The Submarine Job

by Clifford, Riley

  “Thank you,” said Fiske.

  From the control room, he went down to the officers’ bunks and knocked on the door.

  “Lieutenant Oppowitz?” he called. “I heard you were still in here, sir. Sir? It’s Fiske King, sir. I have something to tell you.”

  But there was no answer.

  Fiske knocked again, and when Lieutenant Oppowitz still didn’t open the door, Fiske tried the handle himself. It opened easily and he stepped inside.

  The room smelled strange. Like smoke; like burnt hair. Fiske stepped inside very carefully. The bunks in the officers’ room weren’t stacked as high; there was more room to move and to breathe. Lieutenant Oppowitz was lying on the second bunk, high in the last row.

  He was dead.

  Fiske recoiled. The lieutenant was staring with half-open eyes. His skin looked gray and cold and as if it hadn’t been used in a long time. There were two burnt patches on the front of his poopy suit, directly over his heart, where the fabric of the suit and of the lieutenant’s undershirt had been burned clear away. His left hand was thrown forward, and the skin around his wedding ring was burned. He’d been electrocuted.

  Fiske scrambled toward the door, wanting to scream, wanting to call for help, but unable to do anything except gasp and heave and then throw up in the middle of the hallway.

  He was cold with sweat; it ran down his neck and under the collar of his poopy suit. He still felt nauseous. Someone had killed Lieutenant Oppowitz.

  Lieutenant Oppowitz was dead.

  Lieutenant Oppowitz, who had his wife and Peter and Lucy at home. Lieutenant Oppowitz who had been so nice, and who had just wanted to do an honorable thing and do right by his family, and that’s why he was on a submarine. That’s why he was taking care of Fiske this whole time.

  And he was dead.

  Lieutenant Oppowitz wasn’t supposed to be the one to die. Fiske was the Cahill; Fiske was the one who was supposed to live with a constant threat of doom. He didn’t like it, but he almost expected it now. Lieutenant Oppowitz hadn’t been expecting it. He wasn’t even on a mission of war right now; he was out with a boat to sail all of the kinks out of it.

  “Fiske?”

  Fiske had stumbled back toward the control room. There were sailors going about their business, and Commander Wilkinson was there in the center of the room. They were all looking at him. And Fiske opened his mouth. But nothing came out.

  “You look terrible,” said Commander Wilkinson, coming over to peer at Fiske. “Are you seasick? After all this time? Ranker, go get Lieutenant Robinson.”

  No! Fiske wanted to yell. Stop! He wanted to scream at them all that Lieutenant Oppowitz was dead and that someone had killed him but all of the words got caught behind his teeth and he couldn’t make them come out. His face grew hotter and redder and his blood was at a rolling boil as it bubbled through him.

  “The l-lieutenant is . . .” began Fiske. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. He grabbed for his chest, grasping the ring through the fabric of his suit.

  “Fiske, spit it out,” said George. He’d appeared in the doorway behind Fiske.

  “Lieutenant Oppowitz is dead.”

  The words spilled out of him, hurtling across the control room and smacking each of the men in the face.

  “What?” said the commander. “What do you mean — how did he — Robinson! Where is he, Fiske? What do you mean dead?”

  “The officers’ bunks,” said Fiske.

  “Someone get Lieutenant Robinson over there right now!” Wilkinson roared. “Someone get the medics!”

  “It’s too late for that,” said Fiske. “He’s dead. I saw him. Someone killed him.”

  Those three words cast a hush over the room. Commander Wilkinson seemed to turn to stone.

  “An-and I know who did it,” said Fiske. He glanced at George, who turned pale. “Ralph Kane did it.”

  “Commander, do we — ”

  “No. Full speed ahead,” said the commander, wiping his hand over his wrinkled forehead. “We don’t slow down for anything. Washington is expecting us to make a good showing, and we’re going to give them that.” He turned back to Fiske. “Ralph Kane wouldn’t kill Lieutenant Oppowitz. That doesn’t make sense at all. Herman was Kane’s sea dad. He got him onto the boat. Ralph wouldn’t kill the lieutenant. Robinson is going to check on him. He’s a doctor, he’ll get to the bottom of things.”

