Attack of the Seventh Carrier

by Peter Albano

  Another watertight door and they passed the radio room and galley. The galley was no larger than a closet and a single cook labored there making sandwiches and coffee. The compactness of the small cylinder came home again to Brent Ross. In the crews’ quarters, the chain-suspended bunks were pulled against the sides and secured away from the center line of the ship. Entering the forward engine room through the usual watertight door, Brent found a narrow passageway between two giant Fairbanks-Morse engines. The floor plates were of corrugated steel. Four machinist mates were hard at work on one of the sixteen-cylinder engines, tools scattered on the plates. Quickly, they came to attention and stepped aside. Allen acknowledged them and they returned to work after the party squeezed past.

  “A SSBN is an auditorium compared to this,” Brent muttered. The officers chuckled.

  Brooks Dunlap gestured aft. “Each of these engines is connected to a generator, and both port and starboard are identical engine generator sets.” He pointed forward. “Over there under the grating is one of our auxiliary diesels geared to another generator which is almost under our feet.” He stomped the grating with his foot. “You can’t see them, but under the port engine we have two vapor compressor distillers for making fresh water.” He smiled at Brent. “But this is no SSBN. If we’re lucky, one bath per week per man — unless, of course, you’re lucky enough to be on the bridge in a rain squall.”

  “What’s back there?” Bernstein asked, pointing to the stern.

  “The aft engine room and the stern tubes,” Dunlap said. He began to walk aft.

  “Belay that,” Mark Allen said. He glanced at his watch. “Colonel Bernstein, Lieutenant Brent Ross, and Mr. Williams, it’s time to check into your hotel.” He stared at Williams. “I would like to confer with you, Mr. Williams, before you go ashore.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the big black said.

  With the admiral leading, the officers turned and walked toward the wardroom.

  *

  While Brent and Colonel Bernstein waited for Reginald Williams on the dock, Brent spotted a pair of pay phones near the main gate. Quickly, he made his way to the phones while Bernstein wisely remained at a discreet distance. Brent dialed Dale’s number and she answered immediately. “Oh, Brent, it’s so good to hear your voice.”

  “Yours, too.” He explained his assignment and the location of the sub, forgetting that Dale already knew the particulars, had arranged the details of the transfer.

  “I know. I know,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for your call. When will I see you?”

  “We’re all restricted.”

  “Oh, Lord.”

  “I’m staying at the Oakmont Suites.”

  “That fleabag?”

  “Your CIA arranged it.”

  “I had nothing to do with that. I know the hotel’s near Pier Sixty-eight.”

  “I haven’t seen it yet.”

  “Practically on the corner of Twenty-third and West, Brent. That’s off the base. That doesn’t sound restricted. Why can’t I see you there?”

  With the thought of seeing Dale alone, Brent felt the fire begin to mount deep in his groin. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Sorry, Dale. I don’t have that right — the others are restricted to the ship or the base. It would be dishonorable.”

  “But I’m CIA!”

  “I know, Dale.”

  “When will I see you?” There was anguish in her tone.

  Misery twisted his voice. “I don’t know.” He thought for a moment. “Duty tomorrow and I have a meeting at the UN Thursday.”

  “Thursday? Damn, I’ll be in DC. Why the UN?”

  “A representative of the PLO wants to meet with Fujita’s representatives.”

  “They’re a bunch of murdering bums. What about other Arab groups?”

  “Unknown, Dale.” He tapped the coin box in frustration. “Friday night — I’ll try to get liberty Friday night.”

  “Oh, yes, yes. You can come to my place. I’ll cook for you. Just the two of us.”

  Again he felt the heat rise, twisted uncomfortably. “The meat locker?”

  She laughed. “Yes, that’s right. You have the address. It’s not far from Pier Sixty-eight.” The timbre of her voice dropped to a deep, ominous tone. “There’s a rumor your friend Kenneth Rosencrance is in town.”

  Brent felt his heart leap and the veins in his neck began to pound. “Rosencrance?” Dale McIntyre seemed to know everything.

  “Yes, recruiting more killers, and he’s representing Kadafi in some diplomatic mission to meet with some Iraqi and Iranian diplomats.”

