“Come on in, Tiny Tim,” Quinnivan said, taking off his half-frame reading glasses. He was stationed as command duty officer while Captain Seagraves slept in the neighboring stateroom. He glanced at Fishman, who was wearing blue latex gloves.
“I’d better keep my distance for the moment, XO,” Fishman said quietly. “We have a problem. A medical problem.”
Fishman was joined by the ship’s hospital corpsman, a senior chief named Thornburg, who was also wearing blue gloves. Thornburg was an odd individual, Quinnivan thought. He never wore submarine coveralls, preferring to wear the more formal working khaki uniform. He was short and stocky, his arms muscular from hours of weightlifting in the torpedo room. He was old for submarine service, perhaps forty-five, and as such the oldest man of ship’s company. His gray hair was cut into a severe-looking flattop haircut. Thornburg interacted minimally with the crew. A serious sailor, he had never been known to smile, not that Quinnivan recalled. The crew had aptly nicknamed him “Grim,” and only the yeomen knew his real first name. He was a board-certified internal medicine physician, but had refused the officer accession program and insisted on enlisting, since, according to him, that would allow him to serve in submarines.
“Doc,” Quinnivan said. “Are you going to stand out there too? What’s going on? And what’s with the rubber gloves?”
“XO, we have an outbreak of viral gastroenteritis,” Senior Chief Thornburg said quietly. “Three of the SEALs are affected. I’ve put them in quarantine in the SEALs’ quarters.”
“Viral what?” Quinnivan narrowed his eyes at the corpsman.
“Stomach flu, XO,” Thornburg said. “Senior Chief Tucker-Santos, the SEALs’ corpsman, called me to their quarters and told me what he believed was the diagnosis. I’ve confirmed it. I have the three running IVs for hydration. They all have fevers over a hundred and four, sir. They barely have the strength to make it to their bathroom.”
“It’s coming out of both ends,” Fishman said. “So far, I seem to be okay, but I should self-quarantine just in case.”
Quinnivan consulted his pad computer. “Mr. Fishman, move your accommodations to the aft half-sixpack berthing. It’s empty. Meanwhile, we’ll have your meals brought to you, until we’re more sure of what we’re facing.” He looked at Thornburg. “Doc, tell me what symptoms they have.”
“As Lieutenant Commander Fishman said, sir, severe diarrhea, complicated by losing blood in the watery stool. Weakness, nausea, vomiting. Cramps. Whole body pain. Inability to keep down any liquids. That’s why they’re on intravenous fluids.”
“It’s bad, XO,” Fishman added.
“This is contagious, right?” Quinnivan frowned. “How contagious? How is it transmitted?”
“Well, sir, by sharing liquids or direct touch on a wet surface touched by one of the infected. It’s not airborne. But the quarantine is a precaution just in case.”
“How did they get it in the first fookin’ place?” Quinnivan asked.
“Contaminated food or water,” Thornburg said.
“For fook’s sake, Doc, are you saying our potable water could be contaminated? Or our food?”
Thornburg looked at Fishman, who nodded and said, “Since no else in the crew is affected, Doc and Tucker-Santos think it’s something brought onboard by my people. We brought protein bars and a case of some of those energy drinks with protein.”
“The cans of that shit that Aquatong is always slamming down?” Quinnivan asked. “What is that stuff, ‘Vulcan Werewolf?’”
“‘Vulcan Vampire,’” Fishman said. “I’ve confiscated the protein bars and cans of energy drinks. We should dispose of them all at the next opportunity to dump trash.”
“Make sure that stuff is wrapped up and taped so no one in the TDU room is tempted to try an energy drink or a protein bar.” The TDU was the trash disposal unit, a vertical torpedo tube to eject trash. With the rig for ultraquiet, the trash compactor was secured, but the trash room was filling up to overflowing and Quinnivan planned to suggest to the captain that they fade back from the Omega and dispose of their trash. Probably the same time they did a steam generator blowdown, an even louder evolution, but without it, the boiler level detectors would eventually go berserk and they could lose the reactor, and a reactor scram under ice would place the entire crew — and mission — in mortal peril. With total ice coverage overhead, there was no way to run the emergency diesel, and the battery could only stay alive for half a day before there would be a total loss of power.
“How long till the boys get over this stomach bug?” Quinnivan asked.
“Three days is the usual duration, XO,” Thornburg said. “But the illness has been known to go on for up to two weeks.”
“Well, Mr. Fishman,” Quinnivan said, “Looks like your men are out of commission for the time being. Fortunately for you, you won’t be called on to do anything.”
