by Todd Tucker
Jabo backed up and bumped into the treadmill. There was a red tag hanging from it, as well, this one signed by the corpsman. Apparently, the master chief wanted to keep people from exercising down there until they were absolutely positive that there was no atmospheric contamination to worry about….he would find out all the details when he read the captain’s night orders on his next watch. He breathed deeply and took in the whole scene. What had happened down there? What had Howard been thinking in those final moments? He took a look at the photos again, flipped through to the tightest close up that the master chief had taken.
In the photograph, Jabo noticed again the log sheet, that record that Howard had so carefully kept. It was lying on the deck beside him. And for the first time, he noticed that another sheet behind it, a piece of yellow notebook paper. Jabo was certain that it was not on the clipboard he had just reviewed with Renfro; he wondered what it might be. The resolution of the picture was too low to offer any clues.
He looked up, realized that he had been staring off into space a little, his mind a blank. It wasn’t Freon, he knew, or nerve gas. It was exhaustion. He felt a pang about the accusation in Renfro’s words, about how the verdict seemed already to have been made. He vowed to himself to conduct a real investigation, the best he could, but for now…he was tired beyond words. He hadn’t slept in a day, and would be on watch in a matter of hours. He checked his watch and verified that he had spent the two hours on the investigation that the XO had directed. He would go forward and get a couple of hours of sleep, and hope he could get through the watch without falling asleep on the conn.
He walked forward through lower level, both because he was too tired to climb a ladder, and to avoid the accusing eyes of MM2 Renfro.
• • •
He checked his watch as he neared his stateroom. The XO hadn’t been quite right. He would have about an hour and forty-five minutes to sleep before he took the watch. The exhaustion hit him in waves as he anticipated climbing in the rack. It wouldn’t be nearly enough, but it would be something, and his body longed for any rest.
He stepped through the door. The overhead lights were off but Kincaid was stepping into his Nikes, ready to go workout.
“Where the fuck you been?” he said. “You need to be getting some sleep, shipmate.”
“Investigating. And all the workout gear is secured.” He was already out of his poopie suit, down to his plaid boxers and T-shirt. He hung it on the door on the middle hook, his hook, and climbed into the middle rack and pulled the blanket over him. The entire process had taken him about ten seconds.
“Secured? What the fuck! Why is it secured?”
But Jabo was already in his rack with the curtain closed. His thoughts about the tragedy, plus the image of Howard’s dead, gray face charged through his mind, fueled by three cups of strong coffee and the residual adrenaline from combating the casualty. As his head hit the pillow, he allowed himself to think about Angi, and felt the sharp pang of how much he missed her, how much he loved her. He thought about their first date, the first time he kissed her, on the steps of McTyeire Hall. He remembered the sound the wind made in the dried leaves of the live oaks that surrounded them, the taste of her lipstick, the surprised way she inhaled a little when he made his move. And then he was asleep.
• • •
He never would have awoken from the noise alone when Hallorann entered; the young sailor was deliberately, theatrically quiet as he crept in. Hallorann considered leaving the document without a word, but the significance of it gnawed at him, even if he couldn’t attach words to its importance, and it had almost been lost once already. He wanted to convey it personally. And he felt like, for some reason, he should lose no time. He cautiously pulled back the thick red curtain to the middle rack to look at the back of Lieutenant Jabo’s sleeping head.
“Sir?” he whispered. He said it again, slightly louder. The only response was slow, even breathing. He reached his hand out, hesitated, and then pushed his shoulder.
The breathing changed rhythm slightly, but it took another sharp push before the lieutenant finally rolled over, and his heavy eyes fluttered awake.
“Sir?”
Jabo licked his lips. “What?”
“I talked to the OOD, Lieutenant Hein…he said you were conducting the investigation. I found this in machinery two…I was on one of the fan teams.” He held up the yellow sheet of paper. Jabo raised an eyebrow; even in his sleep he remembered the paper in the photograph.
