The Submarine Job

by Clifford, Riley

  The last man down screwed the hatch shut tight. Now, Fiske thought, absolutely nothing else could get into the boat.

  It didn’t cross his mind that this meant he couldn’t get out.

  In the mess below, Lieutenant Oppowitz flagged down a sailor and called him over.

  “Fiske, this is Petty Officer Third Class Ralph Kane. Everyone has to earn his keep down here, you know, so you’ll be helping Ralph out. Ralph is a missile technician. You’ll be spending a lot of time in the torpedo room.”

  Ralph was tall and broad and looked the part of a sailor. He offered a hand to Fiske. “Pleasure to meet you.” Though Fiske thought it might not be all that much of a pleasure. Ralph looked a bit annoyed, like someone had just made him the most lethal babysitter under the sea.

  “You, too,” said Fiske. “But I won’t be with you, Lieutenant?”

  “You’ll be bored stiff with me,” said the lieutenant. “Ralph’s got the fun job. Not that I envy him, I swear it. My life is exciting enough just being on the boat. I don’t need to add torpedoes into it. Ralph here, Ralph on the other hand, he’s full of excitement and danger, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Ralph. But Fiske didn’t agree. Ralph’s face was so serious, Fiske thought his idea of excitement and danger might be rearranging his rock collection.

  “Very good,” said Lieutenant Oppowitz. “Fiske, you’ll be in fine hands. Kane here is a top-notch sailor. Now, I’m off to report for duty. You stick with Ralph and he’ll keep you out of trouble.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Fiske, fidgeting a little bit. He didn’t feel out of trouble next to Ralph. In fact, he felt very much in trouble, except he hadn’t done anything yet.

  Ralph looked down at Fiske when the lieutenant walked away. Fiske flushed a deep scarlet and wished that he knew the right thing to say. If Ralph wanted, Fiske was perfectly willing to spend the next four days hiding in his bunk.

  “S-so,” said Fiske, stumbling around in the awkward silence like a blind man in a fun house. “How deep does it go?”

  Ralph looked annoyed again. “Well, if you were a real submariner, you would know that, wouldn’t you?” Ralph grabbed a sailor by the elbow — it was George. “Puke, how deep do we go?”

  “Uh, uh,” said George. He had been just fine chatting with Fiske earlier, but now George’s face had turned a strange combination of milky pale with bright red spots. “Uh, that’s, uh, seven hundred feet. Sir. Uh, sir.”

  “Hmph,” said Ralph. He turned his deadly serious glare onto Fiske. “This isn’t a cruise ship. This isn’t a vacation for anyone else. Down here, you’re going to have to work like everybody else does. So don’t mess around, and don’t make me look bad. Got that?”

  “Oh, um, sure. Yes.” Fiske glanced at George, who raised his eyebrows. Fiske cracked a tiny smile.

  And that was a mistake.

  Ralph grabbed the collar of Fiske’s poopy suit. Fiske’s heart jumped into his throat; his only thought in that moment was for the ring. “Look,” said Ralph. “I don’t care whose grandson you are. Mess around down here, and I’ll make you wish you never set foot on this boat. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” said Fiske, his heart beating too fast. “Yes. I understand.”

  “Good,” said Ralph, letting go of Fiske after giving him a shove. “Let’s get to work.”

  Fiske glanced at George again before following Ralph. George gave a little shrug. This was going to be interesting.

  Life under the sea was good to Fiske. Namely because people beneath the water were so much nicer to him than his classmates had ever been. Excepting Ralph, sort of. Part of that was probably because they all thought they had to, because he was supposedly the grandson of a World War II hero, but he was willing to look beyond that if it meant some peace.

  It was easy to acclimate himself to the structured life on the submarine. There were six hours of sleep on, admittedly, a tiny and not very comfortable bunk. Then six hours of torpedo duty with Ralph. Someone must have told him about “Fiske King’s” interest in submarines and to be indulgent of that, because Ralph was full of lectures: about torpedoes and how serious a job he had, about gauges and dials, about the nobility of the submarine.

  “Just like a whale,” Ralph said. “There is nothing more noble than a whale.”

