The Gulf

by David Poyer

  “Does that sound like fair treatment?”

  Bernard didn’t have to think too long about that. Looking at what Lenson was saying, maybe he better get that lawyer. He might be able to work something out ashore. For sure, this guy scared him. He didn’t want to be around him anymore.

  So he said, “Yessir, that might be better all around.”

  “Good. I believe I can persuade the captain to do that, Phelan, if you tell the three of us who else is using aboard this ship.”

  “Okay.” He grinned. “Can do. But you got to do something else for me, too.” He felt better now. Get them bargaining and you were halfway home.

  Lenson didn’t say anything, just waited, his face slightly turned away.

  “You got to drop the dealing charge. Just say I was using what was in sick bay.”

  “No.”

  “Well … how about dropping the grass, then? I can tell them—how about just dropping the grass, sir? I never even smoked any; I was just holding it for somebody else.”

  “Who?” said Nolan. Phelan gave him a quick, angry look. Fuck it. They had him boxed.

  “Okay, okay, you got it. The guys you want are Quint and two other guys, I think they’re snipes. I forget their names, but one of ’em’s got a tattoo on his left arm, a Confederate flag; and the other guy they call Ham. You check their lockers. You’ll have ’em cold.”

  “Chief?”

  “I know them,” said Nolan grimly.

  “Who else?” said Lenson.

  “That’s it. Just them. Oh, and Golden’s a queer. Just thought you’d like to know.” He grinned.

  “Get this shit off my desk, Doc,” said Dan. He stood up. “And this scum off my ship. He’s got twenty minutes. Chief, watch him while he packs, then escort him off. The yeoman will have transfer papers on the quarterdeck. We’ll send the charge sheet and the evidence over by guard mail this afternoon.”

  “Aye, sir. Armed escort to the compound, sir?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary. He hasn’t been violent, and there’s no place else he can go.”

  “Aye, sir. Seaman Phelan! Cover—two. About—face. Forward—march.”

  The last he saw of the exec, he was standing by his desk, looking down at the grass.

  * * *

  Nolan stood over him while he threw his shit into the seabag. The chief took the bottles of cough syrup and his knife and wouldn’t give them back. He wanted a shower, his dungarees were sweated through, but he knew it was no good even asking. He got his whites on—he’d have to go through town to get to the compound—and lugged the duffel up two ladders to the main deck.

  Topside it was hot, as usual. The yeoman was waiting with a manila envelope. There were a lot of other people standing around on the quarterdeck, too, officers and civilians, and some trucks on the pier. He didn’t really see them. He was too mad. He realized too late how the fucking XO had outmaneuvered him. Got what he wanted, and given him nothing in return.

  He walked past men with guns without seeing them. He broke out sweating again as he realized Lenson had shafted him royal. He’d just be a number at headquarters. What if they had a computer, they might dig up the desertion charge. Even Long Beach wouldn’t be much better. Captain Golubovs hated druggies like poison.

  He edged around a truck, shifted the bag on his shoulders, muttering to himself, and trudged on.

  The pier was about a mile long and he was sweating through his jumper before he got a hundred yards. He was hot and his guts hurt. He hadn’t had anything all day. Not even the skin-pop, Nolan had barged in before he’d finished. His hand moved absently about before he realized he was out of cigarettes, too.

  When he was sure he was out of sight from the quarterdeck, he stopped and unslung the duffel, looking carefully around. A hungry-looking, dirty cat was watching him from a sliver of shadow by a bollard; that was all.

  He tried to pat it, but it retreated. “You, too,” he muttered. “Ain’t it a bitch.” Nobody cared. Not Denise, not the Navy, nobody. Self-pity flooded him.

  Well, if that’s the way they wanted it, Bernard Newekwe had ways to cope.

  He stretched the ache out of his back, looking around again, and at last took the Zippo out of his crackerjacks. He pulled the lighting element out and extracted the cotton reservoir.

  The tablet was damp with kerosene, but whole, and he rubbed his hand over his mouth and swallowed.

