“So, you feel he was treating you unfairly,” Farrington said. “Why didn’t you come to me about it? That’s what I’m here for.”
“Tim Spicer told me I should, but like I said, I just wanted to focus on my duties. I didn’t want to…” He trailed off.
“Didn’t want to what?” Farrington asked.
Jerry sighed and looked around the mess to see if others were listening. Of course they were. They stared at him like school kids watching someone being taken out of class by the principal. Jerry’s cheeks flushed with humiliation. He was never going to catch a break on this damn boat.
“Didn’t want to what, White?” Farrington pressed.
“I didn’t want to become known as someone who’s constantly making complaints against officers,” he said. “I didn’t want that reputation.”
“You already have a reputation,” Farrington said. “I read your file, I know all about how you got your previous XO drummed out of the navy. Did you know I was against your transfer for Roanoke, White? The captain thought you were worth it because you saved Philadelphia from a fire, and the XO backed him up, but I thought differently. I thought maybe you have a problem with authority. Do you, White?”
“No, COB, I don’t,” Jerry said. The accusation angered him, but he tried to keep his tone calm and even. It wasn’t easy. “I took the same oath you did: to obey the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice.”
“And what about Ensign Penwarden?” Farrington continued. “Was he treating you ‘unfairly,’ too?”
Jerry frowned. “Ensign Penwarden? No, I barely know him. Why?”
“The ensign hasn’t turned up, either,” Farrington said.
“They’re both missing? Wait a minute, couldn’t they have gotten sick and reported to quarantine?”
“Matson would have informed us if they had,” Farrington replied.
But Matson hadn’t looked well the last time Jerry saw him. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that Matson was too sick to remember to alert anyone when new patients showed up.
“But surely you’ve checked the torpedo room anyway,” Jerry said.
Farrington shook his head. “Quarantined. It’s off-limits.”
A sailor came rushing up to their table, out of breath. The grease marks on his pants marked him as part of the Engineering Department.
“COB, it’s—it’s the XO,” the sailor panted.
“Lieutenant Commander Jefferson? What about him?” Farrington demanded.
“He’s gone,” the sailor said. “No one can find him anywhere.”
“Slow down,” Farrington said. “What are you talking about?”
“The engineering officer sent me to fetch him so they could talk about the new broken lights in Officer Country,” the sailor said, “but the lieutenant commander’s stateroom is empty. The lights were broken in there too. His bed was down, but it doesn’t look slept in. I searched for him all over the boat. I even had other crewmen searching too, but nobody can find him.”
First, Duncan and Penwarden went missing, and now Jefferson too? At least, Farrington couldn’t blame this one on Jerry.
In fact, it looked as though Farrington had forgotten all about Jerry. He told the sailor, “Take me to the XO’s stateroom.”
Jerry watched the two men walk off toward Officer Country. More broken lights almost certainly meant someone else had the fever now. But what about the three missing officers? It was like Bodine all over again. Had the three of them broken the lights themselves, then gone into quarantine with Matson during a lucid moment when they realized they were sick? He hoped that was the case. Nothing else made sense. You couldn’t just walk off a submarine in the middle of an underway.
He left the mess, not feeling very hungry after Farrington’s questions. In the corridor, he saw Oran Guidry help a very haggard-looking LeMon Guidry out of the galley. Oran had one arm around his brother’s shoulders to help keep him upright. Jerry hurried over to them.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Monje’s sick,” Oran said. “Too sick to work in the galley. Lieutenant Abrams wants him out before he make everybody else sick too. Said he don’t want a Typhoid Mary. I don’t think that’s very funny.”
LeMon drooped in his brother’s arms. He was pale and sweaty, dark around the eyes. It was the fever. There was no doubt in Jerry’s mind.
“We have to bring him down to quarantine,” Jerry said. “I’ll help.”
“No,” LeMon moaned as Jerry got on his other side and helped shoulder his weight. “No doctors.”
“Yes, Monje,” Oran told him gently. “You need to see the corpsman. No complaining, now.”
They started carrying him toward the main ladder, but LeMon resisted. For someone weak from illness, he had a surprising amount of strength left. He planted his feet on the deck and refused to move any farther.
“No doctors, Oran,” LeMon said again, his head lolling weakly on his neck. “You know what Papa always said. You either sleep it off, or you die in your sleep the way God intended.”
“Then you’ll sleep it off, but you’ll do it down in the quarantine with Matson,” Oran insisted, yanking him forward.
Jerry and Oran carried him to the ladder. That was hard enough, but getting him down the ladder was a lot trickier. Oran went down first. Then Jerry held LeMon under his arms and gently lowered him to Oran, who took his legs and helped ease him down to the bottom level. LeMon was weakening fast and didn’t resist at all. But he did talk a lot in his delirium. While Oran kept LeMon balanced upright, Jerry came down the ladder and heard LeMon muttering.
“Penwarden—I dreamed about Ensign Penwarden,” he said. “He—he was in the berthin’ area with a funny look on his face. He caught me lookin’ at him; then suddenly he was right in front of my rack. Moved like a flash. Then I woke up.”
Jerry paused, remembering how he had seen Bodine in the berthing area.
“That’s one crazy dream, Monje,” Oran said. He shot Jerry a worried glance. “The fever playin’ tricks on his mind. Ain’t no one seen Penwarden in hours. The man’s up and disappeared.”
“I heard,” Jerry said. “Lieutenant Duncan and Lieutenant Commander Jefferson too. Something tells me they’re in quarantine with Matson.”
“No,” LeMon moaned. “No doctors.”
They managed to maneuver LeMon to the torpedo room. Jerry held him up while Oran banged on the hatch.
“Chief Matson!” he shouted.
“Never seen anyone move so fast,” LeMon said again. “He was like lightnin’.”
LeMon laughed deliriously, and his head tipped forward, chin to chest. Near the back of LeMon’s neck, Jerry noticed two small red welts. He was about to lean in for a closer look when the torpedo-room hatch clanked open suddenly, startling him. Matson stood in the doorway. He was still pale, but otherwise he looked strong and sturdy again—quite the opposite of how he looked last time.
“It’s my brother,” Oran said. “He got the fever!”
Matson stepped forward, took LeMon from them, and escorted him back into the torpedo room. It had taken two men to support LeMon’s weight in his delirium, but somehow Matson managed it with no help. He must be stronger than he looked.
“You’ve made quite a recovery, Matson,” Jerry told him. “Did you find a cure for the fever?”
In answer, Matson slammed the torpedo-room hatch.
Jerry and Oran looked at each other.
“He musta’ found a cure,” Oran said, more to himself than to Jerry. He nodded resolutely. “Monje gonna be okay. I know it.”