“Very well, sir. What shall I do with the men standing by in the wardroom?”
There was a long pause.
“Sir?” Forman said, and then waited.
In a moment the captain’s voice came over the tube again. “You’d better secure them, Mr. Forman. We definitely will not be attempting the delivery.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“I would like to put the woman ashore,” the captain said, “but it would take us several hours to get back to Key West, and I would not want to risk that.”
“Yes, sir,” Forman said, and frowned at the voice tube. The captain sounded funny as hell, as if he.
“Nor do I feel her condition is serious enough to warrant radioing for a helicopter,” the captain was saying, and Forman glanced at the helmsman to see if he had noticed anything strange in the captain’s manner. The helmsman was gazing placidly through the windshield, probably dreaming of all the teen-age girls he knew in Kansas City. Forman wondered when anyone aboard this tub had ever called a helicopter a helicopter, and then realized the captain was still speaking.
“...closer perhaps.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Would you say that again, please?”
“We may have to put in closer perhaps.”
“Yes, sir,” Forman said. “Where did you have in mind, sir?” Again there was a long silence. “Sir?” Forman said. “Captain?”
“I haven’t decided,” the captain said.
“Very well, sir.”
“Have you picked up the disabled boat yet?”
“Yes, sir, and securing her to the fantail now.”
“Very well. Is the passenger aboard?”
“Should be on his way to your cabin, sir.”
“Very well,” the captain said, and Forman heard the click of the voice tube being replaced on its clamp. He turned to the helmsman. “Farringer,” he said, “what do you call a helicopter?”
“Sir?”
“What do you call a helicopter?”
Farringer shrugged. “A helicopter, I guess, sir.”
“Farringer, don’t be a jackass!” Forman said.
“A chopper you mean, sir?”
“Thank you, Farringer,” Forman said, and nodded and began nibbling his lower lip. He tried to remember whether he had ever heard the captain call a chopper a helicopter, tried to remember whether the captain always sounded like such a stuffy.
Oh, wait a minute, he thought.
Of course.
The old man had company aboard. A woman — and pregnant, at that. Which was probably why he hadn’t come up to the bridge personally to maneuver for the pickup. He preferred staying below and showing the civilian types how cordial and charming the U. S. Coast Guard could be in any kind of emergency, even though it turned out not to be an emergency at all.
Forman nodded.
Of course.
The reason the captain hadn’t taken the conn was just that. He was too busy impressing his guests with his precise clipped speech and his elocution course commands. Well, it didn’t matter. Forman had maneuvered up to the disabled boat and they’d thrown her a line and taken her passenger aboard. Forman had not been as charming or as courteous as the captain, he supposed; he had not left the bridge to greet the gentleman. But he had sent the quartermaster of the watch back to welcome him aboard and to lead him to the captain’s cabin.
Roxy, the chief bosun, came into the wheelhouse. “Boat’s secured aft, sir,” he said.
“Aye. What do you call a helicopter, Roxy?”
“A chopper,” Roxy said. “I understand she isn’t going to have the baby, after all. Is that right?”
“Well, not right now, anyway,” Forman said.
“We taking them back to Key West?”
“I don’t know,” Forman said.
“She sure seemed ready to pop when we were on the boat.”
“Well, you can’t always tell with these things.”
“I knew a girl in Fort Worth used to pop out babies like watermelon seeds,” Roxy said. “Why’d you want to know about a chopper? Are we going to need one?”
“Captain says no.”
Roxy looked up to where the amphibious plane was still circling. “What do we do with the fly-boys?” he asked.
“Send them on their way, I guess. Soon as the captain decides what we’re doing next.”
“Well, I’m gonna get down below,” Roxy said, and left the bridge.
At 1304 the captain’s voice came over the tube.
“Bridge, this is the captain.”
“Bridge, aye.”
“Mr. Forman, we’ll be getting under way for Ocho Puertos.”
“Ocho Puertos, yes, sir,” Forman said.
“We’ll want to go past Looe Key and into Hawk Channel.”
“Into the channel, yes, sir. I’ll—”
“These are your approximate headings, Mr. Forman.”
“Sir?”
“These are your approximate headings,” the captain said again, and Forman could have sworn he was reading from a sheet of paper. “Two-zero-five will take us to Looe Key and the channel mouth. Come right to three-three-zero at Looe Key. Inside the channel, steer zero-six-five.”
“Zero-six-five, yes, sir.”
“A boat will meet us, Mr. Forman.”
“Sir?”
“A boat will come out to meet us.”
“To meet us, sir?”
“To meet us, Mr. Forman.”
“What kind of boat should we be looking for, sir?”
There was a long silence.
“Captain?”
“It’ll be coming out from the marina,” the captain said.
“Yes, sir,” Forman answered and the tube went dead. He looked again at the helmsman. He could not understand why they were taking the ship into Hawk Channel when they had never as long as he had been aboard gone anywhere inside the reef line on patrol. Well, all right, the captain wanted to put the woman ashore; that was reasonable. She was pregnant and they’d even thought for a while she was going to have the baby right here on the ship. Well, okay, grant the old man his gallant gesture. He was going to take her right into the channel, and maybe clear up to the island itself — no, he couldn’t do that; the inshore waters were probably too shallow.
“Quartermaster, let me see a chart for Hawk Channel, Ocho Puertos, around there.”
“Yes, sir,” the quartermaster answered.
That’s probably why the boat is coming out, Forman thought. Our draft is nine feet, six inches, which means we won’t be able to come in too close; well, the chart’ll tell me just how close, but I’ll bet it won’t be less than four or five miles. Which is why the boat is coming out. If the old man wants to put that woman ashore, a boat would have to.
“Here you are, sir,” the quartermaster said, spreading the chart on his table. Forman walked to the table and bent over it.
“Mmm,” he said. “Better than I thought.”
“Sir?”
“We can come in as close as a mile offshore. Closer in some spots.”
“Offshore where, sir?”
“Ocho Puertos.”
“We’re going inside the reef line, sir?”
“Looks that way,” Forman said.
“I thought only the forty-footers went in there.”
“Mmm,” Forman said, and frowned and looked at the chart again, wondering why the captain had thought it necessary to give him all those headings. Forman wasn’t as experienced a ship handler as either the captain or the exec, but he could see nothing on the chart that looked even remotely difficult or dangerous. Well, yes, there were some rocky spots to the east of Looe Key, but even they were deep enough for safe passage. Besides, any experienced navigator would automatically enter the channel just west of Looe Key. Once inside the channel, there was nothing that could cause the slightest possible difficulty. So if the captain had decided not to take the conn himself (which was understandable since he had guests aboard and since maneuvering into the channel was a very simple job), why had he read off all those headings? Either he trusted Forman to handle the ship, or he didn’t. And if he didn’t, then he should have taken the conn himself, or given it to the exec.