"Oh,
por Dios, la cabeza."
She got
out of bed and went into the bathroom. Sorensen saw the marks of
childbirth
stretch across her belly. When she came out he gave her a fistful of
pesetas
and she left. He pulled on his clothes, went into the corridor and
knocked on
Fogarty's door. No answer. He put his ear to the door, smiled at the
sound of
huffing and puffing, went down to the Farolito for breakfast.
As
the afternoon wore on, the Farolito was taken
over by the crew of
Vallejo
.
This was their last blowout before the big missile sub began a
sixty-day cruise
under the
Med, and they pulled out ail the stops. A radio was going
full blast, filling the room with Armed Forces Radio Network rock and
roll. Two
sailors were teaching a whore the dirty chicken. A group of civilians
from
Portsmouth clustered at one end of the bar, playing with a new rat
trap. One of
the welders was reading aloud the box score of a Red Sox-Yankees game
from the
Stars and Stripes
.
Buzz
poured
Sorensen a beer.
Cakes
sat in a
corner, drinking alone.
Sorensen carried his beer across the bar to the table.
"Want
company?"
"Sure,
Ace. Sit
down. I'm ready. I'd
just as soon get back on the ship and go home."
"What's
the
matter, you broke?"
"I
think I got
the clap. Hell, I know I
got it."
"Luther
will fix
you up."
"That
faggot
corpsman? He loves to stick
a needle in my black ass."
Sorensen
drank
beer for a while, then
switched to brandy. About two o'clock he came out of the head and
pushed up to
the bar. Buzz pointed across the room and said, "There's a fella
lookin'
for you."
Sorensen
looked
around and noticed a tweed
jacket sitting in a booth, away from the crowd.
It
was
Netts
, sitting alone
with a bottle of brandy and two glasses. He
gestured for Sorensen to sit.
"Evening,
Admiral."
"Don't
salute,
Sorensen, I'm not in
uniform."
"Yes,
sir."
"I'm
going to
skip the bullshit. What
happened down there?"
"You
mean during
the collision,
sir?"
"Don't
be a
wiseass. Of course I mean
during the collision."
"What
exactly do
you want to know,
sir?"
"What
was he up to, that damned Russian?"
Sorensen
hesitated. By now he was stoned and drunk. A din from the rowdy sailors
swirled
around him. He caught a flash of Rosa dancing in a crowd.
"Have
a drink," said Netts, pushing the bottle and a glass across the table.
"I know you're on liberty and it looks to me like you're having a good
time. Just tell me what you know about this Russian sub."
Sorensen
poured some brandy.
"It's
hard to say, sir. They seemed to be testing acoustical systems."
"Submarine
disinformation, deception, fakery, tricks?"
"Yes,
sir. That's about the size of it. Dirty tricks."
"We've
got a few of our own." Netts looked around the bar, then back at
Sorensen.
"I listened to the tape you made for Commander Pisaro, but I don't
quite
know what to make of it. It's damned peculiar."
"I'd
like permission to ask a question, sir."
"Go
ahead."
"Have
the Russians said anything about their missing sub?"
"No.
To admit it's missing would be to admit it was there in the first
place, and they
aren't about to do that. As a matter of fact they aren't searching for
it at
all.
Badger
has been on station directly over the
site of the collision,
and the Soviets haven't even buzzed her with an airplane. No
reconnaissance
ships, nothing."
"Why
not, sir?"
"That's
what's under my skin. I don't know why not. You heard that sub implode.
It's on
the tape."
Sorensen
drank his glass of brandy and poured
another. "Admiral, I'm not convinced that boat sank. I mean, we all
heard
the implosions, but we heard a lot of things that turned out to be
something
else. Fact is, I
think they faked it. I don't know how, I can't
prove
it—"
Netts
cocked his
eyebrows, questioning.
"Admiral,
I
believe what you hear at the
end of that tape, what we thought at first was a torpedo, is the
Russian sub
bugging out on a tiny electric motor. She never sank."
"Sorensen,
do you
know what you're
saying?"
"I
think so, sir."
