How long have I been in No Man’s Land? Shall I count the days? It has been more than five months since the Overwhelming Event, the snatch and grab that rendered me here. Another sweltering New York summer has passed, and now fall is darkening toward winter back in the city. See the foliage in the parks, like feathers on a turkey! See the wet raindrops dancing off the sides of cab windows! All of this, I can only imagine. To think the collection Gil Johannessen called a “bildungsroman” was composed for this very season, and I am not in New York to see it worn! Bildungsroman! Such a phallic term! I have completely forgotten its meaning, can you believe it? That’s what five months in No Man’s Land will do to you. Your mind becomes so clouded with dirty thoughts, bloody thoughts, that you begin to lose sight of what once seemed so important.
In here they make every effort to keep those bloody thoughts away by doctoring their own lexicon. A No Man’s Land lingua franca. Did you know that in No Man’s Land we have a hundred words for suicide? It’s true. Self-injurious behavior (SIB), hanging gesture, asymmetric warfare, self-harm (attempted suicide), induced cardiac failure, checkout pact (hunger strike), life circumvention, personal extinction, grooming incision (cut while shaving), the list goes on and on. But never will you hear anyone mention suicide. It is completely forbidden! And you won’t hear any of us called prisoners either. That’s forbidden too. We are detainees. It is all very clever on their part. Because we are not called prisoners, they don’t have to charge us with a crime.
I no longer see Riad, my bathing partner. I heard from Cunningham that he had stopped eating. It was in protest, no longer about the plastic water bottles being taken away, but about the bigger picture: No Man’s Land. And just like that, Riad disappeared from the block. They moved him to the infirmary, where, I hear, he is force-fed through a tube via his right nostril. “He’s a vegetable,” said Cunningham. “The man is lost. The man is a vegetable. Who gives a fuck.”
Earlier today I received a letter from the president, dated this very day, November 3, 2006. An MP I had never seen before brought it directly to me, bypassing the hands of my day guard, Win. The envelope bore the official seal of the executive office: a bald eagle dressed in a shield, holding in its talons an olive branch and arrows. The seal actually says SEAL OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES. I always assumed it said something else; “life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness,” something like that. Anyway, at the sight of the president’s seal, my heart bounced. It was the first piece of mail I had received since the letter from my lawyer. An apology, I thought, from the president himself. Only it was no such thing. The letter informed me of my upcoming tribunal. The President of the United States v. Boyet R. Hernandez, plaintiff. It
went on to explain that the proceedings would determine my status as an enemy combatant or “no longer enemy combatant.”1 It mentioned who would be present at the tribunal (a judge, a prosecutor, and my personal representative, no jury), and stated that I would be meeting with my personal representative in due time. In due time! With my tribunal closing in on me ( just two weeks from the day, said the letter), they still haven’t made it clear just when I would be meeting this elusive phantom, the man who is to defend my life! And not a mention of my lawyer in New York being present at the tribunal.
The letter had a return address:
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
Washington, DC 20006
My special agent has read everything I have written up to now. All of it he consumed directly in front of me during our latest reservation. To keep me busy during the hours it took him to read my confession, he brought me a review of Michelle’s play from the Daily News (again severely outdated, again with certain details redacted). He also brought me the October issue of Vogue and a carton of doughnuts. It is as if Spyro anticipates my needs before I myself know them, and I find that he brings the only consistency to my life here in No Man’s Land. His willingness to please reminds me of, well…me. I was once willing to please everyone in my path, and I found out soon enough that it always got me what I wanted. But don’t misunderstand me. Spyro doesn’t just tell me what I want to hear. I never did such a thing either. No, I’m finding him to be completely genuine in his intent to extract the truth. And it is because of his genuine nature that I want nothing more than to please him. To give him the facts straight, to remember those things that I may think insignificant but which he deems very useful.
“You’re quite the toast of Broadway,” he said when he handed me the article.
“Off Broadway,” I corrected him.
“It’s only an expression. Don’t get bent out of shape,” Spyro said. And he let me read the review. Which I did.
