Pride Runs Deep

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Blood stains never came out of cotton khakis, Russo thought, flicking at the dried blood on his sleeve. It was not his blood. The day was gray and the clouds were low, making the stains look almost black. Strangely, it was the only thing he could think about. The whole patrol had been a blur.

“Sir!” Chief Konhausen shouted from up by the bow, where several sailors stood on deck gaping over the starboard side of the ship. Two of them held a line for the diver whose bubbles broached the surface of the water near the hull.

“Captain!” Konhausen shouted again, this time from the deck just beneath the conning tower.

The cool North Pacific air whisked across the bridge and broke Russo’s trance. He leaned over the coaming and held his hand to his ear as if he had not heard Konhausen the first time.

“How’s it look?” he called.

“It’s worse than I thought, Captain. The torpedo’s fouled in the shutter mechanism. We can’t move her and I don’t want to. The exploder could be armed, sir. Anything might set it off.”

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