by Peter Albano
Brent spoke calmly. “I’ll kill you if I have to do it in Libya.”
Glaring, Rosencrance spat, “I’ll get you a visa, ol’ buddy.”
“Tally ho, gentlemen. Tally ho,” Hathaway said. “Boff the bloody buggers. That’s the only way.” He was laughing as the last man left.
Brent heard Reginald Williams mutter as he helped the executive officer through the lobby surrounded by security men, “I was half wrong.”
“Half wrong?”
“Yeah. You’re not overrated.”
*
Admiral Mark Allen was grim when he received the reports from the four-man delegation. “They weren’t interested in settling a thing, Admiral,” Williams said from his chair in the wardroom.
“Rosencrance deliberately wrecked the meeting, sir,” Brent added.
“They’re up to something — they’re holding meetings, cementing their bloody jihad, Admiral,” Bernstein said.
Brent said to Mark Alien, “There was something strange about the whole thing, as if it were choreographed to break up.” He scratched his temple pensively with a single finger. “There was no Iraqi representative there.”
“What about Jordanian and Egyptian?”
“No, Admiral, but they’re already committed to the jihad.”
“True, Brent.”
Brent stared at the far bulkhead. “It was almost as if Rosencrance was trying to impress the Iranian representative.”
“That’s right, Brent,” Reginald said. “He was trying to show him what savages we are — goaded us.”
“Baited us,” Bernstein added.
Brent continued, “And he sure as hell hooked the guy.” He turned to Mark Allen. “Kadafi’s got Iran in his hip pocket.”
“I agree,” Bernstein said. The Israeli drummed the table. “I’ve got to report to the Israeli consulate. They want a full report, Admiral.”
“And then a new assignment, Colonel?” Mark Allen asked.
“I’ll probably return to Yonaga and relieve Marshall Katz. At least, Admiral Fujita has made the request.”
“What Fujita wants, Fujita gets,” Mark Allen said. A modest chuckle broke through the depressed atmosphere of the room. The admiral continued, “We’ve got to press our preparations. Now it is even more obvious that we are up against the most formidable alliance on this planet.” He focused the gray-green eyes on his executive officer. “Mr. Williams, did anyone even mention this sub?”
“No, sir. But I was unconscious part of the time.” Everyone laughed.
“Not a word, sir,” Brent said.
“Good. Good,” Mark Allen said.
Brent brought up a troubling thought. “Admiral, we’ll have to use the Panama Canal?”
Mark Allen nodded. “We don’t have the time to double Cape Horn.”
Brent shook his head. “They’ll be watching, sir. They’ll know when we sortie from here, transit the canal, and enter the Pacific.”
“I know. We’ll hope they buy the museum-boat story and if not,” he slapped the table, “I don’t give a damn. We’ll sink them anyway.”
The men slapped each other on the back. Stifling an urge to shout, “Banzai,” Brent smiled inwardly. The old admiral had learned something about dramatics from Admiral Fujita.
Mark Allen continued, “Tomorrow we’ll run through our first drills — special sea detail, fire and collision, diving stations, attack submerged and battle surface, if time.” He sagged back. “And in case you’ve forgotten, there will be liberty for the starboard section tomorrow night — officers only. The port section on Sunday and the men next week.” There were murmurs of approval. “Gentlemen, you are dismissed.”
The officers filed through the door.
*
“One-sixty Caddington,” Brent told the cabbie, as he settled back into the cushions.
“That’s Tribeca, Lieutenant,” the cabbie said, jamming the cab into drive and firing away from the curb like a fighter from a catapult.
“I thought it was Greenwich Village,” Brent said.
The cabbie shook his head. “Not any more — they call it Tribeca for ‘triangle below Canal Street.’ It’s just south of Little Italy.”
Brent shrugged and gritted his teeth as the driver shot south on the Westside Highway. It seemed like only seconds before he screeched off the expressway at the Canal Street exit and then south and into a neighborhood of very old brick buildings. “Christ, these are antiques,” Brent said.
