The line to go below was forming, a lot of hustle and bustle. I lagged back to have a last long look over the water. It was choppy, and wind-torn pennants of red, green, and gold colored the dawn sky. The boat glistened with frost. Above her silolike sail, the last stars were also taking their sweet time to go. How many people in the world were still around to see those stars? To feel what I felt?
"Red sky at morning, sailor take warning," someone said up front, and "Who's got Dramamine?" I wiped my eyes and headed down.
CHAPTER TWELVE
We raised anchor and sailed for the open ocean the morning of Sunday, February 5. The rolling below decks told us a storm was brewing-a submarine's famed ability to ride out gales is all about its ability to submerge. Since we were running on the surface, we had no such immunity. In fact, we were less stable than a surface ship would have been.
The effect of this irony was a plague of seasickness in the missile room. There was no adequate provision for this, no way to hurl over the side, and only one available restroom for over four hundred people. It was like a painting by Brueghel in there. Five-gallon buckets were lashed down all over the compartment, and whenever they were full, someone had to pour them into the three toilets, a terrible job in a rocking ship. Everyone took turns doing it, but not everyone was as sure-footed as they might have been-I know I had a few spills of my own. Even with the air being constantly refreshed, it was impossible to escape the smell of vomit.
Knock wood, I was one of the few who never got sick.
Nobody knew where we were going, and the conscripted adults passing through the missile room did not stop to answer questions, so there was a certain envy when word came over the loudspeaker that I was to report to the command center.
"Lucky you, getting a pass out of steerage," Hector said, half mocking. He and the other guys could barely drag themselves from their cardboard igloo on the fourth level. "Make sure to tell them we appreciate the accommodations."
"And make 'em tell you what's up with this secrecy shit," Tyrell said. "Brotha got a right to know what kinda plans they makin' for us. I ain't doin' no more tired-ass refugee-camp bullshit. Give me an island. We livin' in a democracy-I say we vote on where we goin', be kickin' back in the Bahamas."
Doing a Jamaican-sounding falsetto, Jake sang, "Sail away to Block Island… leave all your troubles behind…" Then he retched.
Pausing dramatically at the forward bulkhead, I intoned, "I shall return."
I still hadn't seen or heard from Cowper since our first night on the water, six days before. I attributed this to the urgent demands put on him, as well as the need to avoid any appearance of favoritism-he couldn't afford to lavish attention on any one person. The crew had their limited sphere, the passengers our own. Being granted the largest open space on board, we were expected to make the best of it, which meant not bothering anyone forward amidships. It was an unavoidable apartheid; there was simply not enough room to let so many people roam free. But I didn't like it.
The luckiest among us were the adults who were permitted to use the enlisted berthing on the missile room's third level: nine bunks to a room, with doors that could be shut against the squalor. Everyone envied them.
Arriving at main control, I was told by Kranuski to report to the commander on the bridge. It reassured me to see that no one here seemed disturbed by the deck's motion. It didn't smell.
"Come right fifteen degrees," Kranuski said, and Robles replied, "Right fifteen, aye." The men at the steering yokes casually complied. Most of the people in the room were men who had come from the factory, but it was hard to tell them apart from the official crew anymore. A number of them were wearing the same blue "poopie suits" as the one Cowper had given me.
As I went up the hatch that had been such a dreadful source of terror before, I was grateful for this scene of quiet professionalism-only XO Kranuski so much as spared me a glance. "Just grab a harness and go all the way up," he said.
Climbing up through three dank chambers, I emerged into a tiny, pitching cockpit already full of Mr. Coombs. He had a bulky neck brace, and a big pair of binoculars slung from it. The wind was fierce.
"Coming through, sir!" I shouted, disappointed at not finding Cowper. Coombs made room for me beside him while a burly man scanned the seas to my right-it was Albemarle. We were high above the waves, the sub's blunt nose plowing them into ridges of whitewater that doused us with spray. It was also sleeting. The toy windshield, on which cryptic figures and notations had been scribbled in grease pencil, offered no protection.
