To Kill the Potemkin

20

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."

"It just doesn't make sense—"

"Then tell me why the Russians aren't looking for their missing sub."

"How do you know that?"

"Netts told me," Sorensen said cheerfully. "He came all the way from Washington just to chat with the Ace. You like that?"

"You talked to Admiral Netts?"

"Sure. I'm a big hero, remember?"

"Why would the Russians fake a sinking of their own ship?"

"First, to make enough noise to cover their exit. And if we thought she was sunk, we wouldn't look for her. Come on, Fogarty, think, for chrissake."

"Play the tape one more time."

Sorensen did, and Fogarty felt the first twinges of anger.

"So it was a trick."

"Looks like, kid."

"I grieved for those people—"

"I know you did. An honorable thing to do. Hey, it's not your fault."

"Damn… I'm still not sure I believe it."

"Oh, you believe it, Fogarty. You know it's true."

"How long have you known?"

"Since I played what you just heard. The skipper is going to tell the crew about the Russian sub tonight. And we're going after her, and we'll find her."

"How can you be so sure?"

Sorensen sucked on his beer and looked at Fogarty. "Because of the new system, the deep submergence sonars. The way they work is simple. They laid down cables, like ordinary undersea telephone cables, only as they laid it down, every twenty miles they spliced in a hydrophone. In four thousand miles of cable, there's two hundred sonars, but they're reliable because they send back their signals through the cable. We now have a grid of cables with a total of thirty-six hundred hydrophones in the Atlantic. Some spots, like the Caribbean and the Iceland-Greenland-UK gap, are saturated with phones. Sooner or later the Russians will figure it out. When they do they'll pull their fleet back into the Norwegian Sea and expand their operations in the Pacific and the Mediterranean. For us right now, it means we ought to be able to track this sub, wherever she goes. The game is going to get very interesting. When we go back to sea tonight we have to be ready for anything. What I want to know, Mr. Fogarty, is if you're going to do your job. That's all I ask. Just do your job and cut the crap."

Fogarty picked up the miniature tape recorder and hefted it. He was scared, but he figured that was only natural. He remembered hearing what he thought was the torpedo charging through the water directly at him… but what if—

"I think I will have a beer," he said, opening a bottle. "Look, Ace, explain to me how you wired this into your console."

"Sure, kid."

"And stop calling me 'kid.' "

"The hell you say."

Lopez was standing with the Marine guards at the foot of the submarine pier. "All right, you're the last ones. Let's go."

The pier was crowded with sailors and technicians preparing Barracuda and Vallejo for departure. As they walked along Lopez said, "You ain't gonna bring no reefer on board, are you, Ace?"

"Why, Lopez? You want to get loaded?"

"Just checking."

"What's happening in the real world. Chief? Any traffic out there?" Sorensen waved his arm in the direction of the Atlantic.

"Seems the whole fuckin' ocean is full of Russians. It's gonna be hot. The skipper wants to see you right away. Go change."

Sorensen showered, changed into a jumpsuit and knocked on Springfield's door.

"Come in."

"Chief Lopez said you wanted to see me, sir."

"Sit down, Sorensen."

"Thank you, sir."

"Coffee?"

"Thank you, sir. Black."

Springfield poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Sorensen. "I understand you spoke with Admiral Netts."

"Yes, sir."

"He wants to give you a commission."

Sorensen rattled his coffeecup. "We've been through this before. Captain."

"I know. How many times?"

"Six."

"And you've turned us down each time."

"Yes, sir. I like it fine where I am."

"I told Netts you would say that, but there's a hitch. You can't stay where you are. None of us can. Barracuda is going back to Electric Boat for a major refit. She'll be up there in Groton for two years."

"That's it? They're going to disband the crew?"

"Pretty much. We're sending you to Mare Island and assigning you to Guitarro as chief of the boat."

Sorensen almost dropped his coffee. "Chief of the boat? You're putting me on, Skipper? No sonarman in the navy is chief of the boat."

