Dive to Oblivion

12

It took Mimi Slater an entire day and night to make her final decision. Beyond the monetary expense that a trip down to the Bahamas would incur, was the ever important emotional cost involved in such a questionable excursion. Still not absolutely certain if Dr. Elizabeth was legitimate or not, Mimi couldn’t help wondering if she wasn’t merely prolonging her period of mourning by holding onto this last hope of contacting her husband. Unlike the other family and wives of the crew of the Lewis and Clark, she alone could not accept her loved one’s death, and she was even willing to search the vastness of the universe in an effort to locate him.

Was she deceiving herself? Or was the psychic’s story true after all? Because these questions would haunt her for the rest of her life, she had no choice but to turn a deaf ear to logic, and follow the call of her heart.

With her tear-filled stare locked on the photograph of Peter that crowned the fireplace’s mantel, she picked up the telephone and informed Dr. Elizabeth of her decision. The psychic had been anticipating her call, and she readily agreed to meet Mimi at the Miami airport Marriott the next evening. Meanwhile, she was to proceed down to Southern Florida, and arrange to charter a boat for the voyage to the waters off Andros Island. With the fall equinox only three days away, there was no time to waste, and Mimi hung up the phone feeling that she had made the proper choice.

She made a quick call to her travel agent, and reserved a one-way ticket on a noon flight to Miami.

This gave her less than two hours to shower, pack, and close up the house. She drove her car to the Charleston airport, and left it parked in the short-term lot. A flight delay gave her an extra thirty minutes. She used this time to find an automatic teller machine and get a five-hundred-dollar cash advance. With Peter gone, she had no one to call to say goodbye, and she walked onto the plane feeling as if she were leaving her old life behind.

The aircraft was half empty, and she sat alone above the right wing. Minutes after takeoff she fell soundly asleep, and slept until the stewardess shook her to inform her that they were about to land at their destination.

She looked out the window in time to see the clear blue waters of Biscayne Bay passing down below. The Miami Beach skyline colorfully beckoned in the distance, and beyond stretched the surging Atlantic. It had been almost twenty years since she had last visited Miami, and she noted the dozens of newly built high rise skyscrapers that gave the sprawling city a vibrant, modern look.

Since she had only carry-on luggage, she didn’t have to stop at the crowded baggage-claim area after landing.

She went right to the Hertz counter and rented a car.

A short drive brought her to the Marriott, where she got a double room overlooking the pool. She ate a sandwich in the coffee shop, then stopped to see the concierge to get help finding a reliable boat-charter outfit.

As it turned out, the nearest charter boats could be found on Key Biscayne. Also home to the Miami Seaquarium, Key Biscayne was less than a fifteen-minute-drive away, and Mimi had no trouble finding the proper causeway. This roadway conveyed her to a small, exclusive, condo-filled island, located immediately south of Miami Beach.

Because the concierge couldn’t recommend a particular boat to rent, Mimi would have to make that decision on her own. She found the charter docks easily enough, and after parking the car, walked out onto the pier to see what she had to choose from.

Most of the boats moored at the marina were sleek fishing vessels, designed for day trips out into the Gulf Stream. These fiberglass cabin cruisers featured stern mounted fighting chairs, where fishermen could go after sailfish or marlin from the upholstered comfort of a leather-lined perch.

One of these boats had just pulled in. Mimi joined the crowd assembled beside this vessel’s stern as the crew opened the fish locker and began throwing more than a dozen shiny grey bonitos onto the dock. This solidly built fish was of the tuna family, and each one weighed well over thirty pounds. The two proud fishermen responsible for this catch climbed out of the cabin with bottles of beer in hand. Both were slightly overweight white men in their mid-forties. They wore tennis shorts. Polo shirts, and New York Mets baseball caps, with their exposed skin reddened from the sun.

“I’ll take odds that they won’t even bother takin’ home a single filet,” broke a gravelly voice on Mimi’s right.

She looked over to see who had uttered these words, and set her eyes on a silver-haired black man, with a weather-beaten face and kind brown eyes. He wore a yachting cap on his head, of the type made popular by the famed band leader. Count Bassie, and when he saw that he had an audience, succinctly added, “Looks like I’ll be eatin’ good tonight.”

“You don’t mean to say that they’re merely going to give these fish away, after all the expense of catching them,” asked Mimi.

