100 Fathoms Below

CHAPTER TEN

Jefferson crouched down beside the body bag on the floor of the torpedo room. He was tempted to unzip it and take another look at the man inside, but that first look had been enough. Face covered in white crystals of frost, eyes open and staring blankly.

“Do you think he was sick?” he asked Senior Chief Matson.

Matson frowned. “It’s possible. From what the crewmen told us—inability to focus, his persistent sweating—it sounds like he might have had a serious fever.”

“Right,” Lieutenant Abrams muttered with a mirthless chuckle. “And maybe he was looking for someplace to cool off.”

“As strange as it may sound, sir, you might not be wrong about that,” Matson said. “If Stubic’s fever was high enough, he could have been delirious, even hallucinating. In that state of mind, he might not have understood what he was doing.”

“Are you saying he could have shut himself in the freezer on purpose?” Jefferson said.

Matson sighed. “I don’t know, sir. It’s just conjecture right now, but I’m saying it’s not impossible.”

Jefferson stood and rubbed a hand over his short, tightly curled hair in exasperation. “Let me get this straight. Sometime between midrats and first meal, Stubic entered the mess during a rare moment when it was empty, smashed one of the lights, and then walked into the freezer and shut himself in. All because he was delirious. That’s what you’re saying?”

“It does sound pretty far-fetched, sir,” Matson admitted. “The only other explanation I can think of is that he just snapped.”

“But supposing that’s true, why snap now?” Jefferson asked. “He’s no first-timer. He’s an experienced submariner who’s been on a couple of underways with us already.”

Neither Matson nor Abrams had an answer.

Jefferson sighed. “I’d better go inform the captain.”

On the top level, Jefferson found the door to Captain Weber’s stateroom closed. He knocked.

“Who is it?” The captain’s voice sounded terse and preoccupied.

“Lieutenant Commander Jefferson, sir.”

“Come in.”

Jefferson opened the door and hunched over to step inside. There were no height restrictions for officers in the submarine service, but anyone over six feet risked bumping his head in the cramped staterooms, which didn’t seem designed so much as carved out of available space as an afterthought. And the marine architect certainly wasn’t thinking of a six-and-a-half-foot linebacker. Captain Weber was poring over a map spread across his fold-down desk. He didn’t look up.

“Close the door behind you, Lieutenant Commander,” the captain said, drawing lines across the map with a pencil and ruler. “I’ll be right with you.”

Jefferson could see the coast of Alaska on one side of the map, and the Siberian coast directly across. The Kamchatka Peninsula jutted down from the eastern end of the Soviet Union like a whale’s fin, with the Sea of Okhotsk on one side, and on the other, the Pacific Ocean and the Rybachiy Nuclear Submarine Base. Captain Weber had circled the location of the base and was currently drawing several lines between Roanoke’s current position and the peninsula, plotting possible courses. And from where Jefferson stood, a lot of those lines looked as though they reached significantly closer to the shoreline than international maritime law allowed.

“What can I do for you, Jefferson?” Captain Weber finally asked, looking up from his work.

Jefferson pulled his gaze away from the map. “Sir, I’m sorry to say I have bad news. There’s been a death among the crew.”

The captain straightened in his chair. “My God. Who?”

“PO3 Warren Stubic, a torpedoman, sir. We believe he’s responsible for that broken light in the mess, as well.”

Captain Weber sat back and stared past his XO. “Jesus! What happened?”

“We’re not sure yet, sir. Matson’s working theory is that Stubic might have been sick, possibly delirious with fever. We won’t know for certain until there’s an autopsy.”

“I see. Where is the body now?”

“I’ve authorized that it be stored in the torpedo room, sir. Senior Chief Matson is with the body now.”

Captain Weber nodded. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Jefferson. As soon as we can, we’ll radio back and make sure his family is informed.”

“Sir, the nearest medical facility—”

“It’s going to have to wait,” the captain said, cutting him off. “I can’t take the time now.”