The cabbie laughed as he whipped around a bus without reducing speed and turned the corner of Varick Street — an avenue lined with hulking, dark old buildings like rows of glowering old men. “Some of these buildings are almost two hundred years old.” The driver waved. “Used to be the center of the town’s meat and produce markets.” He gestured at an eight story with windows only on the top floor. “That one’s still in use. The offices are on the top floor. You can tell, when they cut ’em up into lofts, they cut windows into all the floors.”
“But these others have been converted into apartments.” Brent waved at some buildings with rows of windows.
“Yes, sir,” the cabbie said. “Lofts — big places. They go for a million or more.” He roared into a turn at too high a speed, slid sideways with a screech of agonized tires, turned into his slide, and straightened out with a violent fishtail.
Brent forced down a harsh acid taste that left his stomach and tried to force its way through his teeth. “Jesus, man. I’m not in any hurry. I want to use every one of my three score and ten.”
“Sorry, Lieutenant. But I’m really not driving fast. There are too many cops around.”
“They couldn’t catch you — they couldn’t even see you. Like trying to net an artillery shell.”
The cabbie laughed and slowed the cab. Brent looked at the old buildings, most of which still had their loading docks and heavy refrigerator doors and commented, “A million or more, you said.”
The cabbie laughed. “This is no low rent area, Lieutenant.” He jerked the cab violently to the curb in front of a dark, glowering six-story brick building, jammed his brake pedal to the floor, and left at least twenty feet of screeching rubber on the pavement. “One-sixty Caddington, sir,” he said calmly.
Brent bolted from the cab thanking God, Amaterasu, and any other deity and kami that came to mind.
*
Dale heard the screech of tires like the scream of a mugged woman. Looking down from the sixth floor, she could see the big, young American leap eagerly from the cab. He can’t wait to see me, she said to herself.
Walking quickly to a large mirror in the living room, she turned up a floor lamp next to it. Staring intently, she fluffed her long golden hair up with quick motions, ran her eyes over her tight blue satin pants and white blouse. She moved closer to the mirror. Even in the unforgiving light, there were no lines in her neck, sags in her face or breasts. But, still, evidence of the years was there for her to see — for anyone to see. Tiny clusters of lines tracking downward from the corners of her eyes. She palmed her cheeks, pushed upward but the lines did not vanish, only changed direction, curling to the sides. Like all beautiful women, age held particular horror for Dale McIntyre. She turned down the lamp to its dimmest setting and the lines were not as pronounced. She nodded grudging approval.
Stepping back, she ran her hands down over her breasts, to her waist and over her hips. Solid. Just like when she was eighteen. She was much more pleased with her body than her face. Her hips, buttocks, even her thighs, showed through the satin and flowed provocatively when she moved. And her breasts, peaked and firm, crowded the blouse. She liked the way the points of her nipples showed through. To get the effect, she had chosen a flimsy lace brassiere. Tracing the hands back up, she rubbed her flat abdomen and felt the smooth satin under her hands. “Oversexed bitch,” she said. “An old woman lusting after a young man.” She glanced at the door to the bedroom. A king-size bed was visible. She shook her head. “I’ll keep him out of there. There’s
got to be more to it than that.”
When the young man had phoned that morning, he had seemed eager, happy, and anxious to see her — a far cry from the suicidal wreck she remembered after the terrible gun battle in the Imperial Hotel. She knew then Brent needed a change and apparently the duty in New York — the Blackfin, new acquaintances, different responsibilities, and, above all, freedom from the destructive clash of cultures, were precisely the needed prescription. And there had been too much death on Yonaga; too many of his friends had died. She had seen the bond that had grown between Brent and his shipmates — the terrible, haunted look when he spoke of Watertender Kurosu. And it was in his eyes when he looked at Admiral Fujita or spoke to his best friend, the pilot Yoshi Matsuhara, and a dozen others. What was this brotherhood that welded men in war? Certainly, women had their cliques, close friends, bridge clubs. But they didn’t die for each other. She was convinced a piece of Brent Ross had died with the watertender — perhaps, part of him went with each dead friend. She felt chilled. Grabbed her elbows and rubbed at the chill.
