“He can’t be dead,” Forsythe said, still stunned by the turn of events. “He can’t be.”
“There’s also the question of his medical history,” the doctor said, continuing as though Forsythe had not spoken. “Lieutenant Commander Cowlings had orders to see a specialist while we were in port. He was having headaches — severe headaches, migraine type. They became so severe that he was temporarily blinded. At times. Not constantly, of course.”
“That’s impossible — I never heard anything about that,” Forsythe snapped. “If he was that sick, the captain wouldn’t have let him deploy with us.”
The doctor shook his head sadly. “He didn’t tell anyone. He found ways to cover it up. The spells didn’t last long and, so far, he had not been on watch when they happened. I think he believed that if he could figure out what caused them, he could stop them without ever having to tell anyone. Because, as you well know, it would have ended his career immediately.”
“He took a terrible chance — a completely unacceptable one. That’s not like Lieutenant Commander Cowlings,” Forsythe said. “I can’t believe it.”
“I know. But just before we pulled in, he must have realized how serious it was. He came to me and admitted what was happening. I took him off the watch bill, of course, and talked to the captain. He would have been transferred out immediately. Any routine medical workup would have caught the aneurysm. It’s possible it was operable, and if so, they could have saved him.”
“He knew that?” Forsythe asked.
The doctor nodded. “He knew everything I’m telling you now. And still he came back on board. I think the captain figured there was no harm in letting him stand watch in port.”
He knew it could kill him. Knew it, and got underway anyway. Because he knew I couldn’t handle it on my own, not the way I was acting.
A deep sense of shame rolled through him, followed shortly by an icy cold determination. In that moment, Forsythe knew that he would not obey Cowlings’s last order. The Seawolf would not turn tail and run, he would not surface the ship and radio for help. Although the torpedo had missed the submarine, it had scored one casualty. And Forsythe would make her pay for it.
“What’s the procedure?” Forsythe asked. He pointed at the isolation chamber. “With—?” He caught himself as he almost said, “with the captain.”
“Body bag and stored in the reefer,” the doctor said. “If you think it’s a health hazard, you can order him buried at sea.”
Using the garbage chute. No, I don’t think so — he deserved better than that. And, even though it gives me the willies to think of his body in the refrigerator, I owe him that much.
“I want to see him,” Forsythe said abruptly. I don’t, but I feel like I have to. It’s what the captain would have done — what Cowlings would have done, too.
The doctor nodded, as though expecting that. “There’s a hole in his throat — I was putting in a trach tube, trying to find a way to keep him breathing. It’s all stitched up, of course.”
The doctor led the way, opened the hatch to the isolation chamber, and stepped aside. “We will have to inventory the contents of his pockets and his stateroom,” the doctor said. “That requires both of us.”
“Eventually — probably when we get back to port,” Forsythe said.
He stared down at Cowlings’s body, trying to see exactly what it was that made the difference between being alive and being dead. He had never seen a dead body before, not outside of medical programs on television. It was an eerie sensation, looking down at someone he knew well, seeing Cowlings’s familiar features, the short clipped brown hair. He tried not to look at the jagged hole in Cowlings’s neck, but his eyes were drawn to it. It was a clean incision about an inch long. Blood had run down the side of it, creating a circle around Cowlings’s neck. Some of it had been cleaned up, but there were a few traces of smeared blood still there.
Had Cowlings felt the doctor cutting into his neck? Or, had he been dead by then? Forsythe touched his own neck, imagining how it would feel to have a knife slice through his skin just above his Adam’s apple, and hoped Cowlings had already been gone. There was a sense of stillness about the body, a sense of, well, lifelessness. You’re a rocket scientist, he thought, then realized he had really never understood what lifeless meant. Not until he saw Cowlings’s body, flesh deprived of spirit.
And what am I supposed to? I’m not particularly religious — was Cowlings? Maybe. I should find out.
Forsythe reached out and laid one hand on Cowlings’s forehead. The flesh under his fingers was still warm, but starting to cool, a few degrees below what you’d expect to feel. The skin was still resilient.
Father, into your hands, I commend his spirit.
Forsythe tried to think of what else he should say, some prayer — there was probably a Navy-issue prayer book somewhere around, but right now he didn’t have time to look for it. Cowlings would understand, and by now would have been chiding him for being away from Maneuvering.
Where do they keep the flag? Where do they keep the prayer book? There’s so much I don’t know.
Out loud, Forsythe stumbled through the Lord’s Prayer, then took his hand off Cowlings’s head. It’s the best I can do, sir. And I’ll do the best for the ship, too.
Forsythe straightened, then turned to the doctor. “Go ahead with what you need to do. I’ll be in the control room if you need me.”
Forsythe started out of sick bay, but the doctor, a full commander, caught his elbow as he walked by. “What are you planning on doing?”
“What he would have done,” Forsythe said, jerking his thumb back toward the isolation compartment.
“You’re not ready for this, Ensign. What we need to do is get out of here and call for help. Look at the ship. It’s practically empty. You don’t have enough people to maintain safe watches, you don’t even have any other officers on board now, except for me. I’m afraid I must insist—”
“Refer to your copy of Navy Regulations,” Forsythe said, his voice hard and cold. “You are not a line officer — you’re not in line for succession to command. I am.”
“You don’t know what the hell you’re doing,” the doctor shouted. “You’ll get everyone on this ship killed.”
Forsythe stared him, letting his anger build. “I intend to carry out our mission, Doctor.”
“You’re just an ensign. I’m a commander. You have to listen to me!”
Forsythe shook his head. “No. You are the doctor. I am the senior line officer present on board. And the Seawolf has a job to do.”
Finally, just after dawn, the last detail was nailed down. It was essential that it appear that Russia herself was solving the problem, but the current president of Russia was adamantly opposed to anyone finding out that Tombstone would be flying a MiG. It was an awkward position for him, since he supported the American plan. He simply wanted complete deniability, and that meant he was neither willing to provide Tombstone with a MiG nor participate in any training.
Fortunately, not every member of the CIS felt the same way. In the end, Armenia agreed to provide both training and hardware. Covering Russia’s butt appeared to serve some political purpose for her, and she had been quite eager to cooperate. In exchange, the United States agreed to attempt to behead the snake immediately before Maskiro’s command element could reach the island. That would make the mop-up operation all the easier. There was even some speculation that the forces on the island would simply surrender once they knew Maskiro had been eliminated. Current intelligence reported that the rebel leader had sought sanctuary in Chechnya, to the irritation of the Russians and the amusement of the Armenian government. This was the quid pro quo — Korsov would be eliminated in Chechnya. After countless international phone calls, the plan was ready.