Ghostboat

  “Is it possible that when we get back to where Candlefish went down before, it could happen again?”

  “Anything is possible,” granted Frank, “but it’s highly improbable.”

  “What’s to prevent it?”

  “Look—in 1944 there was a shooting war going on. We don’t have that situation today. What we do have is an escort sitting on our tail. If it ever gets rough, we just jump off.” There was a short silence, followed by much grumbling. Frank added, “How come you’re expecting trouble? The Navy sees this as a normal, run-of-the-mill submarine patrol, otherwise they wouldn’t have authorized it. We’re looking for clues, we’re not expecting catastrophe.”

  It was another thirty minutes before Frank managed to shift the topic of conversation. He was busy reading off the watch bills when he saw the back door open and Jack Hardy step quietly in. He stood there a moment, looking for a seat, then walked straight down the aisle to a chair in the front row, next to Lieutenant Cook.

  Frank hurried through the watch bills, then turned the meeting over to Lieutenant Dorriss, the qualified executive officer. Frank sat down on the other side of Cook and leaned forward to look at Hardy. Their eyes met across Cook.

  Finally Hardy whispered, “I’m going with you.”

  PART III

  CHAPTER 10

  November 21, 1974

  0345 hours.

  Watery darkness lapped at the hull. Night blended with the fresh coat of gray-black paint on the conning tower and the upper decks. Men were busy detaching the guard rails that ringed the perimeter of the forward deck. The men on watch detail shifted around silently on the bridge. The only sound came from the Officer of the Deck, sipping coffee.

  Two figures came down the pier at a fast clip, carrying zip-cases and clipboards: Ed Frank and Ray Cook. They stopped at the gangplank and exchanged a few last words, then shook hands and parted. Frank went aboard the submarine; Cook hurried away to board the destroyer escort, USS Frankland, along with Captain Melanoff of Defense Intelligence Command and one Admiral Lionel Kellogg, assigned to supervise by ComSubPac.

  Ed Frank pushed his gear into a locker in the large stateroom he would share with most of the other officers. Hardy had quarters in the chief petty officers’ stateroom, just forward of the control room; he had refused his old bunk.

  In the forward engine room, Hopalong Cassidy, stripped down to overalls and undershirt, was already covered with diesel oil though they hadn’t even started the engines yet. He double-checked all the dials and gauges on the engine stand, then went back to inspect the aft engine room and the maneuvering room. He was followed by two old cronies dressed in similar outfits, two aging machinist’s mates Cassidy had unearthed from his own little black book: Googles was the throttleman and Brownhaver the oiler.

  At 0430 Cassidy got on the horn to Roybell in the control room: “Tell the skipper engine rooms are secure, ready to answer bells.”

  Roybell hollered the information up to the conning tower, and Byrnes got on the intercom and ordered quietly: “All stations at ease. We will rig the maneuvering watch at 0730. Underway at 0800.”

  The crew relaxed. There was little to do now but prepare personal kit for getting underway.

  Ed Frank went aft. He found Cassidy at work in the forward engine room, washing down the diesels, polishing them with big, heavy cloths. Cassidy stopped and dabbed at the oil on his arms, then went aft to the crew’s washroom. Frank followed and waited until the old yardbird came out of the can.

  “Hey, Hopalong, how well do you know the skipper?”

  Cassidy threw a questioning glance over his shoulder. He shrugged. “I’d say I’ve known him off and on almost eighteen years.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “A real stickler. Anything goes wrong with his boats, he finagles them back to the yard for a refit right away. Most conscientious skipper I know, when it comes to the Navy’s property.”

  Frank nodded and began to stroll down the aisle.

  “Mind if I ask you a question, sir? About the Professor.”

  “Shoot”

  “Do you think it was such a good idea—bringing that old man along?”

  “He’s at least five years younger than you.”

  “Yeah—but he doesn’t want to be here. It could get sticky.”

  “Cassidy, I’ll make a bet with you. Within forty-eight hours, Jack Hardy will be the happiest man aboard.”

  Cassidy grunted. “That could get sickening.”