  “Sure,” agreed Fiske.

  “Nothing.”

  “I agree!”

  Since this trip on the Nautilus was just a shakedown to get all of her kinks out before taking her out on real missions, there wasn’t too much to worry about, in terms of shooting at things. Still, every day, Ralph was there, checking gauges and pressure readings. He arrived for shifts early and was the last one to leave at the end. Fiske thought he probably sang lullabies to the missiles when no one was looking.

  After his shift in the torpedo room, Ralph would head to the mess to study. He was nearly through all of his qualifications. One more test and he’d earn his Dolphins — he’d be a full submariner with all of the duty and respect that came with that. Seeing as how he was supposed to be so interested in submarines, Fiske would join him there, as would George when he was off duty.

  George was just starting to study for his quals, but he knew so much already. More than Ralph, in fact.

  Ralph would stare at a page in his study guide, his mouth moving slowly as he read the words, one by one in his head. George shot off submarine trivia like a rocket, and he sped through his qual calculations and short-answer study questions as if they were the easiest things in the world for him.

  The numbers and symbols that George scratched out on paper left Fiske blinking in confusion.

  “You could have gone to Harvard,” said Fiske. “I mean, you could have gone to MIT. But you’re here.”

  George shrugged. “I have a duty to serve,” he said.

  “Wh-what about you?” Fiske asked Ralph. Ralph lifted his eyes, gave Fiske a look, and then went back to his books.

  And so far, after two days on the submarine, the ring had stayed a secret. Fiske had been quite serious about not taking off his poopy suit for anything. And though he knew he was beginning to smell, he couldn’t be bothered by that. Namely, he told himself, it was because the chemicals on board the submarine that sucked up the carbon dioxide were aversely affected by deodorant, and with a crew of over one hundred men, no deodorant, and very limited hot water supplies, everyone smelled.

  Fiske was probably the worst of them all. The other guys jumped, yelping, into the icy showers for a few seconds, but Fiske was adamant. He wasn’t taking off his suit for anything. But at least he kept washing his hair and brushing his teeth.

  He was rubbing a towel over his head when he walked to the bunks. And when he put the towel down, he froze in his place.

  His bunk was a mess. It had been thrown open. The sheets had been ripped off and the cubby beneath ransacked. His bag, his socks and underwear, his few toiletries were strewn all over the floor.

  Nothing else in the room had been touched.

  Fiske’s hand flew to his chest, and he pressed the firmness of the ring into his skin. It was there. It was right there against him — not lost, not stolen.

  Still, the sight sent chills up his neck; the skin on his scalp prickled like he had just dunked his head back into the icy shower. Someone had been looking for something in his bunk.

  There was no reason for that, unless someone knew who he really was.

  Fiske wasn’t going to panic. He was at least going to try not to. But he could feel his fears jerk awake inside of him, like Frankenstein’s monster coming to life. He could taste the shock of adrenaline in his mouth; he could hear a faint buzzing as the hum of the boat faded in and out around him. He wobbled on his feet and had to grab at the nearest bunk to keep from falling over.

  He was trapped seven hundred feet underwater with someone who knew his true identity, who knew that he was hiding something, and who was looking for a secret.

  Looking for him.

  S
ome of the curtains on the other bunks were pulled closed — there had been men sleeping while this was happening. So whoever it was must have been incredibly quiet. George’s curtain was pulled, so Fiske jerked it open. If there was anyone who would understand his terror, it would be George.

  “George!” he hissed, giving George a fierce shake. George gave a great jerk and his eyes popped open, his arms and legs flying up and down and side to side. He tried to sit up straight and thunked his head hard on the bunk above him.

  “What! What?” George yelled. He rubbed his eyes and looked at Fiske with a sleepy scowl. “What is it, Fiske?”

  “Look,” said Fiske, pointing at his bunk across the narrow gap. “You would have been here. It wasn’t like this before. Have you been asleep the whole time? Did you see — did you hear? Anything?”

  “What in the . . . ?” George rubbed his eyes and slithered out of his bunk to take a closer look at the damage. “Is that your stuff?”

