Sea of Lost Souls Read online

  “Time plus eleven!”

  Chief needed to hurry up and submit that muster report.

  Bickley sat on the desk. “I wouldn’t worry too much. Head wounds bleed a lot, but they’re usually not that bad.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “You did good. At breakfast, everyone is going to know about the heroic nuke who saved the day during the man-overboard. Maybe you’ll even get a medal. Your parents will have to admit that a medal for valor is pretty cool.”

  I picked up the book I’d been reading. “And yet, I’m still on phone watch.”

  Such was life in the Navy. And besides, my parents wouldn’t care if I’d gotten a medal for rescuing the Admiral from a great white shark. The last conversation I’d had with them had hammered home their disapproval in my career choice.

  My colleagues snickered, and they settled in chairs around me while we waited for Chief to return and let us go back to bed, or watch.

  Torres picked up a squeeze toy shaped like a football and tossed it to Bickley. “So, who do you guys really think is the reactor ghost?”

  “My money’s on Diaz,” Bickley said. “That dipstick is a big-time practical joker. I can see him moving our stuff around.”

  The captain’s nasally voice came on the intercom. “Time plus twelve. All hands accounted for. The aft lookout team spotted a chem light in the water.” He sounded equally exhausted and annoyed.

  We all sagged with relief. Now we just had to wait for Chief to come down and dismiss us.

  “It’s not just moving stuff around, though,” Torres said. “Remember that drawing?”

  There was a pregnant pause as we recalled the unexplainable incident the week before. We’d all exited the reactor classroom at the end of a training session, chatting amongst ourselves and heading up to lunch. Torres had doubled back to get her notebook, then shouted for us to “come see.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, yeah, that was weird. But a giant drawing on the whiteboard isn’t… isn’t… it’s not paranormal by itself.”

  “A drawing of an F-18 suddenly appearing on the board ten seconds after we left the room is just plain fre... what was that?” She slid to her feet, her hand held up.

  We hushed, looking at her for an explanation. She strode out the door, turning her head back and forth. “Hello?”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I swear to God, I just heard Rollins. But like… he was far away, but also just on the other side of the wall. Didn’t you hear him?” She studied the bulkhead, as if the chart-covered space would suddenly produce Rollins.

  “What did you hear?” Bickley asked. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  Torres rubbed her forehead. “I don’t even know. Just… just an impression of his voice, I guess.” She gave her head a little shake. “I’m probably hearing things because I’m so tired.”

  “I hear the reactor phone ring sometimes, if I’m using the head on watch,” I said. “You’re just worried about him.” I tossed the squeeze ball to her. “You might as well stay up with me. Your watch slot begins in twenty minutes.”

  “Ugh. Thanks for reminding me.” She raised her hand to throw the ball back to me, but then lowered it, her eyes narrowing as she looked toward the door. “I just heard him again. I’m positive I did.”

  I sighed. “He’s probably getting stitches right now. I didn’t hear anything. It’s just the late hour, Tor.”

  “What did he say?” Bickley asked.

  Torres closed her eyes. “He said… he’s saying… ‘I’m standing right here, guys.’”

  Bickley suppressed a smile. “You’ve been reading paranormal stuff again, haven’t you? I’m telling you, quit hitting the library in your downtime and start playing dominoes, like a normal sailor.”

  “I like ghost stories,” Torres said, affronted. “I’m psychic, you know.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. Not this crap again. It was one thing to say you were connected to the “beyond,” but it was just tacky to joke about Rollins. “Being able to guess that the galley is going to run out of food on any given day does not make you psychic. It means you have a good grasp of statistics.”

  Bickley grinned. “Yeah, the hungrier you are, combined with the variable of whether or not you’re luckless enough to be a nuke, determines—”

  “Shut up, you guys!” Torres said. “I thought you were on my side. You’re just as much into the ghost stuff as I am.” She smacked my shoulder.

  I smacked her back. “Not to the point that I’m joking about saying you hear Rollins’s ghost or something.”

  “I wasn’t joking! I really did!”

