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Authors: David Poyer

BOOK: The Passage
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Close up, Commander Thomas Leighty looked smaller than he did from a distance. His bearing was disciplined, but with the faint air of conscious poise Dan had noticed at the commissioning—as if he was acting the part of a commanding officer in a movie about the Navy. He was still in whites. Dan counted the rows of ribbons: five. The top left one, the highest earned, was the Bronze Star. He recognized the Purple Heart and several Vietnamese decorations as Leighty took the armchair and crossed his legs.
“How's the guide replacement going, Dan?”
“Okay, sir. They're fitting the new rails. We'll get them finished over the weekend.”
“Good. How are you, Norman? … The subject today is missing funds.”
Dan's head pounded again as he recalled the bucket of worms Lt. Marion Sipple had left him when he plunged to his death. Harper and Kessler, trying to handle their own work as well as that of the
department head while they waited for Dan to report in, hadn't inventoried the controlled gear. Not till after Dan arrived had anyone realized what they had aboard didn't match what Sipple had signed for.
“Norm, what are we on the hook for, how much, and who to?”
“Sir, do you want that bottom line, or in excruciating detail?”
“How about medium density?”
“We've finished a complete inventory of the CS department. There's fifteen thousand, seven hundred dollars missing in the consumables accounts. In controlled equipage, we can't account for two night-observation devices, one portable radio, and some of the chemical warfare detection gear. Total value there's another twenty-two thousand, seven hundred and eighty-six dollars and eighty cents. Five silver bars are missing, total value nine hundred dollars—”
“What in God's name were we doing with silver?”
Cash looked at Dan, who said, “Sir, those are actually silver anodes. They're used for electroplating on tenders. They're a supply system item, but you're right. There's nothing we use them for on
Barrett.”
“Go on,” said Leighty, supporting his chin on his hand and looking unpleasant.
“The biggest discrepancy,” said Cash, “is the missing MAMs. Our allowance is almost three hundred items, three hundred separate cards. We've located two hundred and fifty-one. The last signature for the missing ones was Sipple's.”
Dan was feeling more and more uncomfortable under the captain's stare. “MAMs,” maintenance assistance modules, were kits of replacement components the techs used to do part swapping to isolate casualties. Each major system had about thirty spare cards. Typical ones were circuit boards, loop assemblies, and reference generators for the fire-control systems.
“How much are they worth?”
Cash said, “Uh, the total cost new was a hundred and seventy-six thousand, two hundred and eighteen dollars.”
“Now try the bottom line.”
“For everything that's missing, two hundred and fifteen thousand, six hundred and four dollars and eighty cents. Sir.”
The captain let that bounce between the overhead and the carpet, then looked at Dan. “And the XO tells me you have no idea where it all went. That right?”
Dan felt guilty, then indignant.
He
hadn't lost the stuff. He hadn't even been aboard. But he just said, “No, sir.”
“Norm? How about you?”
“That's about it, sir. When Lieutenant Lenson came to me with the discrepancies, I thought, well, maybe the yard burned something
out installing it and used them for spares, something like that. But we went through the records and got zip. The very last record we have on those serials—it's a quarterly requirement, to inventory MAMs. The last chop on them was Marion's.”
“So where are they?”
“I don't know, sir.”
“Are they worth stealing?”
“Sir, obviously the night scopes and the radios were, and the silver. But MAMs, I don't think so. There're minute amounts of gold and silver in the contacts, but it wouldn't be worth much even after you melted it out.”
“Dan?”
“I agree, sir. It's not something you can take down to the pawnshop. Unless you got your own personal busted SPG-fifty-one D fire control radar, it's not a lot of use to you.”
“How are we doing on replacements? And who's going to pay for them?”
“I was talking to the N-four at squadron, sir, and he says we are.”
“That's going to be a hell of a chunk out of your budget, Dan.”
He was horrified. “Sir, that shouldn't all come out of my hide. That gear's used for repairing Operations equipment, too.”
“It's your gear, Mr. Lenson. Suppose the screw falls off. Are you going to volunteer part of your budget to pay for it? On the basis that it pushes the whole ship around, not just the Engineering Department?” Dan couldn't think of a response, so Leighty turned back to Cash. “As I recall, we notified the Supply Center as soon as we realized we had a discrepancy.”
“There's an audit scheduled next week, sir.”
