"How long you been on Barracuda, Cakes?" Fogarty asked.
"Same as Jack, here. Since before she was commissioned, nine years."
"Oh, yeah, Fogarty, me and Cakes know each other's dirty little secrets. Cakes was there the day we invented Cowboys and Cossacks."
"Oh, baby, them Ivans ain't never going to forget us."
"What happened?"
"It was during the Cuban missile crisis. Barracuda was on station in the Carribean when we got orders to patrol one sector during the blockade. The Russians were ninety miles from our shores, and the only thing between them and Miami Beach was us, Barracuda. Now, that kind of situation shoots a lot of adrenaline into your blood. We had this macho president who was just like us. You want to talk about belief? We believed in John Kennedy, every last man. He left no doubt as to what would happen if the Russians didn't back down. Man, we had our tubes flooded and guidance systems locked-on the whole time. We were ready to die."
Cakes was nodding his head in agreement. Sorensen went on, "We would have died for Kennedy without a second thought. As it was, nobody died. It was suddenly ridiculously easy to kick the Russians out of our ocean. We made these wild runs under the Russian ships. They had a couple of diesel-electric subs and we blew their ears out. They took one look at us and split. When we got back to Norfolk you'd have thought we'd just won the Battle of Midway. At that moment, Fogarty, I'm telling you, the world was perfect, as perfect as it will ever be. Hell, in March 1963, I reenlisted. Kennedy was in the White House, America was number one, Barracuda was number one. We were invincible… And then the world fell apart. First, the Thresher sank. It was like the Titanic all over again. The perfect invincible nuclear sub imploded during sea trials. That was a mind-fuck. Then Kennedy gets assassinated and the world turns upside down. On that day I learned about perfection. In the five years since Dallas the reality has been exploding in our faces. Race riots, Viet Nam, mass murderers, you name it, we got it. So next year my reenlistment comes up again and I'm thinking maybe I've had enough of this shit. But I ask you, Fogarty, how many civilian sonar operators do you know? The truth is, I don't know if I can live in the real world any more. I don't have a lunch counter in Harlem like Cakes. All I have is Barracuda, so I just do my job. I like my job. I'm very stoned."
Sorensen walked out on the balcony and looked down into the dirty street. A pair of Guardia Civil policemen sauntered past the hotel, machine pistols slung over their backs. To his right he could see the sea wall and a slice of bay. A slice of an imperfect world. Dirty. Radioactive. He looked up at the sky, hoping to see stars. He saw clouds.
What do whales talk about? What is it like to live on dry land and have kids?
Inside, Fogarty was saying to Cakes, "I guess you've seen a lot of changes in the navy in twenty-five years."
Cakes blew smoke around the room. "Some things are different, some ain't. Now we got white boys smokin' dope, that's different. We got crazy Stanley, that's a whole lot different. There ain't nobody shootin' at us no more. I like that part, but otherwise the navy hasn't changed in two hundred years. We got nuke boats and all that shit, but it don't mean nothin', nothin' at all. You go to sea and you come back to the same place you started. It's all one big circle. It's all right with me."
"What do you think of the Russians?"
"Who gives a fuck? I don't never think about them. I like their vodka."
"What about the sub that went down?"
"You mean them dudes that sank?"
Sorensen said nothing. The Russian sub was alive. She never sank, and he had the proof on tape. The torpedo wasn't a torpedo at all, it was the sub itself. The implosions were faked. Now wasn't the time to tell them…
"Yeah. What do you think about them?"
"Nothin'. There ain't nothin' to think about. It was their tough luck. I'm glad it was them and not us."
"Were you scared?"
"Listen, I'm always scared. I'm scared right now, smoking this dope with you, but that don't stop me none. What are you talkin', man? Scared. You don't know what scared is until you been depth-charged." Cakes stood up. "I'm going back to the bar and screw one of them fat whores until she yells uncle. Uncle Sam, that is. How 'bout you boys?"
As Cakes was reaching for the door, there was a knock.
Sorensen opened the door an inch. Rodrigo stood outside. "He is down the stair to see you, a sailor Americano."
Stepping into the corridor, Sorensen saw Willie Joe drunkenly climbing the stairs, a ten-gallon Stetson propped on his head.
"It's okay, Rodrigo. He's a friend." He slipped the clerk a dollar. Willie Joe flopped on the bed.
"Anybody got a drink?"
Fogarty passed him a bottle of beer.
Finally Cakes said, "Well, I'm still going to party."
"Let's do it," said Sorensen.
They stood up to go back to the bar, all except Willie Joe, who mumbled, "Battle stations, battle stations, pussy off the port bow…" closed his eyes and passed out on Sorensen's bed. They left him snoring in a dreamless sleep.
The party in the Farolito was still going full blast. Buzz was pouring cognac for a dollar a shot.
"Straight up, all around," Sorensen ordered. Buzz wrinkled his nose at Fogarty and poured three shots of brandy. Sorensen counted a dozen sailors passed out in the sawdust and was tempted to join them.
Cakes walked down the bar to speak to one of the fat Gypsy whores. A few minutes later they left together.
In the rear a lone dancer went through the motions of flamenco in slow motion. Fair and blond, the descendant of a rampaging Vandal, she kicked the floor and snapped castanets to music only she could hear.
"See you later," Sorensen said. He carried his drink across the bar to the table nearest her, sat down and began to clap a rhythm to her dance.
At first she appeared not to notice him. Then she slowly danced around his table. She was young, nineteen or twenty.
"Como te llamas?" he asked.
"Rosa. Y tu?"
"Jack."
"Okay, Zhack," she said, and sat down on his lap, leaned against his chest and put her arms around his neck. Taking a Lucky from his pack, she lit it and stuck it in his mouth.
"You got any money, Zhack? These saylors spended all their bugs on liquores and womans. You got any bugs left, Zhack?"
"I got enough."
Her hand slipped down to his crotch. "You want to spend with me? I eat you."
"Let's go."
He waved at Fogarty on the way out.
Fogarty drank alone for an hour, staring at the whores in the mirror behind the bar. He wasn't sure about how to approach the women. He wasn't interested in fat Gypsies and was ready to stumble back to the hotel when one of the women sat down on the bar stool next to his. Tight jeans clung to her hips, and a peasant's blouse hung over bare shoulders. On her feet were expensive handcrafted sandals. She wasn't especially pretty but she had attractively strong and intelligent features. She looked older by several years, he thought. Guessed.
"Hello, sailorboy. Buy me a drink?"
"Sure."
Fogarty signaled to Buzz for more brandy.
"And I'd like a cigarette."
He lit a Lucky and handed it to her. "Are you English? You sound English."
She smiled. "Indeed I am. A bloody Brit, that's me. And you're a Yank."
"A Yank? I never thought of myself as a Yank."
"None of you ever does."
Her smile completely transformed her face and made her very pretty.
"What's your name, Yank?"
"Fogarty."
"That's it? Just Fogarty?"