The Med (10 page)

Ike Sundstrom knew many squadron commanders who disliked the time-honored, time-consuming ritual of paying calls. Some delegated the task to their commanding officers. But he enjoyed it; he felt he was good at it. And he knew Admiral “Smiling Tony” Roberts, Commander, Sixth Fleet, set store by such things. He tipped up the glass. “Excellent,” he said. “I don't think I've ever tasted better. By the way, I brought along a little memento. I hope you'll do me the pleasure of accepting.”

“How handsome! This is fine brass. I have a fine collection of these. It is the souvenir of your ship?”

“Of my squadron. I'm a commodore—in charge of a U.S. Navy task force.”

“Commodore, eh? Of course, you are not just a ship's captain. Excuse, I do not know the American uniforms as I should.” The carabiniere set the plaque aside and dusted his hands. “I have something for you as well, but it is rather large—when you leave. But, now, let us discuss business. Tell me, you have two ships in this port, that is correct? What is the length of your stay?”

“I planned for four days. Of course, there is always the possibility of change, but we're scheduled for three more days in your lovely town.”

“I see. And how many in the liberty party?”

“I estimate six hundred a night.”

“Sailors or marines?”

“Uh … I would estimate about three hundred would be marines.”

“You will supply a shore patrol?”

“Ten men a night, based at the pier.”

“Exactly the number I would have asked for. Well, I see no problem to mar your visit,” said the chief of police. He glanced at the bottle, sighed, and put it away after offering Sundstrom another glass; the commodore declined, smiling. “Only four days, I don't know if the mayor will want to arrange anything special … that will be up to him. You will be calling on him?”

“This morning.”

“Is there any other way in which I can assist you?”

“I would be happy, my friend, if one other thing were understood between us,” said Sundstrom, smiling. “If there are any misunderstandings ashore, I hope you will call me at once. If we can take care of things at our level, not bother higher authority, it's much simpler for all concerned.”

“I certainly understand. Well, please convey to the mayor my respects. Thank you for stopping by, sir.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

They rose. Sundstrom gripped the policeman's hand again, they both smiled officially, and the chief accompanied him down the stairs.

The gift turned out to be a huge wickered bottle of Polypheme. “Put it in the trunk,” said Isaac Sundstrom to his orderly, when the Italian went back inside. “I can't have the men see me drive around with a goddamn ton of cheap wine in the backseat.”

*   *   *

Ike Sundstrom did not value the smiles, the compliments, the outward flourishes of protocol for their own sake. They were valuable, not of themselves, but for their effectiveness in communicating things that could not be communicated well, or sometimes at all, in words. Trust. Worth. Respect. And above all, success. Every successful man he had ever served with, every officer who had attained the broad gold stripes of admiral, had that in common: a consciousness of appearances. Some were outstanding technicians, some fine administrators, others skilled politicians. They were all, he was the first to say, fine men. But beyond that, they all knew very thoroughly how to make themselves look good.

The Sundstroms were not an old Navy family. But neither were they Wisconsin sodbusters. His father had owned a Hudson dealership in Eau Claire, but had died in 1943; not in the war, but on a highway, leaving little after the loans were paid off. Isaac, the eldest, had to work his way through college. He had done this with dogged persistence for two years, and then discovered the Navy Reserve officer program. After that his only worry was grades. He was no scholar. But he was stubborn, and he applied himself; and he found that he liked the uniform, the way people looked at him as he walked across the campus on the way to drill.

He was unit commander his senior year.

He wanted to fly, but after a week in Pensacola his eyes gave out. He began seeing double. For a time he was on medical hold, then things cleared up; but still he was out of the flight program, for good.

He called his detailer long distance, and asked for destroyers.

He served in them for ten years, in the Pacific, and then was ordered to Washington as an aide to the Chief of Naval Personnel.

