Sea of Lost Souls
The Oceanus Series - Book One
Emerald Dodge
Sea of Lost Souls by Emerald Dodge
www.emeralddodge.com
© 2019 Emerald Dodge
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For permissions, contact:
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
Cover by Mario Lampic.
Also by Emerald Dodge
The Battlecry Series
Battlecry
Sentinel
Mercury
Ignite (Prequel Novelette)
Enclave Boxed Sets
Of Beasts and Beauties (Excalibur)
The Oceanus Series
Sea of Lost Souls
House of the Setting Sun (coming soon)
Valley of the Shadow (coming soon)
Crown of Sorrows (Prequel Novelette)
Other Works
Novenas for Mothers
Novenas for Students
Novenas for Singles
For Sarah Spivak
My favorite part of writing this book was that I had a brand-new excuse to talk to you all the time.
Contents
Glossary of Naval Terms
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Battlecry by Emerald Dodge
About Battlecry
Battlecry - Chapter One
Battlecry - Chapter Two
Battlecry - Chapter Three
Glossary of Naval Terms
Deck - Floor
Bulkhead - Wall
Ladder - More properly, a stairwell. They are extremely steep.
Head - Bathroom
Klaxon - Alarm
Stern - The physical rear of the ship
Bow - The physical front of the ship
Aft - Toward the back of the ship, when speaking of directions
Forward - Toward the front of the ship, when speaking of directions
Starboard - Right, when speaking of directions
Port - Left, when speaking of directions
Fantail - A portion of the back end of the ship above the water.
Rates - Jobs/professions within the Navy
Taps - The tune played over the intercom to signal the end of the working day.
Berthing - Living spaces where sailors sleep and recreate.
Racks - Beds, often stacked three high.
Officer - A member of the managerial, and highest, ranks of the armed forces. Officers are accorded special honors such as saluting, and they are given higher pay. Officers have a presidential commission, and as such are sometimes referred to as “commissioned officers.” This is in contrast to “non-commissioned officers,” a type of enlisted serviceman.
Enlisted - A member of the lower ranks of the armed forces. They join for a specific period of time, at the end of which they can choose to reenlist or not. Enlisted personnel tend to make up the system experts and technicians.
How varied are your works, LORD! In wisdom you have made them all; the earth is full of your creatures. There is the sea, great and wide! It teems with countless beings, living things both large and small. There ships ply their course and Leviathan, whom you formed to play with. - Psalms 104:24-26 NABRE
1
“Man overboard! Man overboard! Starboard side!”
The alert came over the ship’s intercom system, echoing down the USS Taft’s passageways and making my ears ring as the sound bounced around the steel.
I tore my eyes away from the white-red fire of the F-18 that had just landed on the flight deck, and began to sprint into the hanger bay, leaving behind the exciting maelstrom to muster for the third man-overboard alert in six hours. The roar of the jet, the howling of the storm, the crashing waves, and angry shouts from other sailors all mixed with a new sound: the alert klaxon.
I thudded down the stairs and dashed into the reactor office, where I was supposed to be manning the phone during my time on watch. I’d only taken a few seconds during an errand to admire the jets, but there was every chance I’d be written up for not being at my station at the beginning of the man-overboard.
I grabbed the juicy superhero novel I’d been reading and tried to look engrossed. It had already been ten seconds, and I couldn’t hear my favorite person cracking skulls.
“Up! Move! Move! Make a hole! Hurry up!”
There he was.
The tired yells came from beyond the open door, mixing with the klaxon. The yeller, Chief Swanson, sounded like he’d just woken up. Considering that it was half past midnight, he probably had.
His concern was all for show. After the first two false alarms, I was positive that nobody cared about the man-overboard. Now, if they found the chucklehead who kept throwing emergency chem lights in the water… yeah, there was going to be an actual man-overboard situation, and every sailor on the carrier was going to cheer.
Chief Swanson stumbled into the reactor office, bleary and half-dressed. I tossed him the clipboard. “Petty Officer Second Class Goldstein comma Rachel present, in body if not in spirit. My spirit is back in my rack getting some sleep.”
“Shut up, Goldstein,” he said without looking up from the clipboard. “Where’s Bickley?”
A booming voice over the intercom interrupted us. “Time plus one!”
It had been a minute since the man-overboard. If all five thousand hands on the ship hadn’t mustered by time plus twelve, they’d launch the helicopters and search teams. Considering that I’d seen thirty-foot waves just a few minutes ago, I did not envy anybody who had to search for a single person in that ocean.
I flipped my book open to where I’d stopped. “I took over for him. He’s probably on his way here from his rack.”
