by J. S. Law
Dan nodded and looked down again. The space below looked brightly lit now that she could look straight down past the lip of the hatch, and she could see Steward Roach waiting for her below.
The entrance to the submarine was small and the ladder felt slippery, such that Dan had to pass her rucksack to John and have him hold it for her as she scaled the long ladder. Once inside, she reached up and took back her bag from him and then stopped to look around. The area was fitted with a short-pile, institutional carpet similar to that fitted throughout the accommodation blocks. As Dan turned she saw a large white airlock door, with red fluid drips running down from near the hinges and spreading out, like a badly considered map over the dirty white paint.
‘That’s fifty-nine watertight bulkhead, ma’am,’ said the steward, continuing his constant flow of commentary. ‘That leads back through the Tunnel and into the engine rooms.’
‘The Tunnel?’
‘That whole section between the two watertight bulkheads is the reactor compartment, ma’am, remember the red paint marks? The Tunnel goes through it so when the reactor’s operating we can still get from forward, where you are now with all the accommodation and the control room and stuff, to the engine rooms that are aft. If you go through the airlock doors and take a few paces, you’ll literally be stood directly over the top of a nuclear reactor.’
Dan smiled, trying to look unimpressed.
‘That’s the Old Man’s cabin in there,’ he said, tapping his hand against a polished wood sliding door that was half open.
Dan peered inside quickly and pulled her head back out. The spaces around her were confined, but not as dark and dingy as her imagination had decided they might be.
‘It’s tiny,’ she said, her unease starting to subside as her interest in this new environment was kindled. ‘My couch is bigger than that room.’
Steward Roach pulled a face of mock hurt. ‘Ma’am, that’s the most grandest cabin on the whole submarine. It all gets smaller and sparser from thereon in.’
She smiled, unable to stop herself, and moved away from the ladder as she heard a call of ‘Below! Clear the ladder, one down.’
She looked up to see John Granger’s backside descending towards her.
‘Come on, ma’am,’ piped up the steward. ‘I’ll get you a brew before Master Granger crushes us all.’
She followed Ben down a short inclined ladder, almost a stairway, and along a narrow passageway until they finally entered a small room with benches lining one bulkhead and a wall-mounted, flat-screen television opposite them. The two tables in front of the seats looked as though each could seat four people in relative comfort. There was no need to ask the question, though.
‘About twenty of us in here when we’re at sea, ma’am,’ said the steward. ‘We eat in two sittings and it’s used as an office the rest of the time, except on Friday, when the Old Man likes to put on a movie and have popcorn. Tea?’
Dan looked around as she heard a knock at the wardroom door. It was John Granger.
‘In you come, Master,’ said the steward quickly. ‘Old Man said for you both to come and wait in here.’
John stepped through the door, blocking it completely as he turned slightly and ducked his head to pass through.
‘Tea?’ Ben Roach repeated.
‘I’m OK, thank you,’ said Dan. ‘I only really drink green tea.’
‘Might have some fag-bags in the pantry, ma’am,’ he said. ‘And you, Master?’
‘NATO standard,’ said John. ‘Gash-bag brown.’
‘A strong white tea with two sugars and a green tea coming right up,’ said Steward Roach without missing a beat. ‘Take a seat then and I’ll bring it through.’
The area around her was small; it wouldn’t even be considered a good-sized lounge in a family home. She had known there would be no windows – this wasn’t Nemo’s Nautilus – but now, knowing how far into the boat she had come, understanding how far light would have to travel to get there, she felt herself swallow, suddenly, though reluctantly, glad of John’s presence.
A loud wave of raucous laughter shot through the enclosed area like a thunderclap.
Dan jumped, immediately looking around to see if anyone had noticed her do so.
There was another surge of laughter and some muffled swearing.
John stood up and walked across the wardroom to a second door that led through to a small pantry.