Turning stiffly toward me, Coombs shouted, "Why don't you have a coat?"
"Sorry, sir. I didn't know."
He made me drop back down and put on a hooded rain slicker and a life vest-thank goodness, because I was freezing cold. When I returned to the top, he clipped me to a safety cable, then handed me binoculars, and bellowed, "Tell me if you see anything!"
There was nothing to see but gray. Feeling very nervous, I searched a wide swath of whitecaps but found no horizon or anything else. Spume misted the lenses. Looking astern I thought I saw something: a faint light that blinked and vanished. I waited for it and caught it blinking again.
"There," I said. "A light. It keeps going on and off."
"I should hope so," he said gruffly. "It's the Beavertail Light. You should be able to see that without the damn binoculars. On a clear day you'd see the cliffs at Newport. If you look about twenty degrees to the left, you can probably find the automated light at Point Judith, too. It's operational."
I had been to the Point Judith Light. It was only a couple of miles from Jerusalem. Living there felt like a long, long time ago. That we could still be so close made my stomach muscles clench up. "I see it," I said.
"Now look forward again a little more carefully. See the compass? We're heading due east, following the mainland toward the Cape. Track ahead along the coast."
"But I can't even see the coast."
"Doesn't matter-the SVS-1200 says it's there, see?"
He showed me a map displayed on a small glowing screen, and I nodded as if I could read it. I returned to scanning, trying to keep my balance in the swinging loft. "Wait-there it is. That one?"
"Sakonnet Point. Congratulations." He turned robotically and shook my hand.
"Thanks," I said, sheepishly handing back the binoculars.
"I'm not congratulating you for seeing the lighthouse. I'm congratulating you for being selected as the boat's official Youth Liaison Officer."
"Oh… The what, sir?"
"You'll be responsible for making sure all command directives are understood and followed to the letter by the other minors on board. You will also be the spokesperson for said minors, addressing their questions and concerns in whatever way you see fit, so long as it doesn't interfere with the official duties of the crew or the rules and regulations of this vessel. Finally, you will be my eyes and ears in the missile bay and will be expected to furnish a daily report describing any problems you may be having with civilian order or morale. Anyone gives you trouble, report them to me. Think you can handle the job?"
"I'm not sure, sir. I've never-"
"Am I to understand that you are the young woman who came up with the carbon-monoxide solution to the Xombies?"
"I guess so, yes, but-"
"Well, I'm sure that if you bring as much initiative to your duties as Youth Liaison Officer as you did to the Maenad problem, you'll have them eating out of your hand. The youths, that is. Now, these duties are not to be taken lightly. All it takes is one bad apple to spoil the whole bunch, girl-our lives and the success of our objective could once again come down to your powers of observation. We've already compromised far too much of this mission… we have to salvage what we can. May I count on you."
It was not a question. "Yes, sir," I said dismally.
"Good. Mr. Monte will get you started on one of the UNIX workstations. He'll also arrange for you to have a private snack in the wardroom every day-but I ad
vise you to keep that to yourself. Welcome to the team. That's all."
"Mr. Coombs, sir?"
"You should call me Commander or Captain. Skipper is all right, too."
"Yes, sir. Uh, Captain? Where can I find Mr. Cowper, sir?"
He turned heavily away. "You wouldn't want to do that."
"Why not?"
"Fred Cowper is under arrest, pending charges of conspiracy, mutiny, sedition, and theft and destruction of classified government property. That's just the beginning. I don't know what your relationship to him is, but I do know that his personnel file specifies that he is widowed with no dependents. All the times I've worked with him over the years, he never mentioned you. Don't you think it's about time you returned the favor?"
I shook my head no, tears blowing away.
"Lulu, Uncle Sam is your daddy now. He won't let you down."
Ice-cold, I descended.
