The Passage

by David Poyer

  The Cuban gunboat came into view.

  Suddenly, a deafening bellow shook everything on the forecastle, vibrating the glass in the windows, accompanied by a dazzling white-hot torch flame that an instant later flung itself into the sky, blotting out all sight in an impenetrable cloud of acrid yellow-white smoke. Still accelerating, the destroyer drove forward through the haze while the bells continued their discordant scream. With another ship-shaking roar, a second shaft of fire climbed rapidly to port. Once in clear blue, it built a long pillar of opaque smoke, tipped at its end with a white arrow that slowly turned, glittering as its fins flexed.

  Ahead of it, a silver dot twisted frantically, the sun flashing off aluminum wings. The white shape shrank as it closed in. Then both vanished, replaced by a sudden irregular cloud of fire and black smoke. Fragments of glittering metal rained down from it, tumbling lazily toward the shimmering sea.

  The men on the gunboat stood frozen at their weapons. They were ready to fire, but they had no target. A wall of white smoke lay across the sea, opaque, sharp-smelling, choking. Their sights searched back and forth across it, uncertain, blinded.

  Then a towering blade of bow crashed out of it, tossing back huge curtains of spray to either side. As two more missiles shot up into the light, a huge ball of orange flame crashed from the muzzle of the five-inch. At the same instant, both Phalanxes, already aimed by radar, motor-driven barrels spinning themselves into a tubular blur, began firing so rapidly, the ear made out not individual shots but a continuous deafening drone.

  And from aft, still all at the same moment, came four unevenly spaced howls, one, two, pause, one, two, as four Harpoons exploded from their canted launch tubes. Each rose a few hundred yards into the air, nosed over, then steered into a curve that ended locked on its target: either the Soviet destroyer or one of the Cuban gunboats.

  Thirty seconds later, the battle, if it had ever really been a battle at all, was over.

  DAN clung to the console, facing the masked men. For a long moment, no one spoke, listening instead to the hellish din of departing ordnance. Then he pointed at the console video. One after the other, the symbology for hostile aircraft and hostile surface ships flickered and changed, from “target,” to “engaged,” to “destroyed.”

  “You just lost,” he said quietly. “Put down your guns. It’s over.”

  “We’re not surrendering to you,” one of them snapped, but his tone was uncertain.

  “You don’t have a choice. We’re on our way out of here. Jay?” He waited, but no one answered. “Where’s Harper?”

  A sullen voice said, “Don’t know.”

  “I know he’s the ringleader. If you surrender now, I’ll go to bat for you, say you didn’t understand how far he meant to go and that you … cooperated when I explained the situation. Otherwise, you’re going to a court-martial for mutiny and murder, with nobody behind you.” He gave them a second to think about it, then barked, “Now, put them down!”

  One by one, they bent and laid their arms beside the unmoving body of Thomas Leighty.

  THE captain was breathing, but with difficulty—hit in the lung, the classic sucking chest wound. Coldly angry, Dan ordered Chief Miller to give him first aid. As the hoods came off, other faces were revealed. Some looked ashamed, some defiant, others almost blank. Men he knew: Cephas, Horseheads, Antonio. Officers, chiefs, enlisted. Men Harper had somehow suborned, blackmailed, tempted

  … “If the captain dies,” Dan muttered, letting each finish the sentence in his own mind. He gathered up the weapons and carried them up to the bridge. Keeping one of the shotguns, he dumped the rest over the side. Then he raised his head, blinking into a hot, raw wind.

  Barrett was tearing through the water at flank speed. Behind her lay Cuba. Behind her, too, smoky columns towered up into the crystal blue. Looking back, Dan could see both gunboats listing and burning. A patch of brownish smoke drifted several thousand feet up, slowly dissipating. No other sign of aircraft. Razytelny lay still hove-to, a haze rising from her superstructure. At first it looked like stack gas. Then he saw the twisted wreckage the Harpoons, set to detonate high for a mission kill, had made of her radars and antennas. He remembered standing on her decks, surveying the curious faces of her crew. A seaworthy ship, manned by competent men—but just a little too slow on the draw. The green hills were already dropping below the horizon as Barrett ran south at almost forty miles an hour. She wasn’t undamaged. Holes smoldered in her stacks and hangar, and smashed mast members hung down. But she was going like hell. Looking aft, he saw that the after five-inch was still tracking the Soviet frigate.

