The diesels growled at full throttle, with a pounding, thrusting roar that shook and buzzed everything on the little bridge. Dan stood on the wing, cradling binoculars in his good hand and fighting flashes of sea memory. The Arctic wastes north of the Greenland-UK gap. The massive rollers that had battered old Reynolds Ryan, and the screams that had haunted his nightmares since … how many thousands of hours he’d passed this way, on so many bridges: bored, sleepy, brain goosed into weary half alertness by endless cups of joe.
And here he was again. Wind and sea conditions: five knots from the northeast, waves one to two feet. The calm before the storm. No one else was out on the gray emptiness of the upper Chesapeake, though the squared-off fill site of Poplar Island was visible to port.
Tucking his binoculars under his arm, he felt in his pocket. Thumbnailed the milled edges of a quarter. Glanced around, making sure no one was watching, and dropped it over the side. Hearing again the youthful, confident tones of the man who’d taken him under his wing so many years before. Sailors used to offer silver to Poseidon at the beginning of a voyage.
You believe in that? Dan had asked. Naïve. Trusting. The greenest of green ensigns.
Believe? Hell no, I’m a devout atheist.
Retrieving the binoculars, he examined the withered shrubs dotting the dikes. The sky was a crystal blue, with only the faintest blur of cloud on the horizon. The winds, light since they’d set out, barely ruffled the surface. As yet.
Three more gray-hulled mini-destroyers followed in 703’s foam-speckled wake, each spaced an exact hundred yards astern of its predecessor. Inside the little glassed-in pilothouse stood three figures. Galadriel Stewart; he’d been surprised to find the chair of the Anglo-Saxon Culture Study Group was also commodore of the Academy’s training squadron. A taller shadow: a Black firstie, Merwin Dearborn, was this YP’s captain. A third class stood behind the wheel, gnawing her lip as she matched the gyro needle with the ordered course.
From the yardarm streamed Dan’s flag, the three stars of a vice admiral. Most likely, the last time he’d ever fly it at sea.
He grinned unwillingly, appreciating the irony. Not much of a force, compared to those he’d commanded before.
Though to those he was tasked to rescue, they’d be the answer to a prayer.
The four Yard Patrol craft had gotten underway three hours after the governor’s phone call. They served as the Academy’s training fleet for maneuvering, formation steaming, tactics, and shiphandling. Fortunately, the orientation of their basin across the Severn had sheltered them from the worst of the wind.
Unfortunately, they just weren’t that fast. Even all out, they could barely make fourteen knots. Maybe sixteen max over ground, today, with the current behind them.
They’d barely reach their goal in time.
Before the war, the Coast Guard and Navy would have carried out such an evacuation with response boats and LCACs. But those had been sent to the Pacific, where they lay either sunk or wrecked. And according to the governor, an air evacuation was out of the question.
The islanders’ lives depended on him, the mids, and the Academy’s own mini fleet.
A voice behind him startled him from his reverie. “Admiral, current ETA is 1827,” Midshipman Stewart reported. “We’re picking up a southerly tidal set, one point seven knots. Chief Yarborough’s ready to brief the entrance and exit plan.”
Dan nodded. Their destination lay halfway down the Bay, nearly to the Virginia border. The two Caterpillar C18s were pushing all out, fifteen hundred horses total, but they’d reach the entrance channel almost exactly at sunset. And as he recalled—having visited the island once, a weekend with a girlfriend between wives—that access was narrow, tricky, and poorly marked, with shifting shoals and barely more water than his flotilla drew.
He glanced at Stewart. Her pinched face and sharp chin reminded him of someone, but he wasn’t sure who. He cleared his throat. Maybe he shouldn’t broach the subject. It was jumping so many levels of command. But what the hell. “Mind if I ask you something?” he ventured.
She drew her eyebrows together. “Sir?”
“About your club … your ECA. You’re that Stewart, right?”
“Yes, sir. Anglo Studies. Did you care to join?”
What? “Uh, no! I wanted to ask … I keep getting reports of racist graffiti in Bancroft. Does your ECA do anything to prevent that?”