“It sure appears that way, missy,” replied the oldtimer, who grinned and displayed two prominent front teeth made from glistening dental gold.

“What a waste,” reflected Mimi as the crowd began to thin out when the last bonito was pulled from the locker.

The captain of the vessel could be seen shaking hands with his satisfied passengers. He was a big man, with solid, muscular shoulders, and long, curly blond hair, and Mimi decided to wait until the fishermen had departed before asking him the price of a charter.

She stood there on the pier, and watched as the black man who had spoken to her earlier asked one of the vessel’s crew members a question. He must have gotten a positive response, for he broke out in a warm smile and proceeded to pick up a bonito by its tail. He then dragged this fish to an adjoining slip, where a battered, thirty-foot-long wooden trawler was moored.

With a light step, he boarded this ship, ducked into its interior cabin, and emerged seconds later holding a knife.

He broke out whistling as he climbed back onto the dock. Mimi recognized the melody as “Summertime,” from Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess. This had always been one of her favorite tunes, and she watched him bend down beside the bonito and begin expertly filleting it.

“You look like you’ve done this kind of work before,” remarked Mimi casually.

“I guess you could say that I have, missy. You see, my pappy taught me da proper way of cutting’ up a fish, not long after I first learnt to talk. And I sure been puttin’ this lesson to work ever since, ‘specially since the good Lord saw fit to provide me with my very own fishin’ boat.”

Mimi looked to the wooden trawler and responded to this.

“Do you mean to say that this is your boat?”

“It sure is, missy. I call her Sunshine, for her warm disposition. Charter trips down into da keys are my specialty, and if it’s tarpon you’d be wantin’ at a fair price, you’ve come to da right place.”

Though Mimi had her mind set on a more modern vessel, she liked this oldtimer’s style and once more she went with her instincts.

“I’m not interested in fishing, though I am looking for a boat to take me and a friend to Andros Island.”

“I know those waters well, missy. My cousin Sherman runs a fishin’ camp outside of Nicholls Town. It’s nothin’ fancy mind you, but on a clear night you can see all da way over da Tongue of da Ocean, to the lights of Nassau.”

“Is the Sunshine available tomorrow evening?” asked Mimi.

“As luck would have it, that she is, missy. If da weather cooperates, we can have you and your friend at your destination by sunrise. And we’ll even take you back for the same three-hundred-dollar fare.”

Mimi felt as if a heavy weight had just been taken off her shoulders.

“Mister, you just made yourself a deal.”

“The name’s Alphonse Cloyd, missy. But you can just call me, Al. And don’t worry about packin’ your supper, ‘cause I’ll supply all da grilled bonito you can eat, and even throw in some red-eye to wash it down with.”

Thomas Moore’s first full day spent aboard a nuclear-powered attack submarine had been most interesting.

After the tiring effects of the seasickness patch had finally worn off, he felt rested and refreshed as he began a tour of the three-hundred-and-sixty foot-long vessel. His guide was the sub’s personable supply officer.

Hop had been stationed aboard the Rickover for the last one and a half years, and he knew every member of the crew by their first name. Hop was the only officer not nuclear-qualified, so he rushed Moore through the reactor spaces, preferring instead to concentrate his tour on more familiar areas such as the boat’s galley.

In a space the size of an average apartment kitchen, three men cooked for a crew of one hundred and forty.

Four meals were served each day, with menus ranging from turkey with all the trimmings, to steak, fried chicken, and everyone’s favorite, pizza.

Moore found this food excellent. Because of the rote nature of submarine duty, mealtimes were looked forward to, as special occasions. Finding adequate storage space for foodstuffs was a real problem, and on extended deployments. Hop and his boys had to utilize every available nook and cranny. Canned goods were often stored on the floor, and then covered with plywood planks so that the crew could walk over them.

The galley had a single walk-in freezer, which had to be crammed to overflowing when two-month-long patrols were undertaken.

Another problem unique to submarines was trash management. A group of one hundred and forty men could produce an amazingly large amount of waste each day, and Hop made certain to give Moore a quick rundown on how they managed to dispose of this garbage.

