The Gulf

by David Poyer

  “I was thinking about that,” said Proginelli eagerly. “Sorry, sir—”

  “No, go ahead, let’s hear what our CIC officer thinks.”

  “I think we fired too fast, sir. Three rounds, just like that. Could be two of them hit the same bogey.” His eyes slid to Dan and he added hastily, “I don’t want to ping on the guys in the hot seat, but maybe next time we fire on multiple targets we should space our rounds out.”

  They discussed that for a while, some arguing that on a gaggle of bogeys the thing to do was get ordnance there fast and lots of it, which was the way TAO school taught it, the others taking Proginelli’s side. Dan said to the steward, “Yeah, coffee, black. Thanks.”

  “Now,” said Shaker, “I understand we had one person who didn’t think we did so well.”

  Dan registered the words after a moment. He glanced up. “Are you talking about me, Captain?”

  “Uh-huh.” The faces along the table turned his way; he saw their expressions—puzzlement mixed with polite interest. The captain pushed back his plate and shook out a Camel. He searched his pockets for a light; Guerra pushed him matches. Shaker poised the flame off the tip, looking past it at Dan. “I understand you don’t think we did the right thing, sending those assholes to Paradise.”

  “That’s not exactly how I feel, Captain.”

  “How exactly do you feel, XO?”

  “I felt that cheering, like the men were doing, was inappropriate.”

  “Let’s see, that’s Naval Academy, isn’t it? Mr. Ekdahl, supply the quotation.”

  The ensign flushed; junior man in the wardroom, just out of Annapolis, he was unused to being singled out, except for ragging. “Uh, yes it is, sir … let’s see … ‘Don’t cheer, boys, the poor devils are dying.’ Captain John W. Philip, USS Texas, at the Battle of Santiago, 1898.”

  “That kind of what you mean, Dan?”

  “Kind of, Captain.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, that’s not my attitude. I remember a little of that stuff myself. Georgie Patton, what’d he say … ‘Nobody ever won a war by dying for his country. The object is to make the other poor son of a bitch die for his.’ Or something like that.”

  The JOs chuckled. “Dessert, Captain?” said the steward, picking up his plate.

  “What we got?”

  “Peach cobbler and ice cream.”

  “I’ll have that.” Shaker winked at him. “As long as it’s nocal.”

  Dan refused with a shake of his head.

  “In my view,” the captain went on, “the operation was a success in spite of the stinking orders we were given. Dash in, shoot up a dime-a-dozen oil rig, then run for it with our tails tucked. Get real! We were just lucky they came out after us. We ought to go in there like we own the place. Blockade ’em. Dare ’em to come out and fight. This whole ‘proportionate response’ idea is a no-brainer. We ought to jam it in and break it off. When they get the picture we’re mad dogs, the mining, hostage taking, all that’ll stop.”

  “The Saudis wouldn’t like that,” said Dan.

  “What have they got to do with it?”

  “The Iranians can make real trouble for the little states. It’s hard enough just getting them to let us refuel.”

  Shaker blew smoke at the overhead. “Jesus Christ! That’s exactly my point, XO! Why won’t they support us? Because they can’t depend on us when things get tough. They think we’ll cut and run! But if we took a hard line, the way the Soviets do … You see the Iranians taking any Soviet hostages? Like hell! They’d have bombers over Teheran the next day!”

  Dan felt it wasn’t that simple. First of all, there were Soviet hostages. He had a point to make, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe just that it was smart to think twice before taking on 60 million fanatical Iranians.

  But the whole discussion seemed out of place to him. They’d killed some of the enemy, but lost three good men. The feeling of disgust, of futility, he couldn’t seem to shake it off. Looking at the others, though, he could see this just wasn’t the time.

  “Well?”

  “It’s just not in our orders, sir. So I don’t think it’s a good thing to discuss.”

  Shaker stared at him. The JOs were deathly silent. Then, suddenly, he hoisted himself from his seat. “Okay, Mr. Lenson,” he said. “Maybe we better have a little private confab.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “My cabin. Right now.”