  “Keep me informed — I have something to settle with him.”

  “I know. And, Brent, have you heard the latest about the Ayatollah Khomeini?” Silence. “Scuttlebutt has it he’s calling off the war against Iraq. Iran and Iraq will throw in with Kadafi in the jihad against Israel and Yonaga.”

  “Jesus Christ, a hundred million fanatical Muslims.”

  “That’s why I think Rosencrance is here — to meet with the Iraqis and Iranians at the UN.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Yes it does — if you’re an Arab. Neither group will enter the other’s capital. At the UN — or Geneva, for that matter — neither nation loses face. And all the machinery’s here — at the UN.”

  “But I mean Rosencrance is a fighter pilot — a killer. That’s all he is. He’s no diplomat.”

  “You underestimate him, Brent. He’s adopted the Muslim faith and has become Kadafi’s favorite. He’s in charge of all fighters, and rumor has it Moammar trusts him more than his own generals.”

  He punched the coin box so hard the bell rang.

  “Brent! You still there?”

  “Yes. Yes. I just want to see you, Dale.”

  “Friday night, Brent.”

  “All right. If I can’t make it, I’ll phone you.”

  “Make it, damn it.”

  “All right, Dale. I’ll make it.” He could see Williams and Bernstein approaching. “Got to leave.”

  “I miss you, Brent. I think of you all the time.”

  “You’re never out of my thoughts, Dale.”

  “Friday.”

  “Friday, if I have to jump ship — wars, the UN be damned.”

  Reluctantly, they both hung up.

  *

  The Oakmont Suites appeared to have been built at the turn of the century and then forgotten — never visited by a painter, carpenter, carpet man, or — as Brent discovered later — a plumber. Seventeen stories high, it was built of unreinforced brick which had settled so that the exterior lines of decaying grout appeared slightly wavy like strata in earthquake country.

  “Jesus,” Brent said, entering the dilapidated lobby. “We’ve entered a time warp. I wonder if George Washington slept here?”

  Williams snorted. “Valley Forge was probably luxurious compared to this.”

  They passed a half-dozen collapsing leather sofas, two of which held bums who were sound asleep. One sleeper had a shopping cart filled with trash tied to his wrist with a rope. Bernstein was appalled. “You don’t see this in Israel,” he said.

  “Richest country in the world, we keep telling ourselves, and you find thousands of them — all over New York,” Williams said, edging up to the counter. He pointed at one sleeping tramp who was black. “Completely integrated,” he added sarcastically.

  The three men looked for the night clerk. Brent finally found him almost concealed behind an antique switchboard reading a battered Hustler magazine and sipping a glass of wine. A cheap bottle of Burgundy was on the desk in front of him. Williams slapped the counter and the man looked up. Smiling defensively, he rose and walked to the counter. He was very old, bald and thin in the way peculiar to men who derive most of their sustenance from the sugar in wine — white flesh lined like crumpled paper, rheumy bloodshot eyes, stooped posture. “Ah, gentlemen,” he said in a hoarse, wine-addled voice with a surprisingly cultured timbre. “You wish to be our guests
?”

  “Right. Three rooms,” Williams said. “They’ve been reserved under ‘Mark Allen.’”

  The clerk fingered a register, the skin of his arms clinging to his bones like dead flesh ready to slough off. “Ah, yes. Two rooms were reserved by the Profile Boat Works.”

  “Three rooms,” Williams insisted.

  The man looked up. There was fear on his face. “Sorry, sir,” he wheedled. “A suite with two doubles and a single next to it and we have no vacancies.” His voice began to tremble. “I’m sorry. I’m very, very sorry.”

  Williams looked at Brent. “You and I bunk together and Colonel Bernstein can take the single. He has the rank. Okay?”

  Bernstein and Brent nodded, picked up the small bags both carried, and followed Williams to the elevator which looked exactly like a giant bird cage built for a six-foot canary.

  “No vacancies,” Bernstein snorted.

  “No doubt the place is overrun by the jet set,” Brent added.

  “Just another Hilton,” Williams said, pulling the steel mesh door of the elevator aside. They entered the car silently.

