by David Poyer
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Map
Prologue
I: The Ship
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
II: The Sea
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
III: The Submarine
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
IV: The Incident
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
V: The Court
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
VI: The Afterimage
Epilogue
Other Books by David Poyer
Praise
About the Author
Copyright
Through forty years of twilight struggle
You balanced firmness with prudence
Readiness with restraint
And gave us, at last, victory
In America’s longest and most dangerous conflict.
This book is dedicated to all who served during the Cold War, 1948–1989,
To the spouses and friends who supported them,
But especially to the crews of USS Hobson, USS Evans,
USS Thresher, USS Scorpion, USS Belknap,
And all the others, from all the services,
Who gave their lives
For the defense of their country
And the triumph of democracy.
Acknowledgments
Ex nihilo nihil fit. For this book, I owe much to James Allen, David Bellamy, James R. Blandford, T. P. Cruser, Carol E. W. Edwards, Kelly Fisher, Frank and Amy Green, Paul Golubovs, Vince Goodrich, Lenore Hart, Milo Hyde, Robert Kelly, Robert Kerrigan, Lloyd Lighthart, Woody Miller, H. C. Mustin, Alan Poyer, Lin Poyer, Randy Wagner, George Witte, Patriots Point Naval and Maritime Museum, and many others who gave generously of their time to contribute or criticize. All errors and deficiencies are my own.
She was tired—that old ship. Her youth was where mine is—where yours is—you fellows who listen to this yarn; and what friend would throw your years and your weariness in your face? We didn’t grumble at her.… All this time of course we saw no fire.
—Joseph Conrad, Youth
Prologue
The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.
PAST the guard’s rigid back, the buttoned holster and tailored uniform, Lenson looked down the corridor. Humming and empty, lighted so brightly the fluorescents mirrored themselves in freshly waxed green tile, it tapered into distance like a Renaissance perspective. Beyond the window at its end were thousands of white crosses. In the dying day, their shadows stretched across the snowy slopes of Arlington Cemetery.
When the court of inquiry had first convened, all the guards had looked alike to him. When it was in session, they stood at parade rest in the rear of the hearing room, motionless as monuments. When the survivors were sequestered, they posted themselves at their doors. But by now, the fourth and last day, Dan had learned to distinguish two types: big and hard-looking, and small and even harder.
The gleaming rows of tile ended at his door. The holding room was carpeted in a government gray green that would never reveal dirt, nor ever look completely clean. It held an end table and three chairs in oak and red leather. The other two were empty. The air smelled like a grove of artificial lemons. A brass clock, engraved with the name of a cruiser scrapped before he was born, clicked cadence to his heartbeat in a stillness he’d heard only once before in his life, deep in a limestone cave.
He examined his hands, twisting the heavy gold ring till the Academy crest faced him. His shoulder prickled beneath the dressings. The air was growing chill. Or am I, he thought, only imagining that it grows cold, as I watch the slow coming of night?
When he cleared his throat, the marine turned his head from the distant crosses. From parade rest he came to attention. As he faced about, the doorway filled with six feet of service dress, garrison cap, precisely bent tie, three rows of ribbons, black Pentagon name tag, green fourragère. His eyes met the bulkhead three feet above Dan’s head. They held no friendliness, no deference, no admission of relationship beyond an acknowledgment of rank so formalized it bordered on insolence. He’d met more welcoming looks from behind chain-link fences.
“Is the ensign comfortable. Sir.”
“I could use a drink of water, if you don’t mind.”
The stare dropped, noted his arm, lifted again. “The ensign knows the sergeant can’t leave his post.”
“Look. The ensign has been burned. The ensign is on pain pills. The pain pills make the ensign thirsty.”
“Yes, sir,” said the marine. His face did not change. “If the ensign is sick, or wishes to take a piss, the sergeant can accompany him to attend the men’s can.”
“Never mind. I’ll wait. You think—look. You people, the guards I mean, you must talk on your breaks. What’s going on in there? Will they have a verdict tonight?”
“I can’t say. Sir. Usually they hold court-martials over at the Annex. Or at CINC headquarters. Never seen one here before.”
When Dan said nothing more, the marine waited, then about-faced again. After 1.5 seconds at attention, he snapped back to parade rest.
Dan contemplated the rigid back until his attention wandered. He’d gulped one of the white pills at 1600 and found it hard to concentrate. He looked at the table. Three magazines lay squared across it. Leatherneck. Proceedings of the Naval Institute. Annual Report of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He’d read them all twice. His cap lay cocked across the corner, its cover yellow in the artificial brilliance, the bill smudged where his fingers grasped it to take it off.
He crossed his legs again, the other way, and his eyes followed the crease of service dress blue trousers to the toe of his shoe. He’d polished them that morning at the Marriott, Susan still asleep. With one arm, it was a slow, painful process that he nevertheless cherished for its familiarity. For the achievement of a small perfection. As the layers smoothed under his blackened fingers, his image emerged as from a calming pool: long, pale face, short sandy hair, gray eyes. A wide mouth that smiled only reluctantly. When he was on the stand, he’d glanced down at them sometimes, reassuring himself.
