by Mark Joseph
"Straight up, all around," Sorensen ordered. Buzz wrinkled his nose at Fogarty and poured three shots of brandy. Sorensen counted a dozen sailors passed out in the sawdust and was tempted to join them.
Cakes walked down the bar to speak to one of the fat Gypsy whores. A few minutes later they left together.
In the rear a lone dancer went through the motions of flamenco in slow motion. Fair and blond, the descendant of a rampaging Vandal, she kicked the floor and snapped castanets to music only she could hear.
"See you later," Sorensen said. He carried his drink across the bar to the table nearest her, sat down and began to clap a rhythm to her dance.
At first she appeared not to notice him. Then she slowly danced around his table. She was young, nineteen or twenty.
"Como te llamas?" he asked.
"Rosa. Y tu?"
"Jack."
"Okay, Zhack," she said, and sat down on his lap, leaned against his chest and put her arms around his neck. Taking a Lucky from his pack, she lit it and stuck it in his mouth.
"You got any money, Zhack? These saylors spended all their bugs on liquores and womans. You got any bugs left, Zhack?"
"I got enough."
Her hand slipped down to his crotch. "You want to spend with me? I eat you."
"Let's go."
He waved at Fogarty on the way out.
* * *
Fogarty drank alone for an hour, staring at the whores in the mirror behind the bar. He wasn't sure about how to approach the women. He wasn't interested in fat Gypsies and was ready to stumble back to the hotel when one of the women sat down on the bar stool next to his. Tight jeans clung to her hips, and a peasant's blouse hung over bare shoulders. On her feet were expensive handcrafted sandals. She wasn't especially pretty but she had attractively strong and intelligent features. She looked older by several years, he thought. Guessed.
"Hello, sailorboy. Buy me a drink?"
"Sure."
Fogarty signaled to Buzz for more brandy.
"And I'd like a cigarette."
He lit a Lucky and handed it to her. "Are you English? You sound English."
She smiled. "Indeed I am. A bloody Brit, that's me. And you're a Yank."
"A Yank? I never thought of myself as a Yank."
"None of you ever does."
Her smile completely transformed her face and made her very pretty.
"What's your name, Yank?"
"Fogarty."
"That's it? Just Fogarty?"
"Mike Fogarty."
"My God, an Irish Yank. A mick."
"You don't like the Irish?"
"Of course not. They're bloody wogs, the whole grotty lot."
"Wogs?"
She smiled, and in a precise Home Counties accent said, "A wog, my dear boy, is a westernized oriental gentleman, to wit, a person of color or one who is not English. That includes the Welsh, the Scots, the Irish, the French and the inhabitants of any country that ever was part of the British Empire, or ever an enemy of England."
"That's everybody!"
"Precisely. Some would extend the definition of wog to include members of the Labour Party. I'm afraid this is all too terribly English. Since we don't rule the world anymore, we have to make jokes about ourselves."
"I think you're great. What's your name?"
"I'm called Liz."
She knocked a few ashes onto her chest and brushed them away. Fogarty saw tiny freckles under her collarbone.
"Are you... what I mean is..."
"Am I one of the whores?"
"Yeah."
"I am." She smiled again. "Ten dollars U.S. and I'm yours. For twenty dollars you can have me all night."
Fogarty was dazzled, but he was also so drunk he could hardly walk. She helped him up the stairs and out of the bar. A taxi carried them the short distance to the hotel.
19
The Admiral
Sorensen lay in bed listening to the sound of a maid slowly working up the marble stairs to the third floor. She lifted her pail of water one step at a time, set it down with a clang, dragged her heavy body after it, slowly mopped each slab of stone. She repeated the process two dozen times. When she reached the third floor she shuffled down the corridor, unlocked one of the rooms and banged the door behind her.
Somewhere in the hotel a radio came to life and a muffled female voice sang a slow ballad.
A pool of blond hair lay across Sorensen's chest. Rosa stirred, sticky with sleep, and sat up with a groan.
"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.
20
No Band
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?"
"It was wire-guided. It sank when the wire broke."
"You sure?"
"No... the motor keeps running."
"Very good. What else?"
"Maybe it's not a torpedo."
"Real good. So what is it?"
"A decoy?"
"Nope."
Fogarty picked up the recorder, carried it to the bed, sat down and listened once more to the torpedo. The motor churned out a high-pitched whine that reminded him of the little electric motors he used to put in his model subs.
And suddenly, he understood. Or did he? "You want me to believe that it's the sub? It never sank?" When Sorensen didn't reply, he sat perfectly still for a minute. Finally he said, "I can't believe it."
"You don't want to believe it, but it's true."
"You're trying to con me."
"Why would I do that?"
"I don't know. Something's not right."
"You bet something's not right. That torpedo's not right."
"But it went down to four thousand feet. No sub can go that deep."
"This one did."
"It's impossible."
"Goddamn, Fogarty. Can't you shake your mind loose? It used to be impossible, but it isn't anymore."
