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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.”

“Sorry…” whimpered the nav.

“Maybe it’s not too late,” said the commander. “But you have to start acting with the appropriate level of vigor.”

“What should I do?”

“You’ve got one of the most important jobs on the boat,” said the commander. “And it’s not because you can turn the handle on a purple valve. There’s a reason I chose you, the navigator, for this mission. You’re one of the few men who can single-handedly destroy this boat.”

“How?” asked the navigator.

But he was already gone.

•   •   •

Jabo slept exactly twenty-five minutes after Hallorann left his stateroom, and when he awoke, he did feel much, much better. He knew it wouldn’t last, knew there would come a point early in the watch where no amount of coffee could overcome the sleep deficit he’d accumulated, but for the moment he just felt grateful for the one hundred and five minutes of sleep he’d gotten. And Hallorann’s fear had been accurate….he had no recollection of talking to him, or of the yellow sheet of paper that was sitting on his desk, lost among a sea of paper that was awaiting his review. But Jabo felt so good that he walked to the shower whistling, with a towel around his waist, and when he came back to the stateroom, ten minutes later, he was humming. Kincaid was back, sweaty and winded, taking off his running shoes.

“Did you violate those safety tags on the treadmill?” asked Jabo.

“I considered it. Fucking stupid. I ran in missile compartment upper level as best I could. I hate running up there.”

“I’ll talk to the cruise director.”

“Fuck you. I’m glad you got your nap in, slacker.”

Jabo laughed at that, started stepping into his poopie, while Kincaid nosed around his desk. He held up the yellow paper and laughed.

“I see that nub found you with this…he was trying to get everybody to look at it, we finally realized you are running the investigation, sent him down to you.”

Jabo took the sheet, began to vaguely recall the conversation with Hallorann. More clearly he remembered seeing the yellow paper in the master chief’s Polaroids. He looked at his watch. “I need to take the watch,” he said. “I’ll take a look at it on the conn.”

“I have a feeling if you don’t, that nub will come after you. He seems like a determined type of guy.”

•   •   •

Molly Hein came to Angi’s house already in her workout clothes, and then they left together in Angi’s car. They were already a little late for the step aerobics class in the gym base that they attended every Tuesday and Thursday when the men were at sea. The instructor was Dee Dee Hysong, the ridiculously fit, ridiculously blonde wife of a lieutenant on
Alaska
.

“We’re going to be late,” said Angi. “Dee Dee is going to glare at us.”

“That’s why I like being late,” said Molly. “But that’s not why she glares at us. It’s because you’re in better shape than her. She can’t tolerate that.”

Angi patted her belly. “If that’s true, she’ll be happy to see this.”

“How much longer do you think you can do stuff like this?”

“As long as they let me. Then we can just start going to McDonald’s and getting fat together.”

“You’ll never be fat,” said Molly. “You’re one of those mutants.”

Angi laughed. “Just because you drag me to these classes. You’re a good influence on me.”

“You’re a bad influence on me. I’m going to tell Jay I want to have a baby now.”

“God, don’t blame me for that…”

“Hey, if I can’t get a job, what the hell…I might as well stay barefoot and pregnant.” Molly, like her husband, had a degree from MIT. But with the frequent moves and the limited opportunities in a navy town, she’d been unable to get a career started. Angi had studied to be a teacher at Vandy, and was fully licensed to teach kids with learning disabilities—in Tennessee. After arriving in Washington State, she learned that the requirements and licensing were sufficiently different that it would take half their sea tour, and an equally significant chunk of Danny’s sea pay, for her to obtain her Washington state license. She sympathized with her friend’s frustration.

Angi turned on to Trigger Road, the short drive complete from her house to the gate. Cars were backed up as uniformed marines checked every ID and looked over every auto. A stern gunnery sergeant was supervising the stepped up inspections.

“Heightened security,” said Molly. “Must be because of all the China stuff.”

“The protestors are here, too,” said Angi. There was a small cadre of them just outside the gate, aging hippies in tie-dye, peasant skirts, and white pony tails, handing out flyers with large smiles on their faces. They’d had a long-standing agreement with the base, who allowed them to show up on Tuesday mornings and exercise their freedom of speech just outside the gate while submarine sailors worked to defend that right inside. One of them approached Angi’s car, and she started to roll down here window.

“You actually take their flyers?” said Molly.

“Usually. Just seems rude to say no.”

“God, you are a such nice person.”

Angi took the paper from an older looking man wearing a peace-sign medallion and a crucifix. He nodded thankfully and moved on to the car behind them. She looked it over.

“AMERICAN NUKES TO PROVOKE CHINA??!!!” There was a black, cartoonish silhouette of a surfaced submarine above the headline, with a nuclear trefoil symbol, as well as the red stars of the Chinese flag.

Recent statements by the State Department indicate a serious reinterpretation of the nuclear non-proliferation treaty is underway. Officials in the current administration seem to believe that providing Taiwan with nuclear weapons would not be a breech of the treaty which has been honored by the United States (and 189 other nations) since 1970, and is considered a cornerstone of international nuclear peace efforts.

China meanwhile has stated that it will not tolerate a nuclear Taiwan, and that it will consider any attempt to arm Taiwan as an act of war. The Red Army is on alert and the Chinese fleet is operating feverishly.

Are we going to provoke China into starting World War III? Is the United States trying to provoke a nuclear conflict? Are the destabilizing nukes coming from behind these gates?

A car honked. Angi, startled, dropped the flyer into her lap. She realized her heart was pounding. The Marine at the gate was waving her forward, looking annoyed at her for holding up the line.

