To Kill the Potemkin

14

In the operations center on Kitty Hawk the sonar contact alarm had sounded with a waspish buzz, On the screen the blip representing Swordfish had divided like an amoeba and had resolved into two separate contacts, both of which were heading directly toward Kitty Hawk. A moment later the echo-ranging sonars of the surface ships had begun to interfere with one another, and the blips had dissolved into electronic chaff.

Admiral Horning had realized that he was caught in a terrible dilemma. Neither sub had been positively identified as Barracuda, although he was certain that one was his nemesis.

With a sudden roar of propulsion machinery, both subs had descended below the thermal layer, and the sonar data became increasingly erratic until the sounds had stopped altogether. Helicopters had dropped sonar buoys around the carrier, but the noises generated by the huge ship garbled everything. This was the penultimate moment. Barracuda had to slow to fire her torpedoes, and a thousand pairs of eyes had scanned the horizon, expecting the deadly white streaks at any moment.

Netts felt vindicated. One submarine had neutralized the entire fleet. Kitty Hawk wallowed helplessly before the onslaught of Barracuda. He was reminded of the final chapters of Moby Dick. Horning had found his whale, and the sea beast was about to eat him alive—

Without warning the loudspeakers had roared out the sound of a collision, metal grinding on metal, the shrieking horror that said death in the sea. After fifteen interminable seconds the screeching had stopped and was followed by a long silence. Finally, the sound of a submarine blowing its ballast tanks had meant one of the subs was attempting to rise. After another long pause… a series of violent eruptions and then the groans and crunches of a ship breaking up.

Everyone on the bridge of Kitty Hawk saw the distress rocket break the surface a mile away, streak into the sky and explode into a yellow cloud.

A moment later, in the midst of a boiling white sea, Barracuda bobbed to the surface. A hatch in the sail opened, and two men in scuba gear scrambled out, climbed down to the diving plane and jumped into the sea. Netts held his breath, waiting for the hatches in the hull to open. If the sub were about to sink, the crew would scramble out. Instead the hatches stayed closed and a blinking light on the bridge began flashing a message.

Captain Lewis, commander of Kitty Hawk, immediately dispatched a helicopter to lower a surgeon to the sub. Springfield continued to signal with lights rather than radio so as to keep his transmission out of the hands of the Soviet trawlers trailing the fleet. If Barracuda were in imminent danger of sinking, he would not hesitate to say so. Nevertheless, Captain Lewis ordered rescue teams to stand by, ready to take off the crew in a hurry.

Admiral Horning was furious. The destroyers had let Springfield slip through the perimeter. No ship had fired at Barracuda, and she had not launched her weapons, so the war game was technically a stalemate, but Horning knew he had lost. All hell had broken loose down below, then Barracuda had reared up out of the sea like a nuclear sea monster only two thousand yards from his flag. He glared at the sub with deep loathing.

As dozens of reports came in from the fleet, the communications officers were trying desperately to make sense out of the confusion. One message was a routine communication from Swordfish. She was seventy-four miles from where the destroyers had reported her earlier. Several ships reported the sounds of bulkheads bursting as a ship sank.

Two subs were unaccounted for. Dragonfish and Stingray were scheduled to make routine position reports within the hour. With growing horror, Horning realized that if the sub that sank was not Swordfish, it had to be one of them. Who would take the blame? This was shaping up as a real disaster for the navy, the kind of foul-up that destroyed careers and raised hell with congressional committees. It was Netts's Folly. Now let his head roll.

Staring at the screen, Netts was trying to digest the fact that he had lost a submarine. Having arrived at the same conclusion as Horning, that the sunken sub was either Dragonfish or Stingray, he was thinking of neither the war game nor his career. His thoughts were with the men who had just died. Dragonfish carried 116 men, Stingray 112.

A communications officer announced, "Receiving message from Dragonfish."

Both admirals acknowledged the report of Dragonfish with stone faces. That left Stingray, Oakland commanding… Brian Oakland smashed to bits at the bottom of the sea, three daughters left in Charleston and a mistress in Holy Loch. Fred Basana, the XO, was a fourth generation naval officer, father killed at Midway. Fried to a crisp. George Milliard, Chief of the Boat, crushed, mangled, destroyed—

"Receiving message from Stingray."

Netts was stunned. "What the hell is going on here?" he said to Horning.

"I think your Captain Springfield is going to have some explaining to do."

Fifteen minutes after Barracuda surfaced, Baker, the injured torpedoman, was in the carrier's sick bay. The divers made their report on the damage to the outer hull, and Springfield was satisfied with his inspection of the torpedo room. He signaled to the carrier that his ship was seaworthy, the damage minor and that he and Commander Billings wished to board Kitty Hawk.

Before he left the sub Springfield spoke to the crew.

