by J. S. Law
He gave her the thumbs up sign and Dan couldn’t help but smile breathlessly beneath her mask.
A white flash caught her eye and she saw Aaron step through the small gap that led to the starting platform, where he had shown her the manual controls for the engines.
In the commotion she had forgotten that the casualty exercise had even been happening.
People moved aside as Aaron rushed past the Chief Stoker. Neither was wearing an EBS mask and Dan assumed that that must be the norm for ‘safety numbers’.
Behind them came another mass of bodies, their overalls literally soaking wet from the exertion. They were carrying the Neil Robertson stretcher, the shape inside it bound so tightly that movement was impossible, as impossible as it had been for Ben Roach’s friend on the day that he was whipped as he lay bound in the same restraints.
The stretcher was designed to support people with back injuries and it remained rigidly straight as it was passed along a chain of men, almost as though it were a log being laboriously worked towards the aft escape platform.
She saw the two men at the front of the stretcher step through. Behind them, four more sailors slipped into gaps and crevices between machinery, to help support and carry the stretcher on the final leg of its journey up from the lower level. Each of them had to fleet in EBS, unplugging their air hoses and plugging them back in a few feet ahead every time the stretcher advanced. Often they would pass their hose to a colleague, waiting patiently until it was plugged in again, allowing the air to flow; they all worked together in fluid motion to achieve the collective aim.
The casualty came into view, bound tight in the stretcher. He wore the same blue overalls and the same black mask as all of the other men.
The sailors were shouting to him to ‘breathe’ and ‘hold’ as they fleeted on his behalf.
Dan watched as they heaved him onto the platform.
The casualty’s head was shaking ever so slightly.
It caught Dan’s eye because the head was supported on both sides by the stretcher and the forehead restrained by a thick strap; yet the casualty’s head was shaking frantically now, moving within the tiny space allowed by the restraint.
Dan stepped forward, trying to get a closer look.
‘Hang back, ma’am,’ said the same sailor who had spoken to her before. ‘They’ll need to come round this way.’
He moved into the gap with her, pushing her further back and blocking her into the small space.
Dan felt a shiver go down her spine. She forgot about how much she was sweating and the fact that her uniform was wet through. She forgot about how deeply she was breathing, or how heavy the mask felt as it clung by a layer of sweaty rubber to her face. She focused on the casualty.
Then the shaking stopped.
Dan pushed forward towards the stretcher, bumping into the large man in front of her. She reached the end of the travel on her breathing hose and her head jolted round quickly, jerking her neck and causing her to cry out in pain. Ripping her mask off, she pointed at Aaron and shouted, her words lost in the noise of the heave, men shouting and grunting, the noise of the submarine absorbing her words like shadows falling into darkness.
He looked at her, his eyebrows furrowed, and then he held up a hand like a teacher saying, ‘Now isn’t the time.’
Dan pushed harder to get past the figure that was trapping her in, shouting again, urgent, demanding to be heard, and he finally relented. She watched as they put the stretcher down on the platform, the men panting, soaked from their efforts.
‘The mask,’ she shouted. ‘Take off the mask.’
Aaron and the Chief Stoker seemed to turn towards her in unison.
She lunged forward, pushed her way around the large, sweaty shape that she had been working alongside a few moments before, and tore at the casualty’s mask, unable to rip it off as it was leeched onto the man’s face, caved in around the rubber seal like a collapsed balloon. She wedged a finger under the seal, releasing the vacuum, and watching in slow motion as the mask regained its shape. When the straps finally gave and the mask was removed, she saw the face beneath it, the blue lips and still waxy skin, the saliva and sweat sliding down his cheek like soap bubbles down an enamelled bath.
Time slowed.
The shouts around her sounded like long, low groans as she looked down and recognised Roach’s face, waxy and still.
There were panicked faces and bellowed orders and then the main broadcast, once again, snapped her back into the moment.
