“Okay, Professor. Now what?”
CHAPTER 23
December 11
Hardy and Cassidy stood just inside the CPO quarters, Cassidy hefting the clippers, his only weapon. Hardy turned and spoke in a guarded murmur. “We’re going to take the gun locker in control.”
“Who is?”
“You are. Just take the key, open the locker, get a forty-five and two hand grenades, then call me.”
“Call you? While they’re climbing all over me?”
“Use the forty-five.”
“I’m not going to shoot anybody!”
“Fine, just don’t let them know that. Give me one of the grenades—I’ll take the con. You set the demo charges on the electronic equipment.”
“The what?”
“God, Cassidy—you said you built this thing!”
“I had nothing to do with electronics. That was Faber.”
Hardy glared at him. “She carries self-destruct charges on all critical electronics, circuit-breakers marked with red and yellow stripes—you can’t miss them. Just pull them down and the charges are armed.”
“How many?”
“Two radar and one sonar.”
“But that’ll knock the sub right out of commission!”
“That’s the idea.”
Cassidy grabbed Hardy’s shoulder; there was fear in his eyes.
“What about the crew?”
“We’ll get them off, but it’s going to take a very big scare to do it.”
“Coming into fog, Captain.”
The Captain acknowledged the report from the bridge, then turned back to Lieutenant Dorriss, who had the patrol chart spread out against the TDC casing.
“Fog,” the Captain repeated, and displayed a faraway look of satisfaction, as though he was being reintroduced to an old friend.
“Course?” he asked the helmsman.
“Three-five-eight, Captain.”
“All right, Mr. Bates, make your mark.”
Dorriss looked down at the chart. Course 358, if they kept on it, would take them north to the Kuriles within three days. But that was not to be the way of it. Dorriss drew an extension of the red patrol line across the chart and stopped it just over the parallels” and perpendiculars that marked latitude 30° north, longitude 146° east.
Then he inscribed it: 11 DEC 2100.
He put the red pen back in his pocket, folded the chart, and turned to deposit it in the mission locker. He closed the locker, then raised his hand, expecting to find his keys in the lock. He cursed.
Of course! He had loaned them to the guard, so he could unchain Hardy and walk him back to the can. The bastard had forgotten to return the keys. Dorriss turned to the Captain and said, “I’ll be right back.” He hurried below.
The Captain gripped the ladder and hauled himself up to the bridge, stepping out onto a cold, misty deck and squinting into the fog.
“I thought you said fog,” he growled at the OOD.
“Sorry, sir. I meant soup.”
It was thick. Terribly thick. As thick as the Captain had ever seen. But that was all right. He didn’t have to see to know where he was going. And his course change was as much a matter of timing as location. He could risk anything right up until the last second—and he would. He felt giddy with the sort of exhilaration one should only feel in battle. But wasn’t this a battle too? And he had it timed so well—down to the second. He glanced at his watch.
2108.
Dorriss ducked through the hatch to officers’ country and stopped. He had sensed something: an imbalance, a tell-tale warmth from Just behind him. He whirled and saw he was right: Two men stood there, wide-eyed, crouched in anticipation. Hardy and Cassidy, braced against the bulkhead, one on either side of the hatch. Hardy was free, without chains or cuffs, and Dorriss suddenly knew what had become of his keys.
His reaction was that of a man used to the crackle of immediate obedience. He stuck his hands on his hips and announced, “Mutiny, Mr. Hardy. Mutiny... and sabotage. That’s going to look very nasty on a report.”
“Is it now?” said Hardy.
“I could have you both thrown in the brig for the rest of your lives, so—”
Cassidy took a step forward “Excuse me, sir, but we’re late for an appointment.”
Before his sentence was complete, the clippers were in motion. It was an overhand swing, and it came down hard on Dorriss’s forehead. The Exec crumpled, blood welling up through the split skin.
“Watch that hatch,” Cassidy hissed, then dropped the clippers, grabbed Dorriss under the arms, and dragged him into the CPO cabin. He was gone a long time.
