Ghostboat

by Neal R. Burger

  “How about you, Professor?” probed Clampett.

  “I... agree,” said Hardy with some deliberate hesitation. “The same thing probably won’t happen again. In which case, Mr. Frank will be the only one disappointed. But as I see it, the special equipment the Frankland is carrying will forestall any trouble we might...”

  The men waited for Hardy to continue, but he had stopped himself. He turned with a little uncertain smile and moved forward, toward the galley. Frank followed and caught up with him just outside the radio room, and asked him what else he was going to say.

  “Just one thing. Even if the trip to Latitude Thirty doesn’t sink us, other things could happen.”

  “What other things?”

  “I don’t know... Can’t you sense it? Feel it? This boat—you become part of it...”

  “I think you’re talking about yourself, not the rest of us.” Frank hoped they weren’t headed for a repeat of Hardy’s nightmarish breakdown aboard the Neptune 4000.

  “I’m talking about all of us. You may not feel it now. But you will after a few days. This boat... takes over. You can bend it to your will, because it is only a machine. But as long as it operates, we serve it—not the other way around.”

  Frank did not feel like arguing with him. He suggested that Hardy get some sack time before his watch, and the Professor obediently took off down the corridor.

  Frank ducked into the radio room and had Giroux raise Lieutenant Cook aboard the Frankland via “Gertrude,” the underwater telephone.

  “All in all, Ray, it’s smooth as silk. No problems so far. We’ll stay on our present course, so advise your people out there, and radio Diminsky—send a cable— tell him everything is okay and we are Go. Over.”

  “Okay,” Cook’s voice crackled over the receiver, “you guys realize you’re going to miss Thanksgiving? Over.”

  “Nuts, I don’t think we even packed a turkey. Over.”

  “Ham sandwiches will do. Talk to you later. Out.”

  Frank clicked off and handed the mike back to Giroux.

  Close to 2000, Frank took the handles of the periscope from Byrnes and pressed his eyes to the rubber shade. The tip of the scope was just above the waves and angled aft. He could see its wake feathering the water and, far in the distance, the lights and the shadowy bulk of the escort destroyer. Frank watched for a while, gradually becoming conscious of his isolation aboard the sub. Stranded with eighty-four other sweaty bodies on a submerged island. The smells were already beginning to permeate the boat. The men, the diesel oil, cooking, coffee... And outside, up above, the clean cool darkness of night—the Pacific Ocean and her smells.

  Hardy popped up the ladder and regarded the clock impatiently. It was 2002—two minutes past eight o’clock. He approached Byrnes quietly. “Running a little late. We should be surf aced.”

  Byrnes smiled genially. “We will. Just take it easy. “

  Hardy watched the Captain bent over the charts with Lieutenant Dorriss. They were comparing plastic overlays to see if they had varied at all from the 1944 course. Frank stepped away from the scope and let Hardy take a look. Hardy put his eyes to it, but he was itchy. He kept looking over his shoulder at Byrnes and the clock. By 2008 Hardy had backed up to the bulkhead and stood fiat against it, arms folded across his chest, an unpleasant cast on his face.

  Frank regarded him curiously. What was so important about—

  “Okay—take her up!”

  Byrnes hollered below and Stigwood flew into action, shouting commands at the auxiliarymen and the trim manifold operators. The red combat lights went on, and two lookouts prepared themselves at the foot of the control-room ladder. All vents were shut, and Byrnes ordered, “Slow to one-third.” The surfacing alarm went off—three blasts on the horn. Main ballast tanks were blown, bow buoyancy was blown. They rose to forty feet, and Roybell started the low-pressure blower.

  The Candlefish broached the surface evenly, water cascading off the bridge and out the side vents. She leveled off.

  Byrnes ordered the hatch cracked. The Officer of the Deck shot up the ladder first and spun the dogging wheel. He flung the hatch back and went up, followed by the two lookouts.

  In the control room; Stigwood called out, “Rig in the bow planes, open main induction, get ready on main engines.”

  In the conning tower, Hardy waited until Byrnes went up the ladder, then grabbed Frank’s arm and beseeched him. “If you’re going to do this, you ought to go by the book—my book.”

