then stretching out and then returning to curl around its staff. Then he saw the first boat of armed sailors headed toward them from Razytelny, drawing a widening V over the mirror-skinned sea.
Leighty straightened from Vysotsky’s body and saw them, too. “Ahead full,” he yelled, sprinting out onto the wing. Dan grabbed the handles and rang up “ahead full.” The bell pinged as Main Control answered.
A shot whiplashed, making him jump. He saw Leighty aiming again, the rifle propped on the splinter shield.
He couldn’t tell if it was the captain’s intent or if his sights were still set point-blank, but both bullets fell short, raising brief spurts of foam between Barrett and the oncoming boat. Whichever it was, it wavered, then came right, rocking, as it sheered off.
Suddenly foam shot out from beneath the gunboat’s stern, and it leapt ahead.
Leighty spun and ran back inside. “That should slow down the boarding process,” he shouted as he went by. Dan followed, almost falling as he tried to change direction on the slick tile.
Downward and aft now, ladder after ladder. Dan wondered how far they’d get. The reduction gears were all the way aft and five decks down. Harper had said he had a team in Main Control. He and Leighty would have to deal with them somehow to destroy the gears.
They clattered through the 01 level, ran aft, and rounded another ladder. Aft again now past the locked doors of the ship’s offices, the dark display windows of the ship’s store, the mess deck, tables and serving lines echoing empty. It was day topside, but the interior was still at “darken ship,” and the dim red night bulbs cast long shadows. Ideal cover for an ambush. He’d never expected, ever, to have to fight within his own ship. Leighty was ahead now, pounding into the dimness. Dan wished the captain would take it slower and make less noise. Fingers slippery on the shotgun, kidneys jabbing him at each step, he trotted after him. Leighty seemed to be banking on speed, hardly glancing down side passageways as they ran. Granted, they had to reach the engine room before the Russians recovered and boarded. But he’d have felt better if they’d advanced leapfrog-fashion, covering each other.
Two detonations shook the deck, muffled, but not gunshots. He didn’t know what they were.
Three men burst around the corner of the barber shop. Masks covered their faces. Seeing Lenson and the captain, they slowed but didn’t shoot. Dan grinned tightly under the hot wool. They still didn’t know they were being challenged, that there were loyal men still free aboard USS Barrett.
Leighty fired from where he stood, right in the middle of the passageway. Navy M14s weren’t set to full automatic, but he fired so fast, it sounded like a burst. The men scattered instantly, rolling to cover behind bulkheads and doors. One ended up behind a scuttlebutt, inadequate cover. Dan dropped to one knee and fired, and he abandoned the watercooler, scrambling backward.
Muzzle flashes lighted the passageway as they returned fire. Dan rolled to the side and came up against a gear locker. As he wrestled the heavy watertight door open, a bullet clanged into it, right opposite his head. And suddenly, he couldn’t see. He was down, clawing at his eyes.
Leighty was still standing out there, trading shots with men behind cover. “Shit,” Dan muttered, blinking the passageway partially back into focus through tears and maybe blood. What was he trying to do? He thrust the muzzle around the door and pumped three loads of buckshot down the passageway, flinching each time it jolted his shoulder before it clicked. Oh no, he thought. “Captain! Get back here!”
“It’s Leighty,” someone shouted. “And another guy. Just two of ’em, I think.”
He heard a reply but couldn’t make it out. He stuck his head out again. “Captain!” Another bullet hit a bulkhead fire station, raising a smoky cloud as it punched through a hose. He smelled burning rubber and gunpowder. “Get back here! I can’t cover you!”
All at once, the firing stopped. Leighty stood alone in the center of the passageway. Smoke drifted toward the overhead, ghostly in the red light. Dan’s ears were ringing and his eyes were running fluid. But he was alive. So far.
Leighty came walking back. Dan couldn’t believe he hadn’t been hit. The captain looked behind the door. “You okay?”
“Paint chips in my eye. But I’m out of ammunition.”
