Ghostboat

  Hardy left the comfort of the wardroom and headed for the galley. Byrnes was not in the control room; he must have turned in for the night. The men in control were relaxed but bundled up. The open conning-tower hatch and the ladder-well formed a natural funnel, and cold, moist air chilled the compartment.

  Hardy stepped into the galley. Cookie and one of his mates were bard at work in the tiny space that served as food-preparation center for the sub. Just aft, in the crew’s mess, several small groups were clustered around tables—some reading, some writing—and there was a furious game of acey-deucy in progress.

  “What can I do for you, Professor?” Cookie looked up with his customary surly expression.

  “Something smells good, and I heard a rumor.”

  Cookie snorted. “Did it start with the stomach that walks like a man?”

  That was Cookie’s somewhat affectionate name for Cassidy. In the eleven days since leaving Pearl, a feud had developed between them. Cassidy needled Cookie about the quality of his food, and Cookie bitched about Cassidy’s bottomless pit.

  Hardy smiled and held out a pleading hand.

  Cookie wilted. “Only one,” he said, with mother-hen firmness.

  “Right.” Hardy nodded.

  Cookie placed a fragrant hot apple popover on a plate and handed it over. He watched Hardy’s mouth close over it and the look of enjoyment spread on his face. Then he turned proudly back to his lasagne.

  “Hey, Cookie! Any more of this stuff?”

  Hardy glanced up as the pharmacist’s mate, Dankworth, came in waving a jar in his outstretched paw.

  “Jesus H. Christ! What is it with you, Dankworth?”

  Dankworth grinned sheepishly. “Can’t help it. I got a craving.”

  Hardy froze in mid-bite. Dankworth was waving an empty peanut butter jar. Cookie reluctantly handed him a fresh one. Dankworth unscrewed the cap and quickly smeared some crackers, which he tossed on a plate. He secured the lid, returned the jar to Cookie, and headed for the mess, happily munching.

  Hardy slid his plate to the counter, mumbled thanks, then looked into the mess. Dankworth was seated facing away, but Hardy could tell from his movements that the crackers were steadily disappearing. He was not only eating, he was concentrating on eating.

  Rattled, Hardy headed forward, disturbed with himself. He was struggling, trying to keep the image of Slugger out of his mind... Albert P. Daley, “Slugger” from the crew of the Candlefish—1944.

  Frank, who had made it his business to look up Cassidy after coming off watch, to recheck the battery cage, also had a glimpse of Dankworth diving into his peanut butter. Coming through the crew’s quarters, he had a head-on view as the pharmacist’s mate flopped onto Clampett’s bunk and demolished his third load of goodies. Frank was even more surprised than Hardy, but for a different reason.

  Human nature being what it was, Dankworth should have been the last man on board to have a craving for that stuff. With that latrine-cleaning episode only days old, it seemed unlikely Dankworth would be seen within three hundred feet of any peanut butter. But there he was, filling his face and obviously enjoying it.

  “Well,” thought Frank, “there are better things to do than watch a man make a pig of himself.”

  But he did look back from the hatch. It was strange.

  CHAPTER 13

  December 2, 1974

  Frank got to sleep around 0130, after lying in silence with his arms clasped behind his head for an hour, staring at the upper bunk.

  He didn’t want to think about the host of unsettling things that kept cropping up. Hardy’s insistent adherence to his own precious words, the failure of the boat to respond... The important, thing was to keep the purpose in focus, never lose sight of the original goal, no matter what peculiarities became manifest. Not that he expected more incidents, but he was determined to hold to his method for dealing with everything. The method was simple: Don’t let Ed Frank lose control of the situation for even one minute. If that meant bucking Byrnes and Hardy, and everyone else, then so be it. Frank pulled his arms under the covers and relaxed. Once he was satisfied that his grasp on events could not be loosened, he felt able to rest and so let himself drift off to sleep.

  At 0300 he was awakened by an urgent hand on his shoulder. He endured it for a moment, then suddenly flipped over and stared into Byrnes’s worried face.

  “I’m sorry,” the Captain said. “Can you give me a minute?”

