The Passage (21 page)

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Authors: David Poyer

BOOK: The Passage
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“I'm listening.”
“When the pressure's on, people get tunnel vision. Don't get so tied up on any one problem you lose the big picture. Back off. Leave it to us. We got a week before the training team comes aboard. We'll get it shaped up before then. So unless you give me a direct order not to, I'm going home. Are you giving me a direct order?”
Dan hesitated. “No.”
“Okay, then. See you tomorrow.”
Dan remembered Sanderling. “Wait a minute. Chief Dawson said something about the charges against Sanderling being dismissed.”
“Not exactly.” Harper gave him an ironical smile. “The XO had a little informal screening mast in his stateroom. Just Sandy, me, and him. Result: The captain's friend is to consider himself counseled on being careful with his hands in the Navy Exchange.”
Dan said slowly, “He dismissed it. Why?”
“Maybe you can answer that, shipmate, if you think about it a while.” Harper slapped him on the shoulder.
Dan looked after him as he swung down the passageway, made a left to the quarterdeck, disappeared.
He wasn't really sure how he felt, but it wasn't good. His gear was down, the ship was crippled, and the captain and the exec were playing games over an enlisted pretty boy.
Instead of going back into the computer room, he went to the wardroom. It was dark and he had to flick on the lights. The bulkhead clock read midnight. The galley was unlocked and there was a round barrel of Rocky Road in the freezer. He wolfed a bowl standing up, drank a cup of thick tepid coffee, then stood looking out the porthole.
Finally, he went back down, to find Dawson, Mainhardt, Sanderling, and Williams still at work.
“Sir, quarterdeck was after you. A Mrs. Strishauser, calling back. Says she needs to talk to you tonight. Said it was urgent.”
“Okay, damn it.” “Urgent” with Beverly? The way she exaggerated? It would keep. “What's the outcome? Is the rest of the tape clean?”
“Bad news, sir. We found more nonfunctional code.”
“By nonfunctional, you mean—”
“It's full of this gibberish. Or not full, but—the funny thing is, you get a patch, then some good programming, then seventy or a hundred lines later, crap again.”
“So what do we do now? Patch those, too?”
“Sir, we could, but we got a quarter million lines of code here. We're getting beyond what we can patch manually. Williams here got another idea. We're gonna dump this whole program and load up Version Two again. Maybe somebody just left that new tape too close to a magnetic field or something.”
He sighed and looked at the screen, the lines of green-glowing code. “Okay,” he said. “And we'd better send Hofstra up for some more coffee, okay?”
 
 
THE DSs shut the system down, shut everything off, the mainframes and the magnetic drum memory units, let all the Version 3 programming evaporate. Then they brought them back up again and loaded the Version 2 tape.
It ran, but they found scrambled code in it, too.
When Vysotsky called at 0300, Dan told him they needed help. The exec said he'd already called the squadron duty officer. “They don't have any organic assets smart on software, but they can maybe scramble somebody,” he said, sounding half-asleep. “If it's really beyond the capability of ship's force.”
“Sir, I'm shutting everything down. I got a bad feeling.”
“About what?”
“That more than one tape is bad.”
“Maybe we got a bad shipment.”
“Sir, these tapes came from different commands. I don't think …” He heard his voice trail off; it sounded weak, but he didn't know what else to say. He was stumped.
“We can't just tag out the computers. What's your best guess on time to repair? Over forty-eight hours?”
“At least, sir, unless some major-league bit brain shows up here tomorrow with a magic wand.”
“Okay, we got to CASREP it.” The casualty report message would tell the world USS
Barrett
had a major problem and needed help. Vysotsky added, “Have a draft ready to hand to Felipe first
thing tomorrow—this morning, I mean. I want it on the street by ten hundred.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It sounds to me like readiness is going to drop to C three. Maybe even C four if we're honest. What's your take?”
Dan felt uneasy discussing the ship's readiness on a commercial line. “Uh … can I think about that? Brief you in the morning, when you come in?”
