Ghostboat

by Neal R. Burger

  “What about you?”

  “I was a nervous wreck.”

  Behind those stiff gray whiskers, Hardy fell silent. His lips became a thin red line slashed across the curls.

  “Want to tell me about that slug test?”

  “My side of it?” A wry smile crept through Hardy’s whiskers. “You’ve already got it from the horse’s mouth.”

  “I’d like to hear it from yours.”

  “No.” Hardy got up. “Enough is enough, Mr. Frank. You really don’t need to know any of this. It has no bearing on what you want to do, and it’s a big pain in the ass for me.”

  He waited for a reply, challenging. Frank was certain that if he could get Hardy to tell the rest of his story, it would turn out that in all the years since the incident with the torpedoman Hardy had vigorously sought but never found redemption.

  Frank got up and patted the dust from the seat of his pants. He pulled together the trash from their lunch and stuffed it into the paper bag, then asked rather casually: “How is that log coming?”

  Hardy looked at him a long time. “I think I’m getting the navigational points down straight. The charts are a big help.”

  “I thought so,” Frank smiled. “I’ve always found that mental recall works better if you try to remember things in the order in which they occurred.” Hardy grunted and turned to go below. Frank stopped him. “Just a minute. In your opinion, Professor—how good a navigator were you?”

  “I was okay.”

  Frank looked him right in the eye. “Think you could get us there again?”

  Hardy blinked. “Again?” He almost choked on it “You’re not suggesting—!”

  “I sure am.”

  Hardy swung around on him, threatening, fire burning under those hefty gray brows. “Now, look! I said I’d come out here to have a peek! And then I said I’d work on that log—but that’s as far as I go!”

  Frank pulled the telex from his pocket. “Read this.”

  Hardy took it and skimmed it once—then again, slowly. His mouth opened.

  “Smitty came through. The funds are approved. The project is Go” Frank put out a hand for the cable, and Hardy returned it with a muttered growl of disapproval.

  “At least admit it’s an accomplishment.” Frank smiled.

  “It’s a mistake!” Hardy barked. “This boat has no business being here, and you have no business being on it. It should have stayed at the bottom of the ocean!”

  “Will you come along?”

  Hardy grew cold and tight. “I’ll finish that log! But when you sail, I’ll be on the dock waving aloha!”

  Hardy turned on his heel and stumbled as fast as he could around the bridge. He tumbled down the hatch, apparently wanting to escape Frank before the matter could be pressed further.

  Frank felt anger building inside. After all the coaxing he had done, the man was proving more difficult than ever.

  Lieutenant Cook came bounding down the dock, waving a copy of the telex and whooping at the top of his lungs. He spotted Frank on the cigarette deck and bounded aft. He waved the telex up at Frank and literally blubbered with happiness.

  “We did it! Here’s the good news!”

  “I’ve seen it,” growled Frank. “Get me an appointment with SubPac. We want to find a CO with fleet-boat experience. Then we’ll have to line up a crew. You start arranging provisions, fuel—line up that escort—and do it all pronto!”

  Cook swallowed his smile. Frank was in no mood for trifling. The lieutenant turned right around with a snappy “Yes, sir!” and dashed off the boat.

  Frank walked around the bridge and gazed down the open hatch, wondering what he was going to do about Hardy. It seemed so obvious—so essential—that he come along. What if the log he wrote was not right? What if details were missing? Certainly he couldn’t be expected to remember everything. If he were along, the constant prodding of events would stimulate his memory and gradually he would fill in the gaps.

  Jack Hardy had to be volunteered, bought, or shanghaied onto the Candlefish. And there were only twenty-seven days left to accomplish it.

  CHAPTER 9

  October 28, 1974

  On the morning of October 28th, Frank met with Vice-Admiral P. G. Begelman, Jr., Commander, Submarine Force, Pacific Fleet: ComSubPac. Frank appeared in his office at 0900 with a list of possible submarine COs provided by Diminsky.

  Begelman, a burly, suntanned warrior of fifty-odd years, with a reputation for being tough but fair, took the list and went through it quickly, removing his glasses as soon as he had finished.

