Moving forward, he checked Basquine’s cabin. Pads and pencils were neatly laid out on the desk. The aroma of fresh coffee attracted him to the wardroom. “Sure enough, a pot was brewing. He helped himself to a cup and sat quietly on the leatherette couch. He was on his second cup when Hardy found him. There was a quizzical look on the Professor’s face, as if he had just been through a confusing experience.
“How did it go, Professor?”
“Oh, fine...”
Frank couldn’t tell if the reply was dipped in sarcasm or— “Did you have lunch, sir?”
Hardy took a cup from the rack and poured from the pot. “Look. If we’re going to be working together, there’ll have to be some changes.”
“Such as?”
“No more Professor or Doctor or sir. My name is Jack.”
“I’m Ed.” Frank reached across for the extended hand, expecting a sudden rush of warmth and openness. But not so. Hardy simply wanted to get the point across. It seemed he would forever be holding something of himself in check.
Frank rose. “C’mon, you’ll be working in Basquine’s cabin. It’s all set up.”
“Why not here in the wardroom?”
“There’s going to be a lot of traffic through here in the next few days. You don’t need distractions.”
Hardy finished his coffee and followed Frank across the corridor. Frank held the door open for him and pointed out the pads and pencils. As he settled into the chair, Frank inquired about his session with Cohen and Slater.
“Can’t tell you. They made me promise.”
“Okay, but if you hit a dry spell, relax. Get up and take a stroll through the boat. Let it jog your memory. You know where the coffee is. Meals—I’ll come and get you. If you need me this afternoon, I’ll be aft.”
Hardy sat still for a long time after Frank left. He looked around the small space that once held the man who had made his life miserable. And his thoughts kept going back to his morning meeting with Cohen and Slater.
His first reaction to them was resentment. Those two total strangers somehow knew almost everything there was to know about Jack Hardy. But they were so smooth that once he got over his anger, he was filled with admiration. They had dissected him, but in such a way that he had found himself helping them, filling in blank spaces, enlarging on a comment and, what’s more, enjoying it. The last half-hour was spent in going over facts he had long since forgotten.
Finally Slater explained what they were doing. “We’re isolating the last patrol. We’ve dispensed with all the other areas. Now you can just concentrate on key points. Push everything else out of your mind, and the log will practically write itself.”
Now Hardy picked up a pencil and opened one of the pads. He started to write. He forced his mind to follow Slater’s instructions. He felt awed by his fresh powers. He could and would write the log, and, what’s more, he would do it in Basquine’s cabin.
Frank hung up the phone. Slater had been cautiously optimistic. “Hardy wasn’t all that complex. And he responded well.” Frank put a seventy-two-hour hold on them and hotfooted it back down to the forward engine room. For now, Hardy would do his best work alone. More important things were going to be happening aft.
McClusky’s men were ready, gathered around main engine number one like a gang of expectant fathers. The Chief was at the engine stand with Cook. Frank came up the aisle and asked, “Ready?”
“Just in time to give the order, sir.”
Frank crossed fingers on both hands and held them up high. “Fire away, Mac.”
McClusky’s stubby finger punched the starter button. The engine roared to life, filling the compartment with its power. Eyes checked gauges and experienced hands made adjustments. McClusky, a smile splitting his face, gave Frank the thumbs-up sign. Frank grinned back, letting the noise and the rising heat blanket him. Another plateau had been reached.
He felt great.
Hardy didn’t.
The sound of the starting diesel coursed through the boat and went through him. Was he imagining it or did he hear the diving alarm? Images crowded in on him. A blur of movement as men raced to battle stations. Periscope sliding down the well. He felt a tight dry feeling in his mouth, the one he always got bracing himself for an imminent depth-charging. The fear of showing fear. He struggled for control, forcing the dark impressions out, and he won. The cabin, which had seemed to be pressing in on him, lost its threatening crush. The vibrations faded away to nothing. He wiped his sweaty palms, picked up the pencil, and started to write, gathering momentum, driven by something deep within him. Something he didn’t understand.