  He went inside, looked at the helm console, then checked the radar, wondering if he could trust the ship to take care of herself for a little while longer. She had open water in front of her, at least a hundred miles till they’d have to start thinking about avoiding Jamaica. Finally, he called the computer room. Williams answered, “Here, sir. How did it go? I didn’t … hear anything hit us.”

  “I think we’re out of the box, Willie. We laid down a hell of a lot of ordnance, most of which seems to have hit, and are now hauling ass out of Dodge. Give Elmo a pat on the back for me. How’s he holding up?”

  “Running solid, sir.”

  “Great. Now, look at your watch. If you don’t hear from me in ten minutes, leave ACDADS running and get down to the magazines. Let everybody out. Tell them what happened and get them to general-quarters stations as soon as possible. Oh, and better load the sonar module, too. I don’t know where the Victor is, but I’d rather not be surprised.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Somebody’s got to find Harper. He can still fuck us up if somebody doesn’t defang him.”

  “Use some help?”

  “Thanks, but I need you to keep things running. Call you back in ten minutes. If I don’t call, you have your orders.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Williams said. Dan clicked twice, signing off, and checked the shotgun. The .45 was easier to handle in tight quarters; the M14 had more power, but in a gunfight between him and the chief warrant, his two-second analysis edged him to trade accuracy for coverage. Four rounds in the tube, one in the chamber, safety off. He was turning for the ladder when his eye caught the 1MC. He hesitated, then ran his finger down the switches and unhooked the mike. A moment later, his voice rang out over all topside and interior speakers.

  “This is Lieutenant Lenson. To all hands: The mutiny has failed. As the senior surviving officer on deck, I am now taking command of USS Barrett. We are commencing a sweep of the ship. Anyone throwing his weapon and his hood over the side now and reporting immediately to his general-quarters station, might just not get picked out of the lineup when we go to trial. You decide. The only one we want is Chief Warrant Officer Harper. Anyone still bearing arms after this announcement will be shot on sight.”

  As soon as he hung the mike up, the intercom clicked on. “Dan? You up there? The King Snake here.”

  He lunged across the pilothouse. “Where are you, you son of a bitch? I hope they still hang people for this. The exec’s dead; the captain’s shot—”

  “Nobody would have gotten hurt if you’d gone with the program, shipmate.”

  “I’m coming after you. Where are you, you asshole?”

  “Just head aft.” The intercom grille chuckled. “I’ll head forward. Catch you somewhere in the middle, okay?” A double click, and the transmit light went off.

  The quickest way aft was topside. Dan ran through the deckhouse passageway and out into the open area between the stacks. He dodged across, eyes searching the spider-work steel above him, using the empty Harpoon tubes for cover when he could. He hesitated at the after deckhouse, then decided to go for height and see if he could spot Harper before the chief warrant spotted him.

  His boots hammered aluminum treads till he reached the top of the hangar—in the open again, the intakes roaring like a huge fan, exhaust blasting out of the stacks. From up here he could feel the ship
roll as the rudder cycled, see the snake wake ACDADS was steering to confuse any fire-control solution. A white storm tumbled and leapt behind her as she cut through the blue Caribbean at maximum power. He sucked air for a second, then ran on, stopping this time just outside the safety arc of the Phalanx. The automatic 20-mm was on, live, radar and motors cycling. The intricately looped belt of brass cartridges gleamed in the tropical sun. From time to time, it jerked slightly right or left. He hoped it didn’t start firing while he was standing below it. Leaning over the rail, shading his eyes, he searched the fantail, the flight deck.

  A bullet sledgehammered the rail by his hand. He flinched back, and another sabered the air where he’d stood. He caught only the instantaneous glimpse of a figure below him, standing in the center of the flight deck where the white lines crossed. He dropped to all fours and wormed backward, grimacing as he saw blood welling from his hand. Once out of Harper’s sight, he got up and ran back to the ladder. The flap of sliced skin peeled back as he slid down the handrail, but it didn’t hurt yet.

