The Med (14 page)

It wasn't a good situation. But his mind's business with the item did not last more than a second, because just then two slow bells sounded over the announcing system. He had ten minutes before the next boat ashore. He tore down the ladder and through the passageways, flattening a seaman recruit against the bulkhead as he went by. In his stateroom he ripped free of his uniform, tossed on his civvies, and beat it for the gangway.

When he reached the quarterdeck, out of breath and feeling smothered in the tropic heat after the ship's air conditioning, he saw that Flasher had beaten him. The paunchy lieutenant was leaning against the rail, watching a gig angle in toward them. Dan shaded his eyes to look out at it, and then froze. He exchanged glances with Flasher.

“It's him, all right,” said Red. “Quick, up here. He always goes down the starboard side.”

“Right.” The two junior officers faded behind a bulkhead, and watched as Commodore Isaac I. Sundstrom stepped from the launch to the ladder and hauled himself up, with deliberate dignity, toward the quarterdeck.

Simultaneously they realized that they were the only ones to have seen him approach. “Someone's going to catch it,” breathed Flasher. “Hey! You! Officer of the deck!”

The ensign on duty swung around at the stage whisper. He followed Flasher's urgent finger, and his face suddenly matched his whites. The petty officer of the watch flicked switches on the 1MC, raised his hand to the ship's bell, but far, far too late.

Ike Sundstrom stepped aboard, smiling tightly. He had been standing behind another man, Colonel Haynes; that was why the OOD had missed him. But that was no excuse. In the engine spaces, in the troop berthing where marines sprawled still hung over, in offices and repair shops and through the cavernous hangar deck where the helicopters waited, the clang of the bell and “COMPHIBRON SIX, ARRIVING” echoed through the ship; and the captain of the
Guam
started up from his desk to meet him, glanced out a porthole to see the launch already alongside, and covered his face with his hands.

On the quarterdeck the ensign saluted, anguish and fear in his boyish face. Sundstrom asked him his name, and nodded. In another man it might have been taken for amiability. He turned for a word with Haynes, then strolled forward along the starboard side. It was empty. The sailors who had been working there moments before had vanished, taking their tools and portable radios with them.

Sundstrom went up the Flag ladder and disappeared from sight. The ensign smiled helplessly at Flasher and Lenson, and then nodded to the petty officer. The final “bong” quivered away into the steel acreage of the ship.

“That chocolate-coated bastard,” muttered Flasher. “That son of a bitch is a horse's ass, and that's all he is.”

“Knock it off, Red, people can hear you.”

“That's right, I forgot Mister Straight Arrow was with me. You really go for this bozo's style, huh?”

“I don't ‘go for' him. But he's in charge. And we're his staff.”

“Be realistic, Dan-o.” Flasher looked, for once, as if he meant what he was saying. “This guy's a sundowner. He wants stars so bad, he'll leave a trail of bleeding bodies behind him to get there. You want to be one of them?”

Lenson didn't answer. After a moment Flasher continued. “Your problem, Dan, is you believe things are just the way they told you at the Boat School. Honor. Responsibility. Duty. Well, real life ain't that simple, boy.”

“One jerk doesn't invalidate the concept, Red.”

“Oh, forget it.” Flasher turned away. “Let's get off this madhouse. I'm three drinks behind already today.”

“You said it,” said Lenson. And as he clattered down the ladder toward the waiting boat, tossing on the blue translucent sea, he had already left the ship, the commodore, and the entire Navy far behind.

*   *   *

Four days, Dan had told her that first evening; four days in Taormina, four days together.

She wanted every minute of it, and wanted every minute to be wonderful.

Sitting together in a taberna that evening, listening to violins, Nan beside them in a little chair the manager brought, it was for a while everything she had hoped for.

Susan leaned back in the delicate iron chair, toying with her second glass of wine.

