China Sea

by David Poyer

  Beneath them, a worn maroon leatherette photo holder. Engelhart opened it and said, “Christ.” The album trembled in his hands for a moment, and then he touched one of the celluloid pockets with the nail of his thumb and flipped it over to the next, then held it up so that they all could see.

  There were four photos of women and one that had been taken in the sonar dome.

  Dan took a deep shaky breath and held it. He looked around at the others, at their varying reactions: some ashen, others flushed, hands to their mouths or faces.

  “Now we know why we never had any leads or any fingerprints,” he said softly. “Why our investigations never went anywhere. Why we were locking up people who didn’t have anything to do with it.

  “Chief Compline, report to the bridge. Tell Lieutenant Doolan you are relieving Chief Mellows, that I want to see him ASAP about master-at-arms business in the supply passageway. Once Marsh leaves, tell Mr. Doolan to send his two most trustworthy gunner’s mates, armed, down to the port fan room as soon as possible.”

  “I hope you thought this through, Cap’n,” said Engelhart. The warrant flipped the folder closed and dropped it back into the box. He wiped his hands on his trou. “Marsh has got a lot of admirers. Among the new guys, mostly, but a lot of the Gaddis original flavors, too. I been in for thirty-two years, and I’ve never seen a ship this close to blowing, not even in Vietnam.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that since about 0400, Ben.” Dan beckoned to him and to the two masters-at-arms. They left the chiefs’ quarters and headed for the supply corridor.

  What he was considering was illegal, of course. He had no power to try capital crimes. But he also had no idea how much longer they would be at sea. Only ruthless and instant action would stave off the total disintegration of the crew.

  He would adhere as closely as he could to the forms. But if USS Gaddis sailed now beyond the law, she could never sail so far as to be beyond justice.

  * * *

  THE special court-martial met at 1400 in the wardroom. As the convening authority, Dan could not sit on it, nor did he attempt to direct or influence the proceedings in any way. Doolan was the president. The members were Compline, Zabounian, and Colosimo. Chief Warrant Officer Engelhart acted as counsel for the defense. Chief Sansone served as the recording secretary. The charge was murder. Dan had expected a protest from some of the members, as to the court’s legality, but none came. They seemed to have no compunction about rendering judgment in the case at hand without benefit of attorneys, JAG officers, trial counsel, or any other expert advisers. The proceedings took an hour and a half.

  * * *

  DAN read the record of the trial in his cabin, with Doolan, Sansone, and Mellows before him. The chief was handcuffed, his ankles shackled. Dan asked Mellows if he had any complaints about the way he had been treated. He shook his bald head wordlessly.

  “Chief Mellows, I convened a special court aboard Gaddis because I do not feel we can hold this matter for a shoreside court. If my judgment is wrong I will have to meet any consequences.

  “That court has found you guilty of murder. The sentence under Article 118 of the Uniform Code, aggravated by Clause One, which is premeditation, is death. Do you have any statement to make?”

  Dan had expected Mellows to protest what was in effect a drumhead court, to ask for a stay or postponement until the proceedings could be reviewed. But Mellows said nothing about this. Instead he shook his shoulders and said, “Where’s Mr. Juskoviac?”

  “The exec is not part of these proceedings.”

  “He should be. He’d have spoken up for me. I’d like to get these handcuffs off.”

  “Can’t. You’re big enough to take any two of us.” Dan paused. “Why did you do it, Marsh?”

  Mellows didn’t seem inclined to talk. He glanced toward Dan’s porthole. “Who cares? Why should I say anything?”

  “Because I have to approve the sentence. Do you admit killing the women whose photos we found in your locker and Seaman Vorenkamp, attacking the girl on Dahakit Atoll, and trying to attack Mrs. Wedlake last night?”

  “You found the pictures, sir. You don’t need me to admit anything.”

