“What is it called?” I ask.
But Brother Callum is already fast asleep, still seated in his chair, head slumped.
I don’t want this to end—this music—but I must. There is no time. I can’t risk being caught.
I pull the headphones off and turn the same big knob on the massive console Brother Callum was adjusting only moments before until the needle on the dial rests at the appropriate wavelength. I follow the instructions Adolphine went over in detail. Next, I pull away a plastic cover from the teletype machine to reveal an array of dusty, grey-colored keys. I toggle the power switch and wait. The machine hums gently as the green indicator light slowly winks to life. Still works.
I take the slip of parchment tucked in my bindings and quickly begin to punch in the series of letters and numbers scratched on one of the pieces of parchment Caplain Amita gave me years ago for practicing my letters.
A coded message detailing the Leviathan’s launch destination and instructions for how to approach.
It’s a noisy business. Each imprinted key causes a sharp snapping sound to emanate from the machine when I press it. Thankfully, the Leviathan is loud tonight, groaning metal and clangs and knocks with every swell and dip. Brother Callum remains slumped in his seat, in a deep slumber. After I have quickly, carefully punched in the sequence, I find the orange TRANSMIT key just where Adolphine said it would be. I strike it.
And with a muted ticking, the message is sent into the world. And perhaps our salvation. A way for us all to survive.
To not drown in these icy depths.
I look over to find Brother Callum slumped in the exact same position, snoring softly. He’ll get in trouble if he’s found sleeping on his watch. But not as much trouble as he would get in if Ex-Oh Goines found me in here with him.
Quietly as I can, I stand, I turn the tuning dial back to the channel he had been scanning when I first came in. Switch off the teletype machine, covering it.
I’m about to leave when I hear the crackling voice speaking through the headphones.
I should leave now. The corridor is empty. No one will see me slip out. But the temptation is too great.
I put one side of the headset over my ear.
It’s a man speaking. English. Though, the reception is especially fuzzy. More so than the channel that was broadcasting the music.
“—ations are underway for Prime Minister Aldeway . . . formally surrender CPN forces to . . . Liánméng navy after the utter defeat of the . . . tion fleet in the battle for Subic Bay . . . not yet clear whether the Northern Protectorate . . . comply with Minister Aldeway’s plea for peace . . . end to war. Word has not yet come from Guam . . .”
The report is swallowed, disappears in the din.
When I remove the headset, I hear a sharp intake of breath from behind me.
There, standing just outside the half-opened door, Ephraim. Lips drawn tight. Expression inscrutable.
7
“CAN WE TRADE TEETH?” Caleb asks, placing his spoon down beside his mess kit.
“Why bother?” St. John asks. “We surely only have days left before we deliver the Last Judgment. What good will such earthly goods be to us?”
Caleb falls silent, looks down to his murky broth.
“You need not sour his spirits so,” I say. “He’s scared.”
“He should be rejoicing,” St. John says, that haughty, superior tone. “At last, our service will be rewarded.”
“Regardless,” I say, unable to keep quiet, looking at Caleb’s pale face. “It might be a . . . frightening time to some.”
Ephraim glances up at me. Normally, he would step in, particularly when Caleb is involved.
I tried reasoning with Ephraim after he found me in the radio room, hooking him by the arm before he could scurry off down the corridor.
“It was nothing,” I told him.
But he wouldn’t look at me. As though I was diseased, as though, just by proximity, he himself was damned.
How much had he seen?
“I was listening to music,” I said. “I had never listened before. And Brother Callum fell asleep . . .”
“Remy . . .” he said, pulling his arm away. “I don’t know what you’re up to. . . . I don’t want to know . . . but St. John does. And if he finds out, you’ll be . . . you’ll be in so much trouble. You know Caplain Marston . . . and if he finds out I knew and didn’t say anything . . .”
“I won’t get caught. And even if I did, the caplain won’t find out about you. Not from me,” I said, laying a hand at the center of his chest. “Promise.”
He swallowed. Finally, he looked up. Such young eyes, fearful eyes, even though he is at least three years older than me. I’d never noticed before then.
His whole body shook.
“Do you trust me?” I asked him.
And he nodded, taking in a breath.
“Things are happening. About to happen. I can’t tell you any more than that. Just . . . please keep trusting me. Please?”
He nodded again.
But he has remained cool toward me, even two days later. Not glancing up, and speaking little, if at all, during meals. Our usual silence punctuated somehow by a greater silence.
St. John has noticed. Of course he has.
He grins into his bowl. I can almost see the acerbic retort taking shape in his mind.
“You’ve been quiet, Ephraim,” St. John says. “I know Remy must be so tired from his nightly excursions—but you are normally not so staid.”
That grin. Sly. Devious.
I set down my spoon.
Ephraim’s eyes go wide.
St. John says, “I thought Caplain Marston was as . . . taken with you as old Caplain Amita, but that isn’t the case after all.”
He leaves no room for response.
“When I told him about Lazlo, about what I heard you two talking about in the balneary, he was taken aback. Dangerous ideas, Remy. I confessed to the caplain that I did fear dear Lazlo had . . . already corrupted your soul. He asked me to keep a close watch on you. To search for the signs of corruption.”