  Frank went up the ladder, amused by Hardy’s concern for following the log exactly. After all, Frank had spent several weeks drilling the importance of it into Hardy’s head. Now it appeared Hardy was going to hang it around his neck like an albatross.

  They gathered on the bridge and scanned the sea. Byrnes gave the order to charge all batteries and maintain present speed and course on two engines.

  Frank and Hardy walked around to the cigarette deck and gazed aft. They could see the lights of the destroyer steady in the distance. Frank watched for ten minutes, then went below.

  Hardy didn’t come down until 0100.

  CHAPTER 11

  November 26, 1974

  After five full days at sea, the Candlefish had settled into a routine. Lieutenant Cook received reports from Frank every eight hours and relayed them in briefing sessions to Captain Melanoff and Admiral Kellogg. Aboard the sub, Byrnes conducted briefings in the wardroom at mealtimes. They would dine, have coffee and smoke, and then exchange complete reports on the sub’s operation, hull integrity, problems, and plans for the next few hours.

  Hardy kept himself busy with navigation, making rounds in the control room, the conning tower, and the bridge, even during off-duty hours, to check the ship’s course against his charts and log. In the control room, the quartermaster of the watch kept the official log, and as soon as the captain signed it Hardy checked it against his own records, letting out a grunt if it seemed acceptable. Once in a while he came across what he felt were odd coincidences, mishaps that were common to both the log he had created and the one they were currently keeping: valve leakage here, a broken gasket there. They puzzled him.

  Once he drew one of them to Frank’s attention. Frank shrugged it off, but took to standing over Hardy while he compared logs. On the morning of the 26th he saw Hardy freeze for a moment, and asked what seemed to be wrong. Hardy showed him a report concerning the failure of forward battery connector cable number 81 at 0734 the previous morning, then pointed to his own notation in the 1944 log: A similar cable had failed on the same date thirty years ago. Obviously, it was nothing remarkable, because battery connector cables were frequently wearing out, and Frank was able to point out a dozen more instances where the factor of coincidence simply did not apply. Hardy grudgingly accepted the reality. Frank began to suspect that the Professor would spend a great deal of time on this voyage looking for anomalies.

  During Frank’s frequent tours of the boat, he found ample evidence of growing camaraderie among the crew. They were sorting themselves into those who joked and those who were joked about. There were pranks; there were mascots. Even among the officers there was a pecking order. The junior officers, Danby and Adler, were constantly leaving themselves open for ribbing, and they would get it from officers and lower ratings alike.

  But everyone kept out of the Captain’s way. He was a stern, imposing figure, and they were all appropriately respectful of him. And Byrnes obviously preferred it that way.

  He was a stickler for cleanliness, making daily inspections of all cooking and health facilities, combing the galley, the pantry, the below-decks storage freezer, the washrooms, showers... and the latrines.

  He wanted the latrines to shine, and he made no bones about it. The second day out, he found a spot of crusted cleansing powder wedged under the rim of the toilet seat. He warned the entire crew that if such inattention to detail occurred again, he would forbid the use of the after head, and the crew would have to fend for themselves at night,
surfaced, from ass-to-the-wind positions in the stern of the boat.

  The next two days Byrnes made careful inspections of the after head, actually sticking his head inside the bowl to check under the rim. Satisfied each time, he straightened up, nodded to the duty officer, and walked out, all smiles for the men. Some of them described it as “a regular shit-eating grin, like he knew he was getting our goats...”

  Then, on the morning of the 26th, Byrnes was making his usual rounds. Dankworth, the pharmacist’s mate, had been assigned latrine duty and had decided to put an end to the Captain Bligh treatment. He took a jar of peanut butter from the cook’s pantry, hurried back to the after head, and cleaned and scrubbed the toilet until it was spotless; then he wiped a small-dab of the peanut butter into the ledge under the rim. He rushed the peanut butter back to the cook and raced back to his post, managing to get there only one compartment ahead of Byrnes. He stood at attention outside the washroom until the Captain approached.

  “Ready for inspection, sir.”

