Overwhelmed

The murderer looked at the target through the periscope holding the torpedo remote firing button in his hand ready to sink the Peace Ship. Crane descended the ladder to come at him from above and behind. Crane got the murderer into a full nelson and he dropped the firing button.

That was the last of success though. The murderer head butted the already concussed Captain. They grappled; Crane gave a couple of good body blows but took more head blows in quick succession, lost his footing, fell, and rolled off the periscope island down onto the deck.

Crane's vision dimmed, his consciousness started to fade. The murderer, exalting in success, picked up the firing button gloating over his failure to prevent. He hadn't stopped the torpedo. Darkness took him.*

Since the Doc had come to check on him, Crane had weakened dramatically. Lack of food, water, and sleep had sapped his strength and the battering had ravaged him.

Guards brought Nelson back into the compartment after one of his 'breaks'.

Nelson never wanted to see that chair again, that prison from which he was forced to watch what they did to Lee. Foley watched as they secured him to the chair. Nelson saw the racking they had assembled about two thirds of the way aft and his chest tightened in apprehension. One side beam was slightly sloped and ended at a crosspiece about four and a half feet up from the deck. The crosspiece extended about 3 feet out to the sides. It had an ominous look but Nelson couldn't quite place it.

Foley spoke, "All right. Admiral, we will now revive a good naval tradition that has sadly fallen into disuse." He looked at Nelson. "Can you guess?"

Nelson's didn't know but suspected something more than unpleasant was in the works. He declined to reply but his face revealed his apprehension.

Foley smiled a despicable smile. "You can't? You will get to witness the first incidence in a hundred years unless you stop it."

"No." He couldn't believe it, but he knew now what they were going to do.

Foley calmly watched Nelson. "Your Captain will be flogged, Admiral." He paused, "Only you can stop it."

Since most of the guards were focussed on him Nelson cried out, "Lee, run!"

Crane sitting back to the bulkhead scrambled to his feet and started toward Nelson. A guard stopped him cold with a single punch to his ribs. Crane futilely resisted as several of them manhandled him to face the sloping beam and tied his arms out on the crosspiece.

Foley's quiet, reasonable voice was in complete contrast to the words he now spoke. "Whelan let the cat out of the bag."

Nelson shouted, "No! You wouldn't!"

Foley calmly said the unthinkable. "You object? Why? The navy historically has a fondness for the cat, to keep the crew in line. It wasn't used on officers though was it? But yes, we would. We will, unless you speak. Tell us, Admiral."

Nelson didn't speak, turned his face away shaking his head in desperate anger. He took some comfort in knowing most flogging was for correction, so a man could recover and return to useful duty, not to destroy him. But Lee was already hurt.

Whelan took the cat out of a red bag, walked in front of Crane swinging and teasing out the strands. As Whelan eyed him up and down taking enjoyment in the breaking sweat, the apprehension, the fear, Messer stepped in front of Crane and once again traced his finger through the sweat, down Crane's face looking into his eyes as he did. Crane pulled his face away, glared at Messer, livid, repulsed. Messer slowly smiled.

Foley continued, "Naval tradition has flogging carried out in the presence of the Captain and conveniently here he is, and in front of the crew, that's hard to do on a submarine but we can improvise."

Foley went to the mike and addressed the crew over the PA. "Now hear this, all hands to witness punishment. Admiral Nelson is charged with one count of not co-operating with us, and a second charge of actively hindering our mission. The punishment of 12 lashes with the cat o nine tails for each charge will be carried out summarily on his substitute, Captain Crane. You will now hear punishment."

The crew listened to the announcement in puzzlement. Looked at each other bewildered. What did Foley mean?

Foley held the mike out to Crane's face. Foley wanted the Captain, and through him the Admiral, to suffer every humiliation possible.

The men are listening. How to get through this? Don't give anything away. Don't scream.

Twenty-four lashes with the cat, no one in the modern Navy had felt that. A punishment so brutal it was abolished about 1850.

Then Whelan stepped up to Crane. He spoke to the Captain for the first and only time mocking him insolently knowing it was in the hearing of his crew. "Can you take it like a man, Captain?" As Whelan snapped the first stroke with the cat Messer watched Crane, saw the wincing, the jerking of his body. Satisfied with what he saw in Crane's eyes, his face, he nodded his approval to Whelan.