The investigator was especially interested when his knowledgeable guide took him into the room where the trash disposal unit was situated. No stranger to the TDU after his previous experience on the Lewis and Clark, Moore listened with interest as Hop explained how the day’s trash was compacted into corrugated metal shells. The TDU itself operated much like a torpedo tube, and could hold up to five of these slugs before having to be flushed out into the sea below. Moore paid close attention when Hop described the system’s pitfalls, including torn gaskets and jammed ball valves.

With vivid memories of Homer Morgan’s nightmarish confrontation with a malfunctioning TDU ever in mind, Moore followed Hop down into the torpedo room. A young black torpedoman from Kansas City was on watch here, and he readily showed Moore around while Hop took a telephone call.

The Hyman G. Rickover was outfitted with four bow-mounted torpedo tubes capable of firing the Mk 48 AD CAP torpedo, and the Harpoon and Tomahawk missiles. The weapons themselves were stored on a trio of double-layered steel racks, that nearly filled the relatively large, dimly lit compartment. Because of space constraints, several members of the crew used this same rack as a bunk. Two sailors were currently sleeping here, and Moore’s guide kept his voice low as he pointed out the various weapons, and described how they were maintained and prepared for firing. The loading system was totally automated, and Moore noted that only two of the tubes were currently loaded.

From the torpedo room. Hop led Moore up to the wardroom for dinner. Captain Walden had already arrived here, and waited for his guest from his customary place at the head of the table. Moore was seated to Walden’s left, with the XO directly across from him and Hop at the table’s far end. The rest of the places were filled with the officers who weren’t currently sleeping or on watch.

Moore pulled out his blue cloth napkin from a silver ring that had his name stencilled on it. This same napkin was carefully folded after every meal, and returned to its holder, for use the next time around.

“How are you getting along, Mr. Moore?” asked Walden as he passed him the server holding three types of salad dressing.

Moore answered while covering his lettuce, tomato and cucumber salad with a spoonful of french dressing.

“I’m doing just fine. Captain. Hop’s been taking good care of me.”

The XO turned to his left, and put a tape into the cassette player. The pastoral sounds of Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony soon filled the wardroom, and Moore contentedly munched his salad and accepted the next course of veal parmigiana, spaghetti, and steamed broccoli.

“We’ll be surfacing at 2100 and arriving at Port Canaveral two hours later,” informed Walden between bites of his veal.

“You’re more than welcome to join the XO and his watch party on the sail, Mr. Moore, though I’m afraid the visibility will be a bit limited at that late hour.”

Moore was in the midst of a mouthful of spaghetti, and could only nod in response to this offer. Quick to continue the conversation was Lieutenant Can, the handsome, blond-haired officer seated to Moore’s left.

“I can’t wait for dawn, so that we can get our first good look at Seawolf.”

“Too bad that we won’t have the time to tour her, Weaps,” added the bespectacled navigator, who sat across from Carr.

“What’s Seawolf doing down in Port Canaveral?” managed Moore after washing down his spaghetti with a sip of milk.

It was the captain who answered him.

“Sea trials, Mr. Moore. Because of the radically new nature of Seawolfs operational systems, the Navy has decided to break her in beneath the waters of our Tongue of the Ocean test range.”

This revelation was news to Moore, who thoughtfully responded.

“And when will that be?”

“Though the exact time of embark is classified, from what I gather, things are progressing a bit ahead of schedule for a change, which means that Seawolf could be setting sail as early as next week.”

Moore was uncharacteristically quiet during the rest of his meal, his thoughts instead focused on the implications of this surprise revelation. And it was during his dessert of apple pie a la mode, that he finally realized why Admiral Proctor was so adamant on sending him on this rushed cruise. The Rickover was being used to scour the waters of the Andros test range, to determine if any unknown man-made dangers could possibly interfere with Seawolfs upcoming sea trials.

The Navy could not risk having Seawolf share the Lewis and Clark’s fate, for if Seawolf were to be somehow spirited away to an enemy port, one of the greatest intelligence losses in history would befall the country.

It would soon be time to share his suspicions with the Rickover’s CO. Still not certain how Walden would react to his incredible tale, Moore patiently waited for the proper opportunity. Meanwhile, he would continue getting familiar with the platform and crew that Command had given him to work with.

Over coffee, Moore learned that it would take the better part of a day to fit the DSRV that they had come to Florida to pick up, onto the Rickover’s hull. And if all went smoothly, they’d be leaving Port Canaveral sometime tomorrow evening, to begin the three-hundred-mile journey to the Tongue of the Ocean. Moore was anxious to get to their destination and see what mysteries the depths held for them.

