Steven Kent - 100 Fathoms Below

The captain nodded. “Then let’s hope some well-meaning idiot doesn’t find them and thaw them out.”

On Tim’s screen, the active sonar pinged off dozens of small shapes as they drifted away from the submarine. It was finally over.

Tim went down to the berthing area to visit Jerry a few hours later. Oran was there, leaning into Jerry’s rack and helping him tighten the gauze around his knee.

“Had to do this once for Monje’s knee after he got in a bad fight at school,” Oran said. He went quiet for a moment, then sighed. “Anyway, don’t you go fightin’ no more rougarou. That leg need to heal.”
Jerry winced at the pressure on his knee.

“That hurt?” Oran asked. “I can go get some aspirin from sick bay…”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Jerry said. “It may hurt like a son of a bitch, but I earned this pain. I’m okay with feeling it for a while.”

“Crazy bastid,” Oran grumbled. “Maybe you can talk sense into him, Spicer.”

“I wouldn’t even try,” Tim said, laughing. “I just wanted to let you know the captain has set a course back to Pearl Harbor.”

“Finally,” Jerry said. “After this, I just want to sit on the beach and soak up the sun for a month!”

“You just make sure and heed what them medical officers tell you,” Oran said. “Don’t go running off to no beach like a couillon if they tell you to stay in bed.”

“Let them try to stop me,” Jerry said.

Oran shook his head. “Finding trouble—that’s your habit.”

“That’s an understatement,” Tim said. “There’s more news, by the way. Captain Weber has made me acting chief of the boat.”

“Congratulations, COB,” Jerry said. “I’m sure Farrington would be proud.”

“I hope so,” Tim said. “It’s the first time a petty officer first class has been made chief of a boat, I think. I’d better not screw it up.”

“You won’t,” Jerry said. He leaned back in his rack. “Look at us. The USS Roanoke , making history left and right.”

“Do you think they’ll believe us?” Oran asked. “About what happened, I mean.”

“They’ll have to,” Jerry said.

Tim wasn’t so sure, although he kept his mouth shut. The navy would need someone to blame, but there was no longer any evidence of the vampires on board. It was more likely they would come up with an official story themselves: mutiny, a Soviet attack, or just a deadly virus that had swept through most of the crew—which, come to think of it, wasn’t that far from the truth.

“I was thinking about all them rougarou we dumped in the ocean,” Oran said. “What if they wash up on shore somewhere before the sun comes out? What if that’s all it takes for them to thaw out?”

“I can’t even think about that right now,” Tim said. “Far as I’m concerned, I don’t want to hear the word vampire or rougarou ever again.”

“Nah,” Oran said. “I bet the sharks and crabs and killer whales got ’em anyway. Gobblin’ ’em right up in the water like little frozen snacks.”

He laughed, but it was a nervous, doubtful laugh, as though he weren’t entirely convinced.

Jerry smiled thinly but couldn’t bring himself to laugh with him. As he lay there in his rack, Stubic’s final words came back to him—words that still made him shiver.

“ What makes you think this is the only submarine we’re on? ”

Waikiki, January 10, 1984

Petty Officer Second Class Kenneth McNamee, helmsman of the submarine USS Swordfish , SSN-579, stood on a Waikiki side street and pulled a business card out of his pocket. He checked the address on the card twice, making sure he had the right place. It didn’t look like much—just a door at the far end of an empty alley. He would have thought it was a trick, but someone had made a welcoming aisle of lit candles up to the porch—just the kind of touch a Hawaiian brothel would add to class itself up. This had to be the right place.

He approached the door cautiously after making sure no one saw him enter the alley from the street. He wasn’t worried just about the pickpockets and muggers who were sometimes in the employ of brothels. If the navy caught him here, he would be in some serious shit. And if they learned of McNamee’s particular proclivities, the shit would be deep enough to drown in.

His unusual tastes had already gotten him in trouble once, back when he was a janitor at a public school in Paris, Illinois. He had lost that job, although it was no great loss. He couldn’t think of anything more soul-deadening than pushing a mop through school halls day after day. It was probably why he had gotten bored and allowed his mind to wander, pick out an object for his affections, think about her day after day until finally…

The DA hadn’t prosecuted him right away. He was an old-fashioned guy, the DA, with that old “boys will be boys” attitude. He had given McNamee a choice: go to jail or leave town. He didn’t have to say it twice. Even if jail hadn’t been the other option, McNamee would have left. Paris, Illinois, may have been named after the City of Lights, but there the similarity ended. It was a two-street shit-burg in the middle of nowhere, and he was happy to leave it there. Joining the navy had been a no-brainer too. His own pop had been a navy man, so why not follow in the old man’s footsteps? As it turned out, those footsteps had led him to Hawaii and Naval Station Pearl Harbor.

An old Filipina woman opened the brothel door, and McNamee found himself in a small waiting room. On the walls were pictures of naked women and embracing lovers. Sculpted figurines stood on shelves and in corners, all of them erotically themed except for one: a grimacing face that was depicted as being made of feathers, or maybe flames. The old woman walked over to an elegantly crafted wooden table and sat behind it.

“Pardon me,” he said. “Is this…?”

He didn’t need to finish the question. “You’re looking for a girl for tonight?”

“That’s right, yes,” McNamee said. “That’s exactly right.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place,” the old woman said. “Tell me, what kind of girl are you looking for?”

He swallowed nervously and glanced around the room. They were alone, but he still felt unsafe saying the words aloud. He didn’t think his tastes were all that strange or wrong, but it seemed the rest of the world felt differently. That meant he had to be careful. He answered her in a whisper.

“I—I like them young,” he said. “Real young. Is that going to be a problem?”

“Not at all,” the old woman said, much to his relief. “She can be whatever you want her to be.”

She picked up a telephone from the table and spoke into it in a language McNamee had never heard before. The words made him shiver, though he couldn’t say why.

She put the phone down. “She’s ready for you.”

The old woman pointed to a door behind her desk. He walked through it and found himself in a room lit entirely with soft candlelight. His date for the night sat on a sofa, wearing a delicately patterned silk kimono. She looked about 13 or 14, on the cusp of becoming a woman, which was just how he liked them. God bless Waikiki. You really could get whatever you wanted here, as long as you knew where to look.

The girl smiled at him, enticing and unafraid. Her jade-green eyes twinkled. She rose, turned around, and walked into a hallway that led deeper into the building. There were no lights in the hallway. He couldn’t see where it led, and after a while he couldn’t see her anymore. The shadows seemed to swirl and close around her. Afraid he might lose her, he hurried after her.