Hardy waited for him, pressed against the bulkhead, his nerves shifting into high gear. What’s keeping Cassidy, for Chrissakes—is he trying to revive that bastard?
Movement.
Men were leaving through the aft hatch, presumably for coffee.
Where was Cassidy?
He peered at the clock in control. 2111. My God, only four minutes, then the Captain will—
He jumped at the tugging on his sleeve and turned, fully expecting to see the ghost of Basquine or Bates. It was Cassidy.
“Let’s go,” he said.
At exactly 2112 Hopalong Cassidy stepped through the hatch into the control room, carrying his clippers. He eyed the five crewmen, sizing them up as adversaries. Roybell was nearest the gun locker. Stigwood was at the plotting table, penciling something into the log. The two auxiliarymen stood by the flood valves and the manifolds, lounging; there was nothing for them to do at the moment Only Scopes was glued to his instruments.
What to do first?
The demo charges? The three circuit-breakers. He gazed about the instrument panels, seeking out the red-and-yellow-striped switches. He found the sonar switch and saw he had a clear path to it. He could just walk right by it, and give it a flick—
He smiled at Stigwood and slipped across the control room to the sonar equipment, and, raising the clippers to shoulder level in his left hand, he stretched with his right, yawned, and flipped the switch down, one quick movement.
He was past Scopes in a flash, reaching for the gun locker—
Goddamn!
The key. The key was in the wooden box attached to the periscope well over the plotting table. Back to Stigwood... Beginning to panic now. He flashed Stigwood another grin and was regarded with a dull look, even as he opened the box. He knew exactly which key: the red-white coded one. He snatched it and swept back to the gun locker. He felt Stigwood’s eyes on him—simple curiosity. Too late for you, bastard.
Cassidy jammed the key in the lock and had it open as Stigwood suddenly came alive and said, “Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” Cassidy muttered, flung the locker open, and grabbed the first .45-caliber pistol he saw. He slammed in a clip, pulled the slide, and swung it up at Stigwood.
“Hey!” Stigwood barked it this time.
“Hay is what horses and cows chew, bub. Were you born on a farm?” Cassidy moved the barrel of the gun around, letting it linger briefly on each man in the compartment. The two auxiliarymen stepped uncertainly away from their instruments; otherwise, no one moved.
“That’s fine,” said Cassidy. He pulled out two hand grenades, tucked the handle of one in his belt, gripped the pin of the other in his teeth, then—in his best John Wayne snarl—”Scopes, get your ass away from that station.”
Scopes joined Stigwood at the plotting desk. Neither of them saw Jack Hardy step in behind them.
“All right,” said Cassidy, pointing to the closed destruct switch above sonar. “Demolition charges are set. They’ll go off in ten minutes.”
Hardy stepped past Stigwood and Scopes. They stared at him, suddenly understanding. Roybell made a move to stop Hardy. Cassidy raised the .45 and said, “Don’t.” Roybell jumped back. Hardy moved to the radar station and flipped on the two destruct switches. He took the second grenade from Cassidy and climbed the ladder to the con.
Adler turned first and saw h
im—rather, saw the grenade coming up to his face. His mouth opened.
“You’re confined to quarters,” Adler said.
“Not any more I’m not. What’s our position?”
Adler felt Hardy’s foot connect with his backside. He moved to the position indicators.
He spoke shakily. “Latitude thirty degrees nineteen minutes north, longitude one hundred forty-six degrees thirty-eight minutes east.”
“What’s the heading?”
“Course three-five-eight,” volunteered the helmsman, gaping at the grenade.
“All right, you hold this course—”
The Captain’s binoculars were trained into the fog, scanning a completely invisible horizon. The Captain was feeling the first twinge of uncertainty. His eyes were useless in this muck. He listened for the regular slop-slop of waves against the bows as the sub made speed through the sea. He glanced at his watch once more.
2115.
