The Circle

by David Poyer

  “Chief. Look, we just got a message topside—”

  “Refuelling at seventeen thirty. Station Two. The boys are on it.”

  “Well, okay.” Bloch seemed always to be either ahead of or behind him, but never quite with him. He glanced at his watch. They had an hour yet before fueling would be called away.

  “Siddown, sir. Care for a King Edward?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Coffee? Hey! Gigolo! Pump the ensign some java.”

  The messman slid Dan a cup of joe. He nutated it in the mug, noting the film it left behind, like bunker fuel. It tasted like Bloch had been putting out his cigars in it. He watched the chief work for a few minutes. He finished one of the evaluations, sighed heavily, and reached for the next.

  “When are you going to check the rig, Chief?”

  Bloch glanced at him under his brows. He sighed again, shuffled the papers together, and rose. He stuck the cigar in his mouth and pulled on his shirt. Together, they went up on deck.

  The formation had turned west while he was below. Ryan had dropped behind the oiler and was following its broad stern around in the turn. They stood on the Ol level and watched the replenishment team lay out the gear on the forecastle. Rambaugh went from point to point along the distance line, attaching little flashlights. He tested each one, replacing a battery or a bulb here and there.

  “Calmer today than ‘twas last time we did this,” said Bloch, waving the butt of the stogie at five-foot swells.

  “I hope it goes better than last time.”

  The chief leaned against the rail and puffed smoke into the wind. Dan caught a whiff of it, rank as smoldering rope. “You know, sir—”

  “What’s that?”

  “You don’t need me on deck. Popeye’s been refueling damn near as long as I have. He knows the business. So does Ikey. Least, he should.”

  “Well, I guess that’s relative, Chief. They don’t seem to need me around, either, a lot of the time, but here I am.”

  Bloch stared at him. “Hey,” he said. “Good comeback” He slapped Dan on the shoulder. He felt as if he’d been knighted. “Well, what do you say we both just stand around and enjoy the scenery, long as they’re paying us to. Better than that fuckin’ paperwork. Remember when I was a seaman, on the Unholy Toledo, I don’t think the division chief could even write. Now it’s more like recruiting duty every year. I guess they’ll end up makin’ us all titless Waves.”

  Replenishment stations went as the sky edged toward sunset. The sun hurled its dying brilliance along a vast corridor of scarlet cloud, carpeting the sea with rose like a triumphal avenue. High above arched streaks of thin golden cirrus. The men trooped aft for life jackets. Bloch threw his on, buckled the top snap hook, but let the bottom dangle. He saw Lenson’s look and sighed. He buckled the bottom and pulled his belly up with both hands and tucked the loose tie-tie ends into his pants.

  They closed slowly on the oiler. Dan, glancing aft, saw that the line handlers were on station, passing jokes and farts, cuffing and shoving each other. Pettus stalked by them and the grab-assing stopped.

  “That Pettus, he’ll make a good petty officer, he gets some time in.”

  “He’s kind of got a chip on his shoulder, seems to me.”

  “It’s not easy, being a new third. You got to leave your pals behind. Maynard’s going to do all right.”

  “Maynard?”

  “Yeah, he goes by Martin, but that’s his middle name. Maynard Martin Pettus.”

  As Ryan closed, the rounded stern of the oiler, outlined black against red sky, looked familiar, like the corner gas station. The gunner’s mates waited, line guns lowered. Dan glanced up at the bridge. Trachsler was standing beside the alidade, calling out rudder and engine commands. He felt a twinge of jealousy. It would be a long time before he got to shoot an approach.

  When Ryan slid into the notch, the guns popped and two lines came sailing across. One plunged incontinently downward and was swept off in the wake. The other dropped across the signal bridge. Greenwald came running back with it. Isaacs passed it through the block and the line handlers hauled away. In a few minutes, the span wire was across and fast and the hose was creeping down it toward them. The line handlers chantied out in rhythm, hauling it down. They didn’t sound depressed. Well, a couple weeks exercise, a week in Spain, and they’d be headed home. He felt better, too, thinking about it.