‘SAFEGUARD – SAFEGUARD,’ sounded the main broadcast, the signal that this was no longer an exercise. ‘CASUALTY – CASUALTY – CASUALTY. CASUALTY ON THE AFT ESCAPE PLATFORM. MEDICAL PARTIES ARE AT THE SCENE. ALL REPORTS TO DCHQ.’
Dan buckled and fell backwards to sit on the hard deck as the medics closed in around Ben Roach. She watched them check his pulse. She watched his blue face and lolling tongue, the froth running down from his cheeks mingled with sweat, as they tried to revive him. She watched them cut him out of the stretcher and work on him, two medics giving him the kiss of life. Then she watched, after fifteen minutes, the two medics look at each other and nod, tears streaming down the face of one of them as they pronounced him dead at the scene. Finally, she watched Aaron’s face turn ashen white, his mouth open and his hands clutch at his hair, while the Chief Stoker stood next to him, watching her.
Chapter 22
Monday Afternoon – 29th September 2014
Dan had to concentrate on the corpse in front of her to be certain this wasn’t a nightmare. She knew that it made no sense to do it, but she used the hand that was thrust deep into one of her pockets, grabbed a sliver of flesh on her leg and pinched herself; it hurt.
She shivered.
The wardroom felt cold, despite the normally oppressive heat, and the drone of the ventilation made her want to scream as she looked around at the stony faces of the men standing against the wall opposite the two dining tables.
All of them were looking at something, not each other, though, and not the corpse that had been placed on the table, sandwiched between white bed sheets.
Aaron had avoided her eyes and looked close to tears for the last hour or so, his eyes getting redder and more bloodshot and his complexion turning greyer and more clammy as each minute passed. His hands were still visibly shaking, although no one seemed to be concerned.
The Executive Officer hadn’t spoken a word, and Dan got the distinct impression that he was showing the lads a ‘stiff upper lip’ in the face of this adversity.
The medical staff, a petty officer and a young leading hand, had seemed to deal with the situation expertly at first. They’d carried out actions as they had been trained to do, but, as time wore on and the adrenaline subsided, they’d both started to look tired and lost. It was as though the training they had done hadn’t quite taken them this far, hadn’t told them exactly how this would feel and what they should do next.
The curtain that hung across the entrance to the wardroom was thrown back and the Old Man stalked in. He looked at no one and stopped directly next to the body, reached down and picked up Ben Roach’s left hand from beneath the loose sheet.
The blue-tinged hue of Ben’s limp hand was even more disturbing against the Old Man’s pale skin and he held on for a short while, his back to Dan so that she was unable to see his face.
After a few moments he gently placed the hand back down, covered it and patted Ben’s chest.
Aaron moved restlessly and then spoke. ‘The connector on his EBS hose, it must’ve been crushed as the stretcher was moved. The lads were all fleeting properly, plugging him in and giving him warnings when they moved, but it was crushed. It was engaging into the system but not letting the air through.’ He trailed off, shaking his head.
‘There’ll be a full investigation, Aaron,’ replied the Commanding Officer, without looking away from the body. ‘Until then I want no blame, no one taking this onto themselves. Until such time as the Coxswain has finishe
d investigating and handed me his report, then this is a horrible accident and these boys still have a job to do.’
The Old Man finally looked up and engaged with his officers. ‘This submarine is four full days away from patrol and the men need to refocus and prepare.’
Dan’s jaw fell open.
‘We cannot just carry on—’
The Old Man turned and barked at her before she could continue. ‘Lieutenant Lewis, my cabin. Now,’ he said, and waited.
Dan felt as though she was still wearing her EBS mask, as though her clothes were heavy with sweat and her limbs were drained through exhaustion. She forced herself to breathe steadily. Then, trying to muster what control she could, she walked out of the wardroom feeling the glares all around her, knowing that their eyes were shadowing her as she went.
The Old Man didn’t follow immediately and Dan didn’t hurry. She walked past the battle honours mounted on the passageway wall, memories of when other men had lost their lives on board previous vessels of the same name.
