The Gulf

by David Poyer

  He was Benjamin Shaker’s executive officer. And he had his duty to do.

  14

  U.S.S. Turner Van Zandt

  “WHAT you got under the towel, Buck? Tent pole?”

  “Hell, you’re supposed to make it littler in the showers, Hayes, not bigger.”

  Buck Hayes two-pointed his soap into the sink. His bare feet made wet question marks on the deck. “Okay, smart guys. What’s eleven inches long and white?”

  “What?” said Schweinberg suspiciously.

  “Nothing.” He whipped off the bath towel and polished his butt with it, then began rooting through his locker for shorts.

  The pilots were sitting around the stateroom drinking Orange Crushes and Frescas from the mess decks. Woolton was beside Schweinberg on the latter’s bunk. “Smiley” Bonner, Woollie’s ATO and the junior flier aboard, was perched on Hayes’s chair. Schweinberg had been telling a story, and now he started over, motioning with his hands.

  “So like I was saying, these two Jews just got married. And they’re already fighting over the toilet seat, right? He leaves it up, she wants it down. Well, one night she sits down without looking and bingo! She’s stuck. She screams for him to get her out, but the harder he pulls, the more she wiggles and the tighter her ass gets wedged in.

  “So finally, they call the plumber. They can’t think of anything else to do. When he’s at the door, the guy suddenly realizes his wife’s naked. So he takes off his yarmulke and puts it in her lap. And then he takes the plumber in the bathroom.

  “And he just stands there. Finally, the guy asks him, “So, what do you think?” And the plumber says, “Well, I think I can save the broad, but I’m afraid the rabbi’s a goner.”

  They laughed. Bonner said eagerly, “Hey, I got one. Knock, knock.”

  “Oh, hell, Bonner, what you wasting our time with that high-school stuff for?”

  “Come on, boot camp, that’s oldern’ buffalo shit.”

  “You know why Smiley went helicopters?” Woolton said. “It’s the only aircraft where you can masturbate without any hand motion.”

  Schweinberg said, “Did I ever tell you guys about my old OIC, Max Suck?”

  “The Red Max? Sure, he was on the Aubrey Fitch when I was on the Doyle. I remember when we had our thousand-hour party, and he called our bridge and told ’em he was gonna render honors.” Woolton grinned. “So the shoes all went out on the wing. Suck comes roaring past at a hundred feet, they salute, and there’s the gunner’s, the SENSO’s, and the ATO’s moons hanging out at them.”

  “That’s him. Well, Max was our det CO on the Fitch, in the Med. And they were about to ship his crewman over to the JFK to see a shrink. Whenever they flew at night, he’d start screaming “ground fire, ground fire,” and Suck would go evasive. Only there was never anything on the radar. The guy would come back shaking, swearing he’d seen tracers. Then one day Suck swapped with my ATO. Halfway through the flight, I noticed he was smoking.”

  “In the cockpit?”

  “Yeah, holding it down by his leg. I don’t know how he got it lit. Anyway, he’d put his butt down to the air vent there and tap the ashes off. Sure enough, all of a sudden our SENSO comes up on the ICS screaming “Tracers! Tracers! Break right, for Christ’s sake!”

  The pilots laughed. Schweinberg went on deadpan: “Our captain had this hard-on for the pilots. The Rocket Ranger, that was his code name. Well, when we first come aboard, every time we make an approach, the ship’s right on the hairy lips of the envelope. He’d have the wind ninety degrees to port at fifteen knots, or someplace else where we’re sweating baseballs the whole way in.

  “So Max goes up to the bridge and says, ‘Captain, we need to talk.’ And the Ranger says, ‘I know it’s tough, I’m giving you a challenge.’ Suck gets a little steamed at this and he tells the guy we get enough pulse-pounders, we want to see Mom and the kids again.

  “So this dickhead takes a pencil and draws a little triangle way inside the limits on the relative-wind diagram, and marks it ‘P.E.’ Then he gives it to the OOD, and says, ‘This is the Pussy Envelope for our no-balls helo pilots, Lieutenant.’

  “Well, after that, every time the Ranger wants a photo hop, or a parts run, funny, the helo’s always down. Then one day COMSIXTHFLEET flies over to see what’s new, and it’s late, so he decides to stay. So the Ranger gives the admiral his cabin and moves down with the XO.