“Sir, I mean no disrespect, but this is protocol. The navy expects us to bring dead sailors to the nearest medical facility without delay, sir.”

“It’s going to have to wait!” the captain repeated, a notch louder.

“Aye, sir,” Jefferson said, coming to attention. “Understood, sir.”

Captain Weber took a deep breath. “I’m well aware of navy protocol, Lieutenant Commander. But if you knew how important this operation is, how much is riding on it…”

“Sir, I thought this was just a reconnaissance op,” Jefferson said.

The captain picked up his pencil and a divider and returned his attention to the map, ignoring Jefferson’s statement. “I need you to keep this boat running smoothly, Lieutenant Commander. I need the crew focused and ready. It won’t be much farther now.”

What wouldn’t be much farther now? Jefferson’s eyes darted to the map again, but it offered no answers, and the captain’s expression invited no questions. There were things about this op he was keeping close to the vest. Of course, that was a captain’s prerogative. Jefferson didn’t have to like it; he only had to accept it.

“Dismissed,” Captain Weber told him.

Back in the torpedo room, Jefferson found Matson alone, attending the body. Lieutenant Abrams had returned to the galley. The hospital corpsman wasn’t happy to hear that the captain wouldn’t be turning back to Pearl.

“So what are we supposed to do, sir, just keep him down here?” the corpsman asked.

“Captain’s orders,” Jefferson told him. He didn’t like it any more than Matson did, but the captain had made his decision. And judging from the way he had snapped at Jefferson, there would be no changing his mind. It had something to do with the op; that much was clear.

“I suppose you want me to stay down here with him, sir?” Matson asked. He didn’t sound happy with the idea.

“No, there’s no need. Stubic’s not going anywhere, and I’ve informed the weapons officer that the torpedo room is to remain off-limits until I say otherwise. We’ll keep the hatch closed in the meantime.”

“Thank you, sir,” Matson said, relieved. “I was worried I’d go stir crazy if I had to stay down here for an entire section. I don’t know how the torpedomen do it, sir. This has got to be the loneliest place on the sub.”

Jefferson looked around. Matson wasn’t wrong. The torpedo room was cramped and unfriendly, full of metal and machinery and hard edges, with torpedoes resting in their steel trays along the bulkhead, and only a narrow corridor from the doorway to the torpedo tubes. It had an isolated, inhospitable feel.

“I suppose that’s why it makes a good morgue,” Jefferson said. “Nobody wants to be here.”

They left the torpedo room. Matson climbed the main ladder to the middle level while Jefferson secured the hatch. When he was finished, he walked the length of the corridor to the main ladder and was about to start climbing when he heard a loud metallic bang come from the auxiliary engine room at the aft end of the bottom level, followed by a loud, frustrated curse.

The auxiliary engine, also known as the Big Red Machine, had gotten its nickname from its bright red color, although some swore it was in honor of the Cincinnati Reds, who had dominated the National League all throughout the 1970s. An enormous diesel generator, the Big Red Machine was designed to power the boat if the nuclear reactor ever shut down. Jefferson entered the auxiliary engine room and found three sailors from Engineering standing in front of the engine, a scattering of tools at their feet.

“Everything all right in here?” he asked.

“Aye, sir,” one of the sailors replied. “Just doing our weekly maintenance check, sir.”

“Carry on,” Jefferson told them.

Along one bulkhead, he saw the stack of food crates the engineers had allowed Lieutenant Abrams to store here while his pantry was full. In a few more weeks, once more of the food had been consumed and shelf space became available, the crates of big number 10 cans of vegetables, coffee, fruit, and soup would go up to the pantry for unpacking. Jefferson had been in the navy a long time now, and in submarines for most of it, but every once in a while it still amazed him how well things ran, how efficient it was when everyone pulled together. If duties were performed properly and everything was where it was supposed to be, an underway could run as smoothly as clockwork.