  Frank nodded and rubbed his eyes. He sat up and watched Byrnes pacing the stateroom. Dorriss was cocooned on an upper bunk.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Frank.

  Byrnes kept pacing, his jaws working. “I’ve been in the radio room—in and out of it and up to the bridge like a goddamned monkey, non-stop for the last two hours. We’ve lost radio contact.”

  “What?”

  “With the escort.” Frank’s incredulous expression made Byrnes snap back. “I can’t raise the Frankland! First visual, now radio.”

  Frank let it sink in, then stared at the deck. He watched the Captain’s shiny black shoes pass back and forth three times before anything more was said.

  “What about radar?” Frank asked.

  “Still got them on the scopes,” Byrnes admitted. “But how reliable is that?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Oh?” Byrnes said nothing more, just gave Frank a quick, skeptical glance. Then he stepped to the center of the compartment and thrust his hands into his pockets.

  “Not a word out of them. I can’t believe it”

  “You think they’ve had a malfunction?”

  “I hope so. I just hope.”

  “Well, that’s probably what it is. We couldn’t lose contact. We might not be able to see them in this fog, but we do have them on radar.”

  “What if that’s not the Frankland?” Byrnes looked Frank in the eye. “What if it’s just a piece of debris, a large patch of seaweed, or a Russian trawler?”

  Frank swung his legs over the side of the bunk and kept his head low so he wouldn’t bump it on the upper.

  “All right,” he said. “What if?”

  “Well, we can’t go on like this. Our orders require constant radio and visual contact with, the escort. That’s security procedure. Without the presence of the Frankland, this mission is jeopardized. And it’s getting close to 0400,” said Byrnes quietly. “Time to submerge.” He turned suddenly. “Look, Frank, do we have to follow that log?”

  Well, well, thought Frank. Why in the world didn’t he just say “Fuck you, Ed, but we’re going home? “That’s what we set out to do.”

  “I know. But the circumstances are changing.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Keep this boat dead in the water until we reestablish radio and visual contact with the Frankland.”

  He stopped and waited for Frank’s reply.

  Frank stood up. His answer was a firm “No. Captain, we have to follow that log or, as far as I’m concerned, the whole project is blown.”

  “Maybe it is already.”

  “That’s an assumption.”

  Byrnes pulled one hand out of his pocket and worried his chin with it. “It’s up to me, Commander, not up to you. I want to make that point now, so that if and when I order a course change, you know the reason why. I don’t want any fights about it.”

  Frank stuck his jaw out. “There’s no reason to act like a dictator.”

  They were interrupted by a booming voice over the intercom: “Captain to the bridge. Captain to the bridge.”

  Byrnes hesitated only a second, then charged out of the compartment. Frank grabbed his pants and rushed after him.

  Byrnes stopped in the control room, one hand on the ladder, the other on the radar operator’s shoulder. “What is it, Scopes?”

  “Don’t know, sir. Something about planes...”

  In the red light of the conning tower, Frank could feel the cold seeping down from the bridge. He asked the quartermaster for a jac
ket. On the bridge they found Jack Hardy, wearing a jacket slick with mist, sweeping the shrouded horizon with a pair of binoculars. An Arctic sea smoke roiled up off the rippling waves, adding to the overhead blanket of gray. The only sound was the plunge of diesel exhaust and the sea lapping against the bows. Frank zipped up the borrowed jacket.

  “All right, what is it?” asked Byrnes.

  “Planes,” said Hardy. “Two or three of them. Not jets. Prop jobs.”

  “What?”

  “I heard them.”

  Byrnes turned to the lookouts on the periscope shears. They shrugged. One of them responded, “Captain, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I heard.”

  “I heard them,” snapped Hardy. “They were prop jobs. I’m sure of it.”

  Byrnes flipped on the bridge phone. “Radar, did you pick up any planes?”

  “No, sir. Nothing at all. Still trying, sir.”

  Byrnes gave Hardy a sidelong look. “Probably our own,” he mumbled.

  Hardy turned sharply. “With props?”