They had so little time together. She had counted it up. Married four years; together four hundred days of that. Oh, he'd mentioned the separations before they were married. She remembered how she had thought it might be nice; time alone to pursue her own career. She hadn't realized how it would really be. How could she, when her father had been home with his briefcase every night of her childhood, dependable as a rock? And then Nan had come. She knew now what the Navy demanded. Six-month deployments, more months at sea for work-ups and exercises, and even when he was home, a seven-to-five working day and duty days aboard twice a week.

The Navy. At nineteen it had meant parades by the Severn, the Ring Dance, forbidden kisses along Stribling Walk. A romantic dream. It was different living it, trying to be a “Navy wife” (how she hated those words) when you were actually single, or worse; something like a legal separation, with visiting rights. Her dreams of a career had vanished; the grimy port cities the Navy based in were far from the action in archaeology. Oh, she stayed busy. Halfway to a master's, and substitute teaching, and of course her daughter. That helped time slip away when he wasn't there.

But she didn't want time to slip away. She was young, and she wanted life to be as she had dreamed it, romantic and beautiful. Or else professional and fulfilling; her dreams tugged her sometimes this way, sometimes that. So that now, living at least the romantic half of them, she smiled at him in the candlelight, and saw his smile grow, reflecting and then kindled by hers; and knew that to him, she was everything.

For tonight, anyway.

“Happy, Susan?”

She had been, but for some reason being asked if she was, irritated her. She felt her smile fade.

“Ooooo! Spaghetti!” said Nan, grabbing her silverware. Susan tucked her napkin back where it had fallen, and glanced at Dan.

“Good—just in time.”

They plunged into fettuccine alla Romana, side dishes of more pasta, a meat course that she thought looked like flank steak from a squirrel. A little of the festive mood returned as he touched his glass to hers.

“Aren't you drinking?”

“Good grief, Dan, this is my third glass. What are you trying to do—seduce me?”

He glanced at Nan, who was ogling a passing waiter with wide brown eyes, noodles hanging from her mouth. “If I only had a chance.”

“If you only did. But I'm married. At least I think so—my husband's been at sea so long I'm not sure anymore.”

She regretted her remark instantly, but said nothing to repair it. The silence grew. At last he bit his lips and reached for the carafe. He poured more for both of them, topping the glasses till the wine trembled convex at the very lip.

“I can't do anything about that, Susan,” he said at last.

“I know. I was being bitter. I'm sorry.”

“Okay now?”

“Yes. Sure.”

But that same taut silence kept coming back all through the wine, and what dancing afterward they could snatch before Nan got cranky. As they walked back to the hotel uphill past the shuttered shops, the scents of verbena and roses lying over the cobblestones like fog, he was wondering what to say, and she was trying to be cheerful. But she wasn't. Nan was whiny, tired, and the first order of business was to put her to bed. When she fell asleep at last, breathing raggedly out of a tear-swollen face, Susan dropped all trying, all effort, and slumped onto the bed. Too much wine had left her feeling dizzy and sad and conscious that she had eaten too much. When he lay down, the bed creaking, and put his hand on her breast she pushed it away. After a moment she got up and went to the window.

“Babe?” he said, behind her.

She didn't answer, looking out at the empty dark beyond the rippled antique glass. When she heard him get up she opened it and went out. The balcony was bare stone, but the climbing roses that seemed to infest Taormina wound over the walls, filling the airless night with sickening sweetness. She leaned down, holding tight to the balustrade, and heard from far below the sigh of waves.

“Oh,” he said, beside her. “There's the ship.”

It was true; they could see it now, out at the edge of the bay. “We couldn't see it from here yesterday,” she said.

“Right, she's upped her anchor.” His voice had changed, become evaluatory and professional; as if, Susan thought bitterly, she was not there at all. “She's got her running lights on … must be shifting anchorages.”

“Forget the ship,” she said. “You're away from the ship. We've got two more days away from the goddamned ship.”

“Susan, come off it. Don't tell me you're not enjoying this, touring all over the Med. Lots of wives would kill for this.”

“Screw them.”

He didn't say anything else then. Afraid to, she thought. He's right. I feel dangerous right now.

