'You're a disgrace to that uniform.'
Coombs stepped in. 'That's enough. We don't have time for this. Fred, if you're offering us extra hands, I accept. Assemble your best conners and have them meet us below. They'll be reporting to Mr. Robles. The rest of you stay up top until you get the all clear. No shenanigans!'
Down the hatch. I never gave a thought to that expression before. It was rather forbidding, that bright hole in the sea, like a volcanic vent. Suddenly, the cold deck wasn't so bad. Others were feeling it, too: The eagerness I had seen in these boys back at the hangar seemed to have been cured by recent events-there was certainly no Alamo-like rush to volunteer.
It was worked out that twenty of our guys would go: ten technical people and ten big boys running interference. This was thought to be the biggest number we could field without creating a logjam below. 'You gotta have enough room to fight and still keep in sight of everyone else,' Cowper explained. The technical ones were all older men who had served aboard subs at one time or another-Cowper and Ed Albemarle among them- and they were quick to step forward. The boys were another matter, since the only ones who really wanted to go were relatives of the men who were going, and the men refused to bring these. The deadlock was broken when Cowper announced he would take me, 'just to shut everyone up.'
'If we don't pull this off,' he said, 'we're all goners anyhow.'
People looked to see my reaction, but if the choice was to stick by Cowper or remain on deck as everybody's scapegoat, I wasn't about to complain. The arguments sputtered out, and a tenth boy was picked (presumably to make up for my inadequacy), bringing our total number to twenty-one. Blackjack.
Peering down that rabbit hole, I think even the seasoned veterans must have had second thoughts. Not that it was dark or creepy-it was a glowing chimney, what they called the 'escape trunk,' a cream-colored vestibule with a shiny ladder leading to a second hatch just below. And if you pulled open that inner hatch? All of us had seen enough by then to picture an unspeakably vivid Pandora's box.
'All the times I did this shooting studs, and all I was afraid of was a little inert gas,' said a bushy-bearded man, climbing down.
'Argon'll kill you just as fast as those things,' Albemarle replied. 'Think of it that way.'
'But they don't kill you. That's the problem.'
I could no longer see past the ring of intent spectators banking the light like cavemen around a fire, but I could hear the lower hatch open. A second man went down. Then a third. The boat rocked gently, waves lapping at its sides. No one made a sound.
Some of the teenagers started to go down, and I was pleased to see the chipmunk boy among them. I should have known he'd volunteer, I thought. Then it was Cowper's turn, and I followed along on his heels, pushing through the press of bodies. Someone gave me a shove, so that I barely kept from falling, bowling into the legs of several adults. Albemarle turned with an expression of pained surprise-I had hit his injured back.
'Sorry,' I said, mortified. 'I tripped.'
'This is no place for games,' he said flatly.
'I know, I'm sorry, excuse me.'
Cowper was concentrating on finding his footing down the ladder. At bottom I could see a mustached man in khakis waving us down. In my ear, Albemarle said, 'He doesn't come back, you don't come back.' He handed me a big sticky hammer.
I nodded, climbing as fast as I dared.
It was like entering a pool. As light and warmth surrounded me, I experienced a brief, primal surge of relief-my animal instincts going, Ahhh, shelter. I was helped down the last few rungs to an institutional-looking Formica floor in a room like a well-lit basement. It reminded me of the boiler room at the Y. Though hardly exotic, the insulated plumbing and perforated acoustic tile were a dramatic change from the blustery ocean above. We were underwater! The guys already there motioned me aside, and I joined Cowper by the wall. Albemarle came down last, wincing in pain.
Once everyone was present, the man who had given us a hand down said, 'Welcome aboard. Hi, Ed. I'm Lieutenant Commander Dan Robles, among other things, and I'll be your guide today.' He was a dapper-looking, pudgy man with a faint Spanish accent and an air of weary contempt, though not necessarily for us. I could tell he accepted me as just another in a series of disasters that fate was delivering upon him, and as such, unworthy of special attention. I liked him immediately. Brandishing a pistol, he asked, 'Any questions before we get started?'
'What's the plan?' Cowper asked a bit shortly.
'The captain and Mr. Kranuski are standing by forward to brief you.'
'Any more guns?' Albemarle asked.
Robles shrugged apologetically. 'For reasons of safety, the captain is reserving firearms for active-duty personnel only,' he said. 'Not that they're any better than your weapons. Personally I'd like a chain saw. All right? Watch your heads.'
Following Robles, we crossed the room and passed through a heavy watertight door, which opened onto a sight so unexpected that my stomach lurched:
We were at least four stories up in a yawning tunnel that resembled a multitiered prison cellblock… or King Tut's tomb. It ran forward from us a hundred feet or more, piled high with plastic-wrapped cargo of every shape and size-boxes, barrels, cases, crates-under a vaulted ceiling inset with two rows of numbered white domes. Cables looped everywhere like jungle vines, giving the place an apocalyptic, overgrown look. They swayed with the movement of the boat.
Hearing my gasp, some of the boys smirked in the way of jaded old-timers, but Cowper nodded, whistling appreciatively at the view. 'We used to call this Sherwood Forest, but without the missile silos it looks more like Shipping and Receiving. You guys have been busy little beavers.' Pointing down at the heaped freight, he asked, 'What's all this crap? SPAM?'
'SPAM,' Albemarle said, shaking his head.
'I see. That would make things a bit tight.' He sighed.
Robles led us along a steel-grated walkway to the far end, where we could see Captain Coombs and Mr. Kranuski waiting for us, armed to the teeth, beside another watertight door. As we came up, they stared at me as though they couldn't believe their eyes.
'What the hell's going on?' Coombs demanded. 'What's this little girl doing here?'
'Get her outta here,' Kranuski told Robles darkly.
'Hold on!' Cowper said, holding him off. 'Before you do anything, you ought to know this kid may be immune to Agent X. She has a genetic problem-Lulu, what's it called?'
'Chromosomal amenorrhea,' I said.
'Right, and she's been surviving on her own since this thing started-almost a whole month with those bastids. You know how I found her? She knocked on my door! I'm barricaded down there for three and a half weeks, an' she just knocks. I'm telling you, Harvey, she might have an advantage none of us has, not to mention the possibility of a cure.'
I couldn't wait to see how this would fly. Years with Mum had taught me to keep my composure in the face of rampant BS, but even she would've never attempted such a flimsy tale. Then it occurred to me that Cowper might really believe it.
Kranuski scoffed, barely listening, but Coombs said, 'Wait. Are you saying they won't touch her?'
'No. I'm saying she and I came through what you saw up there, and I don't think it's because of our sterling character. If you ask me, she oughta be SPAM.'
'Captain-' Kranuski began.
Coombs looked hard at me, asked, 'What do you think?'
'I don't know, sir,' I said honestly.
'Tough nut, are you?'
'Well… I don't know.'
'What happened to your other shoe?' Before I could reply, he said to Cowper, 'Bring her, what the hell; there's no time. Just keep her out of the way-we're not here to babysit. Christ Almighty!' He shook his head in
