"Into the drink."
"Thank Christ for that." Coombs suddenly became alert, listening, and we all felt it, too: a queasy change in velocity. We were slowing down. It seemed to bring him to his senses. "Oh my Lord," he said. "Cowper! I have to get down there!"
Cowper just stood up in disgust. The dreadful news that Exes were in the sub swamped everything-after what we'd been through, it was the final cosmic straw, our great escape debunked. There was no weeping or wailing, just helpless incomprehension. Limbo. Then Albemarle started laughing. For a long moment, his lone cackle was a kite in the void.
Finally, he said, "Join the club."
"How many men are down there?" Cowper asked.
Coombs hesitated, and Sandoval said, "Forty-two. Just the NavSea team."
This caused a rustle of amazement-I gathered it was a shockingly low number. Later, I would learn that it was less than a third of the normal crew complement.
"That's privileged information," Coombs retorted. He squinted in the dark, noticing Sandoval for the first time. Sandoval shook his head as if to say, Don't ask.
"And you couldn't fit these kids in?" Cowper asked. "Jesus H. Christ."
Coombs began to reply, "Since when do I have to justify my orders-" but was interrupted by yelling from the stern. I could hear, "Stand clear, stand clear!" over a lot of nervous chatter. There was a heavy clunk.
Coombs said, "Missile compartment hatch," and began shoving his way through the crowd, followed by Cowper and others.
Meanwhile, someone new was coming forward, demanding, "Who's in charge up here? Where's Fred Cowper?" The parties met in the middle, and the new man-an officious-looking crew-cut type-seemed relieved to find Coombs.
"Commander! You're safe! We thought everyone forward amidships was gone!" He raised a walkie-talkie, and said, "Found the CO unharmed, over." The reply was a crackling garble.
"What's the status, Rich?" Coombs asked impatiently. He seemed embarrassed to be found.
"Yes, sir-well, we secured the forward bulkhead, and it looks like everything aft of the CCSM is clear. I ordered all stop and station-keeping, and the men are rigging for auxiliary control right now. It's a miracle we're not aground, but that could change when the tide goes out. I don't think anyone but Mr. Robles and I made it aft, and no one's reporting from anywhere in the forward section now. No one made it out with you, did they?"
"No."
The other man lowered his voice, ill at ease sharing this information with us. "Then that's twelve officers missing," he said.
"All right," said Coombs, nodding furiously. "Well, we have to get back in there. Assemble a team, and we'll do an armed sweep."
"But that's the problem, we-" He caught himself, eyeing us suspiciously as he amended, "I'll talk to you below."
"Speak up, Lieutenant," Coombs said with resignation. "You might as well forget OPSEC. We're all in the same boat, so to speak."
"Okay then, we can't spare the men. They're spread too thin to run the boat and fight at the same time, and we sure as hell can't afford to lose any more."
"I wish we had a choice."
Cowper stepped forward. "Don't stand on ceremony, Mr. Kranuski," he said, offering the man a handshake. It was ignored.
"You dirty traitor," Kranuski said softly, eyes burning with loathing. "I hope you're happy."
"I'll be happy when these kids are all below drinking bug juice. Until then, I'm just trying to survive, Rich. But there's no reason our survival should be incompatible with your mission. In fact, I think it's safe to say that at this point you need us as much as we need you."
"You're a disgrace to that uniform."
Coombs stepped in. "That's enough. We don't have time for this. Fred, if you're offering us extra hands, I accept. Assemble your best conners and have them meet us below. They'll be reporting to Mr. Robles. The rest of you stay up top until you get the all clear. No shenanigans!"
Down the hatch. I never gave a thought to that expression before. It was rather forbidding, that bright hole in the sea, like a volcanic vent. Suddenly, the cold deck wasn't so bad. Others were feeling it, too: The eagerness I had seen in these boys back at the hangar seemed to have been cured by recent events-there was certainly no Alamo-like rush to volunteer.
