Steven Kent - 100 Fathoms Below

But now, seated at the helm, Bodine looked distracted, unwell. His shoulders twitched, and he blinked rapidly.

“Everything all right, Bodine?” Jefferson asked.

Bodine jolted slightly in his chair, as though he hadn’t been aware Jefferson was behind him. “Sir? Yes—yes, sir. Fine, sir.”

But he didn’t look fine. He was still blinking rapidly, and he wiped his sweat-beaded forehead with one hand. A drop of sweat rolled out of his close-cropped hairline and down his neck—past two small, red welts.

“What’s that on your neck, Bodine?” Jefferson asked.

The helmsman absently rubbed the side of his neck with one hand. “I don’t know, sir. I—I can’t remember where they came from.”

Jefferson was about to tell him to get checked out by the hospital corpsman, when Farrington burst into the control room, clearly agitated. He walked up to Captain Weber at the plotting tables.

“Captain, sir, there’s been a development,” he said.

“Go ahead, COB,” the captain said as Jefferson walked over to them.

“I was inspecting the bunks just now and discovered one of the racks was empty, sir,” Farrington said.

“Who’s missing?” Captain Weber asked.

“It’s Stubic, sir,” Farrington said. “Petty Officer Third Class Warren Stubic.”

While Lieutenant Commander Jefferson and COB Farrington were traversing the submarine inspecting the crew’s hands, Lieutenant Gordon Abrams was busy with first meal, making sure the hungry sailors who weren’t currently on their watch sections had something hot in their bellies.

Roanoke ’s galley felt like home to Gordon in a way that almost nowhere else did, except maybe the house he had grown up in. When things were going right in the galley, every day was the same. Only the menu changed. And that was how he liked it. The banging of pots, the hiss and sizzle of the deep fryer, the noise of his culinary specialists cooking an all-you-can-eat buffet for 140 men—these sounds had become his constant companions, his comfort zone. He got nervous only when the noise stopped, because that meant something was wrong. Still, he had to admit, there were times when he envied the variety he was sure the other crewmen experienced each day. Keeping watch for Soviet boats, steering Roanoke through deep and enemy-infested waters, manning the torpedoes. But he knew he didn’t really have the temperament for it. This was where he belonged, amid the noise and controlled chaos of the galley, supervising the culinary specialists who cooked chow for the men; the bakers who were responsible for making fresh muffins, dinner rolls, and desserts; the dishwashers; and the team of stewards who brought the chow to the wardroom on one side of the galley and the mess on the other. Gordon took pride in his contribution, making sure his galley produced the finest food in the fleet.

But then some asshole had put his fist through a light in the mess, and now everything felt off-kilter. He couldn’t help taking it personally. That was his mess the culprit had vandalized. As much as he tried not to let it distract him from his duties, it was never far from his mind. He hoped they found the bastard soon and gave him a captain’s mast. Or better yet, left him on an iceberg somewhere and told him to go to hell.

Accompanying Gordon in the galley, at this moment cooking eggs, sausage, and hot cereal for the crew, were two of his newest culinary specialists: Seaman Apprentices Oran and LeMon Guidry. When the brothers had arrived for their section, they ribbed each other over the broken light fixture, blaming each other’s cooking for being so bad it drove someone over the edge. Annoyed, Gordon had put a stop to it right away and put them to work scrubbing dried blood off the table and floor. They were too young to understand how serious this was, and still too new to the navy to grasp how dangerous the urge for destruction could be on a submarine.

They hailed from someplace called Bayou Bartholomew—a couple of easygoing good old boys who grew up in the marshes on a diet of catfish, alligator, and dirty rice. Their hair was so blond it almost looked white, and they both had a deep tan that spoke of a youth spent outside in the sun. The first time Gordon met them, he thought they were twins, but Oran was actually two years older than LeMon. With a nose that had obviously been broken and reset at least once, he looked like a scrapper who had seen his share of fights. According to the story they told Gordon, right after both boys had graduated from high school they hitchhiked to Baton Rouge together and signed up with their local navy recruiter.

Even though their thick Cajun accents made them sound like a couple of backwoods stump jumpers whenever they opened their mouths, according to Oran’s personnel file he had scored a perfect 300 on the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery. That qualified him for any job in the Navy. LeMon had scored 283—too low to be an electrician’s mate or a machinist, but high enough to qualify him for pretty much any other enlisted man’s occupational specialty. The brothers weren’t exactly Naval Academy material, but they were prime candidates for the enlisted ranks.

As the story went, they had asked only two things of their navy recruiters. The first was that they stay together. LeMon had always wanted to travel the world, and Oran just wanted to look after his little brother. The second thing they asked for, even though they could have had just about any navy enlistment classification they wanted, was to be made culinary specialists. And Gordon thanked his stars that the navy had agreed to both requests, because the Guidry brothers could cook. Apparently, it had been a big part of their lives back home. They used spices in ways Gordon had never seen before, and earlier in the underway they had whipped up a special seasoning of paprika, pepper, salt, and dried herbs that could be rubbed on meat to make it both sweet and spicy. The crew had gone nuts for it. The Guidry brothers made an effortless team in his galley, and if they kept it up, Gordon was certain they had it in them to be culinary rock stars. That would take them far in the navy.

“Lieutenant, suh,” Oran said, standing in front of the burner and working a big pan of scrambled eggs with a steel spatula, “we got roas’ beef on the menu for tomorrow, but we best take it out of the freezer to thaw. You want, I’ll go get it, suh.”

“No, Guidry, I’ll take care of it. You two stay put. When the stewards come back, I want another platter of sausages sent to the mess, okay? They’re running low.”

“Yessuh,” Oran said. He nudged LeMon, who was minding the sausages while they roasted in the oven. “You hear that, Monje? Get your head out the clouds and make sure them sausages ready.”

LeMon sucked his teeth and said, “I ain’t Grandpa Zephirin. I hear just fine.” Then, to Gordon, “Sausages be ready in two shakes, suh.”

“Good,” Gordon said. The two of them could be a couple of clowns sometimes, but he didn’t mind so long as they continued to perform their duties well. In addition to their culinary skills, they handled the galley like pros. The other day a grease fire had started on the burners, and the Guidrys had calmly and quickly smothered it with a sack of flour before Gordon even noticed. He would have been tempted to call them old hands at this if they weren’t so young.

He went to the pantry and glanced up at the bare spot on the ceiling, where one of the two light fixtures had been removed to replace the broken one in the mess. It rankled him how much of the room was in shadow.

The walk-in freezer was at the far end of the pantry. He put on the jacket, wool cap, and thick gloves that hung from a peg on the stainless-­steel door. The freezer was kept at a steady minus-five degrees, cold enough to suck away a man’s body heat awfully fast if he wasn’t wearing protection.