Ghostboat

by Neal R. Burger

  “What the hell is the matter with you people? It’s almost foolproof!”

  “That’s what gets me, Skipper. The almost part.”

  The Captain growled back at his Exec, tired of hearing the same objections repeated.

  “Dammit, Bates,” he hissed. “There’s nothing left for us in this area—nothing up in the Kuriles either. I’m not going to waste any more time hoping for them to stumble over us. That’s not the way to win a war!”

  A red flame flushed over the Exec’s face. “You’re the Captain, sir,” he said stiffly. “If those are your orders, well follow them.” Then the Exec thrust a finger down on the chart: “But I might remind you that charging into an unknown area can end as a one-way trip!”

  “Sure—if they’re looking for us! But they think we’re sunk! They’ve been broadcasting it for days!” He smiled, and his eyes twinkled. “We can get in our licks and beat it before they even know what hit ‘em. Pearl Harbor in reverse.”

  At that he leaned back and judged the effect on the other officers. “Of course, we could get killed.”

  They all looked up at him, expecting him to assure them it wouldn’t happen. The Captain smiled again and announced confidently, “But that’s a risk you’re all sworn to take.”

  Cassidy reached under the covers and dragged out the copy of Hardy’s log he had “liberated” from the locker in the aft torpedo room. He cracked it open and began to read.

  It wasn’t until he was past the strafing that he began to feel the first faint stirrings of uneasy familiarity. Hardy’s neat handwriting, his concise wording, the parallels—everything that had happened to them was written down, and it had all been written before they had left Pearl. How could that be?

  Tonight—today—let’s see... He flipped pages and froze on December 11th—the last entry. Latitude 30—there it was, a complete description, limited, of course, to the point of view of a man stranded on deck. But what he had heard! The sounds, vibrations, rolling and pitching. Cassidy’s hackles stood up.

  Earlier, twilight, sometime before surfacing—an attack. MADs. Christ, if this log was right— He checked his watch.

  He sat up quickly.

  Any moment now. His heart started thumping.

  Maybe all that stuff Hardy had screamed after the slug-test mishap wasn’t so damned insane.

  The slug test!

  Cassidy’s eyes raced over the entry for December 10th. Yesterday.

  On that date in 1944, there was no slug test mishap—no slug test at all. No accident—no damage to the boat. Not a mention.

  He closed the log and stared straight ahead, frantically trying to sort out the significance.

  The log was complete, as Hardy had said it would be. Give the man one point. Therefore, he must have been there—thirty years ago? How could that be? But give him two points. December 11th and Latitude 30—yes, described in detail. But he didn’t know yet if it was true. A half point.

  What else had Hardy said?

  Check the quartermaster’s log. But why? He couldn’t remember why. Never mind—better do it. He pitched himself out of the bunk and quickly padded toward the control room.

  The skipper was hunched over some charts, his face puckered with anger, growling at his officers in a low voice. Cassidy avoided the Captain’s gaze and slipped past, ducking into the quartermaster’s tiny cubicle. It was empty. He lifted the official log off the rack, opened it, and hurriedly thumbed pages.

  On the bottom of the entry dated December 3rd he found what he was looking for. Rapidly he leafed through the next seven pages, pausing at each one, his heart sinking.

  Three and a half points.

  Every single entry had been signed with a hastily scrawled “B. G. Basquine.”

  Cassidy was numb. He replaced the log and stared from the cubicle, examining the Captain, knowing that Hardy was right. He was not the man he should be. He had become someone else. Cassidy now knew for sure because he realized he too had been someone else. Or he wouldn’t have forgotten the man whose signature was on every page prior to December 3rd: “L. F. Byrnes.”

  He stepped back into the control room. He was right behind Nadel when the sonar operator’s head shot up and his voice rang out:

  “Picking up sound, Skipper.”

  Cassidy’s mouth opened.

  All eyes swung around as Nadel fine-tuned his equipment.

  “Screws?” asked the Captain.

  “No, sir. Can’t quite make it out—”

  “Put it on the speaker.”

