The Gulf

by David Poyer

  “Do it. Thank you,” said Shaker. The seaman saluted, and left with a look of relief. When the door was shut, he said, “That’s something we don’t need to do anymore.”

  “Eight and noon reports?”

  “Right. I know it’s in Customs and Ceremonies, but it’s a time-waster. We’ll do it in port. Not at sea.”

  Dan pulled out his wheel book and made a note.

  “Okay,” said Shaker. He shook out a Camel and proffered the pack; Dan shook his head. The captain flicked a Zippo and inhaled. “Well. Here we are, back where sailors belong.”

  Dan nodded and waited.

  “I don’t know much about you, Dan. I looked through your records, though. There’s some funny things there. Anyway, let’s see, Naval Academy, thirty-five, divorced … any kids?”

  “One. A girl.”

  “See her often?”

  “Not a lot. She and her mother live out west now.”

  “How long since you split up?”

  “About ten years.”

  Shaker nodded slowly. “I know how it is. I’m just coming off a break-up myself.”

  Dan couldn’t think of anything to say other than “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Forget it. It was a relief getting to sea, away from FX-2 and her fucking lawyers. At least here you got some steel between you and the sharks … okay.” Shaker tapped the service jacket. “You’ve got a real interesting career path on you, Lieutenant-Commander Lenson.”

  “I guess so.”

  “You were on the old Ryan off Ireland when she went down, right? Spent some time in the hospital?”

  “Yes. Burns.”

  “Those are hell. I got toasted a little myself on the Strong. The legs. That still bother you?”

  Dan rubbed his shoulder as he thought. Did the old destroyer’s death still bother him? How could he answer that? The nightmares he’d had for years seldom came now. No longer did he hallucinate, even in waking, Kennedy’s bow towering above him as he clung to the splinter shield, too terrified to move. On the other hand, he’d never told the Navy doctors what it felt like when he tried to lift his left arm over his head.

  “It was a long time ago,” he said at last.

  “Then, let’s see, you were in the Med when the Syrian thing broke. I remember reading about that. What ever happened to that commodore?”

  “Sundstrom. He retired,” said Lenson. “Right after that.”

  “Then the business with the Spru-boat off Cuba. The Barrett. How’d you get issued that can of worms?”

  “That was my department-head tour.”

  “Good God. What’s the story on the Silver Star?”

  “No story,” said Dan uneasily. “It’s all there in the record, isn’t it?”

  “Sort of. Then this last tour, Pentagon, J-3. And then back to sea duty again. You’ve pulled a hell of a lot of it, one shore tour in fifteen years.”

  Dan shrugged. Shaker eyed him for a while, then flipped the folder closed and leaned back. “Okay, talk to me.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “The basics. Muster, for instance.”

  Dan cleared his throat. The smoky haze around the table was making his eyes water. “We have a full wartime complement aboard. Hundred and sixty-eight crew, thirteen officers including you and me. No, one sixty-nine, just picked up a corpsman from Long Beach. We have a partial helo det, since we’re carrying only one SH-60; that’s thirteen men, four pilots. Total assigned, one hundred and ninety-nine. We have one man on emergency leave to the States and two in sick bay.”

  “What’s the story on the leave?”

  “One of the radiomen. His father died. He’ll rejoin us after this convoy.”

  “The guys out sick?”

  “Minor, or we’d have left them in Bahrain.”

  “What kind of personnel problems do you see?”

  Dan considered. “We won’t have much turnover till we get back home. A couple people went to captain’s mast after Diego Garcia. Unauthorized absentees, disagreements with the base police, one complaint of harassment from a female P-3 mechanic. No trouble since we hit the Gulf. There’s a couple det officers who tear loose sometimes in port. But nothing serious. We have a strong wardroom.”

  “Tear loose?” said Shaker. “You mean what by that?”

  “Getting drunk, fighting, hung over. Late over liberty a couple of times.”

  “Shit, XO, that’s what the Navy’s all about. Don’t you enjoy a few brews?”

  “I don’t drink much anymore,” said Lenson.