She looked away, and once again she looked familiar, only not quite enough to fire whatever neurons held her image. “We’re not a racist organization, sir. We actually have several nonwhite members. And we discourage the kind of thing you’re talking about. Pride in our people, our culture—that’s it.”
“Is ‘white’ a culture?”
“Is ‘African American’?” She looked skeptical. “Sir? Respectfully. If they can have a club, if there’s an Asian Studies Club, why can’t we?”
“That’s what Colonel Stocker said. I’m suspending judgment, myself.”
“Come to a meeting, then, sir. See what we’re all about.”
Yeah, right. Just what he needed—to be seen at a whites-only gathering.
All at once, out of nowhere, he recalled where they’d met. The day he’d taken command, running his old cross-country loop at dawn. She’d stopped and asked if he was all right. Then, when she found out he was the incoming supe, muttered, At least we got one of our own this time.
He smiled grimly. “Midshipman Stewart. I’ll warn you now, off the record. Or on, if you prefer it that way. I gave in when the ’dant recommended we approve Mr. Evans’s application. Reluctantly. But if I hear one thing linking you or your members to threats, or graffiti, or racist social media postings, or promoting rumors there was some sort of conspiracy or cover-up around Evans’s death, I’ll jerk your permission that same day. And a note will go in your personal record.”
Her face set. “Heard and understood, Admiral. But I can go you one better, sir.”
“Excuse me?”
“I can give you my word: if I, or we, hear of any such activity, you and the ’dant will be the first to know.”
Was she taking his warning aboard? Could he trust her?
A midshipman does not lie. He had to believe that. He set his teeth against more angry words and turned away. “We’d better go over the plan.”
Back in the little tight compartment behind the bridge, the chief in charge of the YP fleet, BMC Truman Yarborough, had set out a tablet with NOAA charts, sailing directions, and a copy of the Waterway Guide. The YPs had been slated for updating with digital navigation and vessel management software, but it hadn’t happened yet.
“Sir, it’ll be tricky getting in,” the chief opened. He was about five four, with a prominent nose and a buzz cut. Also, he looked dauntingly young. Once the chiefs, E-7s and 8s, had seemed grizzled to Dan, even grandfatherly. Now they looked like kids.
Dan turned to the craft’s captain. “Mister Dearborn?”
The Black mid leaned with the deck’s slow roll, hands behind him. “The 703 class draws seven and a half feet, sir.”
Yarborough scrolled the chart. “About a foot and a half more than the wood-hulled 676s you trained on, Admiral. The two channels into the island, west and east, meet at a basin in the center. That’s the town proper, the highest point.”
Dan adjusted his sling to lean in, noting wrecks to the south—Texas, Alabama, and Indiana—sunk as targets a century before, but still dangerous rusting reefs—and on the island, the symbol for a water tower. Usually the highest location. He set his finger on it. “Where the evacuees will be gathering?”
“At least, where they’re supposed to. Them island folks … they can be a fractious bunch.”
Dan nodded. “Which is why they didn’t evacuate. Governor says they said they’d pray the storm away.” It hadn’t worked; the island’s own fishing craft had been wrecked or blown so far into the marshes and mudflats they were useless. And Olaf was aiming straight for them on this second go-round.
“Yessir. Now, the western channel here, it’s rated at six feet. Eastern’s charted at seven, with a tidal range of a foot and a half.” Yarborough consulted his phone. “High tide … it might just work.”
Dan massaged his face. If it didn’t, if the chart soundings were outdated, or a YP veered out of the channel, he’d end up with the flotilla bottled up, stranded. Right when the hurricane arrived for a second bout.
But if he could get there … he could save four hundred lives.
Stewart said, “Sir, I had a confab with my captains on the radio. Suggest we go alongside two at a time. Once a YP’s loaded, we head it out to the east.”
Dan looked to the chief. Yarborough said, “Sounds like a plan. Then, as we get clear, head into the sound for a lee. Set two hooks and lay to ’til this motherfucker—sorry, ma’am—’til this mother blows over.”
