The Circle (13 page)

“Ikey lost the shackle. We had to jury-rig one.”

He saw a pale blur move; Norden had passed a hand over his face. “Lost the
shackle?
”

“I mean, the shackle pin.”

“That's more like it, but it's still an awful clumsy performance for a first-class bos'n. I don't know. He's good with engines, he has a little spare-time business at home, but everything else, the things he's supposed to be able to do … his evaluation's going to be due pretty soon. I want you to start thinking about what it's going to say.”

He debated telling Norden about the lifeboat musters, that Isaacs had been in charge of those, too, but decided not to. He and Bloch shared responsibility for that.

“Isn't it turnover time? Where's your relief? You better go grab some chow.”

“Sure hungry. I missed lunch, checking out the gear.” Even to himself, his voice sounded whiny, a plea for sympathy.

Norden didn't answer.

*   *   *

HE felt depressed and queasy through dinner, pork steaks and green beans in slimoid gravy. He cut up the meat, but the pinkish dripping edges disgusted him. Finally he abandoned it and sat playing with his fork.

He didn't like Norden's little remark about Isaacs's evaluation. I'm the division officer, Dan thought. I don't have to be told what to say about my men. Even if, as he undoubtedly did, Norden knew them better, at least so far.

Anyway, he'd already noticed that the first-class made mistakes, forgot things, often seemed at a loss for what to do. His trembling hands and reddened eyes reminded Lenson of his father. He closed his eyes, resisting the memories—but not the conclusion. There was something wrong with Isaacs, and he suspected it had to do with alcohol.

But he still didn't like the idea of grading him low. The guy made first class, he thought, crumbling a piece of bread between his fingers. For a black man with Ben Bryce in his chain of command, that couldn't have been easy. He deserved the benefit of the doubt. But the next minute, the other side of his mind said, But is that fair, to ask less of him because of his race? How would you treat a white guy who couldn't cut it?

The captain sat silently at the head of the table. Taking their cue, the junior officers finished hastily and dispersed. When Packer left at last, his dessert untouched, only Dan and Silver remained. When the door closed, he muttered, “Say, Mark?”

“Say, Mark, what?” said the bearded jaygee suspiciously. “No, I won't swap bunks with you.”

“I didn't want to swap bunks. I wanted to ask you what the deal is on the old man.”

“What deal? What old man?”

“The skipper. Why's he so uptight? So careful about everything?”

The electronics officer frowned. His eyes went to Mabalacat, who seemed to be counting the silver back by the pantry. Then he muttered, “Get over here.”

When Lenson was sitting beside him, Silver leaned forward over his coffee. Dan watched it tilt toward the rim, hesitate there, then lean the other way. “He's got personal problems.”

“Yeah? Oh, well, if it's personal—”

“But not secret. First off, his wife. Ginnie's a high school teacher. Just got tenure in San Diego when he got orders to
Ryan.
But there aren't any teaching jobs in Newport. So she doesn't do too much. Ken's wife, Gloria, said she saw her with a pilot last time we were under way … before the yards.

“Number two, his kid's fourteen. Been running away, giving him lip. Probably has something to do with Jimmy John being gone so much. He's worried about that, I guess.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. See, Packer had an XO billet in San Diego, then he went to Nam on the
Whipple.
Then after he got pulled off her, he gets orders way the hell up here. It's hard on a kid that age, losing all your friends.”

“What about
Whipple?
What exactly happened? I heard he refused a call for fire—”

“It's not that clear-cut. Barry's got some of the clippings out of the
Post.
Packer was actually kind of famous for a week or so. Seems like when he first got to Vietnam, he had a holding billet on one of the riverine squadrons, and got to know a little about the coast. Found out how this one district chief would hold up the villages, ask for money. He didn't get it, the guy would either relocate them or declare them free-fire zones.

“Then later on, when Packer was CO of the
Whipple,
he was transiting south after a DMZ patrol when he got a call for fire on some village from the local ARVN commander. But his map showed the village as pacified. So he asked who originated the request, and it was this same official, the one who was shaking people down.