  “Start pumping,” Isaacs shouted. The talker muttered into his mouthpiece. The hose began throbbing, the ship sucking black oil like a whale calf at its mother’s teat. Dan imagined her sinking under his feet. This would be a long replenishment. They’d burned a lot of fuel screwing around up north.

  He stood in the sea wind and thought about home, about Susan, about holding her again. For a little while, he was almost happy.

  * * *

  THEY were still fueling after dark dropped a sable curtain over the sea. The stars gleamed steady and cold between the clouds. Below them the distance line was a swaying catenary of lights, glittering between the mated ships. Dan bent his wrist under the working floods. They had to have the ship darkened by eight, when the exercise began.

  At that moment, the phone talker cried, “Cease pumping. Refueling complete.”

  The signalman gestured with lighted wands. The throbbing ceased. Men ran about the decks opposite. Dan leaned over the rail, looking aft toward the rig. As the retrieving wire tightened, Isaacs separated the hose. A few gallons of oil splashed out on the deck, then cut off. Hardin bent with a rag and swabbed busily as the hose retreated up the span wire.

  “Going nice,” he said to the chief. Bloch nodded, Roosevelting an unlighted stogie between his teeth.

  The span was now the only connection between the ships. Above them Trachsler shouted into the pilothouse. Isaacs stepped up to the wire and pulled at the cotter pin.

  A vibrating roar came from the stacks and Ryan began to gather speed. Isaacs yanked at the pin again, then stepped back and looked at it uncertainly.

  Dan stiffened and glanced at the bridge. The conning officer was no longer in sight.

  “Go tell ’em,” said Bloch. He was already swinging his heavy body over the rail.

  Dan was halfway up the ladder when Evlin came out. He shouted, “Swing back in, Al! It’s hung up; it’s still attached!”

  Evlin’s eyes widened. He turned and yelled into the bridge. Dan reversed himself and almost fell down the ladder. The ship began to heel.

  Below, at the station, he saw Bloch at the pelican hook. The chief boatswain waved the others back, then stepped forward of the rigid span wire. He lifted a hammer and brought it down, once, twice.

  At the third blow, the heavy steel bail flicked open. Dan couldn’t see how it happened, but suddenly Bloch was staggering back, clawing at his head. The hammer clanged against the bulkhead. The span wire leapt out into space, coiled itself, and ripped down into the sea.

  For a frozen moment, they all—he from the ladder, the men from the deck, Trachsler and Packer and Evlin from the bridge—stared down at the fallen figure in dirty khakis.

  * * *

  HE threw the bloody hammer back into the toolbox with a clatter and looked around at the men. The corpsman had taken Bloch below. His skull was fractured. He was dead. Dan looked away from Isaacs’s wet eyes, his trembling hands.

  “Petty Officer Rambaugh, you’re acting chief as of now.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Secure from unrep detail. Get this all policed up.”

  The men saluted. He saluted back. There was something final in the gesture.

  The weapons officer and the exec were waiting for him in the breaker. “Everything secured?” asked Norden.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s go below,” said Bryce grimly. “In my cabin.”

  * * *

  “GENTLEMEN, I was not present at this latest fiasco. This time, it wasn’t just the usual substandard performance. This time we lost a man. Mr. Lenson. In your opi
nion, was Chief Bloch in full command of himself this evening?”

  The question took him by surprise. He stammered, “Bloch, sir? He was cold sober.”

  “Sober, eh?” said Bryce. He lighted a cigarette deliberately. “‘Cold sober.’ Why did that pop into your head, Dan? That you assumed I meant he was drunk?”

  “Sir, I didn’t mean that the way it came out. I meant only that he was in full command of himself.”

  “What about your first-class? The Negro boy, Isaacs?”

  “He was … acting kind of slow, sir, but I have no reason to believe that he was under any undue influence.”

  “Then why’d you give Popeye the division?” asked Norden, speaking for the first time. “Rather than Ikey? He’s next senior.”

  “Sir, I can only … I can only say I don’t have full confidence in Petty Officer Isaacs’s professional ability. That’s not to say I think he’s intoxicated or drugged, or in any other way … or anything else. Or that he was responsible for the accident. Rambaugh just seems to have more on the ball.”