Dan nodded. “Do we have enough fuel to run engines while we’re anchored?”
“We should,” said the chief, at the same time Stewart said, “That depends.”
He eyed her. “On what?”
“How quickly the hurricane goes over.”
Dan looked at the chief again, who made a wry face. “We should have enough, Admiral. To run one kicker at low rpm, anyway.”
He checked his Seiko again, then the navigation app on his phone. Then he toggled to the storm track, and grimaced.
It was going to be neck and neck.
The island hove in sight four hours later. The water tower and the spire of a church. The blue sky had been replaced by a black whirl of approaching storm. The wind was rising. The anemometer stood at twenty-five knots, and ribbons of white spray laced the parkerized waves. NOAA kept updating Olaf’s track, but it was still barreling down like a bowling ball aimed for a strike.
Even worse, it was tracking slightly east of the island. Since the wind speeds at its front would be the algebraic sum of its eye’s forward speed, plus the rotational velocity, this meant the strongest winds, plus any tornados the cyclone might generate, would hit shortly—at most, two hours—after he reached the piers.
He had to be loaded out, free of the island, battened down, and securely anchored before then.
The lookouts, plebes huddled in reefer jackets against the chilling wind, were calling in marks over their sound-powered phones. “These channels’re always shoaling on this side of the bay,” Yarborough said past raised binoculars. He was double-checking the channel markers. Up close the boatswain looked even younger. Another marker of Dan’s own age, though he didn’t feel old yet.… He remembered again how intimidated he’d been by the senior enlisted as a fresh ensign. The barely suppressed contempt some had shown, the fatherly advice others had given. It was a cliché, but they made the Navy run.
“There he is,” the chief said.
Dan one-handed his own glasses up to catch a small whaler fighting its way out of the channel. A tiny figure in bright orange slicker and life preserver. The mayor had said he’d send his son out to lead them in. As it reached open water the boat turned bow on to the incoming seas, pitching wildly, tossing curtains of spray that blew back along its length. “All right,” Dan told Dearborn. “Head on in.” He glanced at the third class. “That your best hand on the wheel? They’re gonna have to hold her against a stiff crosswind, when we come left to go in.”
Dearborn nodded. “She’s good, sir.”
As the prow came around, 703 caught the wind full force, sagging away. Recovered a few degrees, then shuddered as a sea broke over the bow, blasting spume into the air. Dan bent his knees, ducking as icy spray blew past.
“Bottom’s comin’ up,” Yarborough yelled. “Surf’s building.”
Dan didn’t like the looks of these seas. Nor of the increasing wind. It was ripping the foam off the waves, smearing white across the surface. It buzzed in the housing of the wing searchlight like a fistful of hornets.
“Visibility degenerates any more, we’ll lose our marks,” the chief yelled.
Which would present a nasty choice. They couldn’t dawdle out here. But the channel was too tight, the terrain relief too low, to thread it on GPS or radar. He glanced inside again; the young faces so rapt, engrossed, backs ruler-straight. The diesels were growling all out, but the channel markers were taking their damn fucking time getting closer.
Another sea slammed them, shouldering the whole craft over. He grabbed for a handhold as more spray showered down. Yarborough beckoned him inside. Dan nodded, and ducked in.
The pilothouse was close, hot, cramped, smelling of fuel and electronics and maybe a little … fear? Stewart and Dearborn stood close together, clinging to an overhead cable, both staring out as the pilot boat tossed and yawed, evading capsizing or pitchpoling by the merest of increments. “That fucker’s really an ace boathandler,” Yarborough muttered.
Another heavy sea. 703 reeled, then dropped, leaving Dan’s stomach behind.
A solid thud from below shuddered every instrument on the bridge. Yarborough grabbed Dan’s shoulder to steady him. Stewart half turned, pointed face paling. “What was that?”
“Striking bottom,” Dan and the chief both said at the same time.
“Sir … should we turn back?”
“No. Keep pushing,” Dan rasped. They should have at least a foot beneath the keel … but they were surging so much, with these heavy swells, they might strike again. Foul a prop, bend a shaft, even snap the keel.
