The Passage

by David Poyer

  With his free hand—the one that wasn’t holding the .45—Harper was working at the fastener that held the safety line in place.

  Lohmeyer cut in. “Harper. Harper! Listen! It’s not hopeless. The Navy’ll probably cut you a deal.”

  “A deal? Why?”

  “We don’t know what you turned over. We don’t know what’s compromised and what’s still safe. No promises, I don’t have the authority to make them. But you cooperate, they’ll probably cut you some slack.”

  The stern rumbled and shuddered and canted as the ship threw her rudder to the other side. Harper staggered but kept the .45 up. He could still shoot either of them, Dan thought. The shotgun was getting incredibly heavy, but he had to keep it steady, had to keep it pointed at the arrogant, complacent face.

  Harper yelled, “What, give me eighty years instead of life? No thanks. I’ll make it simple for you, okay? Everything I ever saw that was worthwhile, I turned over. I decided when I started, if I was going to be a fucking spy, I was going to be the best and the biggest. And I was. The fucking best there was.”

  He was still working at the lifeline with his free hand. Dan watched, feeling sweat and blood dripping off his own fingers. The shotgun was dragging downward despite everything he could do. And Lohmeyer couldn’t keep him covered forever, either. This couldn’t last much longer. He couldn’t tell if the agent was serious about making a deal or just trying to talk Harper into surrendering. After what he’d seen, knowing about the men Harper had killed, he didn’t have a problem with shooting him. But he’d probably get shot in return. He was closer than Lohmeyer; Harper would aim for him. He hoped the intelligence agent had been trained for situations like this. He shouted, “Jay, listen. You bastard! Go for his deal. At least you’d be alive.”

  “That ain’t being alive. Let me tell you something.”

  Harper turned his face to the sky, turned it as if to follow the arch of the heavens. Behind him, smoke billowed up as if from burning Sodom. Then his far-off gaze steadied. Following it, Dan saw the stars and stripes at the mast top, rippling and snapping in the hot breeze Barrett made for herself.

  Looking up at it, Harper slowly raised his free hand in a salute. “You know, I love this fucking country. You think that’s funny? It’s true. Everything I ever got, it gave me. And I appreciate that. I really do. Nothing I ever did hurt this country, no matter what they’ll try to say. I didn’t want to hurt Marion, or Sandy, or the Doc. Remember that, Dan. Tell them that when they come looking to write books about me.”

  Dan stared at him openmouthed, then felt his face tighten with rage. “That’s horseshit, Jay. You killed people. Probably more than we’ll ever know about. Everything you’ve ever said to me is fucking horseshit!”

  “You got a point there, Hoss. But you bought the pile, didn’t you?”

  “Why did you do it? Why?”

  “’Cause they paid me, that’s why.”

  “Was that really it, Jay? Was that really all?” The riot gun was shaking now as his tired muscles shuddered. And as what Harper was saying hit him, deep in his stomach, making him want to kill him, then vomit.

  Harper didn’t answer for a few seconds, staring down into the racing sea. Finally, he said, sounding tired, “It was … at first. Then it got to be something else.

  “It made me somebody, Lieutenant. Everybody thought I was just another hard-ass warrant counting the years till he retired. I’d train these kids, fresh out of the Academy and OCS. They don’t know shit, but they put on lieutenant, lieutenant commander; they go on up. And I stay down in the division, pushing buttons, pushing paper … . But really I was on the inside. I used to say to myself, If they only knew that everything they’re doing, everything they’re planning, the other side’s reading it the next day. Because of me. I was more powerful than the admirals. More powerful than the President. He didn’t know what I knew. He couldn’t do what I could do. That more like what you wanted to hear?”

  Shouts drifted back to them on the wind. Glancing up, Dan saw crewmen looking down from the flight deck. Williams had followed his orders … . “Okay, that’s it,” called Lohmeyer. “Put up or shut up, asshole. Get rid of the gun. Get your hands up.”

  The chief warrant didn’t move. He was looking down again. Dan was close to crying, although he didn’t know why. He wanted to see Harper die, but still, they’d been shipmates, and part of him still didn’t understand. He said, “Don’t do it, Jay.”