CHAPTER 8
October 23, 1974
Frank had determined the date of departure would be November 21st, to coincide with the original 1944 patrol. As each day passed, he became increasingly upset with the slow grinding of government wheels. He and Cook were virtually buried under a blizzard of paperwork. There were requests every morning from Smitty’s office for more detailed briefs on the intention, the procedure, the requirements of Frank’s project. An interoffice memo that Frank was sure had originated with Diminsky requested a study on backup safety measures for the voyage, to be submitted through regular channels at his convenience.
“Regular channels!” Frank screamed. “The bastard is trying to bury us!”
He threw the memo to Cook, ordering him to work up the information. “And then just hand it over to me.”
“In triplicate?” asked Cook.
“In twenty-four hours!” Frank roared.
Frank avoided Jack Hardy as much as possible, reluctant to let him see the strain taking its toll.
Cook reappeared the next afternoon, grinning unnaturally, He tossed a fresh manila folder on the desk and said, “Escort.”
“Escort?”
“We can’t cram any safety devices into that boat—we’d have to remove too much existing equipment Plus the time necessary to install it. Instead, we have all the Boy Scout stuff aboard another ship.” Frank gaped at his shit-eating grin. Cook went on: “I had Walters check into that memo. It did originate with Diminsky. He figures he can hold us up at least a month. By that time he could get Smitty to change his mind. Stall tactics. Candlefish disappears from the headlines: no pressure—no project. An escort will get us around the whole problem. With a support vessel tailing you, we eliminate the risk.”
Frank chewed on his pipe and studied Cook with a gleam growing in his eye. Cook couldn’t get rid of the grin. “And guess who’s volunteered to be on the escort?”
Frank was very quiet a long time, until he set down the pipe and admonished, “Didn’t your daddy tell you never volunteer for anything?”
Cook waited while Frank made a conference call to Smitty and Diminsky, catching them both at home just before bedtime. In excited tones, he explained Cook’s idea about the escort, played humble by apologizing for not coming up with it earlier, and generally made it sound as if it were the greatest idea since Saran Wrap. Smitty wasn’t sure. Frank pointed out the time factor and the lack of space aboard Candlefish for installing modern safety equipment. A fully equipped escort would be considerably less costly. Besides, any modern devices placed aboard the sub could be only temporary.
Smitty let Frank go on at length, once he began pointing out how everything related to cost.
Then Frank did some listening. Five minutes of it.
He hung up, sat back in relief, and answered Cook’s unasked question: “Smitty will present it to the Committee tomorrow. Regular channels, my ass...”
“How did Diminsky take it?”
“I think I added ten strokes to his golf game.”
October 25, 1974
An orderly from Captain Melanoff’s office charged up the gangplank of the Imperator and a moment later pounded on the door to Frank’s cabin.
“Telex for you, sir.”
It was from Smitty’s office in Washington.
COMNIS
R251038Z OCT 74
; FROM COMNIS TO COMDEFINCO PEARL
ADVISE CMDR FRANK SENATE APPROVAL CANDLEFISH MISSION SECURED STOP AUTHORIZATION PROCEED REFIT BOAT ASSEMBLE CREW AND ESCORT AWAIT FULL ORDERS COMSUBPAC STOP NAVAL APPROVAL ACTIVATE JACK HARDY COMMISSION ONLY AS LAST RESORT STOP PREFER VOLUNTEER CITIZEN STOP GOOD LUCK STOP
Frank stared at it a long time, then let out a whoop that carried all the way to the crew’s mess.
He put on fresh suntans and hurried over to Melanoff’s office at Defense Intelligence Command. Melanoff greeted him with a vigorous handshake and offered a bit of liquid celebration. Frank accepted the beer and guzzled it. He was pacing up and down, muttering “Boy oh boy oh boy...”
Melanoff laughed and popped another can of beer. “What if she sinks before you reach Latitude Thirty?”
“She won’t do that,” Frank said, going to the window and looking out to make sure she hadn’t already. “She wouldn’t dare.”