  “Yeah,” said Fiske, rubbing a hand over his damp hair. He was spooked and shaking. “I was just in the head and I came back and it was like this. Did you hear anything? You were asleep, I know, but if you did, I just . . .”

  “You know,” said George. “I might have. I was reading for a bit before I fell asleep and — you know, I heard these footsteps. Heavy footfalls. Like there was a giant in the room. I thought it was Ralph popping in, and I didn’t want to hear any of his lectures, so I stayed quiet and kept the curtain shut. You don’t — you don’t think it was Ralph, do you?”

  “Ralph?” said Fiske. Ralph, who always looked so annoyed with Fiske? If there was a . . . a Vesper on board, could it be Ralph?

  The skin on Fiske’s neck prickled as if the Vesper were there, watching him. Waiting for him. Biding his time until Fiske messed up, looked the wrong way, said the wrong thing — like they both knew he would. And then it would be over. The Vesper would pounce, would take the ring. Fiske would fail.

  “Fiske?” said George, tilting his head. “Are you okay?”

  “I shouldn’t have w-woken you,” said Fiske. “Sorry.”

  “Do you need help putting things back together?” asked George.

  “No,” said Fiske. “I can — I can do it. Don’t, um, tell anyone, okay?”

  “Sure,” said George. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  No, thought Fiske. It’s not safe with anyone.

  That night, as Fiske was getting ready to sleep, Ralph walked into the bunk room. He had every right to be there, but that didn’t mean that Fiske didn’t jump up and clutch his toothbrush to his chest as if it were his favorite teddy bear.

  “What?” asked Ralph, and Fiske could have sworn he was baring his teeth when he said it.

  “Nothing,” said Fiske.

  “You know, you don’t have to wear that suit all the time, every day. We do have pajamas down here. And showers.”

  “I’m fine,” said Fiske.

  “Actually, you smell,” said Ralph. “Or shouldn’t I talk that way to Admiral King’s grandson?” He said it like a challenge, Fiske thought. He didn’t believe that story at all.

  “You can talk to me however you want,” said Fiske. “I don’t c-care one way or another.” Ralph didn’t say anything back to Fiske, but as he was leaving, he made sure to give Fiske a firm shove with his shoulder. Fiske stumbled backward into the bunks, his heart thudding wildly in his chest.

  The next morning, though, Ralph was acting as if nothing had happened.

  He and Fiske were in the torpedo room, as was expected of them.

  “Whales,” Ralph was saying, “are fascinating creatures. Did you know that they know what sorts of things they’re swimming around just by clicking at them? Beautiful things.”

  It was near the end of their shift. For six hours, Fiske had been walking on broken glass around Ralph. The only thing that kept him from going entirely crazy was the other sailors on torpedo duty.

  “Do you, uh, do you know a lot about them?” asked Fiske. What benefit would a Vesper have in knowing a lot about whales, he wondered. Were whales much more vicious than Fiske thought?

  “I grew up in Maine,” said Ralph. “Right on the coast. Dad keeps a lighthouse, so I spent a lot of time on the water as a kid.”

  “And then you joined the Navy,” said Fiske, carefully edging his mouth around every word.

  “Seemed a natural thing to do,” said Ralph. “I thought about doing sonar like your friend George there, but I’m not that kind of brain. I guess I’m more on the brawn end of things.”

  “Come on, Kane,” called one of the other sailors. “We’re headed to the mess. Jack’s made up some of that pot roast and we don’t want to miss it.”

  Fiske stood up and got ready to follow the other sailors. “Our shift isn’t over for another three minutes,” said Ralph, his gaze sweeping the other sailors and landing on Fiske like an anvil.

  “But the pot roast,” said the sailor. “Think of the pot roast, Kane. That roast, and the potatoes and carrots and all of that stewing together all day.” He rubbed his stomach and made a ridiculous show of smacking his lips together.

  Ralph didn’t say anything, but he did roll his eyes, which the other sailor seemed to think meant that he was free to take the others and head to the mess.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” said Ralph as Fiske tried to follow them.

  “I — I . . . uh, I, um, pot roast.”

  “There’s three minutes left,” said Ralph. “We’re staying for those three minutes.”