  Frank laughed. It was the only response he could openly allow himself. More than anyone else aboard, he had to maintain the conviction that Hardy’s presence was absolutely essential.

  He strolled back through the boat, stopping in the crew’s quarters to see what the men were doing. Most were catching sack time before the call to duty. Some of the old-timers were already telling stories to the kids.

  Frank stepped into the control room and joined a small group around the plotting table, examining a chart. Hardy was there, plotting their departure course from his log and from copies of the wartime charts they had found aboard. Lieutenant Dorriss and the communications officer, Lieutenant Stigwood, were offering help and suggestions.

  Byrnes came down the ladder and peered over their shoulders; he seemed to be regarding Hardy with great curiosity.

  At 0730 Byrnes passed the word to station the maneuvering watch. Then he ascended to the bridge with Frank and Hardy. Stigwood came up to the conning tower as conning officer.

  At 0750 Byrnes gave the order to cast off. The deck crewmen slipped the lines and flung them to the dock. Lieutenant Dorriss got readiness reports from all compartments. Then Byrnes looked up at the aloha committee crowded into the stern of the Imperator and ordered:

  “Start all main engines!”

  The controllermen in the maneuvering room moved their levers to ALL BACK ONE-THIRD. In the conning tower, the helmsman felt the wheel respond and pulled it steady.

  Slowly the Candlefish moved away from the pier and into the Southeast Loch. Her horns were answered by loud blatts from the Frankland. She came around to port, ALL AHEAD ONE-THIRD, and quietly began to churn up the bay toward Ford Island.

  Frank and Hardy climbed off the bridge and walked down the forward deck toward the bow. They stood letting the morning sea breeze brush back their hair and whip their suntan khakis. The Frankland maneuvered into their wake seven hundred yards astern.

  Blue skies rose out of a diamond-blue sea until they met blinding white clusters of puffy clouds. Frank saw Hardy regarding the great Hawaiian backdrop—the mountains ringing the city which ringed the bay—and knew that neither of them had taken advantage of the beauty at hand in the last few weeks. The smooth sands of beaches, the rough edges of the mountains, the shining glitter of the sea—somehow the magic of this whole garden island had escaped them. They had been preoccupied with the problems of a man-made machine, the details of a carefully plotted sea voyage, and the dangers of an undetermined goal. In the six and a half weeks he had spent here, Frank had lost nearly all connection with the outside world. Just as Hawaii had slipped through his fingers, so had his personal life in Washington. Joanne! My God, he hadn’t even called her to say good-bye. Six weeks from now he would be hard-pressed for explanations—if she was still there to hear them.

  Frank and Hardy walked farther out to the bow of the sub and let the spray shoot past them. The Candlefish was holding her own extremely well—a solid deck under their feet, with no unexpected motion to port or starboard. Frank saw Hardy staring at something ahead and looked to see what it was.

  They were coming abreast of the USS Arizona memorial, a long white modern concrete structure on the waters at the northern end of Ford Island, entombing the remains of 1100 men slain on December 7th, 1941, when a Japanese bomb was dropped down one of the Arizona’s stacks, resulting in the biggest less of life ever suffered by this country in one wartime blow.

  Thirty years ago Jack Hardy had stood on the Candlefish as
it slid quietly past the gutted wreckage of the Arizona, not yet covered and converted into this white mausoleum. Now Frank saw the old man do something he wouldn’t have expected, given the circumstances of his Navy experience. Hardy’s hand went up shakily, and he pulled off his cap. He stood bareheaded, staring at the concrete island in silence, as the sub swept on past. Then he slammed his cap back on his head, shoved his hands into his back pockets, and closed his eyes, letting the breeze and the spray whip and wet his whiskers.

  They sailed into the East Loch and began the swing around Ford Island, that would take them out to the Pearl Harbor channel. Soon they would be at sea. Frank turned back to stare down the length of the sub. His own ship—in a sense, his own command—and the most important one of his life. How had he allowed the Navy to shape so much of his career? This time he had taken the bull by the horns and insisted. And it had paid off. If it weren’t for Ed Frank, there would be no voyage. This submarine would be taken out of service and either cut up for scrap or sold to a museum. He felt proud, and justified. And a little smug.