  “Hands to yourselves, you two,” Bickley said. “It’s way too late at night for me to break up a catfight. “He held out an arm between us. “I know something that’ll make you both happy: there’s never any line at the pay phones this time of night. Since you’re awake, why don’t you both call your parents? Tell them you’re calling live from a hurricane. It always impresses the civilians. Goldstein, it’s only bedtime in Virginia, right? And Torres, you’re from around Chicago, right? I bet your dad’s up.”

  Torres lightened up. “Oh, good idea!”

  Our resident Navy brat was the daughter of a retired Master Chief, and she was the most complete daddy’s girl I’d ever met. Even more than me. Before this deployment, she’d cut her hair like his when he was in the service, accidentally making her look like a little boy from afar. Still, she was proud that he was proud, so we didn’t give her grief about it. Much.

  Torres began to idly flip through one of the nuclear manuals from the bookshelf, but I turned away and swallowed the new lump in my throat. Before I could resume pretending to read my book, Bickley asked, “You going to call anyone tonight?” His tone carried his real meaning.

  I glanced up at him, then away. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  His warm hand on my shoulder made me look up again, and he had the expression on his face that underlined why he’d been promoted so quickly through the nuke ranks: stern, yet understanding. “Call home, Rachel.”

  I gulped and nodded. I needed to, but damn, I didn’t want to. What was there to say to the people who’d called me selfish for joining the Navy? Hashem knew, I loved my parents more than life itself, but the wound was too deep, too raw for a mere phone call.

  And I knew how the call would go. Once again, they’d recite the list of things they’d given their only child: the best schools, a private shul tutor, the most elaborate bat mitzvah Virginia Beach, Virginia had ever seen, shopping trips to New York, all of it.

  “But I want adventure,” I’d hissed at them, that turbulent day on the pier, minutes before walking onto the USS Taft. “I want to see the world, serve my country, and grow up. I’m not a little girl anymore. Can’t you just be happy for me?”

  And that’s when my father had spat the worst thing he’d ever said to me. The words had wrapped around me like a curse, sinking into my insides. Even there, in the reactor room, I could still feel the sting of them.

  “I’m not selfish,” I whispered, the words of my novel blurring together. “I’m not.”

  Bickley checked his watch. “And I know you’re not. As for me, I’ll be calling my kids, if Chief ever gets back down here. I wonder if the officers gave him trouble about being so late?”

  I let out a long breath, then blinked and smiled up at Bickley. “I doubt it. More likely, he’s biting his nails up with the guys on the bridge. There’s still a jet out there. I’ve been counting them. The flight deck guys said four jets were out when the storm came up. I’ve only heard three land.”

  Torres snapped the manual shut. “You couldn’t pay me enough to try to land a jet on the carrier in a storm like this. They’d be safer flying straight back to Oceana Naval Air Station. We’re in the middle of the Atlantic, right? It’s not that far.”

  The sound of boots descending the stairs made us all turn toward the door. Torres poked her head out, then turned back with a relieved
smile. “It’s Chief.”

  Finally. “Well, good night, everyone,” I said, turning back to my desk to pick up my book. “Enjoy your phone calls. After everything, maybe we all should go vis—"

  My vision was snuffed out like a candle.

  2

  This is a nice pillow.

  My first inane thought upon waking was immediately chased away by another, more serious one: where am I?

  I hadn’t even opened my eyes yet and I knew I wasn’t anywhere I’d been before. The rack felt wrong, much too hard for anything I’d ever encountered in the Navy. I scraped my fingertips across the surface and felt a thin, rough material, almost like taut burlap. The smell was also wrong, vaguely sterile and cold, like a hospital. My berthing smelled like an old factory—of oil, paint, dirt, and sweat.

  I opened my eyes. A metal beam above my head bore the spray painted words NO SMOKING IN YOUR RACK.

  Well, that answered that question. I wasn’t on the USS Taft anymore. For one thing, smoking was only allowed in a few designated areas on the Taft, so the message was redundant. For another, I was lying on a framed canvas hammock attached to the bulkhead with two chains. Beds like this hadn’t been on ships since World War II, at least.