  Two choices from here: port or starboard. Instead of taking either, he jerked open the door into the upper level of the hangar.

  Inside was a short passageway lined with storage racks, then a ladder down to the interior. He checked that the hangar door was closed, bobbing his head out and then back quickly; it was. Slinging the riot gun, he handed himself quickly down the vertical ladder, stamping it with bloody handprints, and sprinted across the cavernous empty space till he could peer out a slotlike observation window at the flight deck.

  It was empty, and he swore softly. He’d hoped for a shot at Harper while he was in the open. He pulled the door open and leaned out, scanning the deck swiftly, only exposing himself for a moment.

  The heavy 230-grain .45 slug crashed into the window, showering him with glass. He ducked, shielding his face with his arms. Maybe I should have kept the balaclava, he thought. No, what I really need is a bulletproof vest.

  Harper was not only a far better shot than he was; the matchgrade Colt automatic was a more accurate weapon. Maybe he’d screwed up by taking the shotgun. He needed to get closer, a lot closer.

  He hit the door running, crouched, and caught the tall figure at the far corner of the helo pad. He was bending, getting ready to climb or drop down to the next deck. Dan braked, leveling the shotgun, but before he got a bead Harper saw him, ducked, and dropped suddenly below the edge of the flight deck.

  At least he was moving him aft. Harper couldn’t allow him a shot at close range, and he couldn’t break back around Dan without giving him one. The other man was now on the 01 level, the fifty-foot-long step down between the flight deck and the fantail, which held the aft launcher. Its arms towered up, holding two live Standards like a javelin thrower ready to cast. The warning bell was still screaming. Dan hoped the ship didn’t decide to fire. The booster exhausts were pointed right at him.

  He dragged sweat from his forehead, trying to think. Harper, masked by the deck edge, could move forward around the port or starboard sides, or continue aft. Dan decided to go up the middle. He ran to the edge, leaned over, gun shouldered, and caught Harper’s back past the launcher pedestal, disappearing down the ladder to the fantail. He swung, jerking the trigger as the bead crossed his back. The gun jolted and through the blast he saw pellets smoke paint all around Harper. He couldn’t tell if any hit, though.

  Now his hand hurt like hell, and the stock was slippery with blood. He could feel it on his face, too, sticky where he’d tried to scoop sweat from his eyes. They itched as if there was still grit in them. The sun was incredibly bright, burning directly off the calm, flat silver that surrounded the fleeing ship—like a flashlight a child persists in pointing into your eyes. Nan had done that once, giggling as he told her to knock it off, that it wasn’t funny, as he balanced on a ladder trying to fix the burned-out light in the kitchen—

  This wasn’t the time to reminisce about his daughter. He ejected the smoking empty hull, jacked another shell in, and ran for where Harper had vanished.

  From the top of the ladder he looked down on the entire fantail, the whole of Barrett’s wide, square stern as it canted shuddering into a zig, making empty powder canisters roll across the dark gray nonskid till they wedged against scuttles or lifelines; the lines laid out for mooring; the white-painted markings of the aft helo pad; the lowered spears of whip antennas; the after five-inch, unmanned, like all Barrett’s guns and launchers, but quickened now with that uncanny servomechanical mimicry of life, barrel gradually elevating as it maintained its vigilance against the receding enemy.

  It seemed vast and eerily empty as he edged down the ladder, twitching the muzzle from side to side. His injured hand burned on the trigger. Where was Harper? The only cover back here was the smooth gray fiberglass bulge of the gun shield. He suddenly dropped his eyes, looking straight down through the ladder steps, but he wasn’t there, either. The only place left was the far side of the gun mount.

  He forced unwilling legs into motion again, clattered down the last few steps, and launched himself toward the mount. No cover out here at all, nothing but wind and sun and space. He ran, sucking for breath, dragging leaden legs behind him, expecting the hammer blow of a slug every second. But he got there safely and kept going, circling the gray curved shell, eyes fixed ahead. At some point, he was going to encounter Harper—either the other’s back, in which case he lived, or his face, in which case he probably wouldn’t. Every step seemed to take minutes. His eyes burned; his hand burned. The shotgun swung awkwardly and far too slowly.