  “Oh yeah? Now, Guerra told me he got that control valve fixed, so that leaves one casualty report outstanding.”

  “Yes, sir, one of the satellite receivers. We can cover broadcast with the other one and go to HF in a pinch.”

  “Okay. How about efficiency? Fuel consumption?”

  “It’s better than fleet average, considering the sea temperature.”

  “Hart seems to think our engineering plant’s in good shape.”

  “Yes, sir, it is. Rick’s an excellent chief engineer. He was main propulsion assistant on Paul Foster; he knows gas turbines.”

  “Damage control?”

  “Everyone’s general DC-qualified, and our repair teams got outstanding grades at refresher training.”

  “What’s our weapons loadout?”

  “The missile mag’s full. One test round, four Harpoons, the remainder Standards. Two of them are the extended-range Mark One-Alfas with a retrofitted RIM-2 Terrier warhead.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that. Why are we carrying nukes?”

  “I frankly don’t know,” said Dan. “They’re the old-style antiaircraft warheads, for breaking up big flights of bombers.”

  Shaker seemed to ponder this for a few seconds. Then he said, “How about the guns?”

  “We have full magazines for the seventy-six millimeter and the Phalanx, and our small arms locker is full, too. We’ve used some up for practice, but we’re well within wartime allowance.”

  “Torpedoes?”

  “Full loadout of Mark 46s.”

  Shaker sat motionless for a while, staring at the circle of light that was the porthole. He lit another cigarette. At last, he said, “Dan, I’m sorry to have to say this. By Navy standards, this is an outstanding ship. But from what I’ve seen, she is far from ready to fight.”

  Dan stiffened in his chair. This wasn’t the response he’d expected.

  “Go ahead, say it,” said Shaker.

  “With all due respect, sir—Ben—I think it is. Certainly it’s the best-prepared ship I’ve ever served on. This is the second time we’ve won the squadron E.”

  “It’s certainly the cleanest ship I’ve ever seen in a war zone. And the admin inspection was four-oh. But I’m not sure either of those are valid indicators of battle readiness.” Shaker deliberated, then stretched to pull a message from his desk. “I was reviewing last week’s traffic. Since Van Zandt’s been in the Gulf, Iranian activity has been low. Their attention has been tied up with the offensive up in the marshes.

  “Now that’s come to a halt. There’s a stalemate on their front, and in order to break it they may decide to heat things up again at sea. I don’t think they’d try anything on our way south. We’re not an attractive target alone. But on our way back with the convoy, I’m insuring my ass for all it’s worth. They have the perfect weapons now in that shipment of Silkworm missiles the Chinese sold them, and they may still have a few Harpoons like they used on Strong.”

  “I still think—”

  “No, listen. I know your previous CO was a book man. And you’ve done well—by the book. But I don’t think it goes far enough. Or in the right direction. For one thing, Van Zandt is a firetrap. I intend to change that. We’re going to get her ready to take hits and keep fighting.”

  Dan nodded. It was a reasonable posture for a man who’d been through a major conflagration and sinking.

  Shaker said casually, “How long have you been XO?”
/>
  “Six months, sir.”

  “I’ve looked at your last fitness report. Charlie thought a lot of you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me. I didn’t ask for you, and at the moment I’m not impressed.”

  Through sudden anger, Dan said, “I know my job, Captain. It’s my duty to carry out your orders. If you want changes aboard this ship, tell me what they are and I’ll get to work on them. But it’s unfair, I think, to hold me responsible for unspecified matters that the previous commanding officer found satisfactory.”

  The bridge buzzer chose this rather tense moment to go off. Shaker snatched the phone from the bulkhead and snapped, “Captain.”

  Dan fought for control as he listened to the one-sided conversation. The captain said, “Wait, wait. I don’t want true bearings on incoming surface contacts, Mr. Proginelli. Pass that on to the other officers. Give it to me in relative, and tell me his aspect—port bow, starboard quarter, whatever. I can visualize the situation faster that way.

  “… What’s the closest point of approach if you do that?”

  “… Any other contacts to the east? How far away is he? Okay, make it so. Come back to base course when he’s past and opening.”

