To Kill the Potemkin

10

There was a stillness in the ship.

The captain had slipped under a thermal layer of warm water that deflected sonar pulses searching from above, and for twelve hours Barracuda had hovered a thousand feet down.

She was rigged for quiet. The noisy air-conditioning system was reduced to the minimum and the temperature had risen to eighty-three degrees. The fresh water still, which made a terrible racket, was shut down, so no one could shower. The ship was rank.

In the sonar room Willie Joe was on watch. Every few minutes he heard propellers and engine noises as one of the ships of the fleet passed over a convergence zone. Fifteen miles away Kitty Hawk was steaming north, directly toward Barracuda.

In the forward crew quarters Fogarty was reading a battered copy of Catch-22. In the bunks beneath him two sailors played a silent game of chess.

In the tier opposite, Sorensen cradled his tape recorder on his chest, listening to whale talk. Through the haze of cetacean whistles he heard someone softly call his name. He opened his curtain and saw Davic standing in the passageway.

"Sorensen—"

"Be quiet."

"I want to apologize to you, please."

"What are you talking about? Apologize for what?"

"For demanding that the Russian submarine be credited to me. I am ashamed."

"That's all right, Davic. I don't keep score."

Looking remorseful, Davic paced and muttered to himself in the small confined space. From somewhere in the darkness a rubber shoe flew out of a bunk and struck him in the back. A voice grumbled, "Shut up, Davic. Let a man beat off in peace."

Davic stopped pacing and whispered, "Sorensen, I want to be on the first watch."

"I have to qualify Fogarty. You know that."

"Well, when is he going to qualify?"

Across the passageway Fogarty drew open his curtain and stared in the dim light at the back of Davic's head.

"It took you three months to qualify, Davic," Sorensen said evenly. "Fogarty hasn't been on the ship three weeks."

"Hey," a voice pleaded in the darkness, "let us get some sleep." Angry faces appeared up and down the tiers of bunks. Davic opened his mouth to speak again, but thinking better of it, padded off in the direction of the mess.

"What's the trouble with him?" Fogarty whispered to Sorensen.

"He wants your job."

"He's a strange bird."

"Fogarty, after you've been down here a while you'll find that everybody is strange. You never know the real reason a guy wants to live cooped up in a steel tube with a hundred other guys. Like you. I can't really figure out what you're doing here, no matter what you say." Without waiting for a reply. Sorensen replaced his headphones and returned to the whales.

In the sonar room Willie Joe watched two ragged blips move slowly onto his screen, a pair of destroyers on the outer perimeter of the fleet. Five miles apart, the closest a mile from Barracuda, they were steaming at an oblique angle across the bow.

In the control room Captain Springfield, Pisaro, Billings, and Hoek watched the repeater and listened through headphones to the muffled sound of the nearest destroyer, distorted by the thermal.

Then there was another, more ominous sound, much closer.

"Sorensen!"

The high, brittle voice belonged to Lt. Hoek, who was standing in the hatch.

"Yes, sir."

"You and Fogarty in the sonar room, on the double."

"Aye aye, sir."

Hoek lowered his voice to conspiratorial. "We have a sub," he said, eyes gleaming. Hoek was hot to win the war game and earn a unit citation.

"No kidding," said Sorensen, deadpan.

"It's Swordfish. We're going to get right on her tail and follow her in."

"Well, what do you know. Lieutenant. Sounds like fun." He winked at Fogarty as they followed Hoek through the hatch and up a ladder.

Throughout the ship loudspeakers whispered, "General Quarters. General Quarters. All hands man battle stations, nuclear."