  Byrnes acknowledged the salute and entered the washroom. Ed Frank stood behind Dorriss, who carried a clipboard with the duty assignments. They watched Byrnes inspect the shower, the floors, the washstand, then the toilet... He got down on his hands and knees and thrust his head inside the gleaming white bowl, and his eyes traveled around the rim. He stopped abruptly, and for a long moment seemed not to believe what he was seeing.

  “Mr. Dankworth.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “What is this?”

  Dankworth grew a superb blank look. “What is what, sir?”

  “This—here!” Byrnes stood up, the blood draining into his face. His finger was inside the bowl, pointing. Dankworth got down on his hands and knees and put his head inside the bowl. He could hardly restrain a smile. The little dab of peanut butter stood out clearly.

  He straightened and, as dutifully as possible, said, “Looks like shit, sir.”

  Byrnes blinked in surprise. Dorriss and Frank were stunned. “It does, does it?” asked Byrnes.

  Dankworth shrugged, bent over, whipped a finger under the rim, came up with a dab of the stuff, and ran it into his mouth.

  “Tastes like shit, sir.”

  Grins spread across Frank’s face and Dorriss’s. The Captain froze. Suddenly he knew he was being had. Very deliberately, he too ran a finger under the rim of the bowl and delicately licked at the brown goo. He eyed Dankworth grimly. Dankworth didn’t bat an eye.

  “You’re right,” said Byrnes. “And since you’re so good at it...”

  Dankworth slowly turned pale.

  “... I’m appointing you official shit-taster for the rest of this trip. And mind you, not just during inspections, Dankworth, but immediately following all meals aboard this boat, you will inspect all heads in the manner to which you have become accustomed.” Byrnes pantomimed running his finger under the rim. Dankworth stood very still. The Captain thanked him for the inspection, then departed.

  For the rest of the day, after every meal, it was a race to the after head—with the crew in a dead heat against Dankworth. Dankworth figured if he could get to the can before they did, he could take a run at it and have done with it, but if they beat him to it and lined up—God help him.

  From that moment on, things were lighter all around. Byrnes became a “regular guy” in the eyes of the crew, so in a sense the hapless pharmacist’s mate had accomplished his purpose. And the men—all of them—were now more firmly convinced than ever that they had drawn the best duty in the Navy.

  November 28, 1974

  The Candlefish slipped quietly through calm Pacific waters at periscope depth for most of the day. They were supposed to be within visual range of Wake Island, and Byrnes wanted to confirm the first sighting of land since Hawaii. He was idly swinging the scope around when something made him stop: a black object looming to starboard, traveling at an angle parallel to the sub. He turned the scope on high power and examined it. It was a medium-sized Japanese freighter with a brilliant blue hull and letters emblazoned ten feet high the full length of her: DATSUN. She was returning from the States after delivering a cargo of automobiles. Byrnes turned and mentioned it to Frank. Frank took a look and couldn’t restrain a smile. “What if we took her picture through the scope and sent it to her with a note: What a swell target you’d make—”

  “—on a dark night!” Byrnes finished for him, and they hooted in laughter. Even Hardy stood by and smiled; he had loosened up over the Dankworth incident, and ever since that morning had attacked his tasks with relish rather than with his usual suspicious gloom.

  Byrnes reclaimed the scope and resumed his scan of the horizon. Again he stopped. There was a smaller dot in the distance. Magnifying it, he brought up the image of a long, low piece of land. He breathed easier.

  “Wake Island,” he announced, and turned the scope over to Hardy, who eagerly took the position and recorded it on his chart. Next to a little dot identified as “Wake I.” he wrote the notation: 26 NOV 1530.

  Hardy stood up, tucked his pencil into a pocket, folded the chart, and went below. Frank exchanged looks with Byrnes.

  “He’s shaping up,” the Captain admitted.

  “He’s having fun,” said Frank.

  Byrnes had decided Frank needed a refresher course in submarine operation, so Frank was stationed in. the control room, required to make hourly inspections of all forward compartments, including the forward battery and the pump room below decks.