Try to picture your life adapted into a performance. Things are twisted for the benefit of the audience’s enjoyment. You see, it is more entertaining for all if I am the fashion terrorist. Michelle is more sympathetic as the victim. Motives make more sense once they are overly simplified. It’s all part of the entertainment. Events need to be fabricated in order to resolve the third act. That’s theater. Sure, everyone knows a play is a work of fiction. But out of that fiction the audience is forever searching for the one or two nuggets of truth. Which may they be? Maybe this one, maybe that one, they’re guessing. But who really knows? What you have is an audience of reasonable intelligence swayed by a bunch of actors telling lies. That’s what fiction is. Lies. Spyro of all people should know this, considering it was his Greeks who banned storytellers for their mental poisoning.2 Perhaps he was indeed asking himself as he read my own document: What can I believe? Is this true confession a flawless rendering of the facts? One must take into consideration the extreme circumstances under which I must compose my confession. I’m alone in my cell. I’m surrounded by a bunch of no‑good terrorists. I am under twenty-four-hour watch. While my little pen scratches this yellow pad, I practically have a gun to my head. (So to speak. Spyro would never do such a thing. Nor would Win or Cunningham. They’re all unarmed.) I haven’t the time to make a mistake. There are no rehearsals in No Man’s Land. Here it’s do or die…and shame on you if you tell a lie.
I was so disgusted with what I was reading in the review of The Enemy at Home that I had to stop myself several times in order to consume one of the doughnuts Spyro had brought along. Lou Diamond Philips’s performance as Guy the Fashion Terrorist was called “heroic in light of such a dark tragedy.” And Chloë, who apparently “bares all” as Freedom, made “a debut of the highest order.” And would you believe, there is not a mention of me or my situation in the review. It is as if I’ve been completely forgotten. The play revolves around a fashion designer, loosely based on my life, and there’s not a nod in my direction. “In light of such a dark tragedy…” Yet no mention of what is so tragic. Not since Andrew Koonanan’s3 shooting spree, which ended with the tragic death of Gianni Versace (and thankfully one less Koonanan, who did his own honor) has a cloud this dark been cast over the industry, and already I’ve been forgotten.
Anyway, after such a traumatizing experience, I really had no interest in reading Vogue. I flipped through the magazine merely to please my special agent, because he had brought it all this way. Its contents seemed irrelevant to anything in my life. I’m beginning to realize that as time progresses my career, my friends, my love affairs, each aspect of self so carefully detailed in my confession is growing less and less important to me. It’s as if by writing about them I am willing to let them go.
Have I really suppressed something, like my interrogator suggests? Something so despicable I can’t even recall it?
After a short while of feigning interest in the magazine, I put it down and ate the rest of the doughnuts.
Spyro read through my legal pads with a steady determination, flipping through pages at a much quicker pace than I would have expected. No one should have to be put through a thing like this—sitting across from their most important critic while he scrutinizes the given work. It was my life, the truth, written down for him to judge. (The letter from the president has reminded me that it is my life on trial. I sometimes forget that. What an incomprehensible notion, being on trial for one’s life. It is almost impossible to fathom.) I would liken the experience of having my confession read like this to that of a fashion show, where editors and buyers make notes while viewing one’s collection. But at least as a designer one gets to wait backstage and isn’t subjected to their scrutiny head‑on. Spyro, however, remained a complete professional as always and rarely broke from his stern reading face: crinkled brow, pursed lips, etc. Only when he released a spurt of air through his nostrils did I relax. For I realized he was holding back a laugh. He found something in my confession funny. This placed me at ease. And he continued to read on.
Where was I on May 25, 2006? Spyro wanted to know as he turned the final page of my confession.
The significance of the date had escaped me, although I knew we were getting closer to the Overwhelming Event.
“It was the day Ahmed was arrested,” he clarified. “Do you remember where you were?”
“I can’t say that I do,” I said.
“See if this will help you remember. You were at the Hotel Gansevoort. You had a meeting with Habib Naseer, or Hajji, as you know him.”
Spyro was revealing to me for the first time that he knew much more than he’d let on. I recalled the period he was speaking of. Yes, I remembered. It was Fleet Week. The city was full of handsome sailors in their pressed whites, real men on R&R walking up and down Seventh and Eighth avenues and haunting those hideous Bleeker Street bars for Joanie and Chachi.4 This was a most stressful time for me. I was still trying to put the plans in motion for the overseas manufacturer to fulfill the Barneys order. The argument I’d had with Ahmed nearly a month prior had resolved nothing. I hadn’t heard from him since. And so I was a tad sour about the whole ordeal and grateful for the diversions New York’s annual seamen’s surge offered.