It was worked out that twenty of our guys would go: ten technical people and ten big boys running interference. This was thought to be the biggest number we could field without creating a logjam below. "You gotta have enough room to fight and still keep in sight of everyone else," Cowper explained. The technical ones were all older men who had served aboard subs at one time or another-Cowper and Ed Albemarle among them-and they were quick to step forward. The boys were another matter, since the only ones who really wanted to go were relatives of the men who were going, and the men refused to bring these. The deadlock was broken when Cowper announced he would take me, "just to shut everyone up."
"If we don't pull this off," he said, "we're all goners anyhow."
People looked to see my reaction, but if the choice was to stick by Cowper or remain on deck as everybody's scapegoat, I wasn't about to complain. The arguments sputtered out, and a tenth boy was picked (presumably to make up for my inadequacy), bringing our total number to twenty-one. Blackjack.
Peering down that rabbit hole, I think even the seasoned veterans must have had second thoughts. Not that it was dark or creepy-it was a glowing chimney, what they called the "escape trunk," a cream-colored vestibule with a shiny ladder leading to a second hatch just below. And if you pulled open that inner hatch? All of us had seen enough by then to picture an unspeakably vivid Pandora's box.
"All the times I did this shooting studs, and all I was afraid of was a little inert gas," said a bushy-bearded man, climbing down.
"Argon'll kill you just as fast as those things," Albemarle replied. "Think of it that way."
"But they don't kill you. That's the problem."
I could no longer see past the ring of intent spectators banking the light like cavemen around a fire, but I could hear the lower hatch open. A second man went down. Then a third. The boat rocked gently, waves lapping at its sides. No one made a sound.
Some of the teenagers started to go down, and I was pleased to see the chipmunk boy among them. I should have known he'd volunteer, I thought. Then it was Cowper's turn, and I followed along on his heels, pushing through the press of bodies. Someone gave me a shove, so that I barely kept from falling, bowling into the legs of several adults. Albemarle turned with an expression of pained surprise-I had hit his injured back.
"Sorry," I said, mortified. "I tripped."
"This is no place for games," he said flatly.
"I know, I'm sorry, excuse me."
Cowper was concentrating on finding his footing down the ladder. At bottom I could see a mustached man in khakis waving us down. In my ear, Albemarle said, "He doesn't come back, you don't come back." He handed me a big sticky hammer.
I nodded, climbing as fast as I dared.
It was like entering a pool. As light and warmth surrounded me, I experienced a brief, primal surge of relief-my animal instincts going, Ahhh, shelter. I was helped down the last few rungs to an institutional-looking Formica floor in a room like a well-lit basement. It reminded me of the boiler room at the Y. Though hardly exotic, the insulated plumbing and perforated acoustic tile were a dramatic change from the blustery ocean above. We were underwater! The guys already there motioned me aside, and I joined Cowper by the wall. Albemarle came down last, wincing in pain.
Once everyone was present, the man who had given us a hand down said, "Welcome aboard. Hi, Ed. I'm Lieutenant Commander Dan Robles, among other things, and I'll be your guide today." He was a dapper-looking, pudgy man with a faint Spanish accent and an air of weary contempt, though not necessarily for us. I could tell he accepted me as just another in a series of disasters that fate was delivering upon him, and as such, unworthy of special attention. I liked him immediately. Brandishing a pistol, he asked, "Any
questions before we get started?"
"What's the plan?" Cowper asked a bit shortly.
"The captain and Mr. Kranuski are standing by forward to brief you."
"Any more guns?" Albemarle asked.
Robles shrugged apologetically. "For reasons of safety, the captain is reserving firearms for active-duty personnel only," he said. "Not that they're any better than your weapons. Personally I'd like a chain saw. All right? Watch your heads."
Following Robles, we crossed the room and passed through a heavy watertight door, which opened onto a sight so unexpected that my stomach lurched:
We were at least four stories up in a yawning tunnel that resembled a multitiered prison cellblock… or King Tut's tomb. It ran forward from us a hundred feet or more, piled high with plastic-wrapped cargo of every shape and size-boxes, barrels, cases, crates-under a vaulted ceiling inset with two rows of numbered white domes. Cables looped everywhere like jungle vines, giving the place an apocalyptic, overgrown look. They swayed with the movement of the boat.