“I guess … . Goes without saying, this doesn't make me feel warm and fuzzy, Dan. Without those computers, we don't dance, don't sing; we just sit in the water and attract shit from everybody.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, thinking, That's right, XO, screw it down a little tighter.
When he finally left the computer room, dawn was breaking over North Charleston. The bulkheads glistened with dew. Gulls were mining the Dumpsters, whirling up in screaming melees when one found a morsel too large to eat in one gulp. He stood watching them as his mind formulated a shadowy image, too shifting and vague to see clearly. Could nonsense be malevolent? Could chaos reproduce itself, feeding on meaning and logic? Gradually destroying what was whole and healthy, converting it to the stuff of its own diabolic, meaningless life …
He shook his head as if to shake off biting flies. It wasn't possible. Computers did only what they were told. It was his brain that was generating nonsense, from lack of sleep and too much coffee. He looked at his watch again, thinking he might snatch a nap before officers' call, and noticed only then the ballpointed numerals of Beverly's phone number, obliterated now to a meaningless and unreadable smear.
CUBA
Alcorcón
A
ND now it was the wet season. The sky poured rain on the empty fields, lying flat and untended under the drumming downpour. They looked brown and dead. But beneath the glistening soil, the cane was growing, putting out silent secret roots so that one day soon it would shoot upward into the light.
And like the cane, something secret was growing in Batey Number 3, as well.
Graciela stood at the central, under the dripping metal eaves of the machine station. Shivering, she looked off across the water shining dully in the wheel ruts, and beyond that at the empty fields and the palely glowing sky.
The men had begun work on the boat. She hadn't seen it yet; it was too deep in the swamp, too hard to get to through marsh and mangrove. Mangrove was nearly impenetrable; you had to chop your way in, then wade through water filled with leeches and snakes—not for her, not now. Her other pregnancies hadn't bothered her this much. She'd worked in the fields right up till the pains began. But this time felt different. Perhaps because she was older. Or the shock of Armando's death … Whatever the reason, this baby seemed restless, disturbed. It kicked as if to punish her. And where before she'd been able to work all day, now she felt fatigued even as she woke. Some days, she was so exhausted that it was all she could do to drag herself to the clinic for the ration of German dried milk, reserved for children, pregnant women, and nursing mothers.
Today, the
médico
had told her it was gone, that the supplies were exhausted. But as soon as she'd stepped out of line, there was more for the others, behind her.
To hell with them. She was leaving. She hadn't seen the boat yet, but Miguelito had come, full of himself, and told her about it—how
Tomás and the others had studied his book, a child's book about boats, only that one picture showed how the ribs and stringers were put together. The men had discussed this picture and measured it and finally started stealing materials and smuggling them piece by piece back to the marsh at night.
“And what does it look like now?” she'd asked him.
“Right now, two curved sides and no bottom.”
“It has no
bottom?
”
“Not yet. Tomás is building it upside down. The bottom will go on last. It'll be tin. Then they'll turn it over and put the deckhouse on, just like it shows in the book.”
“This tin bottom, it won't leak?”
“Where they nail it, sure, but Xiomara stole inner tubes from the tractor shop. They'll glue rubber over the nail heads to keep the water out.”
“Can
they
see this?” she worried. “If an airplane flies over—”
“It can't. They cut fresh branches each time they go and put them over the boat. Julio says that's what they taught them in the Young Pioneers. And Uncle Augustín, he says he'll make that motor run.”
“And you? What will you do?”
“Oh, I just provided the plans,” the boy said, shrugging, but she could see how proud he was. “And I carry things and cut branches and help.”
Now she sighed. The downpour roared hollowly above her, arching off the corrugated metal roof in evenly spaced streams. It didn't look as if it would ever stop. Settling her palm-leaf hat to shed the rain, she stepped heavily out into the yard.
Tomás had taken leadership of the plan to escape, just as she'd known he would. He'd assigned each person something to do: this one to steal plywood from the sugar mill, where they were pouring new footings; that one to get a compass; another to get gas and oil. Since she could neither go into the marsh nor carry anything heavy, he'd given her three tasks. First, collect foods that would not spoil on the trip. Two, find a map. And three, stitch rice sacks together to make a small sail.
