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The supply officer, known affectionately on every boat as Chop, was in charge in Crew’s Mess. He was the only officer on the boat not nuclear trained, and sometimes seemed to exist solely to be the butt of jokes from smug nukes. This despite the fact that his responsibilities were among the broadest of any officer on the boat. If halfway through the patrol a carbon brush broke on a 400 Megahertz motor generator and they weren’t carrying a proper spare, he would be held responsible. He was also held responsible if pizza crust tasted funny, or if they ran out of Cheerios. His previous assignment had been on an aircraft carrier, where he was one of seventeen supply officers. His sole job had been to ensure the proper distribution of paychecks. Like every man around him, the Chop was worried about Phosgene, trying to fight off real terror about what the hell it might mean. And he was devastated about the loss of a shipmate. But, he felt with some shame, he was also worried about the coolers and freezers around them, the food supply for 154 men that was slowly warming.

“Chop, control requests four men be sent with two red blowers to machinery two.”

The supply officer nodded. Christ, he thought, I suppose that means the ventilation isn’t working. “Any volunteers?”

One man raised his hand. Hallorann, a striker. This shamed some of the more experienced men, and soon they had three other, slightly more reluctant volunteers.

“Go,” said the chop. “And keep those EABs on.” It wasn’t necessary to remind them.

He watched them struggle with the two big red blowers, getting them through the hatch while wearing EABs was no easy feat. That Hallorann was an impressive kid, he thought. He wondered is he would be interested in striking storekeeper.

• • •

Lieutenant Kincaid ordered them into position, pointing one blower into the bilge, and one above it. Hallorann saw what he was attempting to do, stage the blowers so they would boost the heavy Freon high into the compartment. He admired his ingenuity; obviously there was no procedure for what they were attempting to do. And it was difficult; anytime they moved more than about three feet they had to unplug their EABs and find a new manifold. Finally the big blowers were in place and aimed.

“Turn ‘em on!” ordered Kincaid. Hallorann found the switch and flipped it as did the other team. The big, powerful blowers came on with a roar. Hallorann could feel the air rushing through the compartment.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hallorann saw a yellow piece of notebook paper blow up from the bilge into which the blowers were pointed. It sailed through the space, and then landed against the curved wall of the hull, where dampness began to soak through it. He tried to reach for it, but it was just a little too far. He saw densely written, neat notes in numbered rows; it just looked like something that should be preserved.

Without giving it too much thought, he unplugged and leaned down to snatch it off the wall. He gave it a quick look; about half of it was still legible.

“Hey nub!” shouted Lieutenant Kincaid. “Get back on that fan!”

Hallorann shoved the page in his pocket and returned to his station. He returned to the fan, plugged in his EAB, and took a deep breath of the oily smelling air.

• • •

After an hour of running the red blowers in conjunction with the big low pressure blower, Yaksic took two readings and confirmed that Freon had, at last, drifted into spec. The officers deliberated in the control room, and decided, in light of their very limited ability to test for phosgene, to wait another hour before breaking one of the last two ampoules. When they did, Kincaid reported excitedly to control that the results were negative. The captain ordered them to confirm the reading with the last ampoule. And with that, after three and a half hours at periscope depth, Jabo picked up the 1MC mike.

“Secure from general emergency,” he said. “All hands remove EABs.”

There was a collective gasp of relief from the crew as they did. The XO rubbed his bare head, which showed red stripes from the rubber straps of the EAB. He turned to the navigator.

“Figure it out, nav. How fast and in which direction.” He turned to Jabo. “Officer of the deck — get down and get fast.”

“Dive make your depth six hundred feet. Ahead flank.”

The helm and the engineroom acknowledged both orders and the ship tipped forward as it drove down. Jabo, like the XO and every other qualified officer on the boat, began to do rough calculations in his head about how far behind they’d fallen and how fast they would have to go to make it up.

Jabo also thought about the all the noise they’d made: the roaring of fans, the clanking of hatches. He pictured sound waves in the sea, travelling for miles, and wondered if anyone was listening. He thought about Sierra Nine.

• • •