The Edge of Honor (80 page)

He thought he recognized the guy, but his mind was fuzzed up. I know that guy. He tried to speak but could only croak. God! His head and his hands hurt so bad. Where the fuck am I? What’s that guy doing?

The helmeted figure had gone over to the pipe racks and had begun to pull down lengths of pipe and sections of steel angle iron. What’s he doing? Hey, man, his mind shouted, but his voice wouldn’t work. He tried to move, tried to lift himself using his hands, but the pain lunged back at him, turning his vision red, and his question became another groan.

When his eyes cleared again, he saw that the masked figure was pulling sections of angle iron and pipe over to where he lay, dragging them across the room so that they landed on top of Rocky, slowly burying him in a mound of loose steel. What the fuck’s he doing—hey! He tried to move again, but now there was all this metal shit on top of him. When the figure had piled on all the metal he could find, he stepped to the edge of the pile and just stood there, staring down at Rocky. Rocky tried to move, but the pain slammed him back to the edge of consciousness. Rocky tried to protest, to say something, anything, but his voice still couldn’t form any words. Wherever he was, the ambient light seemed to brighten and dim in time with the waves of pain in his head. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.

Who is this guy? Why is he piling metal on me? He tried to move again, but suddenly he realized that he wasn’t going anywhere. He watched as the figure stood up and looked around. Black guy. He’s a black guy.

Three chevrons on his shirtsleeve, right beneath the OBA straps. Repair Five stenciled on the OBA bag. First class.

He’s an investigator from Repair Five. He’s a first class, just like me.

His fractured mind reached for the name.

Know him, know him sure as shit. It’s … it’s—He closed his eyes for a few seconds, and when he opened them, the guy had the money bag in his hands and was dumping money into the bilges. Then he sloshed over to the corner, where the eductor pump suction inlet was, and stuffed the plastic bag into the suction line. Rocky heard the sucking sounds of the eductor pump choke off.

He closed his eyes again, trying to think. Have to do something. This guy, this isn’t right. Guy’s dumped my money, all that money, and fucked up the eductor. Rocky tried to concentrate on what that might mean. He knew the eductor was important.

He was distracted by a sound, glass breaking, and he opened his eyes again. The guy was deliberately smashing in the glass faces of the three battle lanterns with a dogging wrench, plunging the compartment into darkness.

The only light now was the shaft of yellow-white light streaming down through the hatch. The guy was looking at him again.

“Adios, motherfucker,” he said, his voice distorted by the OBA mask. He tossed the wrench into the bilge with a splash. Then he was climbing up the ladder, a long, thin figure, struggling through the hatch with the OBA. A moment later, the hatch slammed down, plunging the compartment into total darkness. Rocky focused on the voice. Know that guy, he thought before drifting off again.

He came to in the humid darkness a few minutes later.

His ears were ringing and there was the sound of water spraying nearby.

He could smell the iodine stink of seawater and he could feel and taste a warm, salty mist in the-air around his face, but he could see nothing.

Gathering his wits, he realized that he was on his back, his head jammed up against a heavy metal object—the fire pump. He remembered now: The fire pump had been knocked off its foundations, its fire-main couplings leaking. It felt as if the lower half of his body was partially submerged. The side of his face hurt like hell. He tried to heave himself upright, but there was a heavy weight of metal pinning him against the fire pump. His left arm was stuck under what felt like a pipe, but his right arm was free. He felt around in the dark, but his hands were numb and clumsy. Pipes. Pipes and angle iron, that’s what this is. Shipfitter gear. That guy.

He tried to roll over, to get off his back, pushing hard with his right arm, but he could not move. Slowly, he became aware of the ship’s motion, a deep, slow roll, as if she was wallowing in the trough of the sea. It sounded like there was a lot of water sloshing around in the compartment. It was not deep, but he could feel it, swirling around his legs, washing up in small waves on his stomach. He could hear the steel plates of the hull creaking around him in the darkness.