The phone rang with a call for Frank from Washington, It was Diminsky, and he was eating crow. “Well, Commander, you pulled it off. I sure haven’t got the foggiest idea what convinced them—”
“I realize that, Admiral.” Frank couldn’t resist the barb.
“We’ll have to review this in the office, Frank. You know there are a great many important cases pending, and perhaps this little effort doesn’t require the services of a full Lieutenant Commander—”
“Then demote me, Admiral, because I’m going.”
Diminsky blustered some more and finally, grudgingly, wished him good luck.
Frank accepted graciously and then said, “Look, if we go out there and sink all over again, you can tell everybody ‘I told you so.’“
The real test of his powers still lay ahead: convincing Jack Hardy that he should become a part of this expedition. The telex had pointed out one way to have him assigned to it—simply activate his commission. But that would make him an unwilling participant. Frank wanted him not only willing but eager.
As he hurried back down the dock clutching a bag of sandwiches and a six-pack of beer, he considered the best way of breaking the good news to someone who wouldn’t appreciate it. When he drew abreast of the Candlefish, it was twelve noon and the technicians were just clearing out for lunch. Hardy himself was coming up the conning-tower hatch, and Frank hailed him from the pier.
“Hold it! Wait right there! I got sandwiches!”
He held up the bag. Hardy stood still on the bridge and waited for Frank to come aboard and scamper up the bridge ladder. Frank passed him the sandwiches.
“I’m not going below, if it’s all the same to you. I’ve got to get off this tub sometime,” Hardy grumbled.
“Sure, sure. How about aft?”
Frank didn’t even wait for an answer. He led the way around the conning tower. There were several crates on the cigarette deck; they sat down there and had lunch.
Frank munched a corned-beef sandwich and looked the submarine over happily, measuring what was to become his new domain. He glanced at Hardy. The man was staring at the deck, somberly chewing on a ham-and-Swiss.
“Hey, how’s it coming?” asked Frank.
“The log? I was right Thirty years is a long time.”
“Yes, it is.”
“And I happen to be digging back into some unpleasant history.”
“Such as?”
“Well... Basquine. He may have been the Navy’s idea of a good CO, but not mine. And Bates, the Exec... hated my guts.”
“Why?”
Hardy slowed down and stared at his sandwich. “I made a mistake. They never forgave me.”
Frank waved a hand and spoke with his mouth full. “You mean the slug test?” Hardy looked up slowly, in surprise. “Basquine kept a file. I read it.”
“I don’t expect it was very complimentary.”
Frank looked at Hardy and sensed rather than heard the bitterness. “Why don’t you tell me about it? I mean, from the beginning. From the time you came aboard the Candlefish.”
Hardy was silent a long time; then he asked for another beer. He cracked it open and drank a third of it, then settled back and started to talk.
“January of ‘44. That’s when the tough part started. I guess up till then I was very young and idealistic. And I was very dependent on my wife, Elena. She was my crutch. You remember that picture under my pillow? I kept it there all the time, and I wrote letters constantly. I’d save them until we got back to port, then I’d post them all in a packet.” He paused and rolled the beer can in his palms. “Anyway... in January I got a wire from her. She’d had the baby, and she was naming him Peter, after my father. Peter... I went out on a toot. I had five of the best days of my life. The best days since I had married Elena. For the first time, I really felt like a man. I felt there really was a... a me.”
Hardy clasped his hands behind his head and rocked back. “Did you know we had two weddings?”
Frank blinked in surprise. Hardy grinned. “Yes, sir. Probably the most daring stunt I’ve pulled in my whole life. In the summer of 1940, just before I started my junior year at the Naval Academy, we decided we couldn’t wait any longer. But the Academy had a rule that midshipmen couldn’t be married. So we did it in secret. No one knew about it—I mean no one. We had to live apart for quite a while. It was a trial; it was tough, but I think we were stronger for all of it.
“And when the war broke out, the whole thing became ten times more difficult,” Hardy continued. “But having her there, even in the background, seemed awfully important.” Hardy looked at Frank and smiled. “Here comes the good part. I got into the Submarine School in 1942 and immediately after went to the base commander for permission to marry. I hounded that son of a bitch for weeks until he gave in. I brought Elena out in the spring of ‘43 and we did it again. This time it was a military wedding. I swear to you, nobody ever figured out what we were laughing about!”