He had never thought about high rank till then. In those days the Pacific Fleet was a casual, rough outfit, still looking back to Midway and the Marianas, and hardly conscious of a larger Navy. It was at the Pentagon that he realized that he could be an admiral. He was in awe of them at first, these tall smooth men in crisp blues or khakis or whites. Academy, most of them, but not all. There was room in the postwar Navy for hardworking men, Annapolis or no, and he worked hard.

He did not like the Washington parties—he felt awkward at them, uncomfortable—but he made himself go. At one of them, he met the former Mary Hyatt, of Rockville. Widowed by Vietnam, she now worked in the Legislative Affairs office of DOD and owned a house in Alexandria. He adopted her daughter by the previous marriage, and they had two more children, both boys.

He went from there to engineering department head on a carrier, then to executive officer of an ammunition ship. A year later his commanding officer retired unexpectedly, for reasons of health. Admiral Dorne was still at Personnel, and Commander Sundstrom made a long-distance call.

He served as captain of the
Nitro
for two years, then went back to the District on the staff of the Deputy Undersecretary for Logistics. His next sea tour was a deep draft command, of an oiler.

And then, even before he could have hoped for it, he found in his traffic one day his orders as squadron commander, Amphibious Squadron Six. Not the choicest billet for an ex-destroyerman, but a long step up nonetheless. He had pondered it for weeks, worrying at the meat of meaning in the spare phraseology of Navy orders. At last he understood it. It meant that they were evaluating him, grooming him for his stars. It was a test.

And they would be watching, waiting for him to fail.

Leaning back in the rear seat, Isaac I. Sundstrom caught the glances of two Italians repairing their car on the street. He straightened his back, put on a look of concentration, and glanced down, as if he was studying important documents.

He reflected comfortably that he was just forty-six years old.

*   *   *

The mayor was out. He left his card with an assistant, discussed garbage collection and fresh water for a few minutes, then left. He considered going up to Taormina; he remembered it as a pretty drive, but decided against it. The day was wearing on and he had work to do.

“Fleet Landing,” he said to the driver. “And step on it.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The crew of the gig jumped up, ditching butts and squaring away their caps as the blue Fiat, lights on, pulled onto the pier. The orderly opened the door; the coxswain held out his arm to steady the commodore as he stepped aboard. He paused for a moment, looking around the quay. A civilian was watching them. After a moment he went over. “Going out to the ships?” he called.

Sundstrom evaluated the dark suit, the tie. “That's right. You're—?”

“American consul.”

“Sure. Come aboard, I'm the man you're going out to see.”

Sundstrom remembered the wine only when the driver, stonefaced, swung it down into the coxswain's arms. “Stow it below, sir?” said the sailor, equally expressionless.

“No, goddamn it,” said Sundstrom, annoyed. “Dump it over the side.”

“Dump
it, sir?”

“You heard me, son.”

The coxswain, the linehandlers, and the driver stared at the gurgling jug. When the last of the ruby flow had disappeared into the water, the commodore nodded.

He and the consul stood together in the stern as the gig backed out, then swung to seaward. The boat leapt forward, flag snapping in the wind, and they steadied themselves as it left the shelter of the bay and began to pitch, throwing spray. The engine was too loud for speech, and after a shouted word about the weather they stood silently together, watching the ship approach.

Sundstrom watched it with pride, touched with flashes of anger as he noted rust or dangling lines.
Guam
grew rapidly larger as they approached. Like a small carrier, he thought, appreciating the straight sweep of the flight deck, the warlike sheer of her sides. She rode easily to anchor, veering slowly to the wind. Two ready helicopters crouched high above the sea, forward of the island. His eye moved upward. Yes, she was flying the holiday ensign. It was not strictly in accordance with regulations, but he'd always felt that the bigger the flag, in a foreign port, the better they were accomplishing the public relations part of their mission.

He bent forward. He was unsure of diplomatic rank, but knew that consuls were important. “This is my flagship, sir,” he shouted. “Coxswain, circle her once before you make the platform; let's show off a little.”

“Aye, Commodore.”

