Captain Gunnar gave Gates that wry smile.
"You know Admiral Rickert, don't you?" Gates guessed.
"I served with him during Desert Storm," he said, nodding. "He was just a captain back then. He called me the other day when he learned I was being assigned to salvage the Franklin. Told me about your little group. What's it called again? Deployable Operational Group–Papa?"
"That was the old name, captain," Gates said, grimacing. "It had the unfortunate acronym of DOG–P."
The old seaman guffawed and slapped the table. "DOG–P! That certainly is an unfortunate acronym!"
The captain's laughter was contagious and Gates found himself joining in it.
"Well, that's an interesting line of work you're in," Gunnar said after the laughter subsided. "Chasing down mysteries at sea and all."
"To be honest," Gates said, "the mysteries aren't always that mysterious. Most have a simple explanation. But we look into anything that might have an impact on maritime trade."
"And as a merchant seaman, I thank you for that," Gunnar said. "But I suspect there are plenty of mysteries you can't find an easy answer to."
He leaned forward in his chair, placing his arms on the table.
"I've been going to sea for more than thirty years, Doug. And we merchant sailors spend a great deal more time underway than you military sailors. There's no profit in having a cargo ship tied up to the dock for any length of time. I can tell you, in all those years, I've seen some strange things. I'm not talking about St. Elmo's Fire. I'm talking about strange lights in the night sky—and under the water. A roiling sea surrounded by dead flat water. Fogs that rise from nowhere and disappear again. Hell, strange vessels that suddenly appear on a collision course looking as solid as this tub, yet we see nothing on radar, and then they just disappear. When they briefed me on this job, and they told me what had happened to the Franklin, I can tell you I really wasn't the least bit shocked. Mysterious things happen at sea, Doug. Mysterious things."
Gunnar fell silent. His eyes focused elsewhere. He shook his head.
"Ah, but I prattle on," he said. "I'm sure you think I'm just an old salt-encrusted fool ready for the scrapyard."
"Not at all, sir," Gates protested. "I feel much the same as you. I've . . . experienced things, too."
"Well, one of these days when we're back on shore, perhaps we'll raise a pint or two and see who can tell the biggest lie," Gunnar said, smiling. He stood. "In the meanwhile, I have a ship to salvage and you have a mystery to solve."
Chapter 7
GATES STEPPED OUT OF the bridge and turned the collar of his foul-weather jacket up against the chilled Arctic air. He took the ladder to the main deck and headed toward the Franklin's stern.
The DSV sat beneath the A-frame. It was larger than Gates expected and reminded him of a cross between a submarine and an insect. Topside, the submersible had the vague shape of a sub, with a yellow rounded hull topped by a flat deck striped with black non-skid. A small orange conning tower rose from the deck forward of the vessel's mid-line.
That was where any comparison to the submarines Gates knew ended.
Below the yellow hull was a Plexiglas bubble and two spidery mechanical arms tipped with pincer-like claws. Mounted on each side of the DSV were two small thrusters—propellers encased in cone-shaped housings. Mounted beneath the hull were two skids similar to those on certain light helicopters. Stenciled on the bow in large block letters was "CHIP-1."
Gates found Strange and Sandford looking underneath the DSV.
"Anything?" Gates asked.
Strange straightened at the sound of Gates' voice.
"No, sir," he said. "But Sarah and I just started looking. We decided to look through the sub's—"
"DSV," Sandford corrected.
"Look through the DSV's hangar first," Strange continued, "but we didn't find anything unusual."
"Well, then, carry on," Gates said.
Gates heard a grunt from above. Sandford had climbed onto the DSV and was trying to undog the entry hatch. She looked at the men. "One of you big hunky men want to grab a dogging wrench and help me get this damn thing open?" she asked. "It's stuck."
Strange dashed into the hangar, eager to retrieve the wrench. When he returned, Gates was standing on the submersible's deck, a hand extended to receive the tool.
"Thank you, lieutenant," Gates said, before turning back to Sandford.
"Yes, sir," Strange said, his words sagging with disappointment.
Gates stuck the wrench into the dogging wheel and, with Sandford pulling and him pushing, the wheel turned.
"It's not supposed to be that hard to turn," Sandford said, pulling the hatch open. She studied the hatch's latches, and its knife edge and the rubber it bit into and grunted. "It looks off kilter, as if someone tried to force it."