I fight the urge to jump across the table, to wipe the smirk from St. John’s face. I fight it with all my being.
“You two should take heed,” St. John says, nodding to Ephraim and Caleb, both of whom have been watching in tense silence. “After all, look at poor Lazlo . . . look where his association with Remy got him.”
How much does St. John know?
“Please, you don’t care anything about their souls,” I say. “You just care about position. You only removed Lazlo because you don’t have half his talent.”
“Jealous of that little worm,” he snaps, sitting up straight. Gives a fake, shrill laugh. But I know I’ve struck a nerve. I shouldn’t be risking an altercation. Shouldn’t risk being found out. Not so close to our final days. But I can’t help myself.
“Envious of his voice—of his position. And mine as well,” I say.
This does it.
He springs to his feet. Everyone in the mess has fallen silent. All eyes on St. John. “What I care about are the rules . . . and you’ve got away with breaking them too long. You think you’re special. That you’re above them. But you aren’t. I know Caplain agrees. Better keep your eyes about you, yeah? Because I think you’ve got a secret . . . and I’m going to find it out!”
He whispers these last, fuming words, but they are still loud enough for all in earshot to hear.
Now I’m the one who stands. The table remains between us. Everyone watching.
“Remy,” Ephraim whispers, nervous.
I brace myself, ready to fight if I need to. Ready to throw a fist, until the compartment pitches suddenly downward.
I must latch on to Ephraim’s arm to keep my balance..
We are diving. Fast.
The red bulb on the bulkhead above the hatchway begins flashing. No alarm. A flashing light means we are running silent.
“We’re being hunted,” Ephraim wh
ispers.
Brother Aegis slides down the ladder from the main deck, rushing aft, toward the chapel. Brother Dumas follows.
“What’s going on?” St. John asks.
“Enemy vessel,” he grunts with urgency. “Think it might be a sub.”
“I thought all the subs were destroyed,” Caleb says.
“That’s what I heard Ex-Oh Goines say,” Brother Aegis says, bracing himself against the bulkhead as the downward pitch grows steeper. Ephraim and I must do the same, to keep our balance. St. John and Caleb cling onto the table as dishes and cutlery spill to the deck in an enormous clang and clatter.
“What are you waiting for? All to their stations!” the brother commands, breaking all from our stupor. The mess erupts in a quick scramble—each of the brothers rushing away. Brother Dumas has ordered Ephraim to help Brother Ernesto secure the air system. St. John is sent to the lower deck of the chapel, to check for leaks.
Then a screaming, metallic shrieking wails past the hull. A few seconds later, an explosion. The deck lurches out from beneath me. I lose my legs. Am slammed hard onto the deck face-first, rolling, sliding down the steep decline, coming to a painful stop as my shoulder jams into the forward bulkhead. Electric pain lances down my arm. Breath knocked from my lungs. Taste blood. Squiggly points of light dance before my eyes. I feel my forehead. My fingers are slick.
It’s Ephraim who lifts me up. When the ringing in my ears stops, I hear spraying water. Smell acrid fume.
He says words that I can’t seem to hear. Not at first. I read his lips.
“The pumps. Take Caleb with you!”
I nod, am already breaking away, running up the tilt, despite my blurry vision, my uncertain feet. I move against the flow of the other brothers darting to their stations. I find Caleb hiding beneath one of the tables, clinging to one of the bolted-down legs.
The pitch of the deck has leveled somewhat. Easier to walk.
I snatch up his hand and drag him along with me.
One of the mains just above us has burst, jetting a torrent of water into the compartment. Brother Aaron is already trying to patch it.
Another passing shriek in the water outside the hull. A muffled explosion, much farther away than the last. The Leviathan still resonates. Rattles. Groans.
Not depth charges. These must be torpedoes. I’ve never actually heard them before. The Leviathan’s stockpile was used up long before I was brought on board.
“Caleb, stick with me!” I shout over the roar of the water, the shouting, the thrum and knock of pressure against the hull.
Jumping down into the well, there’s barely room to move around the massive bank of batteries. The water has already pooled here to my ankles. I help Caleb down.
“There are two pumps—I need you to turn this one, back here.” I point to the pump handle aft, away from the water pooling at the forward part of the well. The motorized pumps burned out long ago, and they must be manually operated in order to clear the water through the bilge.
I glance to the metal strut, just above where Caleb has started pumping, to where I hid the missile key. No time to check on it now.
I inch around the side of the battery bank, forward to the other manual pump release. The water is deeper here—ever deepening. To my knees. We’re still diving. Leakage continues to spill in from the hatch above in a waterfall, dousing the batteries.
They’re made to handle being wet and not shorting out, but they can’t become submerged. If they do, they’ll fry. The batteries would be dead, and so would Caleb and I. Electric shock.
Another screech from the deck above—the sound of the trim main blowing. The water cascades down now, drenching me.
It’s already up to my waist when my fingers find the pump handle, just beneath the murky, salty, greasy surface. I begin working it, spinning the wheel valve.