He bit his lip and waited, every cell dreading another slam, then the sudden deceleration as they ran hard aground.
But it didn’t come. Did not come … A green light flashed through the blowing spray atop a black steel pole. He binoculared its base to gauge the state of the tide. High, which made him wonder again why the keel had touched. Then shoved it out of his mind. They were in the channel. Now to just keep the prow in the wake of the skiff. It was churning inland. Past low banks of marsh, only dimly visible to port as dusk advanced.
A tight little harbor came into view. Its banks were littered with wrecked boats, perched high on riprap or with bows jutting from piles of torn fiberglass. The wing of a small plane stuck up incongruously from the roof of a gray-shingled building. No wonder air evac had been ruled out. Beyond, inland, a steeple poked up. He glassed the shore, fearing to see bodies, but unable to pick out anything clearly identifiable as such.
A voice from the overhead speaker. “Yankee Papa Leader, this is Yankee Papa seven zero niner. Report we are hard aground. Over.”
Stewart, holding the handset of the bridge-to-bridge radio. “Sir, 709 reports—”
“Heard it,” Dan snapped. He wheeled to stare astern. Sure enough, a gap had opened between the penultimate and final craft in line. Then a blast of rain wiped both from view. “Tell them to make best effort to get free. They won’t be punished for going aground. I’ll assume responsibility. Dearborn, stay in that wake.”
They plowed ahead. Floating debris littered the water: congeries of fishing floats, timbers, the peeled-back roofs of demolished crab houses. The Black mid glanced at him; Dan shook his head. The steel hull nudged the flotsam aside with slight bumps.
“Bend to port coming up … five hundred yards to town landing,” the chief said.
Stewart was biting her lip. “Admiral. We can’t leave 709 out there. Not with the storm bearing down.”
“I know that, Ms. Stewart. What do you suggest we do about it?”
“We should … go back for them?”
“Ten souls on 709. Four hundred we need to get to safety before the storm hits. Sure that’s the right answer?”
He let her chew on that while he glassed ahead. Piers to starboard. Buildings. Rice-grain hail was starting, clacking onto the windscreen. He asked Dearborn, “Where will you lay alongside? Captain?”
“Harbormaster, on VHF, wants us alongside that bulkhead.”
Dan followed the skipper’s pointing finger to a pier, or landing, jutting out into the thoroughfare. In the deepening gloom lines of people stood in brightly colored rain gear, carrying suitcases, duffels, backpacks. Families. Kids. Below them, along a riprap breakwater, smashed boats lay capsized or half sunken. A slick of petrochemicals greased the water, and the smells of gas and diesel welled up.
Dearborn said over one shoulder, “Right ten degrees rudder. Make turns for three knots.”
Dan looked aft, ahead; checked the anemometer; thought about the pivot point and the turning radius. It looked like the mid had the approach in hand. A bustle out on deck; the rest of the crew, third and fourth class, were flemishing out mooring lines.
“Back two-thirds,” Dearborn said quietly. “Rudder amidships … back full … engines stop.” 703 coasted to a stop. “Lines two and four.”
Islanders in stocking caps and bulky jackets lunged to catch heaving lines, then bent to haul them in. 703’s haze-gray hull kissed the pier, rebounded, rocked to a halt. Someone blew a whistle. “Moored. Brow over to port,” Dearborn yelled down.
“Nicely done,” Dan said. He swung down to the main deck, careful of his arm, and headed aft. A grizzled man stood on the pier, fists on hips, watching as the townspeople lined up to file aboard. He saw Dan and lifted a hand. “Admiral?”
“Dan Lenson,” Dan said. “Mayor Crocker?”
“Town manager. Yeah.” They shook hands over the lifeline. Crocker jerked a thumb toward the queue. “How many on each of your ships, there? Somebody said you could overnight fifty?”
“Fifty belowdecks, yeah. I hope they brought food. I was able to get some MREs aboard, but not enough for this many.” Dan shaded his eyes against the blowing rain, surveying the crowd. “There’s not four hundred here.”