  He’d needed it bad and it hit fast, putting a spring in his step and lightening the load in his mind. He was almost to the head of the pier and thinking about a taxi when he saw a whaleboat at the landing. Four guys in dungarees were loading cans. He stopped to watch them for a minute. The side of the boat read DDG-2.

  “Hey,” he called.

  “Hey what,” said one of the guys. They were working hard, piling the cans in lickety-split.

  “Where you guys from?”

  They were from something called the Charles Adams. She was out in the anchorage, standing by for them to come back.

  He looked around. There was a dumpster a few steps away. It didn’t take him long to swagger over behind it, squat down, and dig out the papers they’d given him on the quarterdeck. And the lighter still worked.

  He ground the ashes into the concrete, shouldered the bag, and went back to where the boat was tied up. “Hey,” he said, making his voice plaintive, “I got a problem.”

  “Don’t we all,” said one of the guys. Phelan, looking at his arms, figured him for a boatswain third.

  “No, listen. I’m a corpsman, supposed to go to Long Beach, but she ain’t here. I don’t have no place to go. Tried that frigate, but they’re assholes, won’t even let me on the mess decks. I ain’t eaten all day.”

  They were squinting up at him now. “No shit? That’s tough titty. Missing your ship out here, you’re shit out of luck.”

  “You said it. Can you guys maybe take me out to your ship? Let me talk to your personnelman, see what they can do? I’d do the same for you.”

  “I don’t know,” said the boatswain. Phelan waited. At last, he said, “Oh, hell, can’t just leave you here. Come on, get in. We can probably use a corpsman.”

  Phelan stepped over the thwart and settled in, smiling benevolently at the sweating men. He was glad he wasn’t one of them. He bummed a cigarette and lit up as they shoved off. He was back in business. The world was rosy again.

  He figured something would turn up.

  31

  U.S.S. Audacity

  WHEN Gordon dropped his AWOL bag on the quarterdeck, they were waiting for him. Kearn, his face looking as if it had been twisted around a stick. Hunnicutt, the captain’s bland eyes shaded with the dislike that had become ever more evident since their confrontation during the storm.

  And three men he didn’t know. They were in civvies, two in light sport coats, the third in a lightweight suit, standing quietly in the shade of an awning. At each one’s leg, like a heeled dog, was a battered briefcase.

  He caught himself start to salute, stopped, and nodded to the petty officer instead. He crossed to Hunnicutt. “What’s going on, Cap’n?” he said slowly.

  As usual, it was Kearn who answered for him. “God damn it, where’ve you people been? We’ve been trying to get hold of you all day.”

  “We were on liberty. You know that, Lieutenant. We checked out with you.”

  “Yeah, but God damn it, you’re supposed to let us know where. I don’t believe it, fucking reservists…” His voice trailed off. “Anyway, get the hell over there; those people want to talk to you.”

  “Want us to stay, John?” asked Everett, behind him.

  “No, get the guys aboard. And see … hey, see if any mail came in while we were away.” He looked around, suddenly realizing that Audacity was the only minesweeper still in the nest. He pushed sweat off his forehead—the Gulf felt even hotter after Mombasa—and followed the sweep officer to the far side of the fantail.

  The civilians turned out to be from the Sta
tes. The oldest, a fiftyish, paunchy man with a graying beard, introduced himself as Dr. Rothman, from Indian Head. Gordon turned this over in his mind as he shook hands. Indian Head, Maryland, was the Explosive Ordnance Disposal Technology Center. The laboratory, engineering, and intelligence brains of the entire EOD branch.

  “Well, let’s get down to business,” said Rothman, picking up his briefcase. “There someplace we can talk?”

  Hunnicutt offered his stateroom. Rothman hesitated for a moment, looking at the others. When they nodded, so did he.

  * * *

  When they were all introduced and the coffee had been poured, Rothman lit a cigarette. He clicked the lighter open, shut, open, shut. He examined the door, then the overhead. Then said to Hunnicutt, “Ah, Commander, is this a secure space?”