But it was a delicate balance. It didn’t take much for things to go FUBAR on a sub, and Warren Stubic had damn well turned things FUBAR for Roanoke. But why? He still couldn’t puzzle it out. The theory that Stubic had snapped didn’t fly. He had to pass a psych eval when he first joined the navy, and they certainly would have spotted any potential for a psychotic break. An illness, then? Possibly, but that opened a whole other can of worms. Where had Stubic picked it up? Was it contagious?

Jefferson had always tried to keep the boat running smoothly, but now everything seemed to be careening out of control, falling apart at exactly the wrong time. Not only did they have an op to complete, but his chances for getting his own command were riding on how well it went. It had been a long, hard slog over many years to convince the navy that he deserved his own boat. It was within his grasp now, but he knew they would be looking for any reason to say no. Any reason at all to keep him down, keep him in his place. And damned if he was going to give them one. Whatever was happening on Roanoke, he intended to get to the bottom of it.

Jefferson left the auxiliary engine room and was returning to the main ladder when he noticed that a section of corridor closer to the torpedo room had gone dark. Strange. It hadn’t been dark a minute ago. As he drew closer, he saw shards of glass glittering on the floor. Someone had broken a light fixture down here too.

His jaw tightened. How was this possible? Stubic had broken the light up in the mess, but Stubic was dead. There were flecks of blood amid the shards on the floor. Fresh blood.

He looked up from the floor and froze where he was. A silhouette hugged the bulkhead within the patch of darkness. In the ambient light from the other fixtures, he could make out Steve Bodine’s features, wet with sweat.

“Bodine?” Jefferson said.

“Sir.” Bodine’s voice was raspy. He was cradling one hand in the other, and Jefferson could see dark blood oozing across the knuckles. “Don’t come any closer, sir.”

“Bodine, what have you done?” Jefferson asked.

“I—I couldn’t,” he stammered. “The light… I had to…” From the shadows, Bodine’s glistening eyes regarded him with undisguised terror. “It hurt my eyes. The light hurts so much. You can’t understand how much.”

“I don’t know what’s going on, but let me help you,” Jefferson said, trying to put him at ease.

“You can’t help me, sir. No one can.” Bodine slumped against the bulkhead, clutching the wounded hand closer to his chest. “Oh, God, Lieutenant Commander, I’m burning up. I feel like my whole body’s on fire.”

“Bodine, you’re sick. I think you’ve got the same thing Stubic had. Report to sick bay right now. Matson can take care of you.”

“Stay back,” Bodine insisted. His voice broke, and he started sobbing. “I—I don’t remember what happened, sir. Something took my memories away. Something is taking me away!”

“I don’t understand,” Jefferson said.

Bodine rubbed his neck. “These welts, sir. I don’t remember how I got them. I don’t even remember breaking this light, but I know I did it. I know it was me, but it’s like I’m not me anymore.”

“That’s it, you’re coming with me to sick bay, Bodine,” Jefferson said, moving toward him. “That’s an order.”

“I said stay away from me!” Bodine shouted.

Another metallic bang sounded from the auxiliary engine room behind him, followed by raised voices arguing. Jefferson turned away from Bodine for only a moment. While he was distracted, Bodine made a break for the ladder. Jefferson chased after him. He was still in good shape from his football days, in better shape than Bodine, he thought, and yet Bodine, despite his illness, was moving too fast for Jefferson to catch. He hadn’t seen anyone run this fast since his days on the field. It didn’t seem possible, and yet Bodine was scrambling up before Jefferson even reached the first rung.

He followed Bodine up to the middle level, emerging next to the mess, but the corridor was so crowded with sailors he didn’t see Bodine anywhere. Jefferson was tall enough to look over most of the sailors’ heads, but there was no sign of the helmsman. How the hell had he moved so quickly?

“Bodine?” he called. “Bodine, get your ass back here, that’s an order!”

Crewmen in the mess and the corridor stared at him, wondering what was going on and murmuring among themselves, but the helmsman didn’t appear. Jefferson cursed under his breath. Bodine was gone.