“No, sorry. ’Bout half decided not to come.”
“Decided not to…? The governor ordered an evacuation.”
“I know. But we don’t take kindly to being ordered around. I’m not going either.”
Dan put a hand to his head. “So … where are they sheltering? Is there a storm shelter?”
“We’ll wait it out in the church,” Crocker said. “With Reverend Michaels. God’s taken care of us so far. I don’t think He’ll let us down now.”
Dan glanced at the clouds, which were taking on an ominous Gatorade greenish-violet. Debating whether to just let them live, or die, with their decision.
But, no. His daughter had put her life on the line to help people who didn’t believe in vaccinations, or sanitation, or science. She didn’t just shrug, and let a pitiless universe deal with them.
The passengers were humping their luggage aboard from the catwalk. Stewart was looking down from the bridge. Dan waved to get her attention. “Going up to the church,” he yelled.
She looked startled. “Sir?”
“Some of ’em don’t want to leave. Stand by for me, but not too long. If I’m not back in fifteen, you and Dearborn know what to do.” He mimed speaking into a radio, and she dropped him one of the handhelds. He waved to the second craft in line, hove to now off the pier. Pressing the Transmit button, he told them to come alongside forward of 703 and prepare to load.
He commandeered a golf cart standing empty and drove down the one-laner main drag as the rain continued its steady cold drizzle, rattling against the zip-on plastic screen of the cart. The houses were small, one story, with microscopic yards. Most stood deserted, windows plywooded.
The First Methodist was white clapboard with the looming steeple he’d glimpsed from seaward. In the deepening darkness its lights shone out welcoming bright. The strains of “Abide with Me” swelled from the open door. He waited cap in hand until the end, then went in. Walked up the center aisle toward an elderly man who stood as if expecting him, Bible in hand. The congregation coughed and murmured.
“Admiral,” the pastor said as Dan neared. “Welcome to our worship service.”
Dan looked around at families, older folks, a scattering of kids. They seemed subdued but self-possessed, except for a few wailing babies. The air smelled of candle wax, wet wool, and floral perfume. “Reverend Michaels?”
“I am.”
“I understand you and these good people are thinking about staying put for this storm.”
“‘From whence cometh my help?’” Michaels said mildly. “‘My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.’” He nodded to Dan’s sling. “You’re injured, sir?”
“‘He will not suffer thy foot to be moved; He that keepeth thee will not slumber,’” Dan said, ignoring his inquiry. “Psalm 121. May I have a word with your congregation?”
Not a moment’s hesitation. “Of course, Admiral. But I don’t think you’ll shake our faith.”
“Believe me, that’s not my intention, Padre. At all.”
He turned, picking out faces to speak to. A young woman. An elderly man. A toddler, thumb fixed in her mouth, eyeing him gravely. “My name is Daniel Lenson. Your governor’s tasked me to provide evacuation for everyone on this island. I command the ships alongside your bulkhead, uh, downtown.
“We have room for everyone. But we can’t stand by long. The storm will be overhead in”—he checked his phone—“an hour and a quarter. Just enough time to load you, get underway, and take you to shelter. I promise I’ll get you back to your homes as soon as it’s safe to return.”
He paused, but no one moved. Or spoke. Michaels stood with head lowered, fingers caressing the book. Dan cleared his throat. “Please. Follow me, and let me take you to safety.”
A grizzled fellow in the front pew said, “Admiral, sir, I’m ex-Navy myself. Independence, on Yankee Station. Thank you for coming. But we have a more powerful savior.”
“Thank you for your service. But I’m not sure you all understand.” Dan raised his voice. “No point on this island is over three feet above sea level. The predictions are for a twelve-foot storm surge. You’ll experience massive overwash flooding and winds of over a hundred knots. I’ve already cast off one craft with evacuees. We need to board the rest of you now.”
A stirring in the back, a murmuration. Another voice: “We’ve been here for three hundred years. We’re not going anywhere.”
Someone else, a young woman’s voice: “God protects us here. He’ll bring us through this piddlin’ storm just fine.”