Hearing my gasp, some of the boys smirked in the way of jaded old-timers, but Cowper nodded, whistling appreciatively at the view. "We used to call this Sherwood Forest, but without the missile silos it looks more like Shipping and Receiving. You guys have been busy little beavers." Pointing down at the heaped freight, he asked, "What's all this crap? SPAM?"
"SPAM," Albemarle said, shaking his head.
"I see. That would make things a bit tight." He sighed.
Robles led us along a steel-grated walkway to the far end, where we could see Captain Coombs and Mr. Kranuski waiting for us, armed to the teeth, beside another watertight door. As we came up, they stared at me as though they couldn't believe their eyes.
"What the hell's going on?" Coombs demanded. "What's this little girl doing here?"
"Get her outta here," Kranuski told Robles darkly.
"Hold on!" Cowper said, holding him off. "Before you do anything, you ought to know this kid may be immune to Agent X. She has a genetic problem-Lulu, what's it called?"
"Chromosomal amenorrhea," I said.
"Right, and she's been surviving on her own since this thing started-almost a whole month with those bastids. You know how I found her? She knocked on my door! I'm barricaded down there for three and a half weeks, an' she just knocks. I'm telling you, Harvey, she might have an advantage none of us has, not to mention the possibility of a cure."
I couldn't wait to see how this would fly. Years with Mum had taught me to keep my composure in the face of rampant BS, but even she would've never attempted such a flimsy tale. Then it occurred to me that Cowper might really believe it.
Kranuski scoffed, barely listening, but Coombs said, "Wait. Are you saying they won't touch her?"
"No. I'm saying she and I came through what you saw up there, and I don't think it's because of our sterling character. If you ask me, she oughta be SPAM."
"Captain-" Kranuski began.
Coombs looked hard at me, asked, "What do you think?"
"I don't know, sir," I said honestly.
"Tough nut, are you?"
"Well… I don't know."
"What happened to your other shoe?" Before I could reply, he said to Cowper, "Bring her, what the hell; there's no time. Just keep her out of the way-we're not here to babysit. Christ Almighty!" He shook his head in giddy disbelief. "Okay, here's what's happening: You boys are going to do a Roto Rooter straight for the control center, with the rest of us bringing up the rear. Follow Mr. Robles. If anything blue gets in your way, you beat it down and move on. Don't stop to finish the job! Each guy in line will have his turn, but speed is more important than anything-keep moving, no matter what. Once we're all in command and control, we need to seal it off good. Then we'll go from there. Ready?"
We could never be ready, but they weren't waiting for a reply. Kranuski unsealed the door and pulled it open. "Go," he hissed. "Go, go, go!"
Holding his pistol with both hands, Robles ducked through. Coombs and Kranuski covered him from the door with rifles; but the way was clear, and boys began to follow at a brisk walk, hammers upraised. Any moment I expected to hear trouble, something to interrupt this madness, but before I knew it, Cowper was moving, and I with him. Kranuski and the captain went last, securing the door behind us.
We were in a pastel green corridor, its ceiling a baroque mass of ducts and wiring. A metal stair descended somewhere, and vented aluminum doors branched off to either side. Some of the doors were open, and inside I could see empty chairs facing banks of electronics. The last two rooms, however, were cozy adjoining cabins with beds, TVs, and a tiny shared bathroom. Small plaques on their doors read, CO-H. COOMBS and XO-R. KRANUSKI.
We went up a flight of stairs, and the passageway opened out into a large compartment that I recognized at once from its glamorous central feature: a periscope. No, two periscopes. I didn't remember seeing that in movies. When I entered the room, our people were already jumping into action at various consoles and donning headsets to contact other parts of the sub. Robles was standing by the raised platform in the middle, issuing orders, while Albemarle and the boys checked various side compartments and closed off the area. Feeling supremely useless, I stood by Cowper as he took readings off gauges and called them out to Coombs. In that roomful of busy, shouting people, I think I actually forgot for a second that the Xombies existed. Until I saw one.
