Gordon nodded. “Okay, Matson, sounds good. Go get a body bag out of sick bay, and we’ll take him down there ourselves.”
“Aye, sir.” Matson stood up and left the pantry, squeezing past the crowd that had gathered in the doorway.
“Suh, we can take him down ourselves,” Oran said. “You don’ have to—”
“No. I’m the one who found him. I should go with him.” He looked at the sailors crowding the doorway. “Now, get those people out of here. Then one of you go get Lieutenant Commander Jefferson. He has to be informed.”
Oran Guidry went to the doorway. “You heard the lieutenant, now. All y’all go on back to the mess. Galley personnel only.”
Gordon looked down at the corpse again. His gaze went to the injured, bloody hand, then the staring eyes that held an expression somewhere between terror and madness. Why would a torpedoman break a light fixture in the mess? How had he wound up in the freezer? What the hell was going on?
CHAPTER NINE
When Petty Officer Tim Spicer’s watch in the sonar shack was over, he left the control room and headed for the main ladder. Being on a submarine sometimes felt like being on another planet, one with a different orbit and spin. While everyone on land enjoyed 24-hour days, submariners made do with 18-hour ones. They slept six hours, worked six, had six off to unwind—eat, do laundry, study for their off-quals, read, or listen to cassettes on their yellow Walkman headphones—and then the cycle began over again.
After living in the 24-hour world, the 18-hour world could mess with a man’s inner clock. It didn’t help that on a sub there was no discernible difference between day and night. Sunlight didn’t penetrate this deep, and it wasn’t as if they had windows to enjoy the view, anyway. The lights stayed on permanently everywhere but the berthing areas, where the crewmen slept. For some, it all could be very disorienting. Tim had certainly had trouble with it on his first underway, and he was certain it had contributed to Mitch Robertson’s breakdown. And now it looked as though someone else was losing it.
He spotted Jerry White stepping off the ladder on the middle level and called down for him to wait. Jerry stopped and waited for him, and they moved to one side of the corridor to let others pass by on their way to the mess, the berthing areas, or the head.
“Did you hear, someone smashed a light in the mess?” Tim asked.
“I heard the XO asking you about it,” Jerry replied. “There’s a rumor making the rounds that whoever did it used his bare hands. You’d have to be crazy to do something like that.”
“Not everyone’s cut out for living in a tin can,” Tim said. “It’s rare, but sometimes people snap.”
“So I’ve heard. Something like that happened on the last underway, didn’t it?” Jerry pressed himself against the bulkhead to let a group of sailors by on their way to the mess. “I heard my predecessor tried to kill himself. They say he cut his wrists in the head. They also say you’re the one who found him and saved his life.”
“I think it was more of a cry for help than a real attempt to kill himself,” Tim said. “Matson told me afterward that Robertson had cut his wrists crosswise instead of lengthwise. Makes it a lot harder to bleed out that way. Who told you about him?
“Pearl’s not that big a station,” Jerry said. “Word gets around. As soon as I got there and people heard which boat I was assigned to, they fell all over themselves telling me the sordid details. I think they were trying to spook me, but I was excited for the transfer, to be honest. After being in a Sturgeon-class sub, being in a Los Angeles class feels like moving into a bigger house. Philadelphia was a short-hull; there was even less room in her than there is in Roanoke.”
“I’m glad to hear the transfer’s working out,” Tim said.
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Jerry said. “Lieutenant Duncan’s been riding my ass so hard, the other men have started giving me a wide berth. It’s like they don’t want to draw my fire.” Jerry looked up the main ladder and then both ways down the corridor. “The other day in the mess, I asked some of the guys I know from the control room if I could join their card game. You know what they said? They said I was putting Duncan in a bad mood and he was taking it out on all of them. They told me if it stopped I could join the game. Can you believe that? Even Bodine’s giving me the cold shoulder, and he’s my helmsman. We’re supposed to work together—although he’s been a little weird too. Today he was distracted. He couldn’t seem to concentrate, and he was sweating like he was in a sauna. Of course, that put Duncan in an even pissier mood.” He glanced down the corridor. “Ah, shit. Weather’s about to change.”
Tim turned and saw Lieutenant Junior Grade Duncan walking toward them out of the wardroom.
“Just be cool,” Tim said.
“White!” Duncan called. He stopped in front of them. “You were too slow at the yoke today, White. Maybe on Philadelphia they let air-breathing nubs like you slack off, but you’re on Roanoke now. When you’re given an order, you don’t hesitate; you execute it. Am I clear, sailor?”
“Yes, sir,” Jerry said. But Tim saw a hint of confusion in his eyes, as if he didn’t know what the lieutenant was talking about.
Duncan raised his eyebrows. “What was that, sailor? Did you say something?”
Jerry straightened his shoulders and stood at parade rest—feet apart and hands clasped behind him at the small of the back. “I said aye, sir.”
“That’s what I thought. Watch where you step, White. You’re on mighty thin ice—wouldn’t take much for you to fall through.”
With a steely parting glare, Duncan turned and continued toward the officers’ staterooms.
“What was that about?” Tim asked once Duncan was out of earshot.
“He thinks I killed his friend’s navy career.”
“Your former XO?” Tim asked. Jerry looked at him in surprise, and Tim shrugged. “Like you said, word gets around. So did you really hesitate, or was the lieutenant just looking for an excuse to bust your balls?”
Jerry didn’t meet his eye. He glanced sharply down the corridor in the direction Duncan had gone. “He’s my diving officer. If he says I hesitated, then I must have hesitated. That’s just the way it is.”
“Bullshit,” Tim said. “We could talk to the COB, maybe get Lieutenant Duncan to back off.”
“Forget it,” Jerry said. “It’s nothing.”
“You sure about that? Because I don’t see him easing up on his own, and you’re going to be stuck on this boat with him for three months.”
“Just let it go, okay, Tim?”
Jerry headed off toward the mess. Tim hung back a moment, then followed. From what he had seen so far, Jerry seemed like a solid guy who took pride in his work. So why was he content to let Duncan keep hassling him? Was he just a masochist, or did he maybe feel guilty about something? What went down on Philadelphia that made Jerry file that complaint?
Up ahead, Tim spotted Lieutenant Commander Jefferson coming out of the mess, followed by Senior Chief Matson, Lieutenant Abrams, and one of the new culinary specialists, Oran Guidry. They were carrying a heavy bundle between them. It took Tim a second to register that it was a black body bag, zipped shut and bulging from the rigid, asymmetrical mass inside. He ran over to them, pushing past the knot of curious sailors that was forming around them. Jerry was right behind him.