“Me, too.” Leighty glanced back down the passageway, and, peering out, Dan saw that it was empty. “I don’t think we’ll get to the engine spaces. They pulled back in that direction. I think it was Harper giving the orders. They’re probably going to—”
A tremendous explosion sent them diving to the deck. It was followed by a rattling sound. The scream of a small-caliber shell accompanied another terrific bang and clatter. Dan realized the rattle was fragments going through joiner work and light bulkheads.
“They’re shooting at us.”
“Hitting, too,” said Leighty, but he didn’t sound unhappy. Dan understood perfectly. As long as they were firing, the boarding party would have to stand off. And the more damage they did, the less use Barrett would be when they got it into port. “I wish we could make them torpedo us,” Leighty added. “That’d be perfect. No, shit, I forgot, they’ve got guys locked below.”
A change in the vibration, a lean of the ship made them both glance up.
“They’re heaving to again,” Dan said. The engines could be controlled either from the bridge or the CCS, in the engine room. He took slow, deep breaths. His gut didn’t like it down here in the shadows. It couldn’t believe there wasn’t someone behind him, and he had to keep checking to reassure it. “How about the magazines? See if we can take out the guards, let some of our people out? They could fight the boarding party with axes, hoses—”
“Maybe,” said Leighty slowly. “Or maybe they’d just get gunned down for no good reason. I’m wondering if maybe we’d just better get the word out we need help. You said the remotes were cut on the bridge. Did you try CIC or Radio Central?”
“No, sir.”
“I know, I should have thought of it when we were up there. But maybe we ought to go back, try to get a Pinnacle out somehow.”
Dan didn’t answer. He was struggling with a question of his own. Leighty had stood in the middle of the passageway with three men firing at him. Yet he’d emerged without a scratch. And that made another doubt recur. When he’d stepped into his cabin, Leighty had presumably been under guard. But if he was really being guarded, why hadn’t the mutineers tied him up?
Was this some sort of charade? But he only said, “Whatever you think, sir. You lead, I’ll follow.”
“Radio, then,” Leighty said. Still carrying the empty rifle, he started jogging back up the passageway. Dan looked at his own weapon, almost threw it away, then decided to keep it. Even empty, it might buy him a couple of seconds if they met more of Harper’s Judases.
Leighty was almost out of sight. The captain still didn’t seem to worry about noise. Or was it because he knew they weren’t going to shoot him?
Sweating again, he forced his tiring body back into a run.
THE door to Radio stood open. Always locked, window barred with steel, now it hung on one hinge, bent and mutilated as if hacked open with a pickax. As he stepped through, Dan saw why. A shell had come through the side and exploded inside one of the receiver cabinets. Broken circuit cards and shattered parts littered the rubber deck and were embedded in the overhead. The compartment stank of explosive and burnt plastic. He found a relatively undamaged-looking transmitter and tried to power it up, but without success. He kicked a rack of power supplies in helpless anger.
He turned, to find Leighty watching him. “I don’t think we’re going to be getting any messages out, sir.”
“The bridge, then.”
“They’ll be there by now, sir.”
Leighty said, tone strangely gentle, “You don’t have to come, Dan. In fact, maybe it’s best you don’t.”
“What’s that mean, sir?”
“I’m going to take this ship back. Or else.”
“Don’t worry, sir. I’ll be right behind you.” As much, he added to himself, to make sure of Leighty as anything else.
But as they stepped out of Radio, they heard shouting from the next deck down. The captain hesitated, then, motioning him to follow, broke into a run. Dan jogged after him, trying desperately not to make any noise.
Then he tripped, and the shotgun clattered away. And someone shouted, “They’re up ahead. Spread out. Safeties off.”
Leighty jerked a door open, held it, waving him on violently. Dan scrambled up, expecting a bullet in the back at every step. But finally he reached the captain and ducked through. Leighty eased the door shut, then quickly dogged it from inside. Steel, Dan thought, touching it; that might hold them for a little while. And he turned, to find himself back in CIC.