Fleet Week in a lot of ways reminded me of the Manila of my youth, when my mother would take me on errands in the Malate district. From the window of our Mazda I’d often see tall, handsome Americans in khaki officer uniforms walking around the city with shopping bags, flirting on street corners with the college girls along Taft Avenue. Odd, but I remember wanting to be one of those girls, giggling at the attention they were getting from the Americans. For a young pinoy, soaking in the attention of Americans was something to be desired.
I was, in fact, at the Hotel Gansevoort on the night of May 25 (I take my special agent’s word on the date), but I wasn’t there to see the man I knew as Hajji. I was there for a party, the launch of Philip Tang’s new shoe line, Size 2.0. Beforehand, I’d dined with Vivienne Cho at the Spotted Pig on raw oysters and a glazed pork belly. Nothing to report. On the way to the Gansevoort we went for a walk along the West Side Highway, then out to one of the piers to get a look at the ships parked in the Hudson, the massive vessels that transported the heroes back and forth from the war with the Iraqis.
Watching the sailors walk along an adjacent pier in the distance, Vivienne said to me, “I don’t think I could love a man in uniform.”
“Neither could I,” I said.
“I’m being serious. A man who’s away at war. A soldier. To love one would drive me crazy with worry.”
“You can’t love a man who’s around all the time either.”
“With my record, you’re right. But at least I’d be getting laid daily.”
“Sounds so penciled in. Sex is supposed to be spontaneous, an urge that comes over you, not a recurring event in your BlackBerry. Imagine the sex you’d have with one of these sailors home on leave.”
“Honeymoon sex. It would be righteous. I’d be doing my country a righteous thing.”
“Glorious patriotism. You’ve inspired me. I’m going to find myself a girl sailor tonight.”
“They’re all lesbians.”
“They are not. It’d be the perfect match. I would relish the fact that she’d be away at sea for most of the year. I would write to her every week, sometimes twice if I felt compelled. And when she came back I would worship the ground beneath her feet. That’s how I could make a relationship work. To be left in waiting for six-month intervals.”
“The many upsides to dating a sailor. Look. Now’s our chance.” Vivienne pointed to two sailors on the pier who were out for an evening stroll. A man and a woman, timeless, as if Ralph Lauren had magically willed them into existence. “We should invite them to Philip’s party,” she said.
“It’s Fleet Week themed. They’ll fit right in.”
“Perfect.”
Vivienne approached the two officers and invited them, only they declined.
“They say they’re not to stray far from base.” She indicated their ship, the USS Katharine Hepburn.5 “Isn’t that darling?”
“Did you mention it was open bar? Did you mention models both male and female?”
“They’re married to the sea, I guess.”
What is it about a great body of water that gets me so sentimental? Standing at the edge of the pier, before those giant ships lit up like Christmas, I once again thought of my first day in America, when the Statue of Liberty was veiled in her mournful state, an image I refuse to allow my memory to relinquish to this place. On that day, among all of the mixed emotions stirring deep in my groin, I’d felt very much like a free man. To be truly and utterly free is very hard for me to conceptualize from the confines of this cell. But I do believe I felt it on that first day—real freedom. The kind people all over the world seek out in America. You see, real freedom is something tangible—it’s the American birthright—but it is also something that can be taken away without a moment’s notice.
At approximately 9:00 P.M., Vivienne and I arrived at Philip’s party on the roof of the Hotel Gansevoort. Models in tight sailor whites strutted around in Philip’s heels, lace-ups, and zippered ankle boots. The waiters wore those old vintage deck uniforms with sailor gob caps. The pool was lit up, turquoise and clear. It felt as if we were on the deck of a cruise ship, floating above the rooftops of the meatpacking district.
“Looks like we’ll have our sailors in the end,” said Vivienne.
Philip came over to us cradling two models in officer uniforms, one on each arm. “Happy Fleet Week,” he said.
Vivienne gave Philip a lapse greeting, a kiss without contact. They hadn’t been getting along over something that didn’t concern me, and this created a staleness in the air.
“You look great,” I told him.
“Me. I look like shit. I’m overworked. I’m just glad the shoes made it to the party. They were stuck in Milano.”