Dan looked to the pastor. “Sir, this is no ‘piddling storm.’ This island will be demolished. If you add your voice to mine, we can save lives.”
Michaels said mildly, “I’m not a jailer, Admiral. Anyone who wishes is free to go. But those who trust in the Lord will stay.”
“And you, Padre. Will you lead your people out of Egypt?”
Michaels smiled. “Thank you, again, but the Lord will provide.”
Dan sensed he wasn’t winning the theological debate. Still, the stir in back, the occasional bang of the door letting in the wind, meant a few were slipping out. Probably whoever’d brought the babies, since the wailing had ceased.
The lights flickered. Michaels gestured, and a woman began lighting candles. One last try, then. “Sir, the Lord has provided. He dispatched the US Navy. We’re not angels from on high, but we definitely were sent to rescue you.” He looked at his phone again, making it ostentatious. “Let’s join hands, and all get out of here before it’s too late.”
More voices in back, muffled protests; the door banged again. Little by little, the back pews, probably those already less committed, were emptying. The front ranks, though, with the older parishioners, stood firm. They met his eyes without doubt or question.
Michaels stepped forward. “Perhaps you had best return to your duty, Admiral.—Hymn One Hundred.”
Dan stood irresolute a moment longer, then accepted it. A partial victory. A partial defeat. He started to leave, then turned back. Plucked the sleeve of the Vietnam vet. Muttered, “I need your help aboard, Chief. And bring your family.”
A moment’s wavering, as the grandfather eyed his pastor, then Dan again. At last he bent, whispering to his wife, his daughter, his grandchildren.
They set down their hymnals and filed out.
As Dan walked down the aisle, the aged voices swelled behind him. “A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing. Our helper he amid the flood, of mortal ills prevailing.”
He only hoped they were right.
When he got back, 710 had loaded and left, as had the third in line. 703 was still waiting, engines idling. Dan lingered on the pier as the rain became a torrent. The town manager had vanished. To the church with the other diehards, probably. The temperature was dropping. The rain turned to hail again, so stinging he had to retreat under the eave of a crab shed. Over his handheld, Stewart relayed that the 709 boat reported free of the shoal and heading in. He acknowledged, heart lightened a little. He’d hoped that would happen as the tide rose.
That last YP loomed out of the night, too eagerly. Its diesels howled, backing full. It slowed, but too late, and lurched into the pilings so hard they groaned and creaked.
As the remaining families trooped aboard, the tide lapped the bottom of the decking. The wheels of the brow squealed as the boat rocked. Dan kept checking the app. Less than an hour until the storm hit in earnest. Already the wind was shrieking like a revolutionary mob.
They had to leave … but a few more islanders were still straggling down the lane. He waved them aboard peremptorily, then shaded his eyes back up the main drag. No one else showed on the path. The overhead lines swayed in the wind. The few lights left on in the homes flickered violently, then all went out at once.
He gave it two more minutes, then pulled himself aboard. Yelled up to the bridge, “Cast off, and let’s get the hell out of here.”
They ran out of the channel at full speed and turned north, racing the storm to the cove he and Yarborough had picked out. The bottom was mud and sand, which should be good holding. Land cupped it on three sides. His other craft were already anchored, line abreast to the anticipated winds, engines running to ease the strain. If a tornado hit they’d be in trouble, but short of that, he felt, peering through the hail-clattering windscreen into the roaring dark, they were set up about as well as they could be to ride it out.
Buffeted by the gusts, YP-703 snatched at the bitter end of its rode. The anchor set hard and suddenly and the deck lurched, slamming his bad arm against the helm console. He grunted involuntarily.
“You all right, sir?” said a voice from the dark.
He muttered a reassurance, and turned.
Two faces were bent flickering green over the radar scope. Dearborn and Stewart. He sagged against the console, watching. Half catching their low tones as they recorded initial radar ranges and bearings, to determine whether, during the long and doubtless nerve-racking darkness to come, they’d be dragging anchor.
Working together.
He knew then that—at least for tonight—they would come through.