  He followed the CO’s short-legged roll through the passageways. The captain groped in his pockets for a moment, then unlocked the door. “Sit down,” he said, jabbing at the chair. “We got to get some things understood here. Such as, whether you remember our first little talk when I took over.”

  Dan occupied the seat he pointed to, steeling himself for a reaming. He found himself facing the mutilated photograph. Shaker was angry, all right. His face, already picking up a Gulf sunburn, was drawn tight. “Yes sir, I remember that.”

  The captain wheeled suddenly and slammed his fist down on the table. “Then what the hell do you think you’re doing, contradicting me in my wardroom? Telling the men there’s something shameful about shooting down people who are attacking you? What the hell do you think we’re doing here?”

  “We’re carrying out policy.”

  “The U.S. Navy wasn’t built to ‘carry out policy,’ Lenson! It wasn’t built to show the fucking flag and impress people! We’re here to kick the living shit out of whoever gets in Uncle Sam’s face! That’s the kind of spirit I’m trying to build.”

  “I understand that, Captain. I think—”

  “I’m not done. When I took this ship over, it was nothing but a showboat. And I don’t think it was Charlie Bell’s fault. I think you took charge when he got sick and, just coincidentally, the fighting spirit went to hell!”

  “That’s absolutely wrong.”

  “Shut your mouth when I’m talking to you! I’m telling you, Lenson, you piss me off. Your attitude pisses me off. I gave you your marching orders when I came aboard. You seemed to understand them then. What is it with you? Is it a moral problem, shooting down those assholes?”

  “I gave the firing order, Captain. I just think we approach the issue differently. We’re two different people.”

  “We’re not two different people, God damn it! You’re my exec! You’re me, Lenson! Everything I want, you want! Everything I think, you think! And everything I say, you say! Have you got that?”

  He shouted the last words. Dan knew the bridge watch, directly above, could hear them. He thought for a moment Shaker was going to come at him over the table. He’d never seen a commanding officer so angry. And he’d never had one curse him to his face. For a moment, he wondered whether Shaker was sane.

  Then he stopped thinking. His fists crimped together under the table. Rage rose in him, blurring his sight. “What are you asking me to do, Captain? Swear unquestioning obedience to you? Then I’m telling you right now: you don’t rate that. Nobody does. Even whatever made us, even he left us free will.”

  “I’m asking you to do your fucking job, that’s all!”

  “And I’m telling you I am!”

  Shaker hung there, half over the table, and each man stared into the other’s eyes. Then, slowly, the captain swayed back. He crossed the room, coughed violently, then dropped onto the settee and lit a cigarette. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. Without looking at Dan, he said, “Yeah. I am asking a lot. But think about it this way.

  “I lost forty-two men on the Strong. And three more today. In the face of that, I conclude we’re at war. In wartime, morale and leadership are all-important. Weapons are necessary, but it’s fighting spirit and leadership that determine victory or defeat.

  “And I intend to win! So I will not have you undermining me. Or debating me. You’ll carry out my orders with unquestioning enthusiasm. If you disagree, you’ll keep it to yourself! Is that clear enough?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “On this ship, you carry out my policies
, Lenson. Your personal feelings are immaterial. It was that way for me when I was number two. You’ll want that from yours when you get command.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Dan again.

  “Now get out of here,” said Shaker. “Get ready for Manama. We’ll be there at dawn.”

  * * *

  Outside, in the coffin-sized corridor between the captain’s cabin and CIC, he stood alone for several minutes, pressing his fists to his head. They shook; his mouth was dry; rage still hammered in his blood. It wasn’t only Shaker’s anger that had surprised him. His own had, too. And frightened him. He’d almost hit Shaker in that moment they’d shouted at each other, face-to-face.

  Everyone in the Navy got his butt chewed to ribbons from time to time. It was part of the experience. But Shaker hadn’t been putting this on for show. He was serious.

  Dan found himself wondering whether he ought to have a talk with someone on the staff about this. Maybe Byrne. He and Jack went back a long way, back to Ike Sundstrom and the Guam.… No. He’d been privately reprimanded for not supporting the commanding officer in front of the wardroom. For that, Shaker was well within his rights.

