"Control to sonar, you blew it. We've got sailboats."
Sorensen clucked. "Fogarty, you still can't navigate."
"Leo," Springfield said to the XO, "take a look."
Pisaro peered into the eyepiece and whistled.
When Springfield gave the order to surface. Barracuda surged out of the sea, a silent monster of the deep. The people on the sailboats lined the railings and watched the sub slip past. Her surface was a mottled black, like the skin of a whale. The only sound was the hiss of water breaking over her bow.
Barracuda steamed into the Bay of Naples and tied up outside the breakwater next to the sub tender Tallahatchie County. Nearby, Kitty Hawk, flagship of the Sixth Fleet, was preparing for departure later that afternoon.
From high up on the superstructure of the massive aircraft carrier, a sailor looked down at the tiny submarine. Compared to the manifest might of Kitty Hawk, the sub appeared insignificant. With a dorsal fin and a tail protruding from the water, Barracuda looked like a fish to him, at worst a harmless little shark.
5
Jaded, polluted Naples spilled down the mountains to the bay, home port of the U.S. Sixth Fleet. Over the millenia Neapolitans had seen many fleets come and go. When the giant Kitty Hawk and her escorts got up steam and sailed away, only a few young boys paid attention.
Barracuda was moored to the seaward side of Tallahatchie County. A canopy stretched from the tender over the top of the sail, veiling her profile from "the eye in the sky," the Soviet satellites that frequently passed over Naples.
Springfield left the ship to carry the recordings of the Viktor to fleet headquarters, leaving Pisaro to pass the word. The crew waited expectantly for liberty call.
Pisaro called Chief Lopez into his cabin. The XO kept a box of Havanas exclusively for Lopez, one of his perks as chief of the boat. Flipping open his Zippo, Pisaro said, "We're going to unload all your torpedos, Chief, and replace them with dummies."
Lopez puffed his cigar into life. "All of them. Commander? I hate dummies. That pulls all the teeth out of 'Cuda."
"Nobody likes them. Chief. Anyway, that's the good news. The bad news is that there'll be no liberty call."
Lopez looked forlorn but said nothing. Naples was his favorite liberty port. Pisaro knew how he felt. It was his favorite as well. He went on, "We're going to be here less than twenty-four hours, and we'll be gone a week at the most. When we get back everyone gets three days ashore."
"The crew won't like it, sir."
"Your job is to listen to them bitch. Chief. Anyone who wants can go onto Tallahatchie for thirty minutes."
Lopez puffed hard on his cigar. "Thirty whole minutes? I'll pass the word, sir. I'm sure it will make the men feel better about having no liberty and all—"
"Don't choke on the stogie, Lopez. Get outta here. And send Sorensen in with his beacon."
In the sonar room Sorensen was assembling a waterproof, pressure-tight sonic beacon into the stainless steel box made by Barnes. As the other sonarmen crowded around, Sorensen tinkered with a soldering gun, a tiny screwdriver and a pile of highly classified miniature parts. He carefully torqued down the pressure seals and threw the switch. The box began to beep, and the sonarmen cheered.
Davic said, "The Russians would kill for what's in that box."
Sorensen turned it off. "What makes you think so, Davic? Do you really think anyone would slaughter your fat ass for a bunch of transistors? In five years you'll probably be able to buy one of these things in a dimestore. A battery, a speaker, big fucking deal."
Lopez looked in from the control room. "Sorensen, the XO wants to see you and your gizmo."
Sorensen turned off the box. On the way out he handed the circuit diagram to Davic. "Here, Davic, I want you to make one of these. You don't need a watertight case. I'm gonna hang it around your neck."
Sorensen knocked on Pisaro’s door.
"C'mon in, Ace."
Spread out on the table was a chart of the Bay of Naples and the adjacent Gulf of Pozzuoli, a large inlet to the north, separated from the bay by the point of La Gaiola.
"At ease, Sorensen. Sit down. Light up if you like."
"Thank you, sir."
"You been topside yet?"
"No, sir. Too busy."
"I wonder if it's a nice day. Naples can be a nice place. My grandfather came from Naples."
Sorensen sniffed the air. "I smell cigar smoke, sir. Does that mean there's no liberty?"
Pisaro laughed and ran his hands over his scalp. "There's just no bullshitting you, is there? Well, you're right. No liberty. Next time."
"Yes, sir."
"All right, let's see your handiwork." He reached for the beacon and switched it on, listened to it for a moment and turned it off. "Is it going to work?"
"I can't say, sir. I haven't had it in the water."
"What about a magnet?"
"I got one."
"Well, then." Pisaro looked over his chart and jabbed his finger at a spot in the middle of the Gulf of Pozzuoli. "It's one hundred twenty feet down. Can you handle it?"
Sorensen peered at the chart and nodded. "No problem."
"Okay, you need to take someone with you. Who's it going to be?"
"Fogarty."
"The kid? Is he qualified for scuba?" Pisaro opened his personnel files and pulled Fogarty's records. "So he is. Is he any good at sonar?"
"He's a sharp cookie, Commander. He's got good ears."
Pisaro studied the file. "There's something about him I can't put my finger on. He's kind of sullen. I don't think he really likes the military—"
"For cryin' out loud. Commander, I don't like the military. I don't think you like it very much. If you'll pardon my saying so."
Pisaro pretended not to hear this. He was reading Fogarty's file. "He went to the University of Minnesota for a year. Hmm. Electronic engineering. Another wizard, I suppose. Why can't I get more guys like Willie Joe? Just a good old boy who loves his submarine. Instead, I get the likes of you and this Fogarty. Get outta here. Go swimming."
In wetsuits Sorensen and Fogarty popped out of the after hatch and carefully made their way along the deck. From the portside forward diving plane Hoek was supervising the loading of the dummy torpedoes. All of the torpedoes for the exercise, six Mark 37s and two Mark 45s were wire-guided. Each torpedo was equipped with a reel of fine wire, miles long, that remained attached to the submarine when the weapon was fired. By means of an electronic pulse transmitted along the wire, the weapons officer could guide the torpedo to its target. The gleaming weapons were painted brilliant orange to indicate they were unarmed.
The two sailors dropped into a waiting rubber boat. Sorensen cranked up the outboard motor and a moment later they were skimming across the bay, heading for the Gulf of Pozzuoli.
Sheltered from the swell of the Mediterranean by the shoals of La Gaiola, the bay was calm. Shadows crept down the slopes of Vesuvius. The air was heavy with diesel oil and thyme.
Fogarty was awestruck by the crumbling magnificence of Naples. After ten days underwater he seemed to have surfaced in paradise. Waving his arms, he shouted into the wind, "It's like a dream, it's beautiful."
"You know what they say, kid. See Naples and die."
Sorensen had visited Naples many times but had never looked at it as anything more than a backdrop for a debauch. He wasn't looking now. His face was turned into the sun.