It was grievous. Barbaric. Foley counted the strokes as Messer and Whelan took turns so the strokes didn't weaken. They paused partway; took a break to keep their arms fresh and forceful. Crane, panting and gasping involuntarily in a misery audible to all aboard, wished they would finish, the waiting a heartless extension of the cruelty.

Foley indicated they continue and counted the strokes. When they got to eighteen Crane lost his footing, slid down sagging limply into his bonds, face resting against the beam. Foley had them pause, held the mike closer to Crane who was pulling himself up, regaining his feet. Made sure everyone aboard could hear the struggling breaths, the suppressed groans. Then Messer and Whelan continued to finish the full count, the Captain holding himself upright in defiance.

He didn't scream, didn't, but every twitching muscle and shuddering breath betrayed him; every breath quavering, he struggled to stay on his feet. Still he contained the worst so the Admiral didn't hear the shrieking, rampaging fury going on in his mind. He stopped the rage at his teeth.

The crew heard the Skipper's fast heaving breaths against the background of disbelieving stunned silence. He didn't yell — took it like a man, as naval tradition called it — but the involuntary anguished sound of his breathing spoke loudly for him, reverberating throughout the silent boat. The crew was stunned and appalled.

Foley in his ever quiet, calm voice now demanded that insult be added to injury. "Now the brine."

Nelson yelled not caring that the crew could hear. "No, you bastards!" He struggled violently, twisting his arms futilely against the bonds, hurting his wrists. The crew heard Nelson's yell and shrank in anticipation.

Whelan picked up the waiting bucket of seawater, stepped in front of Crane to silently mock him with it, dipped his hand into the brine and flicked some into Crane's face to sting in his eyes then stepped behind him and threw the bucket of water over his back.

Crane's body jerked to the pain. Prepared by the mockery, he kept in the screams but groans leaked past his clenched teeth. Foley kept the mike on. Foley wanted them all to suffer through the next minute. It seemed an eternity. Finally he clicked the mike off.

In the control room the crew were transfixed by the sounds of the punishment meted out to their Skipper. They were frozen in shock as the PA clicked off. The hijackers there threatened the watch with their guns demanding they return to their duties. The men looked at each other stunned and then to Mr. Morton, each wondering if they were ready now for the Tuesday Drill.

Nelson couldn't look at Lee. Guilt was pulverizing him. Lee chose to endure it and he chose to let him endure, but his solidarity to their mutual decision was fractured. To himself he acknowledged his first loyalty was now to his friend. He would tell them now if he could but he was helpless, he had no knowledge to reveal. Nelson turned his head away shaking in misery. Rage was building pressure beneath his vocal cords, trying to erupt, to roil out screaming in its ferocity. Lee's endurance was the only thing keeping him from shrieking out his rage now; Lee's endurance was crushing his soul.

Can't keep this up. The Admiral has turned away. Don't. Can't do this without him.

When the guards untied Crane he stood swaying, started to step away from the frame then sagged to his knees. Dropping down onto all fours he retched, although there was nothing in his stomach to bring up. He weakly crawled a couple of feet and lay down flat despite the pain in his ribs, rested his face on the cold metal of the deck. Once Nelson was released he immediately went to one of the cots and, with an icy look daring the guard to prevent him, grabbed a pillow and blanket and moved to Crane. Messer watched as the Admiral tried to make him a bit more comfortable right there on the deck.

Crane was troubled. He couldn't hide this. He was trying but his mental strength was wearing down. His mind was following his body into the black. How much longer? He felt the call of a different world; felt Farrell nearby. He needed to help the Admiral. But he couldn't keep this up. He needed the Admiral to understand … to be prepared.

As Nelson helped him, Crane looked up at him, "I don't have much left, sir." And after a brief pause he continued, "Admiral, I think this might be the day. If it is, it's been an honour to serve … "

Hearing those telling words, Nelson interrupted cutting him off abruptly, "No, Lee. This is not that day."

