Something’s Alive on the Titanic by Robert Serling

Author:Robert Serling [Serling, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

The light cruiser U.S.S. Tucson, part of a small task force on antisubmarine maneuvers, was heading back to her home port in Norfolk, Virginia—much to the displeasure of her feisty captain.

He was unhappy because the squadron commander had cut the maneuvers short when the four-ship group got caught on the fringe of an Atlantic storm. After the abort signal, Tucson’s skipper complained to his executive officer, “I’ll bet the Russian navy doesn’t go chicken in a little rough weather.”

The exec didn’t want to disagree with his captain, but he remarked, “Might be for the best, sir. Sea’s pretty rough. It really looked threatening toward the northeast. I could swear the sky had a green tinge to it. Never saw a sky like that before.”

The skipper grunted. “Sea’s not that bad, and the barometer’s rising. Methinks the commodore must have a terminal case of cold feet.”

Yet orders were orders, and the trim cruiser plowed her way peacefully on a westerly heading. Flanking Tucson were two destroyers, and a mile astern, the flagship heavy cruiser Sacramento followed sedately.

The captain was still grumbling over the decision to cancel the exercise when the bridge intercom buzzed and was immediately answered by the exec.

“Sir,” he addressed the captain, “bow lookouts report an overturned lifeboat about two hundred yards ahead, just off the starboard bow. Want one of the cans on our flank to investigate?”

“Hell, no. First interesting thing that’s happened all day. Advise Sacramento we’re investigating. All engines stop.”

Tucson’s momentum faded quickly, the captain peering at the bobbing object in their path. “Jesus,” he muttered, “there’s a man on that lifeboat. Ahead slow—let’s pick him up. I hope the poor devil’s alive.”

Ten minutes later, the soaked, limp figure of Derek Montague was hauled aboard the cruiser and taken immediately to sick bay. Tucson resumed course while the captain paced the bridge impatiently, waiting for word from the ship’s doctor. “Can’t stand the suspense,” he finally told the exec, who knew his captain only too well. “I’m going down to sick bay; you have the con.”

He didn’t particularly like sick bay, largely because it was the one area of the ship where his authority was somewhat diluted. He also considered the chief medical officer a fussy, oversolicitous mother hen, although he liked him personally.

“How’s he doing?” he asked the doctor, a roly-poly man who had all the naval bearing of a shoe salesman.

“Badly dehydrated and suffering from exposure, but I think he’ll recover.”

“Did he say what ship he was on?”

The chief medical officer frowned in reprimand. “I haven’t questioned him, Captain, because I’ve been too busy making sure he’ll live.”

“Is he well enough for me to ask a few questions?”

The doctor enjoyed these rare moments of superiority. “Just a few,” he warned importantly. “I’ve already given him a sedative, so I don’t know how coherent he’ll be. All I got out of him was his name—Derek Montague. Except ...”

“Except what?”

“Well, he was delirious at first. He kept saying, ‘something’s alive down there.’ Over and over again.

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