The Gulf (7 page)

There were no windows in the shoe stalls, but as he passed one he saw a mirror. An old man was looking at a pair of wing tips in it. They looked out of place under his baggy white pants and embroidered vest. Behind him in the mirror was Phelan, looking foreshortened and pinheaded, and behind him was a pink shirt.

He halted, pretending to examine a pair of women's pumps. In the mirror he saw two men now. One short, one tall. The short one was wearing the pink. He hadn't seen the tall one before.

Now he was happy there were people around. He had to get back to Paradise Street. From there, he could take a taxi, shake them, or if he had to, just go back to the ship. They couldn't follow him aboard. On the other hand, he'd have to ditch or hide the opium then. He rubbed sweat off his forehead. He waved off the shoe vendor, who came out after him, and walked briskly around two corners and into a dead-end alley lined with wrecked cars piled four deep on either side.

When he turned around, they were standing between him and the souk. There was no one else in sight, though he could hear the distant words of Madonna, “I'm a Material Girl,” from a cassette player somewhere.

You or them, he thought, almost like hearing it. You or them.

“What do you want?” he said.

“We are police,” said the tall Pak. He wasn't really tall, but he was taller than Phelan. “We saw you buy the hashish. Give it to us.”

“It ain't hash,” said Phelan in his soft, almost shy voice. “I mean, I didn't buy nothing.”

He knew they weren't police. Then he wondered how many other American sailors had bought the brick in his pocket. Hell with this, he thought, fear and need turning into a murky, desperate rage. He wasn't going to give it to them, that was all.

He glanced around, making sure they were alone, and drew the blade.

The short man took a gun out from underneath the loose shirt.

Before he had it free, Phelan cut him across the belly. The Chinese knife was sharp enough that it didn't hang up in the cloth. He shoved him into the taller Pak and got his boot on the dropped gun. The little Pak started screaming. The tall one had his knife out by then, a real pigsticker, a foot long and curved like a sickle. But he didn't come in. Phelan thought about picking up the gun, but he didn't know guns. He hadn't done well with the .45 at boot camp. The blade felt good in his hand and he decided to stay with it.

“You want some, too?” he asked the tall Pak softly. The man was still hesitating, holding the short one up. The smaller man was screaming louder now, his hands trying to hold his belly together.

He didn't want any. Phelan picked up the dust-covered pistol and stuck it in his belt. He backed out of the alley, holding their eyes, then turned quickly and made several sharp turns through the bazaar. He hit concrete block again and went back into the market.

The man who had bought the binoculars gave him forty dollars for the gun.

*   *   *

The room was two dollars and two flights up, a stinking hole without a lock on the door. There was a pallet on the floor. Phelan decided not to check it for bugs. He liked the room. No one else off the ship would come here.

He tied the latchstring, put the paper bag on the floor, and began taking things out of it. Four quarts of Coke, so cold his fingers left prints in the condensation. He'd have preferred beer, but he couldn't find any for sale. Six packs of Marlboros. A sack of the flat, doughy Arab bread. A bag of what he hoped were pretzels or chips, though it was opaque and the label was in the funny Pak squiggles.

He was still scared, still angry, and to calm himself he took a deep swallow of the pop. Then another. At last he felt calm enough to proceed. He sat down on the pallet and flattened out the grocery bag for a work surface.

The brick was warm from his pocket. He peeled a slice off it with the knife, noticing as he did so that there was still blood where the blade folded. He wiped it quickly on the pallet and kept peeling, making the slices thin and curling, with plenty of air. He could smell it, thick and sweet and heavy. His fingers shook and he gulped more Coke till they steadied down.

When he had enough, he slit open some of the cigarettes and shook out the tobacco. He mixed this with the opium and glued the paper back together lengthwise with spittle.

When he had five fat joints, he lined them up on the windowsill. He put the open knife beside them. He looked down at the street, at the passing taxis and dark-haired heads. No one looked up. There was a shade and he pulled it. The room went dark.

Fuck them, he thought. Fuck the fucking Paks. Fuck the fucking Navy. Fuck the Indian, fuck the white man, fuck the world. This is where it's at.