"Attention all hands, this is the captain. We are going to remain on the surface for approximately two hours. All hands who wish to go up to the bridge for a few minutes will have the opportunity to do so.

"We have not suffered major damage. The pressure hull is not ruptured. I want to take this opportunity to congratulate each of you for an outstanding performance during this action. I am going to recommend the ship's company for a unit citation, and there will be individual citations as well. In particular I want to mention Chief Lopez and the entire torpedo gang who put their lives at risk to save ours, and Sonarman Sorensen, whose quick reaction saved the ship from certain destruction. There will be special rations in the mess. That is all."

The sonar room was a shambles. Technical manuals were scattered over the deck. The cabinet had fallen over and spilled thousands of tiny electronic parts. The ashtrays overflowed with butts. A cup of coffee was splashed over Fogarty's console.

Sorensen felt himself coming unstuck. He collapsed, gasping for breath. The tension streamed out of his eyes. The sound of the Soviet submarine — the mystery sub — plunging straight toward him reverberated in his ears, a sound he would never forget. It had seemed as though the suction of the Russian propeller was pulling him in. "Left full rudder." He remembered shouting that. The ship had taken forever to respond.

And then the hit.

Gradually he brought himself under control. He looked at Fogarty, who was pale and drenched in sweat. His jumpsuit was ripped down one leg.

"Holy shit, Fogarty. You look like you've just been in a train wreck."

Fogarty's hands were trembling as he lit a cigarette. "What did he do? Ram us on purpose?"

"I don't think so. Sub drivers generally aren't suicidal. This was just bad seamanship."

"How many…" Fogarty stammered, "how many men do you think were on that ship?"

"Hard to say. Eighty, ninety, maybe."

"Christ."

"It was quick, real quick. When it imploded, it was all over."

"But the waiting. Sinking, knowing they were going to die…"

Sorensen understood what Fogarty was feeling. Inside himself he felt the same thing, but he shut it down. Not allowed. He said, "As far as I'm concerned, the fool backed into a blind spot and sank himself and his crew. That was one stupid Russian sub jockey. Goddamn Ivan the Idiot…"

"It could've been us."

"But it wasn't. Maybe next time."

"Do you think the Russians know?"

"I don't know, I don't think so. Not yet. But the fleet is up there, and right now all their radio people are jabbering like crazy at one another. The Russians are picking it up, and they know something happened. That sub has to make routine reports, and after it misses a few they'll start to wonder why. Sooner or later they'll find out."

"Then what?"

"Then maybe we have sub wars. Who knows?"

Hoek came in, took one look at the mess and left without a word. Sorensen began to run checks on all the equipment. Several of the hydrophones arrayed along the starboard side of the hull were not functioning, and he had to log a damage report. Fogarty got down on hands and knees and began sorting through the spilled diodes and transistors.

The ship rolled on the surface but nobody minded. Being a little seasick was better than being dead.

Ten minutes later Davic and Willie Joe came in to relieve Sorensen and Fogarty. Davic's dream had come true. Barracuda had sunk a Russian sub.

"My God, Sorensen, what happened?"

"If you were thinking about reading the log, Davic, forget it. It's sealed. Captain's orders. It's coded red into the computer. Even I can't get it out."

"I don't need to know the details. Just tell me, it is true? It was the Viktor? Did it sink?"

"You know how it is. The silent service."

Davic could see in Sorensen's eyes that it was true, and that was good enough. On the profile sheet of Soviet subs he scrawled an X over the drawing of the Viktor. He beamed at Fogarty, who looked away in disgust.

Willie Joe shook Sorensen's hand. "Congratulations."

"For what?"

"Didn't you listen to the skipper? They're going to give you a medal. You're a hero."

"Well, ain't that just dandy. You hear that, Fogarty? I'm a hero."

"Yeah," Fogarty said, "the first hero of World War Three."

"Go on," said Willie Joe. "You're outta here."

Sorensen had heard the ultimate sound effect. The collision and the implosion of the Russian sub were engraved in his brain, a far more accurate recording device than anything made by Sony. Just to make sure, however, he had recorded the entire sequence of events on his own machine, even though he knew possession of that tape was a felony.

In the seclusion of Sorensen's Beach he played the tape over and over, backward and forward, fast and slow. Several questions about the sinking began to nag at him. Why did the Russians fire a torpedo? Were they trying to sink Barracuda or Kitty Hawk? The sub imploded below three thousand feet, an incredible depth. The Thresher had imploded at a depth of just over two thousand feet. How could the Russians go so deep? Was the collision an accident, or did the Russians ram them intentionally? No sane captain would do that, but no sane captain would fire a torpedo either.