  Still, he wondered. He knew the captain had talked to all the junior officers, individually, in private, since he came aboard. Dan had set the appointments up. Had he talked to them like this? And what had been their response?

  He rubbed his mouth, thinking again about Shaker’s face, and then about Hayes … and Schweinberg … Kane, he’d barely known the enlisted flier.

  What was he supposed to think? He was too tired to know what was right and what wasn’t. He needed to be alert, rested, to see what was really going on. Fortunately, now, they’d be in port for a few days. A little liberty, a little time to unwind.

  He needed it. They all did.

  Still rubbing his lips, Dan turned and went below. Behind him, a petty officer turned a switch marked DARKEN SHIP. And in the corridors, the lights changed suddenly from white to deep and bloody red.

  III

  THE STAND-DOWN

  23

  Mombasa, Kenya

  THE C-5 flared out for the last few seconds, hanging above the rushing runway as if it feared the return to earth. Gordon peered past Terger through the window. The greenness was astonishing, unnatural, after the sun-blasted Middle East. As he stretched—he’d napped through most of the flight—he could just make out, beyond the plain, the blue fog of distant mountains.

  “Now this, she looks like Africa,” said Maudit from behind them.

  Getting a hop to Kenya was unexpected luck. They’d pulled in after “Pandora” for a few days’ maintenance, and the end-of-operation message had suggested that EOD personnel be included in the first liberty section. He’d thought Kearn’s face would fall off with jealousy as he’d given him the word: a long weekend, to begin in six hours. It was Audacity’s chief boatswain who’d suggested they try to snag a space-available. “Get out of the fuckin’ Gulf, out,” he’d said. “Go someplace you can have some fun. Karachi, Sri Lanka—anyplace but Diego Garcia. The ugliest nurse there’s dated solid till menopause.”

  At the terminal, they’d walked in, found the military desk, and asked the Spec-4 on duty what was available. Half an hour later they boarded, penciled in on the manifest of personnel and replacement parts heading for Mombasa and Forrestal, due in in four days.

  The transport quivered as the wheels met pavement. Inertia dragged them forward as the turbofans went into reverse. Burgee, behind him, handed up a Special Services brochure he’d snagged from the flight crew. “Good news and bad news,” he said.

  “What’s the good news, Clint?”

  “Beer’s cheap.”

  “The bad news?”

  “Three-quarters of the prostitutes have AIDS.”

  “Says the Navy,” Maudit muttered.

  “No, that’s Kenyan government figures.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Well, you’re big boys,” said Gordon. “I’m not going to tell you not to dip your wicks. But that’d make me think twice.”

  He ran his eyes down the brochure as they waited to disembark. Already there was a different smell in the cabin air, humid and earthy rich. Suddenly he was excited. Being a civilian had nothing to compare to this sudden depressurization, this absolute and unexpected freedom. Anything at all could happen on liberty—and usually did. He remembered three little girls in Bangkok.…

  They took one of the yellow-stripe taxis in from the airport. Dusty herds of thin red cows driven by thin black children parted before them. It was now that a basic disagreement surfaced. Maudit and Burgee wanted to skip downtown Mombasa for a hotel with a beach. The older men wanted to see Kenya. Gordon was also strapped for money. This meant the Castle, the more or less official hotel, where the Shore Patrol was based. According to the brochure, it had a special U.S. Navy discount.

  They agreed to disagree, but he made it plain where and when they’d join up again. After a short one to take the edge off, they split up. Terger was going west, to the national parks. The younger guys were going north, and he and Lem Everett had decided to entertain themselves in town.

  “Just a minute,” said the chemist, just as they were parting. “In case you get lucky.” He opened a tote bag, and passed out four small bottles of his homemade perfume.

  * * *

  The road north was newly paved, a two-laner along the coast. The two divers relaxed in the rear seat, watching the countryside slide by. The air was steamy, hot, and wet. “Smells like a Laundromat,” muttered Burgee, stroking his mustache.

  Maudit didn’t reply. He was counting the money he’d exchanged. You got an awful lot of Kenyan shillings for a dollar. He took a deep breath. Balaise! There was nothing like a spell of active duty to make you realize how good you had it as a civilian.