  Everyone keeps saying that, Fiske thought, but why can’t they understand what’s so obvious? Lieutenant Oppowitz is dead!

  And he knew who had done it.

  Fiske buzzed with anger; he could hear it in his ears and feel it in his skin and it made him shake and it made him burn and freeze at the same time. It wasn’t fair. And Fiske was going to do something about it.

  Fiske jerked open the door to the torpedo room.

  Ralph was there, clipboard in hand, checking his pressure gauges. Fiske took a deep breath, and then yelled at the back of his head.

  “I don’t know how you did it,” Fiske yelled at him. “But I’m here now. And it’s just me. So if you’re after anything from me you’d better take it now because I’m not letting anyone else die, all right? I’m not going to do that.”

  Ralph just stared at him. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “I know what you did! I just found him. You killed Lieutenant Oppowitz! I know what you’re here to do!”

  “Lieutenant Oppowitz is dead?” Ralph asked. He turned around and dropped the clipboard. “How — I — what?” Ralph came toward Fiske, but Fiske did his best to hold his ground, even though his heart was pounding so hard that it was like drums in his head and his whole skull ached for it. Still, he took a step or two back. “What are you . . . he’s dead? How did he die? We’re not at war. I mean — was it the Russians? How did . . . what are you talking about?”

  Fiske felt his resolve begin to fade. Suddenly, there was that feeling creeping up — like he’d forgotten to put on pants in the morning. Like there was chocolate on his face. Like Ralph had absolutely no idea of what Fiske was talking about.

  “You — you’re not — ?” Fiske stammered. “I mean, you’re not a Vesper?”

  “A what?” said Ralph. “Lieutenant Oppowitz is dead?”

  Of course Ralph wasn’t a Vesper. He’d taken his test twice to get onto the submarine. A Cahill would pull strings to get into a place like this. A Vesper . . . a Vesper would be the best of the best. He’d have been recruited. And nothing against Ralph, but big and brawny were a dime a dozen. No, there was only one member of the crew who was light-years ahead of everyone else.

  Only one other who could have gone to MIT, or Harvard, but instead had chosen meager pay and cramped quarters.

  “A Vesper.”

  Fiske spun around.

  George.

  George stood there. He held something in his hand that looked half like a gun and half like a cattle prod. “A Vesper, that’s right. Ralph only wishes he could aspire to these ranks, Fiske. Maybe one day, whale boy. Maybe once you’ve learned to add past ten while keeping your shoes on.”

  “Run, Ralph!” Fiske shouted. He took off running as soon as his feet were able to catch up with his brain. Standing around trading barbs with an armed Vesper wasn’t a wise thing to do, and Fiske wasn’t going to have any of it. He didn’t have time to think about where he would go. All he knew was that he couldn’t stay here.

  Before Fiske had learned that there was a Vesper on board who was willing to kill and before he had to run for his life to escape that Vesper, the Nautilus had been an amazing thing. A feat of engineering and art that combined to make something entirely remarkable, practically superhuman.

  Now, with his life moments from being over, Fiske didn’t see the Nautilus as something breathtaking — it was more like an aquatic death trap.

  The boat that he had been getting to know was suddenly full of shadows and steam, rattling noises and the grinding of gears. Fiske ran over the metal walkways an
d climbed ladders and did everything he could to get lost in the maze of metal and piping. Maybe if he couldn’t find his way out, then George couldn’t find his way to him.

  He wished there was time to think back over everything that had happened on the Nautilus. He wished that he could tick over every sign that he should have seen coming, every mistake he had made. He wished he could remember if he had given anything away to George about the Clues, about the ring, about Grace. But the only thing he could do was run for his life. There would be time to feel stupid later.

  Or there would be time to be dead later.

  He could hear George coming — the creaks of the walkways, the sound of heavy breathing — and if he could hear George, then George could hear him. Fiske stopped running. Slowly and quietly, Fiske slipped behind one of the larger steam pipes. He crouched down, keeping in the shadow.