He’d bought this pair the day he was commissioned. Now, contemplating them with the intense attention lent by a morphine derivative, he saw that beneath the gloss they were scuffed and cracked. They’d stood too many watches, absorbed too much saltwater, slammed into too many knee-knockers on Ryan.
Ryan. Always his thoughts came back to her. Relic of war, bride and harlot, first loved of so many in the strength of their youth; and he’d cursed and loved her, too.
He closed his eyes, and shivered.
If only he could do it over. Climb her gangway again for the first time, the future gleaming like his Academy-issue bars. Could cast off, clear of the land and its complications, ambiguities, encumbrances. Could cling to the starboard rail as a green comber boarded, as chunks of brash ic
e the size of scuttlebutts ground frozen paint off steel.…
Above seventy degrees north everything had been so clear. Unequivocal as a wind like a snowman’s fist, driving a man’s breath back into his throat. Concrete as a fire-pump fitting, brass smooth and yellow as machined gold. Unquestionable as a hard right rudder, when a surfaced submarine looms from a midnight swirl of fog.
He’d boarded her like a boy going to his first woman. He’d gone to her in nervous eagerness, with secret dreams and secret doubt, and, like a woman, she’d fulfilled some and shattered others.
And then, outlined in fire, she’d abandoned them all.
His head sagged, and his good hand came up, shaking, to his face. From beneath the soothing of the drug, anger and regret rose like the slow loft of the ocean-dominating moon.
“What else could we have done?” he whispered.
The fading light crept across the tiles, retreating pace by pace as outside the day dimmed to night.
Alone in the ticking stillness, he stared down into a gray-green shimmer of tears.
It parted before his eyes, and became the sea.
I
THE SHIP
1
Newport, Rhode Island
THIRTY feet below him the gray-green sea surged restlessly between splintered oak and painted steel. The water was murky, flecked with harbor scum. But at its surface, a thin slick of oil sliced the sunlight of a clear December morning into dancing rainbows.
Dan leaned forward, tranced by the mobile light. In that play of chance reflection, of ever-changing form, one might see suddenly and with total clarity anything, past or future, real or imagined. Might see his own face, as it would be at the hour of death.
But only for a moment, even as it, too, shattered again into that eternal dancing brilliance.
A diesel droned into life somewhere aft, and he came back to himself. Shivering in a raw wind off the Narragansett, he propped his elbows on the splinter shield, looking down the length of a Gearing-class destroyer, hull number 768, as she lay starboard side to Pier 2, U.S. Naval Base, Newport, Rhode Island.
It reminded him of backstage, the last minutes before the curtain rises. Sailors streamed up the gangway, some in dungarees, last-minute crates of frozen stores over their shoulders, a few still in liberty blues, toting suitcases and seabags. A forlorn-looking group of women and kids milled around at the foot of the pier. Three little girls waved to a petty officer, who blew a kiss from the stern. Engineers hauled cables and steam lines clear of the connection boxes. Seamen were unfrapping the mooring lines, triple strands of dirty nylon, as thick as a man’s wrist.
“Excuse me, Ensign.”
He turned, then moved quickly aside for a middle-aged civilian in a windbreaker, a bullhorn under his arm. A slight lieutenant behind him shot Dan a glance. He moved farther aft, conscious of his newness, of being in the way.
The pilot glanced down at the ruffled surface, the dancing light. His eyes narrowed. “Wind’s picking up,” he said. “Will he want to take her out himself?”
“Always does,” said the lieutenant.
A tug coasted into position fifty yards off the port side. On the forecastle, seamen in ragged dungarees rearranged long rows of flemished line. Dan craned over the splinter shield. A heavy figure in blues was directing them, bare-headed, bald-headed, the points of his open collar fluttering in the wind. His shout floated above the rumble of engines. “Don’t stand on it, Connolly, you shithead! You’re gonna be screwed, blued, and tattooed, one of them fuckin’ lines pulls you through a chock!”
A swarthy, broad officer with his cap tilted back strolled out of the pilothouse. Gold flashed above gray eyebrows. His eyes measured and then moved past Lenson, dismissing him in favor of the bay, the tugs, the linehandlers. A different kind of chill came onto the wing with him, a crisp aura of business. An enlisted man in a peacoat followed him, adjusting a sound-powered telephone. The commander returned the lieutenant’s salute.
“We ready to cast off, Mr. Norden?”
“Aye, Captain. All departments report ready to get under way.”
“Current?”
“Max ebb in an hour, sir.”
“Mr. Kerrigan, how are you this fine morning?”
“Fine, Captain. Taking her out yourself?”
“That’s right, but it’s nice to see you all the same. Grab some coffee and enjoy the show. Okay, Rich, let’s go to sea.”
“Fo’c’sle and fantail, single up all lines. Engine room, bridge; ring up maneuvering, stand by to answer all bells,” said the lieutenant.