  *

  The room was large, with two floor-to-ceiling windows, two battered beds, and a mahogany nightstand supporting a lamp with a huge ornate shade like millinery Lillian Russell would have worn on a spring morning. The light switches were round and required a circular twist to operate. Thrown into the middle of the room on the wide planks of the hardwood floor was a threadbare rug. The bathroom was large, containing a sink with two leaky faucets and a huge Victorian tub resting on four cast-iron feet. A masterpiece of nineteenth-century engineering, the toilet’s tank was at the ceiling with a long chain hanging down from the flushing handle. When the chain was pulled, the flood of water shook the entire room. Brent soon discovered the bathroom door was warped and would not close. In fact, everything seemed bent, warped, twisted, and out of plumb. Right angles were scarce.

  “There’s no place like home,” Williams said, throwing his small bag on one of the beds.

  “Seen better,” Brent said.

  “Are you hungry?” Williams asked.

  “Negative. Ate on the plane — or maybe I should say I was poisoned.”

  Williams nodded. “I ate on the ship just before you came on board.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a half-dozen sandwiches. “Pablo fixed these for us — better than trying to eat anything in this neighborhood. Anyway, in a sense, the admiral has restricted us.”

  His conversation with Dale came back to Brent with a sharp impact. “I know.”

  Williams smiled slyly. “I brought something to break the monotony.” He pulled a bottle of Haig & Haig from his bag. Brent raised an eyebrow. Williams explained. “The admiral ordered Pablo to throw all of the booze in the wardroom overboard — right?”

  Brent smiled. “That was my interpretation.”

  “Well, this was in my locker.”

  Laughing, the two officers moved to the window where there was a table with a pitcher and two glasses. Pouring two stiff drinks, the executive officer said, “We should invite Colonel Bernstein.”

  Brent was seeing a friendly side to the man he had never suspected existed. He shook his head. “He said he was exhausted — was going to hit the sack.”

  Williams raised his glass. “Blackfin. And call me Reggie.”

  “Okay, Reggie.” Brent raised his glass and drank with the executive officer. Brent spoke thoughtfully. “I know nothing about Fleet Boats — Blackfin.”

  “You’re an expert in communications.”

  Brent nodded. “That’s what they tell me.”

  The big black took a drink. “You’ve been in on Glasnost — the latest dope on negotiations, Brent, correct?”

  Brent shrugged. “Only what came over on Yonaga. Why?”

  Williams drained his glass. Refilled both glasses. “What do you know about the Russian RBU six-thousand depth charge launcher?”

  Brent drank. Nodded. “Yes. I know about it. A six-barrel mortar that can fire six three-hundred-millimeter charges six thousand meters ahead of the attacking vessel.”

  “Right. A real bitch — automatic reloading, and each charge weighs four hundred pounds. Will we be up against it?”

  “It’s out, Reggie. All mortar systems are out along with the homing Five-Three-Three torpedo.”

  Williams sighed, drank, and toyed with his glass. “Blackfin would have no chance against the Five-Three-Three — passive and active homing, the wire…” He tapped his glass on the table and then emptied it.

  Brent began to wonder about the man’s capacity, but matched the exec’s pace and emptied his own glass. Immediately, Williams refilled the glasses. “Sonar and old-fashioned six-hundred-pound charges with hydrostatic fuses — that came out of Geneva — and that’s all, Reggie.”

  “That’s enough. One charge within fourteen feet and we’re kaput.” He turned his palms up in a gesture of helplessness. Brent felt tiny frozen insects run up and down his spine and took a big gulp of Scotch. Reginald continued, “Do you think the Russians will honor the agreement, Brent?”

  “They’ve shown a definite weakness in the honor department,” Brent said. “But, yes, they’re very reluctant to give anyone their latest technology. It goes back to the Six Day War when the Egyptians surrendered hundreds of tanks and whole batteries of the Russian’s latest SAM missiles and fire control systems intact to the Israelis. Most of the electronics gear was shipped to the Pentagon. The Russians never got over that.”