“Milano,” I said, shaking my head.
The girls released themselves from his arms and walked alongside the pool, modeling the shoes.
“Black velvet with an open toe,” said Philip. “The other’s a patent leather burgundy boot with a two-inch heel. It comes in black, navy, platinum, and bone.”
The girl in the velvet heels returned and introduced herself. “I’m Jeppa,” she said.
Jeppa stood still, with her hands on her hips, one leg partly open to the side, her foot at a perpendicular angle.
Vivienne turned and waved to someone at the other end of the party. Philip was pulled away by a photographer who wanted a shot of him on a chaise lounge.
“I know who you are,” Jeppa said.
“We’ve met before,” I said.
“I casted for one of your shows in February.”
“Of course you did. How could I forget? Jeppa. What’s your last name?”
“Jensen. Jeppa Jensen. But my agency makes me go by Jeppa only.”
“The Iman theory,” said Vivienne.
“How’s that working out?” I said.
“You didn’t hire me.”
“You’re kidding. I’ll fire my casting director.”
“I don’t take it personally.”
“Where are you from, Jeppa Jensen?” I always felt that using a woman’s full name created a playful intimacy, regardless of the formality.
“Sweden,” she said. Her accent lilted with that pleasant lisp European women use when they speak English. French and Swedes and Germans all do this.
“I remember now,” I said.
“He doesn’t remember you,” said Vivienne. “Your uniform is getting his dick to move. Beware of straight designers who prowl rooftops in the night. You may get pounced. Stand away from the pool. I need a drink. Anyone?”
“Ignore her,” I said. “Come, let’s all grab a drink.”
A male model sailor served us three glasses of champagne off a tray. We moved to the bar to lean. I ordered us three ginger-flavored vodkas. Vivienne said into my ear, her breath hot, “You can thank me later.”
“For what?”
“I mentioned you were straight. How else would she have known?”
“She’s working. I don’t expect anything.”
“You expect plenty.”
Vivienne turned to say hello to Carl Islip, a famous stylist.
Jeppa pulled out a pack of Gitanes and turned to Steve Tromontozzi, a friend of mine. She asked for a light. She must have heard Vivienne’s petty attack on my masculinity, though she acted unaware. I used the opportunity to observe the outline of Jeppa’s bra under her arms and around her back, its black straps visible through the white cotton of her officer’s blouse. Steve lit her cigarette and she exhaled a plume of smoke into the night air. Jeppa was like some teenage dream. Platinum blond, fair complexion, hazel eyes. And I love Scandinavian noses, so unlike my own flattened olive. This Swede had the power to entrance! By my second drink I was ready for her spell.
“Cigarette?” she offered.
“Please,” I said.
She took one more small puff off of hers and handed it to me. The fibrous filter was still moist where her lips had just been. She lit another off of Steve Tromontozzi, and I gave him a nod. I turned back to Vivienne, but she had gone. She was by the pool again talking to Leslie St. John and Rudy Cohn. I should go say hello, I thought. My affair with Rudy had long since cooled, but we still remained good friends. I turned back to Jeppa, who lightly kissed the edge of her Gitanes, then adoringly twisted her neck away from me to blow her smoke. I was about to suggest going over to join Vivienne when I felt Jeppa’s open toe graze my ankle. She had engaged me in a game of touch. I smiled at her. She played the innocent, oblivious to what she had started.
Then my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I looked down to see that I had already missed two calls from an unidentified number: 555. A movie number. I placed the phone back into my pocket, but then it buzzed again. Same number. I excused myself and answered it. The voice on the other end was unfamiliar.
“What’s the big idea?” he said. “You don’t pick up?”
“Who is this?”
“What’s the big idea?”
“Excuse me? I think you have me confused with someone else.”
“He told me you were testy, but this…”
“Okay. I’m hanging up now.”
“Meet me in the lobby.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The lobby, Tenderfoot.”
“Who is this?”
“You can call me Horseradish. No names on the phone. Get it? I’ll wait in the lobby for two minutes, and then I’m splitsies.”
“You’re in the hotel? Wait, how did you get this number?”
He hung up.
I apologized to Jeppa, excusing myself, and then took the elevator down to the lobby. It wasn’t hard to spot the man who had just called. He still held his cell phone in hand. And he was wearing one of Ahmed’s suits, the double-breasted gray plaid I had made custom. It was much too big for him. When he saw me, he spread out his arms, as if expecting a hug.