  “This far out at sea? I don’t think so. Do you?” Byrnes was smiling; he didn’t believe Hardy at all.

  “I heard them,” the Professor said tightly.

  “Congratulations. Next time, let me know when you see them.” He pressed the phone again. “Radar, you still have the escort on that scope?”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Bearing one seventy degrees off the starboard bow. Range, six thousand yards.”

  “Thanks.”

  Byrnes turned and watched Hardy scan the fog a moment longer, still looking for his planes. Then he turned and faced Frank. Frank read disgust in the Captain’s eyes and knew what he was thinking: Hardy was an Old, incompetent fool and neither he nor his goddamned log could be trusted. Frank frowned unpleasantly. Why in hell couldn’t Hardy have just stayed out of the way?

  Over the transmission sounds of diesels pumping, a voice came in loud and strident: “Captain, this is the forward torpedo room. We’ve got two fish loaded and ready—”

  Byrnes whirled in surprise and grabbed the mouthpiece. “This is the Captain. You’ve got what!”

  “Tubes one and two ready for firing, sir. Just like it says in the log. Fire a pair of torpedoes at around 0415 on December second, sir.”

  “Well, you just hold on to those two fish, Mr. Vogel! Don’t let them go anywhere!” He released the speaker button and swore. Another voice came on:

  “Captain, this is control. It’s nearing 0400, sir. Time to submerge.”

  Byrnes’s eyes widened first in exasperation, then in anger. Again he jabbed the button and hollered below: “This is the Captain. That is a negative. We will remain on the surface. That is all!”

  Hardy lowered his binoculars and turned in silent appeal to Frank. Frank faced Byrnes. “What good is that going to do?”

  “I told you before. We will hold our position and wait for the escort to catch up.” He spoke into the phone again. “This is the Captain. All stop.”

  The muffled pumping of the diesels slowed and came to a halt. The submarine drifted into the next wave and then sat quietly, shrouded in fog.

  Byrnes started to pace the bridge. Twice he called below to Radar and asked for positions on the escort. The first time he was advised 5800 yards. The second time, 5700 yards. The escort was making slow progress. Too slow for Byrnes. He ordered Giroux to make another attempt at radio contact. Giroux reported back two minutes later.

  “Sorry, Captain. The Frankland still doesn’t respond.”

  Frank checked his watch. It was one minute to 0400. “Captain?” He waited for Byrnes to give him full attention. “What about a compromise? Let’s submerge now, fire those torpedoes on schedule, then surface and wait for the escort.”

  Byrnes scowled at first, then appeared to give the idea some serious consideration.

  Frank pressed his advantage. “At least let’s try to keep this project going.”

  Hardy was watching anxiously. Byrnes glanced at him and finally nodded. He was not too pleased about it, but it was easier than just waiting.

  “Very well. We’ll go down.”

  “And the torpedoes?”

  “We’ll see. I want to get a fix on that escort with the sonar.” He hollered out: “Lookouts below!” The lookouts slid down the shears and dropped through the hatch. “Stand by to dive. Clear the bridge!”

  Byrnes hit the klaxon. Frank and Hardy followed the lookouts below. Byrnes yelled over the battle phone, “Dive! Dive!” Then he dropped into the conning tower and pulled the hatch lanyard after him. The quartermaster dogged the hatch shut, and Byrnes went below to the control room, spouting orders: “Take her down to seventy-five feet. Rig out the sonar!”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Roybell went for the valves.

  The sonar operator, Nadel, switched on his gear and fitted his headphones. He turned up the speaker, and in a second the compartment was echoing with pings. Hardy and Frank came below from the conning tower and listened.

  Byrnes tapped the radar operator. “What was the last range oh that escort, Scopes?”

  “Fifty-two hundred yards, sir.”

  Nadel piped up, “Got something, Captain. Highspeed screws approaching. Range, three thousand. Bearing zero-four-nine. Closing on our bow.”

  Byrnes blinked. “What the hell is that?”

  “The escort?” said Frank.

  Byrnes turned sharply to Scopes, who shrugged and insisted, “Couldn’t be. They’re astern! I made them at fifty-two hundred yards, bearing one-seven-zero. I’m positive.”

