“Jesus Christ,” Senior Chief Boohan said from near the helmsman, where he stood watching the young sailor.
Shipley would be unable to use radar because Soviet electronic surveillance units would pick them up by the time he had made three sweeps. But if they followed the stern of the merchant, it would be the merchant lighting their way — figuratively. They’d break off near their destination, do the mission, and thanks to the Soviet merchant, he would have the return plot ready for escape.
“Look here, Fromley,” Potts said, squatting in the middle of the deck. “That nigger’s been here.” He picked up several shavings of potato peel.
“How you know it wasn’t one of the Filipinos?”
“Eat shit, From. I know it was him. The son of a bitch has dumped trash all over my compartment.” He stood and handed the wadded-up potato peels to Fromley. “See? What did I tell you? He’s coming down here when we ain’t here and making a mess with this crap they call food.”
Fromley held the potato peels up to the light. Then he looked at the deck. “I don’t see anything else,” he said.
Potts grunted. “Shit, From; it’s probably because he’s scared and picked some of it up.” He pointed at the batteries. “I bet most of the trash he shoved underneath the batteries.”
The aft hatch opened, and Lieutenant Bleecker entered. “What’s the problem here, Potts? You’re supposed to be checking the charges, not standing around scuttlebutting.”
Potts grabbed the potato peels from Fromley and held them up to Bleecker’s face. “Look here, Lieutenant. Look what we found on our deck.”
Bleecker’s head turned from one side to the other as he looked at the potato peels. “Looks to me, Potts, as if you have a wad of trash. Did I guess right?”
“Yes, sir,” Potts replied, pulling the potato peels back, holding them in front of his face, and grinning. “I found them, sir, right there when I started the second half of my checks. I wouldn’t have seen them otherwise.”
“That’s good, Potts. If you’d keep your spaces clean, you wouldn’t find trash that big. Now toss it in the shit can and get back to work.”
Potts looked shocked. “But sir, don’t you get it. That colored boy did this. He came in here and dumped this on our decks.”
Bleecker’s eyebrows wrinkled into a V shape. “Potts, is this the only thing you’ve found?”
“So far, sir, but we just found it.” He pointed at Fromley. “From and I are going to give the compartment a thorough inspection and see where he’s dumped the other trash.”
“Potts, take my advice; better yet, take my order. Get your mind off Crocky and his stewards. Remember our conversation a week or so ago?”
Potts nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“It still holds.” Bleecker held out his hand. “Give me that trash.”
Potts handed it to him.
“There.” Bleecker closed his hand and crushed the potato peels closer together. The veins on the back of his huge hands looked like mountain ridges running haphazardly across a treeless plain. “The trash is gone.” He kept his hand closed. “Now I’m going to take care of this.” He walked to the forward end of the compartment, opened the hatch, and stuck his hand inside over the trash can in the forward torpedo room. “There; your compartment is once again shipshape.” He looked at Fromley. “Give me the logbook.”
Fromley, who had been carrying the logbook in his hand, handed it to Bleecker. While Bleecker flipped the pages looking for the latest entries, Fromley looked at Potts with a fearful expression.
Potts pursed his lips, his nose wrinkling, and shook his head very slightly. No way Bleecker could tell they had been gun-decking the log. At least he wouldn’t be able to if Fromley did what he had told him to do.
Bleecker quit flipping the log. Potts and Fromley stood quietly as the chief engineer scanned the entries with his finger. Every few seconds an “uh-uh” or an “umm” escaped from Bleecker’s lips.
Sweat broke out on Fromley’s forehead. The temperature was twenty degrees in the forward battery room. He shifted on his feet.
Without looking up, Bleecker asked, “You nervous or something, Fromley?”
“Yeah, Fromley,” Potts said, before he could answer. “I’ve told you to quit that dancing.” Potts looked at Bleecker, who continued to scan the log. “I’ve told him, Lieutenant, that the better way to keep warm is to layer up, put on more T-shirts, but From thinks moving keeps the blood circulating and keeps him warm.” Bleecker shrugged as he flipped a page backward. “To each his own, but Fromley, that shuffling bothers me, and I can see how it gets on your shipmate’s nerves. Go stand over there with him if you can’t stop it.”
“Yes, sir,” Fromley replied, his words shaking.
Bleecker looked up. His eyes narrowed. “If you’re cold, then why are you sweating?”
“I’m not sweating, Lieutenant,” he said, glancing wide-eyed at Potts.
Bleecker slammed the logbook shut. He looked at Fromley and then at Potts. He opened it again, and then moved to the batteries. “These readings you have from a moment ago. You guys do them accurately?”
“I gave them to Fromley,” Potts said.
Fromley looked at him but said nothing.
“Fromley, according to the log, this cell should be half charged. Kind of impossible, considering we’ve only been charging for less than two hours now. The ampere reading you have in the log is higher than what I am looking at.” He looked at Potts and Fromley.
When neither spoke, he tossed the logbook onto the deck. “I think if I check each one of these, I’ll find every one of them different from what you have logged.” He rubbed his chin, his face growing redder. “Why is that, you think?”
“Maybe From misunderstood me?”
“ ‘Maybe From misunderstood me?’ ” Bleecker mocked. “Do I look stupid, Potts? Do I?” He looked at Fromley. “How about you, Fromley? You think these years in the Navy have decayed my mind past the point where I can recognize gun-decking when I see it?”
“No, sir,” Fromley said. “I have never thought that.”
“Well, you must have. I think if I went cell by cell and compared the amperes with your half-hourly checks, I’ll find enough discrepancies to court-martial your asses to Leavenworth, Kansas, for the rest of your lives — which considering how young you two are, wouldn’t be worth much after a stint in that can.” Bleecker moved toward the two men. “Potts, you think you’re big and mean and everyone owes you respect for being big and mean. In Leavenworth, they’ll have you for breakfast.” He turned to Fromley. “And you, Fromley. You wouldn’t live a week there before you discovered how much men would like to share you.”
“Share me?” Fromley asked, not understanding what the lieutenant was talking about.
Bleecker leaned forward, his face a few inches above and from Potts. “Potts, I’m going to go aft and check the aft battery compartment and the two engine rooms. When I come back I want those log entries correct. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Potts answered meekly.
As Bleecker reached the aft hatch, he turned. “I’ll be sending Gledhill up here to show you how to do it. He’d better come back with glowing reports on the two engineers in the forward battery compartment. You two understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” they answered.
The hatch shut behind him, and they both watched quietly when the wheels turned as Bleecker sealed the hatch on the other side. After several seconds, Potts bent down and picked up the logbook.