“They look like they know where they’re going,” I said. “They’re all going the same way, to the right. Maybe they’ve seen something.”
Just then, a bright flickering caught my eye, as of multiple flashbulbs going off. That was actually my first half-formed notion: that our people were being swarmed by the media. It carried with it a rush of desperate annoyance—I was missing the big reception! This split-second thought process was interrupted by a metallic eruption of delayed noise, like faraway jackhammers pummeling asphalt. Then I could see puffs of smoke.
Sorting my frazzled impressions, I babbled, “Shooting! There’s shooting!”
The radio crackled, “Clear the bridge.”
“Someone’s shooting at them! Didn’t you hear what I said? Call them back, omigod!” I was frantic. The tiny figures appeared to be trapped in a horrible cross fire, trying to scatter but hampered by deep drifts and blind panic. From my narrow vantage I could see them falling like sheaves.
Something touched my leg, nearly causing me to jump overboard. It was Robles, down on the ladder. “Come below,” he said urgently. “We’re diving.”
“We can’t! They’re shooting out there! Can’t you hear it?” The mechanical clatter was not all—I could hear something else, shrill as the wind: Screams.
“Captain’s orders! Come on!” He grabbed my clothes and practically yanked me down, stepping aside into the uppermost chamber of the sail so that I could pass, then slamming shut the square hatch to the bridge.
In tears, I begged, “Why? Why?”
He said nothing, hustling me down to the control room and closing the second hatch behind us. “Bridge secure!” he shouted, causing a disorganized flurry of activity. No one even noticed my trauma. Every man’s face was a mask of sick despair; they operated their instruments as if compelled to against their will, not by Coombs but by some higher mandate. Their misery said it all: There is no other way.
During my absence, the boys had been sent aft, so I didn’t know how they felt about this, but for me it was unreal, unfathomable. My reaction must have seemed like a reproach, because Albemarle and some of the others cast hateful looks, as if to snarl, Shut up—you think you’re the only one? They knew what was going on and guiltily accepted the sacrifice, like Abraham. They had been prepared for this possibility all along.
“How can you do this?” I whimpered, as the dive alarm drilled into my head. “We’re their only hope! We can’t just leave!”
Robles said gently, “Shhhh—go to the equipment locker and get changed. It’s all over. Nothing we can do. It’s done.” His eyes were watery and red, staring like a frightened horse’s.
“It’s not done! What if some of them make it back?”
“They’ve given us away—we’re sitting ducks here.”
“But—”
He took me by the shoulders, and said softly, “Calm down. Nobody can help them. It was their choice. Ain’t no safe bets anymore—all that’s left are hard choices. You made one, too, by staying, whether you know it or not. Let it go.”
“But—”
“It’s done, Lulu.” He stared me down. “Now you have to decide what you’re going to tell the others.”
I flinched. “What? What do you mean?”
“The boys don’t know about this. It’s up to you whether or not to tell ’em—captain’s orders.”
I broke down. “No . . . Why me?”
“They’re your responsibility.”
“No . . . I can’t. I can’t tell them that. How can I tell them? Can’t we just wait and see if anyone comes back? Please!”
Robles shook his head with genuine sorrow, saying, “Come on, Lulu. It’s all over.”
He led me away as we sank beneath the ice.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
We continued north all that next week, the second week of February, skirting pack ice as we traversed the Labrador Sea. It was a strange time for me. The boat seemed haunted by all those missing boys—not literally, but in the sense that their absence created a merciless silence, a void I peopled with unforgiving spirits. I felt personally responsible for what had happened. Perhaps if I had not bombarded Coombs with all those memos about hunger and horrid conditions, he wouldn’t have found it necessary to drop anyone off. He didn’t seem to blame me, though; none of the adults did. They and I wandered the decks like ghosts ourselves, keepers of that awful secret. It was so hard—the boys talked of nothing but what a good time their friends must be having ashore.