She heard a heavy door slam, and then the elevator motor hummed. Her impulse was to rush to the door; she had been on edge and anxious since his phone call that morning. But she held back. Mustn’t seem too anxious, she told herself.
The bell rang. Rang and rang again. She made him wait despite the impulse to run to the door. Finally, she opened it and he was there — big, broad, magnificent, smiling, and confident in his blue uniform. And he was very youthful. She could only stand there mutely for a long moment, staring at him, feeling an ineffable joy flow through her entire being. Then she led him in, closed the door, and kissed him on the lips, long, hard, and wet with hunger. He held her for a long moment, running his hands over her back, tracing the ridge of her spine like a string of polished beads, following it down to her tight buttocks. Pulling her hips hard against him, he kissed her neck, her ear. “I’ve missed you, Brent,” she whispered with a tremulous voice.
“Oh, Lord, I’ve missed you, Dale.”
With an effort, she broke the embrace and led him into the living room which was actually a large corner of the loft walled off from the rest of the apartment by floor-to-ceiling oak panels. She pulled him down on a plump, rich sofa done in purple velvet. There was a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label on a small marble-top table in front of them. “The usual?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She poured Brent straight Scotch and herself a Scotch and soda. He sipped his drink and waved his glass at the huge beams overhead, the floor-to-ceiling windows that were at least twelve feet high, the thick, scarred oak planking of the floor, the luxurious furnishings. “I’ve never seen a place like this,” he said. “It’s built like a fortress.” He pointed at the ceiling, “Those must be twenty-by-twenty beams.”
She drank. “The building’s over a hundred years old — used to be a meat refrigerator.” She waved. “The offices were in here.”
“It’s huge.”
“Three thousand square feet, Brent.”
While she spoke, he ran his fingers through the silk of her hair, held glistening strands between his thumb and forefinger, examining it like precious gems. It was so fine and silky it formed a silk sheet, lustrous as watered satin and flowing down to her shoulders. When she moved her head, it flickered with flashing diamonds and highlights. “Golden,” he said, awed. “Jason should’ve met you — he wouldn’t have had to fight a dragon for the golden fleece.”
She tabled her drink. Pulled him down and kissed him, long, hard, and deep. The big arms were around her, pulling her so close she could feel the muscles in his arms and chest tense and bunch. A familiar deep heat and the wild pounding of her heart warned her. She pushed him away. “You are your old self,” she said slyly.
He laughed. She pulled him to his feet. “Come along, Brent. I have a meal that would have pleased Jason and the rest of the gods.”
He tried to pull her back down, but she slipped away. He pointed at the sofa. “I liked the hors d’oeuvres right here.”
She laughed. “Come along. You’re a growing boy and you need your nourishment.”
He ignored her, pulled her close, ran his hands over her breasts, waist, hips, and she felt her resolve melting like ice left in the summer sun. She broke away and actually pulled him into the dining room.
The meal was superb. New York steak broiled just right, stuffed baked potato, asparagus with hollandaise sauce, a dessert of chocolate mousse. Brent ate like a famished man. Dale was pleased. A man with that appetite had to be well.
After dinner they sat close together on the sofa, sipping Benedictine and brandy. He told her of Blackfin, the riot at the UN, Rosencrance, the Arabs, the Englishman. “It’s no use,” he said. “They’re arrogant — can only be persuaded by force.”
“So. What’s new?” she asked bitterly.
“What do you mean?”
“Hasn’t it always been that way?”
He rubbed his chin. “It’s an old argument,” he acknowledged. He drank. “Mine is the oldest profession.”
“That might surprise a few thousand women up on Broadway.” Toying with her pony, she said thoughtfully, “The rumble at CIA headquarters is that the Arabs know what you’re up to with Blackfin. Be careful.”
“We haven’t fooled anyone?”
She shook her head, emptied her pony. “I don’t think so.”