  Within an hour they had sailed out of Mamala Bay and into the ocean. They were due to spend most of the day on a northwest swing around the islands. Somewhere north of Kauai, they would attempt their, trim dive. The USS Frankland slipped farther astern until she was trailing by a full mile. She would remain at that position for the rest of the voyage... unless she was needed.

  Frank went into the radio room and had Giroux call lieutenant Cook, who reported that everything was going smoothly aboard the Frankland and then added, admitting his envy of every man on the sub, “Send me a postcard—wish I was there.”

  Hardy checked out their course with Lieutenant Dorriss in the control room. Byrnes remained on the bridge. Then Hardy wandered back to the engine rooms and found Cassidy tinkering with the control stand. Hardy kept silent at first, then ventured some advice:

  “I just thought you might like to know—number two engine had a tendency to buck a little at high speed. Something funny with the cylinders.”

  Cassidy nodded.

  “We used to get fresh water leaks, too.” Hardy went on, warming up, “And then the oil cooling channels—”

  Cassidy interrupted. “Shit. I could’ve fixed all those things thirty years ago. Why didn’t you send her back to the yard?”“

  “We were a little busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “W-A-R. War.”

  Cassidy smirked. His opinion of the Candlefish’s war record had been made clear to Hardy already. Cassidy walked around and checked the pipes, feeling for leaks and overheating. He stopped abruptly, and was startled when Hardy bumped into him.

  Hardy grinned sheepishly. “I just want to feel useful.”

  Cassidy shook his head. “Professor—we’re busy.”

  Hardy nodded, gave a quick smile to Brownhaver and Googles, and limped out of the engine room.

  Sack in the control room, Byrnes had come down to check Hardy’s log, to make sure they were following it as closely as possible. Frank had followed him into the control room.

  Byrnes closed the log with a snap: “I see it’s time for the first trim dive.”

  Cassidy stepped through the hatch in time to hear that. He slapped his hands together broadly and winked. “Hope she don’t leak!”

  No one else laughed. Leaning on the bulkhead, Frank spoke drily. “If she does, what are you going to do about it?”

  Cassidy whipped the gum out of his mouth and displayed it. “I’m ready.”

  “Clear the bridge! Dive! Dive!”

  Byrnes’s voice rang through the communications system to all stations. The klaxon went off, two resounding OOGA-OOGAS! On the bridge, the deck watch tumbled down the hatch—first the lookouts, then Dorriss, then Stigwood. The lookouts piled down to the control room and took up positions as bow and stern planesmen. Stigwood stopped at the foot of the control room ladder and became the diving officer.

  The men on watch in each compartment had checked their areas thoroughly for hull integrity. Torpedo tubes were secured shut, negative tanks were flooded, fuel ballast tank flood valves were locked, and three of the air banks were connected to the high pressure air distribution manifold.

  Stigwood closed the conning-tower hatch and dogged it down. In the control room, Chief Roybell went to the hydraulic manifold and opened the vents on all tanks. He riveted his eyes on the “Christmas tree,” the light board advising him of hull integrity. He called to the two lookouts, “Rig out the bow planes.” Then he closed the main induction valve and checked that all lights on the board were green. He called out, “Green board!”

  In the engine rooms, Cassidy ordered, “Stop all engines!” on the second blast of the diving alarm. Then he started the commands to his throttlemen.

  In the maneuvering room, the controllermen hit their switches and relayed the word to the conning tower, “All main engines stopped, sir.”

  In the conning tower, the helmsman rang up “BATTERY MOTOR” on the Motor Order Telegraph and put the rudder amidships. The controllermen threw levers and then called back to the conning tower, “Ahead standard on battery, sir.”

  In the control room, Lieutenant Stigwood took over, supervising as the planesmen started up their motors and put the planes on a twenty-degree dive angle.