Food—she'd found a little today. It was in the bag at her waist. The map was more important, though. They were peasants. They could go without food, even water, but without a map, they'd be lost out on the
bahía.
Beyond the marshlands lay the Camagüey archipelago, a labyrinthine scatter of deserted cays, islets, reefs, and lagoons that sealed off the interior of central Cuba like a great barred gate. She had to find a map … . Where had she seen one?
… Pinned up on a dirty wall … Where was her mind going? She didn't mind being pregnant, but she hated what it did to her thoughts. Like scrambled eggs. She wished she had an egg; it would be good for the baby … .
“Compañera Lopez.”
She came to a halt, recalled to rutted earth, the smell of pig shit, the rain that soaked her thin jacket, the pain in swollen bare feet she could no longer force into boots. To the serious, slightly puffy face of Nenita Colon Marquez, wife of Rámon Colon and a member like him of Cooperative Number 179's Committee to Defend the Revolution. Her black hair was pinned up under a uniform cap. Her wet fatigues were smeared with mud at knees and elbows, and she had a semiautomatic rifle slung over her shoulder. The muzzle was pointing down. To keep the rain out, Graciela supposed. A smear of soot on Nenita's cheek made her coffee-colored skin look pale.
Graciela felt her knees start to quiver. A word from this woman and she'd be in a truck, on her way to the police station in Alcorcón.
“You look confused, comrade. Are you all right? Do you need a hand?”
“No, gracias,
compañera.
”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh yes, oh yes.” She dropped her eyes to Nenita's boots, forced a stupid smile. “You've been out in the mud. Militia duty?”
“A surprise recall. Fifteen minutes to dress and muster. You don't have to go every time, but I try to do my duty when I can, with the children and my husband and all … . We get in trucks and they take us to the range for shooting practice. It makes my ears ring.” She looked at Graciela's bare feet. “Have you had your tetanus shot?”
“Yes, comrade, but thank you for the reminder.”
“How's the baby?”
“The baby … he's not sitting comfortably today.”
“It's a he, eh?”
“They say when the baby sits low, it is a male child.”
The smile ebbed from the other woman's face, leaving a cold regard. “I was sorry to hear about your husband. I knew him only a little, but I regret his death. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, comrade.”
“I understand you've been buying food. Is this true, what they say in the store?”
She stood motionless. The militiawoman's eyes held hers with a faint smile, as if she knew everything, as if she dared Graciela to admit it. Then she thought, It's a trick; all they know is that I've been in the store. She shrugged. “Isn't that allowed, to buy something to eat when you are hungry?”
“Certainly, but what's wrong with your rations?”
“The rations are quite generous. We are well provided for. But I am
embarazada
, no? You're a mother; you know how it is. One craves other things—tinned meat, chocolate.” She nodded to the bag she carried. “The little pickles in the glass jars. I think and
think about these things, and finally I have to have them. And baby food, that might be gone when I need it, no?”
“But the money,
compañera?
Such things are expensive.”
“My husband was thrifty. I have a little money he saved from his wages.”
“Interesting,” said Marquez, “that he had money hidden away at the same time he was stealing food, isn't it? But it's not wise to keep cash. You should deposit it at the office. No matter how close we are to neighbors and relatives, we never know who can't be trusted, do we? With money, with a husband—with a secret.”
Graciela kept her eyes down and her expression bovine. Was Marquez playing with her? Did she know about the midnight meeting, the plan? But if she suspected, why didn't she just let the police know, or the pale
gallego
who'd spoken to Graciela in the cane? She knew she should keep on playing the idiot, act like she didn't know anything. But instead, maybe just from being tired, a little flame flared. “Nenita, why do you ask me these questions,
por favor?
Is it really the business of the CDR to concern itself with a pregnant woman's little treats?”