•   •   •

Two cars behind her in that line was Captain Mario Soldato. He saw Angi’s Honda, but Angi did not see him, and he prayed silently that the commotion would not cause her to turn around and spot him. Angi was smart, very intuitive, and knew him well; if she saw him, she would see the worry in his eyes and that would make her worry. He turned around and glared at the lieutenant in the minivan who was leaning on his horn; the junior officer, noting the four stripes on Mario’s shoulder boards, quickly let up.

Mario had taken a rare afternoon off to spend with Cindy and her sister Sue Ellen, who’d flown in from South Carolina, where her husband, a Marine, had just made colonel. The two sisters were intensely competitive about their husband’s careers, and they both were enjoying the fact that their husbands had made O-6, held command, and were now assured not only of decent pensions, but of having served complete, fulfilled careers. Mario took pleasure in the sisters’ conversations, who in a very old-fashioned, southern way, regarded their husband’s military successes as their own. He’d met them for lunch at The Keg, in Bremerton.

“Tom’s boys are in charge of security at the sub base,” said Sue Ellen.

“That’s an important support role,” said Mario.

“Stop it,” said Cindy, slapping his hand as he laughed.

“Anyway…” Sue Ellen continued, laughing at the joke. “While one of those boats was deployed, it seems one of the young enlisted wives took up with one of Tom’s Marines.”

“Oh my.”

“They were very serious, and when the boat finally came back, after a six month Westpac, as you can imagine this young sailor was distraught.”

“I would think,” said Mario.

“So the captain of this boat, Mario, you might know him, Mark Procopius?”

“I do know him…”

Sue Ellen rolled on, not interested in the details. “So this Captain Procopius schedules a meeting with Tom, to tell him about the whole thing, how distraught this sailor is. And you know what Tom tells him?”

“I can only imagine.”

“He says, ‘Captain, I can understand why you’re upset, but I can’t be responsible for every Navy wife in Charleston who decides she’d rather be with a United States Marine!”

Cindy launched into a defense of the attractiveness of submariners when his cell phone rang.

“Soldato.”

“Captain, this is Bushbaum. We’ve got another flash message from 731.”

As his Chief of Staff explained, Soldato felt a stab of guilt, not for the first time, about being on shore duty, and for taking a half day away from the pier, as if trouble at sea was somehow his fault. Disaster had again befallen
Alabama
, and this time, someone had died: that’s all he knew, all that could be communicated on the unsecure cell phone that he always carried, and even that message was spoken in military jargon that was impenetrable to outsiders. He hung up without saying goodbye, and stood.

“Gotta go,” he said.

Cindy turned her head so he could kiss her cheek. She resumed her conversation with her sister before Soldato was gone, unshaken by his sudden departure. She’d been a navy wife too long to ever assume a full meal together was a guarantee.

He sped to the gate where the protestors and added security were slowing him down. He tried hard to control his temper at the two disparate groups that were holding him up, the earnest Marines with their clipboards and inspection mirrors, and the protestors with their glazed eyes, sandals, and smudged pamphlets. He declined to accept one when they came to his window. He actually had a lot in common with the protestors, it occurred to him. Like the protestors, Mario had spent hours worrying about the US, China, and Taiwan. But his concerns at the moment were far more immediate.

He finally made it to the gate and zipped through before the Marine had even lowered his salute. Down Trigger Road and to the pier, he ran up the stairs at squadron headquarters where Commander Bushbaum was standing by his desk with the message. He handed it to him without a word, knowing better than to offer an interpretation before the commodore had read it. Soldato imagined the scene in control as it was typed by the radiomen, vetted by the communicator, and then hurriedly approved by the captain and transmitted. He fought back the urge again to think that none of this would have happened had he still been in charge.

SAFETY FLASH – LARGE AMTS FREON LOST. SOME TRANSFORMATION TO PHOSGENE DUE TO THERMAL CONTACT WITH SCRUBBERS. ONE DEAD NO INJURIES. SIX HOURS TO VENTILATE INTO SPEC MAKING UP TRACK NOW ESTIMATE ON TIME ARRIVAL TO PAPA ZULU. INVESTIGATION UNDERWAY IN CONJUNCTION WITH PREVIOUS FLASH INCIDENT.

He dropped the message to his desk and rubbed his temples. Bushbaum took this as a signal that it was time for him to speak.

“I guess the good news is that they still think they can make it to Taiwan in time.”

“I know every man on that crew,” Soldato snapped. “Including the dead one.” He let the reproach hang in the air.

“Sorry sir…I didn’t mean…”

Soldato waved his hand in a way that said…that was a stupid fucking thing to say, but we’ve got more important shit to worry about at the moment. “After six hours at PD fighting the casualty…in EAB’s for Christ sake….they still might make it.”

“And it’s a good thing,” offered Bushbaum cautiously. “The CNO’s office is asking for updates almost hourly. His number two called me the other day to tell me that a White House speechwriter was working on something, wanted some facts and figures about
Alabama
. He thought POTUS might actually be there in Taiwan for the weapon transfer.” Bushbaum was an absolutely naked careerist, the reason he’d been able to make 0-5 at the age of thirty. He couldn’t keep the glee out of his voice at being just two degrees removed from the Commander in Chief.

Soldato looked back down at the message and tried to read into it what he could. A massive Freon leak, phosgene gas, a dead sailor. Six hours to replace all the bad air with good: a shit ton of Freon. Soldato tried to imagine how that much could be dumped, and failed to come up with a scenario. He imagined large amounts of food were turning bad inside the coolers of the Alabama. At the speeds they would be travelling, they wouldn’t be able to TDU it fast enough. They might run out of food. Odor would become an issue, although it was the least of the issues in his mind.