  Shaker hung up. He evened up the ends of the towel. “Now, what were we talkin’ about?”

  “This ship’s battle readiness. I said that it was unfair to—”

  The captain smiled and held up his hand. “Whoa! Let’s backtrack. I’m not holding you responsible for anything except carrying out Charlie’s agenda. You’ve been here six months, I’ve been aboard a day. These are just my initial impressions.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “To go back to your record. In order to pick up lieutenant commander, with the things you’ve got in your jacket—you got to admit, it’s kind of surprising. Who’s your rabbi?”

  “I don’t have a rabbi.”

  “You must know somebody. Who do you know?”

  “I know Vice-Admiral Niles.”

  “Barry Niles?” Shaker nodded slowly. “I see. Where’d you meet him?”

  “During my tour on the Barrett.”

  “He’s a good man,” said the captain. “I ran into him in Pearl. Hell of a character. But let’s get something straight, Dan. I’m going to judge you, not by what you did before you came to Van Zandt, good or bad, and not by who you know. My evaluation of you will be based squarely on what you do for me.”

  “I expect it to be that way.”

  “Good. How loyal are you to your commanding officers, Dan?”

  “Loyal as hell, Ben.”

  “I wonder. There’s a note here about a letter of reprimand.”

  “I was an ensign then. And the letter was because I defended Captain Packer after the collision.”

  “Why did he need defending from an ensign?”

  “He was dead.”

  “I see. And this business with Commodore Sundstrom. You defended him, too?”

  “No. He was an incompetent fool. I disobeyed his orders to save lives. His retirement proves I was right.”

  “Maybe, but it’s still not what I’d call a confidence builder.” Shaker scratched his chest slowly under the T-shirt. “You and I have got to work together on this ship. I don’t want to have to cross swords with you every time I want to do something. I need to know whether I can trust you to carry out my orders to the letter, Dan, without dragging your feet or second-guessing me because they’re unorthodox. And they will be unorthodox. I’ve had time to ponder what happened on the Strong and I intend to put my conclusions into practice.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “Good. Like you said, that’s your duty. I want to make sure we get this straight. I know you might have had some idea, before I was ordered in, that you might get this ship yourself. I could understand that. But it can’t affect your performance. Because if it does, if there’s going to be any jealousy or back-stabbing, let me know, right now, and I’ll ask for another XO. Today. I know that won’t look good for me, either, but it’s important enough to me that I’ll take the risk.”

  “I said I understood that, Ben.”

  “Understanding’s not the same as agreeing, damn it! If I keep you, it’s because you’ve given me your word to support me, even if what I want to do neglects the book, goes beyond the book—or even against the book.”

  “Yes sir,” he said. “Okay, I agree. As long as it’s legal, I’ll do it for you.”

  “Good,” said Shaker. He extended his hand, and Dan took it.

  The captain sat silent after that for a few seconds, as if organizing his thoughts. He lit another cigarette. Then got up and looked out the porthole, his hands gripping the ends of the towel like a fighter stepping into the ring. Past his head, Dan saw the sky: a blurred tan, backed by smoke, as if the horizon were afire. Already the brimstone stink of the Northwest Dome was filtering through the ventilators. They would pass through it on their way south to Hormuz. Beyond it, on their own long trek in, were the ships they’d have to bring through.

  “Okay, XO,” Shaker said, “Welcome to the fighting Navy. We’ve got three days till we pick up our convoy. Here’s what I want you to do.”

  7

  U.S. Naval Base, Charleston, South Carolina

  LIKE most Yankees, Gordon felt uneasy accepting personal service from blacks. And his driver was as black as they came. There was a language barrier too. He’d had to explain where he was going several times, and he had no idea what the man had said in response.

  The wipers flailed and clacked at a desultory drizzle. He looked at the ebony nape for a while, then out again. He didn’t remember Charleston well—it had been ten years—but this seemed to be the proper direction. The airport limo paralleled the flat green flow of the Cooper down Route 80, his seabag snuggled beside him like a faithful olive-drab dog.