“Everything in the cooperative is our business, dear. But believe me, whatever your husband thought of us, we want what's best for you. Your daughter Coralía is a dedicated socialist woman. We still remember when she addressed our Marxism-Leninism study circle. I want you to consider me a personal friend.”
“Thank you, Nenita. I appreciate that.”
The militiawoman looked around casually, as if, Graciela suddenly thought, she, too, was afraid to be overheard. The next moment, she was astonished to hear her mutter, “I'm worried, Graciela.”
“Worried, comrade? What about? We're a little behind schedule, but—”
“I don't mean that. I'm afraid hard times are coming.”
“They're not going to cut the rations again, are they?”
“I mean politically. There were other prisoners released along with your husband. These other men were not as law-abiding. They were antisocial elements, enemies of the revolution. They swore to abandon their opposition, but apparently had no intention of keeping their word. They've burned a tobacco warehouse in Pinar del Rio. They burned a movie theater in Havana, with two hundred people inside, women and children.” She tapped the stock of the rifle. “It's being coordinated by the CIA. That's why we're stepping up our training. If there's fighting, we have to hold the line till the army arrives.”
“You think there might be trouble here?”
“Let me ask you something. If you knew people who were plotting
against the state, what would you do? Would you inform the authorities?”
“What kind of plotting, Comrade Marquez?”
“I don't know. Sabotage, rebellion, hidden arms, attempts to escape. Would you tell me?”
“Of course,
compañera
. Instantly.”
“You're not just saying that?”
“No, Comrade Marquez.”
“I would be grateful. No one would ever know it was you. And it could help your situation. You know, you are under a cloud now with the manager. Because of your husband.”
“Armando paid for his mistakes.”
“For stealing food, yes, but you see the cooperative no longer had his labor. They don't lower the production quotas when our labor supply goes down.”
“Then they shouldn't have sent him to prison.”
“That's not the point. We've all gotten lax. Private vegetable plots, economic crime of all kinds, theft—a line has to be held. Otherwise, the campesinos would loot the state blind.”
“Instead, it is the campesinos who go blind.”
She could have bitten her tongue; it wasn't smart to taunt a committee member, especially now. Sure enough, Nenita gave her a strange look. “Graciela, is something going on in Batey Number Three? What's happened to Xiomara's roof?”
“It was leaking. They're replacing it with thatch; it lasts better and it's not as noisy.”
“And I saw Tomás Guzman with his cousin a little while ago and they were carrying a sack. I asked them what was in it and they said they didn't know. So I made them open it. Scraps of red cloth, and cooking oil. They said they'd found it and were taking it home. Well, of course it had to come from somewhere, and I had to be quite strict with them. If they try such things again, I shall have to report them.”
“Examples have to be made,” said Graciela. “Nenita, I'm getting cold; my legs hurt—”
“Oh, I'm sorry. Keeping you out in the rain, in your condition! I have some Bulgarian wine. I will open it and bring you a cupful.”
She looked after Marquez as she crossed the yard and disappeared into the office. She didn't know what to make of what the committeewoman had said. What did it mean, there might be trouble? Marquez couldn't mean their escape preparations. Everyone had been very careful. Even Tomás and Julio getting caught with the sack—unless you knew what it was for, you wouldn't know it had anything to do with escape.
Or did she mean something bigger? “Counterrevolutionary activity”—everybody
knew about the rebellions in the Escambray and the Sierra Maestra. The army had put them down—killed hundreds of peasants, relocated thousands. Could that happen here?
The thought of the army, war, killing made her feel faint. She began picking her way through the mud again. We have to leave, she thought. Maybe we'll die, but we have to leave as soon as we can.
Wet, fatigued, and cold, she turned onto the lonely rainswept road that led to her
batey.
But that thought, that she might not be here much longer, made the familiar muddy road look new to her as she trudged heavily along. It gave the glistening soil, the wide fields scattered with the tiny green shoots of new cane, such bittersweet beauty that she found herself wanting to cry. Her tears and her sweat had fallen in those fields; years of her life had passed in them. This was her home, and poor as it was, she would not leave it without regret.

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