  George turned toward where Fiske hid. Fiske could see his shoes on the path. He glanced around. There was nothing to throw at George, nothing to hit him with, if it came to that. There was just Fiske.

  “Come on out, Mr. Cahill,” said George. He was edging his way down the hall, his head swiveling this way and that as he tried to figure out where Fiske might be hiding. “It’s all well and good to put up a fight, but there’s wisdom in knowing when to give up. You know what’s going to happen now. You’re going to come out, you’re going to tell me your secrets, and then — well, I’m sure you can guess. Come on.”

  Fiske crouched all the deeper. There was a small gap — about a foot and a half — between the walkway and the floor. A mess of small pipes and wires ran under it, but Fiske was fairly certain he could squeeze in there if need be. He shifted his weight toward it.

  “Come out!” George yelled. “You think I’m going to let you ruin this for me? Do you know what they did for me, Fiske? Your old family friends? You know what they did? They sought me out. That’s right. They wanted me. Little Georgie Carmel from Massillon, Ohio. George Carmel who couldn’t catch a football or run a mile to save his life but who is a genius.

  “And just think of how proud they’ll be when they find out how I handled you. I was just supposed to tinker with the computer systems, and then, you were sent on board the ship. I’d have known you immediately, even if we didn’t know you’d be down here.” George paused. “You’ll make me a legend in their ranks, Fiske. Don’t think I don’t know you’re hiding something, and I’m going to find it. We both know I’m better than you. We both know I’ll win.”

  Fiske bristled, but he stayed put. George was right in front of him now, holding the half gun. Little blue sparks were flashing from the two short wires at the end of the barrel. It looked like a bad way to die.

  The lonesomeness of his situation folded around Fiske like a dark quilt. George was going to kill him, and no one would know what had happened. He would vanish in the worst way imaginable — without having said good-bye to anyone. He should have fled to a place where there would be more people — he saw that now, he was so stupid. He should have gone to the control room, where he wouldn’t be alone.

  But maybe he could still get there. Maybe he didn’t have to die in the dark.

  Fiske brought his sleeve to his mouth and bit into the thread holding his cuff button in place. His heart was pounding all through his body; it was as if it had turned on an internal PA system and was broadcasting his fear from his brain to his toes. One false move, one noise, and it would be over.

  It took a bit of chewing, but soon he’d bitten away the thread. Taking the button from his mouth and holding it between two shaking fingers, he flicked it, like a paper football.

  The button flew behind George and over the walkway where he stood, rattling against the pipes. George spun around and stuck his shock gun into the dark. There was a flash of light, and that was the moment that Fiske needed. He slipped down the way, hauled himself up onto the walkway, and began to run.

  George spun around and chased after him, the weapon raised. Fiske ran with flashes of light on either side of him as George shot bolt after bolt, shock after shock. The electricity sizzled against the metal, against the pipes and wires all around.

  One of the bolts must have knocked into a seam in one of the pipes. It fried the metal, and the pressure from inside was too great. A spurt of water sprang forth, and then another, and then two more. Water sprayed in all directions, soaking Fiske and making the walkways slick and dangerous.

  The nuclear reactor hummed ahead. Fiske kept running, even though his lungs were screaming and clawing at him to stop, even though his legs felt as if the muscles in them would tear at any moment.

  George fired again. The electric bolt flew just past Fiske’s shoulder and crackled over the reactor’s control panel. Sparks flew like fireworks, and smoke flared up. The water mixed with the electricity, and the entire reactor began to sizzle and crack. The lights flickered off immediately and an alarm began to wail, softly at first, as if it were just waking up from a long sleep, and then with a ferocity that was almost more frightening than the reactor itself. All of the lights on the reactor’s panel turned red and they flickered like the world’s most terrifying display of Christmas lights. It was enough to freeze even George for a moment — he seemed unable to move.

  The hum of the reactor turned into a groan and a rumble. The boat began to shake. Fiske edged away from it. He wanted to run, but he was afraid to take his eyes off of the reactor, afraid that the moment he looked away, the whole thing would melt.