The submarine had become a different place, more like a gloomy undersea boarding school than a naval vessel. There was much to do, more to learn, and not nearly enough time in the day to do it all. It was too much, really. I knew because I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t keep up: Trainees followed their tutors around like befuddled apostles trying to understand obscure teachings, and critical members of the crew slept at their duty stations so the guys who were supposed to be their reliefs couldn’t flub up too badly.
Otherwise, living conditions had improved, it pained me to admit. With only 186 people aboard, there were plenty of berths for those who wanted them, as well as enough space to satisfy those who thought berths too confining. In either case, I had discretion over youth sleeping arrangements (Coombs had granted it to me so that I could ensure my own safety), which made me instantly popular—everyone had his own wish list of cozy nooks he wanted first dibs on. I assigned myself and the boys I trusted most to one whole enlisted cabin, which for me was like living in a boys’ locker room. To their chagrin, it became known as “the henhouse.”
And the civilian meal ration was doubled. This surprising concession by the senior staff made more work for me and Mr. Monte, but it was the answer to my prayers. Those boys needed it so badly, and I think some of them were getting suspicious about my peach-cheeked vigor. I glowed among them like a disgustingly chubby nymph. It didn’t look good.
Apart from galley work and my daily pep talk, I was also training on how to use the “Bridge Suitcase”—the portable command console used by the officer of the watch during surface maneuvers. It required technical knowledge of the boat itself, as well as all kinds of navigational expertise, including astronomy, meteorology, and whole volumes of nautical ar cana passed down from the days of sailing ships. For what was the bridge of a submarine but a modern-day crow’s nest?
Since the officers were secretive about their charts, giving only the barest details about our position or heading, I became very interested in the maps I had to study. Using a little deductive reasoning and the compass Cowper had given me, I found I could extrapolate our course with some reliability . . . to a point. Of course everyone else was doing this, too, making for lots of lively discussion at night about where we were going.
We never surfaced, but on occasion we would come up to periscope depth, and the commander would broadcast the bleak view over TV monitors in the enlisted mess: rows of giant molars jutting from a lead-colored sea; forbidding plains of drift ice. There was nothing to use for perspective, and I found the lonely vistas depressing. Everything depressed me. It wasn’t until February 13 that something finally happened to brighten my spirits:
I found Mr. Cowper.
It began with me having my usual midmorning snack in the wardroom pantry. Even in my worst moments of depression, I still had the energy to stuff my face, having consoled myself with food for years. I rationalized it by telling myself it was the only thing keeping me sane.
The wardroom was a small, fancy dining room for the ship’s officers, situated just forward of the cafeteria-like enlisted mess where the boys took their meals. Mr. Monte and I always had it to ourselves, and I believe it was declared off-limits to all others while we were in there. I chalked this up to secrecy, but also to the same nutty chivalry that I credited for getting me extra food in the first place.
Monte was sitting having a cigarette while I fixed us a couple of green-chile omelets on the hot plate. After a few of his bland meals, I had made the mi
stake of mentioning that I loved to cook, and he said, “Knock yaself out.” He no longer even offered to help. Actually I was glad—this way I could make the spicy things I craved, and he got a break from being a “galley slave.” But I could tell he was grooming me to run the galley alone (he wanted to work in the far-aft engineering spaces where he’d be left alone), and I wasn’t crazy about that idea.
“Come on,” he encouraged me. “All them punks are your friends. Why should I be the one taking their abuse? Try some of your yuppie nouvelle cuisine on ’em and see what happens.”
Emilio Monte was a leathery, cruel-looking man with deep acne scars and a ridged skull like an upturned dinghy. The fringe of white hair over his ears and around the back of his head made me think of a cartoon buzzard. I had been frightened of him at first but came to find him charmingly crusty, if not lovable. I wouldn’t care to know what he thought of me. He was not at all talkative, though as days went by I gathered that in antiquity he had served on submarines, until some incident forced him out of the Navy and he got a job as a lathe operator in the submarine factory. This job he had done for sixteen years, right up until our big escape. Many of the civilian men had similar stories.