  On and on, his boots thudding into the deck, hot air sawing in and out of a parched throat. Through the mount’s shadow, and the sun blazed directly into his eyes. Ahead, too, lay the vanishing horizon, toward which the long barrel still rose. Beside him the gun twitched and moved, correcting its aim with a hydraulic whine.

  He slowed, realizing he’d circled the mount and found nothing. Then halted, panting, staring around. His back crawled, but when he glanced back, the deck behind was empty, too. He had no idea where Harper had gone. Forward again? Had he slipped past him, gone up the port side—

  “Dan.”

  He jerked his head around, to see Harper aiming directly at him, eye steady over the extended pistol. The warrant was standing back by the safety lines, at the very stern. So still that his burning, blinking eyes, searching desperately for motion, must have slid right past him. It was too late to react, too late to do anything. He watched Harper’s trigger finger whiten.

  “Hold it,” someone shouted.

  When he looked toward the ladder, Dan saw with a numb lack of astonishment that it was Gary Lohmeyer. The ensign was still in his Engineering Department coveralls, but now he had a badge pinned to them. He looked older without his round glasses, and the callow, confused look was gone, too. Now he looked very competent indeed. As did the snub-nosed revolver braced on the rail. He shouted, “Naval Intelligence. Drop it, Harper!”

  When Harper glanced away, Dan got the shotgun on him. The muzzle jumped with his panting and heartbeat, but he kept it as steady as he could.

  Harper was still holding the .45 in front of him, but at waist level now, midway between the two men confronting him. Beyond, on the far horizon, the plumes of smoke were thinning. Either the gunboats had finally gone down or they’d put out their fires. Dan couldn’t see Razytelny anymore, and only the very tops of the far blue hills. To Lohmeyer, he yelled, “Intel, huh? You showed up awful goddamned late.”

  “Hell, Lieutenant, I couldn’t tell who the bad guys were till just now.”

  “I suppose you think you got me cornered,” Harper said, obviously speaking to one or both of them but looking down over the safety line into the wake. “Well, guess what? I’m not surrendering. How long you gonna stand around scratching your balls? Let’s get it over with.”

  “I’m not going to shoot you down, if that’s what you mean,” Lohmeyer called. “This is an arrest. Throw the gun down.”


  “Fuck you, keyhole peeper.”

  “Let me talk to him,” Dan yelled. The train warning bell was still ringing shrilly, making it hard to communicate or even think. And below that was the thunder of the wake, the rumble of the madly spinning screws just beneath them.

  Lohmeyer shook his head, holding his aim. “You want to try? Have at it. But if he doesn’t put the gun down in thirty seconds—”

  Dan yelled, “Give up, Jay. You lost. You can’t shoot us both. And I don’t think you want to.”

  “Lose? I didn’t lose. I won; I won big. I just stayed in the fucking game too long, that’s all.”

  “Sounds like losing to me.”

  “Have it your way, Lieutenant. Just remember, you’re looking at the greatest spy America’s ever known. Maybe the greatest in history. If there’d a been a war, the Russkies would have won it. All because of me.”

  “What are you talking about? You gave them a lot. But not that much.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” shouted Harper, still looking over the lifeline. The wake seemed to fascinate him, and Dan had to admit, it was frightening this close. Hard to ignore, like Niagara roaring past just below the guardrail. Eighty thousand shaft horsepower at 100 percent pitch kicked up a rooster tail fifteen feet high, churned the sea white for a hundred yards back, left spinning green whirlpools rocking crazily far behind. “They were reading everything, Hoss. Not just the KW-eight. Everything—secure voice, fleet broadcast, even satellite comms. They always knew exactly where the carriers were. They wouldn’t have needed reconnaissance. They were targeting right from our messages.”

  Dan didn’t say anything. It was probably true. God knew, they’d have to change everything after this, all the codes, everything. Harper had damaged the Navy beyond anything he could have imagined. But maybe he hadn’t damaged it beyond repair.