  “Well—”

  “Maybe it would be best to have a guard? Outside the door?”

  “I can arrange that.”

  “And, if you don’t mind.” He made a little shooing motion with his hand at both Hunnicutt and Kearn. They took a moment to understand. Then the captain reddened, and the lieutenant went white. Rothman waited imperturbably. At last Hunnicutt muttered something, put his head down, and stalked toward the door.

  That left Gordon and the three civilians. Rothman took a couple of puffs and clicked the lighter as he examined him. “How’s things been for you boys out here?” he said at last.

  “All right.”

  “I read your message. On the KMB-9s.”

  Gordon nodded.

  “Unfortunately, they aren’t all that easy.”

  Gordon waited.

  “Ever work with Mark 36s?”

  “In Haiphong.”

  “Oh, you were on the demining?”

  “Yup.”

  “That’s good. Haiphong, eh? That’s very good.” Rothman turned the lighter in his fingers for a moment, then seemed to make some decision. He reached down for his briefcase, unlocked it, and laid a technical manual, a blue-covered report, and a green box the size of a Michener paperback on the captain’s table. He hitched his chair forward.

  “This is a top-secret briefing, Senior Chief, on an operation that we—the U.S.—are going to undertake two days from now. We’re going to go in and wipe out Abu Musa.”

  Gordon’s hands twitched before he could stop them. He stuffed them into his pockets—he was still in civvies—and nodded, to show he was listening.

  “Here’s a copy of the operation order. Times, insertion, signaling, and so forth. You’ll be inserted by helicopter. A night drop with full gear and rafts. Your men are jump-qualified—right?”

  “Right.”

  “You’ll have to clear a channel through a mine field. You won’t have much time to do it. The mines are Thirty-sixes.”

  “How do you know that?” Gordon asked him.

  “Mr. Hsiao?” Rothman said.

  “We got a defector,” said the second civilian. He looked Chinese, or part Chinese.

  “Do we know what mod?”

  “Eleven.”

  Gordon sucked in a little air. “That’s no dumb piece of ordnance.”

  “Thanks,” said the third. Gordon looked at him. Thin, colorless fellow in black-framed glasses.

  “Richard designed the trigger logic. So you know the mod eleven, Senior Chief?”

  “It’s a destructor-type mine. Usually air-dropped. With acoustic, pressure, and magnetic sensors, tied in with logic and a counting circuit. Smart as hell.”

  Rothman said, “Do you remember the render-safe procedure?”

  “Isn’t one,” said Gordon. “They’re too dangerous to tinker with. Got to destroy them in place.”

  “Right again. Unfortunately,” the senior scientist said, stubbing out his butt, “in this operation, they tell us, you can’t do that. That would alert the enemy and lose the advantage of surprise. Fortunately, Rick had a project going that might do the trick. We haven’t completed testing yet. But he put together a black box for you.”

  Gordon picked it up. It was welded aluminum, obviously waterproof, with a rubber-covered switch on the top and a peel-off sheet on the bottom. It was unmarked, and lighter than he’d expected. He put it back on the desk. “Not much explosive in there.”

  “Isn’t any.” The design engineer was talking now. “It’s all electronic. The mod eleven was our first all-digital mine. The logic circuitry, what tells it to explode, is actually a sixteen-bit computer. What this gadget does is inject a signal. The Arm Enable circuitry runs off a 74LS76 positive NAND gate, with a count-trigger pulse as part of the input. When you—”

  Rothman said gently, “Why don’t you boot up to system level for the Senior Chief, Rick.”

  “Sorry. What I mean is, this gives the mine an artificial Arm Inhibit signal. So it shouldn’t go off. The batteries in the gadget will run it about three hours in seventy-degree water.”

  Gordon examined it again. He turned it over and picked at the peel-off paper with a fingernail. “This stuff underneath, is it sticky underwater?”

  “Yes. Magnets would be better, but—”

  “Right. Where does it go on the mine?”