He picked up the first joint, smiled shyly at it, and pulled fire out of a match with his thumbnail.

Turning his head, Bernard Newekwe slowly and solemnly blew sweet smoke to the four corners of the room, then up, then down. Then he drew it in, to the seventh corner of the world, to writhe and curl and purify his own turbid and troubled soul.

4

Manama, Bahrain

THE heat, Blair Titus thought; that was what blindsided her every time she did the Middle East. Certainly Washington, twelve hours before, had been grim in the dread dog days of August. Paris, that morning, had been hot but not uncomfortable beneath a gentle rain.

But Bahrain was like a junket into Hell. Her lightest traveling suit had soaked through just coming in from the airport. She pushed her hair back, annoyed at its clingy dampness, and scratched at a prickle under her armpit.

“When's Admiral Hart due back?” she asked the aide. It came out more sharply than she'd intended. Blame it on the heat.

Trudell started; she noted with a flash of annoyance that he was staring at her chest again. “Uh, he must have been delayed, ma'am. He wanted to attend a change of command down at the pier. But he knows you're here. He knows about the brief.”

“Can we start without him? I'd like to make the five o'clock to Riyadh.”

The lieutenant was so horrified his eyes lost their fix on her bust. He began giving her the reasons they couldn't start without the admiral. Blair tuned him out. She scratched again and strolled to the window. She looked out, absently flipping the collar of her blouse.

The Middle East again. Last time it had been Israel, the Purchasing Commission trip. The ridges and blasted flats of the Sinai, the crump and flare of shells against the hush-hush explosive armor of the new Merkava tank. This time, it was the outskirts of a city. In the distance, vibrating like a wine hangover, she could make out white buildings and spires. Beyond that was a clear and tremulous blue. She stared out at it, wondering whether she absolutely had to spend the afternoon on the second floor of the local Navy headquarters. She'd brought the new swimsuit, just on the off chance …

Then she curbed her mind. She was here on business. A whirlwind tour, Bankey had said. Check it out and tell me what to do about this mess. Be back next week. No, that didn't sound as if she had time for the beach.

“There he is,” squeaked the lieutenant, sounding relieved. She dropped her eyes. A dusty-looking military sedan was edging through the concrete barriers at the gate. As she watched, Marines surrounded it, rifles at the ready. One circled it, inspecting the chassis with a mirror. They'd done that to Trudell's car, too. Then they fell back, snapping up their hands in salute as the Reliant rolled into the compound, the blue starred flags stirring flaccidly in the hot, still air.

A few minutes later, Hart was pressing her hand. He smelled of sweat and oil. “Good afternoon, Ms. Titus, and welcome. Sorry I'm late. Did you have a good flight?”

“Yes.”

“How's Bankey? I met him two years ago when I was at the Joint Chiefs. Fine man, very impressive grasp of naval matters.”

Said with the proper condescension of a military man toward a politician, Blair thought. “The Senator's well,” she said.

“His health holding up? You know what you hear—”

“I wouldn't know what you hear, Admiral,” she said. She never discussed Talmadge's drinking, nor did she stay around when it got out of hand. “He's busy, as usual, but doing well.”

“How long have you been with him?”

“Three years.”

“Well, again, sorry I was delayed … damn, we have got to get this air conditioning fixed. Jim, you should have taken her down to the exchange. You know we have a perfume shop right here in the building? There's a company in town makes concentrated perfumes, essences they call them, smells like any brand you want—”

“Admiral Hart.”

“Yes?”

“I'm not here to shop,” she said coldly. “My time is limited and there's a great deal I have to see. Could we start the brief, please?”

Hart looked blank for just a moment, then turned to the lieutenant. “Get the guys in here. Top staff only. Let's get moving; Ms. Titus doesn't have much time.”

*   *   *

The briefing officer was a dark-complexioned colonel—no, Navy ranks, she corrected herself, captain—in beautifully tailored khakis. When the last of the staff were in the room, he asked for a closed door. The blinds came down, and Blair settled in in front. She crossed her legs, smoothed her skirt, and took a Sony out of her briefcase. A woman with a notebook equaled a stenographer. And a recorder allowed her to give full attention to what was being said—or, usually more important, was being left out.

