Steven Kent - 100 Fathoms Below

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?