When I asked Monte if he had any family aboard, he had replied, “Nah. Thank the good Lord for that. Wouldn’t want ’em, the way things are.”
I had been beating around the bush for days, hoping to get word of Cowper, but nobody would talk. Working up my nerve, I set Monte’s omelet before him and asked point-blank, “Sir, do you know where my father is?”
He made a show of stubbing out his cigarette and scrutinizing the food. Digging in, he said, “If I was to tell you that, they might send me to the goat locker.”
“Sorry. I just . . . I’m getting really worried. How do I know he’s even still on board?”
He barked a sharp little laugh, said, “Where else would he be?”
“I don’t know . . . do you?”
He kept eating as if he hadn’t heard me. I poured myself half a glass of the heinously sweet red drink the sailors called “bug juice,” topping it off with water. That was one thing about the boat—there was always plenty of water: The distillation plant made ten thousand gallons a day.
Acting nonchalant, eating my omelet out of the pan, I said, “It’s not like they’d throw him overboard or anything . . . right?”
Emilio grunted, mouth full.
We ate in silence for a few minutes. Even with canned green chiles and reconstituted milk and eggs, the food tasted good: fluffy, cheesy, and spicy. My nervous stomach wasn’t handling it well, though. Changing tack, I asked, “How much longer are the provisions going to last?”
“You’ve seen what we got. Ya must have some idea.”
I knew that the boat was normally provisioned with seventy-five thousand pounds of food for a three-month voyage, and that we had started with about five thousand. There was a lot less now. “Well, there are fewer people, even if they’re eating twice as much. I don’t know,” I said. “Two more weeks?”
Intently mopping his oily plate with a slice of bread, he said, “One. Maybe less.”
“What is a goat locker, anyway?”
“It’s the lounge where the chiefs hang out, if there were any chiefs.” He put his dishes in the sink, and said, “That about does it. Adios, muchacha.”
I finished my meal and cleaned up, drying and stowing the dishes the way Mr. Monte had shown me. The sub was like a stainless-steel Shaker house—everything fit together with elegant precision and economy of space. Sometimes this was carried too far, as with the cramped shower/toilets, but in general it was one aspect of submarine living that appealed to me.
I loitered a bit before heading back to the galley, examining the plaques, portraits, and trophy cases in the wardroom. It was all dull Navy bric-a-brac. The only interesting thing was a small framed drawing of Homer Simpson in a flooded room, dreamily saying, “Mmmm—chicken switch.” I knew the “chicken switches” were emergency levers for surfacing the boat.
Pausing at the forward door, I peeked down the narrow passageway, lined like a train’s with sleeper compartments. I had been through this area just once—when I and the boys had hunted corpses in the company of Mr. Noteiro. After that it had been one of the many places declared off-limits to civilians. I knew there was a sitting room with comfy couches and chairs at the far end, and I supposed that had to be the “goat locker.” The aluminum door was always closed and had been posted with a Day-Glo orange notice.
Nervously stepping past the dormitories, I listened for snoring, but all the berths were deserted. Monte said there were no chiefs, meaning no chief petty officers (everyone in the tiny crew had a battlefield commission), but it seemed incredible to me that they would let these bunks sit empty because of an obsolete regulation.
Approaching the closed door, I read the sign. Under a skull and crossbones, it said: WARNING—RESTRICTED AREA—IT IS UNLAWFUL TO ENTER THIS AREA WITHOUT PERMISSION OF THE COMMANDER (SEC. 21, INTERNAL SECURITY ACT OF 1950, 50 USC 797)—USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED—CMDR HARVEY A. COOMBS, USN. His bouncy signature was at the bottom.
Heart thumping, I delicately tried the knob, but it was locked. I pressed my ear to the brushed aluminum—not a whisper. I didn’t want to give myself away by knocking or calling out. Making extra sure the coast was clear, I got down on my hands and knees until my face was level with the air vent at the bottom of the door. There was no way of seeing through it, but maybe . . .