Crane was sure he wouldn't have another chance, that he was a dead man. The need was urgent to tell the Admiral how much it had meant to be entrusted with the command of the sub, to thank him for that trust. He tried again, "Just in case, it's been a privilege to command your Seaview … "

Again interrupting Nelson shook his head and insistently reiterated, "No it's not today. You can tell me another time, Lee."

Messer lost interest and moved away.

Nelson tried desperately to reassure him, "Morton will do something soon."

"Admiral, I don't think it will help us much. Doc thinks Morton is trying to give us The Slip."

Nelson looked at Crane in undisguised concern. "Are you sure that's what he said?" He looked around to see where the captors were then murmured, "But that's just theoretical. It's never been tested." His glance asked for more information.

Crane sighed tiredly. "It's just a thought. May never happen."

Nelson didn't press any further as Lee was desperately weak, weary and hurting badly, so he turned and sat on the deck beside him leaning back against the racking. Nelson sadly faced the unwelcome reality that Lee did not think he would survive this day, that he didn't expect to live to see a rescue.

As they rested there on the deck, at one point they heard Morton on the intercom talking about a Tuesday Duty detail. Nelson looked at Crane. "What on earth?"

Crane just shook his head exhaustedly. He had no idea what that meant either.

Nelson saw the captors heading over to them; this break hadn't been long enough. Lee was spent. As the Admiral got to his feet he tried to encourage Crane, "Hold on, Lee. Just … hold on."

Messer was always going to kill the man. He and Foley had done other jobs together and no matter what Foley told the selected ones about getting to live they didn't. Both he and Foley knew that the money Messer got was just money. The real payment was the kill. He relished the kill, the thrill, the build up, the power, and the finality. He got a kill with every job contracted with Foley. A kill he would never have to account for. He especially enjoyed killing the naive ones who thought that if they broke and complied they would get to live. None of the selected ones lived. Ever.

He was glad when he saw the selected one this job. It was a bit different since they weren't trying to get this man to talk but it would be a good kill. He liked killing assured, self-confident, good-looking ones. Ones that believed that because life had always given them so much they would actually survive their encounter with him. They never did. Messer thrived on the look in their eyes when that realization hit them just a second or two before he finished them.

Unfortunately some of his payment in that thrill was already gone for this man. The man had known for a while he would die. He saw the handshake the man gave the doctor; the man knew then he would die. The man tried to tell the other one but it was the other one who didn't believe it. No matter, the man knew. Messer would get his thrill in making the dying harrowing, instead of in the surprise realization at the end. It was good that Foley also wanted the dying for the man to be horrific for the torment of the other one. Messer liked Whelan's choice, planned to enjoy it.

The Admiral was hustled away from Crane. Once again he was strapped to the chair. He hated that chair. Then the hijackers hauled Crane back to his feet and it was different this time, they yanked his arms high out to the sides, tied his wrists to the main part of the racking they had assembled. Stretched tall. Both officers realized with apprehension how much more of Crane's body was exposed and vulnerable in this position. Crane, feeling that vulnerability, with his body stretched and open to what ever was coming, flexed and shifted his shoulders, arms, and hands to see how tightly they were bound. His wrists were tied differently. The right arm could pivot and twist a bit in the bonds; the left was firmly fixed immovably by the bonds to the upright, it was uncomfortable.

Foley approached Nelson, "Well, Admiral, I hope you enjoyed your break." He paused for a moment, "It was the last one. Time is up. I am tired of this." He turned and looked at Crane then back at Nelson. "Your Captain is certainly very tired of all of this as well. You will now talk to me."

Admiral Nelson responded with dreadful fear on his face but calm in his voice. "You must know by now that I will not."

"Admiral, we have just marked your Captain with the cat. That was tame to what is coming. Won't you stop his suffering?"

Nelson sat trembling in fury and silence unable to meet Foley's eyes.

"We will go on. Won't you stop us?"

Nelson continued in silence his head down, shaking no. He had nothing to say to Foley. He was overridden with guilt. His best friend stood stretched and exposed, hurt and bound before him; he the captive audience to this brutal display. He could do nothing to help him.

"Even if it means the life of your friend? He's tired and hurting now but still alive. No? All right then we go on to the final phase … for your Captain. I'm telling you this so you know exactly what to expect. It will be fast; there will be no breaks, and no stopping. We will now, to put it quite simply, just beat him to death … unless you talk to us. Once we start, this will only stop when you talk, or the Captain dies. Shouldn't take too long. If the Captain dies we'll move on to someone else, perhaps Chief Sharkey, and start over."