  He didn’t quite see how, but the toggle came out at last and the lifeline sagged to the deck. Leaving a space of slanting blue horizon, and nothing between the thin, balding officer and a twenty-foot fall into the foaming wake.

  “Later, shipmate,” he said, and swung himself out by one hand. Then he leapt outward and fell into the maelstrom. Dan ran forward, stopping only when his boots hit the deck-edge coaming, staring down into the shaking white roar where the sea sucked endlessly downward, foaming and whirling, never relinquishing anything it received.

  VII

  THE AFTERIMAGE

  Epilogue

  Guantánamo Bay Naval Base

  STANDING on the bridge wing with Van Cleef and Quintanilla, Dan watched the pier gradually slow, then stop, as if the solid crust and core of the planet had backed engines instead of Barrett. The hills and administrative buildings, shops and fuel bunkers overlooking Corinaso Cove looked familiar in the brilliant sunlight. Familiar but also strange. He only slowly realized they were deserted. The only activity visible was a small group waiting on the pier, a few official vehicles parked at its foot.

  “You’re going to have to give her a touch more. The breeze is setting you off.”

  “Ahead one-third; indicate pitch for three knots,” Van Cleef called into the pilothouse.

  Dan swept his good eye—the other was bandaged; the cornea had been scratched—along the ship. Maybe they weren’t exactly coming in with all flags flying, but they were still under command, and still a fighting ship. Radio was a shambles, but the radiomen and electricians had gotten the satellite transceiver up, getting off reports to Commander in Chief Atlantic Fleet, Commander, Naval Forces Caribbean, and Commander, Guantánamo Bay Naval Base. Inside the pilothouse, Dwight Giordano sat in the captain’s chair, boot tossing nervously. The engineering officer had taken over as acting CO, and Felipe Quintanilla as acting exec.

  “All engines stop. Left full rudder. All back one-third … all stop.” As Barrett eased to a halt a few yards off the battered timber and concrete, Dan leaned out again. A moment later, heaving lines arched toward the waiting linehandlers. A whistle blasted. “Moored. Shift colors.” On the forecastle, the starred patch of blue cloth climbed the jackstaff, touched the apex, then slowly descended to half-mast.

  “We’ve got visitors. I’ll be on the quarterdeck, Dan.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, saluting Giordano with a bandaged hand. He saluted back, looking awkward, and left the bridge.

  Dan scanned the faces below. One of the waiting vehicles was an ambulance. When the brow settled into place, the first across were the wounded—Leighty, Kessler, and the engineer Dan had slugged—and then the dead—Vysotsky, a gray-blanketed shape on the Stokes litter, and Hank Shrobo. Dan leaned back, shading his eyes. The leading signalman took his glance upward for an order, and the third substitute broke atop the signal hoist.

  Yes, the captain was ashore, and Dan had no idea if he’d be back. He didn’t feel good about those litters sliding into the ambulance. But it could have been worse. They still had the ship. And there might have been more casualties, a lot more.

  Several sets of whites separated themselves from the waiting party and headed for the brow. Dan raised the binoculars. “Boatswain. Boatswain! Rear Admiral, United States Navy … Commander, Naval Base, Guantánamo … Commander, Destroyer Squadron Six, arriving.”

  HE stood outside the wardroom, fiddling with his hat, feeling suddenly bone-tired, exhausted. He looked again at the slip of paper Jack Byrne had handed him.

/>   This intelligence debriefing is a non-formal fact-finding panel. You are hereby assured that all information obtained from you during the debriefing will be carefully safeguarded and held exclusively as privileged information. It will not be used in any way, directly or indirectly, in any judicial, nonjudicial, administrative, or other disciplinary proceeding to be convened subsequently to this board. However, neither is it an offer of clemency or protection from or during such proceedings, if convened.

  It was signed by Rear Admiral G. H. Mason, CINCLANTFLT Inspector General.

  The door opened and Quintanilla came out. Dan gave him a questioning glance, but Felipe didn’t meet his eyes, just held the door. He went in, came to attention, uncovered.