  He flicked a switch, and a distant buzzing clicked in, grew louder, filled the control room. The Captain acted instinctively:

  “All ahead emergency! Take her deep! Right full rudder!”

  The deck tilted beneath them. The Candlefish shoved downward. And Cassidy’s arms sprang out He clutched the instrument panels and shouted, “MADs!”

  The Captain whirled and stared at him.

  Four and a half points. Cassidy held on tight and waited for confirmation. Magnetic Airborne Detectors. The Japanese contribution to anti-submarine warfare—

  “Two hundred feet, sir!”

  Two distinct splashes pierced the buzzing that roared out of the speakers. Nadel whipped off his headphones, anticipating the shock. The Captain braced himself against the chart table.

  Twin concussions slammed into the sub with stunning force. The air was filled with flying particles of insulation. Men who hadn’t secured a firm handhold were knocked off their feet and sent sprawling.

  The Captain hit the phone switches and barked, “All compartments report damage!”

  Reports of “Secure” rattled back at him from stunned voices. The surprise had been complete, but the damage was minor.

  It was all over in five minutes, and in less than an hour the submarine was secure. The two off-duty sections were released, and the Candlefish returned to normal operations.

  Cassidy left the control room quietly, unnoticed. No one detected the new look of determination that had crept into his features. And no one suspected why he stopped in the forward engine room to pick up his toolbox.

  Four and a half points, he was thinking. Shit, round it off to five and let’s call it a day.

  The jaws of the clippers closed around the line and bit down, slicing through the fabric at the joint leading from Normal Lubricating Oil Tank number three. Cassidy shifted his weight, trying for more leverage in the crawl space. He grunted and squeezed harder. The cutting head sheared through the last of the canvas and chewed into the hard rubber line.

  With a final heave, he succeeded. The line parted. Oil spurted up, coating the bulkhead. He dropped the clippers and gazed happily at the flow.

  Then the two halves of the severed line very slowly crept back together and sealed themselves up again.

  His elation turned to horror as the oil sputtered, then stopped. Dazed, Cassidy observed helplessly. The canvas outer wrapping reknitted, and the oil-spattered bulkhead cleansed itself.

  Shivers shot through his body. He gaped down at his clippers.

  “What the hell are you doing down there, Walinsky?”

  Cassidy swiveled and looked up. He bit his lip and swore under his breath. What the hell was the Captain calling the Exec...? Bates!

  “Nothing, Mr. Bates. Just thought I’d better check those NLO lines.”

  “How are they?”

  Cassidy dropped the clippers into his toolbox and secured the snaps. “Holding fine, sir.”

  “You have the watch, don’t you?”

  “Yessir.”

  “You finished down there?”

  Cassidy nodded. “Yessir.”

  “Then let’s get with it.”

  The mess steward placed the tray on the deck beside Hardy’s bunk and rapped twice on the bulkhead. Hardy waited till he left, then slid open the curtain with his manacled hands. He gave the food a disinterested glance, then began to pick at the spaghetti. The cuffs made it difficult, but since they hadn’t given him a k
nife or a fork—potential weapons, he supposed—he had only the spoon to contend with. He took a few halfhearted bites and chewed thoughtfully. The coffee was good. Warmth flowed through, giving him a false sense of well-being. One look at his handcuffs, and that sensation evaporated.

  He drained the mug, set it back on the tray, and began chopping the spaghetti into bites with the spoon.

  Cassidy waited until the mess steward returned to the galley, then made his way forward, pausing to nod at the guard outside the CPO cabin. He slipped into the wardroom, helped himself to coffee, then plunked down at the farthest corner of the table. The seat gave him a view of the corridor while keeping him out of sight. He sipped his coffee and waited.

  Hardy stared at the crumpled note resting in his spaghetti sauce. He fished it out with the spoon, wiped the grease off the edges, and carefully unfolded it. His eyes picked up the writing in the unstained center of the napkin.

  NO SLUG TEST IN LOG DEC 10 1944—MUST SEE YOU—CREATE DIVERSION—CASSIDY.

