THICK BILLOWS OF OILY smoke, backlit by the flames raging through the
Zenzero,
rose two hundred feet into the night sky. Captain Webb, shaking with barely suppressed rage, was watching through binoculars from the bridge atop the
Indianapolis
's sail.
Layman and three others had taken another rubber raft across. This time they were armed with M16s. He had ordered them to shoot anyone on sight.
“Bridge, communications,” the bridge speaker blared.
Webb hit the talk switch. “Bridge, aye.”
“Skipper, COMSUBMED wants to know if we require any assistance, and they're asking for an update.”
“Tell them that there's been an explosion and fire aboard the cruiser and that we may have casualties.”
His walkie-talkie squawked into life. It was Layman. “Skipper, we just fished Markham out of the water.”
“What kind of shape is he in, Earl?”
“He's dead.”
Webb was stunned into silence for just a beat, but then his anger rose up around him again as a fire brighter and hotter than that consuming the
Zenzero.
He hit the comms switch.
“Communications, bridge.”
“Aye, bridge.”
“Have you sent out that message yet?”
“It's in the machine now, Skipper ⦔
“Belay that,” Webb shouted. “Send instead, stand by.”
“Yes, sir.”
Webb keyed his walkie-talkie. “Any sign of the others, Earl?”
“I don't know, Skipper. We've spotted something floating low in the water on the port side of the cruiser, we're heading over there now.”
“Any sign of life aboard?”
“Negative, negative. If anyone was aboard, they're sure as hell dead by now.”
“What happened to Markham? Was he burned?”
“No, sir,” Layman said, and Webb could hear the strain in his voice. “No burns, no blood that I can see, no injuries. His eyes are open, and he's just dead.”
Besides the lookout, the only other person on the bridge was the Second Officer, Lieutenant Kenneth Woodman. He was a young man who would someday make a good skipper. He knew the boat, he got along well with the men, and he knew how to take orders.
Webb turned to him. “I want you to get below. Help Owens set up the dispensary for casualties. I don't know how many, or what shape they'll be in, but I suspect it'll be bad.”
“Aye, Skipper,” Woodman said.
“And, Ken.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Not a word to the rest of the crew. Understand?”
“Aye, aye.”
Woodman went below. Webb keyed his walkie-talkie again. “What's your status, Earl?”
“Hold on, Captain, we've got another body in the water.”
Webb raised his binoculars and searched the waters around the furiously burning cruiser, but he couldn't spot Layman's raft. They had already gone to the opposite side of the
Zenzero.
“My God, Skipper, it's Davidson. He's dead too. Just like Markham. He's not been burned or injured in any way that I can see, and his eyes are open. Skipper, it looks like he's ⦠like he
was
in pain.”
“What about the other object you spotted floating in the water?”
“We're on our way over to it ⦠but it's hard to get much closer ⦠it's damned hot ⦔
Webb keyed the comms switch. “Bob, what are we showing on radar?”
“Still clear, Skipper,” Hess came back.
“What about that auxiliary? Are you still painting her?”
“Yes, sir. She's about ten miles out now, but she seems to have slowed down.”
“Same course?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep an eye on her, Bob. Anything electronic coming from her, let me know immediately.”
“Aye, Skipper.”
“It's our boat, Skipper,” Layman radioed.
Webb keyed his walkie-talkie. “How about D'Angelo and Gilmore?”
“Dead, just like the others. But it looks as if they were dumped into the raft, Captain. Gilmore is lying on top of Tony, as if someone ⦠tossed him.”
“Listen to me, Earl. Is there any possibility, any possibility at all, that anyone could still be aboard that cruiser?”
“Negative, Skipper. You can't get within a hundred feet of it. Nothing aboard is alive.”
“Do you see anyone else in the water, any other bodies, another rubber raft?”
“Negative.”
“Get back here on the double,” Webb said. Again he keyed his ship comms. “Plotting, bridge.”
“Plotting, aye.”
“I want a best possible course and speed to the auxiliary that radar is painting to our south.”
“We going to stay on the surface, Skipper?”
“Yes,” Webb said.
“I'll have it in a second.”
“Quartermaster, bridge.”
“Quartermaster, aye.”
“I want four men at the after loading hatch. Our people are on their way back, and they're going to need some help.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Conn, bridge. I want Boyle up here on the double.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper.”
Webb again raised his binoculars. He could see Layman and the others heading back now, the other raft in tow. He keyed his walkie-talkie. “Earl.”
“We're on our way back, Skipper.”
“There'll be someone at the after hatch to help you. I want Tony and the others brought immediately forward to the dispensary. I'll meet you there.”
“Yes, sir.”
Third Officer Lieutenant j.g. Ernie Boyle came up through the hatch. He was young, barely in his mid-twenties, but he was already as good as any other officer aboard.
“You've got the bridge, Ernie,” Webb told him.
“Aye, aye, Skipper.”
“Keep an eye peeled. Earl and the others will be loading through the after hatch. I'll be in the dispensary.”
“Yes, sir,” Boyle said, and Webb clambered down into the boat.