“Who are you?” I said.
“I told you, call me Horseradish.” He turned a full circle. “What do you think?”
“I think that’s not your suit.”
“Come with me to my room. We talk there.”
“I’m not coming with you. I don’t even know who you are.”
“The suit. You know it. So you know I’m good people.”
“Yes, but it is not yours. It is my business partner’s suit. What have you done with him?”
“Keep your voice down. He give me the suit. I’m here to help you with your manufacturing difficulties. I’m Hajji,” he whispered. “You know me?”
“You’re here for this now? How did you find me?”
“I followed you.”
“You followed me?”
“What, is there an echo?”
“Why didn’t you just call? And where is Ahmed?”
“He left town on business. Come upstairs. I got a room just so we can talk.”
“I have a party to attend.”
“Then let’s talk at the party. But I got a room because I figured you wouldn’t want to introduce me to all your fancy friends just yet.”
“Okay, I see now. Let’s go.”
I followed Hajji. In the hallway we passed a man I knew but couldn’t place. He was coming out of a room with a young model. There was lipstick smeared on his shirt collar. He was probably a friend of Philip’s. I nodded to him but he didn’t catch it.
Once in Hajji’s room I got to thinking about my auntie Baby, the moneylender of Cebu City, who met her end in a setting very similar to the one I found myself in now. No one ever knew how it went down exactly, but since there were no signs of a struggle or break‑in, police suspected that the murderer was an acquaintance, someone she had dealings with. Someone she knew.
I looked around, paranoid, trying to convince myself that nothing bad could happen to me in the Gansevoort. It was a fortress of luxury and hedonism at the gate of the meatpacking district. According to the celebrity blogs, Kate Moss had celebrated her birthday here just a few weeks earlier. I took solace in that piece of gossip. And Hajji and I had been seen in the lobby together. But then maybe my aunt had similar thoughts running through her mind, just before some son of a bitch came up behind her and put a bag over her head.
“You want a glass of water?” asked Hajji.
“No, I want to get back to my party. What are we here to discuss?”
“You get right to the point, Tenderfoot. I like that.”
“Do you even know my name?”
Hajji opened his jacket to the label I had sewn onto the inside breast pocket.
(B)OY.
“You’re this guy,” he said. “I know all about you. Question is, Do you know about me?”
“Ahmed mentioned you, yes.”
“So you know my reputation. And you’re comfortable with this?”
“What are we even talking about?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sit down. Relax.”
“I’m still wondering why you’re wearing that suit?”
“I told you already. Ahmed give it to me. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. I said, ‘Where did you get such a magnificent suit?’ The sheen. The pattern. The cut. I had to have one. ‘It’s truly magnificent,’ I said. He said, ‘You can’t get it anywhere. It’s one of a kind.’ I said, ‘Impossible!’ Then we wrestled for it. He took off the suit, of course, not to get it messed up in the stable.”
“The stable?”
“The stable where we go to talk. Anyway, once I had his arm pinned behind his back, he told me you were the one who made it. Custom.”
“Yes, but I still don’t see why you’re wearing it tonight.”
“He give it to me. I said I would take a percentage off the vig. He give me the suit. Happy now, Tenderfoot?”
I was wasting time. It was a feeling I got around people like Hajji, a melancholic fog that draped over me whenever I was in the company of someone below my level of intelligence. This feeling took the place of my paranoia.
“On second thought,” I said, “I’ll have a glass of water.”
He turned on a light over the sink and kept an eye on me through the mirror while he filled a glass. Hajji had deep pockmarks in his face. His hair was dyed a cheap black, and under the light I could see the violet base in the color.
He brought over the water.
“Thank you.” I sat on the edge of the bed and took a purple pill.
“That stuff will kill you,” he said.
“They’re prescription.”
“Me, I don’t take pills.”
“Surprising.”
“So, Ahmed tells me you have a manufacturing problem. I’m here to tell you it is a problem no more, my friend. I can have your clothes manufactured overseas in India. It can be done quickly. We send them dresses, they send us the samples, and back and forth until we’ve reached our agreement. Ami explained to me that you had problems about going overseas. That you want everything manufactured in New York. I don’t blame you. Everybody wants American. People pay big bucks for quality. It’s a simple matter of switching the labels once the garments make it past customs. We send the shipment to a factory in Brooklyn and have all the labels switched there. Wallah.”