It was a puzzle that was missing an undetermined number of pieces. The torpedo bothered him the most. Had the Russian torpedomen actually fired a shot without orders? Could they do that? Why would they? The torpedo had been wire-guided; he had seen the wire on his screen. When the sub imploded, the wire was severed and the torpedo's motor apparently had stopped. It did not explode. During the massive acoustical barrage of the implosions it had disappeared. Presumably it sank. What kind of warhead did it carry? Just the notion that it might have been a nuke was terrible to contemplate.

He tried to imagine the wreck of the Russian sub. Eight thousand feet down, he knew, there was no light, no perceptible movement in the water, nothing but pressure beyond imagination. In the cold black desert of the ocean bottom pieces of the shattered sub had by now settled over a debris field many miles square. The reactor and heat exchangers, weapons, electronics, enciphering machines and ninety men, smashed to bits, reduced to junk. It chilled his heart.

Davic and Willie Joe had to clean up the sonar room. As members of the damage-control team they had been too busy immediately after the collision to be scared. In asbestos suits, breathing bottled air, they had charged into the torpedo room, fire extinguishers at the ready. Now that it was over and they had a moment to reflect on what had happened, and what almost had happened, they began to react.

Davic, who rarely spoke to Willie Joe, began to babble about his future in the CIA. Willie Joe wasn't paying attention. As he sorted through a pile of diodes, those bits of plastic with tiny wires sticking out of them, he developed a case of the jitters. His hands shook. Ignoring Davic, he said, "My wife, she sure loves that Navy Exchange they got there in Norfolk… She's been looking at this color TV they got there and I figure if I make first class at the end of this cruise, well, hells bells, I'll watch the World Series in color, oh shit.."

He had dropped a handful of tiny electronic parts onto the cork floor. They bounced. The collision alarm was still screaming in his head. "Maybe I should just retire. I'm just glad it didn't happen on my watch." He got down on his hands and knees and began picking up the parts.

"Nothing ever happens on my watch," Davic said. He pounded his fist into his palm. "I can't stand this not knowing what happened. Do you think Fogarty will tell us?"

"No."

"We can ask."

"I'm not that curious, Davic. Why don't you come down here and help me pick up these things?"

Davic sat down on the deck and picked up a transistor.

"It's not fair that Fogarty knows and I don't. It's just not fair."

Fogarty lay in his bunk staring into space, listening to the elevator music that filtered into the forward crew quarters. His tattered copy of Catch-22 lay across his chest.

"Yo, Fogarty."

He opened the curtain. Davic and Willie Joe stood in the passageway next to his bunk.

"Yes?"

Davic said, "Tell us what happened down there. Please."

"I can't do that, Davic. Tell him, Willie Joe."

"I did."

Davic grabbed Fogarty's arm. "We sank those bastards, didn't we. Sent them cocksuckers to visit to David Jones."

Fogarty had to smile at Davic's convoluted English, and Davic read the smile as confirmation.

"We are the first ship in the U.S. Navy to put in the bag a Russian. That'll teach them bastards to fuck with us."

"Davic, whatever happened, it was an accident." He brushed Davic's hands away from his arm.

"Whatever they got, they asked for it," Davic said.

"That's crazy."

A dozen sailors leaned out of their bunks. Frustrated and angry, Davic was on his toes, thrusting his face into Fogarty's bunk.

"What's the matter with you, Fogarty? Do you feel sorry for the Russians?"

Fogarty refused to be provoked. "Sure. They were men and this was an accident. We're not at war with them—"

"Well, shit, Fogarty, what are we here for? Why don't we just get rid of the fuckers once and for all? Just nuke them all at once."

"Just like that?" Fogarty snapped his fingers.

"Just like that. If we don't do it to them they'll do it to us."

Fogarty propped himself up on one elbow and faced Davic directly. "When the Russians learn they've lost a sub they aren't going to like it. They're going to blame us, even if it wasn't our fault—"

"So what? What can they do to us?"

"Didn't Admiral Netts just use Barracuda to prove what they can do to us? Where've you been the last four days? Get out of here, Davic. You're a vampire. Go fly around in the dark with the other bats."

Davic flushed. Fists clenched, his urge to punch Fogarty struggled with his training and discipline. He knew a fight could land him in the brig.

"Fogarty, you have no guts. You don't belong on this ship—"

"Fuck off."

Davic lunged. Off-balance, Fogarty barely had time to twist around and catch Davic's leading hand in mid-air and snap back the wrist. Davic screamed and sank to the floor. Fogarty let go.

"Touch me again and I'll break your arm."

Fogarty's tone left no doubt that he could do it. He looked down the passageway. The entire compartment was staring at him.

Davic climbed to his feet, rubbing his wrist, not quite sure what had happened except that his wrist was beginning to swell and that it hurt like hell.

The sailors in the compartment were leaning out of their bunks, heads going from Davic to Fogarty and back again.

"Did you see that?"