  Bryce squinted thoughtfully, fiddling with a pencil. When Dan stopped he grunted, “Rich, you agree with that?”

  “I’ll back up my division officer, yes, sir.”

  “I see. Well, the Navy doesn’t work that way, gentlemen. Can’t have a second-class bossing a first. Only one way to clear this up. Get Isaacs up here.”

  “Now, sir?”

  Bryce nodded curtly. After a moment, Norden reached for the phone.

  When Isaacs came in, he was plainly terrified. Tears gleamed on his cheeks. His hands twisted his work gloves. “Stand over there,” said Bryce, distaste in his voice. “You’ve got oil on your boots, boy, it’s getting on my carpet.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “What happened on Station Two, Isaacs?”

  “Sir, the ship, she tried to pull away too soon. Got a strain on the span wire. The cotter pin bound up. I couldn’t get it free with the pliers. Chief Bloch, he come down and pushed me off, started hammering on it to free it up. That’s what I was going to do, sir. When it let go, the bail snapped up and knocked the hammer into his face.”

  “Isaacs, are you drunk?”

  The petty officer gaped at him. “No, sir, no sir, haven’t had nothing to drink for a long time.”

  “Smell his breath,” said Bryce. Dan sat still. Norden, his eyes on the exec, got up slowly.

  “I don’t smell anything, Commander.”

  “Get out of the way.” Bryce put his face close to the black man’s. “Bend down here. I smell it! I smell whiskey. This man is drunk.”

  Dan began to tremble, too. They were destroying Isaacs. And he’d started it, by doubting his fitness to take over the division. He got up and stood next to the XO. His nostrils caught the reek of fuel oil and sweat. That was all. “Sir, I don’t smell anything.”

  “Well, I do,” said Bryce. He picked up the phone. “Bridge? XO here. Send the master-at-arms to my cabin. With the keys to the supply locker.”

  Lenson opened his mouth to protest, but Norden was already speaking. “Sir, wait a minute. I think you’re jumping to—”

  “That’s enough out of you,” said Bryce. Suddenly he was shouting. “You understand me? Enough! I’m sick of coddling drunks and hopheads in your department. I’ve been through this with Lenson and I’ve had a bellyful. You’re holding a shipwide search tonight. All the weapons spaces. Berthing compartments, heads, mess decks, everywhere. I told you we were riding for a fall when you wanted me to recommend Isaacs for first class. And I was right. Yes! Come in!”

  Chief Hopper slid in, a fat, overage clerk with a fistful of keys. “Lock this man up,” said Bryce. Hopper peered around at the officers. “Him! Isaacs! Get him out of my sight.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Come on, Ikey.”

  The first-class lifted a shaking hand. For a moment it seemed he might beg, or protest. Then Dan saw his eyes drop, his shoulders wilt.

  When he staggered out, Bryce collapsed into his chair. “Okay, that’s taken care of. Now, this search. I want all petty officers in the search party. Fore and aft. Open every locker. Use flashlights in the overheads.”

  Norden’s face was pallid. “Sir, I have to say, I think—”

  “Do me a favor, Rich. Shut up, get out, and do as you’re told. Forget your great-grandfather’s brilliant career. Start worrying about yours. You and Evlin’ve fucked up my ship pretty goddamn thoroughly. Now we’re gonna do it my way. I want a report by midnight.”

  “Come on, Dan,” said Norden. He pulled at Lenson’s arm. “It’s no good. Come on.”

  Dan felt it, but he couldn’t move. He was straining forward, his mind blank, staring at the executive officer. So this is the way it is in the Navy, a voice in his head sneered. Lassard’s voice. This is how it is on Ryan, man. Somebody dies, somebody has to be crucified. You gonna change that, Ensign? He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. No, that was wrong. He wanted to kill Bryce. “Wait,” he said. He felt as if he was choking. “This isn’t right.”

  “Get out, Lenson. Take him out, Lieutenant!”

  Only the last shred of self-control, and Norden’s fingers digging into his shoulder, let him turn away at last.

  * * *

  THE search party reassembled at ten minutes to midnight in the wardroom. Seven chiefs and petty officers, the four officers in the department, and the chief corpsman.

