“What’s bugging Bing?” Brentwood heard a seaman ask as he passed the galley, his antistatic moccasins moving noiselessly on the shiny spill of red light bouncing off the polished decks and bulkheads.
“His book’s probably out of print,” answered someone else, and Brentwood heard them laughing.
When he got to his cabin, the sonar operator was waiting outside apprehensively. Brentwood took off his cap, pulled the narrow green drapes across the cabin entrance, and waved the operator into his cabin. “Come in, Burns.”
“Yes, sir.”
Robert Brentwood yawned, excused himself, and motioned the seaman to a chair, but the seaman declined.
“You did well up there, Burns.”
“Thankyou, sir.”
Brentwood noticed the boy had a prominent Adam’s apple, just like his kid brother Ray. “But there’s something you did I don’t want you to repeat.”
“Sir?”
Brentwood pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, the tiredness in his eyes now more pronounced under the regular cabin lighting. “You hesitated on giving me two readings.’ Ah — something.’ I don’t want any ‘ah — somethings.’ It’s at least a second’s delay, and it could be enough for a target designation of us by an enemy sub. We’ve got enough acronyms — letters for symbols — as it is. Forget about ‘ah’—sounds like ‘R.’ “
“Yes, sir.”
“One more thing, Burns. What the heck you think we blew up? I would have expected more of a bang. I’ve heard forty-eights go off against targets. Usually make a lot more noise than that.”
“We might have hit fish, sir.”
Brentwood looked up. “Fish?”
“Yes, sir. The way I figure it — the ‘splash’ from Alfa we got could have been them ditching their catch — to get away.”
Brentwood sat back against the bulkhead, thinking about it. “When they heard our torpedoes?”
“Yes, sir. Coming in on their fish sonar — or Fathometers, as the Brits call them.”
“Okay, Burns. You can go. You did a good job.”
“Sorry about the slipup—”
“Just chalk it up,” said Brentwood. “We learn from the mistakes. Or we should.”
“Yes, sir.”
Robert Brentwood thought about it for a few seconds after Burns had left but then rang control.
“Yes, sir?” answered Zeldman.
“Pete? Why do they call me ‘Bing’?”
“Sir?”
“They call me Bing.”
“Don’t know, sir. Maybe you mentioned him once or twice.”
“I’m sure I didn’t. That woman at the admiralty party last time at Holy Loch — she asked — wait a minute, I asked you about this Bing character.”
“Ah, yes, sir, believe you did.”
“You son of a bitch, I’ll get you for this.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Carry on. Call me half an hour before our last — I mean our next scheduled BMV/TACAMO station.”
“Will do, Captain.”
Robert Brentwood lay back on his bunk, his gaze focusing on the Pacific Northwest calendar he’d taped up on the bulkhead showing a radiantly pink Mount Shasta, its volcanic cone rising majestically into the sky. Half the days were crossed out by black marker pen, the rest, after the “hump” of the patrol, in red. The book on Crosby should be at Marriage’s by now, waiting for him. Was there something wrong with Crosby — not liking women or something? He pulled out the store’s card as he couldn’t remember its address, but soon he was wondering about what he would do if Roosevelt didn’t receive a burst message from either land farm or TACAMO aerials. He might never see a book again. He loved reading — could never understand people who were retired saying they got bored. There was so much yet to do, so much to learn. It was something that became more and more apparent after a long six-month patrol around the Atlantic, and all the time on radio silence. One thing you realized was how people ashore took their luxuries for granted, everything from a daily newspaper, a TV or radio report that told them what was going on in the world, to their freedom to go and do as they pleased. On radio silence ever since they’d received the first few bursts alerting them to the fact that the United States was at war with the Soviets, they had no idea of the extent, and beyond the convoys, the intensity, of the war, and knew next to nothing about the titanic land battle that must now be under way in Europe. Unless it had already gone nuclear, which would explain why Roosevelt hadn’t received burst messages as scheduled in the last three listening slots.
He thought about the family, Lana, whether she and her husband had sorted things out, or had she gone ahead and joined the Waves? And he wondered if young David had been caught up in the war. But soon his sense of isolation that is the submariner’s lot in time of war gave way to concern about how he was going to fill out the required “firing report,” to explain to COMSUB-1 ANT — Commander Subatlantic Pacific — why he had just fired off two million dollars’ worth of the American taxpayers’ money. At fish. The truth was that sometimes, with all the electronic gadgetry, you still didn’t know — you had to make a judgment call. He hated doing the paperwork, but dutifully started. All the while, however, he was aware of a growing sense of unease. If he received no message on the next TACAMO station, it would be up to him — his decision and his alone whether or not to go to the “nuclear mode.” To attack his predesignated targets in the USSR might mean turning what probably up to now had been a more or less conventional war into a nuclear one. If so, would his men be ready? He believed they were. If he had to do it, speed and smooth operation would be everything before the enemy could get a fix on him.
He finished with his paperwork and lay down on the bunk, clipped on his Walkman earphones and, hands behind his head, thought of London and New York and the trips he’d thought of taking on the long furlough, as this time they would be in dry dock in Holy Loch for a new coat of anechoic paint. If Holy Loch was still there.
But something told him he would not be going to Holy Loch. Or was his natural sense of caution giving way to an uncharacteristic strain of morbidity at the end of the long war patrol? He closed his eyes and tried not to think about it, tried not to dwell on the fact that the Roosevelt alone carried more explosive power than all the wars in history combined. He switched off the lamp, his right foot tapping to the deep, authoritative lament of Johnny Cash and “Sunday mornin’ comin’ down.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
In the Sea of Japan it was the middle of the night, and Al Banks had grave doubts about the general’s plan. “I don’t know, General. It’s unprecedented.”
“Al,” said Freeman, looking up at his aide, “you’re a fine officer. You’ve got initiative, too. I don’t know of any staff officer that could have coordinated the logistics of this operation on such short notice. You’ve done a superb job.”
“But—” interjected Banks philosophically, “what’s the qualifier, General?”
“You know squat-all about history. Hell—” The general pushed back in his chair, holding the bunk edge to stop it rolling hard forward again, his right hand smacking the operational map of Korea draped over his desk. “Hannibal didn’t let a bit of bad weather stop him going over the Alps.”
“He had elephants, General. If I remember my history. We only have choppers.”
“We flew night missions in Nam. Gunships were one of the success stories, Al.”