The Gulf (33 page)

Phelan caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the sink. His smile matched the plastic one. He'd won sixty bucks, a
New Jersey
Zippo, and a folding Buck knife with a leather case playing three-card burn. But he didn't like the way the dummy looked at him, wise, like it knew something about him the others didn't. He dropped his ball cap over its face.

“You hear me?”

“What?”

“Letter?” Golden held it up.

“Where'd that come from?”

“Didn't you say you were from Mexico?”

“New Mexico. I mean, how'd it get here?”

“I don't know. Don't you ever get mail?”

Phelan gave up. Golden answered everything with another question. He snatched it out of the seaman's hand and said, “Okay, I got it, get out of here, man.” When Golden was gone, he sat down, looking at the return address. He shook out a butt, remembered where he was, and put it back.

The letter was from Denise. He looked at the postmark: a month ago. Not too bad considering it'd gone halfway around the world, then followed him from the Bitch to wherever the fuck they were now. He smiled, tore it open, and leaned back.

Dear Bernard,

I hope you are well and not drinking too much. You know I worried about your drinking. Anyway this is to let you know I'm marrying Paul Edaakie. He's been real good to us while you been gone. Like I said we have been having trouble. The welfare lady said we couldn't get anymore ADC because you were in the navy. We lost the trailer. I told the man about you were going to send the money but he said he couldn't wait. I couldn't work anymore at the gas station because Little Coyote kept getting sick.

Anyway Paul has been being real good to us. He has two kids and they need a mother. I don't love him but I think this is best. If you come back I don't think you ought to come by the house. Paul is on the Council and they don't want you to come back. It was alot of fun, I'll always remember, but that is Paul now and I got to go.

Sincerely,

Denise

Phelan took the pack out again and slowly flamed the end of a cigarette. He sucked smoke up his nose and breathed it out again. For a minute, he thought somebody was playing a joke on him. But it was on lined school paper like she always used. It was her handwriting.

Oh, God damn it. He'd told her he'd take care of her and the kid! Hell, that was why he'd joined up again! He
had
sent her money. Last paycheck—no, he'd used the last one for the brick. The one before that. He remembered getting the money order at the post office. The base post office. In Coronado.

But then that would have been before they deployed. He'd sent some after that, he'd—no, couldn't remember.

He covered his face with his hands, realizing suddenly it must be three months since he'd sent her anything.

He sat there for a long time, anger and betrayal giving way to shame and then despair. He deserved to lose her. He was worthless, no good, just like her mom had said. He knew where the money had gone: to get high and to get his friends high.

He found that he was crying. As the tears burned his cheeks, he felt justified somehow. If only she could see him crying. Then she'd realize what she'd done to him.

He remembered the place they used to go. Not a camp, just a back road above Nutria Lake where you could park and then scramble up a path through the dry dust, the juniper and scrub. Till under the bluff you found a crumbling wall, and stone circles on the ground, half filled in, like huge wells. Great Kivas, they called it. There were sheltered places under the cliff paintings where you could spread a sleeping bag. He and Denise would spend all weekend there, skinny-swimming, listening to Rod Stewart and Robin Trower, and drinking take-out Budweiser in quart bottles from Witch Wells under the ancient spirals, lizards, man shapes, and crosses of the Anasazi. And when your head was right, you suddenly understood they were telling you the secrets of life and death.

She'd told him one night when they were both high, he remembered it so clear. They'd built a roaring volcano of a fire out of piñon and old tires—so hot you couldn't get within twenty feet of it—and made love naked under the stars, half in and half out of the Zuni River. And she told him she'd always love him and that was one thing that would never change.

I don't understand, he whimpered in his mind. What's happening to me? Doesn't anybody care?

A few minutes later, there was a tapping from out in the passageway. He hesitated, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, then muttered “Shit,” and got up. He wiped his eyes with a tissue, slammed it into the trash, and unlocked the door.

It was Orr, with another of the deck apes. “Think you can give me them pills now?” the big man muttered.