“Good afternoon, Miss Titus, Admiral Hart, gentlemen. I'm Captain Jack Byrne. This will be a high-level brief on the situation in the Gulf today. Its classification is secret.” He looked at the recorder, and at Hart; the admiral winked. Byrne cleared his throat and asked for the first slide.

“Sixty percent of the world's oil reserves lie on the shores of the Persian Gulf—or, as we call it now, the Arabian Gulf. Very little is consumed here. Most of it goes out by tanker through the Strait of Hormuz to the U.S., Western Europe, and Japan. Our naval and air forces in the area, under the control of Commander, Middle Eastern Force, are deployed to guarantee freedom of navigation and to protect our allies in a region essential to our interests.

“Recent events in this part of the world—the Iranian revolution, the Iran-Iraq War—have reminded us that we live in a time of challenge to the West. The loss of
Strong
year before last underlined this. But this is not a new commitment. The Navy has maintained a presence here since 1949, and our buildup signals our willingness to continue defending our interests in the area.

“As the Secretary of Defense said recently, ‘Our ships operate in the Persian Gulf to represent, immediately and directly, America's commitment to stability in the region and our deep concern over—'”

She held up her hand. Byrne stopped. “Yes, ma'am,” he said.

“I understand why you're here, Captain. Could we skip the basics, please?”

“Uh, Admiral…?”

“This update is for the Senator's senior defense staffer, Jack. Let's give her what she wants.”

“Yes, sir.” Byrne fiddled with the pointer, then skipped the next two slides. “The next item, then, will be strength and dispositions.

“We currently have fifteen U.S. cruisers, destroyers, and frigates in the Gulf op area. Other assets we can call on include a carrier battle group in the Arabian Sea. Some time ago, we requested an augment to the minesweeping forces, and four MSOs are arriving from the States.

“Associated forces. We can call on backup units from several of the Gulf states. They have modest navies or coast guards, mainly high-speed small craft, but these are useful in patrol and interdiction. Finally, several Allied navies are also operating here, not under our command, but cooperating at a multinational level. France, Great Britain, Belgium, Italy, and the Netherlands currently have escort or minesweeping units in the Gulf. The French also have
Foch
off Socotra. The total complement of friendly forces is about sixty ships.”

Blair said, “What's the basing, logistics structure?”

“Fuel and consumables are bought out of locally available stocks. Parts and ammunition are Navy Supply.”

“I mean, where?”

“We don't have any fixed bases. Bahrain is the closest thing we have to a shore establishment. Overhaul, major repairs, it's either Diego Garcia, Subic, or back to the States.”

“Exactly what kind of cooperation are you getting from the GCC states, Admiral? Oman, Bahrain, the Saudis, the emirates?”

“Excellent,” said Byrne.

Looking down as he packed a pipe, Hart said, “We have mooring privileges in Oman, Bahrain, and Kuwait. The other Gulf states limit us to one-day stays.”

She didn't ask for elaboration. After a moment, Byrne went on.

“Our most recent initiative has been the escorting program, operation Earnest Will. This assigns two to four small boys—sorry, destroyer-type ships—to U.S./Kuwaiti tanker convoys. So far, we've completed three convoys with no loss or damage. We're starting to get neutrals asking to tag along. Three times in the last month, though, we've had to put missiles on rails or take other defensive measures against approaching aircraft. In two cases, the aircraft were Iraqi. The third was Iranian jets out of Bushehr. On radar illumination and warning, they broke off and left the area.”

“What is your estimate of Iranian intentions?”

“Uh, maybe the Admiral would—”

“Yes, I'll take that, Jack.” Hart shifted in his chair to face her. “At the moment, Blair—may I call you Blair?”

“Sure, Stan.”

Hart blinked. She could see it happening behind his pupils. Twenty-seven-year-old female civilian calling him by his first name in front of his staff. Then the counterbalance. This wasn't just any woman. She was the primary defense adviser to the Chairman of the Armed Services Committee, the legendary Bankey Talmadge, confidant and gadfly of five administrations. And through whose committee passed, not only all defense appropriations, but all promotions within the flag ranks of the services.