Fromley stepped into the forward battery room. Potts was still in there, smoking.
“You know you ain’t supposed to be smoking here,” Fromley warned. “It could blow us up.”
“Screw them, From.” Potts stuffed out the cigarette. “We ain’t blown up yet, have we?”
“That boy from the mess decks is coming.”
Potts’s eyes lit up. “You mean that black son of a bitch that ratted on me to Bleecker?”
From smiled. He had made Potts happy. “You mean Crocky?”
“Naw, asshole; I mean the other one.”
“Yeap, that’s the one.”
“Why is he coming?”
“He’s carrying the trash.”
Potts rubbed his hands together. “Means we have missed a lot of opportunities.” He reached behind him and flipped the air exchange back on to allow the smell of smoke to be drawn from the battery room.
The smile left Fromley’s face. “Lieutenant done told you to leave him alone.”
“What he told me was that black nigra Crocky wanted me to leave him alone.”
Fromley glanced at the rear hatch and then at the forward, as if trying to make up his mind which way to run. He licked his lips. “You ain’t going to do anything, are you?”
“What’s it to you? I’ll do whatever I want.”
The sound of the hatch being opened stopped their conversation. Potts shoved Fromley into the small space on the port side of where the aft hatch was located. He slid into the starboard side, smiling at the fear etched on Fromley’s face. What a coward, he thought.
A bag of trash was set inside the forward battery room, followed quickly by Washington carrying the other two bags. The cook picked up the bags and started along the narrow passageway between the two rows of batteries, careful to keep the bags from touching them. Crocky told him not to worry because the batteries were nearly impervious — though “impervious” was not the word Crocky used — to anything but salt water.
Potts stepped into the passageway. “Well, if it ain’t our asshole buddy, Fromley.” He turned to glance at Fromley, who was shaking his head. Potts motioned him out, but Fromley shook his head.
Potts turned back to Washington. Washington held the three bags in his hands.
“You on my turf now, asshole. I guess you thought it was cute having your LPO talk to my lieutenant.”
So that explained why he had had no trouble from the leader of the bigot club on board Squallfish. Washington bit his lower lip. Just he and Potts here in this compartment, the man’s backup frozen somewhere behind the batteries. In the projects, they’d get rid of him. Maybe this was the time to settle it?
“Hey, who left this hatch open?” came an angry voice from behind Washington.
Washington looked over his shoulder. The LPO for these engineers stood there. “I did, Petty Officer Gledhill. I was going to come back once I got the trash through and then shut it.”
“No, you aren’t. You set those bags down, shut the hatch, and then continue out the other side. Don’t be going through my spaces without doing it properly. You understand?” Gledhill looked past Washington. “Potts, what are you doing? Give the man a hand. Grab one of those trash bags and help him get this shit out of here.”
“I was, uh, just going to tell him the same thing, LPO.” Potts glared at Washington’s back as he grabbed the trash bag.
“And where is your shadow, Fromley?”
A hand rose from the other end of the port battery array. “I’m here.”
Potts opened the forward hatch and set the bag of trash on the other side. Then he pulled the hatch closed and secured it, smiling as he did so.
Gledhill turned, watching Washington secure the hatch. “Now take your trash and get out of here, sailor. This isn’t the place to be lollygagging and scuttlebutting.”
“Shore thing, boss,” Washington said, putting on what he called his southern cotton-pickin’ voice.
Potts stepped out of the way. As Washington edged by him, their eyes met. In this minute within the battery room, Washington realized Potts would kill him if the opportunity rose.
“Potts, open the hatch to the forward torpedo room for him so we can get this trash out of here. And who’s been smoking in here?”
Potts opened the hatch, pushing it outward. As Washington passed, he whispered, “Your time is coming.”
Washington kept quiet. Maybe Potts’s time was coming.
Washington heard Potts tell Gledhill that the smell of smoke was probably from the trash. Minutes later Washington went back through the forward battery room, and the three sailors were gone. He was glad, but he did not breathe easier until he was back in the crew’s mess.
“About time you got back,” Crocky said when Washington walked in.
“Lots of traffic.”
“I know.” Then in a loud voice Crocky mimicked, “All hands fore lay aft; all hands aft lay fore; all hands amidships stand by to direct traffic!” Crocky laughed. Then he saw the questioning looks on the faces of Washington, Marcos, and Santos. Santos was leaning over to Marcos, looking at Crocky, and saying something in Filipino.
Crocky stopped laughing. “Don’t tell me you three don’t know what that means?”
“What does it mean?” Washington asked.
“It’s what we used to say during the war whenever general quarters was sounded. Get it?”
Marcos and Washington shook their heads. Marcos asked Santos, who shook his head also.
“Never mind,” Crocky said with a wave at them. “Christ, grant me the fortitude to survive this mission.”
Washington eased into the cooking area. He looked at Crocky with new respect. The man had never said a word about talking to the mustang about the problems with Potts, but Potts knew. Now he knew. Any trouble he was going to have with Potts would come in the dark, without warning. If Gledhill had not shown up when he did, Washington knew Potts would have tried something. He had seen it too much in Philadelphia. He shivered involuntarily. He joined the Navy to get away from all that and to earn the GI Bill so he could go to college. But even here on board the Squallfish, wherever he turned they surrounded him.
The battery room was a dangerous place for a fight. Even a new sailor on board a submarine, such as he, knew that.
NINE
“Do we understand each other, Captain Zegouniov?” Zotkin asked.
Anton stood in front of the scientist’s wooden desk feeling like he were some errant schoolboy being lectured by the headmaster.
“I understand, Doctor Zotkin,” he said, putting his hands behind his back. “But the aft torpedo room should be repaired, not sealed. If we are to do a proper—”
Zotkin raised his hand as he stood. “Stop! I am the one who decides whether the K-2 is ready for the test.” The man put his hand on his chest.
Anton wondered for a moment if Zotkin was having a heart attack and was surprised to discover that he hoped it was the case.
A couple of breaths and Doctor Zotkin dropped his hand. “You are causing me distress, Captain. You come with all the best recommendations. If you are unable to accomplish what is best for the Soviet Union, then maybe we should discuss—”
Anton interrupted. “Sir, with all due respect, no one has ever questioned my loyalty. I have served—”
Zotkin straightened, his face turning a beet red. “I am not questioning your loyalty, Comrade Captain! I am asking if you are dedicated to the K-2 project. I am asking if you are going to do as I ask.”
Anton stopped. What had started with Zotkin ordering his work force to seal off the forward torpedo room without discussing it with Anton had caused this confrontation. He searched for a moment to figure out how something begun at the collegiate level could have spun out of control. He was still investigating the fire. He thought a sailor with a cigarette had caused it by trying to grind it out on the deck where oil and grease gathered.