  “Sit down, Lieutenant,” grunted a deep voice, a voice he knew. He took one of the chairs, looking in turn at an unfamiliar admiral, two middle-aged men in civilian suits, a captain who must be the base commanding officer, and at Commodore Barry Niles, USN, Commander, Destroyer Squadron Six. The little eyes perused him, sleepy and bellicose, mustache downturned over grim lips. No Atomic Fireballs were in sight this afternoon. The red light of a cassette recorder was another eye examining them all. Dan expected some reference to their previous meeting, but Niles only rumbled, “You understand the purpose of this debriefing?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This is not in any sense a court of inquiry, or a court-martial. It’s a fact-finding body.” He went on to explain what the piece of paper had already said. Dan didn’t interrupt, just waited. And when he was done, he said, “I understand, sir.”

  Niles conducted the interview; only from time to time did one of the others pose a question or encourage Dan to elaborate on something he’d said. But the commodore was thorough. He went through the background, then the events of the previous day. Dan had to explain everything he’d done, and why. The men who listened did not respond, either sympathetically or otherwise. They just listened intently as he described his forced conning of the ship; how Vysotsky had died and he’d overcome Kessler and then Leighty’s guard; how he and the captain had tried to disable the engines and failed, tried to get a message off and failed, and finally turned the fight over to the ship. He gave Dr. Shrobo credit for getting ACDADS back on-line in time to frustrate the attempted capture, and Matt Williams for getting the program running. They seemed especially interested when he described Barrett’s performance in mode three against the Soviets and Cubans. One of the civilians passed a note to the chief of staff, who read it, nodded, and folded it into his pocket.

  “And you’re satisfied Harper was the ringleader,” Niles rumbled.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many other men were involved?”

  “I believe no more than six, sir. Three enlisted, one chief, two officers. I never saw more than that.”

  “You’ll be called on to identify them.”

  “Yes, sir, I will do that with pleasure.” He intended to keep his promise—to request that their surrender be taken into consideration when sentence was passed—but as far as he was concerned, Harper’s confederates were still mutineers and still accessories to murder.

  “Any other questions, gentlemen? … I believe that is about all we have for you at present, Lieutenant,” said Niles. Dan started to get up, but the commodore was still speaking, heavily, deliberately, in his slow, precise diction.

  “Let me advise you of our intentions. We are not going to advertise Harper’s success as a spy. To do so would only play into the Soviets’ hands. Nor do I think it will serve any purpose to publicize the fact that there was an armed confrontation. The Soviets and Cubans know what they tried to do. The message is going to come through loud and clear to them that their side was left dead in the water. We feel that the wisest course now is to deescalate. Fortunately, this all took place in an essentially closed arena. We can seal the lid on it pretty effectively, I believe. At least till enough time has passed that it will be of less than immediate concern. That is why we cleared the waterfront before your arrival. We will be asking the officers and crew of Barrett to assist us in downplaying the incident.”

  Dan thought it over. Niles hadn’t asked for his opinion or whether he thought this was a good idea. It sounded more like an order. So all he said was, “Aye aye, sir.” And that seemed to be what was expected, because the commodore put his big freckled hands on the table like a sea lion getting ready to climb out onto the ice, reared back, and said, “One last question. Commander Leighty … wounded but expected to recover. What, to the best of your knowledge, was his involvement?”

  “I don’t believe he was involved, sir. Other than in trying to take his ship back once he realized what was happening.”

  “He was in no way associated with the plot, the attempted mutiny, Harper’s espionage?”

  “No, sir. I once suspected … I suspected him, but I believe now that I was mistaken.”

  Niles’s little eyes glowed like dark stars. He rumbled, “Concerning this suspicion, was or is there anything about Captain Leighty that this board should know? Anything contrary to the ideals of naval service, or the behavior expected of a naval officer?”

  Dan sat without speaking while thoughts struggled in his mind. Less thoughts than opinions he’d believed without examination, assumptions he’d assimilated over years in an organization that valued conformity and conservatism as core values. And set against them was the reality of a man standing up for his ship when all he could expect was death. Putting his life on the line without hesitation or doubt, because it was his duty.