“Bait and switch. That’s your plan, huh?” I put my water down on the nightstand and stood up, frustrated. “I’m sorry. This is what you followed me here for? We couldn’t discuss this over the phone? Listen, you have my number. Call me on Monday and we’ll talk.”
He took me in his hands and pushed me back down on the bed.
“Now you listen, Tenderfoot. I’m not here to waste my time. Ahmed said you needed to have clothes manufactured; now I’m offering you my services. I don’t offer this sort of deal to everybody. And with the kind of money he owes me, you’re lucky I don’t just take my share of your business. You think I don’t know who you are? I read!”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Not at all. I’m only trying to explain to you how it is. The clothes we make together, people will wear, goddamnit. And, I must say, ever since I saw Ahmed wearing this suit, I’ve been envious of his new friend, the tailor. I think we should be in business. Someone who can make a suit like this…one of a kind. No question. It’s truly magnificent.”
I knew I had to get out of his room as quickly as possible, even if it meant telling Hajji whatever he wanted to hear. “Okay,” I said. “It sounds fine. You’re a friend of Ahmed’s. And I trust him. So let’s talk Monday. Call me and you can come by my studio.”
I stood up and was met with the same hostility. He pushed me back down on the bed.
“We’re not finished yet! This suit still needs to be taken in. And you are the one who’s gonna do it.”
“Now? Are you out of your mind? I have people waiting for me. They’re going to get suspicious if I’m gone too long.”
He stepped over to the bedside table and grabbed a plastic CVS bag, which he then threw at me. I looked inside. He was serious. He’d bought a needle and thread, a small travel kit. The receipt was still in the bag.
“I can’t do this now. I need a sewing machine. And where are the scissors? We’ll ruin it. Listen, make an appointment and come by my studio. I’ll have it done then.”
“I want this suit—” Just then, his phone went off. His ring tone was an Arabic pop song, exotic chants over a fast dance beat. He took the call and stuck out his finger, placing me on hold. He spoke a language I would later learn to recognize as Urdu.
I waited on the bed for a few seconds before realizing that this was my opportune moment to make for the door. Hajji was at the desk fumbling with the hotel stationery. I got moving. He ended his call abruptly just as I was turning the door handle. Suddenly he was so preoccupied he didn’t seem to care that I was on my way out. I should say good-bye, I thought. Keep it friendly but quick. “Ciao,” I said. “See you next week sometime.”
“I’ll call you about the suit.”
“You know you can take it to any tailor. They’d do a better job. I can recommend one.”
“Only I want you to do it.”
“Okay, fine. No problemo.” I was dealing with a maniac. “Call me Monday and make an appointment. I’m busy, but it won’t be a problem.”
I ran out of there and took the stairs back up to the roof. I called Ahmed’s house from the top of the stairwell.
“Yuksel, it’s Boy. Is he there?”
“Eh?”
“I want you to take a message. You ready? Good. Tell Ahmed that I don’t like being followed. Tell him that I’ve just been blackmailed by his friend Hajji. The Indian gangster with purple hair. Tell him if I ever see this Hajji again, our business together is through! You hear me? Make sure he gets it. And Yuksel?”
“Sir?”
“Read it back to me.”
It took us several more tries before Yuksel was able to capture the spirit of the message. Then I returned to the party.
My special agent has informed me that Ahmed was taken into custody that same night at approximately 9:00 P.M., just as Vivienne and I were stepping into the Gansevoort for Philip’s Fleet Week party. It’s strange to think about what happens simultaneously at the most insignificant times. Never for a moment did my mind wander outside of the industry bubble.
You see, it never did occur to me that a higher authority would come knocking on my door.
1. Also known as NLEC.
2. See Plato, The Republic.
3. The correct spelling is Cunanan.
4. Women and cocaine, presumably. Lifted from the title of the 1982 series Joanie Loves Chachi, a spin-off of Happy Days. Although Joanie Loves Chachi didn’t connect with viewers in the United States and was canceled after two seasons, it was actually a big hit in the Philippines, where it still runs in syndication.
5. No such vessel. Most likely it was the USS Katherine Walker.