  And throughout the boat, the men waited in deepening silence and apprehension to find out whether they were going to level off to a trim or sink like a stone.

  The boat took a drop into utter silence. One by one, the men looked around at the bulkheads for telltale signs of leaks, droplets of water, condensation, tiny jets from holes no more than a pinprick wide... There was nothing. The hull seemed secure.

  Hardy stood in the conning tower, studying his wristwatch, waiting for the command to level off, counting the seconds since the alarm had sounded. Frank stood below, out of Stigwood’s way. Stigwood watched the barometer of the high pressure air manifold, a bank of valves which controlled compressed air blown to the tanks. When it reached an acceptable level, he called out, “Pressure in the boat, sir!”

  His call rang through the nearby compartments, and men within earshot traded relieved glances.

  Byrnes moved from the helmsman to the ladder well and called down, “Make your depth sixty feet!”

  Roybell glued his eyes to the depth gauge. “Sixty feet! Aye, sir!”

  Stigwood barked, “Shut negative flood! Blow negative to the mark!”

  “Flood shut. Negative blown to the mark. Permission to vent negative inboard,” the auxiliaryman called back.

  “Vent negative inboard.”

  In the maneuvering room, the controllermen watched as the MB system rang up the signal, AHEAD ONE-THIRD. The senior man pulled the telegraph around and called, “Engines secured. Ahead one-third.”

  Everyone aboard heard that one. And in every compartment, color drained back into faces and bodies relaxed in relief.

  In the conning tower, Jack Hardy turned to Byrnes and tapped his watch. “Thirty seconds. Bates used to get us down in fifteen.”

  Byrnes snorted and gave Hardy a cool look. “What’s the rush? At least we’re submerged. And, according to your log, we’re right on schedule.”

  Frank came up the ladder all smiles. “Thank you very much,” he said, and shook Byrnes’s hand vigorously.

  “You’re welcome. It was nothing. A submarine is supposed to go down.”

  “Just as long as she comes back up.” Frank grinned.

  “We will. At about twenty hundred.”

  Uninvited, Hardy piped up, “Exactly twenty hundred.”

  Byrnes hesitated. “I think a little leeway won’t hurt.”

  Hardy looked at him oddly a long moment, and Frank could sense a sort of blankness washing over the man, as if for a fraction of an instant he wasn’t even there. Then Hardy shrugged, and that was the end of it.

  Byrnes turned to the intercom and opened the line to all compartments. “This is the Captain. For your informatio
n, we are submerged.” He waited for the cheer of approval. “That is not to say permanently. We would like to turn this into a successful trim dive, so we ask that you all stand at your stations while we check out the trim manifold function as thoroughly as possible. I would suggest you tie down loose gear, as we will probably do a bit of rolling around. Thank you.”

  Frank and Hardy made a tour through the boat, checking for signs of flooding. There was nothing in the bilges, not a sign of sea water. They reached the crew’s mess and found a small contingent of youngsters and old-timers taking coffee and trying to make light of what they had just undergone.

  “Glad to see everybody’s taking this so easily,” said Frank, pretending not to notice the sweat stains of tension under their armpits.

  The torpedoman, Clampett, sat back, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. “What the hell is there to worry about, sir? If I’ve ever drawn easier duty in my life, I wouldn’t know it. Hell, this is nothing. We’re just gonna ride around in this old whale’s belly for a while and then go home.”

  Frank slung a leg up on a bench. “A little more to it than that. You guys were sure worried the other day.”

  “Well, we got together—most of us—and talked it out. Witzgall here has been on subs for twenty-two years, mostly these old fleet boats.” Witzgall nodded through a scraggly peppered beard and lifted his coffee with gnarled fingers. “He points out the one thing none of us should lose sight of.”

  “What’s that?” asked Frank.

  “Whatever happened to this boat thirty years ago ain’t going to happen again. Everybody knows the same thing can’t happen twice.”

  The men around him smiled with him and nodded their agreement.

  Frank thought it over, and he too nodded. Only Jack Hardy was noncommittal. And a couple of the men looked to him for support.