Shouting. The clanging of feet scurrying on the decks above. The rushing of water. More and more spilling in. The Leviathan is still diving. Still dropping fast. I hear the entire boat groan from the pressure. We’re going to reach the crush depth soon at this rate of descent.
There might be a war raging on the upper decks, but here is the only thing that matters.
Turn, turn, turn.
The pump isn’t draining the water away fast enough. We’re barely keeping up.
“Caleb, I need you to speed up!” I shout.
I can’t see him around the battery cluster behind me, but I hear him. Hear him grunting as he turns his pump. I also see the bottom bank is already about to be fully submerged.
Not worth risking both our lives.
“Caleb, climb out,” I shout.
“But the water—” I hear him shout.
“Do it now. Find the tool kit. I’ll call down for something if I need it. Just stay up there!”
The water level continues to rise, but Caleb does as I instructed. I look up to see his legs disappearing through the hatch above.
Meanwhile, I spin and spin the pump valve. I’m dizzy. My eyes burn from the acrid fume. My lungs ache. I’m choking. My arm is numb, but I keep at it.
And then the whole boat lurches, wrenches, thongs like I’ve never heard it before.
My head knocks against the ceiling of the low compartment.
It’s as though the whole boat has struck something.
Have we bottomed out? I can’t tell if the boat is still moving. It certainly isn’t diving any longer.
The lights flicker overhead, then wink out completely. The main power has shut down. Battery power now, keeping the auxiliary lights on.
Without main power, the batteries are essential until the reactor and the generators are brought back online.
I must keep at it.
Thankfully, the burst main seems to have been repaired. The cascade of water has lessened to a small stream pouring in through the well hatch. The boat has also leveled, shifting the water back from where it had been pooling.
There’s light enough to see that the pumping might finally be working. The bilge is beginning to recede.
I turn and turn not stopping until the water level has fallen below my ankles. My burning arm quakes, muscles clenching, angry and taut.
But the batteries are safe.
“Caleb, what’s going on up there?” I ask, panting.
No answer. Probably still looking for the tool kit. Or hiding under the table again.
I look over to the beam where I’ve hidden the missile key.
I feel for the key in the small crevice between the ceiling and the top of the beam, where I had carefully had wedged it. But I find only empty space.
I search again, running my fingers along the entire seam, but no. Nothing. No key.
It must have fallen into the water.
“Remy,” someone calls from above.
“A moment,” I say, coughing, splashing in the cold, murky water, feeling around the bottom.
If I’ve lost it, then that changes everything.
My fingers probe the rusty metal compartment deck, brush against sharp metal corroded edges.
“Remy!” I hear my name again. It’s Ephraim calling down.
Come on!
And then I find it. The smooth metal stalk. The key. Not sucked into the pump, after all.
Now is not the time to take a moment of relief. I shake as I tuck the key safely beneath my wet bindings, where I feel its cold shape pressing into my skin. Where it will stay for the next several days. Should we actually survive long enough to go through with the plan.
I finally climb up from the well, robes sopping wet, heavy.
It isn’t until I’m on deck that I recognize the silence that has overtaken the vessel. A hissing, a dripping, a tapping somewhere in the pipes, but quiet otherwise.
A thick haze of oily and electric smoke hangs about the dim compartment. Worse here than below. My eyes burn. My legs tell me that we must have bottomed out. We are resting at a slight tilt.
In the hazy darkness, I make my way for
ward until I see Ephraim’s form, leaning over something on the deck.
“What’s going on?”
Ephraim turns—face twisted up in sorrow.
I see now that he’s bent over a small, crumpled body. Only leaning in close do I see familiar, childish features half-obscured by a mass of dark gore.
Caleb.
“Wh—what happened?” I ask.
“Pipe must have come loose when we struck bottom,” he says, smudging his cheeks with dirty hands. Sniffling. “Thought he was down in the well with you.”
“He was,” I say, trying to blink away the burning. “I sent him out. Thought it would be safer.”
* * *
Now is the hour of Vespers, one of the most important prayers of the day. The prayer before a feast. The longest in the liturgy.
It is a time of sacrifice. Of giving back to God.
He had his offering today. Little Caleb.
Normally, I would sing the Magnificat during this hour. The Canticle of the Virgin Mary.
Fecit potentiam in brachio suo;
Dispersit superbos mente cordis sui.
Deposuit potentes de sede, et exaltavit humiles.
Esurientes implevit bonis, et divites dimisit inanes.
Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen.
He hath put down the mighty from their seat: and hath exalted the humble and meek.
He hath filled the hungry with good things: and the rich he hath sent empty away.
As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be: world without end. Amen.
But the Sunset Office is not met tonight. Unessential crew has been ordered to their bunks. No excessive movement or activity. We must keep the air consumption down, while we are still submerged. Hiding, grounded, on the sea floor. Two hundred and nineteen fathoms.
Caleb’s body is in the balneary, awaiting its final rights. We cannot commit his body to the deep until the threat is gone.
The sub must still be up there, hunting for us.
It has been a full day.
The reactor and electric generators have been brought back online, but the air is running out. The oxygen generator must have been damaged. The rest of the scrubbers must have shut down.
We Shall Sing a Song into the Deep Page 9
