"But you do not understand. Explosives… very dangerous… "
"Which is why I want to see to it that they're properly stowed, okay, Ivan?"
"Name is Sergei Mikhailovich."
"Right. Anyway, Sergei, you don't need to worry. We know all about handling explosives."
"Da? But… "
Allison reached down and rapped sharply on the nose of one of the big Mark 48 torpedoes, carefully stowed in its cradle immediately beneath the bunk that Sergei was sitting on. "See? You boys are sleeping with six hundred fifty pounds of high explosives in each of these warheads!"
Sergei flinched as Allison rapped on the torpedo, but surrendered his bag to TM2 Doershner. The others did as well.
"Okay, boys. This is your bunkroom for the length of the voyage. Used t'be, in the old Navy, that enlisted men slept in the torpedo room all the time. Nowadays, though, we don't do it unless we absolutely have to."
"Because the men don't like sleeping surrounded by torpedo warheads?" the second American suggested.
"Nah. If one of these babies went, it would take us all out. The guys in the torpedo room would be the lucky ones, since they'd all get killed in the blast, and not have to worry about getting sealed in some after compartment, slowly sinking into the depths until the pressure imploded what was left of the hull. Nah, nowadays, it's the torpedoes that are sensitive.
You get people sleeping on and around them, leaning on them… "He reached out and struck the warhead again with the flat of his hand. "Bumping into them. These damned things are delicate, y'know? Not like the old steam torpedoes we used to have! So we try to keep people away from them unless it's absolutely necessary."
"So… why are we put here?" Sergei asked.
"Because the boat is crowded, and we don't have anyplace else to put you! Don't worry. Just stay the hell out of the way of the boys on duty in here, and jump when they say jump. Okay?"
"Da. We comply…."
"Good man." He looked up toward the overhead. "Well, feels like the skipper's done with angles and dangles."
"With angles… and what?" Sergei asked.
"Angles and dangles, son. See, the first thing the skipper does out of port is check the boat for watertight integrity. He has the Diving Officer pump water in and out of the trim tanks to give us perfect neutral buoyancy, make sure we're perfectly balanced. He also runs an inspection on every compartment, checking to make sure they're all watertight and that no machinery is making any unusual or abnormal noises. Then he takes us through a bunch of maneuvers called angles and dangles. If anything on this boat is improperly stowed, that'll find 'em out!" He pointed to a corner where cartons of food had been securely lashed to the deck behind a torpedo cradle. "If we got into a real turn-and-burn with a Russian sub, we wouldn't want that shit flying around the compartment, right?"
A few moments later, in the passageway aft of the torpedo room, Benson and Allison had a good chuckle. "They may be the Agency's best and brightest," Allison said, shaking his head, "but they wouldn't last out six months in the Silent Service!"
"Idiots, bringing bags of loose explosives aboard like that. Shouldn't they have checked it all at the pier for proper stowage?"
"Yeah, yeah. Some of their stuff already came aboard last night. But nobody told us they'd be bringing their own toys on board with 'em, and they came aboard so late there wasn't time. No harm done."
"Except to their peace of mind," Benson said. "They were getting pretty shook-up in there!"
"Ahh. A little messing with their minds won't hurt them, none. Why should they be treated any differently from everybody else on board, right? And it does wonders for me. C'mon. If you're not doing anything useful, I got work for you."
"Right, Chief."
He followed Allison up the ladder to the second deck.
13
"Man, O'Brien," Archie Douglas said, setting his tray down opposite his. "You look terrible! What's the matter, you didn't get enough sleep last night?"
"He had the duty topside, oh-four hundred to oh-six hundred this morning," Scobey explained. "He's just running a little short on rack time, is all."
"No, guys," O'Brien said. He looked at his tray, a hamburger and fries and red bug juice, and his stomach twisted ominously. He didn't think he was going to be able to eat. "Look, I don't want to scare anybody, or anything—"
"Hey! That's mighty nice of the nub," Scobey exclaimed. "He doesn't want to scare us!" The others at the table laughed.
"No, listen! I think… well… "Reaching up, he grabbed a tuft of hair on his scalp and tugged. Some remained in place, but some came away in his clenched fingers, too, pulling free with a brittle, itchy feel. "I think I've been exposed to radiation?"
"You had your dosimeter checked?" Douglas asked, all trace of levity gone now from his voice. Every crewman carried a small plastic badge, worn or carried in a pocket, in which a strip of film was kept. Periodically, the medical department collected the film and developed it, making certain that no one aboard had received more than the legally allowed dosage of background radiation.
"Uh, not yet. I figured I'd go to sick bay and talk to the doc—"
"Sick call is at zero-eight-hundred hours, son," Douglas said. "And you've got things to do today. Like your qual studies?"
"But I thought this was serious…. "
Douglas reached over and cupped O'Brien's forehead in one hand, peeling his left eyelid up and peering into his eye. He repeated the exercise on the right eye. "Don't see no jaundice. A little bloodshot. What do you think, Big C?"
Scobey looked at O'Brien's eyes as well. "Hard to tell… you feeling sick any other way, kid?"
"Uh, sick at my stomach…. "
"Vomiting?"
"No…. "
"Well, you might just have a touch of mal de mer."
"Huh?"
"Seasickness, son, seasickness. It'll pass."
Douglas grinned. "You probably just got your insides jolted around during angles and dangles this morning!"
"I… I'd forgotten about that. I was feeling pretty sick at first. Then I remembered hearing about how the skipper puts the boat through all sorts of maneuvers to shake stuff loose. But I was already feeling queasy then. I really think I ought to go to the doc."
"Nerves, son," Scobey said. "Just nerves. And if you have quals to do, you'd best get yourself at 'em, right? If you fall behind on your study schedule, it's a real bitch, let me tell you!"
"But I haven't had time!" O'Brien wailed. "They keep putting me on watches and special duty and stuff. And I really think I'm sick!.. "
"You're not sick," Scobey said gruffly. "Just nerves. First time at sea, first time locked up in a sewer pipe a hundred feet under the surface. You'll get over it."
"But what about my hair!.. "
Scobey shrugged. "Did your dad lose his hair?"
"Huh?"
"Was your dad bald?"
"Well, yeah…. "
"There you go, then. It happens. You can always get a hair transplant."
"My dad didn't go bald until he was in his fifties! What about the radiation?"
"Hey, what did they teach you in Sub School?" Douglas asked him reasonably. "We've got unscheduled ORSE checks every so often, right? We had one two weeks ago, as soon as we came into port. If there'd been any radiation danger, any leaks, they'd have picked it up, right?"
"Well… yeah… "
"If there was a leak," Scobey said, "there would be alarms going off. You hear any alarms?"