He looked up, realized that he had been staring off into space a little, his mind a blank. It wasn’t Freon, he knew, or nerve gas. It was exhaustion. He felt a pang about the accusation in Renfro’s words, about how the verdict seemed already to have been made. He vowed to himself to conduct a real investigation, the best he could, but for now…he was tired beyond words. He hadn’t slept in a day, and would be on watch in a matter of hours. He checked his watch and verified that he had spent the two hours on the investigation that the XO had directed. He would go forward and get a couple of hours of sleep, and hope he could get through the watch without falling asleep on the conn.
He walked forward through lower level, both because he was too tired to climb a ladder, and to avoid the accusing eyes of MM2 Renfro.
He checked his watch as he neared his stateroom. The XO hadn’t been quite right. He would have about an hour and forty-five minutes to sleep before he took the watch. The exhaustion hit him in waves as he anticipated climbing in the rack. It wouldn’t be nearly enough, but it would be something, and his body longed for any rest.
He stepped through the door. The overhead lights were off but Kincaid was stepping into his Nikes, ready to go workout.
“Where the fuck you been?” he said. “You need to be getting some sleep, shipmate.”
“Investigating. And all the workout gear is secured.” He was already out of his poopie suit, down to his plaid boxers and T-shirt. He hung it on the door on the middle hook, his hook, and climbed into the middle rack and pulled the blanket over him. The entire process had taken him about ten seconds.
“Secured? What the fuck! Why is it secured?”
But Jabo was already in his rack with the curtain closed. His thoughts about the tragedy, plus the image of Howard’s dead, gray face charged through his mind, fueled by three cups of strong coffee and the residual adrenaline from combating the casualty. As his head hit the pillow, he allowed himself to think about Angi, and felt the sharp pang of how much he missed her, how much he loved her. He thought about their first date, the first time he kissed her, on the steps of McTyeire Hall. He remembered the sound the wind made in the dried leaves of the live oaks that surrounded them, the taste of her lipstick, the surprised way she inhaled a little when he made his move. And then he was asleep.
He never would have awoken from the noise alone when Hallorann entered; the young sailor was deliberately, theatrically quiet as he crept in. Hallorann considered leaving the document without a word, but the significance of it gnawed at him, even if he couldn’t attach words to its importance, and it had almost been lost once already. He wanted to convey it personally. And he felt like, for some reason, he should lose no time. He cautiously pulled back the thick red curtain to the middle rack to look at the back of Lieutenant Jabo’s sleeping head.
“Sir?” he whispered. He said it again, slightly louder. The only response was slow, even breathing. He reached his hand out, hesitated, and then pushed his shoulder.
The breathing changed rhythm slightly, but it took another sharp push before the lieutenant finally rolled over, and his heavy eyes fluttered awake.
“Sir?”
Jabo licked his lips. “What?”
“I talked to the OOD, Lieutenant Hein…he said you were conducting the investigation. I found this in machinery two…I was on one of the fan teams.” He held up the yellow sheet of paper. Jabo raised an eyebrow; even in his sleep he remembered the paper in the photograph.
“What’s on it?”
“Not much…I mean I’m not sure. But I thought you should have it.”
Jabo stared at him for a moment, and Hallorann was afraid maybe he was still really asleep, talking with his eyes open while his mind slept on. It was a phenomenon he’d become familiar with since his time at sea, where exhaustion and sleep deprivation were taken to levels he’d never known. But then Lieutenant Jabo cleared his throat, and said, “Put it there. On my desk.”
Hallorann hesitated, wanted to explain why he thought it was important, how the neat entries made over several days and dated carefully must mean that it was an important document. He was afraid it might get lost, as it nearly had been before, or forgotten, sitting among several piles of documents and books that crowded the lieutenant’s desk. He started to say something about the evident importance of the page, but when he turned back from the desk, the lieutenant was already asleep again.
He placed it on the desk as he’d been directed, then pulled the curtain back across Jabo’s rack and left. He was due down in the galley in an hour, it was the second day of his two-week long stint in the scullery washing dishes. Must be nice being an officer, he thought as he left: sleeping until nearly eleven o’clock in the morning like that.
The navigator was alone in the stateroom he shared with Ensign Duggan. Normally just a red curtain was pulled across his doorway, as department heads were expected to always be available. But he had closed the seldom-operated sliding door.
Not that he could sleep. He was too conscious of the ship’s speed and depth as they raced ahead, almost blind, through the dark ocean. The ship would shudder and groan occasionally, vibrating in resonant frequencies with the massive equipment in the engine room that was operating at its limits. He extended his hand to the hull, just inches from his pillow, and felt the cold steel, the sole barrier between him and the sea. He fought off the panic that always arose when he thought about it.
He wasn’t afraid to fall asleep, he just couldn’t, his body wouldn’t let him. He wasn’t afraid of nightmares, he knew the nightmares would come whether he was asleep or awake.
He heard a door shut to stateroom three, across the passageway, someone trying to be quiet. He shut his eyes just in case it was a messenger was making the rounds, perhaps with some messages they’d received during the extended trip at PD. It would be okay if he was seen asleep in his rack, but he didn’t want anyone to see him awake, brooding in the dark. He’d heard the whispering, didn’t need to stoke the rumors about his strange behavior. He unconsciously scratched the wound on his knee. A few minutes passed, no one came to the door, and he reopened his eyes.
The commander was sitting in his chair. The nav recognized him immediately, both from the old khaki dress uniform, the war patrol pin on his chest, and the scars across his face that told of past campaigns. He looked just like the photograph on the back cover of his book. It was Crush Martin.
“Are you proud of yourself?” he said. He was fuming. The only light was the tiny fluorescent fixture above their pull-out sink, so the commander was backlit, his features stark, his mustache and hair pitch black, his skin white. Thin scars ran down his face, like worm-eaten wood, reminders, the nav was sure, of past battles.
“I did what you said…” said the navigator. “A man is dead because of me.”
“And you thought that would be enough? Did you think one dead sailor would make them turn the boat around and give up?”
“It could have been more.” But he realized how stupid he’d been.
“Never,” said the commander. “You could have filled the freezer with bodies, and they would keep moving west, as long as the ship can move. You’ve barely even slowed them down.”
“But I…”
“Do you have any idea what’s at stake!” he thundered. Slamming his fist down on the desk. “Your ship, your mission, is going to be the catalyst of the apocalypse! And you turn a Freon valve…and think that will be enough. Idiot.”