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Kurshin had angled them away from the cruiser. One hundred fifty yards out from the
Indianapolis,
he stopped rowing and looked back. The submarine showed no lights and was visible only as a vague black shape against the overcast sky.
“Is this far enough?” Dr. Velikanov asked. “They might send someone to look for us.” He was clearly agitated.
“They're busy gathering their dead, Doctor,” Kurshin said as he unzippered the waterproof equipment bag. “They'll be taking them aboard soon, I expect.”
“Such a terrible waste. They were just young boys.”
Kurshin gave him a hard look. “This is war.”
“Yes,” Velikanov said, nodding. “What we are doing could very well precipitate the nuclear holocaust.”
“You received your orders, Doctor. But the choice was yours. And to this point you have carried out your duties very well.”
Velikanov shook his head. “Too well,” he mumbled.
Kurshin had pulled the AK74 out of the bag. Quickly he attached the image-intensifying night scope and loaded the heavy assault rifle.
He brought it up to his shoulder, keyed the scope, and slowly scanned the submarine from bow to stern, images coming through the eyepiece in shades of bright gray.
Two men were on the bridge atop the sail. One of them had a pair of binoculars and was looking out to sea in the opposite direction. The other man was looking down at the aft deck.
Near the stern the last of the bodies was lowered through an open hatch. Two of the sailors remained topside to deflate the rubber rafts so that they could be brought back aboard. Even at this distance Kurshin could see by the way they moved that they were very angry.
The captain, however, would be containing his own anger. Most of the boat's 127-man crew would still be unaware that four of their comrades were dead. The submarine would not be at battle stations yet. The interior spaces would not be sealed. Nor would the ventilation systems be isolated. There was no need for it.
Kurshin checked his watch. He had set it in the timer mode. So far thirty-six minutes had elapsed since Velikanov had begun his work. The timing was critical.
“You are certain that you made the insertions in the proper order?”
“Yes,” the doctor said softly.
“Then we don't have long to wait.”
“How long?”
“Less than four minutes now,” Kurshin said, once again raising his rifle and sighting on the bridge. “Start rowing, Doctor, I would like to be closer.”
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Webb was in the dispensary with Woodman and Medic Second Class Justin Owens when Layman and Anders carried D'Angelo's body inside and laid it on the operating table.
“Christ,” he said, bile rising at the back of his throat.
D'Angelo was in rictus, his tongue protruding. His eyes were open and his face held an expression of horror or extreme pain.
“Are the others like this, sir?” Owens asked, bending over D'Angelo and studying his eyes. The kid was huge, he had played football in high school, but he had a gentle touch.
“All of them,” Layman replied, looking at Webb.
“Where are they, Earl?” Webb asked softly.
“Officers' wardroom.”
Owens was looking up.
“What is it, Justin?” Webb asked.
“Skipper, I've only read about this. Saw a film. But unless my guess is way off, I'd say it was gas.”
“Gas? What kind of gas?”
“Nerve gas. Labun, or something like that.” Owens turned back to D'Angelo's body. “He's got the symptoms. No apparent wounds or other trauma.” He felt the base of D'Angelo's skull, his neck, and chest.
“Dispensary, conn, is the skipper back there?” the comms speaker squawked.
Webb turned and hit the switch. “Webb, here.”
“Sir, COMSUBMED is pressing. They want to know our situation.”
“Tell them to stand by. What's the status of the auxiliary to our south?”
“Looks like she's dead in the water now, sir.”
“Have you got that intercept course plotted?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Jesus Christ,” Owens swore, and Webb turned around.
The medic had opened D'Angelo's shirt. A huge gash had been cut in the quartermaster's gut and had been roughly sewn up. Webb could hardly believe his eyes. Layman's mouth had dropped open, and one of the crewmen who had helped carry the bodies aboard stood in the doorway shaking his head.
“Skipper?” the speaker blared.
“Stand by,” Webb snapped, keying the comm. “What the hell happened, Justin?”
“Christ, I don't know, sir. Someone cut him open and sewed him back up.”
“Is that what killed him?” Layman asked.
“I don't think so,” Owens said.
“Check the others, Earl,” Webb said.
Layman brushed past the crewman and hurried the few steps to the wardroom.
“Open him up,” Webb ordered.
Owens was breathing through his mouth, and his face was red. “Yes, sir,” he said.
He pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and got a scalpel from the autoclave. Carefully he began cutting the running stitches in D'Angelo's gut, one by one. His hands were shaking.
Layman came back slamming the flat of his palm against the bulkhead. “Every one of them, Skipper. They cut them open and stitched them back together, like fucking stuffed turkeys.”
“Someone was aboard that cruiser,” Webb said.
Layman looked up, sudden understanding dawning in his eyes. “You're goddamned right they were. When they were done, they dumped Tony and the others overboard, set the cruiser on fire, and got the hell off the ship. Probably a rubber raft, so we wouldn't paint them on radar. And they would have kept the cruiser between us and them until they got far enough out so that we couldn't see them.”
“That auxiliary to our south will come back for them,” Webb said.
“But why ⦠?” Layman started to ask, but Owens shouted something as he jumped back away from the operating table and dropped the scalpel to the deck.