  “Uh... this one. Byrnes. Commander Louis F. Byrnes. Most reliable CO I’ve ever met.”

  Frank came around the admiral’s desk and peered at the list.

  “Yes, sir. Do you know him well?” asked Frank,

  “Very well. He’s by-the-book, right down the line.”

  Frank stepped around the desk. By-the-book? He wondered if that was what he needed. Wouldn’t he be better off with someone flexible—someone young and daring?

  As if reading his mind, Begelman came back with an explanation. “You’re not going to find any younger men who’ve got CO experience aboard this type of fleet boat. Except perhaps yourself. I understand you skippered one in ‘Nam a few years back.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s true. The Prang. For one month.”

  “Well, the Navy would prefer someone senior with extensive experience, someone who will have the interests of the boat at heart, while you handle the investigative aspect of the mission.”

  “I see.” It made sense, from the Navy point of view. But Frank could sense the hand of Diminsky at work. “Well, Byrnes sounds fine to me. Is he available, sir?”

  “Yes. His own boat is in for a three-month refit. Installing some new technical equipment. We can have him here Wednesday, the thirtieth.”

  Frank thought about it a moment, then nodded. What could he do? He was cornered. But the thought of having to contend with a stiff, inflexible Navy CO type—on top of his problems with Jack Hardy—made him queasy.

  On the same morning, Lieutenant Cook met with two officers from the Bureau of Naval Personnel. He handed them copies of his request and watched two sets of eyebrows lift almost in unison.

  “Eighty-three men?” said one of them.

  “All volunteers? Where the hell are we gonna dig them up? And all with fleet-boat experience? Holy ranchero, Lieutenant! Give us a break.”

  “My boss will break your necks if you don’t come up with them,” said Cook.

  The two BuPer officers relaxed. Intimidation almost always provoked the same response: “In that case, do it yourself.”

  Cook grinned, and the two BuPer men began to relax.

  “All right, Lieutenant, what do you need to know?”

  “First—who is still in the Navy who’s been assigned to that kind of boat?”

  “We’ll have to work up a list,” said one of the officers.

  “Fine. Second—which guys are in the Pearl Harbor area?”

  “No problem. That’ll take a day.”

  “Third—which ones are the bums and which ones the good guys?”

  One of the officers did a slow burn and then came back with a wry smile. “Which kind do you want?”

  “Very funny,” replied Cook, and stood up. “Soon as we’ve figured out who the best guys are, we’ll go ask them to volunteer.”

  “You want us to give them a choice?”

  Cook blinked. “What sort of choice?”

  “Service aboard the Candlefish or assignment to the South Pole.”

  Cook snorted. Both BuPer officers laughed. Evidently this was a routine gag with them. Cook was impressed with their limited repertoire. “On the matter of officers,” he said, “don’t look for any regular line officers. Try to pick up some Limited Duty Officers—guys who are old enough to have served on those boats. That’s the main criterion.”

  “You want LDOs—they’re probably crawling all over the tenders. Take y
our pick.”

  “I want a list. We’ll present everything to the incoming CO and let him select the guys he knows first”

  “We’ve got a lot of ex-enlisted people who are officers now. We can draw from them.”

  “Great,” said Cook. “And the yardbirds. Anybody who is Navy or who’s been Navy. Just get me a list”

  October30, 1974

  At noon on Wednesday, October 30th, Ed Frank walked up the companionway from his quarters aboard the Imperator. He buttoned his uniform blouse and squared his cap. He went across the deck to the gangplank and gazed off up the pier. A Navy staff car rolled down the road from the BOQ. Two men got out and approached the tender. Frank could make out Lieutenant Cook’s confident lope; he was being paced by a tight, stern-looking officer.

  Frank stepped back and took up a position to greet the new arrival. Commander Louis F. Byrnes stamped up the gangway and stepped aboard, Cook at his heels. Frank saluted and introduced himself.

  “Ed Frank.”

  “Louis Byrnes. Glad to meet you.”