"No, man, it was too fast."

"Right on, Fogarty."

"Try it again, Davic."

At which point Sorensen stepped through the hatch and froze. From his angle he couldn't see Fogarty, but he could see Davic.

Willie Joe spoke up. "Hey, Sorensen. We got us a karate expert here."

"And who might that be?"

"Me," Fogarty said.

Sorensen looked from Fogarty to Davic. Fogarty turned his head.

"A fight?" Sorensen asked.

Willie Joe replied quickly, "No, nothing like that. A little demonstration."

"Karate?" Sorensen said to Fogarty. "You?"

Fogarty nodded. "It's not karate. It's tae kwan do. It's Korean."

The sailors stared at Fogarty with new respect. "I don't smash bricks, if that's what you're wondering," he said to Sorensen.

Sorensen looked at Davic's swollen wrist. "You'd better go see Dr. Luther, tough guy. Looks to me like you slipped and fell into a bulkhead during the collision."

With a drop-dead look at Fogarty, Davic went out.

"What was that all about?" Sorensen asked.

"You got me." Fogarty shrugged. "Davic is nuts."

Willie Joe put his arm around Sorensen's shoulders. "You're a hero of the people, boy. Ain't that so, Fogarty?"

Fogarty looked at the sailors hanging out of their bunks. "You said it, Willie Joe. Sorensen saved our ass."

Willie Joe made a show of digging around in his locker until he came up with a Coca-Cola bottle that he presented to Sorensen.

"Looky here," he said. "I been savin' this for a long time. Ace. It's for you."

It was dark rum. Sorensen held it up. Looking at Fogarty, he said, "Here's to all the dead comrades. Cheers." He chugged two swallows and passed the bottle to Willie Joe. The rum went around the compartment and came back to Sorensen, who finished it and rinsed out the bottle. Willie Joe passed out Sen Sens to everyone who had had a drink.

Sorensen then put on a tape of Jerry Lee Lewis, and a moment later the compartment was full of sailors singing along, "You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain…"

"Attention all hands, this is the captain. We have been ordered to put into the naval station at Rota for repairs. Transit time will be forty-eight hours. Our depth will be restricted to two hundred feet. Prepare for maneuvering. That is all."

In the torpedo room Chief Lopez discovered that Zapata was missing. He cleaned up the broken glass from the cage and searched the compartment thoroughly, but the scorpion was nowhere to be found. Lopez felt queasy. A sub had thousands of nooks and crannies where a bug could hide. It was only a matter of time before someone got stung. Lopez was sure it would be him.

Several hours after they were underway, Lopez reported Zapata to the XO as "missing in action."

Pisaro blinked, not sure whether to laugh or show concern. The scorpion was not all that dangerous. Its sting was hardly worse than a bee's.

"How long can that thing live with nothing to eat, Chief?"

"Months, Commander. Maybe a year."

"You're shitting me."

"No, sir."

"All right. Organize a search. Give the crew something to take their minds off the collision."

Lopez drew a crude picture of a scorpion adorned with a Mexican sombrero and crossed cartridge belts and printed a wanted poster on the ship's mimeograph machine. He offered a reward of twenty-five dollars for the return of Zapata, dead or alive, and organized search-and-destroy patrols. For twenty-four hours sailors armed with flashlights and hastily constructed nets systematically ripped out every panel, emptied every locker, tossed every bunk. By the time they reached Gibraltar every cubic inch of the ship had been searched twice, but Zapata remained AWOL.

Lopez now reported Zapata's continued absence to Pisaro, who shrugged it off. "Leave him to the guys on the drydock at Rota," he said. "It'll keep them on their toes."

"I think he's still in the torpedo room, sir. I don't see how he could get out. The hatch has been closed since the collision except when someone goes in or out."

"Don't worry about it. Chief. Zapata is a survivor, I'd bet on it."

The ship locked onto a NATO submarine beacon and passed submerged through the Strait of Gibraltar into the Atlantic. As Barracuda turned north toward the Bay of Cádiz and the huge Spanish naval base at Rota, the word was passed that most of the crew would get three days' liberty.

At dawn the sub reduced speed and began to rise from cruising depth.

Springfield went aloft to pilot the ship into the harbor. As they followed a radar beacon into the inner harbor a cool mist rose off the bay, shrouding the giant navy base. Just outside Cadiz the crew of a Russian trawler, Deflektor, on permanent station in the bay, trained glasses and electronics on the passing sub. Inside the breakwater at Rota, opposite Cadiz, the Spanish aircraft carrier Dédalo, her deck covered with antisubmarine helicopters, loomed over the smaller ships and tugs that lined the piers.

A tug pushed Barracuda against a massive floating drydock, and lines were secured fore and aft. Two days had passed since the collision, and the Russians had not uttered a word about their missing sub.