The ship rolled slightly, and a pen fell off the desk with a clatter. Huh. Maybe someone had fallen off the ship. The storm was getting worse.
There was the sound of a train passing over head, followed by a vibration that resounded in my chest. It wasn’t a train, of course—it was an F-18 landing on the flight deck. I’d overheard an airman say that four planes had been called back to the ship as the freak storm had overtaken us. I’d watched the first one return. Two down, two to go.
Groans and mumbles carried down the passageway as the rest of my muster group wandered into the office. In my opinion, we were the best possible muster group, comprising three good-looking nuclear electricians. Not that our appearances were remotely important, of course. It was just that our good looks made it funnier when people found out that we were nukes, since most sailors thoug
ht that nukes were pasty, squishy sewer monsters. I thought I was rather pretty, with my fair, lightly-freckled skin, and soft brown curls that stuck out every which way.
Bickley, the oldest of us, led the pack. Pillow marks lined the brown skin of his face, and his white tank top allowed us to see his impressive nautical-themed tattoos that he’d gotten during each of his four deployments. “‘Sup,” he said through a yawn. When he’d finished, he gestured toward the clipboard. “Petty Officer First Class Jack Bickley, ready for duty or whatever.”
“Thank you, Petty Officer,” Chief said. “Your eagerness to serve is much appreciated.”
I hid my smile. Bickley’s military bearing always went up in smoke after midnight.
My best friend, Torres, moved like a zombie down the hallway. She still had a crusty spit trail on her cheek and was blinking rapidly as though she were confused by what was going on. Her pixie cut stuck out oddly on one side, and her feet were clad in actual bunny slippers. Her intricate collarbone tattoo—I’d egged her on into getting it in Marseilles—was on clear display underneath her tank top.
Chief ticked off her name. “Petty Officer Second Class Marisol Torres, check, and nice slippers, by the way. Where’s Rollins?”
“He’s definitely on watch,” I said. He’d complained about it for an hour before I’d kicked him out of the reactor office and told him to go whine to the generators instead. It was a forgivable offense, though; he wasn’t normally so prone to complain, but it was the middle of the night in the sixth month of a deployment. We were all getting a little fatigued.
The carrier leaned to the side suddenly, tossing my colleagues to the floor. My rolling office chair merely scooted across the small office like a lame theme park ride. A familiar wave of nausea hit me, and I began to mentally calculate the physics of the motion to take my mind off of it. It was unfortunate that I got motion sickness so easily. I loved the idea of going fast and wild. My stomach did not.
“Time plus two!”
Bickley put the wastepaper basket back in its spot. His movie-star good looks, all symmetry and deep brown eyes, were muddled by his lack of sleep.
“Is this a hurricane?” I asked, casting a glance toward the ceiling. “I would’ve thought we sailed around those. I like some excitement, but this…”
Torres shook her head and patted my shoulder. “Nope, they’ll sail right through. Don’t worry, though. We sailed through Hurricane Ben during my first deployment, and we were just fine. Not much can sink a carrier.”
As if to underline her point, the ship pitched again, and this time they all braced themselves for support. I just rolled back to my desk, little calculations and figures flitting across my mind. Please don’t barf. Please don’t barf.
Another jet landed, the same train-like cacophony rumbling above us. Three were now home safe.
Bickley sat down on the desk, and we bumped fists. I turned to the Chief. “Since you’re here, I’ll say that there’s nothing to report. But I did pass the reactor classroom on the way here, and there was definitely signs of”—I coughed to hide my laugh—“the reactor ghost. Someone had pulled out all the chairs.”
Bickley waggled his fingers. “Oooh, the reactor ghost is back.”
“Goldstein and I were talking earlier about who it might be,” Torres said. “We think it’s the ghost of Admiral Rickover.”
I couldn’t help but crack up to hear my own theory again. The Father of the Nuclear Navy would haunt a reactor classroom. Maybe he’d come back to wreak his terrible vengeance on the guy who kept throwing chem lights overboard and tricking the lookout teams.
“Time plus three!” The ship leaned hard to the starboard side, and we all fell to the deck.
Or maybe he’d come to shuttle us all into the afterlife when the ship capsized.
Chief got to his feet with a huff and pointed down the passageway. “Goldstein, go find Rollins. Drag him up here by his ear if you have to.”
It was on.
I sprinted down the passageway to the heavy gray door that led to the main part of the reactor department, along the way calculating the most efficient route. I heaved it open, wincing against the blast of air that was hotter than the sun, then all but leapt onto the stairs and slid down the rails. There wasn’t even time to blow on my hands—I simply went down another flight and hoped I didn’t have blisters later.