Leighty tapped the tips of his fingers together, then placed them on his upper lip. As if, Dan thought, to illustrate Deep Thought. “All right,” he said at last. “Mr. Lenson, I got a call this morning from the chief staff officer. He asked if you could report to squadron this afternoon at thirteen hundred.”
“Me, sir?”
“Yes. I assume this is what it's about, which is why I wanted to clarify it before you went over. Will you see what they want?”
“Uh, yes, sir. I'll be there. Who should I—”
“Report to Chief Hone. I'd suggest whites.”
 
 
DAN stood outside, feeling as if his pocket had been picked. Leighty was sharp. He communicated well. He made decisions. But there was something Dan didn't like, didn't trust about him.
Get real, he told himself. The real reason you suddenly don't like
him is that he's (a) asking you questions you have no answer for and (b) making you pay for stuff this poor bastard Sipple either lost or stole before he bit the weenie. A quarter of his budget … hell, he was doing everything but recycling toilet paper already.
And what was this about reporting to squadron?
“Hey, shipmate. You okay?”
He looked up, to find Jay Harper studying him. “Yeah, Chief Warrant. Just a little … session with the skipper. About that missing gear.”
“It's hurt us on this availability. They expect us to have the full allowance when they come to plug in the new cards.”
“I was thinking, while he was asking me … who would want MAMs? They're not good for anything; you can't sell them. Could another
Kidd
or
Spruance
use them?”
“That's about all I can think of who'd want spare boards. But selling them to another ship, that's kind of out of the cumshaw league.”
“I guess so. Hey, got your jeep here?”
“My jeep? Yeah, why?”
“Can you run me over to the club? I left my bike there, and I'm going to need it this afternoon.”
“Sure. Oh, and hey. I was going to ask, how about coming over for dinner tonight? Meet Bonnie and the girls. We'll barbecue some ribs—”
“Sounds great, but I've got a date. Rain check, maybe?”
“Sure. Need that ride now? How about we grab lunch, knock down a beer?”
“No beer. But lunch sounds good, if we make it fast. Meet you on the quarterdeck.”
Whites, he thought, rattling down the ladder. Shit, did he have a clean set of whites?
T
O his relief, the bike was where he'd left it. He threw Harper a farewell-and-thanks salute, then exchanged hat for helmet and swung a leg over the seat.
He'd started riding last year, knowing even as he bought the bike that it was a classic male response to divorce. The first time he took it out on the road, he realized why. When you blasted up through the gears, engine howling between your legs, there was no way you could be depressed. It was so much fun, he was surprised it was legal. He rolled out of the lot and gunned onto Hobson Avenue, swerving sharply to avoid a pickup full of marines. You had to
be there
on a bike every second, nowhere else, or some granddad would turn left without signaling and you'd end up an inattentive grease spot.
Destroyer Squadron Six headquarters was in a concrete-block building at the head of Pier Sierra. He parked behind a fence made of anchor chain painted white and replaced his helmet with his combination cap. He checked his shoes, centered his buckle, and walked in.
Chief Hone told him to go right in, that the Commodore was expecting him. Dan's heart sank. He'd never met the squadron commander. He fingered his ribbons, took a deep breath, and knocked.
“Lieutenant Lenson, Commodore. Captain Leighty said—” The man behind the desk glanced up angrily, as if Dan had interrupted him. Suppressing his surprise—the Commander, Destroyer Squadron Six, was not only extremely large and heavily muscled but also the first black senior officer he'd ever seen—he stammered, “—to report over here. Sir.”
Commodore Barry Niles placed two large hands flat on his desk. He stared at Dan, freckled lids lowered, mustache downturned over
a scowl. His eyes were small and black and hostile. Then he nodded to someone behind him. “I believe you know Commander Byrne.”
“Hello, Dan.”
The other officer had been standing by the window, which was why Dan hadn't seen him. He was barrel-chested and swarthy in whites, still wearing the amber-tinted sunglasses he affected even indoors. Dan blinked as they shook hands.
He'd met John Anson Byrne in the Mediterranean, where they'd suffered together under Isaac Sundstrom. Byrne was still tall, still distinguished-looking. He had a master's in international law, and Dan had seen him translate flashing light between two Soviet destroyers.
“Jack! How are you? What are you doing here?”