It took me a second to comprehend what I was seeing, another to react. I don't know if I was the first one to spot it, but I certainly felt alone as I watched that purple-faced thing hang upside down from an opening in the ceiling. With its hair sticking down and its wild-eyed grin, it looked almost childlike, in a florid, demonic way. It was so darn happy to find us.
One of the boys had just crossed beneath the hole. He was a tall kid, with a gold front tooth, and he had to stoop to avoid banging his head. He never saw the thing or made a peep before it had him around the neck. Then he was gone. The bang of his hammer hitting the deck alerted everyone, and a few people made involuntary sounds of surprise.
"Look out!" I screamed, too late.
"God damn it!" shouted Albemarle. "Get 'im!"
"No!" Kranuski ordered, kneeling for better aim. "Secure the hatch!"
Cowper yelled, "McGill! Where's McGill?"
"It took him up the sail!" Kranuski barked impatiently.
"Not him, damn it! George McGill! Big, bearded guy! He was right there!"
It was true-suddenly we were short a man. Two people gone.
Kranuski screamed, "Find out where it came from! Get that hatch!"
Cowper had already found out-an access panel had been removed from the floor of a small cubby, the opening concealed by a stanchion and bundles of cable. Seating the metal cover with a loud clang, he shouted, "Got it!" Coombs, meanwhile, was closest to the overhead hatch, bounding up the ladder to reach for it. As he did so, everybody watched in frozen horror as a pair of blue-sleeved arms unfolded from the hole and snatched him off his feet. But Albemarle was right there, grabbing his legs before they could disappear. For an instant it appeared that the big man might be drawn up as well, then Robles had him, and together they wrenched Coombs down, fighting the thing for him.
"Hey!" Albemarle grunted. "Hey! Hey!"
Then boys were piling on. Coombs made a gargling noise, and I could hear his joints popping from the strain. The only visible part of the Ex-man was its arm, which had Coombs in a headlock, but the captain's own raised arm was also entangled in its grip, taking some of the pressure off his neck. He still didn't look good. There was no way to beat at the creature without pulverizing Coombs in the process, and two boys together couldn't loosen that constricting arm. There was just no leverage-it was like ten guys fighting to change a lightbulb.
The miserable futility of it was just starting to sink in-He's dead-when Cowper came up with Coombs's rifle, forced his way through, and blasted the Xombie's arm off at point-blank range. Coombs dropped free, the quivering limb still o
n him. Kranuski dashed in and began shooting up the hole. The shocking explosion of noise and sparks and hot shells on their shoulders caused boys to duck away, cursing, while Albemarle and Robles picked up the captain and hustled him clear. But the Xombie wasn't finished. It sprang from its hiding place like a jack-in-the-box, the stump of its arm spurting inky liquid as it lunged for Cowper.
I didn't think; there was no time to. I just jumped forward and hit the thing as hard as I could, surprised at how light the big hammer suddenly felt. My blow fell on the creature's temple and seemed to spin its whole head around, causing it to become disoriented for a second and lose its balance. Before it could recover, there were a dozen hammers clouting it down, a rain of iron that turned bone and sinew to limply wriggling pulp. "Have a club sandwich, asshole," someone snarled, pounding. The sound was the worst-at least the sulfur smell from all the shooting masked the stench of blood. To the boys it was obviously some kind of catharsis: They were avenging their parents, their world, on this creature. I had to turn away.
"Seal that hatch!" Kranuski bellowed for the third time, reloading his rifle, but people hesitated, understandably leery about going near. They were staring at me, and I realized they expected me to do it! Since I was immune, no doubt. I shot Cowper an exasperated look, and he raised his eyebrows as if to say, Yeah, so? and gave me a boost to the opening. "Don't take all day," he said.
I could see way up the narrow shaft, the inside of the sail, and smell seawater. Reaching for the gleaming valve wheel, I began to pull the heavy hatch cover down, only to have it yanked from my hand. What happened next is a blur, but suddenly I was on the floor with the wind knocked out of me, and some kind of brawl was going on.
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