“What’s on it?”
“Not much…I mean I’m not sure. But I thought you should have it.”
Jabo stared at him for a moment, and Hallorann was afraid maybe he was still really asleep, talking with his eyes open while his mind slept on. It was a phenomenon he’d become familiar with since his time at sea, where exhaustion and sleep deprivation were taken to levels he’d never known. But then Lieutenant Jabo cleared his throat, and said, “Put it there. On my desk.”
Hallorann hesitated, wanted to explain why he thought it was important, how the neat entries made over several days and dated carefully must mean that it was an important document. He was afraid it might get lost, as it nearly had been before, or forgotten, sitting among several piles of documents and books that crowded the lieutenant’s desk. He started to say something about the evident importance of the page, but when he turned back from the desk, the lieutenant was already asleep again.
He placed it on the desk as he’d been directed, then pulled the curtain back across Jabo’s rack and left. He was due down in the galley in an hour, it was the second day of his two-week long stint in the scullery washing dishes. Must be nice being an officer, he thought as he left: sleeping until nearly eleven o’clock in the morning like that.
• • •
The navigator was alone in the stateroom he shared with Ensign Duggan. Normally just a red curtain was pulled across his doorway, as department heads were expected to always be available. But he had closed the seldom-operated sliding door.
Not that he could sleep. He was too conscious of the ship’s speed and depth as they raced ahead, almost blind, through the dark ocean. The ship would shudder and groan occasionally, vibrating in resonant frequencies with the massive equipment in the engine room that was operating at its limits. He extended his hand to the hull, just inches from his pillow, and felt the cold steel, the sole barrier between him and the sea. He fought off the panic that always arose when he thought about it.
He wasn’t afraid to fall asleep, he just couldn’t, his body wouldn’t let him. He wasn’t afraid of nightmares, he knew the nightmares would come whether he was asleep or awake.
He heard a door shut to stateroom three, across the passageway, someone trying to be quiet. He shut his eyes just in case it was a messenger was making the rounds, perhaps with some messages they’d received during the extended trip at PD. It would be okay if he was seen asleep in his rack, but he didn’t want anyone to see him awake, brooding in the dark. He’d heard the whispering, didn’t need to stoke the rumors about his strange behavior. He unconsciously scratched the wound on his knee. A few minutes passed, no one came to the door, and he reopened his eyes.
The commander was sitting in his chair. The nav recognized him immediately, both from the old khaki dress uniform, the war patrol pin on his chest, and the scars across his face that told of past campaigns. He looked just like the photograph on the back cover of his book. It was Crush Martin.
“Are you proud of yourself?” he said. He was fuming. The only light was the tiny fluorescent fixture above their pull-out sink, so the commander was backlit, his features stark, his mustache and hair pitch black, his skin white. Thin scars ran down his face, like worm-eaten wood, reminders, the nav was sure, of past battles.
“I did what you said…” said the navigator. “A man is dead because of me.”
“And you thought that would be enough? Did you think one dead sailor would make them turn the boat around and give up?”
“It could have been more.” But he realized how stupid he’d been.
“Never,” said the commander. “You could have filled the freezer with bodies, and they would keep moving west, as long as the ship can move. You’ve barely even slowed them down.”
“But I…”
“Do you have any idea what’s at stake!” he thundered. Slamming his fist down on the desk. “Your ship, your mission, is going to be the catalyst of the apocalypse! And you turn a Freon valve…and think that will be enough. Idiot.”
“Sorry…” whimpered the nav.
“Maybe it’s not too late,” said the commander. “But you have to start acting with the appropriate level of vigor.”
“What should I do?”
“You’ve got one of the most important jobs on the boat,” said the commander. “And it’s not because you can turn the handle on a purple valve. There’s a reason I chose you, the navigator, for this mission. You’re one of the few men who can single-handedly destroy this boat.”
