* * *
The boat's exec—another senior warrant, though junior to Chu—evacuated Chu's chair as soon as he saw the senior's boots. Chu sat, leaning onto the arm of the chair and cupping his mouth and chin in one hand.
Chu said, "Chief of Watch report rig for dive."
It was a tiny crew; the boat's exec, Junior Warrant Officer Ibarra, served as Chief of the Watch for the nonce. Indeed, the crew and sub were so comparatively small that the usual procedures were quite truncated and simplified.
The XO glanced at the buoyancy compensation panel and reported, "I have a straight board, Captain."
A straight board meant that there were no illuminated circles, indicating open hatches. Had there been such, instead of a series of dashes forming a straight line, there would have been one or more circles, indicating an undesired opening.
"Dive the boat. Make your depth twenty meters."
"Aye, Captain, twenty—two zero—meters," answered Ibarra.
From the diving station another submariner announced, "Make my depth twenty meters, aye, sir." Another, beside the diving station, added, "Chilling the rubbers, aye, sir." A third said, "Helm, fifteen degree down angle on planes. Making my depth twenty meters."
The exec said, without facing Chu, "Forward group admitting ballast, Captain . . . aft group admitting ballast."
They could feel the boat sinking, a feeling that was not yet remotely comfortable. Automatically, the crew leveled the boat as it reached its depth. As the boat leveled off at the depth ordered, Chu again thought of odd foreigners with odder senses of humor. "Check for leaks," he said.
* * *
The Meg had an odd—really a unique—method of flooding and evacuating its ballast tanks. Like the pressure hull, these were cylindrical. Basically, the boat took advantage of the very low boiling temperature of ammonia. The ammonia was kept inside of flexible tubing made of fluorocarbon elastomer with a seven hundred and fifty angstrom thick layer of sputtered aluminum, followed by a five hundred angstrom layer of silicon monoxide with an aerogel insulation layer. Heating elements inside the tubes—called "rubbers" by the sailors and designers, both—heated the ammonia into a gas, which expanded the "rubbers" and forced out the water. To dive, the ammonia was allowed to chill to a liquid rather than heated to a gas. Chilling was really only a factor when quite near the surface, and then only if the water was warm.
* * *
"Engineering, no leaks, Skipper . . . Power room, no leaks, Captain . . . Forward sonar chamber; she's dry as a bone . . ."
So far, so good, thought Chu. "Make your depth fifty meters."
* * *
Quijana sat apart from Carrera. Whether this was because he was shy, because he had an exaggerated notion of the importance of rank, or for some other reason, Carrera didn't know.
Quite possibly he's embarrassed to still be alive when his shipmates are dead, Carrera thought. Should I invite him over and make it clear . . . or at least hint . . . that I don't think he deserted his boat? He thought about that for long minutes before finally deciding, No, it would be too obvious that that was what I was doing. Which would embarrass the poor shit even more.
* * *
He thinks I am a coward, Quijana thought to himself, seated at the edge of the dock above the water, his legs dangling free over the edge. How could he not? How could he not when I, alone of all my crew, survived the battle in the Nicobar Straits?
And, too, was I not relieved when Pedraz booted me over the side? I know I was, even if I'll only admit it to God. Are you a coward, Miguel? Or are you just afraid that you are? Didn't you volunteer for submarine duty precisely to prove to yourself that you're a man? You know you did.
I remember that day. I see and feel it in my dreams, the smoke and the flying tracers, Pedraz's boot in my ass. Then sinking in the water and struggling up to the surface. A last glimpse of the Trinidad, engines smoking, as it charged for the enemy's hull. And then the blast, a plume of smoke and debris, the shock wave that knocked me senseless until I was picked up by the Agustin.
And so I've done everything I can to convince myself, not others but myself, that I am as good as any other man, as brave.
But has it worked? No, not entirely. I still wonder. Perhaps I always will.
* * *
The sun was beginning to set in the west when Carrera, still sitting at the dock, became aware of the presence of some small number of others behind him. He wasn't sure how he knew, but those presences seemed small. He turned and saw half a dozen boys from the nearby military academy, standing quietly with trays of food. They all looked pretty thin to Carrera.
"We didn't want to disturb you, sir," said one of the boys; his nametag read, "Porras." "But we saw you out here waiting pretty much all day and . . . well . . . we scrounged you and your driver and guards some food. From the mess. The mess sergeant said it would be all right."
Carrera nodded his head at the boy, then at his companions. "Thank you, gentlemen. I appreciate that. And . . . I think I have been remiss. I should have thought to feed the men with me."
That last was true enough for the purpose, but wasn't all the truth. In fact, Lourdes and Mitchell's wife had packed a lunch for the small group; they'd just not been especially interested in eating it, given the miserably wet Puerto Lindo heat.
"Would you boys care to join me?" Carrera asked.
"Oh, no sir . . . we couldn't, sir . . . we haven't got perm—"
"Ahem," Carrera said, "I'm sure your commandant won't object. As a matter of fact, consider it an order."
Porras answered for the group. "As long as you put it that way, Duque—"
"I do"
"—we'd be pleased to join you."
"Good, and while we're at it," his voice changed to a shout, "Captain Quijana, join us if you will."
* * *
"Oh, no, sir," said Porras, around a half a sandwich. "This place is great. It's hard, yeah, but it's still great. Always enough to eat. No cost to my parents. They don't even have to clothe me. And the money saved sure goes a long way back home. And we get to train. With weapons."
Carrera nodded while thinking, I hate poverty. Unfortunately, you can't just pull people out of it without ruining them. The most you can do is help them help themselves. And even that's tricky.
One of the boys added, "My parents have more money than Julio's, Duque, but he's basically right. This is a good education, better than my parents could have afforded for me."
Well that's something in my favor, Carrera thought. I wonder how far it will carry me given that I'm going to use these boys like expendable property.
One of the boys pointed out toward the island at the mouth of the harbor. "Duque," the boy said, "look; the submarine's returning."
"Thank God," Quijana whispered.
Chapter Fourteen
One factor that tends to bring this mutual looting about more quickly is the presence of an enfranchised, more or less large, but distinct minority within a generally pluralistic society. This happens quite without reference to race or culture; it is the minority status that drives the event. Perhaps better said, the minority status, because all minorities are or feel they are under threat in one way or another, tends to drive those members to vote as fairly cohesive blocks to defend their perceived interests, even as elites move to exploit those fears for their own ends.