“I'm Commodore Niles's N-two. Would have looked you up, but I didn't realize you were on
Barrett
till now.”
N-two was Intelligence. “Well, it's nice to see you again, sir. Congratulations on making commander.”
“Congratulations to you, too. Those railroad tracks look good on you.”
“Please sit down, Lieutenant,” rumbled Niles, behind them. Dan sat, his mind running data at a high bit rate. As Commander, Destroyer Squadron Six, Niles had the commanding officers of twelve destroyers working for him. For him to see Dan … He hoped Niles hadn't noticed his surprise … . He shut his brain off and concentrated on what the commodore had to say.
“Commander Byrne and I have been discussing you,” Niles rumbled. His diction was high English; Dan thought he spoke like a lawyer. One of the big hands moved to a glass dish, selected a red spheroid, and inserted it slowly into his cheek. “I don't know if you realize this, but you have a modest notoriety in the fleet. There is a story going the rounds about a statement you made before a court of inquiry.”
“Uh, yes, sir.”
“It's rare for a man to have the … courage to make a statement like that. Demanding to be held accountable, when he had already been acquitted.”
“The Commodore was wondering,” Byrne said, still looking toward the window, though he was seated, “what made you say that. Of course, you were injured at the time. Under medication. But why exactly did you insist you were responsible?”
Dan thought about that. It had been years ago, and he wasn't sure it had been courage that made him do it. But they were waiting … . “I guess just what I said to the court, sir. That it was unfair to pin all the blame for
Ryan'
s loss on a dead man. Commander Packer couldn't answer for himself. I thought there was a lot more blame lying around than anybody was picking up.”
Niles rumbled, “Rear Admiral Hoelscher and Captain Javits were issued letters of admonition for negligence. Commander Bryce and his associates were found guilty at court-martial and sentenced to prison.”
“Yes, sir, but what about the Chief of Naval Operations—who sent us up into the Arctic when we could barely cross Narragansett Bay? Congress—the people who made us steam without repair parts, without proper manning—”
“I see what you mean,” said Niles to Byrne, cutting across Dan in midspeech like a battleship cutting across a frigate. “Yes, I do. In a sense, it is admirable—but in a sense, it is not.”
They both regarded Dan, making him feel like something misshapen in a jar. Then Niles pressed an intercom. The chief answered. “I need that letter now,” he said. “Lieutenant, it was interesting meeting you. I'm glad your career and your motivation have survived the—vicissitudes of your naval service. Thank you for coming by.”
Dan stood for a moment, unsure what to do. The Navy didn't salute indoors, and neither officer extended his hand. Niles solved it for him, saying dryly, “That will be all, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”
 
 
BYRNE led him through an office into an inner sanctum. Its door was steel and had a push-button combination lock. There were no windows, just locked filing cabinets, a microfiche reader, a hot plate. “Coffee?” he said to Dan. “Cups in the drawer. That your cycle out front?”
“Yeah.”
“New?”
“I got it after Betts left.”
“You two split? I'm sorry to hear that. She showed a lot of guts in Syria. And your little girl—what was her name?”
“Nan.”
“Cute as hell. Anything I can do?”
“No.”
“It's rough. Rosemary and I—it takes a special kind of woman to stay married, raise a family when you're not there half the time. I assume she got custody?” Dan nodded. “So you're alone here.”
“Basically.”
“Seeing anybody?”
“A girl I met, a teacher.”
“Serious? Bring her over.”
“It's not that serious.” Dan sipped at the coffee, burned his mouth. “Commodore Niles—he's uh, different.”
“Quite a character, eh? One of the few ex—football players I've
ever met who astonishes me intellectually. I wouldn't be surprised if we pick up the paper in ten years and he's Chief of Naval Operations.”
“Where's he out of?”
“University of Georgia, surface nuclear engineering; he's had
Barney
and
California.”
“What are those red things he was sucking?”
“Atomic Fireballs. He calls them ‘the Devil's eyeballs.'”
“Uh, Jack … you mind telling me what this is all about? Because you seem to know, and I guess he does—but I don't. Is it about the MAMs?”
“The … oh, the spare parts you lost—”
“I
didn't lose them.”
“Tender spot, eh? No. Basically, he just wanted to meet you.”
“Why does he want to meet a lieutenant without his commanding officer present? Am I that much of a freak?”