“How?” asked the navigator.
But he was already gone.
• • •
Jabo slept exactly twenty-five minutes after Hallorann left his stateroom, and when he awoke, he did feel much, much better. He knew it wouldn’t last, knew there would come a point early in the watch where no amount of coffee could overcome the sleep deficit he’d accumulated, but for the moment he just felt grateful for the one hundred and five minutes of sleep he’d gotten. And Hallorann’s fear had been accurate….he had no recollection of talking to him, or of the yellow sheet of paper that was sitting on his desk, lost among a sea of paper that was awaiting his review. But Jabo felt so good that he walked to the shower whistling, with a towel around his waist, and when he came back to the stateroom, ten minutes later, he was humming. Kincaid was back, sweaty and winded, taking off his running shoes.
“Did you violate those safety tags on the treadmill?” asked Jabo.
“I considered it. Fucking stupid. I ran in missile compartment upper level as best I could. I hate running up there.”
“I’ll talk to the cruise director.”
“Fuck you. I’m glad you got your nap in, slacker.”
Jabo laughed at that, started stepping into his poopie, while Kincaid nosed around his desk. He held up the yellow paper and laughed.
“I see that nub found you with this…he was trying to get everybody to look at it, we finally realized you are running the investigation, sent him down to you.”
Jabo took the sheet, began to vaguely recall the conversation with Hallorann. More clearly he remembered seeing the yellow paper in the master chief’s Polaroids. He looked at his watch. “I need to take the watch,” he said. “I’ll take a look at it on the conn.”
“I have a feeling if you don’t, that nub will come after you. He seems like a determined type of guy.”
• • •
Molly Hein came to Angi’s house already in her workout clothes, and then they left together in Angi’s car. They were already a little late for the step aerobics class in the gym base that they attended every Tuesday and Thursday when the men were at sea. The instructor was Dee Dee Hysong, the ridiculously fit, ridiculously blonde wife of a lieutenant on Alaska.
“We’re going to be late,” said Angi. “Dee Dee is going to glare at us.”
“That’s why I like being late,” said Molly. “But that’s not why she glares at us. It’s because you’re in better shape than her. She can’t tolerate that.”
Angi patted her belly. “If that’s true, she’ll be happy to see this.”
“How much longer do you think you can do stuff like this?”
“As long as they let me. Then we can just start going to McDonald’s and getting fat together.”
“You’ll never be fat,” said Molly. “You’re one of those mutants.”
Angi laughed. “Just because you drag me to these classes. You’re a good influence on me.”
“You’re a bad influence on me. I’m going to tell Jay I want to have a baby now.”
“God, don’t blame me for that…”
“Hey, if I can’t get a job, what the hell…I might as well stay barefoot and pregnant.” Molly, like her husband, had a degree from MIT. But with the frequent moves and the limited opportunities in a navy town, she’d been unable to get a career started. Angi had studied to be a teacher at Vandy, and was fully licensed to teach kids with learning disabilities—in Tennessee. After arriving in Washington State, she learned that the requirements and licensing were sufficiently different that it would take half their sea tour, and an equally significant chunk of Danny’s sea pay, for her to obtain her Washington state license. She sympathized with her friend’s frustration.
Angi turned on to Trigger Road, the short drive complete from her house to the gate. Cars were backed up as uniformed marines checked every ID and looked over every auto. A stern gunnery sergeant was supervising the stepped up inspections.
“Heightened security,” said Molly. “Must be because of all the China stuff.”
“The protestors are here, too,” said Angi. There was a small cadre of them just outside the gate, aging hippies in tie-dye, peasant skirts, and white pony tails, handing out flyers with large smiles on their faces. They’d had a long-standing agreement with the base, who allowed them to show up on Tuesday mornings and exercise their freedom of speech just outside the gate while submarine sailors worked to defend that right inside. One of them approached Angi’s car, and she started to roll down here window.