Hardy broke into a long chuckle. Frank grinned broadly. “It wasn’t so easy after that,” Hardy went on, sobering. “I got transferred to Fleet Sonar School in San Diego. Elena was pregnant, so we rented a house. The war had gotten worse, and I guess I began to worry about the decision I had made, about my career. We all heard the reports. Submarines were making a dent in Japanese shipping, but they had started making a dent in our fleet. Finally I got posted to Pearl, and we knew this was it.” Hardy’s face clouded over. “Elena couldn’t make the trip. Too pregnant; besides, no wives allowed. I spent the rest of ‘43 as a junior officer, floating from one sub assignment to another. It wasn’t until the first of February, 1944, that I was assigned to the Candlefish. Then I met Basquine... and Bates— the toughest sons of bitches in the entire submarine fleet. They never gave an inch—to anybody for anything. They were a matched set. It was like sailing on the Pequod with Captain Ahab.”
Hardy grunted. “Captain Ahab, that’s Basquine. But he could be a charmer. And that’s why the crew let him get away with it. He used to deliver the greatest pep talks. But everything he did or said was directed for one purpose: war. He was... he was like a psychologist with an ulterior motive. And the Exec, Bates, backed him up. I made the mistake of thinking I was qualified when I stepped aboard this boat. Bates cut me down to size. In my first five days he had me up for oral exams three times. He walked me through the boat with all the lower ranks watching and made me peg every valve, every gauge, and line. I passed those exams, but I’ll tell you, I contracted a whopping case of insecurity.”
Frank was impressed. The old oceanographer had a pretty good understanding of himself.
“Then we had our first patrol in late February. Bates had me researching engineering problems one on top of the other. Understand: That wasn’t unusual—we always had controlled problems to work out. But he had me doing them all the time. Anyway, I moved around in rotation until they sort of settled on me as navigation officer. That worked out fine. I spent more time on the bridge and got a chance to see Basquine at work.” Hardy looked directly at Frank and spoke tightly: �
�Commander—that bastard tried to sink everything. He was out for blood, and everybody knew it. In 1944 he was the least cautious skipper at sea. And with Bates as his yes-man, and me working the charts, he began to form his grand plan.”
“What was that?”
“A top-secret, lone-wolf attack on Tokyo Bay. Even SubPac didn’t know about it.”
Frank felt a chill. It was true. He hadn’t found any mention at all in the records about any such plan.
“It was maniacal,” said Hardy. “A complete lack of regard for the safety of the crew and the boat. It’s one thing to sneak up on enemy shipping, fire a few fish, then run like hell. But this was crazy—placing ourselves squarely in a closed ball park. I think he really was a bit of an Ahab. A self-destructive monster.”
“Did you try to stop him?” asked Frank.
“Yes. Yes, I tried to talk him out of it I got three days of orals from Bates. They took me off the plan and put in Jordan, the gunnery officer. He thought the plan was ‘workable.’“
“Did you ever think, Professor, that maybe you just weren’t suited for war?”
“I know I wasn’t. But I wasn’t crazy, either.”
Hardy stopped talking for a while. He leaned back and rocked against the plates of the conning tower. He unbuttoned his shirt and took sun on his chest.
“What about the last patrol? What was he like then?”
“Well, you know, for all Basquine’s rootie-tooting about how great we were, we still had a comparatively lousy record. In the first six months I served with him, we sank only two Japanese freighters. He took after a couple of fishing boats one day when he was feeling particularly ornery. Outside of that, nothing.”
“Was there a reason?”
“Yeah. I think we missed a lot of targets because of bad attack planning, faulty torpedoes—those Mark 14s were not the most reliable—and rotten weather. So, by August of ‘44, when we set out on our third patrol, he was riding the crew pretty hard, trying to make up for his own failures. He drilled everyone right up to and beyond effective preparedness.”
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