Every evening after dinner, the wardroom was turned into a theater. Over hot popcorn and drinks, a picture was shown from the boat’s rather extensive film catalogue. Moore was asked to choose from this list, and after careful consideration, he decided that an action-adventure flick was in order. He chose Predator, staring Arnold Schwarzenegger.

As it turned out, no one was disappointed with his choice. This included the captain, who sat through most of the movie before being called away to handle a minor problem in engineering.

After the film was over, Moore decided to visit the control room before turning in for the evening. Declining Hop’s offer to show him the way, he made it to the red-lit compartment all on his own.

The Rickover was about to go to periscope depth, and it took Moore several minutes for his eyes to adjust to the lack of direct lighting. He felt a bit more at ease as he identified the current OOD as Lieutenant Clark, the boat’s communications officer, Clark wore a dark green, woolen sweater over his coveralls, and displayed his usual, tight-lipped, no-nonsense personality.

The boat’s diving officer was Chief Ellwood. The COB had the unlit stub of a cigar in his mouth, and greeted Moore without taking his eyes off the dials and gauges of the main control panel.

“Evening, sir. Are you ready for that driving lesson that I promised you? If you want, I’ll ask the officer of the deck if you can take us up to periscope depth.”

“That’s not necessary, Chief,” replied Moore.

“I’m content just to watch.”

“Just holler if you change your mind,” said the COB, who suddenly sat forward and tweaked the helmsman’s ear with his right index finger.

“Hey, Kowalski, watch your course!” he gruffly warned.

“And put both your hands on that steerin’ yoke, son. You’re sittin’ there like you was drivin’ your dad’s Chevy. Don’t forget, you’re steerin’ a billion-dollar submarine.”

Moore couldn’t help laughing. Because of the total absence of windows aboard, he had almost forgotten their current method of transport. Where else could a kid barely twenty be responsible for driving a costly vessel such as the Rickaver through the black depths?

A stop at the navigational plot allowed Moore to see their current position off the coast of central Florida.

The precise coordinates were determined by constant updates from the boat’s SINS equipment. As the quartermaster called out his suggested course changes to the OOD, Moore continued on to sonar.

Petty Officer Tim Lacey was the current watch supervisor here. He smiled when Moore entered, and Lacey beckoned to the newcomer to have a seat beside the broad-band CRT console.

“Welcome to the house of pain, sir,” said Lacey warmly.

Lacey perched on a stool behind three seated junior technicians. Each wore headphones, and faced a glowing monitor screen. Their job was to monitor the variety of sounds being conveyed through the sub’s passive sensors. These hydrophones were positioned throughout the hull, and could also be deployed on a towed array. They were accessed by manipulating a thin black joystick that was mounted into each console, and by addressing a square keyboard positioned beside the CRT screen.

“I’ve got a new contact in our baffles, Tim,” revealed the young sailor seated at the middle console.

“Designate Sierra nine, biological.”

“Good work, babe,” said Lacey, who reached up for a bulkhead-mounted microphone.

“Conn, sonar, we have a new contact, bearing three-three-zero, designate Sierra nine, biological.”

“Sonar, Conn, designate Sierra nine biological, aye, sonar,” returned a voice from the intercom speaker.

“Would you like to have a listen, sir?” asked Lacey, who pulled off his own headphones and handed them to the newcomer.

Moore readily placed these headphones over his ears, and listened to a distant crackling noise.

“They’re shrimp, sir,” revealed Lacey.

“They always remind me of a bunch of out-of-control castanets.”

Moore grinned with this comparison, and handed the headphones back to his host. “I’ve always had a genuine respect for anyone sharp enough to make sense out of the sounds of the sea,” said Moore.

“It’s an amazing science.”

“It’s more than that, sir,” replied Lacey.

“Sonar’s an art form all its own.”

“Contact, Chief,” interrupted the seaman monitoring the broad band screen.

“Bearing two-two-eight, designate Sierra eleven, merchant.”

“Thata way, babe,” responded Lacey, who relayed this information to the Conn, then reached up into a hole cut into the overhead air vent.

Moore watched as Lacey proceeded to pull out a bag of Hershey’s Kisses. Like a mother bird feeding her chicks, he handed each of his men a handful of candies, making certain to include Moore.