  Again the glasses were refilled, and Brent felt the room move. He shook his head and drank some more. He felt warm and relaxed for the first time in a week. And Reggie was suddenly a fine old friend, his early animosity wiped clean by the Haig & Haig. He drank again, although he knew he had had too much. The room began to turn. Suddenly, Brent pushed himself to his feet, emptied his glass, and said, “I’d better hit the sack.” He moved unsteadily to one of the beds and collapsed on his back.

  Williams continued to drink and talk, but his enunciation began to suffer. “You’re gonna havta run a couple quick openers against me.”

  “Any time, Reggie.”

  The executive officer studied his Scotch. Took a drink. “We’ll get up a game o’ flag.”

  “That’s not contact.”

  “It’ll be for you an’ me.”

  “You’re on, Reggie. We’ll get some of the crew. A bottle of Haig and Haig says you never hold me to no gain.”

  Williams grunted his approval, threw his head back, gulped his drink and rolled his glass, clattering across the table, breaking on the floor. Weaving slightly, he made his way to his bed, collapsed on his back with a sigh. “How do ya feel about roomin’ with a nigger?”

  Brent laughed at the cruel question. “What took you so long, man?”

  “You think I’m a stereotype?”

  “With a question like that you are.”

  “Then what am I to you?”

  “My executive officer who is a little arrogant and I don’t particularly like him.”

  Williams snickered. “Cool man. And I think you’re conceited and overrated.”

  Mellowed by the scotch and on the verge of sleep from fatigue and jet lag, Brent thought the remark funny. He laughed so hard he shook the bed.

  “You think I’m funny.”

  “A riot. But I’m liable to take you up on that when I sober up.”

  “Would you like to hear about a real riot — South-Central Los Angeles where I was born?”

  “I’ve heard it before. But if it’ll help unwind your psyche, tell me.”

  Reginald ignored the retort, began to tell his story while Brent smiled and drifted off into a quasi dreamworld where his companion’s voice droned on, interrupting like an early bird’s song intruding on a dreamer.

  “I was born in south-central Los Angeles — Watts. A rotten hole.”

  Brent stirred from the dream. “Yeah, I’ve been there.”

  “Been there — you’re a brav
e man.”

  “I wanted to see the Watts Towers — Simon Rodia’s art — so I went. No one bothered me.”

  “You’re big.”

  “Size helps.”

  Williams moved on, talking to the cracks in the ceiling. “My mother was LaTanya Williams — single… I didn’t know my father.”

  Brent felt a compulsion to speak, but his muscles were jelly and even the lumpy mattress seemed comfortable and enfolding like Dale’s soft hand. The thoughts were there, but his mouth would not form the words. He listened quietly as Williams spoke.

  In a hard, uneven voice, Reginald told of the housing project, his two older brothers, Clarence and Rodney. The tiny apartment, welfare, the blaring television set, the lack of food, patched clothing. Clarence and Rodney growing to early manhood and leaving school to run with street gangs. Large amounts of money mysteriously appearing in the hands of his brothers. His mother’s fears. Then, when Reggie was twelve, Clarence nearly cut in half by a Mac-10. “A drug deal, they said. A drug deal went sour.”

  Drugs. That was all he heard about. Even the kids in elementary and junior high school talked of snow, crack, and pot, and many were using. Rodney dealing in the streets — arrested when he was sixteen for selling a “controlled substance” and sent away. LaTanya, heartbroken and horrified. Doting on Reginald who had reached six feet by the time he was thirteen years old. A brilliant student. A gifted athlete.

  The release of Rodney at the age of seventeen and his conviction of murder by the time he was eighteen. “A payback for Clarence,” he told a devastated LaTanya.

  Reggie became his mother’s life. Avoiding gangs, gang members, drugs, cigarettes, and liquor. Playing first string linebacker as a sophomore. Straight-A grades. Earning All City honors as a junior, Player of the Year as a senior. Then the recruiters, the choice of USC because of its reputation and the nearness to his mother.

  The sea. Reggie loved the sea. And he never saw it until he was thirteen. And the Pacific was only twelve miles away. Where did he find this love for the sea? Watching old Errol Flynn movies on television? Did he fall in love with Olivia De Haviland? Maybe. The sea — wide, free, uncluttered, and in beautiful Technicolor. A spacious place where a boy from the slums could fill his lungs with clean air and live like a human being.