automation took over, and crews got smaller. The Navy, in its wisdom, made them more like the crew of an airplane now than the crew of a battleship, a few specially trained men and women riding on a mass of high-priced technology. The Polaris required a crew of thirty men in the initial design phase, a crew that seemed revolutionarily small at the time for the United States, although the Soviets had for decades been sending out similarly sized crews in their small, rickety submarines. They pared this down to eighteen, which was what he first went to sea with. With attrition, however, and the losses the Alliance was taking, the number kept getting smaller and smaller. There was a joke in the fleet, before things got so serious, that the Navy was using the Polaris as part of an experiment to see how small a submarine crew could get before things fell apart. They seemed to have found the limit.
He sighed and looked at the green bucket sitting on the small bench across from him; Frank had thrown it in there with him when he locked him up, it was his toilet. Heâd actually watched the asshole check it off the procedure that he held in his hands and studied with furrowed brow. There was a thin layer of urine in the bottom, which did nothing to improve the smell in the escape trunk. But there was more, too. McCallister had been on submarines a long time, long enough to recognize when the air was going bad. Almost all the things that could poison a subâs atmosphere were odorless and tasteless: hydrogen from the battery, carbon monoxide from combustion, carbon dioxide from their own lungs. But while odorless, the combination of those things, along with the depletion of oxygen, created a palpable staleness that McCallister was familiar with, a burning in the throat, a headache right behind the eyes, an overpowering sense of fatigue.
âWake up, McCallister.â
Moody had appeared beneath his feet.
âMoody,â he said, his throat dry. âWhat do you want?â
âWanted to take a look at you. Make sure youâre OK. See if youâre ready to cooperate.â
âReady to cooperate?â He laughed. âIt seems you and Frank have already taken over the ship. What do you need me for?â
âNot just me and Frank,â she said. âHamlin, too.â
âBullshit,â he said. âI donât believe you.â
âHe killed Ramirez.â
McCallister hesitated at that, wincing at the dead manâs name. âIâm sure he had his reasons.â
She snorted. âAnd you believe that? I saw him. He was standing over his dead body, the smoking gun in his hand. The only difference between Hamlin and me is that he doesnât have the balls to tell you where he stands. He wants me in charge, but he still wants you to think heâs a swell guy.â
âI donât know what happened. Maybe Ramirez attacked him, maybe Pete got scared. That doesnât make him one of your conspirators,â he said. But Hana could hear the doubt creeping into his voice.
âThen consider this: we were just in my stateroom, reviewing his orders. He showed me everything. Unlocked the patrol order and read it in front of me.â
âNo,â he said, shock in his voice. âI donât believe it. Peteâs a good man. He would never cooperate with you.â
âOh really? Let me review the patrol order with you: weâre going to Eris Island. Now that weâve degaussed, we can approach the island at periscope depth and go ashore. Our mission is to collect the cure and return it to the Alliance. Pete showed me the projections of the epidemic, everything.â
McCallister slumped against the side of the trunk.
âEverything you wouldnât.â
McCallister looked down at her. âJesus, is that what this is about, Hana? That Alliance chip on your shoulder? You took over the ship because you felt slighted?â
âI was slighted!â she
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