  Byrnes was somewhere in his early forties, with a face full of angular crags. They shook hands, and Cook muffled a smile to Frank as Byrnes looked slowly around the tender.

  “When do you intend to sail, Commander Frank?”

  “November twenty-first, 0800,” Frank returned quickly.

  Byrnes shot him an interested glance. “That’s very precise.”

  “I’ve been told you appreciate precision.”

  “Close. I thrive on it.”

  Frank managed a weak smile and wondered briefly what the hell he was going to be put through once this man got them out to sea.

  Byrnes loosened up, sensing the uneasiness, and smiled. He clasped his hands behind his back and toured around the tender, making his way aft.

  “I would like a crew of seventy-five, including officers,” he called out over his shoulder.

  “We’ll be eighty-four,” Frank flung back. “I want to match the wartime crew man for man.”

  Byrnes accepted that impassively. Frank watched his back: His shoulders rippled as he walked. They came astern, and Byrnes stopped to look down on the Candlefish at the end of the pier.

  “She looks fit.”

  “Deceptive,” said Frank.

  Byrnes smiled at him and said, “Pee-culiar.”

  They took a tour through the sub after lunch. Byrnes found it much to his liking: It appeared to be in better shape than 90 percent of the boats he had served on. The yard crews had repaired most of the internal damage, so Byrnes was deprived of the sight of broken instruments, strewn personal effects, main engine number one thrust up out of her mountings, and torpedoes flung against the bulkheads.

  Frank felt it best to play down the more mysterious aspects of the sub’s condition, figuring that Byrnes would find out anyway; why take a chance on ruffling that cool, rigid composure? The man needed to know only as much as it took to get the submarine to sea with a full crew. Frank had decided very early on that the investigation—the nature of the mission—should not be a subject of too much conversation until they were well on their way. Accordingly, he let slip only minor details of the sub’s history now, doing everything possible to keep Byrnes’s mind on the task at hand.

  Byrnes peered into the captain’s cabin and stared at Jack Hardy, engrossed in writing his log. Hardy looked up and then stood up. Frank introduced them. The fact that Hardy had served aboard this boat thirty years ago provided the first ripple in the new skipper’s icy exterior. But what sort of reaction did Byrnes elicit from Hardy? And what would happen if the two men ever sailed together?

  Late that afternoon, Frank and Byrnes sat down for drinks in Frank’s quarters aboard the Imperator. Frank handed him stack after stack of papers on the Candlefish: charts, fitness reports, equipment checklists, supply manifests, blueprints, and a fat hundred-page ship’s- organization book, the SOP for the Candlefish, as prepared by Basquine and Bates in November of 1943. Watch bills, crew assignments, material cognizance, emergency bills, engineering instructions—the ship’s-organization book was a gold mine of information.

  Byrnes wanted to rewrite the entire book to his own predilections.

  Frank was insistent. “No. We haven’t got time for that. Besides, we want to run this patrol the same way they ran the one in ‘44. Same watch bills, same orders, same engineering procedures. We can make this work —it worked fine thirty years ago.”

  “The sub sank, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, and we want to find out why. That’s the whole purpose of this.”

  Byrnes gazed at him with cold determination! “Fine. But we don’t want it to happen again.” Frank fell silent, so he added, “Do we?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “My first concern, Mr. Frank, is with the boat and the safety of the crew. Your assignment is your own business. It has nothing to do with me unless it conflicts with my duty. I was given to understand that the action of the patrol will be your responsibility, except when it encroaches upon mine. Are we agreed?”

  “Yes.” It was a blow to Frank’s ever-broadening conceit, and he had” to roll with it. Basically, Byrnes spoke the truth. Every operation needed a counterbalance. If Frank were permitted total free rein, he would probably run the sub into what could be construed as dangerous circumstances.

