“Your type, Number One,” said Eddie.
“Eddie, you’re Samurai, not Jewish mother.”
“She’s even better looking with the flight suit off. Lives in Alameda, but long-distance relationships are a good way to start.”
“This isn’t the time.”
He grinned. His easygoing outer nature is deceptive. He’s actually one of the most dangerous people I’ve ever met. “It’s always the time, Uno. And to you, it’s never the time. I’ve been telling you for two years, as your physician I advise you to get a life. Watch movies. Get laid. Eat something besides PowerBars. She’s divorced. Clever midair interrogation revealed a boyfriend — a company lawyer — but as I am a trained truth-finder, I have ascertained that he is but a piece of lint to be brushed away by your firm hand.”
Eddie sang the title of the old Cole Porter tune, softly, over the hissing wind, “Tonight I love you morrre.”
“Eddie, can it. Did you find out anything else about the sickness? Symptoms?”
We clomped forward, into the gigantic copter hangar, amid our crates, a basketball court, stairs to labs, and then onto the spray-slick outer deck on our way to the suite, which Eddie would share to make more room for survivors, hopefully. His luggage would come later.
Eddie said, “Before I answer, Colonel Uno, get any sleep lately?”
“Plenty.”
“No, huh? Eat anything in, say, the last eighteen hours?”
He always knew when I was lying. “I had a Mars bar on the flight.”
“Well, then I’m sure you’re firing on all cylinders! It’s important that the boss keep himself tip-top, so he can make good decisions that affect us all!”
We ducked through a hatch and bar-locked the door behind us. The passageways were white, utterly clean. I was in a blue Coast Guard parka, CG stocking hat, and Thermolite gloves. Eddie — shed of his mustang suit — wore an olive-drab parka with fur hood, and thick-soled rubber boots.
“Eddie,” I repeated warningly. “Symptoms?”
He sighed. “No new transmissions, but we went back and pieced together a little more that the director didn’t know when you spoke. There was an early reference to bleeding.”
“What kind and how much?”
“Nose, ears, mouth. Several crew members had it.”
“Did they work together? Eat together? Any idea what started it?”
Eddie blew out air. “Sorry.”
“Anything else?”
“Fever. Chest pain. Purple spots on the skin.”
I stopped outside a room labeled SCIENCE LOUNGE. Inside I saw a comfortable space filled with cushioned chairs, computer terminals, and lockable cabinets with books inside. It had to be a library.
I said, frowning, “Petechial hemorrhages?” These occur when there are capillary breaks near the outer skin, creating discolored patches. AIDS victims get them. Mold victims can, too. Toxic poisons, even some common cleaning fluids, if ingested, can trigger eruptions.
I said, thinking out loud, “The sub was out at sea for weeks. I can’t see someone intentionally introducing something on board that late in a cruise. They’d be trapped with everyone else. It has to be an accident.”
“Never say ‘has to,’” Eddie said. “Could be viral, hell, some insecticides cause those symptoms. I wish I knew more, like if they sprayed that sub for pests recently. Rats. Roaches. The Navy insisted they only spray in dry dock, and no one boards for twenty-four hours after that. But who knows? You’re underwater. An infestation breaks out. Someone decides to spray…” he said, testing a theory out loud.
We were thinking as a team, but one lacking information. “Food poisoning?” I said.
“Won’t give you the skin marks.”
“Carbon monoxide.”
“Won’t cause marks or bleeding. But marks have been known to happen with chaetomium,” he said, naming a black mold found in the Tropics, in dirt, in plants, and in one recent case, a disgustingly ill-cleaned Nashville college fraternity bathroom.
I shook my head. “You don’t get bleeding with that.”
“The Montana was in Indonesia before heading for the Arctic. Who knows what fucking bug came aboard inside a sailor, or skittered on from a dock.”
“Eddie, if something got on in Indonesia, it would have erupted earlier.”
Eddie looked frustrated. “Unless we’re dealing with something new. Or intentional. Look, those guys in the sub didn’t even mention sickness until the fourth or fifth SOS. They were concerned about the fire. And nobody in D.C. asked about it. Nobody linked the two. Everyone assumed the sickness was a plain old cold at first, you know subs, everyone shares colds, but then the hemorrhaging started, and by then it was too late to ask about it because the transmissions stopped.”
We fell silent. It was all frustrating speculation until we reached the sub.
I told Eddie, “We might need to seal the ventilation system on this ship if it turns out to be a pathogen.”
“Get some sleep,” he said.
“The director said the fire could have released something toxic, in a new material. I’d say we need to talk to Dr. Vleska.”
“She does seem defensive, but I must say, cutely so. By the way, as it’s my duty to report important issues to you, I must inform you that she is a sea kayaker who likes jazz and Mexican food. You won’t be bored by her. She has strong opinions.”
“I have one. It’s that you should shut up.”
I knew Eddie was right about sleep, knew that staying up too long could cause me to make a mistake. I couldn’t do that. I just couldn’t. And if there was something toxic in that sub, if I had to lead Marines inside…
No, not again. I don’t want to do this again.
We headed toward our cabin.
Then suddenly alarms went off all over the ship.
SIX
The emergency announcement blared again as we hurried toward the bridge. Three figures in white fire retardant suits burst from a hatch and lumbered past us, heading aft. Clear polycarbonite shields protected their faces. One person wielded a fire ax and the others carried canisters of fire retardant on their backs.
A calm male voice announced over the intercom, “Smoke in the aviation office.”
The bridge would be the control center in an emergency. But we were new here and the corridors a maze. We rushed past cabins with name tags outside identifying berthing for officers. Infirmary. Electrical workshop. We pushed through a door accessing a steel stairwell that rose, switching back at each deck, and took us hopefully toward the bridge. I heard boots pounding on steel below. A woman shouted, “Move it, Robb! You dead or what?”
As we reached the next level up, the intercom came to life again. “Man overboard, port side!”
Eddie and I halted, looked at each other, stunned at this new emergency. Then we understood and Eddie’s face broke into a smile. We burst out laughing at the same time.
“A drill,” I said, my heartbeat slowing.
Sure enough, as we stood there, tension draining away, the voice added a third disaster.
“Smoke in the bow thruster room!”
Eddie grinned. “Bad luck ship, all these problems only two hours from shore.”
“I needed a laugh,” I said.
The truth sank in. The drills addressed real possibilities. They underscored our ship’s position as lone U.S. nautical presence within a thousand miles. Were a disaster to befall us, any scenario for which the crew was drilling, there would be no second icebreaker to send after us. We would be as vulnerable as the crew of the submarine we were on our way to try to save.
“Eddie, let’s get someone to show us around.”