“You actually take their flyers?” said Molly.
“Usually. Just seems rude to say no.”
“God, you are a such nice person.”
Angi took the paper from an older looking man wearing a peace-sign medallion and a crucifix. He nodded thankfully and moved on to the car behind them. She looked it over.
“AMERICAN NUKES TO PROVOKE CHINA??!!!” There was a black, cartoonish silhouette of a surfaced submarine above the headline, with a nuclear trefoil symbol, as well as the red stars of the Chinese flag.
Recent statements by the State Department indicate a serious reinterpretation of the nuclear non-proliferation treaty is underway. Officials in the current administration seem to believe that providing Taiwan with nuclear weapons would not be a breech of the treaty which has been honored by the United States (and 189 other nations) since 1970, and is considered a cornerstone of international nuclear peace efforts.
China meanwhile has stated that it will not tolerate a nuclear Taiwan, and that it will consider any attempt to arm Taiwan as an act of war. The Red Army is on alert and the Chinese fleet is operating feverishly.
Are we going to provoke China into starting World War III? Is the United States trying to provoke a nuclear conflict? Are the destabilizing nukes coming from behind these gates?
A car honked. Angi, startled, dropped the flyer into her lap. She realized her heart was pounding. The Marine at the gate was waving her forward, looking annoyed at her for holding up the line.
• • •
Two cars behind her in that line was Captain Mario Soldato. He saw Angi’s Honda, but Angi did not see him, and he prayed silently that the commotion would not cause her to turn around and spot him. Angi was smart, very intuitive, and knew him well; if she saw him, she would see the worry in his eyes and that would make her worry. He turned around and glared at the lieutenant in the minivan who was leaning on his horn; the junior officer, noting the four stripes on Mario’s shoulder boards, quickly let up.
Mario had taken a rare afternoon off to spend with Cindy and her sister Sue Ellen, who’d flown in from South Carolina, where her husband, a Marine, had just made colonel. The two sisters were intensely competitive about their husband’s careers, and they both were enjoying the fact that their husbands had made O-6, held command, and were now assured not only of decent pensions, but of having served complete, fulfilled careers. Mario took pleasure in the sisters’ conversations, who in a very old-fashioned, southern
way, regarded their husband’s military successes as their own. He’d met them for lunch at The Keg, in Bremerton.
“Tom’s boys are in charge of security at the sub base,” said Sue Ellen.
“That’s an important support role,” said Mario.
“Stop it,” said Cindy, slapping his hand as he laughed.
“Anyway…” Sue Ellen continued, laughing at the joke. “While one of those boats was deployed, it seems one of the young enlisted wives took up with one of Tom’s Marines.”
“Oh my.”
“They were very serious, and when the boat finally came back, after a six month Westpac, as you can imagine this young sailor was distraught.”
“I would think,” said Mario.
“So the captain of this boat, Mario, you might know him, Mark Procopius?”
“I do know him…”
Sue Ellen rolled on, not interested in the details. “So this Captain Procopius schedules a meeting with Tom, to tell him about the whole thing, how distraught this sailor is. And you know what Tom tells him?”
“I can only imagine.”
“He says, ‘Captain, I can understand why you’re upset, but I can’t be responsible for every Navy wife in Charleston who decides she’d rather be with a United States Marine!”
Cindy launched into a defense of the attractiveness of submariners when his cell phone rang.
“Soldato.”
“Captain, this is Bushbaum. We’ve got another flash message from 731.”
As his Chief of Staff explained, Soldato felt a stab of guilt, not for the first time, about being on shore duty, and for taking a half day away from the pier, as if trouble at sea was somehow his fault. Disaster had again befallen Alabama, and this time, someone had died: that’s all he knew, all that could be communicated on the unsecure cell phone that he always carried, and even that message was spoken in military jargon that was impenetrable to outsiders. He hung up without saying goodbye, and stood.
“Gotta go,” he said.