The Captain turned and hollered down the open hatchwell, “Slow to one-third. Bring her around to course two-five-three!”
He felt a surge of excitement.
He was waiting for the answering call from below. But there was none. It was impossible that the helmsman hadn’t heard him. Something was wrong...
He stared down the hatchwell and, from the foot of the ladder, Jack Hardy was looking back up at him.
2115.
The first effects of the geomagnetic anomaly they were passing through would occur at exactly 2132. Hardy had to keep the Captain at bay for seventeen minutes.
The Captain stepped into the hatch and went down the ladder. He turned and saw the grenade.
“Don’t say anything,” Hardy commanded. “I don’t want to hear anything from you.”
“Why? What are you going to do—pull that pin?”
Hardy hefted the grenade.
“Sure you are,” the Captain sneered. “You’re exactly the kind of man who would take a chance on destroying everyone aboard, right? That’s the kind of maniac you are, Hardy. You don’t give a damn about human life. Everything for your own crazy ends, isn’t it? Who in hell did you convince to help you? What sucker’s ear did you fill with your demented line of shit? Who let you out?” he roared.
“I did.”
The Captain looked down the ladder to the control room. Hopalong Cassidy stood there, holding a .45 on the crewmen.
“You listened to him?” the Captain bellowed down the hatch. “Walinsky, you’re a goddamned fool!”
“I’m not Walinsky! I’m Cassidy! Hopalong Cassidy!”
The Captain laughed and pointed at Hardy. “And who’s this? The Lone Ranger? You’re both out of your minds.”
“Get your hand off that switch,” Hardy said quietly. The Captain’s hand shot back from the battle-phone switch. “Nobody has to hear this but us,” said Hardy. He maneuvered the Captain away from the intercom circuit, backing him toward the helmsman. Adler retreated to a corner.
“Now, let me tell you what the crazies have in mind, Skipper. We have set the demolition charges on the radar and sonar stations. Without radar and sonar, you won’t stand a chance chugging into Tokyo Bay—past the nets and the mine fields. Will you? Will you?”
He waited until the Captain nodded his head in agreement. “Now, I’ll be willing to have Cassidy break those demo circuits—on one condition: We continue on this heading, course three-five-eight, without interruption for the next thirteen minutes. After that, I don’t give a shit what you do, because it won’t make one bit of difference. Either I’ll be proved right, or you can pitch me overboard. But we’re staying on this course!”
The Captain had turned purple. “Why?” he choked.
“Because if I let you take this boat west into Tokyo Bay, you’re going to be in for the surprise of your life—”
“HARDY!!” the Captain screamed at him.
Hardy felt his whole body vibrate with the bone-chilling force of it. The Captain stepped forward and made as if to grab Hardy’s neck with his bare hands. Hardy’s arm came up sharply in reflex, and the grenade with it, connecting with the Captain’s jaw. The Captain staggered back, then whirled on the helmsman.
“Left full rudder! Come about to course two-five-three! Move!”
The helmsman hesitated. The Captain screamed, “That’s an order!”
The helmsman directed a shaking finger at Hardy. “That’s a grenade!”
“Stay on course!” Now Hardy was yelling. It was the only way he could keep control: match the Captain in rage and volume. “Captain,” he said, “in five minutes your boat will start coming apart at the seams!”
The Captain looked back at him blankly.
“Did you think you could beat it? Just turn and run away from it? It has to happen! Can’t you see? It’s part of the pattern!”
“The pattern? You lunatic—there is no pattern! I’m in control of this boat!”
Hardy drew himself up with the assurance of one who has penetrated the last defense. “Then why are you so determined to change course?”
“I—I—” the Captain looked confused.
“We’ve got him!”
There were sounds of a struggle below. There was an explosion and a dull clang. Hardy jumped back, frightened. What was it? A bullet...
Cassidy’s gun.
He whirled to the hatch, cutting around the ladder and looking down without turning his back on the Captain. It was all over below. Roybell and Scopes had Cassidy’s arms pinned.