Phelan got the medication log out, and the prescription blanks. He spun the dial open and unlocked the safe. Then remembered and said, “You said you was having trouble sleeping, too, didn't you?”

“Hell, yeah, that compartment's real hard to sleep in.”

He got out Tylenol with codeine and Valium. He wrote
50 CAPS
in the log and counted out thirty to Orr. The other guy hung back. Phelan asked him what his problem was. He had a bad cough, he said. Phelan looked at his eyes. He pulled out two half-pint bottles of Bayitussin with codeine and asked him to stay for a minute.

When Orr was gone, Bernard said, “You got anything to smoke?”

The guy looked at the cough syrup. Finally he said, not very willingly, “Couple ounces. But I ain't been smoking. Why?”

Phelan wished again he'd been able to buy more opium. The demand was here. Submerged, but here. Once he had something to deal with, he'd be in fat city. The tests were no problem. If one of his friends was on the list, well, he'd take care of it, that was all. Sure enough, the next sentence out of the guy's mouth was “Have
you
got anything?”

“Well, cough syrup for now, and the kind of stuff I gave Les.” He remembered the safe. And the emergency kits in the life rafts. But he needed to take it slow, feel his way. “I might have some better stuff later, though. Some real righteous shit.”

“Will this show up on the test?”

“Don't worry about it. You're on the sick list now, you rate taking it.”

“Thanks,” said the guy. He lowered his voice. “How much I owe you?”

“Forget it. This one's on the Navy. Say, what's your name?”

“Danny. Danny Quint.”

“Glad to meet you, Danny.”

At last, he had a friend. Phelan slid open a drawer and held up two little plastic dose cups. He set them on the bunk by the bottles and told Danny to pour.

The codeine-laced alcohol went down in a gulp, smooth, cherry-flavored, like a liqueur. His belly warmed and in minutes his earlobes went numb. He could feel it taking charge, taking care of his guilts and fears. It dissolved the bad news. It dissolved the feeling that Bernard Newekwe was worthless, not an Indian, not a white man, a liar, and … and whatever, he forgot now. In a few minutes, he'd feel fine. Smarter than the rest, wise, powerful, and generous. He popped one of the Valiums and after a moment offered one to Danny.

So she's gone, he thought. The pain, so keen at first, was already hard to feel through the beginning glow, the moment when it took hold and you knew you were going to feel good.

So? whispered the drug.

Really thought she loved me. Thought I was happy there.

I'll give you more. I'll give you all you want. San Diego, Subic, Honolulu, wherever you go. You got the stuff to deal, there'll be a sixteen-year-old nibbling your nuts every night.

If she'd really of loved me she'd of waited. I would of married her, like I said.

It was her missed out, Bernard. Edaakie, that fat old shit, he'll never make her happy like you did.

But it's better this way.

That's right. Get her off your hands.

My pay'll be my own again.

Life's good, Bernard. And it'll be better. Just stay with me.

Phelan poured another. He raised it to Danny, whose face was multiplying itself. Then he stopped, his hand trembling in midair.

The dummy was watching him. The cap had fallen off, revealing its face. Its smile was evil and knowing, the leer of a
kachina
doll with the eyes of a wolf.

Bernard Newekwe jerked his eyes away. He chuckled uneasily. Took a sip. Then laughed again, louder. When he looked back, it was a dummy again, lifeless and sprawling.

“Danny,” he said, “Who else do you know who wants to get high?”

18

U.S.S.
Audacity,
Hawalli, Kuwait

Dear Ola,

I sent you a telegram and wrote from Spain, but I haven't gotten anything from you yet. Are you writing? I need to know how Mike is taking things. Is he helping out with the herd?

I mailed my first paycheck from Rota and you should have it by now. I'm holding out $75 a month. Everything else is going to you direct deposit. So you should be getting around three thousand a month. Hire a hand if you need help.

In case my letters aren't getting through, either, it took us a month to cross the Atlantic. We had a bad time with storms. It was smoother in the Med. We went through the Suez Canal and stopped at Jidda. They make a goat's milk cheese there that gives you the runs for a week. Then another long transit through the Arabian Sea and up into the Gulf.