  The master-at-arms, a pistol awkward on his hip, stood guarding the table. On it were three opened packs of cigarettes, two sandwich bags of marijuana, a half-empty pint of Seagram’s Seven Crown, two wads of bills with rubber bands around them, two switchblade knives, a pot-metal starting pistol, and an assortment of pills and capsules in plastic bottles. Each item had a tag on it. Where it was found, whose locker, whose space.

  The funny thing is, Dan thought in the frozen, waiting silence, not one tag had William T. Lassard’s name on it. Not one had the name of any of the kinnicks.

  They stood waiting uneasily, their bodies moving slightly with the sway of the deck.

  At midnight, the door opened and the captain came in.

  21

  “WELL,” said the sarcastic voice in the darkness. “Here he is at last, the late Dan Lenson.”

  “Lay off, Mark. I got enough trouble without you in my face.”

  “Tough shit. I’ve had it up to here standing my watches and yours, too.”

  Dan stared around, trying to conjure some hint of outline out of blackness. The bridge was darker than he’d ever seen it before. He was exhausted. But the familiar weariness of missed sleep bothered him less than the sick feeling he’d taken away from the wardroom.

  James Packer hadn’t ranted. His face didn’t give much away. But they could see how terribly disappointed he was in them. And that hurt more.

  Silver clicked on the light over the chart table. Dim at best, it had now been covered with paper till only a pink glow penetrated. Dan’s formation diagram was taped onto the chart. He struggled to concentrate as the jaygee said, “Formation’s on course zero-one-zero, making twenty knots. Kennedy’s the guide, bearing zero-six-five degrees true, range three thousand yards. I’m on station, near as we can tell without radar. The sea’s three to four feet. Wind’s variable from the west. Radar silence and dimmed lighting in effect.”

  “What have we been doing?”

  “Mostly just maintaining screen station. Kennedy launched aircraft around twenty-three hundred. We were ordered to plane guard. I expect when she recovers, they’ll want us back. The launch course was two-five-zero. Internal to the ship, we have three boilers on the line, one, two, and four. The plant’s split; superheat temperature’s eight hundred and fifty; both generators are on the line. Max speed is thirty knots. OOD has the deck and the conn. The captain’s in his sea cabin. Any questions?”

  “Did you write up the log?”

  “A-firma-titty. Oh, and allow some extra time on speed changes. Main control’s got some glitch they’re checking out.”
<
br />   “Okay, shit, I got it.”

  He sipped at the coffee he’d brought up with him as he groped toward the radar. The all-revealing circle was dark. He brought his head back up, feeling stupid, and set his binoculars by feel. The carrier should be to starboard. He groped till he felt cold Plexiglas smoothness. The darkness was so solid, it made no difference whether his eyes were open or closed.

  “Dan? That you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You oriented yet?”

  “Uh, almost.” His penlight cast a russet oval over two square feet of deck. “What you want me to do?”

  “Well, principally stay alert for bearing changes. Have you picked up the guide yet?”

  “No. Where is she?”

  “Mark should have showed you before he left. Look about zero-five-five relative. You can see it easier without the window in the way.”

  He went out on the starboard wing and tipped up the alidade, then remembered it was fogged. Also that was degrees true, and Evlin had given him relative. He steadied his binoculars on the rail. A gelid breeze streamed past from straight ahead. Its invisible pressure felt eerie against his cheek. He could see nothing of the sea, and the sky was so lightless his retina formed inchoate coruscating patches that floated downward as he blinked. Being buried must be like this, he thought. Like being stuffed into a coffin and covered with cold powdered carbon.

  Deprived of sight, his imagination supplied images. Bloch’s bloody head against the oily deck. Isaacs’s terrified tears. The expressionless tightness of the captain’s mouth. One by one, they flashed up, then vanished, sucked back into the dark.

  He shuddered. He’d never wanted to kill before. But Bryce deserved it. He threatened. He lied. Used helpless men as scapegoats.

  But … they’d found the whiskey in Isaacs’s locker. And they’d found drugs, a lot of them, in a lot of lockers, though the individual caches were small. The only thing he still didn’t understand was how Lassard had come off clean.