“As a matter of fact, there's a reason.” Byrne went around his desk and sat down. “Relax! Mind if I—”
“It's your office, sir.”
Byrne toyed with a pipe, then decided against it. “We were looking over the complement on
Barrett.
I noticed your name and mentioned that I had served with you. He asked about you and I told him. Then he asked some more questions, such as when you had joined the ship.”
“Why would he care?”
“Dan, let me start off like this. Most Navy people are like the fitness report form says, typically excellent, top ten percent, et cetera. The kind you want around you in case the balloon ever goes up.”
Dan remembered Byrne habitally circled a topic before approaching it closely enough to bite. “Yeah,” he said cautiously.
“Yet you and I have both occasionally run into some off-the-wall puppies. Sundstrom, for one. Yes? No?”
“True.”
“Well … I wonder if you have noticed anything like that recently.”
“Like Sundstrom?”
“No, not necessarily. Anything out of the ordinary.”
“I don't know, Jack. That's a pretty broad question.”
“Have you noticed anything strange aboard
Barrett
since you joined her?”
“Anything
strange?
Jack, what is this? Why are you asking
me
this stuff?”
“Because I'm the squadron N-two?”
“I mean, talking about strange,
this is strange.
Has Commodore Niles asked Captain Leighty if he noticed anything ‘strange'?”
“He may have. I can't say. Are you saying we should?”
Dan was feeling more and more unreal. He trusted Byrne, but jumping the chain of command like this was not the way the U.S. Navy operated. Then again, every surface line officer knew that the 1600's, the intelligence corps, marched to a different drummer—one only they could hear.
“You know, Jack, if I didn't know better, I'd read that as asking me to be some kind of informer.”
Byrne laughed and picked up the pipe again. “Dan, the Navy's not such a big place. Stay around a few years, you get a rep. Especially if you've been involved in anything … controversial. Want me to tell you yours?”
“If it's the answer to what I asked you.”
“You have a rep for honesty, but not diplomacy. Put another way, you tend to speak up in situations where the intelligent—meaning safe—thing to do would be to keep a low profile. What I am asking today is, if you saw a situation developing that felt wrong to you, would you be willing to give me the nod to send in the elephants?”
“Elephants?”
“The Naval Investigative Service.”
Dan thought about that. The NIS was one of those agencies nobody liked, because its main job was to keep the rest of the Navy in line, like Internal Affairs in a police department. Usually, you only heard about it after it had wrapped up a case, and not much then. He said cautiously, “You think there's something going on aboard
Barrett
?
”
“Not specifically. If we thought there was, we'd be aboard right now grilling everybody from your skipper on down. It's Navy-wide. I'm discussing this same issue with people on other ships, and the same thing is happening at Desron Four and Group Two and Subgru Six and the minesweeps, too.” Byrne hesitated. “I didn't tell you this?”
“I never heard it.”
“What this thing is, certain quarters are starting to wonder if there's a hole in our crypto.”
“In our
codes?”
“Yeah. See why they're going to general quarters? If somebody could penetrate those, we wouldn't have any more secrets. They'd be able to read everything right off the air, ballistic missile targeting, alert condition, execute orders, position of our submerged submarines, anything they wanted.”
“But I thought our codes couldn't be broken. They're so random, and we change them so often—”
“Theoretically, that's true,” said Byrne. “You'd need two things to break our message traffic. Both a current key list and a complete operating model of the decrypting/encrypting equipment. Neither
of which the other side has. But the question always remains: Is the theory right?” He waved a match over the pipe, exhaled aromatic smoke.
Dan put two and two together. “Does this have anything to do with the Fleet Minimize?”
Byrne shrugged, a gesture Dan remembered from the Med when someone asked him something he didn't want to answer. Behind the amber glasses, like barriers against those not cleared for access, he didn't give anything away for free. “So, can I count on you?”
“I still don't know what you want.”
“Let's go over it again, then. Certain people we all work for are getting an uneasy feeling. I can't be more specific, okay? But if there's something wrong, it means that our normal ways of preventing 'accidents' aren't working. So we want a back channel in place to catch any vague suspicions things may not be the way they're supposed to be.”
Dan started to ask, Why can't you go through the chain of command? Then he thought better of it. He could figure that out himself. If they weren't using the chain of command, that meant they weren't sure they could depend on the links.

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