Collapse Depth

Jabo stared at him for a moment, and Hallorann was afraid maybe he was still really asleep, talking with his eyes open while his mind slept on. It was a phenomenon he’d become familiar with since his time at sea, where exhaustion and sleep deprivation were taken to levels he’d never known. But then Lieutenant Jabo cleared his throat, and said, “Put it there. On my desk.”

Hallorann hesitated, wanted to explain why he thought it was important, how the neat entries made over several days and dated carefully must mean that it was an important document. He was afraid it might get lost, as it nearly had been before, or forgotten, sitting among several piles of documents and books that crowded the lieutenant’s desk. He started to say something about the evident importance of the page, but when he turned back from the desk, the lieutenant was already asleep again.

He placed it on the desk as he’d been directed, then pulled the curtain back across Jabo’s rack and left. He was due down in the galley in an hour, it was the second day of his two-week long stint in the scullery washing dishes. Must be nice being an officer, he thought as he left: sleeping until nearly eleven o’clock in the morning like that.

• • •

The navigator was alone in the stateroom he shared with Ensign Duggan. Normally just a red curtain was pulled across his doorway, as department heads were expected to always be available. But he had closed the seldom-operated sliding door.

Not that he could sleep. He was too conscious of the ship’s speed and depth as they raced ahead, almost blind, through the dark ocean. The ship would shudder and groan occasionally, vibrating in resonant frequencies with the massive equipment in the engine room that was operating at its limits. He extended his hand to the hull, just inches from his pillow, and felt the cold steel, the sole barrier between him and the sea. He fought off the panic that always arose when he thought about it.

He wasn’t afraid to fall asleep, he just couldn’t, his body wouldn’t let him. He wasn’t afraid of nightmares, he knew the nightmares would come whether he was asleep or awake.

He heard a door shut to stateroom three, across the passageway, someone trying to be quiet. He shut his eyes just in case it was a messenger was making the rounds, perhaps with some messages they’d received during the extended trip at PD. It would be okay if he was seen asleep in his rack, but he didn’t want anyone to see him awake, brooding in the dark. He’d heard the whispering, didn’t need to stoke the rumors about his strange behavior. He unconsciously scratched the wound on his knee. A few minutes passed, no one came to the door, and he reopened his eyes.

The commander was sitting in his chair. The nav recognized him immediately, both from the old khaki dress uniform, the war patrol pin on his chest, and the scars across his face that told of past campaigns. He looked just like the photograph on the back cover of his book. It was Crush Martin.

“Are you proud of yourself?” he said. He was fuming. The only light was the tiny fluorescent fixture above their pull-out sink, so the commander was backlit, his features stark, his mustache and hair pitch black, his skin white. Thin scars ran down his face, like worm-eaten wood, reminders, the nav was sure, of past battles.

“I did what you said…” said the navigator. “A man is dead because of me.”

“And you thought that would be enough? Did you think one dead sailor would make them turn the boat around and give up?”

“It could have been more.” But he realized how stupid he’d been.

“Never,” said the commander. “You could have filled the freezer with bodies, and they would keep moving west, as long as the ship can move. You’ve barely even slowed them down.”

“But I…”

“Do you have any idea what’s at stake!” he thundered. Slamming his fist down on the desk. “Your ship, your mission, is going to be the catalyst of the apocalypse! And you turn a Freon valve…and think that will be enough. Idiot.”

“Sorry…” whimpered the nav.

“Maybe it’s not too late,” said the commander. “But you have to start acting with the appropriate level of vigor.”

“What should I do?”

“You’ve got one of the most important jobs on the boat,” said the commander. “And it’s not because you can turn the handle on a purple valve. There’s a reason I chose you, the navigator, for this mission. You’re one of the few men who can single-handedly destroy this boat.”

“How?” asked the navigator.

But he was already gone.

• • •