Steven Kent - 100 Fathoms Below

It wasn’t that long ago that black sailors weren’t allowed to rise above the ranks of enlisted men, and most had been restricted to steward’s mates—the equivalent of seagoing bellhops. Things were different now, but Jefferson knew all too well that the ghosts of the past still haunted the navy’s mind-set.

And yet, for all its frustrations, there was nowhere else he wanted to be. He had dreamed of being a navy officer with his own boat since he was a kid, agog in front of an old black-and-white TV set watching movies of pirates swashbuckling their way over the seven seas. If he had to wait longer than most to realize that dream, so be it. He would show the navy the error of its ways by being the best goddamn commanding officer in the fleet.

First, though, he had to get through this underway, and he already had the feeling this would be no easy task. Someone on Roanoke was already losing his shit. That smashed light fixture was no accident, and he was determined to root out the culprit as quickly as possible. If he let it go too long, well, the last thing anyone needed was another Mitch Robertson situation.

After alerting Captain Weber to what had happened and his plan to find the man responsible, Jefferson and COB Farrington spent the next few hours traversing the boat and checking the crewmen’s hands for cuts. Luckily, the pool of suspects was a small one. There were 124 enlisted men and 16 commissioned officers on Roanoke —140 men in all, and that was counting himself, Farrington, Gordon, Captain Weber, and others who couldn’t possibly be involved. He and Farrington moved methodically through the boat, level by level, space by space. They inspected the hands of men at their stations and men on their downtime, men studying for their quals, and men training and drilling. Farrington inspected the hands of the enlisted men eating first meal in the mess, while Jefferson inspected the officers dining in the wardroom. A few of the officers were surprised by his order to put out their hands for inspection, but no one argued. As XO, he outranked them all. He and Farrington even went through the head to make sure they didn’t miss anyone.

And yet, neither of them found anything. The blood on the broken glass clearly indicated that the vandal had cut himself in the act, but no one had lacerations consistent with putting his fist through a light fixture. With each uninjured hand he saw, Jefferson’s frustration increased. He was impatient to find the vandal and be done with it.

He and Farrington split up. While the COB searched the berthing areas, Jefferson went up the main ladder to the top level. He walked through the attack center and fire control, looking at the hands of the men at their stations. Still nothing. Damn. He moved on to the control room.

Captain Weber stood with the quartermaster at the plotting tables behind the periscopes, mapping the submarine’s course on the charts laid out before him. He looked up when Jefferson walked in.

“How goes the search, Lieutenant Commander?” he asked. “Have you found your man?”

“Not yet, Captain,” Jefferson replied. “Farrington is inspecting the men in their racks now. All that’s left are the men in the control room. Permission to inspect them, sir?”

“Permission granted, Jefferson,” the captain said, returning his attention to the charts. “Just be quick about it.”

Jefferson inspected the quartermaster’s hands, the watchstanding OOD’s, and the radioman’s, and then crossed the control room to the sonar shack. The space was narrow and cramped inside, forcing Jefferson to remain standing in the doorway. Along one bulkhead were four consoles, each manned by a sonar tech. Tim Spicer sat at the one nearest the door, the bright colors from his sonar screen playing across his face. Jefferson glanced at Spicer’s hands, at all the techs’ hands. Still nothing. Hands, hands, hands—he was getting sick of looking at everyone’s damn hands, especially when it wasn’t bringing him any closer to catching the vandal.

“Mr. Spicer, can I have a moment of your time?” Jefferson said.

Spicer took off his headphones. “Yes, sir. Is everything all right?”

He started to get up from his seat, but Jefferson waved at him to stay.

“This will only take a moment,” he said. “At some point after midrats, someone went into the mess and smashed one of the light fixtures. I was wondering if you heard anything.”

“No sir, I’m sorry,” Spicer said. “I was in my rack, sawing logs. Didn’t hear a thing.”

“The mess is just down the hall from the berthing areas,” Jefferson said. “You’re sure you didn’t hear anything ? Didn’t notice anyone leaving their rack?”

“I’m afraid not, sir,” Spicer said. “Sir, why would somebody smash one of the lights?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Jefferson said. He addressed the other techs in the sonar shack. “What about the rest of you? Anyone hear anything? See anything?”

They all shook their heads.

“Either this guy’s a ninja, or you’re all the heaviest damn sleepers I ever met,” Jefferson said.

“Sorry, sir,” Spicer said.

“Carry on,” Jefferson replied.

As Spicer put his earphones back on, Jefferson returned to the control room and inspected the chief of the watch’s hands, and those of the diving officer, Lieutenant Junior Grade Duncan.

The watchstanding planesman, Jerry White, had his hands in plain view on the yoke, making it easy to see that he wasn’t the vandal. Jefferson knew all about White’s trouble with his previous XO on Philadelphia. Captain Weber had consulted with both him and COB Farrington before accepting the transfer. Farrington had been against it, convinced White would be a troublemaker, which meant it would fall on him as COB to keep him on a short leash. Jefferson, on the other hand, had been in favor, arguing that White deserved the benefit of the doubt, especially after his heroism in saving USS Philadelphia from a fire. In the end, Captain Weber had agreed with him, much to Farrington’s annoyance—and, it seemed, to Duncan’s as well. Everyone on board had heard about Duncan giving White an earful outside the mess. Jefferson didn’t gossip with the men—as XO, it was his duty to remain aloof from all that—but he felt bad for White. It couldn’t be easy having everyone snicker at your public humiliation behind your back.

Next to White was Steve Bodine, whose own clearly uninjured hands were on the helmsman’s yoke. Jefferson and Bodine had become close at the naval station, though he rode Bodine hard when they were on duty—harder than he rode anyone else, because a black man in a boat that was 99 percent white had to work twice as hard as anyone else to get half the respect. But when they were off duty, Jefferson took Bodine under his wing. They often spoke in private about the issues Bodine came up against, and Jefferson tried to offer the best advice he could.

Recently, Bodine had told him about an enlisted man who called him an ugly racial slur. Bodine had gone through the proper channels, complaining to the COB. The offending sailor had been punished, but the sting of the insult had stayed with him. He was having trouble seeing the sailor again day after day—it was making him angry and unsettled. When he came to Jefferson for advice, Jefferson told him it wasn’t up to the COB or the other sailor or anyone else to find a way to make it work. It was up to Bodine, and the best way to make it work was to move on. Bodine had trouble swallowing that bitter piece of advice, just as Jefferson had back when he was the same age. But if the kid wanted to make a career for himself in the navy, he was going to have to do what he had to do to get along.