Ghost Sub полностью

They all turned to the flag and saluted as the colors were lowered. It provided a useful, thoughtful pause just as it was starting to get crowded topside. When the last notes echoed across Pearl Harbor, it left them all in a more contemplative mood.

“OK, Dunham, go below with the corpsman, fill that bottle.”

“Aye, aye sir.”

He left.

McCutcheon and the chief looked at each other after they departed. “Can he be saved, chief?”

“Yes sir. He’s a promising mechanic. And he’s certainly not the first young man to make a bad career decision based on a piece of ass.”

“Amen.”

“I’ll tell him to put on a clean uniform and shave before the captain gets back. To look contrite. He’s disqualified everything for now so we’ll put him to work in the galley.”

“Sounds good.”

They both lingered topside, enjoying the sunset, one of their last before a long journey under water.

“Did he look sick to you?” asked the lieutenant. “I thought he seemed a little pale.”

“Pussy withdrawal,” said the chief.

“In that case: good. He deserves it.”

On the pier, Seaman Luke Winn looked up from the empty paint cans he was stacking and tried not to stare. He’d been hearing about Dunham since he arrived two weeks before, the AWOL sailor with the hot Hawaiian girlfriend. Most of the conversations on the topic were some form of this question: would you? Would you accept all the consequences for a few days in the sack with Dunham’s girlfriend? Winn had not seen her, and had little knowledge of what terrible things the navy could do to an AWOL sailor, but he was strongly inclined to say: maybe. Although he’d never seen her, in the stories that were passed around the boat she was exotic and beautiful, and Winn didn’t think he’d be able to say no to whatever such a girl might ask.

The legend of Dunham had steadily grown during his absence. To some he was a hero, a martyr for the love of womankind. To others, he was a reprobate, a danger to the Boise, the submarine force, and Democracy. Winn had never actually seen him before, so he looked Dunham over good as he talked to the duty officer. It was a little bit of a letdown: he just looked like any other dumb squid, a little tired maybe, shorter than he had imagined. It was the same kind of vague disappointment he’d felt when he had first seen the captain. He’d expected, on some level, a guy with a peg leg or an eye patch, or at least some kind of battle scar. But instead Captain Jefferies had banker’s glasses and a quiet voice.

“You want to go up there so you can hear better?” Chief Zimmerman had snuck up on him.

“No, chief,” he said, startled. He got back to stacking the paint cans, every one of which he had helped empty with his brush, during his unending days of painting in Pearl Harbor. When he looked up again, Dunham was gone.

Dunham went to work immediately, assisting with the preparation of food for the entire crew. Only then did the magnitude of what he’d done begin to dawn on him: AWOL. People went to jail for it. During war time, men were shot for it. He’d managed to spend those blissful days with Ashley without thinking of the consequences once, so intoxicated was he by the pleasures of the flesh, the beautiful young girl who was in love with him, just like he was in love with her, willing to do anything for him. If scientists could create a girl specifically for him, it would be Ashley, three quarters Asian and one quarter American, all four quarters hot. Going back to the boat had been unthinkable. But now he was back and he couldn’t stop thinking.

So here he was, stacking Number 10 cans of navy coffee and awaiting his fate. It looked like they weren’t calling shore patrol for him at least, to his vast relief. He wasn’t going to the brig. He would have a long shitty patrol, for sure, an array of punishments and petty humiliations, but he would get through it. Missing Ashley would be the hardest part.

Chief Cassidy, chief of the cooks, came up behind him, laid his hand on his shoulder.

“You feel like scrubbing some pots?”

“Not really, chief.”

“Tough shit. And maybe it will help you rehabilitate.”

“Good point, chief.”

“Take a quick smoke break, change into some dungarees, come back in ten.”

“Aye, aye.”

Dunham didn’t smoke, but he did take breaks.