Free To Kill the Potemkin by Mark Joseph Page A

fortune to go
scuba
diving in the Med."
    "Christ
almighty,
Sorensen. There were
dead men on that boat—"
    "Maybe,
maybe
not. The ocean is full of
dead men and sunken ships. Their wars are over. Those guys on that
U-boat died
a long time ago. Fish ate them before you were born. It's ancient
history."
    "They
were
sailors just like you and
me—"
    "They
were not
like you and me. They
were Nazis. They were the enemy. It was lucky for our side that they
blew
themselves up."
    "Ah,
come on,
Sorensen, that's just it.
A fish blew up inside their boat. I can't even imagine what it was like
in
there when that torpedo exploded. They never had a chance."
    Sorensen
nodded.
"I wouldn't think too
much on it. When we come back here next week
we can borrow some
tanks and dive down to old U-62 again. We'll go in
there with lights,
and you can find out what it was like. It'll be an object lesson in
what can
happen if somebody makes a mistake underwater."
    " U-62 didn't have nuclear torpedoes. If we blew up in the Bay of
Naples, plutonium pizza."
    "C'mon,
Fogarty, lighten up." He punched the young sailor playfully on the
shoulder. "Listen, kid, you've got a bad habit. You think too much. It
isn't going to make your life any easier, I guarantee you. Sooner or
later
everybody on this ship has to come to terms with the fact that we're a
fucking
bomb waiting to go off. You've got a head start. You're green, but you
think
about these things. You have to grow up fast, we need guys like you
down
here." Sorensen grinned. "At least on this ship we might get a chance
to waste a Russian missile sub before she blows up New York City."
    "And
until then?"
    "Hey,
man, we all live in our little yellow submarine. Relax, try thinking of
yourself as a pioneer exploring life underwater. The price for the
privilege is
that you have to work for the navy. So you put up with a lot of
chickenshit.
But at least you get a nice clean comfortable air-conditioned submarine
to
drive you around, all meals provided. You get the best toys and the
best talent
to operate them. And for excitement you get to play Cowboys and
Cossacks with
the Russians. Some deal, right?"
    "Except
a forty-million-dollar submarine designed to kill people isn't a toy."
    "Well,
we haven't killed anybody yet, and as
far as I know we aren't planning on doing it today. Listen, Fogarty,"
Sorensen said, his voice slowing down and lowering in tone, "as long as
you are on this ship I'm your supervisor. For some stupid reason I like
you. I
think you will turn into a fine sonar operator, so I'm giving you a
choice.
Just keep your mouth shut, do your job, or get the fuck off this ship
today.
You hear me, sailor?"
    Fogarty
kept his mouth shut. Sorensen looked at him, then broke into a smile
and
slapped him on the back.
    "Hey,
okay, lighten up now and get your ass in gear. We have to report to the
XO."

6
Netts
    The
ship buzzed with excitement. The word had
been passed that an admiral was coming aboard to give Barracuda a
special assignment, and the crew was busily preparing for an
inspection.
Sailors in freshly laundered jumpsuits executed routine tasks with an
extra
touch of crispness. Internal communications technicians checked every
circuit.
Settings on the inertial navigation gyros were adjusted. Radar
monitored the
traffic in the harbor. Only in the galley was there a note of
discontent. The
admiral would not dine, and Stanley felt dejected.
    Sorensen
and Fogarty were passing through the
control room when Pisaro called out, "Attention!"
    Instantly
the control room was transformed
into a parade ground.
    The
quartermaster blew his pipes, and two men
passed through the hatch.
    "At
ease," said Pisaro.
    Fogarty
saw a short pudgy man of sixty in a
flowered Hawaiian shirt, flat black sunglasses and a salt-and-pepper
beard that
wrapped around his jowls like a mask.
    "Who
is that? " he whispered to Sorensen.
    "Netts,"
said Sorensen.
"Vice-Admiral Edward P. Netts."
    "Never
heard of him," Fogarty said.
    "The
Russians