Pete walked away from the control room, still trying to gain his bearings—and to recall some memories of what had happened to the Polaris, and his role in it. He climbed down a ladder as he headed aft to avoid McCallister, locked in a steel cage one level above.
Exiting the forward compartment through a watertight hatch, he stepped into the missile compartment: two parallel rows of missile tubes stretching into the distance like a forest of steel trees. There were few signs of the mutiny in here, save for a wisp of smoke that followed him from the forward compartment and the darkness caused by the partial power outage. But there were signs everywhere of a ship that had been stretched to its limit. A shower room, wedged between two missile tubes, was taped off with a sign: OUT OF COMMISSION. The floor was dusty and the stalls had no curtains. Next to it were two nine-man bunk rooms that were dark, their metal racks bare of any mattresses. It looked like the ship had been designed to carry far more men than she had now, and that she had been reduced, even before the mutiny, to the bare minimum complement. The few lights that remained energized blinked and buzzed, and the air smelled dank, like somewhere below him a bilge needed to be pumped. The Polaris, like her crew, had been at sea far too long.
He reached the end of the missiles and came upon two massive machines that were covered in indicators and dials. One had a large red tag hanging from a breaker that read OUT OF COMMISSION. Its twin looked functional, but wasn’t energized. Pete looked it over for a minute and found a small sign: OXYGEN GENERATORS. Behind the amnesia, his engineer’s mind went to work, looking at the dials and indicators, and soon enough put together a rough picture of how the machines functioned. They took the one natural resource that the submarine had access to in unlimited quantities: water. They placed a large voltage across that and tore the water molecules into their constituent parts: hydrogen and oxygen.
While the machine was turned off, a monitoring panel remained lit—a small diagram of the ship with a digital indicator for each of the three main compartments: forward compartment, missile compartment, and engine room. A selector knob allowed him to choose different attributes to measure: oxygen, carbon monoxide, and carbon dioxide. The oxygen level of the engine room and missile compartment was 20 percent—the number was in green, leading Pete to believe that was in the acceptable range. The forward compartment reading was lower and in bright red: 14 percent. Perhaps a result of the fire? The panel showed an open valve between the oxygen banks and each compartment, and Pete pictured an outlet somewhere dispensing the invisible, odorless air that they all needed to survive. But the oxygen banks, he saw, were severely depleted. One was completely empty, and the second was at less than one-quarter capacity. Could anyone onboard make that machine run and create new oxygen? Anyone who wasn’t locked in an escape trunk? He continued aft.
Pete surprised himself by arriving at medical. It seemed like a lot of his memories were like that, trapped right below the surface. If someone had asked him how to find medical, he never could have described it. But wandering through the ship, thinking about everything else, he had found his way there.
The door was unlocked. He found a light switch but it did nothing when he flipped it. In the darkness, he could see locked glass cabinets containing gauze and bandages. He tried the doors, hoping he might procure some industrial-grade painkillers, but they were all locked, and despite the chaos that seemed to have descended upon the Polaris, he was reluctant to break into them and violate the thin glass and tiny locks that guarded them.
He walked farther into the room and began opening drawers until he found a thick roll of gauze and a pair of scissors. He started to fumble with the gauze but dropped it, and it rolled across the floor.
As he bent over to pick it up, he heard movement from the corner, and he flinched just enough to avoid a massive blow. It hit him on the shoulder rather than on his head, where it likely would have cracked his skull.
He rolled onto his back and quickly kicked the implement out of his attacker’s hands—it was a small fire extinguisher. His attacker looked briefly like he wanted to say something, but Pete gave him no time. He sprang to his feet, punched his assailant quickly—twice in the kidneys—then threw him to the ground and put him in a merciless choke hold.
He felt the man tapping his arm, trying to speak. He let the pressure off his throat just enough.
“Pete…” he gasped. “It’s me … Doc Haggerty.”
The name was familiar enough that Pete let him go, but he threw him to the ground and stood up, still unsure if he was friend or foe. He felt the gun in his pocket and resolved to use it if necessary.
“Jesus,” he said, rubbing his throat. “You nearly killed me.” He started to get up, but thought better of it, and sat on the deck while Pete looked him over.
“Who are you?” he said.
The man chuckled at first, but then saw he was serious. “Jesus, Peter. I’m John Haggerty. Ship’s doctor. Your friend!”
Vague memories went through Pete’s mind as he looked him over: the dark beard, the intelligent eyes, the professorial glasses. He seemed familiar enough that he reached down to help the doctor to his feet. The doctor warily took his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“No, I’m sorry,” said Haggerty. “I didn’t know what else to do when the mutiny started, so I came back here to guard my little domain.”
Pete nodded. “Trying to fix this,” he said, pointing to the gash on his head.
The doctor looked at him quizzically, and then went to work, skillfully binding up his wound. He looked Pete closely in the eye as he worked. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
Pete decided that the time had come to trust someone. And this was the ship’s doctor apparently—maybe he could help. He took a deep breath.
“I don’t remember anything,” he said. “I woke up in a stateroom with this cut on my head, and a gun in my hand.”
“A gun?”
Pete nodded, and hesitated. “I think I shot Ramirez.”
The doctor took a moment to take this in, watching Pete carefully as he did.
“You really don’t remember anything?”
Pete nodded.
“You could easily have some short-term amnesia—brought on by that blow to the head. Or, maybe, the trauma of killing your friend. Your memories will probably come back with time. And with rest.”
“How much of either of those am I likely to get?”
He nodded. “Good point.” He looked Pete over hard as he finished, snipping the tape that held the gauze in place. “So you don’t remember our orders? Your mission?”
“Nothing,” said Hamlin.
The doctor sighed and leaned heavily against the wall. “Where do I start? You came here a month ago, sealed orders in hand. When you showed the captain, he brought me in—thought I might be able to help, given the nature of the mission.”
“Which is?”
“You really don’t remember, do you?”
“I wouldn’t be asking you if I did.”
“You carry the fate of the Alliance—and maybe the whole world—on your shoulders.”
“And now I don’t remember a thing. Great.”
The doctor nodded grimly, and seemed ready to speak, when loud footsteps came down the passageway. Frank Holmes appeared at the door.
“You’re needed forward,” he said to Pete. He ignored the doctor. “Captain Moody wants us both in the wardroom, now.”
“What about me?” said the doctor.
Frank smirked. “She didn’t say anything about you. You can stay here.”
Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away.
Hamlin turned to Haggerty. “I guess I should go.”
He nodded in agreement. Just as Pete walked out, he stopped him. “Pete…”
“Yes?”
“Don’t tell anybody what you’ve told me. Trust no one.”
Pete nodded at that, and followed the sound of Frank’s footsteps ahead of him. As he did, a thought crossed his mind. Why would the captain assign a doctor to help me?