  Dan looked away, so he didn’t have to meet Mellows’s eyes. The truly disturbing thing was that this was exactly the same Marsh Mellows Dan had known from the day he stepped aboard USS Gaddis. He had the same bluff cheerfulness, the same hearty self-confidence he’d had at mast on the bridge, briefing Dan on the state of the crew’s morale, or at any of the other hundreds of times he and the senior enlisted adviser had seen each other in the past three months. Dan coughed into his fist and looked up again to the condescending gaze that met his without flinch or evasion.

  “All right, we’ll take that as a confession. And you won’t discuss your reasons.”

  “Would it help any?”

  “I can’t tell you that till I hear it. But we’re shipmates. Don’t we owe each other the truth?”

  The J-phone chose that moment to go off. Dan turned away and answered it, listened to the OOD’s report of a crossing contact, and said, “Very well. Let me know if it comes within five thousand yards,” then hung up and turned back to the matter at hand. “Well, Chief?”

  “Why did I do it. Well, at first, because I had a mission.”

  “A mission.”

  “Yeah. To protect the young sailors from the suckoff queens that hang around you when you go into New York. That was the first one, Times Square.”

  “Go on.” Dan flicked his eyes to see that Compline had perched himself on the side settee and was jotting notes. “You said ‘at first.’”

  “Right. Then in Philly, one came up and grabbed my cock. You know how they do.”

  “‘They’ being prostitutes.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Who were these women? Did you know their names?”

  “Never asked. They were just whores.”

  “Why specifically prostitutes?”

  “Well, it wasn’t, later. Like when Vorenkamp came on to me. And the little bitch on the island. But I don’t think anyone’s going to miss any of them.”

  The cabin was quiet except for the steady rush of the sea. Dan held Mellows’s gaze for a moment, then had to look back at the documents. His fingers were trembling. He said, “Chief, I believe each of us is completely and totally responsible for what he does. There can be predisposing circumstances. I can see cutting slack for that at times. But we’re not machines, or robots. Unless we’re totally insane, we are making the decisions. And I don’t think a man who can carry out his duties as competently as you have can be called crazy. You knew what you did was murder and that it was wrong.”

  “I don’t have any regrets, sir, if that’s what you’re trying to get at.” Mellows held Dan’s gaze.

  Dan swallowed something in his throat and tried to harden his voice. “Very well. I will proceed to sentencing.

  “The Manual for Courts-Martial of the United States normally limits the power of a commanding officer at sea. He cannot award capital punishment, even if the crime is proven and the prescribed punishment is death. However, this ship is no longer operating within the limits of the Uniform Code of Military Justice or of the laws of the United States. It is obvious from repeated failures to respond to requests for orders, guidance, and logistical support that we are no longer acknowledged as a U.S.-flag warship.

  “But even pirates, by definition outside the law, historically had law among themselves. If we are outside a formal system of justice, a more ancient code prevails: the code of judgment by one’s peers, the right of self-defense, both of the individual and of the group, and the duty of those in command to maintain order and punish wrongdoing regardless of the presence or absence of higher authority.

  “Though I have no written orders as CO of this ship, I am the senior officer present and acknowledged as the de facto commanding officer by the crew, facing a situation of the most serious and overwhelming necessity. A hundred years ago, w
hen Navy ships sailed independently, the Articles of War gave commanders the power of life and death over their crews. That same circumstance applies now aboard Gaddis. I therefore approve this sentence, and in view of the ship’s danger, both external and from within, I see no reason to postpone its execution.

  “Chief Mellows, I hereby approve the findings of the court and, in accordance with the customs and traditions of the sea, order you to be hanged by the neck until dead at sunrise tomorrow.” He signed two papers on the clipboard, flipped it closed, and handed it to Sansone. “God have mercy on your soul. Dismissed; return him to the brig.”

  “A-bout face.” Mellows paled at last, started to protest, but was jerked around and hustled out none too gently by his escorts.

  “Mr. Doolan, stand by for a moment,” Dan said as the weapons officer made as if to follow. “One last thing. I want you to issue side arms to all officers, chiefs, and first-class petty officers. Hold a familiarization firing on the fantail this evening. Put the word out it’s to prepare to repel boarders.”