Foley brought out a short length of chain and a truncheon. The chain was specially made with a long stiff handle to improve the control and protect the one who wielded it from the whipping links. He handed the chain to Whelan, who selected the cat and the chain for this job. Whelan grinned in anticipation. Foley liked it when Whelan chose the chain; it created a dreadful terror in victims. It was more than the injury to the flesh; it devastated their minds with horror as it destroyed their bodies. Foley handed the truncheon to Messer. The truncheon was likely to rupture an organ.

Nelson glanced at Crane who was looking up at his wrists testing his bonds. He trembled with dread. He thought in despair that Lee couldn't have known this was next.

Crane dropped his eyes and suddenly saw the chain. He was aghast, terrified. Adrenaline coursed through him.

Can't talk now, not now after getting through so much already. Don't talk. Don't think about the orders, the message. The message! It's here! No, don't think about that. Think about something else. Don't scream; don't scream. Can't hurt the Admiral with screams. Don't scream. Oh, god, no!

Whelan moved around Crane swinging the clinking chain back and forth. His smirking smile showed the pleasure he took in sizing up where to strike and in his skill at landing each blow exactly where he wanted it.

The chinking sound of the links transported him back.

He was alone; no help could reach him. Lying on the deck, pinned down by fallen torpedoes, chains wrapped about him, the treacherous shifting links clinked betraying his movements as he struggled to free himself. With a deadly, unseen enemy nearby he was trapped, injured, and afraid. The man he was then found a way out, subduing his enemy.#

The sound of the chain swinging in Whelan's hand called him back to this moment. The man he was now found only exhaustion and dread, no hope.

As Whelan moved behind him, Crane frantically twisted, looking over his shoulder. He desperately turned craning his neck to keep an eye on the chain. He had nothing to anticipate except the coming savagery, but still he strained to see where the chain was in case in seeing he could move to blunt the force. The refrain ran through his brain like a mantra; don't scream, don't scream.

Foley raised his hand and enquired, "Nelson?"

Nelson shook with furious anger but remained silent, the choice made long ago. He couldn't bear this. Lee was more than the captain of his sub, more than a friend. He was chosen family even though Lee didn't know that.

Foley dropped his hand and Whelan immediately swung the chain in a vast arc. The alarmingly brutal sound as it cracked into Crane reverberated through the compartment.

Crane jerked to the blow as the speeding links whipped around him. The impact was a searing heat, ripping his skin. The links thudded against his bones. His head snapped up in startled astonishment at the scorching agony. He staggered, fell, but jolted as his bound arms jerked him to a stop, muscles stretched and yanked intolerably. Cold sweat broke, futile against this scalding outrage. There was no blunting this. This was too much.

Everything up to now had been borne for country, crew, and friendship. This was unbearable. With his death as the only foreseeable ending now, in this instant, while this firestorm of pain flared and consumed him, incinerating all hope, all his striving ceased. Locking his eyes on Nelson's, he wordlessly admitted defeat. He abhorred what this would add to his friend's torment, and as that realization and shame engulfed him, his gaze faltered and he dropped his eyes in soul-crushing guilt.

He had hoped this moment wouldn't come, but it was here and there was nothing left in him to stop it. He was vanquished by this inferno of sensation. Even as his body spasmed and writhed in reaction to the fiery burning blow, with bitterness, in self-loathing and disgrace he forced his eyes to briefly meet Nelson's again. He shook his head once to warn his friend of what was now inevitable, self-condemnation written on his face for the Admiral to read with heart-rending pity.

In stark dismay Nelson realized that this, now, was the moment he had hoped would never come. Lee's inner resources were striped away and gone; his resolve shattered. He knew what Crane had been doing; hiding the pain. He hadn't been sure if it was pride, stoicism or to shield him, now he knew. Lee had been shielding him all this time but Lee had come to the end of that. He couldn't do it any longer.

In understanding and compassion Nelson murmured in despair to himself, "Oh, Lee. No."