  Hardy studied the note, comprehension slowly dawning. The slug test—of course. The fact that he had been able to pull it off in the first place meant that Candlefish was vulnerable.

  If he could catch the boat unawares once, why not a second time?

  Suddenly he felt better, alive once again. He rolled the napkin into a ball and shoved it under his mattress, gauging the possibilities. It was overwhelming—maybe they had a chance after all.

  Cassidy tensed and crouched down. He glanced over at the CPO cabin. The guard was turned away—

  Come on, come on. What was Hardy waiting for?

  The commotion started almost as if by signal. Hardy began bellowing to be released.

  “Come on, will ya? I have to get to the can!”

  The guard rushed in and saw his pained expression.

  “You don’t have to bust down the bulkheads, sir—”

  “You want to see something bust, stick around another minute. Come on!” He held up his chains. “Let me out of these.”

  “Can’t,” said the guard.

  Cassidy slipped in behind him.

  “What do you mean you can’t?” Hardy snapped.

  “Have to get the key from Bates.”

  “Well, get a move on—my back teeth are starting to float!”

  Cassidy spoke softly, right in the guard’s ear. “I’ll watch him, son.”

  The guard turned uncertainly, then nodded and took off.

  Hardy dropped his chains and looked up at Cassidy, searching his eyes.

  “That slug test broke the pattern, Hopalong.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Didn’t happen on December tenth. I caught her off guard.”

  Cassidy shook his head. “Not for long. The damage repaired itself.” Hardy blinked, not quite comprehending. “Repaired itself,” Cassidy repeated. “And that’s not all. I tried to cut the lines from the NLO tank. Sealed itself right back up in front of me. It was a nice try, but it’s the wrong approach.”

  Hardy sagged.

  “You were right about one thing. The Captain. Since December third, he’s been signing the log ‘Billy G. Basquine.’“

  Hardy struggled to a sitting position. “That’s the day Byrnes was killed.”

  Cassidy nodded. “What about that? You didn’t lose your Captain in ‘44. How come it happened now?”

  Hardy hesitated to sort out his thoughts. Then it came to him, a disgusting realization of just how hopeless their situation was. “I know why—I don’t exactly know how. Byrnes was the weak link. He was ready to turn us around and head back to Pearl. The sub didn’t want that. Besides...” He paused, uncertain of what he was about to say. “We set out with an eighty-five-man crew, one more than we had in 1944. The boat killed two birds with one stone. Bumped off Byrnes and let Frank take over. It must have sensed that Frank would be easier to control.”

  “It might control Frank,” Cassidy contended, “but Basquine?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re not dealing with Ed Frank anymore—it’s Basquine. How could anything control him? I told you I knew him back at Mare Island. I thought he was crazy then, but now?”

  Hardy struggled with it. Who or what was running things? The sub? Ed Frank? The ghosts of Basquine and Bates and the rest of the—

  “My God!” Suddenly he knew it. “It’s all of them! It’s everything in tandem. The Candlefish is operating as it was meant to operate—as a weapon!”

  Cassidy was blank.

  “Christ, he said it himself. Crew and machine—we make up the weapon! This boat couldn’t pull all that stuff on its own. It needs Basquine, and Basquine needs the boat! Deprive him of that—”

  He stopped and scanned Cassidy’s face for a response. “You’ve got to bust me out of here. We can still stop him, but I can’t do a damned thing as long as I’m chained to this—”

  The voice over the speaker interrupted him.

  “This is the Captain speaking...”

  They stiffened and waited. The hum of the air conditioners took on an ominous tone.

  The Captain stood at the head of the torpedo skids, one hand on a green-and-yellow monster, the other clutching the battle phone. He was ringed by tired crewmen.

  “Well, they’ve had a go at us again. Magnetic Airborne Detectors. Radio tells me they’ve reported us sunk once more...” He smiled, and the men around him smiled too. “So I think we should take advantage, don’t you?”

  There was no reply, but he could feel spirits rising.