Dan followed, interested, but also having no wish to be alone if John carried on further.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked Ben, who was standing back, his cheery face now stony, in complete contrast to all the other sailors who were laughing and cheering.
Dan peered around John.
Directly across from the wardroom pantry, beyond a narrow passageway, was another room. Inside, through gaps in other onlookers’ legs, she could see something on the floor but wasn’t able to make out what it was.
‘They got Ryan with a Neil Robertson bite,’ said Ben, through gritted teeth. ‘They’re whipping him with an EBS hose.’
John looked back and caught Dan’s frown. He moved aside and gestured for her to come and take a look.
‘The stretcher they use for casualties in hard-to-reach places,’ he whispered. ‘It completely immobilises the person; they can’t move their arms, legs, head, nothing. It’s horrible.’ He chuckled. ‘Happened to me at sea on my eighteenth birthday,’ he added with a smile.
Dan was able to see more now. The young sailor was lying on his back with his arms and legs perfectly straight, as though he was standing to attention. His head was held firmly facing the front by a strap across his forehead and all along the side of his body were long straight lengths of wood, like splints, that were strapped tightly together. He was completely immobile and she could see that his face was bright red as he winced.
Ben Roach stepped forward. ‘Enough!’ he shouted. ‘Let him up.’
No one listened to him and the jeering continued without pause. Ben looked agitated, stepping from foot to foot, his fists balled.
‘John, we can’t watch this,’ Dan said quietly into his ear.
He nodded his agreement.
‘All right,’ he said, his voice carrying above the din. ‘Enough. Let him out.’ The crowd quietened immediately as John’s voice split through the noise.
Sailors turned to look at him, some recognising him, others recognising the brassard he wore on his right wrist, the laurel leaves supporting a crown denoting his position and authority.
In the new quiet, Dan could hear for the first time a ‘thwack, thwack’ sound coming from the room. The sailor’s face went redder still and he cried out as Dan heard the sound again.
‘Enough,’ said John, louder this time.
People began to disperse, heads down, sensing that trouble might follow.
‘Thwack,’ the sound came again and Dan was sure that she could see a tear form in the sailor’s eye as he lay helpless on the floor.
John braced up at being disobeyed and made to cross the pantry.
Dan followed him.
He crossed the two-deck passageway, the corridor that ran from the forward end of the submarine all the way along the second level. It was narrow, one and a half people wide at best, and in a few paces John had left the pantry, crossed the gap and entered the Senior Rates Mess where the sailor was bound.
Dan peered around the door and saw a sailor in blue overalls, his sleeves rolled up, his head closely shaven; he had been one of the two men on the casing that she had seen speaking with the Old Man just a few minutes before, his beret still folded flat and tucked into one pocket.
The man brought a long piece of black hose down hard onto the helpless sailor’s torso.
‘Chief,’ John’s voice was fully raised. The room echoed with his shout and the man with the hose stopped and looked up.
‘Help you, Master?’ he asked, his face a picture of exertion that he seemed to easily turn into boredom.
‘Enou
gh,’ said John, his voice firm.
The two men stared at each other.
Dan could see a sneer on the other man’s face, but he stopped and threw the length of black hose onto the floor.
‘We’re just having a bit of fun, Master,’ he said, almost spitting the final word.
John ignored the comment. He turned to Ben. ‘Steward Roach, get him out of there.’
The young steward knelt down quickly to comply.
‘You all right, son?’ said John, looking down at the sailor as he was released from the stretcher.
‘I’m all right, Master, thank you. It was just a bit of fun,’ said the boy, his voice almost a whisper. His face was red and flustered and he was blinking back tears. He tried to smile at John but seemed to actively avoid looking at Dan at all.
Ben Roach helped the sailor up and reached across to touch him, using his thumb to wipe one of the tears away. ‘You OK, Ryan?’ Ben was saying quietly. ‘They’re fucking wankers, the lot of them.’