"That
torpedo was
four thousand feet
deep."
"Yes,
sir. Four
thousand one hundred
thirty-five to be exact."
A
strange smile
flickered across the
admiral's face, a Cheshire-cat smile. Netts poured himself a drink.
"You're saying the Russians have built a submarine that can go that
deep.
If so, it's a revolution in hull technology."
"Yes,
sir, I
know. It's bad news."
"Not
only that,
if she's still loose in
the Med, it won't be long before she's in the Ionian Sea, threatening
our
FBMs."
"Yes,
sir."
"If
that's the
case we need to know more
about this submarine. Hull sections involved in the collision with the
Russian
sub have been cut out of
Barracuda
and sent to
Washington for analysis.
They may turn up something on a spectroscope but it will take a few
days.
Meanwhile
Barracuda
is going back to sea. You and
Springfield are going
to find this son of a bitch, record every sound she makes and then do
everything you can to force her to the surface and take her picture."
Netts's
face was
flushed, he was speaking in
a controlled shout. He poured and downed another shot of brandy.
"Do
you know
where she is.
Admiral?"
"No.
She got into
the Med without our
detecting her at Gibraltar, but she hasn't passed back into the
Atlantic. The
SOSUS net that
Barracuda
tested will pick her up
right away. When she
does go back into the Atlantic, we'll be all over her... If I had my
way I'd
come aboard
Barracuda
and shove a torpedo up her
ass. But I can't do
that. I have great faith in you, Sorensen. You're an asset to the navy."
"Thank
you, sir.
I'm flattered you would
say so."
"Have
you ever
thought about accepting a
commission?"
"No,
sir. I like
it fine where I
am."
"You
think about
it."
Sorensen
nodded,
knowing he wouldn't think
about it at all. Netts pushed the bottle across the table and stood up.
"Drink
up, bucko.
I'll see you in
Norfolk."
Not
if I see you
first, bucko, thought
Sorensen as he watched the admiral's back move away and out the door of
the
Farolito.
Sorensen
returned to his room in the hotel, opened a warm beer, picked up his
tape
recorder and knocked on Fogarty's door.
Fogarty
was asleep, dreaming he was inside the sinking Russian sub. Blaming him
for
their fate, the Russians were stuffing him into a torpedo tube...
Sorensen
pounded on the door and woke him up. "Fogarty, you in there?"
"Yeah,
just a minute..."
"You
still got one of them ladies of the night in there with you?"
It
was
three o'clock in the afternoon. Fogarty unlocked the door. His eyes
were red
and puffy.
"No.
She's gone."
"You
hung over, kid?"
Fogarty's
head and chest felt like pincushions. He stumbled into the bathroom and
surrendered to his stomach.
Sorensen
walked into the room and flopped on a chair. Fogarty returned, looking
pale.
"You
all right?" Sorensen asked.
"I
drank too much."
"What's
the matter, Fogarty? Didn't they teach you how to party in Minnesota?"
"Go
to hell."
Sorensen
laughed.
"These Gypsy whores
are all right. Not like the Italians. There's none of this Oh, Mister
GI, take
me to America bullshit."
"Mine
was
English."
"Your
what?"
"My
whore."
"No
foolin'? Good
for you. You got your
wallet?"
A
look of panic
on his face, Fogarty pulled
on his pants and shoved his hands in his pockets. His wallet was there.
"Just
kidding,"
Sorensen said.
"These ladies couldn't stay in business five minutes if they were
picking
pockets." He held out his beer. "Want breakfast?"
"Pass."
Fogarty
sat down
on the bed and wallowed in
his hangover.
"We're
due back
on the ship in a couple
hours," Sorensen said. "Want to go back to the Farolito? There's a
party on."
Fogarty
tried to
shake his head, but the
motion made him woozy. "Twenty dollars," he groaned.
Sorensen
laughed.
"Kid, you been had.
Mine cost ten."
Fogarty
tried to
smile. "It was worth
it."
"Oh?
You feel
like a real sailor
now?"
This
time Fogarty
was able to shake his head.