  “The pickings have been pretty slim for us these last few days. I intend to change that. We’re not going to wait for them any longer, gentlemen. We’re going to hit them right where they live—in their own ball park. We’re coming off station this evening and setting course for Tokyo Bay.”

  He paused and nodded affirmation around the compartment. A cheer went up—then another.

  “Where we’ll shoot the shit out of anything flying the rising sun.”

  Hardy was stunned. “Oh, goddammit,” he muttered.

  Cassidy was smiling. He threw a palm up in Hardy’s face. “Hey—we’re off the hook! He’s not going to Latitude Thirty. We’re okay!”

  “The hell we are. Can’t you see what’s going to happen?”

  “Nothing—we’re home free. He’s going to bust right out of this pattern.”

  “You bet. Right out of 1944 and straight into 1974.”

  “I still don’t—”

  Hardy growled into his face. “This sub never got to Tokyo Bay. It was thwarted. At 2130 tonight, the recreation of that last patrol is over. There’s nothing left to re-create! It’s all new!” He paused, then added quietly, “Can you imagine the Candlefish on the prowl in Tokyo Bay—in 1974?”

  Cassidy went white.

  “A fully armed submarine on the loose in a crowded, unsuspecting harbor? It would be a disaster!”

  “Okay...” Cassidy paced to the door, checking for the guard, then came back. “How come he can break the pattern and we can’t?”

  “We were interfering with them.”

  “So what do we do?” Cassidy asked helplessly.

  “Now we’ve got to switch tactics. We have to force the boat into Latitude Thirty.”

  “Into it?” Cassidy returned his gaze painfully, “And sink?”

  “That, or take the chance of killing an awful lot of innocent people.”

  “Awful lot of innocent people aboard this boat, too.”

  “I can’t help that!” Hardy snarled between clenched teeth.

  “How are we going to do it? Just tell him please forget about Tokyo Bay and stay on this course, please sir pretty please?”

  “Just get me out of here.”

  “Any trouble, Chief?”

  Cassidy swung around. The guard came in, dangling a key ring.

  “No. Just humoring him.” He glanced sideways at Hardy, a look of bitterness. “Better keep those keys handy. The way he’s been raving, he’s gonna piss himself
blue. In my opinion”—he gazed directly at Hardy, and Hardy thought he meant it—”he’s a certified section eight. A maniac.”

  The guard unchained Hardy but kept the cuffs on.

  Hardy glanced back at Cassidy as he was led from the cabin, his stomach contracting into a tight knot. Had he been suckered by the Chief? Strung along so that a report could be made to the Captain?

  They broached at 2000 in a cold clear Pacific night. A bright moon bathed the superstructure and topside decks, giving the boat a shimmering, wraithlike appearance. The bridge watch came up subdued, lulled by the whine of pulsing diesels.

  The Captain stood by the TBT, listening to the rhythm of the engines, drinking it all in, absorbing the strength of his submarine.

  The roar of air that blew the main ballast tanks dry woke Hardy out of a frozen reverie. His mind was groggy, lethargic. With an effort he cleared the cobwebs and tried to concentrate. He was still trying to figure out how to stop the Captain. He hadn’t thought of the time. Now it struck him like a blow below the belt.

  2000.

  Sixty minutes later, Hardy was losing hope. He had only thirty minutes left. And where was Cassidy? Soon it would be too late.

  He couldn’t even get to the door without Cassidy’s help. Yet if he could somehow reach the control room, open the gun locker, grab a .45 and some grenades, then barrel up to the con...

  The plan began to take shape. But it all depended on time. And he had less of that every second. Cassidy—for God’s sake! He didn’t believe me. He’s hiding in his fucking engine room, huddling there with Walinsky’s pipes, trying to ignore everything. He’s old! He wants to die.

  Cassidy, please!

  The thud shocked him upright. It was just outside. Then a sound like a sack of potatoes hitting the deck. Then the door closing... Footsteps...

  A hand whipped the curtain aside. There stood Hopalong Cassidy, the clippers clutched in one hand and the key ring in the other. Behind him the guard lay sprawled on the deck. Hardy’s eyes went gratefully to Cassidy’s determined, grim face.