As the ship took a longer roll, the weight of metal piled up on his chest shifted. He could distinguish between the individual edges of angle iron and the smoother skin of pipe. He shook his head and immediately winced; his whole face hurt. His mind went fuzzy with the pain, and then, in a sudden wave of clarity, he realized where he was, that he was pinned to the deck in the pump room. I can’t fucking move, man. He felt a surge of panic and gave a mighty heave, putting his whole body into it, trying to pull himself out from under the tangle of steel.

He felt the pile move slightly, but then the ship rolled back the other way. There was a clatter as the pile shifted back, this time pinning both of his shoulders down against the wet foundations of the fire pump, pressing his cheek right up against an oily hose coupling. Another small wave of seawater sloshed up his body, reaching his chest this time. He began to feel real panic.

He was faintly aware of noises in the compartments above the pump room, or maybe it was in the fire room next door. Somewhere close. It sounded like men up there, shouting in the distance, pulling fire hoses. Right, yeah, that’s what it is: fire hoses. A damage-control team. There should be an investigator coming. Guy the team sent out in advance to see where the damage was.

They could get him put. Like that guy? Oh God. That guy had done this, piled this shit on him, left him here.

Have to get all this shit off my chest, get up that ladder.

Damn pump room was taking on water. He could hear the spray more distinctly now; it sounded as if it was no longer hitting metal, but water instead. The water slopping around his hips and legs sounded heavier, deeper.

Where the fuck is the eductor pump?

He gave another great heave, pushing up with all his might. I’m a big guy, goddamn it, ought to be able to move this shit just a little, just enough, get my arm out, get two hands free. But then his heels slipped and the pile sagged back onto his chest. The stink of fuel oil became more pronounced, as if he had stirred something up. Face it, man, shit’s got you pinned down.

“#E7!” he yelled. “Hey, get me outta here. Hey, man, need a hand down here! HEY!” He was shouting as loudly as he could, the noise breaking his head.

Goddamn, it hurt. But a part of his mind knew that the spray was masking his shouts for help. Nobody came.

There was no blaze of light through the hatch in the overhead, no hatch opening up, no guy sticking his head in. Nothing. Just the dark and the water. He yelled again.

As if in answer, the ship lurched in the trough. There was a distinct metallic crack from the other side of the fire pump. The spraying sound of the leak became more substantial, deeper, and louder. Oh shit, damn fire main’s, busted. I gotta get up, get higher, get my goddamn arms loose or I’m gonna fucking drown in here. He yelled again, then thought he heard a response. Sounded like someone was banging on the overhead, maybe the hatch.

Adrenaline pumping now, he began to twist and flail in the oily water, trying desperately to get both arms free, his head held rigidly off the cold steel of the fire pump, using his legs, his hands useless. Pull, man, pull! Move something, anything to get out from under this shit. He started to cough and choke on the pungent mix of salt spray, fuel oil, and warm seawater that seemed to be everywhere. It felt as if he was trying to pull a train uphill, all this metal, uphill like in a nightmare, and then he realized, Oh Jesus, the deck’s moving, the deck’s tilting, the ship’s tilting over to one side—and staying there.

He was crying now, his eyes stinging from the oil and his own fear. He wished he had a light, any kind of goddamn light. There should be battle lanterns in here.

There had been battle lanterns before—before what? He couldn’t remember why he was down here. The pile of pipes and angle irons moved then, not much, but just enough so that he could roll to the left. He jumped at it, pushing with his legs, tearing his shirt, getting over on his left side, something sharp digging hard into his ribs, breaking the skin even, the cut stinging when the water came sweeping back across the compartment, washing all the way up to his shoulder. But he could move.

He was moving, pushing with his hips and his one good arm, until he could roll all the way over on his stomach, freeing both arms. Yeah, that’s it. Now you’ve got it, man. Now, just hunch up and do a push-up.

Oh God, my hands.

Heave it up; tighten it up. You can make it, man. You can make— But then the ship rolled back the other way and down he went, the pile of steel banging onto deck plates and the pump foundation, flattening him, one big pipe hitting his head hard enough to dazzle him. He felt his mouth pressed down onto cold steel in an oily kiss.