  At last they turned off, then slowed for the main gate. Gordon’s long face nodded as the wheels thudded over concrete slabs. He held up his I.D. to the bullfrog gaze of a Marine without thinking about it. It had taken him only a few days to regain something unnatural for Americans, and thus suspect to them: the sense that a life of subordination, duty, uniformity, and impending violence is normal, sane, and perhaps even necessary, at least for a few.

  He was in khakis now, but he and his men had spent most of the ten days since leaving Vermont in Seabee-style fatigues. Their departure had been hasty and confused. The Reserves were set up for mass mobilization, the “big one” expected daily for forty years, but the way things went when they were asked to handle five men on short notice gave him grave misgivings. Their Burlington-to-Boston tickets had been drawn on PBA, which was on strike; they had to ride a Navy bus to Boston and fly out on an Eastern redeye. There was no advance per diem, and some of the men were eating off the pocket money the staff at the center had put together.

  But they’d all been through snafus like this many times during their active-duty years, and since then on annual training, and though they bitched, no one was much surprised. Once they got to Fort Story, things improved. The explosive ordnance T&E facility there had barracks reserved and had set up a special course for them. They’d worked through the weekend, classes on mine identification and triggering mechanisms, intelligence briefings by technicians from Indian Head, render-safe procedures. Then they put it into practice, diving on dummy devices in Lynnhaven Roads.

  The fifteen reservists from EOD Group Two had shaken down well, losing only one man from Maine; he got disoriented on a night dive and washed out. All Gordon’s guys, the Vermont det, had made it through.

  And then, this morning, off to Charleston. Where, in a few minutes, he’d see the ship they’d be going to the Gulf on.

  The driver turned his head. Speaking very slowly and distinctly this time, as if to a fool or a foreigner, he said, “Is you goin’ to one these ships, suh?”

  “That’s right. Look for number four-three-three.”

  “Ow-dassity, rig
ht? Pier Two. Thass one them minesweeper boats, goin’ over there to A-rabia.”

  Gordon nodded. So much for security. He pulled on his raincoat and got out. He paid the driver, hesitated, then added a quarter. Hoisting the seabag to his shoulder and carrying the B-4, he headed toward the waterfront through rain smelling of pulp mills, mud, and waste steam.

  She was tied up at the pier head, where the water was shallow and muddy. The closer he got, the smaller she looked, until when he was opposite her he stopped, still balancing the sea-bag, and just stared.

  This class had been laid down in 1952, after North Korean mines held MacArthur up at Wonsan. A lot had changed in the Navy since then, but it looked like Audacity had missed the updates. She seemed small, and tired, and dirty amid the new steel and aluminum hulls, the antennas and phased arrays, missiles, and helicopters of the rebuilt fleet of the late eighties. Splintered gouges showed on the wooden planking beneath shiny gray paint. A dingy awning stretched over the open bridge. The ratguards looked serious, though, tightly rigged and slathered with yellow grease.

  The gangway was varnished teak, faded and cracked. Gordon scraped the mud from his shoes before he stepped up on it. The rails were wrapped with decorative marlinework saffroned by age. It led to a tiny quarterdeck bannered WELCOME TO U.S.S. Audacity. WHERE THE FLEET GOES, WE’VE BEEN. On the other side, a sign proclaimed ON WOODEN SHIPS, IRON MEN.

  Letting the seabag thump to the deck, he looked slowly around, scratching the back of his neck.

  “Afternoon, there, Chief. We help you?”

  The first thing he noticed were the gnarled hands, like oak roots grown deep into bagged khaki pockets. Then the gray hair sticking out from under the ancient pisscutter. Then a dangling cheroot, and last, the flat, cynical, fuck-you eyes of what had to be the oldest lieutenant in the U.S. Navy.

  Gordon saluted the flag. Then he turned and tapped one off to the lieutenant. The latter half-lifted a shoulder, then seemed to think better of it. He shoved himself free of the bulkhead and came out into the drizzle. “How you,” he drawled, chewing his words as if they were Skoal-flavored. “I’m Sapper Kearn, sweepin’ officer. You got to be the EOD honcho, right?”