  But he had to go. Control room, control room — he repeated it over and over in his head and in his legs. He left the howling reactor and a stricken-looking George and ran.

  The control room was grim when he arrived in a burst of breath and panic. Commander Wilkinson frowned at him, and then turned back to barking at his sailors with the radio to his mouth. The siren wailed here as well, and the commander was doing his best to be louder than it.

  “All hands — all hands to emergency stations. Repeat: all hands to emergency stations,” he yelled, waving his arm at the men in the control room. “Fire up the backup diesel engines; Ranker, you keep this mess of a boat going and don’t you stop for anything. We’re nearly there. We are nearly there!”

  The sailors scattered — most of them headed straight out of the control room and down to the reactor or the diesel engines. Then the commander turned to Fiske.

  “Nothing to worry about, Mr. King,” he said, putting a hand on Fiske’s shoulder and trying to steer him toward the door. “You just sit tight and — and we’ll get this sorted out. I’m going to check on the repairs. You head on back to your bunk or the mess and you just sit tight.” But Fiske didn’t believe him, and he didn’t think the commander believed himself.

  “Ranker,” the commander said, “you’re in charge until I get back.” And then he left for the reactor.

  Fiske watched him go, his mouth hanging open but no words coming out. He couldn’t leave! There was so much to tell him — about George and Lieutenant Oppowitz, about Ralph, about Fiske’s life hanging in the balance. Whether it was a lack of breath or a lack of courage, Fiske couldn’t say. The words stuck to the insides of his mouth and beneath his tongue. More than anything, Fiske wanted to curl in upon himself. He balled his hands into furious fists and curled his bottom lip in between his teeth.

  There were only a few men left in the room, but even among them, panic was spreading like a germ.

  Fiske felt it, too. Everything had spiraled out of control so quickly that he couldn’t even place the moment that things had first started to go wrong. He felt unmoored and adrift in the ocean, with nothing to keep him from washing off the face of the earth.

  And now there was no one to ask for help, no one to save him. He’d run to this place for protection, but he felt more alone and more exposed. And if George came — what would happen to the crew? What had happened to Ralph? Fiske’s blood was pulsing in rhythm with the siren. The possibility that he might really die, that this crew of men might d
ie because of him, slammed into him and knocked his breath away.

  Ralph burst in. “There you are!” he said. “What in the — what is — where’s George?”

  “I — I — ” said Fiske, shrugging his shoulders and trying not to shake like a brittle leaf.

  The siren stopped for a moment, and a voice crackled over the intercom in the silence. “Reactor critical. All hands to remain at emergency stations.”

  “You should be — ” Fiske began, but Ralph cut him off. He glanced at the other sailors and then grabbed Fiske’s arm, pulling him out into the hallway.

  “I saw George, just the same as you did, and I heard him, too. Lieutenant Oppowitz would have made sure you were safe. And that’s what I’m going to do,” said Ralph. “Besides, I’ve known George was no good since he accused me of hitting him. Believe me, any other place but here I would have, but I take this job seriously, and I’m not about to let some puke take it away from me.”

  Fiske could almost breathe easy because of that. He didn’t want to be in the way, but he wouldn’t deny that he felt much better with Ralph on his side. Still, guilt slung itself around his neck like a leaden scarf. Lieutenant Oppowitz would have done as much as he could to help Fiske.

  Now, though, Fiske didn’t know what help would look like. The boat might blow up and George was after him, and how was he supposed to make it out of either of those scenarios alive? He felt stupid. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t been on the boat to begin with.

  “What can w-we do?” asked Fiske, glancing around the deserted hallway.

  “Hope,” said Ralph.

  The submarine gave a great shudder, which had both Fiske and Ralph grabbing for something to hold on to, to keep from falling over. The smell of oil and dirt hit them next, creeping through the air like mist rolling in.

  “What’s that, what’s happening?” Fiske asked, wild eyed.

  “They turned on the diesel engines,” said Ralph.