100 Fathoms Below

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A sudden, loud crash startled Jerry awake. He lay in the darkness of his curtained rack, heart pounding from the spike of adrenaline, and wondered whether he had really heard something or only dreamed it.

Things in the control room had been tense all through his watch—at least, until the captain finally shook the Soviet boat off their tail. After that, Jerry’s mind and body had been so exhausted that when his sleep section came, he nodded right off instead of lying awake for hours as usual. But now, damn it, he was awake again. His annoyance grew as the silent minutes ticked by and he became convinced that he had dreamed the noise—woken himself up, sabotaging his own sleep section.

The rack he slept in didn’t have a lot of room. Its thin foam mattress was narrower than a standard twin bed, with just enough space to sleep provided he didn’t move around too much. Jerry had learned quickly not to turn over in his sleep and risk falling out of his rack. His was the topmost rack in a triple-decker berth, which meant it would be one hell of a fall. No one would call the racks comfortable, but he had managed to sleep just fine in them for years. It was only on Roanoke that he had trouble sleeping, and it wasn’t the rack’s fault. It was Lieutenant Duncan’s. No, if he was going to be honest with himself, it wasn’t even Duncan. It was the way Duncan reminded him every day of what happened on Phildelphia. What kept him awake was his own sense of guilt, the ever-present question of whether or not he had done the right thing.

Again, he saw Lieutenant Commander Leonard’s angry face in his mind, a twisted sense of triumph in his voice as he raged.

It’s going to hurt your buddy MacLeod a lot worse than it hurts me!

Jerry sighed. He had brought a Stephen King novel with him for the underway, something about a haunted car, but he hadn’t started it yet. There was a goosenecked reading light on the wall beside him, and with the heavy curtain closed he could turn on the light without bothering the sleeping crewmen. But he decided against it. If he started reading, he would never fall back asleep, and the last thing he needed was to be groggy in the control room tomorrow. When they lost the Victor, everyone had cheered and high-fived. Even the captain had joined in the jubilation, but more surprisingly, so had Lieutenant Duncan. He hadn’t high-fived Jerry—that would be asking for too much—but he hadn’t gotten in Jerry’s face since then, either. Maybe after they had worked so well together getting out of a tough spot, Duncan would ease up on him. Probably not—the guy was an incurable asshole—but one could hope. Jerry planned to do his part, and being sharp and on his toes for tomorrow’s watch section would be a good start.

Still optimistic that he might catch some shut-eye before he had to vacate the rack for the next sailor, Jerry was reluctant to get up at all, but the pressure of a full bladder didn’t give him a choice in the matter. He pushed the curtain aside gently so the sound of its runners wouldn’t disturb anyone. The red fluorescent light near the curtained doorway cast a faint crimson light through the room. The only noises were the soft rush of air from the ventilation system and a sound like dueling whipsaws from two snoring crewmates.

One benefit of the red lighting was that it didn’t take long for his eyes to adjust. But in the seconds before he could see clearly, a shape moved through the berthing area. Someone in the darkness, heading toward the curtain that led to the corridor outside. The shape was dusky, purplish in the red light, and moved in a way that struck Jerry as strange. He was jerky and stiff, as if he’d forgotten how to walk and was learning all over again.

The man pushed the curtain aside and passed through the doorway. As he did, a shaft of light fell across his face for an instant before he was gone. Jerry blinked in disbelief. Though he’d only had a glimpse, he recognized the man right away. It was Steve Bodine. But short of a miraculous recovery, how was that possible? And even if Bodine had come back from having one foot in the grave, what was he doing wandering around the boat? He was supposed to be in quarantine. Matson would never have let him go this soon.

There were no ladders on the bunks, but it wasn’t a far drop to the floor. Jerry landed quietly on his sock-covered feet. Boots or shoes of any kind weren’t allowed in the racks, since every sailor shared his with two other men and tried to leave it as clean as possible, but keeping your smelly, sweaty feet in your socks was considered a courtesy. Jerry padded quietly across the floor and paused at the curtained doorway. When the brightness from outside had touched Bodine’s face, his skin looked dry and ashen, and he had winced when the light hit him, as if it hurt his eyes. Jerry pushed the curtain aside and peered out into the corridor, but there was no sign of Bodine.

He turned back and went through the hatch that led from the berthing area to the head to empty his bladder. But when he opened the hatch, he gasped in horror. Then he turned and ran as fast as he could to get Lieutenant Commander Jefferson.