“I always take care of my boys, when they take care of me,” added Lacey, who bit into a candy himself.

“You never did say why you call this room the house of pain,” remarked Moore.

Lacey shook his head.

“Stop by and see us if we should happen to cross paths with an unfriendly, and trade a sonar lashing,” he explained.

“Then the answer to your question will be all too obvious.”

Moore watched the sonar team at work for another half hour. In that time period they tagged a number of biologicals, and tracked a trawler that passed almost directly overhead. The Rickover was on its way to periscope depth when Moore fought back a yawn and decided to turn in.

He left the hushed confines of the dimly lit control room, and exited by way of the aft access way This brought him directly down into the crew’s mess. The atmosphere on the deck above had been tense, but to enter the brightly lit mess was like arriving at the neighborhood malt shop. Mid-rats were in the process of being served, and Moore passed by a line of hungry enlisted men waiting to fill their plates with freshly cooked hamburgers and french fries. The smell was enticing, and the overweight investigator had to fight the temptation to fill up a plate.

His bunk was awaiting him in the adjoining corridor.

The berthing compartment was dark, and most of the bunks had their curtains closed. Moore did his best to make as little noise as possible. He slid open his own curtain, and decided that it would be easier to sleep right in his coveralls.

It took him several tries to maneuver himself into his bunk. He awkwardly tucked himself beneath the blanket, and after resealing the curtain, did his best to stretch out on his back. His feet just touched the narrow bulkhead, and without bothering to switch on his overhead light, he tucked his wristwatch under the edge of his mattress and closed his eyes.

One of his bunkmates was contentedly snoring, and in the distance he could just hear two sailors talking in the hallway. Hop had mentioned earlier that the compartment had been designed to hold computer equipment.

A special ventilation system had been installed to keep this machinery cool. Yet when it was decided to fill the space with bunks instead, the ventilation system remained, resulting in ideal sleeping conditions.

Thankful for the warmth of his blanket, Moore drifted off into a dreamless slumber.

Boris Dubrinin couldn’t believe their good fortune.

For well over twenty-four hours now, the Pantera had been able to follow in the unsuspecting American attack sub’s baffles. This was a great accomplishment, considering that sonar confirmed this vessel to be one of the top-of-the-line 688 class vessels, and that the pursuit was taking place practically right off the U.S. coastline.

The zampolit knew that this only served to prove the excellence of the Pantera’s sensors and of the noise abatement systems. At long last, the people’s Navy could field a submarine that could rival the best underwater warship of the capitalist fleet.

In the past, Russia’s nuclear-powered submarines had been notoriously noisy and prone to frequent accidents.

To rectify these faults, great efforts had been made to acquire the latest technologies. Many of these hightech advances came out of the rodina’s own labs and research facilities, the byproduct of hard, exhausting work and great monetary sacrifice. Other technology was acquired abroad, through legitimate purchase, and when this avenue was blocked, through industrial espionage. A well-placed spy could save the rodina billions of rubles in research and development expense. Spies could also reveal what the competition was up to.

The Pantera class was proof that Russian industry could compete with the very best that the West had to offer. But how long would this state of parity exist?

This question was especially relevant now that the new Seawolf was about to enter the American fleet.

Economic conditions inside what was left of the Soviet Union made it all but impossible for them to produce a next-generation platform equivalent to the SSN-21. The great social upheavals of the 1990s signaled the end of the socialist state, with the USSR being replaced by a group of separate republics, alienated by ethnic rivalries and a loss of direction. Such a weakened coalition could never hope to muster the resources needed to produce a rival to Seawolf, meaning that they would have to accept a future position of undersea inferiority. This was the greatest tragedy of all, to work so hard and sacrifice so much, and have all this effort be in vain.

Thankfully, several key members of the red banner fleet would not allow such a dangerous imbalance to come into being. Boris had the privilege of meeting this group’s ringleader, in the days before the Pantera put to sea on their current patrol. Admiral Igor Val erian was a decorated hero of the Great Patriotic War, and Boris was pleasantly surprised upon receiving an invitation to meet with the legendary, one-eyed veteran during his visit to the Pantera’s home port in Polyarny.