He drank the last of his liqueur and slid his hand up her leg and rubbed her thigh. She made no attempt to stop him. “Why do we spend our time talking about politics?” he asked.
“Maybe it’s because those people halfway around this earth dictate how we shall live — or die.” She shuddered.
“You feel that way, too?” he said.
“Helpless? Yes. Sometimes.”
“Oh, the hell with it,” he said with finality. He pulled her close and kissed her open mouth, tongue darting and finding hers, twisting together, kneading, pressing wildly. The heat shot skyward and she could feel her heartbeat in her whole being; against her chest, her neck, and deep down where the heat was building to a maddening frenzy. The hand resumed its journey up her leg. He kissed her nose, cheek, eyes, and whispered in her ear as he ran his hand over her abdomen and down where she felt the maddening rush of blood.
“Why did you wear these damned pants?” He groped for a button and then the zipper.
“Please, Brent.”
He pushed her back and suddenly he was on top of her, his weight pushing her down into the cushions. His mouth was clamped over hers, and she twisted and moaned. Without conscious thought, her legs parted and he was between them, trembling hands caressing her breasts, her waist, her hips. She felt a pulling and the blouse was ripped from her body, then the brassiere, and he was kissing her breasts, running his tongue over the areolas and nipples pulling hard on her buttocks and stabbing his arousal against her.
She twisted. Moaned. Kissed the side of his head, his hair, his cheek, clutched at his back, ran her hands through his hair, trembling, an aching, hot void deep within screaming to be filled. “No. No, Brent.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“I mean, not here.” She pushed him aside, tugged on his hand until he rose. She led him to the bedroom.
The next morning, Brent was exhausted. He had never known such frantic lovemaking. When they first entered the bedroom, she had stripped long before Brent had been able to disrobe. Despite the terrible urgency, he paused to look at her as she sank back onto the bed. He stared wide-eyed, her body a work of art — the beauty of Degas and the delicacy of Mozart. “Hurry, Brent. Please. Hurry.” He tore off his remaining garments and slid over her, feeling himself trapped in the crucifix of her legs and arms, the hot depths.
She had no intention of releasing him. Even long after midnight when they were both spent and he slid to the side of the bed and reached for his clothes which were scattered over most of the room like discarded rags, she pulled him back. “No, darling. I want you all
night and in the morning for breakfast.”
“It’s hard to get a cab. I’ll be late.”
“I’ll drive you.”
Her hand groped low, seeking him out and massaging gently, erasing all objections. Moaning, he pushed her back and lowered his body on hers. She threw her head back, laughed, chortled like a delighted child on Christmas morning and trapped him with her legs again.
Now it was time to leave and Brent stood before a full-length mirror, shrugging into his coat. Dale was already dressed and he could smell fresh coffee. Her voice came from the kitchen, “Breakfast, dear.”
“You can drive me?” he asked, walking to the kitchen.
“No problem.” She walked into the circle of his arms as if they had been made for her. He kissed her. “I’ll see you again?” she asked.
“Try to keep me away.”
She laughed, the delightful, trilling sound of a brook over pebbles.
Chapter IX
The next week found order established in the madhouse. Admiral Allen did not see his first sea trials in four days, but all of the new equipment was installed, including a modest threat library for the ESM which was casually slipped down the torpedo hatch while Navy inspectors conveniently looked the other way. Port and starboard liberty was held for all hands. Carefully instructed and released to liberty in groups of four, two Americans with two Japanese “buddies,” the crew was discreet and disciplined. There was no drunkenness; no incidents.
Brent spent his liberties with Dale. They never left her apartment. It became their personal sanctum, a place where the world was sealed out, a place where they lived supremely for each other. Brent found every moment of their lovemaking unique. Dale approached their unions with artistry, like the movements of a Schubert symphony — each lyrical motif of their lovemaking building on itself, ranging, varying, yet moving always to another theme which in turn built on itself until the blending of the lush melodies climaxed in crashing completion and Brent finally rolled to his side in exhausted euphoria.