“So Packer turned it down, said he couldn't fire. Well, the Vietnamese Army guy went to his U.S. liaison, and
he
called Packer, and he still said no. Wouldn't fire, kept right on steaming.”

“Was the village really VC?”

“Nobody'll ever know. The liaison called the Air Force and they napalmed it that night. Blew 'em all away. Then he put Packer on report to COMNAVFORV. And the shit hit the fan.”

“Jesus,” Dan said again.

Silver scratched in his beard. “It was the papers, TV saved him, I figure. They were just kicking up too much dog doo. But things haven't gone so good for him since then.”

After that, there was no use trying to lighten the atmosphere. He left a gummy-looking pudding untasted and headed for Boy's Town. Halfway there, he remembered eight o'clock reports.

In the thwartships passageway, he slid into line beside Lt. Talliaferro. “Attention on deck,” said Evlin. Under roofs or overheads, the Navy didn't salute, but the line straightened as Bryce let himself down the ladder.

“Stand at ease,” said the XO, nodding around at them. He adjusted glasses and smirked down at a list. “Engineering.”

“Here, sir. Fuel state, ninety-four percent. Potable water twenty percent, feed water seventy-two. Number-two evap still down. Main scoop injection temperature forty-two degrees and dropping.”

“What's that water percentage?”

“Twenty.”

“That's pretty low.”

“You're telling me,” said Talliaferro.

“So. Operations?”

“HF transmitter still down. Estimated time of repair, midnight.”

“Supply?”

“Nothing to report.”

“Mr. Cummings, you have that accident report done yet?”

“Mr. Lenson's doing it, sir.”

You bastard, Dan thought.

“What about that laundry? Where is it?”

“Can't do laundry without water, Commander.”

“You must have enough to do mine, at least. Why don't you just leave out the engineers? Since they can't seem to keep the fresh water coming.”

Neither department head said anything. After a moment the XO went on, “Weapons?”

“Nothing to report, sir,” said Dan. “Except for the accident report, and I'll do that before I turn in tonight.”

“You sure?” said Bryce, smiling.

“Sir?”

“I thought you were painting tomorrow.”

“Down below, yes, sir.”

“That compartment's not set to paint,” said the exec, eyes gleaming over his glasses. “It's not masked properly, there's dirt all over the cable runs, there's no papers or dropcloths to protect the deck. I don't like to hear sloppy jobs like that represented to me as ready to go. I expect you to keep on top of what goes on in your spaces. That's what we pay you for, Mr. Lenson. Are we payin' you too much?”

“No, sir.”

“Then turn to, goddamn it! And you all better tour your spaces tonight before you turn in. That's part of your job, and if you're not doing it, gentlemen, I'm here to make sure you take the consequences. Understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” said Evlin. Apparently, as the senior lieutenant, he spoke for the rest.

When Bryce left and the department heads separated, Dan stood in place, frustrated, enraged. Know what's going on in my spaces, he thought. Watch, GQ, replenishment, reports, watch again. When was there time? What did Bryce expect? The anger glimmered brighter, warming his stomach.

At last he choked it down and zipped his jacket again. Tour, then write the report, that would get him to bed around 2200. He'd get an hour and a half sleep before watch again at midnight. If nothing else happened.

He started the topside tour aft of the bridge. When the hatch closed behind him, he hesitated, his hand seeking in the darkness. No stars. No moon. He could hear the sea rushing by, the steady shriek of wind, but he couldn't see a thing. The night, even after the dimmed lighting of the ship's interior, was opaque as blindness. His hand found icy steel and spidered out along it.

When he could sense the solidity of the superstructure on one side, the abyss on the other, he began groping his way aft. He found the pyrotechnic lockers and tested by feel that they were locked. Bracing himself against the wind, he went on, edging each foot out into blackness. Gradually he became aware of a faint rose light in the windows of the signal shack, and a pearly fog around the shielded masthead above.