Dan turned and began to walk back through to the wardroom. As she did, Ben gently lifted a small flap of Ryan’s shirt, exposing the pale flesh of his stomach and a long, angry welt that stood proud from his skin. Stopping and turning back into the room, she looked at the mark.
‘Master Granger.’
John turned to face her.
‘I’d like to keep that piece of hose, please.’
The chief who had been using it shook his head and picked it back up. ‘No can do, ma’am.’
‘Yes can do, chief,’ said John, holding out his hand.
The chief seemed to weigh up his options, deliberately taking time to consider what he should do. Then he smiled sweetly and dropped the hose back onto the floor. He walked towards John who was blocking his route of egress.
The two men came face to face.
John towered over the chief. His back tensed, the muscles on his hands and forearms twitching beneath thick, dark hairs that he swore were a gift of his Irish descent.
The chief, smaller, finer made, looked sinewy by comparison to John’s bulk, every strand of muscle visible on his naked forearms, the muscles in his jaw apparent as they tensed and released when he spoke.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, and waited, his eyes locked on John’s.
Dan looked on, as John stayed put, not moving, not backing away.
The two men faced off in silence.
‘Please,’ said the chief after a long moment.
John nodded and stepped backwards, allowing him to pass.
As soon as the chief had disappeared from view, John bent down, picked up the hose and spoke to Steward Roach. ‘Who’s that, Ben?’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve not seen him before.’
‘That’s the old Chief Stoker, Master. He left for a while when Whisky took over, but he’s come back now that Whisky is …’ Ben paused. ‘Gone.’
Chapter 9
Friday Evening – 26th September 2014
The cup was almost empty, part of the tea bag sitting in the remnants of green tea that remained at the very bottom. The residue looked like oily swamp water and the section of the bag above the waterline had begun to dry out around the edges, slowly turning a muddy brown. The brown was also travelling steadily up the little length of white string that ran from the bag, out of the cup, and around the handle; it was looking more and more like neglected rigging.
Across from her, seemingly content to wait, John was leafing through a large stack of newspapers and magazines that had been brought on board for the duty submariners.
Ben Roach stuck his head around the door from the adjacent pantry, a room about the size of a portable toilet, and made to speak. He had an iPad tucked under his arm, encased in a plush leather case.
‘I’m OK, thank you, Steward Roach,’ said Dan, before he could offer her another cup of green tea, apparently from the Old Man’s ‘very own’ stash.
He nodded and went back to whatever it was that he had been watching, humming badly the tune of a song that would have been number one in the charts months ago, around the time that Tenacity had left on patrol.
‘This is ridiculous,’ said Dan, letting out a long sigh.
John looked up from yesterday’s newspaper and smiled. ‘He’s a busy man. Boat just got alongside. Lots to do.’
Dan ignored him. The waiting had reminded her of how tired she was and her eyes felt grainy and sore. The time that she had been made to wait had also allowed her to replay the scene on the casing several times over in her mind. There were so many things that she had thought of now that she wished she had said at the time, things she could have done differently as the Old Man dressed her down in front of a number of subordinates. If her interest in Steward Roach’s tour had distracted her somewhat from the embarrassment of that, then the time that she had waited since had only served to rekindle her anger. Every minute was like a gentle puff of wind, feeding oxygen to the fire and ensuring it burned.
‘Two hours,’ she said under her breath. ‘I’ve got to get out of here. I’m going to find him.’
She edged out from behind one of the small dining tables and started towards the door.
‘Hey, Dan,’ came a voice from behind her.
It was the Marine Engineering Officer, the face that she had recognised from the group on the submarine casing. He was standing by the small entrance from the pantry, still wearing the same filthy white overalls.
‘Is the Commanding Officer coming down?’ she snapped.
The MEO smiled. ‘Still impatient,’ he said, stepping further into the wardroom. ‘He’s on his way. Sorry it’s taken a while, but we’ve had a few problems with the shore supply and the Old Man’s the hands-on type.’