  “Well, meanwhile one of the det guys, his wife sent him this rubber fuck-me doll. It’s human-size and like everything works. Suck gets an idea. While the admiral and the Ranger are eating dinner, he sneaks into the CO’s head. He leaves the doll in the shower stall along with a big jar of vaseline and some pieces of hose, electrical tools, carrots, that type of stuff. Then he closes the curtain and takes off. The next morning, soon as the admiral leaves, Suck’s in there and sneaks it out again. The Ranger never understood why the admiral wouldn’t shake hands with him anymore.”

  When they were done laughing, Schweinberg turned serious. “Woollie, talking about that, we got to do something about the way Lenson’s screwing with our guys.”

  “What happened now?”

  “He found our mechs flaked out in the hangar. Got torqued and chewed Mattocks out. Now, those guys worked all night getting the bird back up. They couldn’t rack out in their berthing compartment because there were people tearing the deck apart.”

  “Right.” Woolton nodded. “You’re preaching to the choir, Chunky.”

  “Well, you preach to Lenson, then! Another thing, he made some crack a couple days ago about us usin’ too much water. Well, we sweat in that cockpit. We need showers.”

  “They’ve got a water problem,” said Woolton. “The CHENG, Guerra, he was telling me how the seawater’s so hot here, the condensers aren’t as efficient—”

  “Woollie, you can’t start takin’ the shoes’ side! You got to represent our side!”

  Hayes got up. He flexed in front of the mirror, still naked except for shorts.

  “Knock it off, Buck, you’re givin’ Boot Camp a hard-on. Woollie, when you figure we’ll fly next?” asked Schweinberg.

  “Pretty soon. It’ll be double-pumps all the way up the Gulf, dhow-herding and mine-hunting.”

  “Waste of gas. The ragheads are running scared. This is a big sweatex, that’s all, they won’t pull anything with the Forrestal offshore.”

  “How about those F-14s that bounced us?” said Hayes. “My personal pucker factor’s been way up since then.”

  There was a moment of silence, then Woolton got up. Schweinberg said, “Hey, one more before you go.”

  “What?”

  “How do they know Adam and Eve weren’t black?”

  “How?”

  “You ever try to take a rib away from a black guy?”

  The white officers glanced at Hayes. He didn’t laugh. There was another silence, awkward this time. Then, slowly, the little party broke up.

  * * *

  The dark thing almost had him. He’d tried to get away on his bike but it broke. Finally, he just ran, screaming “Dad! Dad!” Screaming for his father, the pilot, the strongest man in the world—

  Suddenly he understood how to escape. Wake up. That was all. Knowing it was the first step. But it wasn’t the whole way. Halfway across yet caught, like a calf in a fence, he fought toward consciousness with the mindless desperation of any being that must be born or die.

  But its growls and his screams still rang in his ears. Then he heard its pad, pad behind him, the click of claws, and its rotten-flesh breath on his neck. He wasn’t sure there was anything on the other side. He just had to jump.

  When Hayes got his eyes open, the sheets were twisted around him tight as a coat of paint. It took a struggle just to get an arm out.

  When the bunk light clicked on he saw it was 2235. The growling came from beneath him. But he couldn’t close his eyes again. Not with that thing waiting in his head. What did Dustin call it—the Eater Monster—


  He realized suddenly that in the dream he’d been his son, powerless, terrified, four years old. And at the same moment, he understood the terror. It was what he felt when his engineer’s mind retraced some narrow escape and realized that one more bad break, one wrong command or move by his HAC, his crewman, or himself, would have killed them all.

  That terror was too real. He preferred the nameless horror of his son’s nightmares. But as he blinked at his watch it faded back into its dream jungle, casting back one lingering gleaming glance.

  As if to say: I’ll be here.

  He’d just clicked the light off when the GQ alarm brought him upright again. Then came “This is not a drill. Aircraft incoming.”

  “Holy shit!” Schweinberg’s feet hit the deck like two steaks. The overhead light flickered on, showing him pulling on his flight suit. Hayes grabbed a pipe and swung himself down.

  Flight suit, socks, flight boots. They hit the door simultaneously, like a comedy team, but got through somehow and sprinted for the hangar.