Nelson thought fast for a way to mitigate his friend's anguish without betraying him or the mission. So little could be done. Then as Whelan started to swing the chain again Nelson started yelling, "No! No! No! Stop!"

The chain whipped through the air, thwacked a searing strip on Crane's body. This time, in response to the burning laceration, the jarring impact, for the first time since the beginning Crane screamed. Then the next blow bit down on Crane.

"Only if you tell me!" said Foley quietly.

Nelson, in compassion and pity, yelled so Crane can hear him, "Scream, Lee, it's okay. Yell all you need to!"

Foley said quite calmly, "It'll stop if you tell me!"

Ignoring Foley, Nelson cried out loudly again, "Yell, Lee."

Lee was on a different plain, unable to take in anything but the pain. The pain filled and consumed him, body and mind, leaving no room to take in the Admiral's intention.

Then Messer swung the truncheon onto Cranes upper back. The weight behind the blow drove Crane down as far as his bound arms allowed, jerking his chest, ribs, and arms intolerably. The heavy guttural groan generated became a screaming cry, as for mercy. There was none.

Whelan moved back into position to strike another blow from a different angle, the chain whistled through the air. Nelson could hear the deep audible thump as it wrapped around Crane's chest, thudding his broken ribs, flaying his flesh. Nelson cringed at these sounds and at Lee's shrieking reply to the blow. He yelled to cover the screams, to help Lee. There was no pause or let up; the pace of the beating was intense, unrelenting. Crane's clothing, rent by cat and chain, was streaked with blood. Foley was right this would not take long.

If they ask him now, he will tell them. He knows he will. The message is right here. They all look at him — all of them. No one speaks to him. No one asks him anything.

Messer and Whelan spelled each other off. No one could spell off the Captain. After a time, while the blows fell in undiminished brutality, the Captain's voice grew husky and hoarse. Nelson, now in full despair, all his hope for Lee's life lost, yelled his rage out so Lee didn't have to cry out alone. Morton didn't act in time.

The Admiral yells at him. Yells at him because he screams. Found him wanting. He tried so hard. It wasn't enough. He screamed and failed the Admiral. Failed.

Chief Sharkey, on his way to the control room after giving final instructions to the men aft, heard the Admiral's raging yells, the dreadful frailty of the Skipper's hopeless fading cries. He rushed to the control room.

He is witness to this: feels the vibrations of the blows, hears the thuds, the gasping breaths, the scuffling feet, the weakening cries, sees the shuddering body, the quivering limbs, the clenching hands, the sweat, the blood. His mind is overwhelmed with culpability. His heart is blackened. Guilt owns him. His refusal to speak makes him party to it. They silently agreed not to talk, even to death. But this is not killing; this is the destruction of a living man. This is the obliteration of all that made him who he was; mind, spirit, body, all. Not any man. Lee.

Blows still beat down, but the Captain's cries had ebbed and ended. The voice he once fought to contain and control was now used up, spent and still. Extinguished. This silence was unnerving. While the cries were torment to Nelson the silence was even more excruciating. Foley checked; Crane was conscious but all resilience was gone, the strength to cry out gone. He dangled limply just pushing up with his legs to catch each breath. Whelan had put the chain to his legs too, to purposely make breathing harder. It wouldn't be much longer. He no longer instinctively guarded against blows. The truncheon would soon rupture an organ if it hadn't already. Or in weakness he would just stop being able to breathe. Either way, Whelan's work was done; the rest was up to Messer. Messer would live up to his name. He would pick the moment. Before long they would watch the Captain die.

In the control room the duty watch fidgeted in uncertainty and worry, waiting for the calculations to be verified. Waiting for the order that could kill them all. Chief Sharkey arrived clipboard in hand, looked at the Exec. "Mr. Morton, ready for the Tuesday Drill, sir." Making meaningful eye contact he quietly stated, "There's no time left, sir, … No time, sir. None."

Chip looked at the Chief intently, hiding the intensity from the captors nearby, glanced at his watch, looked around the control room. The fleeting questioning look at the tech working with his slide rule on the far side of the plot table double-checking the last round of calculations was answered with an inconclusive uncertainty. They would just have to be ready now with these most recent calculations. He visibly swallowed, and grabbed the mike.

* The Death Ship

# The Human Computer