Someone was crying in the Junior Rates Mess, the place where Ben would have taken his meals and relaxed after his duties.
Dan heard it grow louder as she walked towards the entrance.
A single person weeping, their loud sobs unrestrained and inconsolable. Other than that, the submarine was deathly quiet; even the constant hum of the air conditioning seemed to have diminished out of respect for the dead.
The crying faded away as she climbed up the ladder and entered the hushed control room. Moving quickly through, not hearing a single spoken word as she passed within earshot of around twenty silent submariners, Dan walked to the Old Man’s cabin. No one looked at her this time; no one looked at anyone.
She stopped outside the Old Man’s door for an instant before she shrugged and stepped inside.
His seat was empty and the cabin seemed more spacious as a result.
Dan took a seat on the bench and leaned back, accepting that she would be made to wait.
When the Old Man finally pulled back the curtain to his cabin, his already red face turned a deep purple as he saw her sitting patiently on the makeshift sofa.
‘Never enter my cabin without my express permission,’ he said quietly, as he turned the folding chair to face her and lowered himself down onto it.
Dan thought about pointing out that he had, in fact, ordered her to enter, but, instead, she waited calmly without apologising.
‘We lost another brother today, Lieutenant Lewis,’ he said, without looking at her. ‘Someone that meant something to many of us on board Tenacity. A submariner who knew the risks he took and understood the aims of what we do.’
Dan looked at the wall, focusing on a picture of a much younger Commander Bradshaw, long before he would have been the ‘Old Man’.
He was slim, fit looking and was standing with arms crossed next to a group of young men. ‘Royal Navy Boxing Team – 1997–1998’ read the inscription.
The young men were dressed in vests and long shorts, most of their haircuts dated in a way that would likely make them unrecognisable to anyone but family or close friends after such a length of time.
Dan focused in on Bradshaw’s eyebrows; they hadn’t changed, or not by much. Then her eyes were drawn to two young men immediately behind the Old Man in the picture, young and lean, their hair marking them out because it was still short, not fully grown back from when it would have been shaved at basic training.
‘Tenacity is a one-billion-pound asset, Lieutenant Lewis. An entire submerged eco-system, with a purpose,’ he continued. ‘You may have your secrets, but we have ours too and the reason for this patrol, the information that we will bring back, is bigger than the life of one individual; any individual.’
He stopped and looked at her, waiting for a response.
‘Sir,’ she began, not looking at him, still focusing on the photograph and trying hard to keep her voice strong. She wanted to lean forward and examine it more closely, to try and decipher her way through the years.
‘Lieutenant Lewis!’
Dan turned to face him, noting that his fists were balled like an impatient and temperamental child’s as he waited.
As she looked at him, her mind recalled a still image of Ben Roach’s face, then another of the spot in the engine rooms where Whisky Walker had hanged himself, and then a grimy, dark photograph of Cheryl Walker’s back, the pattern of bruises that had drawn her into this investigation, that had fuelled her need to come on board this submarine.
Her eyes followed the welts that ran up Cheryl’s back, each of them a path that led to Tenacity. She needed justice for Cheryl Walker and now she needed justice for Ben Roach, but both were gone, dead, and unable to suffer any more. Ben’s death, so close to his offer of help, would be reason enough to get the boat recalled, but only if she could get word off the submarine, and she had no authority to do that. But now, as she thought about what she believed had happened, she considered again the submarine sailing from Devonport early, so soon after she had misspoken. Then she thought about the change in Ben Roach’s temperament and manner, the indicators of stress, that he had something to share. He was taken from her too, snatched away as Tenacity had almost been.
She looked at Bradshaw. Was he the only man who could give the order to sail, or was there a higher authority at work?
In either case, here at sea, there were no other influencers in play. If Ben’s death was no accident, as Dan believed, then that killer was here, trapped on board with her. If Tenacity was in Devonport then they would have options – people and equipment coming and going, opportunities to remove or hide evidence – but here, now, at sea, they were as contained as she was.