  “No, sir,” he said, holding the commodore’s eyes. “The skipper’s one of the finest officers I’ve ever known. I would be proud to serve with him again.”

  OVER the bare, foot-worn ground, the woman carried the baby wrapped in a clean undershirt, cradling its head against her breast. The blankets the soldiers had given them were warm, but too rough for a newborn’s skin. Its eyes were squinted closed against the glare, its thumb jammed firmly into its mouth. Around them the camp clamored with shouting, music, the kettledrum clamor of garbage cans being rolled across gravel. Lines were everywhere: for the showers, for the washing machines in the big tent, for the strange little plastic outhouses where for just a few seconds you could be alone before someone banged impatiently on the door. And there were lines to speak on the telephones to relatives and puzzled strangers, after struggling to deal with operators and snappish government clerks who spoke no Spanish. Graciela stepped over power cables snaking through the dust, wandering across the open square, going nowhere in particular, holding the child tightly.

  She did not remember much after the gray ship had left them behind, taking the American away. She must have become delirious after that, for she truly didn’t remember the white boat with the red stripe that Miguelito had said finally plucked them from the waterlogged skiff. She had not been well then, no. Half-crazy from lack of water, loss of blood—she didn’t even remember who had sewed her up, or when, on the boat or in the first camp. The stitches were still bleeding, but she was healing. And thank the Virgin, she still had her milk.

  She’d been at this camp for a month now, long enough to see many people come and many leave. She never ceased searching the faces of the new arrivals, never ceased asking each party for any news of a boat from Camagüey, from Alcorcón. But to no avail. She did not want to believe it, that they could be gone—young Julio and old Aracelia; strong Tomás and beautiful Xiomara; resourceful Augustín. Could the sea really have taken them; could it be true that she would never see any of them again? And Colon and Nenita—well, she could not pretend regret if he was dead, but she had not disliked Nenita; they could have been friends. Nor had she ever heard anything of old Gustavo again. It was said that there were many camps. So there was still hope. But it was queer to reflect that of all those who had sat on the hillside that night, only she and Miguelito might remain.

  And sometimes at night, the sea still roared in her ears. She dreamed she was back in the c
halanita, helpless in the storm. She wondered if having known la mar in its rage, it had become in some mysterious way part of her, the way she would always carry Armando in her heart, and Victoria, and Coralía, and now Armando Daniel; or if it was more like the mystery of possession, as if the sea, called by blood sacrifice like a god, mounted and lent its aspect from then on to those it had spared. Thinking of the sea in this way, she could envision, grasp, almost accept that those she loved had gone to it; for the sea was at various times like all of them—strong, beautiful, resourceful, and treacherous and evil; sometimes a friend, then suddenly an enemy. Being all these things already, how natural that it could contain them all. For whatever we are, she thought, so, too, is Death. And that, perhaps, is why Death needs us all.

  And now she was in los Estados Unidos. And really it was strange and at the same time not so strange. On the way to the camp, she had marveled at the huge buildings, the colors, the clever signs, the beautiful cars and huge trucks and wide roads. The people looked pale but healthy, and clearly they were all rich. But here she was still surrounded by Cuban voices, Cuban faces, Cuban music, the smells from the cook tent of cumin and bijol and black beans simmering in the big stainless pots. But here no one called another compañero, unless, of course, one forgot, then laughed, embarrassed, making it a joke. Most foreign of all was that there was no fear. At first, it was exhilarating. Then gradually, one noticed the gates, the barbed wire. So that although you did not have to go to propaganda lectures, or sign petitions, or join any organizations, this was not exactly la tierra de libertad. The soldiers would not even let her help cook. So all she did was eat in the big tent and care for Armando Daniel and take her walks around the camp, watch the colored television where everyone was wealthy, even the black people, and once a day go to where a woman gave them lessons in how to speak American. “Good morning,” she said to the baby. It opened its eyes and peeped up at her, then closed them again. “Good mor-ning,” she murmured to herself, looking toward the gate.