I was used to being shunned-kids had been shunning me all my life, as they will anyone who dares to use reason and four-syllable words-but under these circumstances it was bothersome beyond belief. As Youth Liaison Officer I was given scheduled times when I could roam beyond the missile compartment, and these outings became more and more necessary as my tolerance for being sniped at decreased-the decks were gauntlets of whispered asides, to which I responded in kind: "Bitch." "Jerk." "Bitch." "Creep." "Skank." "Pig." "Bitch." "Trash." No one cared that I had neither asked for nor desired my new title; any fledgling public sympathy just evaporated overnight. Word had gotten out about Cowper's arrest and confinement, and a lot of guys acted like he had been asking for it all along. "Oh yeah," they murmured together. "What did he expect?" I couldn't believe it. He and I were even made the subject of outrageous graffiti-cartoons that portrayed me as a Nazi Kewpie doll putting a noose around the old man's neck.
All my fears about sharing a cave with these troglodytes seemed to be coming true. I took to carrying my possessions everywhere I went for fear of vandalism. The boys blamed me for everything. When I had to announce that the laptops were being confiscated, they blamed me. When I couldn't increase the measly ration, or couldn't answer questions about our destination, they blamed me. For anything they could think up I was blamed, so that I began to feel like a sacrificial effigy: Coombs's stand-in. Fortunately, there were no more psychos among them, or if there were, they knew better than to act on it. But when animals are crowded together in unhealthy conditions, they eventually start killing one another, and I think Coombs knew exactly what he was doing, letting me take the heat. I was expendable.
Rather than murdering me, however, the boys vented their testosterone on one another, fighting over any slight-I mean real fistfights-and forming belligerent gangs. I tried to channel these passions in a positive direction, enlisting Shawn to help me organize a makeshift poetry slam, and even contributed a short piece in the style of my idol, Emily Dickinson: "Trapped in this armpit omnibus / The river feeds its source / We've traded in our Pegasus / And bought a rocking horse." But in spite of the captive audience, the reading was a bust, at best an unruly class assembly.
"Cut them some slack," Shawn said afterward, unfazed. "It's too soon. They'll rhyme when they're ready to rhyme. Right now it ain't real to them-everybody needs to feel safe first." He shrugged, not looking at me. "You just don't inspire that much confidence, Lulu. It's not your fault."
The ship's crew didn't like me any better than the passengers did, resenting my presence in "officer country" and taking full advantage of their option to bounce me out of any area deemed too sensitive. This was completely at their discretion and depended on the whim or temperament of the individual officer. Robles and Noteiro were liberal; Kranuski and Webb not so nice. But at least I wasn't the only one receiving this treatment: there were over a hundred of our people-men and proficient older boys (Julian among them)-who had been engaged to assist and relieve the burned-out crew. What made my position unique was that I only answered to the captain and didn't have to take on any old job that came up.
I should say here I did have my supporters, however reluctant. Hector, Julian, Jake, Tyrell, and a handful of others never treated me like a stooge. In fact, they sheltered me as best they could from the bullying, though they were obviously terrified of being isolated themselves. It was due to their civility and encouragement that I was able to fulfill any part of my duties, not to mention sleep in peace. I really depended on them.
"You okay?"
It was late in the night, and the weight of woe had driven me to tears. I tried to be quiet about it, huddled in my corner, but Julian overheard me and crawled over. Back turned, I nodded, tried to hold it in, then blurted, "I'm sick of everybody hating me. I can't stand this anymore. I didn't do anything!"
"No they don't. Hey."
"What the hell are you talking about?" I retorted.
"Okay they do, but it's nothing personal."
"That's just it, it is personal. It's about me! It's always been about me. Either people think I'm stuck-up, or I'm some kind of mutant quiz kid-a sideshow freak. Now I get to be an evil she-devil on top of it all? Give me a break!" I turned and looked at him through brimming tears. "What the hell am I supposed to do? Kill myself?"
"Listen, everybody's just scared. We're all alone out here. Nobody knows what's going on, and right now they're taking it out on you, trying to do anything they can to bond together."
"Great."
