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Jabo backed up and bumped into the treadmill. There was a red tag hanging from it, as well, this one signed by the corpsman. Apparently, the master chief wanted to keep people from exercising down there until they were absolutely positive that there was no atmospheric contamination to worry about….he would find out all the details when he read the captain’s night orders on his next watch. He breathed deeply and took in the whole scene. What had happened down there? What had Howard been thinking in those final moments? He took a look at the photos again, flipped through to the tightest close up that the master chief had taken.

In the photograph, Jabo noticed again the log sheet, that record that Howard had so carefully kept. It was lying on the deck beside him. And for the first time, he noticed that another sheet behind it, a piece of yellow notebook paper. Jabo was certain that it was not on the clipboard he had just reviewed with Renfro; he wondered what it might be. The resolution of the picture was too low to offer any clues.

He looked up, realized that he had been staring off into space a little, his mind a blank. It wasn’t Freon, he knew, or nerve gas. It was exhaustion. He felt a pang about the accusation in Renfro’s words, about how the verdict seemed already to have been made. He vowed to himself to conduct a real investigation, the best he could, but for now…he was tired beyond words. He hadn’t slept in a day, and would be on watch in a matter of hours. He checked his watch and verified that he had spent the two hours on the investigation that the XO had directed. He would go forward and get a couple of hours of sleep, and hope he could get through the watch without falling asleep on the conn.

He walked forward through lower level, both because he was too tired to climb a ladder, and to avoid the accusing eyes of MM2 Renfro.

• • •

He checked his watch as he neared his stateroom. The XO hadn’t been quite right. He would have about an hour and forty-five minutes to sleep before he took the watch. The exhaustion hit him in waves as he anticipated climbing in the rack. It wouldn’t be nearly enough, but it would be something, and his body longed for any rest.

He stepped through the door. The overhead lights were off but Kincaid was stepping into his Nikes, ready to go workout.

“Where the fuck you been?” he said. “You need to be getting some sleep, shipmate.”

“Investigating. And all the workout gear is secured.” He was already out of his poopie suit, down to his plaid boxers and T-shirt. He hung it on the door on the middle hook, his hook, and climbed into the middle rack and pulled the blanket over him. The entire process had taken him about ten seconds.

“Secured? What the fuck! Why is it secured?”

But Jabo was already in his rack with the curtain closed. His thoughts about the tragedy, plus the image of Howard’s dead, gray face charged through his mind, fueled by three cups of strong coffee and the residual adrenaline from combating the casualty. As his head hit the pillow, he allowed himself to think about Angi, and felt the sharp pang of how much he missed her, how much he loved her. He thought about their first date, the first time he kissed her, on the steps of McTyeire Hall. He remembered the sound the wind made in the dried leaves of the live oaks that surrounded them, the taste of her lipstick, the surprised way she inhaled a little when he made his move. And then he was asleep.

• • •

He never would have awoken from the noise alone when Hallorann entered; the young sailor was deliberately, theatrically quiet as he crept in. Hallorann considered leaving the document without a word, but the significance of it gnawed at him, even if he couldn’t attach words to its importance, and it had almost been lost once already. He wanted to convey it personally. And he felt like, for some reason, he should lose no time. He cautiously pulled back the thick red curtain to the middle rack to look at the back of Lieutenant Jabo’s sleeping head.

“Sir?” he whispered. He said it again, slightly louder. The only response was slow, even breathing. He reached his hand out, hesitated, and then pushed his shoulder.

The breathing changed rhythm slightly, but it took another sharp push before the lieutenant finally rolled over, and his heavy eyes fluttered awake.

“Sir?”

Jabo licked his lips. “What?”

“I talked to the OOD, Lieutenant Hein…he said you were conducting the investigation. I found this in machinery two…I was on one of the fan teams.” He held up the yellow sheet of paper. Jabo raised an eyebrow; even in his sleep he remembered the paper in the photograph.

“What’s on it?”

“Not much…I mean I’m not sure. But I thought you should have it.”