  My hammock was one of many in the large room in which I’d woken, but only a few of them were occupied. Bickley slept to my left, a hand on his chest and a babyish peace on his face. On the far end of the room stood two proper racks, complete with mattresses and sheets. Torres was bundled sweetly in the top rack, breathing slowly and soundly. The bottom rack was in disarray, as if the occupant had vacated it in a hurry.

  The storm had passed; there was nothing to feel but a smooth, relaxing lull as the ship moved through still waters. But what ship were we on? What had happened? I closed my eyes and massaged my eyelids, straining to recollect anything at all.

  A sound.

  A feeling.

  And then…nothing. But it was a deep nothingness, a meaningful nothingness. I’d experienced similar mental void in nuke school, when I’d partied too hard on the weekends. Nuke life is a grind, they’d said. Drink away your frustrations, they’d said. I’d woken up on Sunday mornings, weekend after weekend, having no clue what had happened in the last twelve hours. But the weight of those hours was still in my mind, just as it was now.

  Something had happened to us.

  I threw back the thin wool blanket and swung my feet over the edge, then hopped down. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  A USS Taft aviator walked out of a nearby room, his head turning all around until he found me. He carried himself with a tense alertness that hinted that he, too, didn’t know where he was. He was fairly young, perhaps around thirty, and on the squirrely side, with thin, pointed features, and quick movements. His flight suit identified him as Lieutenant Commander Hollander.

  Self-consciousness rose up in me; he outranked me quite a bit. I automatically began to recall everything I knew about dealing with high-up officers. Remember to call him Commander, not Lieutenant Commander. Address him as “sir.” Stand at attention until he tells you otherwise. You don't have to salute him right now because you're inside.

  He spotted me and hurried over. “Sailor, are you from the Taft? Do you know who the others are? I woke up just a few minutes ago.”

  I snapped to attention. “I’m Petty Officer Goldstein, sir. I’m a nuclear electrician stationed on the Taft.” Now was not the time to get dinged for improper military bearing.

  Commander Hollander, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care. He pulled me close and whispered, “At ease. We’re not on the Taft anymore. In fact, I’m not even sure we’re on a US Navy vessel. I’ve seen a few people around, and they won’t talk to me. They’re dressed wrong, too. I think maybe we’ve been captured, or possibly transferred here under suspicious circumstances.”

  They did not cover this in nuke school.

  I swallowed. “What are you saying, sir?”

  His dark gaze darted toward the door and back to me. “I’m saying that as soon as the others are awake, we’re going to organize an escape. I’m the only officer, so if we’re apprehended, I will speak for all of you. Is that clear?”

  I nodded. “Crystal. Sir, if I may ask…?”

  “What is it?”

  “What do you remember before coming here? Because I don’t remember anything. I was just talking with the other nukes after the man-overboard, and then… nothing. Just nothing.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t remember anything, either. I was on a training mission during that storm. The captain radioed in for the rest of the guys out there with me to come back to the ship, and I was the last one. I remember being totally focused on coming in for landing, and then nothing. Just like you.”

  “Goldstein?” Torres’s sleepy voice made us turn our heads. She sat up and scrubbed the sleep from her face, then got out of her rack. She put her hands on her hips and looked around, finally raising an eyebrow and giving me an expectant expression. She was no longer in her pajamas, but her navy blue jumpsuit-like coveralls she wore during work hours.

  I realized then that none of the nukes were in pajamas or camo, as we’d been during the man-overboard. All of us were in our coveralls. When had we changed? Who’d changed us?

  “Before you ask, we don’t know, either,” I said to Torres. “Sir, this Petty Officer Torres. We’re all in the reactor department. In fact,” I said placing a hand on Bickley's shoulder and giving him a little shake. “I think it’s time to wake everyone up. Bick, get up.”

  Bickley sat up and blinked around in sleepy confusion. “Did I wake up inside Saving Private Ryan? Where the hell are we?”

  Nobody offered an answer. In fact, we all had the same what-the-heck looks on our faces—especially when two women in forties-era starched white nurse uniforms fluttered into the sick bay like two bedsheets with makeup. Old fashioned makeup.