  Frank ducked below at 1700 and walked through the pump room. The engines were quiet. The sub was running submerged on battery power. But diesel oil was all over everything, and Frank was becoming as filthy as everyone else aboard; his clothes were covered with oil spots, and he smelled to high heaven. He went above and trotted into officers’ country, popped the forward battery hatch, and lowered the top half of his body through. He played a battle lantern over the tops of the enormous battery cells, looking for water leaks, rust, corrosion, bubbling acid. There was nothing. Everything was in order. He lay on the deck longer than he had to, staring at the batteries, thinking back to the time he had spent aboard these subs during the Vietnam War—of the million and one thankless little jobs that had to be done aboard a sub, of the constant surveillance on all operable equipment, the attention to detail... Now he knew why he had been grateful for the desk job with NIS. It had meant relief from this. Yet here he was back again—just like Jack Hardy. He clicked off the lantern.

  At 2000 Byrnes brought the sub to surface, not a second off schedule, which pleased Hardy immensely. He felt a great sense of relief every time his log was followed to the letter. Frank went off duty and passed through the galley to pick up a dinner tray. He brought it back to the wardroom and settled in with his briefcase. He spread papers and notebooks out on the table as he ate. He had brought along all his research on the Devil’s Triangle: all his charts and reports and his Maritime Disasters notebook. He pulled the world globe down from its shelf over the phonograph and set it too on the table, twirling it absently, settling first on the Florida vortex, then spinning it around to the Japanese area...

  Jack Hardy strolled in with a dish of ice cream and smiled at Frank. “Cookie made fresh ice cream this afternoon. That old freezer still works like a charm. You fetter hurry. It’s going fast.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Hardy sat down and watched Frank study the globe. Then Frank pushed his dinner aside and sipped at his coffee while he began poring through his notebook.

  It was a solid five minutes before Hardy asked what he was doing.

  “I’m preparing a lecture on what we’re going to be up against. Thought I’d better bone up.”

  Hardy reached for one of the notebooks and asked, “May I?”

  He spent the rest of the evening and all his off-duty hours the next morning studying Frank’s material, poking around the globe, and frowning to himself. He never uttered a word to Frank.

  November 29, 1974

  At Frank’s
request, Byrnes relieved all of the officers except the juniors at 1600 the next afternoon and ordered everyone to assemble in the wardroom for coffee and a briefing.

  The officers slid in around the, big table. Frank positioned himself at the head; he had already spread out his maps, charts and notes, and had planted his globe within easy reach. Hardy pulled up a chair and sat near the entrance. Cassidy ducked in at the last minute and removed his cap, taking a deferential stand against the far bulkhead. He had still not gotten used to sitting in the same room with officers.

  Frank scratched his chest, then lit his pipe. He gazed around at the friendly, chatting faces: Byrnes, Dorriss, Stigwood, Roybell, Hardy, Cassidy... Only Hardy had some idea of what was going to be discussed.

  The mess steward circulated cups. As soon as the men were quiet, Frank began.

  He pulled the globe closer and picked up a red felt marker. He drew a neat red oblong around the area off the coast of Florida, then turned it around for all to see.

  “Gentlemen, the Devil’s Triangle.”

  Everyone fell silent. No sailor in any modern navy is unaware of that infamous vortex. Though many do not believe in it, most have at least a genuine respect for the stories.

  “I have to warn you before we begin, gentlemen,” said Frank, “that we are going to be dealing with an area of discussion that some authorities consider myth, superstition, or just plain folly. But whether you believe in these mysteries makes no difference to us today. At this very moment, we are standing aboard such a mystery. This submarine is our central focus on the inexplicable. And it is my feeling—my personal feeling—that her story is directly related to this.” Again he pointed out the circled blob, the Devil’s Triangle.

  “Ships and planes and submarines have been known to enter this area and vanish. Not all ships and planes, mind you, but enough to rate the descriptive term: an alarming number. I’m alarmed. The Navy is alarmed, but only, it seems, when a fresh ship or plane or sub disappears. Then, for a short time, all hell breaks loose. There are searches and theories, some recriminations, and finally: obscurity. No one in the Navy wants to believe that unnatural acts are possible in our precious oceans. They are not only possible, they are a fait accompli.”