"I know it sucks, but it's not something you're going to overcome by appealing to their sense of logic. Believe me, I've tried. You're going to have to aim lower."
"I'm not about to be the ship's slut, if that's what you mean."
"Not that low. I'm talking about the heart, the gut. Give them something to rally around."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. You're the English wiz. Think of something."
Every day a hastily typed memo would appear in my file, describing in the vaguest possible terms the submarine's itinerary, and part of my job was to brighten this bland text with cheerful adjectives and patriotic platitudes, then read it out loud from atop one of the big box girders that spanned the missile bay. This was part of what Coombs called "Building Team Spirit." I cranked out the fluff as he asked, though the thought of reading it made me cringe. I put it off and put it off. But when I finally got up the nerve, the response was nothing like I expected.
Here was the first such memo: SURFACE CRUISING 17 NAUT. MI. SOUTH OF CAPE COD-NANTUCKET SOUND-NORTHEASTERLY TRACK-MODERATE TO HEAVY SWELLS-PLANNED NORTHERLY COURSE CHANGE 1900 HRS-SHIP'S STATUS CONTINUED ALERT.
My read-aloud version went:
"It is only through adversity that we know our mettle. We follow the track of the fabled nor'easter and charge through the burgeoning swells like Eros on his dolphin. The bayberry and beach-plum dunes of Cape Cod, only seventeen miles north, do not beckon us the way they did the scurvied whale-men of old Nantucket, returning to their Sound from mythic hunts in southern seas. Our hunt lies north, as tonight at the hour of seven we round the curling eyelash of the Cape and emulate the cool and forward-thrust brow of America. America: She looks to the North Atlantic as the source of her strength, first as the stream that brought her peoples-as the infant Moses was borne upon the Nile-then as the rich fishing grounds that sustained them. Her beating heart urges us this way… and as proud Americans we are bound to go."
Coombs liked this so much he had me broadcast it all over the boat. I have to say that with "The Star-Spangled Banner" playing in the background, it sounded pretty good, but what really surprised me was the effect it had on everyone: There wasn't a dry eye in the house. Best of all, after a few of these performances, kids stopped being so mean to me.
"What are you going to do, now that they've arrested your old man?" asked Hector after dinner.
"What is there to do?" I said.
"How can you keep working for them?"
"Yeah, that's gotta suck, dude," said Jake.
"I'm not working for them. The idea is th
at we're all supposed to be working together."
"Yeah, right."
"Really, I consider myself your representative up there. Anything anybody asks about, I forward it to Coombs, just like I bring back any information he gives me."
"Which is bogus."
"Maybe, but without it, we wouldn't know anything at all."
"I get more scuttlebutt just listening to my stepdad complain."
"Yeah, but that's just a lot of rumors and gossip," I said. "That's not real information-sharing. The only people who really know anything are the senior officers."
"Like they're sharing with you, give me a break. You're a tool."
"Thanks."
"A propaganda tool, come on. They're using you."
"It goes both ways."
"Oh yeah? So what are they planning for us? Tell me that."
"You heard the message," I said. "We're going up north to find the 'environmental survivability threshold of Agent X'-"
"Whatever that means."
"-where Maenad activity might be less intense-"
"Where they're all frozen solid, in other words."
"Xombiesicles." Jake smirked.
"-and where we can presumably be dropped off safely." I shook my head. "God, you guys."
"Where? Like the North Pole? I don't believe in Santa Claus, Lulu," Hector said. "Spring is on its way, you know? And it isn't just flowers that are going to be in bloom. Maybe it's cold now, but there's not going to be any place cold enough to make ice in July-not any place we can live. And what are we supposed to eat in the meantime? What are we supposed to wear? None of us brought clothes for a damn Antarctic expedition."
"Arctic. Look, there's no point in talking about this, because we don't know what they have in mind."
"All I'm saying is we're starving already, and it's only going to get worse."
"They shouldn't call it the Donner party," mused Jake. "I'd be like, 'Where's the beer, dude? Holy shit!'"
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