*   *   *

He showed the consul around the hangar and flight deck, and posed with him for a picture on the bridge. He stayed for lunch in Sundstrom's cabin, then left, pleading press of work. Sundstrom called the quarterdeck to let him have the gig. Alone, he relaxed for the first time that day.

The flag cabin was not large; but aboard ship, it was luxurious, almost a suite. There was an office-cum-living room, with a desk, chart table, leather couch, and several chairs. A door led to his quarters proper, a sitting room, bedroom, and attached bath. He showered, changed to khakis, allowed himself ten minutes on the couch, then called his steward for a cup of coffee and sat down to work.

Rota, Valencia, PHIBLEX; training anchorage for a week; Brindisi, Athens, Gythion, Thessalonika, Sicily, Valiant Javelin. It had been a full, busy deployment to date. MARG 2-2, his task force, had started sloppy. Exercises took too long and there were mistakes. He had corrected them. He felt that the squadron was shaping up, despite some of his captains' laziness or lack of willingness to impose discipline. In some cases he'd had to impose his own. That took time, time he needed for his own job; but then, he thought, no one had ever said command was an easy task.

A radioman knocked, entered, and laid the morning's message traffic before him. He read each one thoroughly, starting at the top of the stack and going down. Those he did not understand he scribbled on with a red felt-tip:
Chief of Staff: Check this out and report.
Three from COMSIXTHFLEET, Admiral Roberts, he laid aside for further study. Then he turned to his outgoing pile, messages and letters that had been prepared for his approval. He read these even more closely, lapsing into a scowl.

His staff, he thought, was lazy. They were satisfied with quick answers, off the top of their heads. They did not want to put in the time a real job required. But he would not let them get away with sloppy work. His pen slashed across the paper, asking questions, demanding references and clarifications. He tossed them back into the basket for revision, then reached again for the admiral's messages.

They were situation reports, secret, covering the entire Med. Particular attention was given to the larger than usual number of Soviet Fleet units in the east. He carried them to the chart table. There were seven ships off Kythera, a favorite anchorage for the Russians, and two more submarines than usual this time of year. Sundstrom wondered why. No use asking the intelligence officer, Byrne; he would indulge himself in his usual games, disguising his incompetence with sly generalities and effeminate mannerisms. The commodore's scowl deepened.

He reread the last message, about Cyprus, twice. He frowned at the map, gnawing at his lip. Cyprus … Turkey … the concentration of Soviet units … no, he was probably reading too much into it, worrying too much. If anything hot looked likely, Roberts would have them to sea at once.

But how much better it would look if, when he got that message, Ike Sundstrom could report that Task Force 61 was already underway.

But then, he couldn't take fright at every hint of trouble. If he did that, the MARG would never touch land at all. The whole eastern Mediterranean was a hotbed, like the Balkans in 1913. Lebanon was a running sore, the Persian Gulf a powder keg since the Iranian disaster. Turkey and Greece, ostensibly allies, were circling like wrestlers seeking an opening. A new Arab-Israeli war could happen anytime; Syria, heavily backed by the Soviet Union, was building up its forces once more. Libya and Iran, powerless against regular U.S. military forces, had resorted to funding terrorists, a cheap way to make war.

He sat and stared at the paper, gnawing his lip.

Isaac Sundstrom did not consider himself brilliant or creative. He was not a genius, a fire-eater, or a risk-taker. So many nights, aboard the
Nitro,
he had lain awake sweating in his bunk after the officer of the deck called him, hoping he had made the right decision on a closing contact, waiting for the scream of the whistle; but his fitness reports had always mentioned his dependability. He was short, and that was a drawback. Most of the golden, the select, were tall men. But there was nothing a man could do about that but watch his posture, and of course his weight. He knew that his caution and thoroughness made enemies, as they had at the Bureau of Personnel, that there were people who cared less than he did for doing things the safe way. These people would make him look bad if they could.

But he was too close now to falter or even waver. The path was narrow, the ascent steep, and the competition keen. But he was still young. If iron determination, iron will, and tireless attention to detail counted for anything, Ike Sundstrom was sure he could make it.