We're anchored off Kuwait right now, finishing repairs and getting ready for our first sweep. It's hot, over 110 every day. We can hear artillery sometimes from where the Iraqis and Iranians are fighting. There are French, Italian, and Dutch minesweepers here, too. I had dinner on a French ship yesterday and it was much better than we get. If you make something that will keep in the heat, send it.

Hope you're getting a little time for your pottery by now.

Please keep writing. I'll probably get all your letters in a batch. There's no phone service from the nest, but I'll call as soon as I can, probably when we put into Bahrain.

Love,

John.

Gordon sucked his ballpoint. Then he scratched the back of his neck with it, staring out the porthole in the chief's mess. Finally he added:

PS: I miss you and Mike. Be sure and tell him that.

“Now all concerned personnel report on board
Coronado
for presweep briefing.”

Gordon sighed, sealed the letter, and gave himself a onceover in the mirror. Khakis, decorations, insignia, shined combat boots. He smelled mildew and realized it was his shirt.

“Give 'em hell, Senior,” said the chief boatswain. He nodded grimly, centered his pisscutter, and headed up the ladder.

Audacity
was moored in a nest with U.S.S.
Coronado,
AGF-11, and her sister sweeps. A Dutch minesweeper was made up on the far side. The rafted ships rode to anchor two miles off the city in a sea that burned like a million Fourth of July sparklers. The air smelled of the oil that thousands of men were dying for a few miles north of them. Sweat prickled at his shoulder blades as he fell in behind Hunnicutt and Kearn. The captain nodded coldly; the sweep officer ignored him.

The Middle East Force flagship, painted white to lessen the air-conditioning load, loomed over them like a cliff of ice. They crossed
Resolute
's fantail and clambered up a zigzag boarding ladder to an entry port. Up close, the white was chalky, streaked with running rust.

The command ship's passageways seemed enormous and very clean after two months on “Rowdy Owdy.” Gordon made a detour to the post office, then rejoined the officers outside a briefing room. There was a scuttlebutt there with all the cold water you could drink. He joined the line of sweep sailors that immediately formed.

The door opened at 0850 and they found seats. A master chief called “attention on deck” sharp at 0900. Gordon rose with the rest. He wasn't surprised when an admiral entered. But he took another look at the unfamiliar uniforms that followed him in.

Coronado
's CO, a four-striper with five rows of ribbons, tapped the mike at the podium and gave “seats.” Gordon settled back to listen.

Operation “Pandora,” the large-scale sweep to begin the next day, would be a thorough resanitization of the tanker lanes between Bahrain and Kuwait. COMIDEASTFOR had ordered it in response to reports of unidentified coasters lingering in the vicinity.

“First slide, please,” said the captain.

The operating area had been divided into national areas of responsibility, from the French in the Kuwaiti approaches to the Dutch off Qatar. The Americans, Saudis, and British had drawn areas in between. A chief moved through the room, passing out copies of the operation order. The U.S. assignment was the Farsi Channel.

The slide changed. Helicopters from
Iwo Jima
were sledding the area today for influence mines. The minesweepers would follow, their on-board EOD teams dealing with any older-style mines.

Hunnicutt leaned across and whispered, “You getting all this, Gordon?”

“Yessir.”

The captain asked for questions. Gordon raised his hand. “Senior Chief Gordon, EOD off
Audacity.
Does anybody have any idea what type of devices we'll be looking for?”

“The Iranians have a large and varied inventory. They've got U.S. types, contact and influence, moored and bottom-laid. We've also encountered Russian, Chinese, and North Korean mines.”

“Yessir, but is there any indication—”

“No. I'm sorry, Chief, but we have no intelligence on the specific models we will be facing.”

“Thank you, sir.” He sat down, feeling Kearn's eyes sharp on him.

One of the Dutch officers asked about helicopter support; the captain repeated what he'd said about the H-53s. There seemed to be no more questions. The room stirred then as Admiral Hart was introduced. Gordon sat up. It was always nice to see the man you worked for, and hear from the horse's mouth just what he expected you to do.