  A few miles later, the taxi slowed, turned off through a whispering lane of palms, and rolled to a stop at a huge white building that looked as if it had been airlifted direct from Las Vegas. “Nyali Beach,” the driver said, turning to face them. “Twenty shillings, gentlemen.”

  “How much is that?”

  “Three dollars, I think.”

  “Jesus, Tony. I’m not sure I can afford these sky-high prices.” They split it and added a tip, then piled out. Two porters were already hauling their bags out of the trunk.

  The lobby was white marble and they stared around, a little intimidated. “Let’s check things out before we get a room,” said Burgee. “Make sure this is, uh, the right kind of place.”

  “Meaning the bar?”

  “That and the beach.”

  They caught a glimpse of it across a patio; sand white as powdered sugar, blue water, the lazy parabola of a volleyball. They couldn’t see the players. They went into the bar, blinked at the sudden dimness, and then stopped, together, ten feet inside. Their eyes traveled slowly around the interior. There’d been talking as they entered, but now the place was silent.

  “Ha putain,” muttered Maudit.

  It was filled with women in bathing suits, and every one had her eyes fixed on the two sunburned, well-built divers. Burgee swallowed and fingered his mustache, fighting a sudden urge to turn and run. Instead, he swaggered to the bar.

  They ordered Tuskers, and before they had them half-finished, there were five women lined up beside them. “Where are you girls from?” Burgee asked a pale-skinned, stunningly built honey blonde in a white two-piece and espadrilles.

  “Most of us are from Germany and Norway. We came on a package tour. I’m Elena.”

  “Clint. This here’s Etienne, we call him Tony. Uh … aren’t there any men here?”

  “There were supposed to be. This is supposed to be an adventure tour.”

  “No, a sex tour,” said another woman, beside Maudit. He turned, intending to face her, but found his eyes channeled like pinballs down the front of her beach wrap. “I’m Brigid,” she said, sliding her arm through his. “Und vhere are you boys from?”

  “The U.
S.”

  “Navy? We thought the carrier wasn’t due till next week.”

  “You got good intelligence,” said Burgee. “But we just flew in from the Gulf. Been clearing mines up there.”

  “Is it true all American sailors are tested?” said Brigid, fingering his sleeve as if she were branding him in some way, leaving a scent marker that would warn off other women.

  “Tested,” he said. “Tested?”

  “For AIDS.”

  “Oh. Oh, yes, that is perfectly correct,” said Maudit. “Tested and passed before we came on active duty. All the two of us.”

  There were women all around them now. “Let us buy you a drink,” said a voice behind them. “There’s a special beach not far from here. Would you like to go with us?”

  “Well, we got to get our shorts—”

  “You won’t need clothes.”

  “We should see if we can get a room,” said Maudit.

  “Don’t worry about that,” said three voices, together, in varying accents of alarm, laughter, intoxication, and lust.

  “Ha putain,” muttered Maudit again, then jumped suddenly off the stool as a hand insinuated itself down the back of his jeans. He and Burgee looked at each other. “Could be tough,” he said.

  “Could be deep water.”

  “Could be dangerous.”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  “Beach Time!” Burgee screamed, and they stampeded out of the bar, waving their Tuskers and scattering foam.

  * * *

  Lem Everett spent the next day buying things. There were plenty of things to buy. Shops lined the quay; there were shops outside the hotel.

  The Old Kilindini Road was one huge shop. Its warren of alleyways harbored goldsmiths, batik dyers, brass foundries, and, for whenever you got weary, little dusty-floored bars selling strong, delicious Kenyan coffee, soft drinks, and the ubiquitous Tusker. He bought a Swahili flyswatter, a brass coffeepot, a malachite egg, three elephants carved in ebony, an Arab-style dagger in a hammered scabbard, a Swahili sari, and a Zanzibar chest bound with sand-cast brass. He smiled his thin banker’s smile as he stalked from one stall to the next, haggling down old men with the eyelids of tortoises to prices that made them cry aloud to Allah to save them from this infidel whose ruthlessness would bring them bankruptcy and abandonment in their old age.