  He caught the looks Sansone and Doolan gave each other, the way the boilerman puckered his lips to in a noiseless whistle.

  “You really want to turn the ship into an armed camp, sir?”

  “It is an armed camp, Chick. Since Pistolesi brought that booze aboard and started them thinking about loot. I damn near got my throat cut before the storm. And then there’s Mrs. Wedlake. I can think of a whole lot of bad things that can happen with guys who think they’re out of reach of the law. I want double guards on Mellows tonight, in case someone takes it into his head to break him out. Not the masters-at-arms; I don’t want them guarding their boss. I want us all to keep a real close watch on Bobbie, too.”

  “He’s probably right there, Mr. Doolan,” Sansone said. “I hear the guys talking. We’ve got some mad dogs aboard right now I wouldn’t put a damn thing past them, from rape to taking the ship over.”

  Chick nodded. “All right, I’ll issue pistols and two mags of hardball each, as we report to the fantail. No point mentioning it before then.”

  “Now we’re thinking along the same lines. I hope nobody has to use them.”

  A moment later he was gone. Sansone stared at his notes. Then the boilerman glanced at him. “Sir, you serious about this? About Mellows? I don’t say ‘Chief’ because he ain’t one anymore in my book. But you really going to hang him?”

  “Never been more serious in my life.”

  “They’ll hang you, sir. By the balls. Once we get back to civilization.”

  “What is civilization, Al? Isn’t justice part of it?”

  “It used to be.”

  “Then we’ll see it done at least once in our lives.” Dan got up and reached for his cap.

  But Sansone wasn’t finished. “Sure, and a lot of people will think it’s great. But are you gonna like the bill when you get it?”

  The boilerman waited for a second and then, when Dan didn’t answer, made that soundless whistle again, and left without saying another word.

  * * *

  THE sign he had been waiting for so long came that night, well into the midwatch, when the sea was sealed dark and no stars shone through the murky sheet that had lingered all that day. It arrived in the form of an insistent buzz that jerked him out of a sleep so deep he came to already holding the phone to his ear. “Yeah,” he coughed.

  “Skipper? That you?”

  “Who the hell else sleeps in my cabin, Chief Warrant?”

  “We’re getting flashing light from a contact to the south. Mr. Zabounian said to get that info down to you.”

  Dan was on the bridge in his trou and Klax twenty seconds later. The supply officer took his arm as he stood blind and led him to the port wing. He stared out to where the light winked rapidly in the windy dark. Complete and utter sightlessness, black on black, with only the single distant pinprick of illumination occulting far off. He went in and checked the contact on the radar, then let the chief warrant brief him. It had come in from the southwest and had a closest point of approach of about seven thousand yards, which it would not reach for a while yet.

  The flashing light winked out suddenly, returning the world to formlessness and the void. A few minutes later the signalman clattered in and handed something to Engelhart. He handed it on to Dan.

  It read: COME ALONGSIDE ME ON COURSE 030 SPEED 10 PREPARE TO RECEIVE HIGHLINE AND FUEL TRANSFER.

  “No identifier,” the signalman added.

  “Request they identify themselves.”

  “I did, sir. No reply.”

  “Skunk Alfa altering course to port,” the CIC phone talker said.

  “They’re coming to zero-three-zero, like they said,” Zabounian said, coming in from the wing. “What do you want to do, sir? Do you want me to shoot for an approach?”

  “Uh, yeah, I guess start getting into position,” Dan said. His mind raced as he tried to put this together. All the messages he’d sent requesting fuel and ammunition. Was this his answer? But then why hadn’t there been an advance message, outlining the rendezvous point? Could it be a trap? He shook off ratiocination. “Get Mr. Doolan up here ASAP. Bo’s’n Topmark, too. Set the starlight scope up. If he won’t tell us, maybe we can see who the hell it is.”