HE stood there listening to boots hammering past in the passageway, watching the captain lash the dogging lever down with phone cord. The shouts swelled in volume, then faded. But it wouldn’t take long to discover they weren’t on the bridge. Then Harper’s men would backtrack, checking each space.
Combat was cold, deserted. The plot boards cast a soft yellow glow. Green radiance shone from the screens. Back by the TAO chair, a red light blinked on, just for a moment, then blinked off. The radio remotes glowed like little colored flames. For a moment Dan hoped—until he picked up a handset and pressed the “transmit” button. He got nothing, no receiver hiss, no pop of outgoing carrier wave. Of course not; the transmitters were wrecked. The Cubans had put three or four shells into the vicinity of the radio room, then stopped firing.
“They’re dead,” he told the captain. Leighty, still facing the door, had set aside his rifle. His hands dangled empty. Dan looked around again, this time for a place to hide. The storage lockers, for life jackets and gas masks. They could hide there. But only until Barrett docked. They’d have to come out sooner or later … . into imprisonment.
The red light flashed again. Dan frowned, then moved cautiously toward it. But when he reached the spot where it had gleamed, between the TAO chair and the weapons-control station, he didn’t see it anymore. Then it winked on again, accompanied by a nearly imperceptible hiss.
It was the call light on the 21MC. Somebody was calling on the intercom but not speaking. He pressed the key. “Combat,” he muttered.
“Who’s that?”
“CIC. Who’s calling?”
“Mr. Lenson! This here is Petty Officer Williams.”
Dan felt a sudden light-headedness. He sat down at the console. He glanced back to check that Leighty was still guarding the door, then muttered, “Where are you, Williams?”
“Here in the computer room, been here the whole time. Locked the door when I heard shooting. You know Doc DOS is dead? I kept hitting the button for Combat. Been waiting for somebody to show up there. Who there besides you?”
“Me and the captain. That’s all. What did you say about Dr. Shrobo?”
“He’s dead. Me and Lightbulb found him in the weight room. It looked like the weights fell on him. But then all this started, so I don’t think it was no accident. Some son of a bitch killed him. What’s going on, sir?”
“It’s a mutiny, Willie. Apparently Mr. Harper’s been working for the other side … for a long time. They’ve taken over the ship. Who else is with you?”
“Just me, sir. Just me … an’ Elmo.”
Dan stared at the speaker as his mind raced. Finally, he called in a low voice, “Captain?”
He explained quickly. Leighty looked puzzled at first, then determined. He reached past him to the intercom. “Petty Officer Williams, recognize my voice?”
“Yessir, Captain.”
“We’ll try it. We’ll handle things from here. Let’s hope they’re just a little bit slow on the uptake.”
“Okay, sir, I’ll start the load.”
Suddenly, a thunderous pounding came from the door. Dan swallowed. Harper’s turncoat security force had figured out where they were. Okay, the start-up procedure … His thoughts were interrupted by Leighty’s hand on his shoulder, by the captain motioning him out of his seat. “I’ll take the console, Lieutenant. You get the systems panel up.”
Dan ran three steps to the systems-monitoring panel that connected the weapons-control consoles in Combat with the computers in the DP center. As it came up, the “on-line” lights told him the panel was controlling number three AN/UYK-7. The “bootstrap start” light told him Williams was loading the ops program. He set the switches on the control/indicator panel to “master clear” and “high speed,” then set up mainframe number two as default computer.
“Captain?”
“I’m up on the WDS. I’m a little rusty. Tell me—”
“Display control panel, on your upper right, switches are at the top. CRT, center; IFF on; challenge on. Radar Select, leave it wherever it is.”
“Check.”
The hammering grew louder and Dan saw Leighty turn his head. He spoke louder and the captain looked back to the console. “Next: upper left, the category select panel. Put all the switches that have an S position to S. Everything else, turn them from off to on.”