Now that his eyes were adapting, he pulled out his pencil flash and flicked it on. A disappearingly faint red oval appeared in front of him. Everything was in order on the Dash deck. He was headed aft, groping for the ladder down to the fantail, when he became conscious of something near him. He flicked the beam over it. It was the after lookout. He was seated on a roll of hose. He didn't respond to the light.

Dan reached out and shook him. The shoulder was slack under his hand for a second. Then it tensed, and the sailor came to his feet. “Who's that?” Dan asked sharply.

“Ay, man, what's doing?”

“Are you supposed to be sitting down?”

Lassard's voice came slow and peaceful. “Hey, old Slick was just relaxing for a minute.”

“Were you asleep?”

“Asleep? Hell, no.” The voice became intimate. “I was just watching for it through these binocs, man.”

“Watching for what?”

“Uranus.”

He caught the double meaning. It was so gross an insubordination, he didn't know how to respond. “Go to your post,” he said thickly. “You keep fucking with me, Lassard, and you'll regret it.”

“Ay, Slick's
at
his post, Ensign.” The laugh floated on the freezing wind. “What you gonna do, lifer? Draft him and send him to sea? Another thing. He hears you been bitching about the kinnicks you say loafin' in the whaleboat. They're workin' in that boat, man. They're like, the gig crew. Captain appreciates them keepin' it four-oh like they do.”

Dan stared into the darkness. Suddenly his chest tightened, and a prickle ran along his back. He started to speak, then turned away abruptly and slid down the ladder. Assholes, he thought blindly. Lassard, Bryce, Norden, Cummings. I'm surrounded by assholes.

The motion of the ship was worst on the fantail. The deck soared and then dropped away under his feet. The sense of falling through darkness was so nauseating, he welcomed the icy, bitter sting of spray. He paused at the stern, looking over the counter. Below him the wake boiled up white under the stern light. He leaned against the lifeline, looking down into the maelstrom.

I shouldn't have lost my temper, he thought. Shouldn't have threatened Lassard. I should either have chewed him out or else put him on report. Writing him up would be awkward, no witnesses on the dark and windy deck, a confession of his lack of personal force. No, I should have given him a good dressing-down, then made him stand an extra watch.

Why had he left so suddenly? Was it fear of the seaman? He didn't think so. Was it lack of self-confidence? He didn't think that was it, either.

It was fear of himself. He remembered his father's drunken rages, his father's fists. He preferred control. If he hadn't turned away, he'd have hit the seaman.

He took a deep breath of lightless air, trying to quell his fear and rage. Beneath his clenched hands the lifeline was gritty with condensed salt. When the stern rose, some trick of the wind tainted the icy air with ship smell from the exhaust fans, with the warm stink of three hundred close-hived men. He glanced over his shoulder but saw only the black square of the after gun and above it a red spark: Lassard on the Dash deck, smoking. No, two sparks; someone had joined him.

After a time his rage lessened, and his thoughts went back to Susan. At least one thing in his life was true and lasting. He put his arms around his chest and hugged the bulk of the foul-weather jacket as if it were her shoulders. His skin remembered the softness of her hair.

He remembered the time they'd stayed at her parents' home in D.C., when they were dating. Mrs. Chan had put them in separate rooms and they'd said good night with a long kiss on the sofa. But later he'd come awake in the dark with her fingers against his lips. She was kneeling by his bed in her old-fashioned nightgown.

“This used to be my room when I was little,” she whispered.

“It's nice.”

“You like the bunnies on the walls?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I used to lie here and wish I had someone to make love to me—when I was thirteen.”

He'd slipped his fingers then under the unbuttoned yoke and found two miniature erections on the incredible smoothness of her skin. Up till then, he hadn't thought she wanted it. All that evening she'd acted weird, almost hostile, reading magazines and responding in monosyllables.

But under the gown she was wet and ready. Grappling in the dark, whispering, she'd pulled him over the edge of the bed and he'd fallen a foot directly into her; no groping, no clumsy guiding with the fingers; like a zen arrow to the mark, he'd plunged between her parted legs. That was why he remembered that time beyond scores of others. That uncanny directness, exact and instantaneous, as if all causality led inexorably to their mutual transfixation.