Walter Greatshell - Apocalypse blues

"Lulu," Coombs said over my shoulder.

I jumped. "Sorry, sir, you snuck up on me."

"That's all right. Listen, I read your proposal about starting a Youth Corps on the boat. I've actually been thinking about something along those lines myself, internships for kids who show aptitude. We're still critically undermanned; we could use more bright kids like you working on qual cards."

This was funny to me. They hadn't trained me for anything, but Coombs seemed to take a peculiar interest in promoting the fiction that I was a vital member of the team. A "qual card" was a card you got when qualifying for specialized jobs-Julian had one, I knew, as did most of the adults. But Youth Liaison Officer was not a recognized specialty. I knew nothing, and Coombs seemed to like it that way.

He said, "This skeleton crew has been working for ten days with not much relief, and they're doing a lot of jobs a trained monkey could handle, while those kids back there are twiddling their thumbs and getting into mischief. I say let's give them some responsibility, a crash course in seamanship. What do you think?"

"Yes, sir. I think it would be great." I couldn't wait to tell the boys. "They'll be thrilled."

"Good. Get on it right away-I want seventy-five nonpuk ing candidates by oh-nine-thirty. Oh, one other thing"-he lowered his voice-"you haven't told anyone about our arrangement, have you?"

"Sir…?"

"Because that little extra something is still a special deal between you and us. It's not for everybody and his brother-in-law. There isn't enough chow to go around, and we don't want everyone to get all up in arms about it, do we?"

A sickening feeling wrung my stomach. "But the ones who are working, who I nominate for training, they'll get it, won't they?"

Coombs smiled sadly, resting his hand on my arm. "Honey, I wish I could."

After four days of slowly pounding along the surface, we finally submerged. The weather had slowly improved every day, and the sea was dead calm. I had learned from my furtive snooping that we were off Newfoundland, in the vicinity of a place called Hibernia, and that there was a lot of ice in the sea. It was the hazard posed by icebergs that prompted the dive, though with each passing day, the crew was also becoming noticeably paranoid about hostile ships.

Although I knew about the maneuver (and shared the information with my small circle of confidants), I wasn't prepared for when it would occur. As it turned out, it was the middle of the "night"-that is, the agreed-upon time when everyone in the Big Room was trying to sleep. It really was night outside, but we just as easily could have been somewhere on the planet where it was high noon-the clocks weren't changed for different time zones. All that signified night on board was darkroom red lighting in some areas, which was more creepy than restful. It was never truly dark. The crew berths had curtains, but we in our ever-bright dungeon slept fitfully, like stranded holiday travelers at an airport.

At least noise wasn't a problem. Billions had been spent to muffle the vessel; its overriding design theme-a fugue, really-was stealth. Literally no two pieces of metal touched without the intercession of a rubber grommet, and the entire place was padded like an asylum. Every pipe and duct hung from a shock-absorbing strut, and the decks themselves floated on cushions within the hull. The net result of all this was that in the upper crawl spaces, it was possible to hear the slosh of the sea, and depending on where you went, you might hear muted office sounds of cooling, heating, plumbing, electronics, ventilation, the deeper hum of powerful forces hidden aft, and the occasional bell or loudspeaker, but generally it was the kind of noise that becomes subliminal. That was why the captain's midnight announcement caught me by surprise.

"All hands, we are at dive status. Commence dive."

An earsplitting alarm sounded, and everyone was awake at once.

"The hell's that?" Tyrell shouted.

"Oh my God-what is it?" cried another voice.

The worst possible sounds on a submarine-plunging wa terfalls and blasts of escaping air-drowned my voice, as I called, "We're diving! We're just diving!" My heart was fluttering like a panicky finch in a cage.

There was a fearful sense of waves closing above us, of going down a well into a subterranean river. Long minutes passed while word of what was happening got around, then people just sat in anxious silence, eyes wide and turned upward like saints in religious paintings.

Rather than a giddy headlong plummet to the depths, there was instead a strange settling sensation, as of things becoming very heavy and still.

"Is it over?" I asked.

Julian said, "Wait…"

Torturous haunted-house sounds reverberated through the hull.

"Still going down," he said.

"Oh my God."

"… just wait…"

The awful noises began to die down. As quiet descended, there was a collective awakening, as if the last few days had been spent in the throes of some hellish delirium, addicts in withdrawal suddenly clean. People too seasick to drink or move, and who had become dangerously dehydrated, were standing up in wonder like pilgrims to Lourdes. The floor was steady. We looked around at each other with growing euphoria: Whatever it was we had been riding, it wasn't a submarine. This was a submarine!

Coombs came on the loudspeaker:

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are now at our cruising depth of three hundred feet. I apologize for any turbulence you may have experienced. In case you're wondering, we have submerged because of sea ice around the island of Newfoundland. The easternmost Canadian city of St. John's is just fourteen miles off our port bow, and it appears to be inhabited; that is, we observed lights in that direction just before diving. I'd like all civilian passengers to know that I have been well apprised of your difficult situation, and what I'd like to do is offer anyone who's interested the chance to go ashore."

The crowd thrilled to this bombshell. Some even began sobbing.

"There's a good chance that this part of Canada has not been heavily affected by Agent X-it's an island, it's remote, it's very cold, and there won't have been a lot of refugees by sea because the port is iced in. They may be amenable to a few guests. I should tell you that for security reasons, we will be surfacing under cover of darkness less than two hours from now and won't stay long. We don't know how Canadian defense forces will react to having a nuclear sub on their doorstep, but I don't intend to find out. Since none of you is really prepared for the weather, those going ashore may take the Navy blankets they've been issued-these should be sufficient to keep the wind off until you get to shelter. Anyone disembarking without parent or guardian must notify the Youth Liaison Officer so she can assign you a number. This number will determine the order in which you exit the hatch, so remember it."

Boys fell clamoring upon me. I had to make up a roster on the spot, unprepared.

Finally, Coombs said, "For those of you who may choose to remain aboard, I can't promise you anything. With fewer people, the food may stretch a little longer, but it will still be carefully rationed. I can't tell you our destination, but I can tell you it may not be as inviting as this. For that reason, I leave the decision to you. That's all."

It seemed that everyone wanted out. In twenty minutes I had assigned numbers to over three hundred boys-three-quarters of the boy population. Many of them had been sick the whole time and were so eager to go they were gibbering with delight. Their excitement smothered whatever doubts others may have had, making us feel like fools for hesitating.

Signing up Tyrell, I joked, "Oh no! But it was just getting fun!"