The talker dipped his mouth toward the phone, relaying the orders. Dan edged farther aft. Ahead, below, aft, forward, the ship was readying herself to move. The bridge was filling with crewmen and officers, clamping on headsets, adjusting binoculars, bending over charts and bearing circles. Maybe I should leave, he thought. But he didn’t. He decided he’d stay till somebody ordered him below.
“Fo’c’sle and fantail report, all lines singled up, sir. Engine room answers, standing by to answer all bells.”
“Very well,” said the lieutenant. His voice was pitched just loudly enough to carry. He looked at the captain, who had clamped a pipe between his teeth. The older man nodded. “Right hard rudder. Take in lines one through five.”
On decks below, seamen bent in unison. Six-inch samson braid slithered in through the bullnose, dripping where it had kissed the oily water.
“Stand by on six,” muttered the captain. “You got wind, too. Ahead a touch on your port shaft.”
A narrow strip of dirty water appeared between the bow and the pier. “Port engine ahead one-third,” shouted the lieutenant into the pilothouse. Someone repeated it. A bell pinged. “Engine room answers, port ahead one-third.”
“That’s enough.”
“All stop,” shouted the lieutenant.
“All stop, aye! Engine room answers all stop.”
“Take in six.”
“Take in six.… Fo’c’sle, fantail report all lines taken in.”
“Very well. Rudder amidships, all ahead one-third. Bos’n, shift colors; give me one long blast.”
Through the window, he watched the helmsman flip the wheel into a blur. “Rudder midships, aye … my rudder is amidships!”
The whistle let loose above them with a single note so vast thought ceased to exist. Dan had to cover his ears. No one else did. When it cut off, its echo came back from the hulls of ships and the walls of warehouses and barracks and then the hills rising beyond the piers. On the bow, a sailor hauled down the jack and tucked it under his arm.
The strip of dirty green widened between the steel sheer and the pilings, splintered and bent by generations of destroyermen. The pilot raised the bullhorn. “Sixty-six, pick me up to starboard,” he said across the forecastle. Lenson caught the chief’s face below, square, pallid, lifted to the voice. He looked angry. The tug honked like a locomotive and dug her stern into the water, swinging right, disappearing from sight behind the superstructure.
“All ahead two-thirds. Left ten.”
“Left ten!”
“Left ten, aye. Rudder is left ten degrees, no course given.”
Ping. Ping. “Engine room answers, all engines ahead two-thirds.”
Ryan began swinging, massively, like a huge, heavy, finely hinged door. Dan had a sense less of acceleration than of the parting drift of continents. A sudden burst of waving came from the pier, and thin, barely audible cries of farewell. He searched the receding faces, suddenly conscious of departure.
Susan had been incredulous when he called to tell her he was getting under way today. Incredulous, then instantly furious. He remembered anxiously how she’d said, in that level detached tone he knew meant the worst, that if he left her to have this baby alone, he’d regret it. But he’d explained, and apologized, and at last she’d said she’d try to make it down to see him off. But the pier was too distant to make anyone out now, and all the binoculars seemed to be in use. He lift
ed his arm self-consciously, and, after a moment, let it drop. “Good-bye, Betts,” he whispered.
The lieutenant gave the helmsman his first course to steer. They moved past the gull gray citadels of tenders, the sleek black shark backs of submarines, the squat, chuffing tugs hove to off the piers like cops watching a parade. The channel out centered itself between the hills, flanked by rocky islets. Tug 66 came back into view, close aboard, edging in. Black smoke vomited suddenly from its stack. The hydrocarbon stink rasped his throat before the wind whipped it landward.
“Attention to port,” crackled the announcing system. A boatswain’s pipe shrilled. From the corner of his eye, he gauged the men on the forecastle. They straightened wearily, formed a ragged line, hands thrust into the pockets of their jackets. Only two bothered to salute.
The pilot went below, escorted by the boatswain. The tug cast off and dropped astern as the destroyer gathered speed. Her jackstaff bisected the circle of the world into equal halves, the sea, the hills. Then it wheeled slowly to face the channel out. “All ahead standard,” the lieutenant shouted into the pilothouse. The lee helmsman repeated it in a bored tone. Astern, the screw wash scummed upward in bubbling roils, lighter than the rest of the bay. As Ryan surged forward, two wave trains formed behind her, sweeping outward toward the following shore. Her cutwater sliced the surface open with a hiss, shattering the glittering lay of morning sun into a mile-wide arrowhead of liquid topaz. A signal light clacked rapidly from the deck above.
And all at once, Dan Lenson found himself gripping the rail, sucking in icy air, wanting to shout aloud in glee and glory. He’d made it. He’d trained for four years for this. He’d pledged his youth, his ambition, and, if need be, his life.
And here you are, he thought. Graduation, commissioning, marriage, and now a kid on the way.
The exultation gave way instantly to anxiety.
It was the most enduring legacy of his childhood. When he was eight, his father had lost his place on the police force. Dan and his brothers had grown up dreading Vic Lenson’s drunken anger. He’d escaped first into reading and sports, then discovered a more permanent deliverance: the Navy.