  October 31, 1974

  At 2000 hours on Hallowe’en, Ed Frank and Byrnes were still closeted with three officers from SubPac in an immense briefing room on the base at Pearl, trying to lay out potential crew for the Candlefish. Lieutenant Cook stood at a window, watching outside as a long line of cars drew up to the Officers’ Club for the Hallowe’en Ball. He smirked as two officers arrived at the same time in the same bunny suit. Cook picked at his uniform and wished for the days when he too wore a costume and made-believe...

  In the front of the briefing room, three blackboards were filled with lists of the different watch organizations aboard the Candlefish. Byrnes was chalking up names for crew assignments as fast as the SubPac officers approved them.

  “Now then,” said Byrnes, “the engines. I want a machinist to serve as chief engineer, a floating jack-of-all-trades. And I want a man who knows this submarine.”

  “Have you got someone in mind?” asked Frank.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. There’s a yardbird up at Mare Island. Cassidy.”

  One of the SubPac officers cleared his throat. “I know him. Little guy. About sixty. Been there forever. But he’s civil service now.”

  “He was Navy,” said Byrnes.

  “Do we want civil service?” asked one of the other officers.

  “I want him” Byrnes insisted.

  Everyone shifted in discomfort. Frank said nothing. “Then it’s settled,” Byrnes announced. “Let’s turn to officers.”

  Frank stood up and went to the blackboard with a piece of chalk and wrote in a name opposite the post Navigation. “As long as we’re picking favorites—our navigation officer will be Jack Hardy.” The SubPac officers, Byrnes, Cook, all stared at him. “And keep it under your hat, because he’s playing hard to get.”

  Byrnes gave Frank one of his frigid glares, then said quietly, “I want another qualified navigator aboard.”

  The SubPac officers agreed immediately. Frank felt himself losing ground. He gave in, irked that he now found himself in competition with the new captain.

  November 4, 1974

  The first of the new crew began arriving early that morning. Moist of the machinists, engineers, oilers, and throttlemen had been culled from the ranks of available submariners and reservists at Pearl—on a volunteer basis. Each man was told the same story: The Candlefish was a World War II vintage submarine in mint condition and a crew was being assembled for a special sea trial across the Pacific. No reference was made to any of the more mysterious circumstances surrounding the mission.

  Hardy came to Frank’s quarters aboard the Imperator just before noon and dropped a hefty notebook on his desk
.

  “That’s it,” he said cryptically, and flopped down on the vinyl couch. He was tired, drained. “I spent all last night finishing it.”

  Frank opened the book and skimmed through page after page of readable longhand. Dates, names, places, long descriptions of events: Hardy had remembered a great deal. Frank could not restrain an excited smile. “Pretty good work,” he said.

  “As long as you’ve got what you want.”

  “This looks incredibly thorough.”

  Hardy nodded, relieved.

  Then Frank took a daring shot in the dark. “Well, that wraps it up for you. I can get you out of here within three hours and we’ll take over. If we have any questions, can we reach you at Scripps?”

  Hardy thought it over a long time, then said quietly, “I’d like to hang around for a few days. I might have made some mistakes in the log.”

  “Suit yourself.” Frank rose with a straight face. “I have to go down and check out some of the crew. Want to come along?”

  “Yeah.”

  Hardy stood out of the way on the dock while Frank shook hands with a steady stream of new arrivals coming in by truck. The crew seemed roughly divided between boisterous old-timers—reuniting with mates they hadn’t seen in years—and enthusiastic twenty-year-old volunteers. Frank greeted each one, asked a few personal questions, then turned them over to Byrnes, whose smile was as warm as he could manage. Hardy watched them tossing their gear down the after hatch and jumping in after it. When Frank came up, he could see the nostalgia warming Hardy’s eyes.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “There’s a lot of kids.”

  “Qualified kids.”

  A jeep screeched around the corner at the inland end of the dock, then roared up to the end of the pier. The second it stopped, out jumped a small, skinny, craggy, sixty-year-old seaman. He hoisted his worn duffel bag over one shoulder, then padded to the edge of the dock and regarded the submarine with an amused gleam. Hardy stared at him, thoroughly taken with the man’s cocksure attitude. Frank leaned over and muttered, “Old enough for you?”