  The shorter of the two, sporting coiffed brown hair and bright red lipstick, grinned from ear to ear. “Oh, you’re awake! I’m so sorry y’all had to wake up alone. That’s never easy. Peggy and I had to talk to the skipper at a moment’s notice.” She had a rich, thick southern drawl that reminded me of my cousins from Savannah.

  “Peggy” was blonde with rosy pink lipstick, and her hair was done up in a grandiose style that I knew had a specific name, but couldn’t quite recall.

  “Why are you two dressed like you’re in a Danny Kay movie?” Torres asked. Leave it to her to be point-blank.

  “Petty Officer, I’ll speak for us,” Commander Hollander said sharply. He directed his no-nonsense look at the nurses. “I’m Lieutenant Commander Hollander, United States Navy. Where are we? What’s happened to us?”

  I angled my body between my colleagues and the unknown nurses as subtly as I could. Maybe I was petite, but I was fierce. My high school lacrosse coach had always told me so, especially after I’d sent one girl to the hospital during a game.

  Peggy and the brunette faltered, and I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for them, since they seemed nice. Indeed, Peggy’s happiness fell away as she said, “I… the captain said that since you’re such a big crowd, he wanted to tell you himself. This is unusual, you see. Usually it’s just one person. We’ve never had four new crew members at once. That’s why some of you had to be in the extra racks. We didn’t even have mattresses for them because we’ve never had to use them before.”

  She spoke with a classic north-midwestern accent, the words themselves stretched into a verbal smile as she spoke them. I placed her from Wisconsin, or maybe Minnesota.

  The brunette held her hand out toward the door. “But I will say that I’m Nurse Dorothy Majors, and this is Nurse Margaret Houston, and you’re on the USS Saint Catherine. You can call us Dot and Peggy, though. Everyone does. You’re on a friendly ship, ya’ll. Come with us and everything will be right as rain.” She spoke with such warmth that I believed her.

  We all exchanged a look, then headed toward the door with Comman
der Hollander taking the lead. While we walked, Torres leaned over and whispered to the rest of us, “There is no such ship as the USS Saint Catherine.”

  I whispered back, “You’re sure?”

  “My dad made me memorize all the possible carriers I could be assigned to. I’m sure.”

  Bickley pointed to the back of Peggy’s head. “Did your dad ever make you memorize something that would explain why she’s wearing victory rolls?”

  I mentally slapped my forehead. That’s what they were called, “victory rolls.” As in, victory against the Axis powers.

  The mystery deepened. We squared our shoulders and continued walking toward whatever awaited us on the enigmatic USS Saint Catherine.

  The ship was old.

  That was the biggest takeaway from our scenic route through the USS Saint Catherine. Peeling paint, leaky pipes, and generally dated everything were impossible to miss. We passed a few sailors at their work, and it truly was like we were on a movie set from the 1940s: the men—there were no other women to be seen anywhere—were clad in navy blue bell bottoms, chambray shirts, and white Dixie cup hats. I half-expected them to strike a jaunty pose and tell me to buy war bonds.

  As we walked past, many of the crewmen would jump up and bid Torres and me appreciative hellos. Some even offered their hands, but Dot and Peggy would hiss at them to get back to work every time. I understood the appeal of the opposite sex as much as anyone, but why were they acting like this? Some of them were so dumbstruck, they didn’t move out of the way for Commander Hollander, nor make any sign they knew an officer was in their presence.

  We were probably aboard an Essex-class aircraft carrier, which made no sense whatsoever; Essex-class ships had been deployed in World War II. None were still in operation, their design having been rendered obsolete by the nuclear powered Nimitz-class carriers, the pride and joy of Admiral Rickover.

  Another oddity was how few sailors there actually were. As we walked through the hangar bay, sun poured in through the hangar bay doors, so where were the thousands upon thousands of people it took to run an aircraft carrier during the day? We’d passed a dozen men in one room, and a handful of diners in a small galley, which itself was staffed by just two cooks instead of the normal eight.