  Over the next half hour, twenties and fifties manned just in case, they made up on the unidentified ship. The signalmen said they couldn’t locate the starlight scope, had not seen it since Karachi. Most likely one of the Pakistanis had taken it ashore; that kind of item brought top dollar in the bazaar. Dan turned away with compressed lips and kept trying with his night glasses. But he couldn’t really tell what he was looking at. It didn’t seem to be an oiler or ammo ship. She was radiating a commercial radar. Sonar reported the steady thump of one screw driven by low-speed diesels. It was smaller than a U.S. replenishment ship, though still larger than Gaddis, and there was something off about the bridge and sterncastle arrangement. At one point he was sure he was looking at a three-island superstructure, but then booms or stick masts came into view and he lost his mental picture. She was running darkened except for a wake light, a faint white light high on her stern. It glimmered dimly off the cresting swells.

  He didn’t like this. It didn’t seem like a trap, but it wasn’t going to be simple, either. Nighttime underway replenishments, “unreps,” were standard in the USN repertoire. But he’d never practiced one on Gaddis, nor had his makeshift deck crew. Fortunately, the wire highline was the simplest method of transfer and required the least complex rigging. It was simply a trolley block rolling on a man-tensioned span wire, with the load hauled, braked, and managed with heavy manila lines. It could be screwed up, but it was about as conceptually transparent at least as any deck evolution ever got.

  Over the next few minutes they closed slowly from astern, slightly offset to port. The wake light drew gradually closer. Following NATO practice, the transferring ship should have been considerably better lighted, with contour lights to give him a fix on how close he was getting to the other hull. That was vital; a mistake on the helm or even a rogue sea could slam the two ships together with catastrophic results. Dan thought for a moment of putting a searchlight on the other, see exactly what he was dealing with. Some inchoate reluctance made him decide not to, at least not just then.

  Topmark reported by phone from the starboard transfer station that he could see light boxes for fuel transfer forward and ammo aft. Dan put his glasses to his eyes and made them out, too, an inverted T signal forward and a shape like an E aft. He noticed other lights, too, much fainter, a swarm of indistinct red fireflies moving about along the steadily nearing shadow’s port side.

  “Keep going in, Skipper?” Zabounian, behind him.

  “Continue your approach, Dave. Have the chief warrant keep a close eye on the helmsman. Drop your turn count when the bridge passes her stern.”

  Gaddis bored in steadily, the rush of wind and the crash of seas growing louder as they were reflected from the nearing hull of the
other ship. The shadow grew to a dimly visible tracery of masts and booms and topping lifts complicating the black sky.

  Then they were alongside, racing along together, and the roar of the bows-on wind in the narrowed venturi between the hulls, the surging frenzied leap of trapped seas, the plunging and rolling and the lack of visual clues were like riding a liquid-damped roller coaster through complete darkness. He braced himself on the wing, looking across at the ruddy pinpoints he could see now were men moving about with dimmed flashlights. Zabounian added a couple RPMs back on the screw and Gaddis clamped into the notch, and a faint pop came from across the water and the lighted head of a line projectile drew a luminous arch in the sky.

  * * *

  THEY ran side by side for nearly an hour. Armey reported from Main Control that they didn’t have the tankage for much more fuel, unless they dumped the diesel they’d topped off with from the Marker Eagle, so Dan cut that transfer off after taking aboard 3,600 gallons. The incoming loads touched down back aft. After two loads had come over, Doolan rang the bridge. He told Dan it was ammunition, five-inch and forty-millimeter. The weapons officer had examined it by flashlight and had something interesting to report.

  “Don’t play with me, Chick. I’m trying to run an unrep up here without lights or comms or even knowing whose dick I’m holding. Spit it out and get off the line.”

  “You’re getting to be one of those cranky COs, Dan.”

  “God damn it—”

  “All right, all right. This stuff is USN-issue, but it’s old. The five-inch is dated 1970 and 1971. The forty-mil’s even older, 1960s. Some of it—get this—it’s got RVN markings.”

  “Vietnamese? South Vietnamese?”

  “Yeah, it looks to me like stuff we shipped the Vietnamese Navy back during the war.”

  “Is that going to be any good? That’s twenty-plus years old.”