  When Schweinberg got there, the enlisted were already mustered. Four Two One was at ready position, nose within the ship, fuselage out on deck. He snapped to Mattocks: “Chief, got fire gear manned?”

  “Thass right, sir. Skirla! Lynch! Get them tools put away.”

  Woolton came in, boot laces trailing. “What’s goin’ on, Woollie?” said Hayes.

  “I don’t know.” At that moment, there was a roar overhead. Two ATs ran out to the flight deck. “Four-engined,” one of them called back.

  A few minutes later the bogen beeped. Woolton listened, then turned. “You got her tits up, Chief?” he called across the hangar.

  “Yessir. We was just getting the cowling back on the tail rotor servo.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothin’, sir, just had to vacuum; this fuckin’ red dust gets into everything.”

  Woolton said, “Yessir,” “Yessir,” and then, “Aye aye, sir, right away.” When he hung up, he looked around at the waiting men. “So, what was it?” said Schweinberg, popping his fist into his palm.

  “I don’t know what that flyby was, if that’s what you mean. But the Pasdaran just rocketed a merchie. It’s out there on fire.”

  “Combat search and rescue?”

  “You got it.”

  “Move, move!” shouted Mattocks. “Mount the gun! Kane, get your SAR bag, first-aid gear, litters, line!”

  The crew jumped into motion. At the same time, the 1MC keened. “Flight quarters, flight quarters! All hands man your flight quarters stations.”

  The det commander was reaching for his helmet when Schweinberg grabbed his arm. “What the fuck, Woollie? It’s our turn.”

  “My mission, Chunks.”

  “Hell it is. We go by turns in this det! Get suited, Buck!” Before the OIC could protest, Schweinberg was buckling on the survival vest. Hayes lingered for a moment, waiting to see whether Woolton would assert himself, then grabbed for his gear, too.

  Outside it was windy and dark. Only the red glow of the hangar lights eddied out onto the flight deck. Hayes stared around, feeling a breath of the dream-terror. Christ! Night search and rescue, with hostiles somewhere … Windy as hell tonight … They should have been dark-adapted long before now.

  “Buck, you got everything?” A bulky shadow beside him. He patted down hastily. Dog tags on his boots, survival vest, PRC-90, knife, two flare packs, pistol, pocket checklist, knee board, emergency air bottle … “Yeah.”

  “Hokay, les’ boogie.”

  A flashlight came on, red-lensed, and they began the preflight, not wasting any time, but careful not to skimp, either. If they had to abort, they wouldn’t do anybody any good. At last they climbed in. “You want to take it?” asked Schweinberg, his voice subdued by darkness. “You need a nighttime bounce, don’t you?”

  “Uh … yeah! Thanks, Chunky.”

  Schweinberg grunted and glanced back into the cabin. For combat rescues, all four seats were manned. The machine gun poked its pronged snout out the cargo door. Christer, the gunner and hoist operator, was thrashing around back in the cabin, getting into a wet suit.

  Outside, the flight deck was dim amber. Beyond the deck-edge lights, the sea was invisible. Schweinberg jotted down flight data as Buck started the engines, engaged rotors, and reported ready to lift.

  The interior of the cockpit was a spilled jewel box. The engine and transmission strips were a bright jade green. The flight instruments were mother-of-pearl, and the tactical display a flickering emerald. The only luminescences outside were the deck-edge and the lineup lights. The strobe bounced scarlet off their rotors into the night. Kane sneezed into his mike and Hayes jumped.

  The deck status light blinked from orange to green. Schweinberg made a last sweep of the panel.

  As they lifted, the ship became something separate, then a distant set of faint lights. Finally it vanished. But not before Hayes had seen, behind it, a fan of cold green fire, roiled mysteriously from the dark sea by her passing.

  Schweinberg: “Three rates of climb.”

  “Roger.”

  “After-takeoff checklist complete.”

  “Roger.”

  “Coming up on radar. ATACO, ATO, gimme a vector to this merchie.”

  CIC pointed them northwest. Beneath their hurtling passage, the darkness was crowded as an interstate on a summer weekend. Two long columns of lights stretched from the black Gulf out into the Goo; out to the ends of the earth.…

  Schweinberg said, “Christer, rig for rescue. Clear the gun and get the hoist ready. Hoist power coming on.”