  “Over the smallest rear access plate. Align the long axis with fin number three.”

  “It’s in the technical documentation,” said Rothman. “The folder with the blue cover.”

  “What happens when the batteries go dead?”

  “The arming circuit reverts to normal functioning.”

  Gordon looked at it, and then at them again. He wondered, just for a moment, how far he could trust them. Not their loyalty, but their skill. Then he realized the question meant nothing. He wasn’t going to have any choice. “Okay,” he said. “I guess that’s clear. When do we go?”

  Rothman nodded at the third man, the one in the gray suit. Up to now, except for the remark about a defector, he’d sat quietly in the background. “Mr. Hsiao here will take you to the airport this afternoon.”

  “What? I thought you said—”

  “Tomorrow night, but that’s the drop. We have to get you and your men down south, to Iwo Jima—that’s where you’ll launch from. Get your gear together, we’ve got a plane at four.” Rothman clicked the lighter shut for the last time and dropped it into his briefcase. “Rick?”

  The second briefcase came open. Four more green boxes came out and lay, their spray-painted surfaces gleaming dully, beside the first one.

  “Any questions?” said Rothman, getting up.

  Gordon had several. Whether they’d tested these things on live mines. How you could tell if they weren’t working. Little things like that. But he knew the answer without asking: It’s in the documentation. He shook his head and got up.

  “Good luck,” said Rothman. His hand was warm and large and soft. “We’ll look forward to reading your message, after the action. Okay?”

  “Sure,” said Gordon, wondering already whether he would really get to write it.

  * * *

  He was carrying his duffel up the ladder when Kearn loomed at the top. The sweep officer pointed wordlessly off to the side of the quarterdeck.

  He followed the lieutenant’s back to the sweep gear. Then waited as Kearn, eyes narrowed, looked him up and down.

  “What’s going on, Senior? I see people walkin’ off my ship. But I don’t hear where they’re going.”

  “We’re going to clear some mines, Lieutenant.”

  “Yeah? Where?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Well,” said Kearn. He chewed his cigar for a moment, squinting out at the sunlit sea. “Think you’ll be coming back?”

  “I don’t know. They didn’t say. Just grab gear and go.”

  “Okay,” said Kearn again. Then he didn’t say anything, just looked around, then suddenly stuck out his hand. Gordon looked down at it, too surprised to react.

  “You don’t got to take it, Senior. After the way I been riding you. It’s my style. Too old to change it. But I just wanted to say—you fuc
kin’ Reserves done all right. Come back any time. That’s from Sapper Kearn.”

  “Okay, Sapper,” said Gordon. They shook hands, hard and straight, and when they turned, the rest of the men on deck were grinning back at them. “Awright, you bastards!” Kearn howled. “Grab their gear there, goddamn it, bear a hand and help your shipmates out!”

  * * *

  Hsiao stayed with them all the way to the airport, and sat with them in the terminal. Gordon didn’t wonder who he worked for. It was self-explanatory. He sat fidgeting for a time, then asked if he could make a phone call. Hsiao smiled and said he couldn’t.

  “Look, I’d like to call home. I haven’t been able to reach my wife since we got here.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  He thought about this for a while, then got up. He was halfway to the booth when the agent caught up with him. “I told you, no calls,” he muttered angrily, glancing around at the passing crowd: Pakistanis, Koreans, Europeans, all the hired faces and hands the oil wealth of the Gulf had bought.

  “Get in the booth.”

  “What?”

  “Get in here with me. So you can hear what I say. Otherwise, you got a fight on your hands, mister.”

  Hsiao grimaced.

  It was a friction fit for two men, and passersby looked quizzically at them as Gordon wedged the door shut. He listened to the buzz, calculating the time at home. Six hours difference—that would be about four in the morning—

  “Hello.” A sleepy voice. Ola.

  “Hi. It’s me.”

  “John?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Kuwait. Look, I don’t have much time. Got to catch a plane. But I haven’t heard from you for a while.” He thought about it for a moment. Then added, “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you getting the money?”