And he was thinking, What is it? Why is she like this, all of a sudden? I was looking forward to this so much … it was so wonderful, last night.…

They made up somehow, clumsily. She did it against her will, feeling forced to it by the shortness of their time together. But she pushed the resentment down once more. They were kissing at last, alone together above the sea, when something buzzed inside the room.

“What's that?”

“I don't know … could it be the door?”

But when they went in they saw that it was the telephone. She picked it up, listened, then held it out.

“Lieutenant
Lenson. It's for you.”

“What? Who is it?” He took the instrument unwillingly, turning a little away from her. “Hello. Yes. Yes sir.”

She waited, her hand on his arm.

“Yes sir,” he said again. “Now? I mean—tonight?”

“Yes sir.” He hung up.

“What is it?”

“Jack Byrne. He called from the pier.”

“How did he know we were here?”

“We have to leave a number when we stay ashore overnight. You know that, Susan.” He stared at the phone for a moment longer, then started buttoning his shirt.

“What's going on?”

“It's a general recall.”

“You have to go back? When?”

“Right now. Jack says the launch is waiting at the pier.
Guam
's underway at the mouth of the harbor, standing by to get us back aboard.”

“But wait.” She felt the whole structure crumbling; she was still dizzy from the wine. “Where are you going? For how long? Will you be back in?”

“I don't know, babe.”

“What does it mean? Is it a war, or what?” She felt lightheaded, speaking words she was unable to connect to any reality.

“I just told you all I know. I doubt it's serious. Probably just a false alarm. Or Ike could be pulling it for drill. We'll probably be back in tomorrow morning.”

“But what should I do? Should I wait?”

“I don't know,” he said again, and she heard the pain in his voice. “Look … Mrs. Hogan and the other wives are down at the Naxos. Why don't you move down there with them, and as soon as we know what's going on, we'll get a message back to you.”

“Wait. Wait, Dan.”

Halfway to the door already, pulling on the one civilian coat he owned, he stopped when he felt her arms around him.

“Don't make a scene, Susan. I have to go. It's my duty.”

“Duty! That doesn't mean you—just
take off,
and leave us here. You have duties to us too—”

“Susan, they know I got the message. And even if they didn't, I've got to be aboard that ship if she's going someplace.”

“You don't
have
to.”

“I do,” he said quietly, taking her arms. “I do. That's what I'm here for.”

She closed her eyes. It was useless arguing with him. Pain and love filled her in quick alternation with flashes of hatred.

“Hold me, at least, before you go.”

They hugged in the darkened room. He felt her shoulders move; felt her hair brush his chin; lowered his head, feeling tears burn his eyes. Didn't she know there was nothing he wanted less to do in the world than leave her and Nan? Couldn't she know, without his having to say a word, that in spite of all he was, all he had promised, he wanted desperately to stay? But he knew he couldn't. It would be wrong for him to stay, not when the task force was sailing, and it was not fair for her to make it harder.

He opened his eyes and stepped back. “Babe … I'll get a message back as soon as I can.”

“All right, Dan.”

“Good-bye.”

She did not answer. He touched her eyes gently with a finger. He had expected tears, but her eyes were dry.

She stood at the door for a long time after the lock snapped behind him. She was listening to the silence; the distant creak of floors; tick of an old clock; and from the window, soft in the airless night of Taormina, the ceaseless surge and whisper of the sea.

III

UNDERWAY

7

U.S.S.
Guam

0300: UNDERWAY.

The ship moved steadily through a dark swell, miles from land; but she was not awake. Three-quarters of her crew were dead in their bunks. Cradled, muttering lost in dreams, they curled unconscious as the unborn within the metal womb that carried them.

Like the pelagic sharks far below her keel, despite her sleep she swam and dimly knew. Deep in her boiler rooms sweating men labored between tornadoes of oil-fed flame. Her enginerooms were solid with sound, the shafts whirling blurs. Levels above, her senses fingered the darkness, sweeping the surface of the sea and the heart of a clouding sky. Specialists leaned over radarscopes and plots. In radio central the receivers and teletypes hummed and clattered. On her bridge men stared warily into the night, and the captain napped restlessly in his leather chair.