  So much could happen in three minutes! Fiske edged away from Ralph. The last of the sailors had skittered off, leaving Fiske by himself with Ralph. The torpedo silo seemed to grow taller, and wider, and deeper, and full of a thousand times more empty space. How far away was the mess? Fiske went over the route in his head. Would anyone hear him scream?

  Fiske wanted to run, but he couldn’t find the words to make an excuse, and his tongue felt cold and clumsy in his mouth.

  On the torpedo control panel, a red light began to blink.

  “Shoot,” said Ralph, grumbling to himself.

  “What?” asked Fiske. Vesper or not, they were still surrounded by missiles. Fiske wasn’t sure which one he should be more scared of.

  “There’s something wrong with number four,” said Ralph, looking up. The torpedoes were stacked three high; number four was near the top of the room. There was a narrow ladder that led up to a catwalk just as narrow the missiles.

  “Wrong?” asked Fiske, his voice trembling perhaps just a little more than he wanted it to. “Wrong l-like . . . like how?”

  “I don’t know,” said Ralph. “Easiest way to check would be to go up and take a look at it.” He hooked his thumb at the ladder. “Up you go.”

  “Me!” Fiske cried. “I have to go up?”

  “Well, that or you can stay down here and use your vast submarining experience to read these gauges and figure out when the system has stabilized. Sound good?”

  “I’ll climb up,” said Fiske. He pretended like his hands weren’t sweaty and slippery against the cold metal of the ladder. He also pretended that three rows of torpedoes weren’t that big of a deal.

  He tried to fight the vertigo as he climbed, and the sensation that every slight shift of his body weight was going to send him plunging back to the hard metal floor. His heart was jolting around in his chest, as if his panic had knocked it loose from its moorings. Three torpedoes high was actually quite high once you were up there.

  At the top of the ladder, he would have to transition to the catwalk. There was a reason that only cats should do things like this, and Fiske suspected it was because they had the extra lives to spare, just in case.

  He looked up. Just a bit more to go.

  And then the lights went out.

  There are no windows on a submarine; there is no chance for so much as a sliver of natural light. When there are no lights on, there is no gradient and no shadows; there is nothing but pitch-black, d
isorienting darkness.

  Fiske froze, his hands glued around the ladder’s handles. If he let go, he would fall. He knew it. Something in the darkness would shake him loose, like a leaf in late autumn.

  “Fiske! Fiske, are you up there?” Ralph was shouting. “Stay where you are. Don’t go banging around. Don’t explode anything.”

  Right. Fiske swallowed. Good plan.

  He heard some movement down below. Ralph must have been feeling his way around, searching for a switch, a lamp — something. Unless he was feeling his way toward Fiske in order to murder him in the dark.

  Fiske couldn’t move. He could only squeeze his eyes shut tight and hope that the lights came on soon.

  The Vesper turned on his infrared goggles and locked the door.

  The Cahill was clinging to the little metal ladder as if it were his mommy, probably terrified of both the dark and the prospect of being alone with Ralph. The Vesper rolled his eyes. As if the Vespers would try to recruit a mind as thick as Ralph’s. If Ralph blathered on any more about his precious whales, the Vesper thought he might vomit right into a torpedo chute.

  Ralph was edging toward the door, and the Vesper was easily able to avoid him. Ralph wasn’t the target. He wasn’t the Boy King they were after. Fiske’s eyes were squeezed tight in the dark, and the Vesper watched as he tried to take one hand from the ladder. It took a few tries — as soon as he would loosen his grip, Fiske slapped his hand back against the rungs, reluctant to let go for even just a moment. But eventually, he managed, and made a grabbing motion at his chest. Fiske patted a spot just over his heart, and whatever was there made him visibly relax. Fiske was hiding something, and now the Vesper knew just where.

  The Vesper slipped over to the ladder and began to climb.

  Fiske was still frozen up there, scarcely able to breathe.

  He closed his eyes. Then it felt more like he was blind by choice, rather than by panic-inducing circumstances. He tried to slow his breathing, slow his heavily pounding heart. Did he want to climb down? Ralph was there, and how did he know that Ralph didn’t plan it all this way?