"Not yet. Ace. Maybe I never will."
"You
still
worried about the
Russians?"
"Shit,
yes."
"Forget
'em,
sailor."
Fogarty
looked
disgusted. "You can be
one cold son of a bitch, Sorensen."
Sorensen
nodded.
"I'd say that was a
pretty fair assessment."
"The
nuclear
warrior."
Sorensen
shrugged, took a pull on his beer,
shoved a tape into his machine. Bob Dylan sang the opening lines of
"Just
Like Tom Thumb's Blues."
When you're lost in the rain in
Juarez, and
it's Easter time too...
While
Fogarty
closed his eyes and listened to
the music Sorensen opened the windows and stepped onto the balcony. He
watched
a guided-missile frigate clear the harbor, pass
Deflektor
and head into
the Atlantic, a gray ship in a gray sea.
Below,
the street
was nearly deserted. At the
end of the block the
sereno
,
the block watchman, contemplated the seawall. It was the hour of
siesta.
Sorensen went back into the room and pushed the rewind button on his
recorder.
He fished a roach out of his pocket, lit it, finished off his beer.
"Fogarty,"
he
said. "I want
you to get your head straight before we get back on the ship."
"What's
the
matter with my head?"
"There's
nothing
in it but half-baked
ideas. You're not dumb, you're just impatient, or maybe the word is
naive. I know because I used to be the same way."
"Thank
you,
doctor."
"How
old are you?
Twenty-one?"
"Yeah."
"You
know,
Fogarty, I think you're going
to be a good sonarman. You've got good ears."
"Thank
you.
Coming from you, that's a
real compliment." He meant it.
"Yeah,
well, I
want to give you a little
test. I want to find out just how good you are. But to do that I have
to let
you in on a little secret."
Fogarty
sat up
straight and squinted in the
dim sunlight coming through the windows.
"What
kind of
secret?"
Sorensen
grinned.
"Personal."
"Personal?"
"Yeah,
that means
I personally will
strangle you if you tell anyone."
Sorensen
retrieved his tape recorder, turned
off Bob Dylan and put in a new tape.
"I
wired this
recorder into my console
in the sonar room."
"But
that's
illegal. Jesus."
Sorensen
grinned.
"Yeah, that's my
secret, and now it's yours too. If I did everything the navy's way I
couldn't
do my job. This way I can listen to any tape any old time I want."
"Why'd
you bring
it off the ship?"
"I
wasn't about
to leave it there for
one of the yardbirds to find."
"Does
Willie Joe
know? Davic?"
"No.
They're a
bit too straight.
Me"—he smiled— "I'm
bent
. Anyway, listen to this."
And
Sorensen
proceeded to play the original,
unedited tape of the collision. Fogarty recognized it immediately. He
heard the
voices on the command intercom, then the crunch of metal on metal.
Coming
through the miniature speaker in the recorder it didn't sound quite so
terrifying.
"My
God," Fogarty
said when the
tape ended. "That's incredible."
"I
kind of like
it myself."
"That's
a
dangerous piece of tape,
Sorensen."
"Only
to me. Now,
here comes the
test."
Sorensen
flipped
over the tape and punched
the play button. Once more they heard the Russian sub sinking. The
torpedo
motor howled across the sea. But this time there were no explosions, no
bursting bulkheads.
Fogarty
jumped up
and shouted at Sorensen,
"What did you do to the tape?"
"Shut
up and
listen
."
The
torpedo motor
continued on for several
seconds, and then the tape ended.
"What
did you do
to the tape?"
"That's
the test,
Fogarty. You tell
me."
Fogarty
lit a
cigarette, laughed nervously.
"What kind of a game is this, Ace?"
"This
is the home
version of Cowboys and
Cossacks. C'mon, Fogarty, tell me what you hear."
"Play
it again.
Play it from where she
shoots."
Sorensen
backed
up the tape and they listened
to it again.
Fogarty
said,
"You took out the
implosions."
"Correct."
"What's
left is
the torpedo. You're
trying to find out what happened to the fish."
"Could
be. What
do you think happened to
it?"