  Byrnes swung a finger at Nadel. “Then what the hell has he got?”

  Hardy took a step forward. He was mouthing something—the numbers zero-four-nine—the position on the sonar target. His brow was furrowed; he seemed to be trying to work something out in his mind.

  Byrnes waved a hand at Scopes. “You were wrong. No wonder we couldn’t see them. They’re running ahead of us!”

  Hardy spoke quietly. “Are you sure this is the escort?” He laid a hand on the sonar gear, and they all listened to the churning sound.

  “Has to be!”

  Nadel spoke, hesitant. “Not so sure, sir. Running kind of low in the water.” He clasped the phones to his head. “And her screws—they don’t sound familiar.”

  “What do you mean, familiar?” barked Byrnes.

  “She just doesn’t sound like the Frankland.”

  There was a long silence while Byrnes carefully listened to the pings and the interspersed churning of distant, approaching screws.

  “It’s another submarine.”

  Everybody turned at Hardy’s remark. He stood stockstill in the center of the control room, listening just as intently as everyone else.

  Byrnes straightened slowly. “Mr. Hardy, if you please—”

  “Captain, I think you should check my log—”

  Byrnes’s eyes flashed. “This isn’t the time for that.”

  Nadel clutched his headset in white fingers, a frightened look in his eye. “Sir? Excuse me, sir. I think Mr. Hardy’s right. That does sound like a submarine.”

  Frank felt the confidence draining from his middle.

  That’s impossible,” said Byrnes hoarsely. “It has to be the escort!”

  “No, sir.” Nadel was firm now. “She’s riding much too low in the water. It’s another sub, all right.”

  “It can’t be,” Byrnes muttered, then turned to Frank. “Mr. Frank, should we encounter any other subs in this area?”

  “No. We’re supposed to be running in clear lanes.”

  None of them was aware of just how quiet it had become in the control room until they were all startled by die sudden clatter from above. Byrnes shifted to the hatchwell and looked up into the conning tower. Stigwood’s face appeared at the ladder, ashen.

  “Captain—”

  “What’s going on up there?”

  “Captain, it’s the TDC. It’s acting up—”

  “Acting? What are you—”

  Stigwood look
ed sideways, then back down at Byrnes. He spat it out. “It’s computing a setup!”

  Frank blinked. Hardy had turned and was looking up past Byrnes’s shoulder. The TDC—Torpedo Data Computer. Computing a setup? By itself? A setup on what? Frank’s lips parted.

  Byrnes flew to the intercom. “Forward torpedo room. This is the Captain. What’s going on down there, Vogel?”

  The torpedo officer’s voice rang out, “Sir, we’re standing by. Outer doors open on tubes one and two.”

  “The TDC is sending down data. Are you receiving?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Captain’s eyes widened. He shouted, “Well, don’t do anything! Don’t fire! Stand by to unload!”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Standing by.”

  Frank shoved past Hardy and shot up the ladder. In the conning tower he sidestepped Stigwood and the quartermaster, who were staring incredulously at the TDC. Frank leaned over it and studied the position. How in the world could the thing set itself up? And what target had it set up? He checked the coordinates on the metal plates. Bearing 000 dead on. A bow shot The bloody thing had set up a bow shot on that—that—whatever it was that was swinging in ahead of them. Was it another sub? Or was it really the escort? Frank felt a chill of fear.

  “Captain, that sub is still closing.” Nadel’s voice drifted up from below, along with the sound of slashing screws and increasing pings. “Bearing zero-three-eight relative.”

  Zero-three-eight! The target was coming about to approach head on—their sonar must have already locked onto the Candlefish! Frank stared at the crazy little machine. It had computed a down-the-throat shot on an undetermined target, transmitted the information to the torpedo gyros in tubes one and two, and now—

  He heard Hardy speaking his own thoughts. “She’s drawing a bead on us!”

  “Hardy—shut up!” said Byrnes.

  Frank dropped down the ladder. “Captain, you better do something. He may be right!”