  Hayes said tensely to the ship, “ATACO, pilot, we’re bustering inbound at a hundred fifty or so. You got any comms with this guy that’s been attacked?”

  The ship said they didn’t. He told Schweinberg to punch up international search and rescue and maritime distress frequencies.

  “Hold you left of contact, Two One, come right” came the disembodied voice, pursuing them through the lengthening miles of darkness.

  “What looks good?”

  “Make it five degrees right, Two One.”

  “Five degrees, roger—Kane, got it yet?”

  “I got a lot of stuff, sir. There’s a whole slew of contacts out in front of us.”

  “Uh oh,” said Schweinberg. Hayes glanced at him. “ATACO, pilot. How far are we gonna be from Iran, here?”

  “About twenty miles, Two One.”

  “Holy creepin’ crap … look, keep an eye on your scopes and shit back there, awright, guys? If we get visitors, I want to know in advance.”

  Twenty minutes went by. And then, growing steadily brighter on the horizon ahead, a yellow flicker, like an infernal aurora. Chunky took it at first for another flare-off tower. Then he realized the coordinates matched. Hayes rogered, came right, and headed for the loom.

  “That’s him, all right. Slowing to sixty.”

  “Start lowering your altitude, Buck. Better approach from upwind, stay out of the smoke.”

  “Good thinking,” Hayes muttered. “Kane, what you got on the tube?”

  “Stay clear of the starboard side, sir. I got four, five small contacts over there, maybe three miles.”

  “Roger. What’s the wind?”

  “Still showing three-five-oh at twenty, twenty-five.”

  High wind for a close hover. Hayes circled to port as he shed speed and altitude, steadying at five hundred feet. The smoke, sucked into the cockpit from outside, stank of petroleum. As he came out of it, he saw the ship clearly and whole for the first time.

  It was a medium-sized freighter, the deck piled with fire. He could see the holes on the side where the rockets had hit.

  He got down to a hundred and did a close sweep. The ship loomed suddenly huge. Bow to the wind; in the fire glow, he could see everything clearly. The whole superstructure was ablaze. The deck aft was burning, too. The crew was huddled near the bow. As he swept over them he caught a glimpse of waving arms, open mouths. “They l
ook kind of anxious,” he muttered.

  “I would be, too, if my lifeboats were on fire.”

  “What are they throwing into the water?”

  “Lumber, looks like. Deck cargo.” Schweinberg flexed his fingers like a pianist warming up, then grasped the controls. Click. “ATACO, Killer Two One. We’re on top. Twelve to fifteen people in a huddled mass, superstructure shot up, she’s a bonfire. Permission to go in for rescue.”

  “Two One, ATACO: Captain says do it.”

  “Roger, going in at this time.” Schweinberg clicked off the net and back onto ICS. “Okay, I got her, Buck.”

  “Hey! Just when it gets interesting—”

  “This is where them extra hours count, buds. Christy, get the door open. We’ll get a guy first pass, no dicking around. Be ready to shear that cable ASAP if you hear me scream.”

  The cabin door came open behind them and the noise level increased. Schweinberg slowed, watching the airspeed indicator. “Hoist checks good,” said the crewman.

  “Roger, pay out fifty feet or so.”

  Chunky squinted at the burning ship. She had no list, thank God. And it was funny how she kept pointing into the wind. Then he realized they’d dropped the anchor. He didn’t like the looks of the flames aft. Not oil. Too white. It looked like naphtha, or gasoline. He adjusted the rearview and told Hayes to watch his ass.

  “Will do.” Buck uncinched his shoulder harness and turned in the seat. “You got a good two hundred yards to the bridge. Chunky, why don’t you come in nose first?”

  “No can do, wind’s too high for that fancy shit. SENSO, pilot.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Help Christy with the hoist, but keep an eye on the radar. Lemme know if those little blips start moving in. And yell if it gets too hot back there. Buck, punch up the hover bars. Christy, call my position.”

  “Easy back, sir.”

  The hoist whined behind them. Fixed over the open cargo door, on the starboard side, it was run by the gunner. Hayes ran hoist procedures over in his mind. “Hundred yards to the bow. Easy back,” he said.

  “How’s it now?”

  “Easy back … fifty … forty, thirty, ten … easy. Easy!”