As Roybell swooped down to recover the pistol, he yelled at the others, “Cut those switches!”
He was too late. The explosion came on top of his voice. It was the sonar gear—the first switch Cassidy had pulled. The explosion was short and sharp, but it was followed by the sound of the gear splattering all over the compartment.
Roybell and the others were knocked over by the concussion, and the Chief jumped up again with the pistol.
Hardy yanked the pin from the grenade, then stepped back, clutching the spoon handle tightly so it wouldn’t flip up.
“Forget it, Mr. Hardy. You’ve lost.”
The Captain’s voice had regained some composure.
“Control room secure, sir.” It was Stigwood’s voice, through the intercom.
“Damage?” the Captain shouted.
“Sonar is wiped out, sir. No one hurt. Should we alert the crew?”
“Yes!”
Stigwood’s voice went out through the battle-phone circuit to every compartment in the boat. “Attention, attention. This is Control. We’ve had an accident with a demo charge. Equipment damage only. We still have hull integrity.”
Stigwood switched off and called up the well, “Should I inform the crew of the mutiny, sir?” His voice was calm, not even an edge of distress.
“I don’t think there’s any need, Stanhill,” the Captain said coolly. He was daring Hardy to let the grenade go. “It really is over, Mr. Hardy. I can have Stanhill make the course change himself, on the emergency helm. Why don’t you be a smart fellow and throw that thing overboard? I wouldn’t want to lose you.”
Hardy checked the clock.
2130.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“What?”
“Go ahead and have Stigwood or Stanhill or whoever change course. Do it from here if you like. You’ll find out it’s too late.” He kept talking, stalling for time, rattling on like the madman they all thought he was, anything to hold them on this course another two minutes; that was all he wanted, he prayed for it through the babble coming out of his mouth.
The Captain turned to the helmsman.
“Course two-five-three. Now.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” He gripped the wheel and spun. Nothing happened.
The wheel didn’t budge.
He strained. “Captain, she’s not answering.”
There was a moment of awkward, frightening silence. The Captain’s eyes quivered. Hardy’s muscles tightened.
The Captain grabbed the wheel hi
mself. It held fast. He turned and snapped down the phone switch to control. “Emergency, Stanhill—left full rudder—come to course two-five-three.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Stigwood gripped the emergency helm and struggled with it Nothing. It was frozen.
“Emergency controls jammed, Skipper. She won’t respond!”
The Captain grabbed the phone and the motor telegraph at the same time. “All back full!” he yelled into the mouthpiece, and rang it up on the MB.
They waited seconds; then the controlled reply came from below: “Skipper, maneuvering reports engine switches won’t answer.”
Hardy let out an involuntary yelp of laughter. He had been right. “It’s out of your hands, Mr. Basquine! It’s not yours any more—the Candlefish is running herself! She’s heading for latitude thirty degrees forty-nine minutes north, on course three-five-eight. When she gets there, she’s going to disappear—and you and everybody else who’s aboard will go with her!”
This time it was the Captain who yelled, “Get your hand off that thing!”
Hardy was holding down the intercom switch, spreading the word to the entire crew.
The Captain had just started to lunge for the hand grenade when the first tremor struck the boat.
The whole conning tower shook. All four men stumbled to one side.
A series of rattling shivers whipped the submarine from side to side.
The Captain’s eyes met Hardy’s. “All right, you son of a bitch,” he screamed, “I’ll take this thing through your fucking Latitude Thirty and still get to Tokyo Bay!”
CHAPTER 24
December 11
2132.
Hardy one-handed himself up to the bridge, still clutching the hand grenade. A thick gray mist covered the sea—a wall of cloud, obscuring everything as Candlefish cut deeper into Latitude 30.
The decks shook beneath his feet. The lookouts gripped their railings for support. Lieutenant Danby screamed an angry curse as the sub pitched violently.
Hardy took a long backswing and flung the grenade far out to sea. Seconds later he heard a dull thud. He turned and dropped back into the conning tower.
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