100 Fathoms Below

CHAPTER NINE

When Petty Officer Tim Spicer’s watch in the sonar shack was over, he left the control room and headed for the main ladder. Being on a submarine sometimes felt like being on another planet, one with a different orbit and spin. While everyone on land enjoyed 24-hour days, submariners made do with 18-hour ones. They slept six hours, worked six, had six off to unwind—eat, do laundry, study for their off-quals, read, or listen to cassettes on their yellow Walkman headphones—and then the cycle began over again.

After living in the 24-hour world, the 18-hour world could mess with a man’s inner clock. It didn’t help that on a sub there was no discernible difference between day and night. Sunlight didn’t penetrate this deep, and it wasn’t as if they had windows to enjoy the view, anyway. The lights stayed on permanently everywhere but the berthing areas, where the crewmen slept. For some, it all could be very disorienting. Tim had certainly had trouble with it on his first underway, and he was certain it had contributed to Mitch Robertson’s breakdown. And now it looked as though someone else was losing it.

He spotted Jerry White stepping off the ladder on the middle level and called down for him to wait. Jerry stopped and waited for him, and they moved to one side of the corridor to let others pass by on their way to the mess, the berthing areas, or the head.

“Did you hear, someone smashed a light in the mess?” Tim asked.

“I heard the XO asking you about it,” Jerry replied. “There’s a rumor making the rounds that whoever did it used his bare hands. You’d have to be crazy to do something like that.”

“Not everyone’s cut out for living in a tin can,” Tim said. “It’s rare, but sometimes people snap.”

“So I’ve heard. Something like that happened on the last underway, didn’t it?” Jerry pressed himself against the bulkhead to let a group of sailors by on their way to the mess. “I heard my predecessor tried to kill himself. They say he cut his wrists in the head. They also say you’re the one who found him and saved his life.”

“I think it was more of a cry for help than a real attempt to kill himself,” Tim said. “Matson told me afterward that Robertson had cut his wrists crosswise instead of lengthwise. Makes it a lot harder to bleed out that way. Who told you about him?

“Pearl’s not that big a station,” Jerry said. “Word gets around. As soon as I got there and people heard which boat I was assigned to, they fell all over themselves telling me the sordid details. I think they were trying to spook me, but I was excited for the transfer, to be honest. After being in a Sturgeon-class sub, being in a Los Angeles class feels like moving into a bigger house. Philadelphia was a short-hull; there was even less room in her than there is in Roanoke.”

“I’m glad to hear the transfer’s working out,” Tim said.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Jerry said. “Lieutenant Duncan’s been riding my ass so hard, the other men have started giving me a wide berth. It’s like they don’t want to draw my fire.” Jerry looked up the main ladder and then both ways down the corridor. “The other day in the mess, I asked some of the guys I know from the control room if I could join their card game. You know what they said? They said I was putting Duncan in a bad mood and he was taking it out on all of them. They told me if it stopped I could join the game. Can you believe that? Even Bodine’s giving me the cold shoulder, and he’s my helmsman. We’re supposed to work together—although he’s been a little weird too. Today he was distracted. He couldn’t seem to concentrate, and he was sweating like he was in a sauna. Of course, that put Duncan in an even pissier mood.” He glanced down the corridor. “Ah, shit. Weather’s about to change.”

Tim turned and saw Lieutenant Junior Grade Duncan walking toward them out of the wardroom.

“Just be cool,” Tim said.

“White!” Duncan called. He stopped in front of them. “You were too slow at the yoke today, White. Maybe on Philadelphia they let air-breathing nubs like you slack off, but you’re on Roanoke now. When you’re given an order, you don’t hesitate; you execute it. Am I clear, sailor?”

“Yes, sir,” Jerry said. But Tim saw a hint of confusion in his eyes, as if he didn’t know what the lieutenant was talking about.

Duncan raised his eyebrows. “What was that, sailor? Did you say something?”

Jerry straightened his shoulders and stood at parade rest—feet apart and hands clasped behind him at the small of the back. “I said aye, sir.”