And then blessedly, the water all drained away, down his back, down past his waist, his thighs, and he could feel air on his legs. Oh thank Christ. He could hear it rushing away. And then it paused, gurgling, gathering, and, to his horror, came rushing back, sweeping all the way over his body an dover his face and head, foaming in his ears like a wave on the beach, the oil stinging his eyes even though they were clamped shut like his teeth. For several terrifying seconds, he couldn’t breathe, and then, miraculously, he could. Gotta get up. Gotta get up.

Move your face before it comes back. You know it’s coming back. Move, move anything, strain every muscle, kick, break your bones, you have to, but move before the— And then he heard it all withdrawing again, sloshing away like a live thing, the spray from the cracked fire main really loud now, lots of goddamn water gathering in the darkness there, gathering to come back and— Then it came, a rushing swirl of oil and water, some bits of wet paper, submerging his face and eyes and ears, making his hair stream out, stealing all his air. Grimly, he squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath and waited for the wave to recede.

It’ll go away, and then you can breathe, and then you’ll have to do it again, keep doing it until those guys get down here. They’re coming.

They’re working on it. Yeah right, that’s what they always say—they’re fucking working on it. But they are. You heard ‘em.

There, the water’s going back down. There, now breathe, once, twice.

Don’t try to move. Conserve your energy.

But breathe deep, get that fucking air, get it all, store it up, and don’t worry about the deck.

As the water gathered again across the compartment, he felt the ship move, and then he heard a new sound, something big and really heavy shifting, making a deep creaking groan of wounded metal, the voice of a billion crystals of steel deforming, bending, shearing. Oh Jesus, the fire pump, the fire pump was moving, the four hundred-pound fire pump.

It was moving. Maybe, maybe he could get clear. Which way’s it going?

Where— And then the water came rushing back for a third time. Used to it now; you know what to do. Let it come. You’ve got lots of air. Wait it out, wait for it to retreat. What’s that, what’s that on my arm? My arm! An immense, crushing, amputating steel weight settled down on his arm and he forgot about the water, forgot his face was submerged, forgot there was no air, and opened his mouth and screamed his way into eternity.

This time, the water stayed.

Brian left Combat, checking both the damaged and undamaged modules once more to make sure no one had been left behind. He hurried out to the catwalk on the port side and then headed aft to reach the ladder leading up to the signal bridge. The signal shack was empty and the door locked.

The night was clear, with stars visible and a cool wind blowing out of the northeast. The ship rolled slowly, with no way on, but the blowers were still going high up on the forward stack, which meant the snipes still had one boiler on the line in the forward plant. The two Spook directors towered above him in the darkness; they were slewed out on the port beam, one pointing high, the other almost flat. System Two. He walked over to the forward end of the signal bridge area and looked down on the forecastle. There he could see several dozen men congregated, with the uninjured staying separate from the area behind the missile-launcher ramp where the docs had set up. Someone had energized the forward replenishment lights; the entire forecastle was bathed in red light, lending a hellish appearance to the scene. Brian looked around at the horizon, but there was only darkness. The nearest ship was Preble, and she was sixty miles out to the southeast. He assumed that she would be on the way by now.

He went back down the ladder, stopping on the last rung to look down two levels to the boat decks. Under the glow of the midships’ red replenishment lights, several men were gathered in damage-control gear, some wearing OBAs, others tending portable fire pumps and eductors. A thick cloud of black smoke interlaced with streaks of steam boiled out from somewhere low on the port side and from two exhaust vents at the after end of the boat decks. A diminishing cloud of low-pressure steam vented from the after stack, which meant that Two Firehouse was out of business. There must be a hell of a damage-control battle going on inside, he thought.

Then he realized he was standing just about level with and behind the EW module in CIC. He quickly walked forward along the catwalk on the starboard side to the pilothouse. With the power out on the 03 level, the only energy left on the bridge came from the battery-operated battle lanterns. The radar repeaters and other bridge instruments were lifeless. Brian checked to make sure Folsom had taken the deck log. He thought about the captain back there in the wreck of Combat, probing the brains of a five-hundred-ppund high-explosive bomb with morphine sulfate flowing in his veins and a cancer dining on his belly. He shivered and headed for the interior ladders to get down to the forecastle, holding his hand over his face against the rising pall of oil smoke.