The political officer supposed that this meeting had something to do with his outspoken views concerning the rodina’s current course. As far as Boris was concerned, the decision to abandon communism and convert the economy to a free-market system signaled the beginning of the end of Lenin’s dream. Stripped of its power, the Party could no longer insure the motherland’s integrity, and Boris feared for their future security.

When the Komsomol was banned from Russian warships, Boris dared to speak up. He bravely challenged this decision in a series of blistering memos sent directly to fleet headquarters. The Komsomol was an official Party organization, created as a forum for political discussion and debate. It was an integral part of every ship in the Russian Navy, with the zampolit acting as its official head.

In the recent past, over ninety percent of all naval officers were members of the Komsomol. Demonstrating one’s Party loyalty had always been essential to a successful Navy career, and few non-Party officers ever obtained their own commands.

Soon after the October Revolution, it was decided to assign each Soviet warship a political officer. The zampolit’s duties included monitoring the political reliability of the crew, directing their ideological indoctrination, and insuring that Party decisions were properly carried out. The political officer also enforced discipline and promoted morale by assuming the dual roles of social worker and chaplain.

The decision to abandon the Komsomol could only mean that the ship-borne zampolit would also soon be a thing of the past. This had dangerous implications, for without the strict supervision of the political officer, the Navy would no longer be completely subordinate to the state, and would be in a position to exercise military power for its own political ends.

Boris’s thoughts came to the attention of a group of high-ranking flag officers who shared similar beliefs.

Much to his relief, these officers were able successfully to convey their fears to Moscow, and a decision was made temporarily to continue deploying zampolits to the ships of the fleet, with one major condition — each political officer would need to have had practical experience as a line officer as well.

Because Boris had previous training as a navigator, he was spared the indignity of having to go back to technical school. His assignment to the Pantera was a great honor, and he wondered if his outspokenness had something to do with this high-profile assignment.

Supposing that this was the topic that Admiral Valerian wanted to discuss, he went to his meeting with confidence and pride.

Boris would never forget the morning this meeting took place. Igor Valerian was every bit as imposing as he thought he would be. The distinguished veteran was tall and erect, and had a way of looking into one’s eyes as if he were gazing into one’s soul. Before getting down to business, he produced a bottle of gold-tinted vodka, and together they toasted the continued security of the motherland. Only then did he get around to explaining the reason for this meeting.

As it turned out, Valerian didn’t want to discuss their shared political beliefs at all. Rather, he had matters of a much more practical nature to divulge to Boris, who sat back and listened as the one-eyed mariner sketchily revealed the details of a top-secret operation that he would soon be directing. This operation’s lofty goal was no less than to guarantee the rodina’s future competitiveness in the important field of undersea warfare, by securing the technology needed for this next step with a single, bold move. Because the rodina would never be able to develop these technological advances on their own, they would get them in another manner, by stealing the most advanced underwater warship of all — Seawolf.

Though Valerian never explained the exact details of how he would go about doing this, Boris did learn that the operation would take place during Seawolfs initial sea trials. The relevance of this disclosure came into focus as the Pantera continued with its current duty.

Boris had just returned to his stateroom after a six hour watch in navigation. During this time, he was part of the team who plotted their course and that of their unsuspecting quarry. The 688 class submarine’s destination was becoming evident as they continued to cruise southward down America’s eastern coast. Only an hour ago, the twinkling lights of St. Augustine, Florida were barely visible through the Pantera’s attack scope. The 688 then began a slight course change to the southwest, which brought it ever closer to the shallower waters above the continental shelf. This meant that the vessel would soon be surfacing, with the only submarine base in the vicinity less than a couple of hours distant.

Even their most junior navigator was able to determine that the 688 was headed for Florida’s Port Canaveral. Yet what his crewmates didn’t know was that this same port was the current home of the one warship that could irrevocably tilt the balance of naval fighting-power forever in favor of the imperialist West. For it was here that Seawolf was being prepared for its sea trials.

Was it merely the hand of fate that had led the Pantera into these sensitive waters? Boris couldn’t help wondering as his thoughts returned to his morning spent with Igor Valerian. The Admiral had informed him that Seawolf would be putting to sea in late summer or early fall. This meant that its sea trials could be starting any day now, and that the 688 that they had been following from Norfolk could be a part of this test run. Excited with this possibility, Boris retired to his bunk. It was time now to get as much rest as possible, for there was no telling what the days ahead had in store for them.