“Mr. Cowper,” I hissed. “Psst! Mr. Cowper, are you there?”
There was a muffled clunk, then heavy, limping footsteps. They sounded sinister to me. Losing my nerve, I scrambled away as silently as possible, cursing my stupidity. Now I’d done it! As I fled for the wardroom, I realized there was no pursuit. No one was yelling after me, no alarm being raised. As far as I could tell, nothing at all was happening, and the door remained shut.
I hesitated, every nerve in my body tensed for flight. What am I afraid of? I thought. I haven’t done anything . . . yet. The sign didn’t say it was illegal to stand in front of the door. With extreme care, I began creeping back, freon pulsing in my veins.
As I leaned up against the metal once more, I was startled by a voice just on the other side. It snapped, “Someone playing games?” It was not Cowper, but it was vaguely familiar: a supercilious, annoyed rumble. Where had I heard that before? The man made no attempt to come out.
“Sorry,” I said squeakily, holding my ground. “Who is this?”
“Who is this?”
“I’m, uh . . . I’m looking for the goat locker?”
Silence, then: “What are you doing here? Is someone with you?”
“No, I’m alone,” I said. “Are you?”
The man puffed with impatience. “This is ridiculous. Why don’t you just open the door?”
“I don’t have a key. Can’t you open it?”
“Don’t be an idiot. What the hell’s going on out there? Who’s with you?”
“Nobody. I’m here by myself.” Voice cracking, I said, “I’m, um . . . looking for someone?”
Intensely wary, the voice asked, “Who?”
“Fred Cowper . . . my father.”
The man limped away from the door, making angry-sounding grunts of discomfort. It wasn’t a friendly exit—I expected to be arrested any second. Fidgeting, looking down the corridor for signs of approaching doom, I reminded myself how little anything mattered at this point. They couldn’t do anything to me.
Someone wearing slippers shuffled up to the door, heels slapping. It made me think of a hospital. Then a warbling, phlegmy voice said, “That you, Lulu?”
It was Cowper.
“Yes, it’s me,” I said. I was breathless. “Are you all right?”
“I’m doing fine. Don’t let ’em catch you out there, hear me? You run right along.” He sounded a little woozy, as if he had been dragged out of bed.
“What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
&nb
sp; “Ah, it’s just the usual crap—my heart acting up. It’ll pass.”
“What have they done to you?”
“Nothing. Coombs seems to think I have something he’s looking for, but I keep telling him it must’ve gone over the side. He just won’t let up—it’s all I can do to catch forty winks around here. Have they asked you about it?”
“No. Why would they?”
“I got the impression they think we’re in cahoots. Maybe that was just something they said to rattle me—don’t worry about it. They been treating you okay?”
“Fine,” I said, embarrassed to admit the coddling I was receiving. “I’m good. Who else is in there with you?”
“Just the two of us: Jim Sandoval and me.” Sandoval—the man who had hurt his leg jumping onto the sub. The unpopular company boss. Cowper perked up with irritation, saying, “Why? Is that some kind of secret?”
“It hasn’t exactly been announced. I only figured out just now where you were—stupid of me, since Mr. Monte’s been dropping hints for days.”
“Yeah, Emilio’s a good man. Too good. That’s why he got drummed outta the service.”
From deeper in the room, I heard Sandoval’s muffled voice say, “Ask her where we are, for Christ’s sake. How much longer?”
“How’s Mr. Sandoval’s leg?” I asked.
“She wants to know how your leg is.”
“Tell her swell. Jim-dandy.”
“He’ll be laid up awhile. Phil Tran has him high as a kite on Percodan, but he needs decent medical attention. There’s a couple of prescriptions I could stand to have filled, too. That’s why anything you can tell us about our future would be appreciated.”
“I’m probably the least knowledgeable person you could ask.”
Xombies: Apocalypse Blues Page 14