Small groups of sailors were huddled here and there for their musters, all waiting for the announcement that they’d either rescued the poor guy who’d fallen overboard or keelhauled the idiot who’d called a false alarm. They couldn’t go back to sleep or work until I’d found Rollins.
Where was that big lug? If he’s somewhere with his girlfriend, I’m going to kill him.
“Time plus four!”
I hurried into the reactor control room, a relatively cold room compared to the rest of the reactor spaces. I glanced at the watch bill—yep, Rollins was supposed to be on watch now. I hadn’t seen him on the flight deck, so he wasn’t the man overboard.
Lieutenant Murphy looked up from her work at her desk. “Goldstein, aren’t you supposed to be at muster?” The watch officer didn’t leave her desk for anything, as far as I knew.
“Rollins is missing. Do you know where he is?”
“He stepped out to get a log reading in the engine room.”
“Thanks, ma’am!” I called over my shoulder as I ran out, heading toward the engine room.
Another heavy metal door, and—
I covered my ears against the deafening blend of engines, generators, various high-tech machinery, and a few things that ran on diesel. Generators the size of school buses roared on many sides, causing my chest to vibrate. There was no point yelling for Rollins, and if he’d been in here when the man-overboard had been announced, it was plausible that he hadn’t heard it.
The ship pitched again, and I almost lost my footing right next to an exposed metal pipe.
I hurried through the narrow walkways around and between machines, squinting for my colleague, a relative newbie to the ship along with myself. Rollins and I had gone to nuke school together, though I didn’t know him well.
Somewhere, far above the never-ending blast of noise, the intercom called time plus six, setting my teeth on edge. I had six minutes to find Rollins and get him upstairs.
The ship swung again, slamming me into a railing that knocked the breath out of me. When I’d caught my breath, I noticed that a pen had slid out from behind a generator, where I hadn’t looked yet.
And it had left a bloody trail as it went.
I dashed around the generator and gasped. Rollins was sitting up against the bulkhead, unconscious and bleeding profusely from a large laceration on his forehead. Blood had poured down his front and onto the engine log, seeping into his green camouflage uniform and all over the metal floor. I’d never seen so much blood from a wound that wasn’t in a war movie. Blood dripped off of a jagged piece of metal that stuck off the generator—he must’ve fallen and banged his head. All things considered, Chief probably wouldn’t get angry at him for being late to muster.
I steadied myself and slipped my arms under his, wrapping them around his barrel-like chest, and began to pull him toward the door. There was no time to worry about a broken neck; I had to get him to Lieutenant Murphy, who could call the medical team.
I back-stepped, slowly but surely, toward the door, making sure to not catch my uniform on anything and praying that the ship didn’t dance in the waves again. Rollins’ blood dripped down my arm and onto my hand, making my grasp slippery.
I ignored the tiny voice in the back of my mind that noted how utterly still Rollins was.
“Time plus eight!”
The announcement sounded just as I’d stepped through the door to the passageway. I repositioned my arms, then took a breath. “Lieutenant Murphy! I need you! Now!”
The petite redhead poked her head out, then shrieked. “Get him in here! I’ll call the medical team!”
&
nbsp; I slowly walked the final few yards into the reactor control room, then laid Rollins down on the steel floor. Lieutenant Murphy, who was on the phone, tossed me her uniform’s blouse and gestured for me to put it under his head as she wrenched the intercom speaker from its cradle. “Medical emergency! Medical emergency in the reactor control room!”
Her voice echoed throughout the entire ship, immediately followed by, “Time plus nine!”
I didn’t wait for her to dismiss me. I ran at top speed back down the shadowy steel passageway, underneath the endless line of pipes and wires, past the same groups of sailors. They pointed this time. “Hey, yo, where’d the blood come from?” one asked.
I took the stairs three at a time. “Chief! I found Rollins!”
“Time plus ten!”
The hasty thuds of Chief’s boots disappearing many decks above me, and the descending boots of the medical team, let me know that all was going to be well—sort of. Rollins was obviously in a grave state, but we wouldn’t catch hell from the officers for not reporting during a man-overboard. The helicopters and search teams wouldn’t have to be deployed in a near-hurricane…for Rollins, at least. Maybe someone on the flight deck really had been blown off, and if that was the case, I hoped they were found soon.
I finished my journey to the sound of claps that immediately ceased as soon as they saw me: disheveled and covered in blood.
Torres put a hand over her mouth. “Sweet mother Mary. What happened?”
I fell back into my office chair. “From what I could tell, he hit his head. I don’t know if he’ll be okay, since that was a nasty cut.”
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