“That’s what I thought. Watch where you step, White. You’re on mighty thin ice—wouldn’t take much for you to fall through.”

With a steely parting glare, Duncan turned and continued toward the officers’ staterooms.

“What was that about?” Tim asked once Duncan was out of earshot.

“He thinks I killed his friend’s navy career.”

“Your former XO?” Tim asked. Jerry looked at him in surprise, and Tim shrugged. “Like you said, word gets around. So did you really hesitate, or was the lieutenant just looking for an excuse to bust your balls?”

Jerry didn’t meet his eye. He glanced sharply down the corridor in the direction Duncan had gone. “He’s my diving officer. If he says I hesitated, then I must have hesitated. That’s just the way it is.”

“Bullshit,” Tim said. “We could talk to the COB, maybe get Lieutenant Duncan to back off.”

“Forget it,” Jerry said. “It’s nothing.”

“You sure about that? Because I don’t see him easing up on his own, and you’re going to be stuck on this boat with him for three months.”

“Just let it go, okay, Tim?”

Jerry headed off toward the mess. Tim hung back a moment, then followed. From what he had seen so far, Jerry seemed like a solid guy who took pride in his work. So why was he content to let Duncan keep hassling him? Was he just a masochist, or did he maybe feel guilty about something? What went down on Philadelphia that made Jerry file that complaint?

Up ahead, Tim spotted Lieutenant Commander Jefferson coming out of the mess, followed by Senior Chief Matson, Lieutenant Abrams, and one of the new culinary specialists, Oran Guidry. They were carrying a heavy bundle between them. It took Tim a second to register that it was a black body bag, zipped shut and bulging from the rigid, asymmetrical mass inside. He ran over to them, pushing past the knot of curious sailors that was forming around them. Jerry was right behind him.

“Sir, what happened?” Tim asked just as Abrams lost his grip on the bag for a moment and nearly dropped it.

“Spicer, White, give us a hand with this,” Jefferson said.

Jerry got his hands under one side of the body bag, and Tim lifted from the other side. He winced in surprise. Whoever was inside the bag was so cold, Tim’s hands started to ache. He kept his grip, though, and helped the other five men carry it to the main ladder. Maneuvering the load down the ladder to the bottom level without dropping it was difficult, but between the six of them they managed.

There were only two enlisted men inside the long, narrow torpedo room, a skeleton crew that mostly did maintenance while the boat was still in friendly waters. Both looked surprised to see Lieutenant Commander Jefferson’s imposing bulk in the doorway.

“Clear the room,” Jefferson ordered.

The two torpedomen hustled out into the corridor, gawking in shock at the body bag. Jefferson led Tim and the others in, then ordered them to lay the body bag on the floor in back, near the torpedo tubes. When Tim straightened again, he stuck his freezing hands under his armpits to warm them.

Oran Guidry turned to his boss. “Suh, permission to return to the galley? Best not leave Monje alone up there or he start screwin’ thangs up.”

“Yes, that’s fine, Guidry, thank you,” Abrams replied, and Oran hurried out of the torpedo room.

Tim watched him leave and saw the two torpedomen reappear in the doorway. Tim had the same questions they did, but his experience with officers told him this was something they would prefer to handle without him and Jerry getting in the way. He expected Abrams or Jefferson to dismiss them both, but they seemed too focused on the dead man to care about their presence.

“How the hell did he get inside your freezer, Lieutenant?” Jefferson asked.

Gordon wiped one arm across his forehead. “I don’t have an answer for that yet, sir, but I plan to. All I know is, he was dead when I found him.”

“How long was he in there?” Jefferson asked.

“Couldn’t have been more than a few hours, sir.”

“It wouldn’t take long to freeze to death in there,” Matson added. “The freezer is kept at subzero temperatures, and depending on any number of factors, he would have been dead of exposure anywhere between 15 and 45 minutes.”

“Was he trapped inside?”

“Not possible, sir,” Gordon replied. “The freezer opens from the inside, and you can’t lock it. He couldn’t have been trapped.”