Springfield smiled. "Some navy traditions are flexible. Netts is willing to make an exception in your case. You'll have to take a couple special rating exams but you'll have plenty of time for that."

"You said Guitarro? I never heard of her."

"She's a new attack sub still on the ways. You'll have the most advanced electronics and sonars. Space on the boat has already been designated as Sorensen's Beach."

Sorensen hadn't expected this, and he wasn't sure how he felt about it… a new ship, a new crew, a new captain and chief of the boat all at once. Too much…

"I don't know what to say, Captain. Thank you. I'll have to think about it."

"That's fine, Sorensen. You think about it as long as you like. Right now we have more immediate concerns. Netts and Pisaro tell me that in your opinion the Russian sub never sank, that it was an acoustic trick of some sort."

"Skipper, what we thought was the torpedo was the sub itself. I think they fired some kind of decoy that sank and imploded."

Springfield tapped a pencil on his desk. "That means that sub went down to at least four thousand feet."

"Yes, sir."

"A Mark thirty-seven won't go that deep. We couldn't shoot her down there, except with a nuke, a Mark forty-five…" He shook his head at the prospect. "But what if you're wrong, Sorensen? What if she did sink?"

"Then I'm wrong. If she's on the bottom, we'll find her."

"Well, I'm betting you're right. It's the safest thing to do. Admiral Netts has had the tape of the sinking analyzed and the sound engineers don't agree. Still, we have to assume that sub is still loose. We don't know where it is or what shape it's in but we do know one thing. That sub got into the Mediterranean undetected, and as far as we know it hasn't come out."

"If it got in, sir, I won't be surprised if it can get out."

"Well… we've increased the number of patrols through the Strait and beefed up the fixed arrays, but this sub isn't our only problem. Four days ago three more Soviet attack subs passed through the Iceland gap and headed south into the Atlantic. We're tracking them through the North Atlantic with SOSUS right now. One of them is riding a picket line about thirty miles out. Clearly the Russians believe they can penetrate the Med, and it seems as though they designed this new class of subs to do just that. You know, until now our missile subs have been able to operate without any trouble in the Ionian Sea. From there they can strike at targets as far away as Moscow. But if the Russians get attack submarines into the Med, they jeopardize our FBMs. This is a whole new ball game for the Soviet Navy. We think they're going after Vallejo, so the first thing we're going to do is help her shake her tail. We're going to have to deal with this picket first. When Vallejo is clear, we're going on station outside the Strait. If we're lucky, we'll catch the mystery boat coming out. Any questions?"

"Yes, sir. Is there a designation for the new sub?"

"Alpha."

"It s one hell of a sub, sir."

"It is. No question about that."

"We'll keep sharp ears. Skipper."

"Very well. Get ready to take her out."

Sipping Alka-Seltzer, Sorensen was running circuit checks on the new sonars when Fogarty came into the sonar room and sat down. Fogarty switched on his screen and punched up the bottom scanners.

"How's your hangover, kid?"

"Awful."

Sorensen punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Relax, Fogarty, we're home. What's the depth under our keel?"

"Thirty-four feet."

"All right. Sharpen your spurs, cowboy. Here we go"

They heard Pisaro's voice come through the intercom. "Attention all hands, attention all hands. Maneuvering stations, maneuvering stations. Prepare for slow speed."

The reactor was hot, the steam lines were charged, the course was plotted, captain and lookouts were on the bridge. Overhead the night sky was cloudy, obscuring the heavens. Always obscure, the sea was calm.

On the pier opposite, the captain of Vallejo prepared to follow Barracuda into the bay. Springfield waved and ordered the bow and stern lines away.

"All ahead slow."

With a shudder the ship moved away from the pier, passed outside the breakwaters and slipped by the Russian trawler. Rolling in the swell, Springfield turned his ship into the moderate sea and headed for deep water.

"Strike the colors," he said. "Clear the bridge. Rig for dive."

No band played. No admiral made a speech. No crowd waved good-by. Barracuda steamed out of Rota in the dead of night and slipped furtively into the Atlantic.