One man had started whistling the “Mango” melody and soon the whole construction and support battalion was singing the ironic lyrics at the top of their lungs.
The mango, the mango, even though it is green, it is ripe and ready to fall…
Mercifully, the swelling voices drowned out the band.
Admiral Carlos de Herreras, CNO of the Cuban navy, and his two brothers had boarded the sub soon after Zukov guided it expertly up the narrow shoaled river and into its slip. After the sub was properly moored and her propulsion systems shut down, Zukov had welcomed them aboard. He had offered them some chilled vodka in the wardroom, then given them the official guided tour, stem to stern.
Although their questions were outrageously naive, it was obvious the Cuban officers were more than delighted with their new toy. They were giddy with excitement, and hurried from one end of the boat to the other, laughing with glee.
The Cubans were especially excited, he noticed, when they entered the starboard hull compartment where, in their silos, twenty gleaming warheads sat atop twenty ballistic missiles. Over on the port hull, a matching set of twenty more. With forty warheads, you could blow up the world. No one had yet told Zukov what his first mission would be, and he had only a rough idea of the primary targets. But the very thought of going to war in such a magnificent machine sent an electric charge racing through him. A feeling he hadn’t experienced since the glory days of the Cold War.
The commander’s Russian crew of one hundred thirty men, all former submariners under his Cold War command, were also in a jolly mood. All of them were now, like Zukov himself, mercenaries. And all of them, after a frozen winter in Vladivostok, were equally ecstatic at the very idea of a shore leave on the beautiful tropical island of Cuba.
For Zukov, this return elicited deeper emotions.
Zukov had been deeply humiliated when the Soviet empire collapsed. As a naval officer in command on an Akula, he’d spent his entire life playing undersea cat-and-mouse with the Americans. Endless days and nights rehearsing for a war that would never get fought. He’d spent months under the polar ice cap, stalking the SSN George Washington, praying for any excuse to engage. Once he had tracked the carrier John F. Kennedy for weeks, staying dead astern of his prey, so that the signature sound of his screws went completely undetected by enemy sonar. All this, at a time when the ultimate weapon, his new command, Borzoi, was still on the drawing boards.
Like many of his warrior comrades, he was bored to stupor with the decade or so of “peace” following the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991.
On a purely personal level, Commander Zukov was happy just to return to his homeland. Memories of his beautiful birthplace haunted him still. On a professional level, he was ecstatic at the prospect of killing a whole lot of Americans.
He sensed in the wild-eyed Cuban admiral, Carlos de Herreras, a kindred spirit. He’d seen the man in the missile compartment out of the corner of his eye. He had been rubbing his hands together gleefully, almost maniacally.
Bloodlust. He knew it well, for it coursed through every vein in his body.
32
“Hey, Doc, you awake?”
“Alex? Yes, I guess so. What time is it?”
“I don’t know. A little before midnight, I think. Sorry. I just need to—no, don’t turn on the light. It’s all right.”
Alex had temporarily given Vicky her own stateroom in the vain hope that she might get more rest the first few days. He’d promised himself he’d stay away from her for at least three days. He hadn’t even made it through the first night.
“Alex, your hand is freezing. You’re trembling. What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry to bother you. I got up to use the loo and—sorry—can I climb in with you?”
“Of course you can, darling. Here, let me move over.”
“Thank you. Oh, God, you feel warm.”
“You’re trembling all over!”
“I know. It’s the strangest thing. I think I passed out. I went to my stateroom right after we—we said good night. Went right to sleep, too, out like a light. Something woke me up. A bad dream maybe. Anyway, I was looking in the mirror over the basin and then—I woke up on the floor.”
“You fainted?”
“I don’t know. I remember I felt really odd, looking at my face in the mirror. As if it weren’t me. Or, it was me, but only vaguely. I didn’t recognize myself. So, I—”
“Is this the first time this has happened? Close your eyes a second, I’m turning on the light. I need to look at your pupils.”
“Yes. I mean no, not the first time. Ouch. That’s bright.”
“It is, or it isn’t the first time?” she asked, examining him. His eyes, normally a hard blue, now looked breakable, like china.
“I’m not sure. A few days ago, just before I flew up to Washington, I was standing up on deck. Just looking at the stars. Thinking about you, actually. How much I missed you. And then, my breathing went all arsey-versey and my heart sort of went pounding off the rails and—”
“Is there a physician here on board the QEII?”
“Of course.”
“I want you to see the doctor first thing in the morning, Alex. No excuses.”
“Why? Hell, I just fainted, Vicky. I’m fine. See? I’m not even shaking anymore. This is just an elaborate ruse to come down and bother you. Check out which nightie you’re wearing. Good selection.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing serious. But you do need to see him. Get a complete blood workup done. He may want you to have an MRI.”
“It’s a she.”
“What?”
“The ship’s doctor. He’s a she.”
“Of course. Your nurse-uniform fetish. God, how stupid of me.”
“What do you think is wrong with me, Vicky? Brain tumor?”
“I think you’re fine, darling. I think you’ve had a panic attack.”
“Panic? Over what? I’ve never been happier.”
“I don’t know. You’re not really my patient, remember?”
“We’ll fix that.”
“You said you had a bad dream, Alex. Can you remember anything about it?”
“No. It’s a very bad dream.”
“Tell me about it.”
“May I have a sip of your water? Thank you. Well. It’s always the same at the beginning. I’m locked inside a small—I’ve never told anyone this before, Doc.”
“It’s all right, Alex. Tell me.”
“Can we just make love again instead? I’ll tell you first thing tomorrow.”
“No.”
“All right, all right. It’s frightfully mundane. I’m locked in a small room. A closet of some kind and—why am I talking about this? It’s only a stupid childish dream.”
“Dreams are important because they offer clues to our deepest feelings.”
“You sound just like a bad textbook, darling. ‘Our deepest feelings.’ Well, in my case this shouldn’t take long because deep down I’m a very shallow person.”
“Tell me the goddamn dream, darling.”
“Yes. Anyway, in my dream, I’m locked inside a small closet. It’s insufferably hot and foul-smelling. There’s a small hole in the door, and I can see into the next room.”
“What’s in the other room?”
“Nothing. But there’s a hole in its ceiling. And I know something bad is coming down through that hole. That’s the feeling I have. A bad thing is coming.”
“Is it always the same bad thing?”
“Yes. It’s—it’s a spider. It wants to kill me. It wants to kill everybody.”
“And you’re powerless to stop it?”
“Um, yes. I am.”
“Because of the locked door?”