Jefferson looked down at the body bag with a grimace. “I hate to ask this, Matson, but is it possible someone killed him first and then put him in the deep freeze?”

“I didn’t see any signs of trauma, sir,” Matson said. “Nothing to indicate he was strangled, stabbed, shot…”

Jefferson shook his head in bewilderment. “When you showed me those cuts on his hands, I almost couldn’t believe it. First he breaks the light fixture in the mess; then he turns up dead?”

Tim glanced at Jerry, but Jerry looked deep in thought.

“We have to bring the body to a medical facility where they can perform a proper autopsy on him and find out what happened,” Jefferson continued. “Right now, the closest base is still Pearl Harbor. It’s a straight shot down the Pacific, and if we turn around now we can be there in a week. I’ll inform Captain Weber, but that’s one hell of a detour. He’s not going to be happy.” He called one of the torpedomen watching from the doorway back into the room. “Your name’s Cameron, isn’t it?”

“Aye, sir,” the sailor replied. He looked to be early 30s—older than most of the enlisted men aboard.

“You and the other torpedomen will be assigned to new stations until we reach the base and the body can be removed,” Jefferson said. “I’ll inform the weapons officer. But until we get to Pearl, this room is now officially the morgue.”

Cameron eyed the body bag nervously. “Aye, sir.”

“Dismissed, Cameron,” Jefferson said.

“Aye-aye, sir,” the torpedoman replied. He turned around and started to leave.

“Cameron, hold on,” Jefferson called after him.

The sailor turned back to him. “Sir?”

“You worked with the deceased, Warren Stubic. What can you tell me about him? Did you notice anything unusual lately? Anything off?”

Stubic? Tim thought back to the strange encounter he’d had with the man on the day of the launch—that wild, almost panicked look in his eye. After that, it almost didn’t come as a surprise to hear that Stubic had smashed the light fixture. But frozen to death in the galley’s freezer? That was a shock.

Cameron glanced at the bag again, a sadness in his eyes. Tim wondered whether they had been close. “Stubic is—was—a good torpedoman, sir. At least, he used to be. He was different this time, sir.”

“What do you mean?” Jefferson asked.

“He wasn’t acting like himself, sir,” Cameron said. “He wasn’t focusing on his duties. Kept complaining about headaches, and the lights hurting his eyes. Last time I saw him, he was sweating something awful. I mean drenched. I worked with him on two previous underways, sir. This definitely wasn’t like him. Something must have happened to him.”

“Sir, if I may?” Tim said.

“You have something to add, Spicer?” Jefferson asked.

“Yes, sir. I noticed the same things about Stubic that Cameron did. I ran into him on the first day of the underway. Something was definitely wrong with him, sir. He said he was fine, but he didn’t look it. He just seemed… out of it.”

Jefferson nodded. “Thank you. You’re dismissed, Cameron. Spicer, White, you too. Get back to your duties.”

“Aye, sir,” Tim said.

The three enlisted men left the room. Cameron joined his colleague from the torpedo room, while Tim and Jerry went back up the main ladder to the middle level. They entered the mess, but Tim wasn’t hungry anymore. Just a week into the underway, and a crewman was already dead. Everyone in the mess was already talking about it. The rumors were flying. Stubic was on drugs. Stubic sneaked alcohol aboard. Stubic was poisoned in Hawaii by a jealous husband using a slow-acting toxin that drove him insane. It all sounded like nonsense to Tim, but how plausible an explanation could you expect for a man putting his fist through a glass light fixture and winding up frozen solid? Nothing sounded right.

“Tim, hold up a second,” Jerry said.

He stopped. “Yeah, what is it?”

“I’m worried,” Jerry said.

Tim nodded. “Me too. It’s nuts what happened to Stubic. I can’t get my mind around it.”

“It’s not just that,” Jerry said. “You heard what Cameron said. Stubic couldn’t focus, and he was sweating like a whore in church. Sound familiar? It’s just like what’s happening to Bodine.”