‘I’m sorry,’ she began. ‘It’s been a very upsetting day. I’d like to go now and compose my report and observations on what occurred. I’ll make it available as soon as possible, as I believe it may impact on the investigation that I’m certain is about to commence.’
‘And why would your observations of this terrible accident impact on our investigation, pray tell, Dan? You were, from all I can ascertain, simply watching. What could you have to offer?’
Dan watched him closely, saying nothing.
‘More suspicion, Lieutenant Lewis? More secrets?’ he whispered to her.
Dan looked back to the picture of the boxing team, only turning back when she heard the Old Man begin to snuffle like a pig, before it grew into a quiet, gruff laugh.
With all that had happened, with a young man lying dead on the wardroom table, he laughed at her. The sound seemed more alien and disgusting than any other Dan could think of.
He turned and shuffled through some papers on his desk.
‘Do you know the Laws of the Navy, Lieutenant Lewis?’
Dan ignored the question, refusing to be drawn, refusing to react.
‘I don’t mean the law as you think of it, I mean the real Laws of the Navy. Those that tell you how the navy actually works, the laws that help you to function as part of our machine.’
She still refused to answer.
‘Well, I’m going to do you a favour, Dan. I’m going to help you out before you draft your secret report. I’m going to offer you some advice that I think you might just be smart enough to accept.’
He found what he was looking for and thrust a sheet of paper towards her, holding it out and waiting until Dan reluctantly took it.
‘You can read it all when you’re alone,’ he said quietly, leaning in towards her. ‘But just read this one verse out loud for me, if you will.’
He pointed to the verse that he’d circled in red biro.
Dan looked at it but did not read aloud; instead she scanned the words slowly.
Dost think, in a moment of anger,
’Tis well with thy seniors to fight?
They prosper, who burn in the morning,
The letters they wrote overnight.
She was unable to concentrate as the Old Man, seeming to accept that he would not be able
to force her to read, recited the words aloud from memory.
His eyes bored into her and his breath warmed the side of her face.
Dan had to fight the urge to shudder.
‘These laws were committed to paper by—’
‘Admiral R.A. Hopwood, Royal Navy,’ said Dan, cutting him off.
He breathed heavily through his mouth and then smiled.
She could hear his breathing and it felt so close that she was sure that any moment she would involuntarily shiver, an overt reaction to his very proximity; he made her skin crawl.
‘And they are wise, wise words, Danny.’ He accented her name, putting emphasis on the D and drawing out the final syllable as though he were her lover whispering into her ear, begging for her attention.
‘Nothing leaves this submarine without my signature; you know that. So you’ll have plenty of time to think about the words you intend to draft and the ones I have just gifted to you.’
She could bear his proximity no longer. She shivered, her whole body tensing as she stood up and stepped away from him.
He breathed out slowly, as though he had been savouring her scent, and then smiled. Then, his small eyes peering out from beneath his gathered, bushy eyebrows, he spoke again. ‘One last thing,’ he said with a smile that made her shiver again. ‘You need to think long and hard about who you talk to regarding any secret theories, even tight-lipped hints like the one you just offered me. Emotions are raw and people are hurt. Ideas like that, careless, insensitive, destructive ideas, could cause tensions to boil over, control to be lost, and it’s all about control on board a submarine.’ He paused. ‘I can’t protect you everywhere.’
Dan stepped quickly past him and through the door, tripping on the raised threshold and cursing as she did. She hurried away, almost breaking into a run as she reached the two-deck ladder.
The crying was still the only sound she could hear. It was the same person, the same voice and the same heartbreak that was coming from the Junior Rates Mess.
She registered it as she moved quickly towards the bomb-shop. On some level she wanted to look and see who it was, who on board was the only one who seemed to be grieving openly for Ben. But she had to get away and find some space. She felt like she needed to rip off her own skin, to clench her fists and scream. As she climbed down the ladder, she realised that she was still clutching the sheet of paper with the Laws of the Navy printed in neat stanzas down the centre, that single verse circled in red.