Dan stood in the centre of the wardroom. Seeing the MEO duck as he entered reminded her that, even given her slight build, she could touch all of the walls in just a few strides and the ceiling without going onto tiptoes. She tried to ignore these thoughts and looked back at him, her mind working hard trying to place his face.
‘Aaron Coles,’ he said, helping her out. ‘We joined HMS Raleigh in the same intake back in 1996.’
Dan smiled. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I knew your face as soon as I saw you.’
‘I was in Nelson Division. I think you were in Collingwood Division with Whisky.’
‘That’s right,’ she answered. ‘I remember.’
‘It’s easier for me to remember you – two hundred guys and what, seven girls?’
‘There weren’t many of us back then, that’s true.’
John Granger suddenly stood up and Dan whirled round to see the Old Man briskly enter the wardroom.
‘Relax, Master,’ said the Old Man quickly and gestured for Dan to also sit down. ‘Aaron, I want you in on this, please. The Coxswain can’t make it, he’s working on the Souls On Board return.’
Aaron must have caught a question in Dan’s expression. ‘It’s how the Coxswain officially records who’s on board the boat when she’s at sea and who isn’t,’ he said, taking a seat at the second table. ‘Has to be submitted as soon as we get back alongside.’
‘So, Lieutenant Lewis, I understand you’re to assist in the investigation of Chief Walker’s suicide. I know some of what’s going on, but I’d like to understand what you know already and how you intend to approach this investigation, and what impact it’ll have on my ship’s company. It’ll have to be quick, too; I have to call on the Commodore tonight before he leaves for London.’
‘What I know already, sir?’
‘Yes, Lieutenant Lewis, I’m the Commanding Officer, I’ll require a full brief.’
Dan hesitated.
‘Well, sir, Master at Arms Granger,’ she gestured to John, ‘will be assisting me in investigating the circumstances surrounding the suspected suicide of Chief Petty Officer Stewart Walker on board Tenacity three days ago. I’m also here to establish the whereabouts of you and your cre—’ she stopped and corrected herself, ‘ship’s company, during the period since Tenacity arrive
d back from operations. I simply plan to speak to all who were on board at that time and eliminate them—’
‘And how long will each interview take?’
Dan paused and felt her jaw clench. Her deep fatigue was being pushed aside by the adrenaline of this challenging conversation, but she couldn’t shake it entirely, and she could feel her temper also jostling forward.
‘I expect each interview to take no longer than about thirty—’
‘And where do you intend to hold these interviews?’
He was staring at her, not blinking, his eyebrows meeting like two hairy caterpillars trading secrets.
‘I’ll book a room in the squadron building and conduct them there—’
‘No. Out of the question.’
‘With respect, sir—’
‘With respect nothing, Lieutenant Lewis. Tenacity is my boat and these are my men. This is our first stop since we left home port several months ago and, after a very short turnaround, will be our last before we embark on a third consecutive patrol. A patrol that will, sadly, be my last as the Commanding Officer of this submarine, and one that will test my men’s resolve to its limit.’
He leaned back in his seat, relaxed, the type of man who enjoyed delivering long, uninterrupted speeches and was used to being indulged when he did so.
‘If your plan is to take each of over one hundred and thirty men off Tenacity to interview them, then, allowing for watchkeeping handovers, waiting and transit time as they move from Tenacity to the squadron building and back again, the time burden will simply be unsustainable. Particularly during this short turnaround. You will need to find some space on board Tenacity. I’ll leave you to arrange that with the Coxswain. It will reduce the unwelcome impact on the men and the maintenance schedule. My men have had precious few days, since they got back alongside, where there haven’t been police and regulators crawling around and watching them. As such, I would prefer you to keep your profile as low as possible and stay out of the way as best as you can.’
Dan slapped her hand on the table, making the Old Man lean back slightly and his eyebrows arch up like two cats spoiling for a fight.