As Leighty complied, Dan ran his eyes over his own panel again. Now the “start” light went out, telling him the op program was loaded, and the “start” button began to wink. He depressed it and it changed to a steady glow. Simultaneously, the fault-and-alarm display began pulsing, one second on, one second off. ACDADS was running.
“Check,” said Leighty. “Now the action entry—”
“Your lower left. Set the mode switch to ‘weapons direction, master.’ To the right of that’s another three-position switch—”
Then two things happened at once. The first was a loud thud from outside, then another shot, this time followed by a clang as the jacketed bullet penetrated the steel door and ricocheted into a console. Great, Dan thought. Sooner or later, they’d hit the dogging mechanism, or cut the wire lashing that held it closed.
The second was that one of the status lights, up to now cycling steadily one second on, one second off, began flashing rapidly. He jerked his eyes to it. Not a malfunction yet, but an abnormal condition. Sweat itched down his back. If this didn’t work, and work perfectly, they were all going to die—he, Leighty, Williams, and all the men locked helplessly below.
Leighty got up. He said quietly, “I’ll take the door. If they come in, they might not shoot at me. They didn’t before.”
“Yes, sir,” Dan said. He wanted to ask him just why he thought they wouldn’t shoot, but there wasn’t time. Instead, he hit the intercom. “Williams!”
“Here.”
“Abnormal condition light on computer three. Should I switch to backup?”
“No. Hit your fault jump.”
He studied the panel frantically, then stabbed the button. “There, it’s on.”
“Now go to your mode select, on the console—”
Another shot from the door was followed by light and the screech of yielding metal. Men burst in at the far end of the compartment, men in olive drab hoods, weapons in their hands. Leighty stepped out in front of them, hands raised and empty. “Wait,” Dan heard him say. “Wait. It’s me, the Captain. I want to—”
A burst of fire, and he staggered back, arms flung out. Dan stared, then remembered what he had to do. He leaned across to the console Leighty had just left. His groping fingers found the three-position mode switch, clicked it over.
“Set to mode three, full automatic,” he muttered. Then he stood, turning, to face the guns.
WITHIN the computer’s humming circuitry, no thought took place. Only calculations. It was only a machine. It could not think, or feel anger, or desire revenge. It could only receive input, process data, issue orders.
Suddenly the ship below him seemed to come alive. White water churned suddenly, shooting out from the screws as her propellers went from idle, zero pitch, to 100 percent ahead. A shimmering haze blasted from the stack as the turbines jumped to full power.
On the bridge, a hooded man staggered back as the ship leapt suddenly ahead. Recovering, he jumped to the helm console, pulling back the throttle, cursing as Barrett surged past a boatload of startled faces below. The first men of the boarding party were already climbing Jacob’s ladders toward the forecastle, assault rifles slung over their backs. Now as the destroyer gathered speed, they dropped off into the sea, one by one, shaken off, dragged off by the water, or simply letting go in surprise and consternation.
The man stared disbelievingly at the throttle, then racked it ahead and back again. The ship continued to accelerate. The rudder-angle indicator swung over to hard left, though the wheel itself did not move. He pressed buttons on the console, then kicked it. The ship ignored him. The deck slanted under him, the rumbling vibration increased, and he heard a whine-and-stop, whine-and-stop through the overhead directly above.
Bells began shrilling all over the ship. From above, forward, and aft, they blended in a high, wavering chorus, like cicadas swarming.
On the forecastle, the twin arms of the Mark 26 launcher suddenly pivoted to point straight up. Two heavily-armored blast doors flicked open as lightly as camera shutters. Two shark-finned shapes appeared as if created instantaneously from nothing, thrust up from below faster than the eye could follow.
The launcher swung down and whipped around with startling quickness, aiming the coned noses of the missiles off to starboard. At the same moment, the long, tapered barrel of the five-inch gun trembled tentatively, quivering as if, Pinocchio-like, it had been touched magically with life. It rose, hesitated, then swiftly rotated, its muzzle dropping to track along the horizon as Barrett continued her hard-left turn.