She dropped one leg into the hatch, then the other, and disappeared into the sub. A moment later, her head reappeared. "Coming, commander?"
Gates lowered himself into the mini-sub. Light filtered into the interior from two small lateral-view ports and the Plexiglas window. Sandford sat in a reclining pilot seat, one of two squeezed into the cramped pressure hull. A third person could lie on a padded bench between the seats. Gates slid into the second chair.
"Ever been in one of these before?" Sandford asked as she started throwing switches.
"No," he said. "I'm a qualified diver. Have to be to be a marine archeologist. But I've never been in a submersible before."
He turned and found Sandford starting at him.
"What?"
"A marine archeologist?" Sandford said. "And an oceanographer? What kind of Coast Guard team are you?"
"A well-educated one," Gates said. "The bow stencil—Chip-1. Is that its name?"
"Yup," Sandford said, her hands playing over the controls, flipping switches. "There are three DSVs in this class, Chip-1, Chip-2, and Chip-3, named after the father of all DSVs, Alvin—you know, the one Robert Ballard used to find the Titanic."
She glanced at Gates. He shrugged.
"Commander," she said, "you mean you've never heard of Alvin and the Chipmunks?"
Footsteps thudded above them, and Leland Strange's face appeared in the hatch.
"Skipper, Chief Hopper is trying to contact you," he said. "The radio signal must not be penetrating the DSV's hull."
"What's he got?" Gates asked.
"He said he needs you in main engineering right away. He and the CIVMAR engineer found something in the shaft alley."
"Tell him I'm on my way." Gates glanced at Sanford. "Sorry."
"Don't mind me," she said, flashing that smile that entranced him. "I've got my baby sub to keep me occupied."
"DSV," Gates corrected, smiling. He stood, climbed through the hatch, and jumped to the deck. Strange hovered over the hatch, expecting—or hoping—for an invitation from Sanford.
"Leland, stay outside the DSV in case I need to call you on the radio," Gates said as he trotted forward toward the deck house.
Strange sighed, sat on the mini-sub's deck, and sullenly sank his chin into his palms.
☼
On older ships, the propeller shaft runs from the ship's engine through a tunnel to the point where it penetrates the hull via a waterproof packing case and attaches to the propeller, also known as the screw. This is shaft alley.
The Franklin, however, was of a modern design, only out of the yard for a couple of years. Instead of screws and rudders, twin azimuth thrusters propelled and steered the ship. Rotating pods beneath the ship's stern housed the propellers and their electric motors. Mechanical servos inside the engine room turned each pod three hundred and sixty degrees, allowing the steering of the ship without the need for a rudder. Electricity generated by a diesel-electric system powered the pods' motors and the servos. Hence, the Franklin had no shaft alley, but in the maritime service old terms die hard.
The lights were still out below decks. Jack Weil met Gates at the stairs leading to the engin
e room. Weil wore a headlamp and used it to guide Gates into the depths of the Franklin's mechanical heart. The only light in the spaces came from emergency lanterns. Despite the dim lighting, Gates saw a modern engine compartment more akin to the control room of a nuclear power station than the hot, grease-encrusted caverns he saw as a youth visiting the Coast Guard cutters his father served aboard. Computer screens, blank and lifeless, lined the control center. Gauges and readout screens, just as dead, glinted under the swaying beams of light.
"No luck on getting the generator going?" Gates' breath turned to fog as he spoke. The ship's engineering space sat below the Franklin's waterline. Without power, it was colder in the engine room than topside.
"Haven't even tried yet," said Weil. "Can't do much until we fix this."
Weil shined his lamp light on an opened power panel. A rat's nest of wires dangled from the open doors.
"Someone tore this apart to kill power to the rest of the ship," he said. "Chief Hopper and I were looking for spare fuses and wiring when he found that."
Weil angled his head toward the rear of the compartment. Gates swung his flashlight around. Chief Hopper leaned against one of two blue safety railings encircling the large rectangular servos that rotated the propulsion pods. Hopper motioned Gates over.
Jess Brown squatted within the railing of the port-side servo, studying the base of the mechanism under the light of his own headlamp. Gates made a mental note to pull his own headlamp out of his kit.
"I don't know what made me come over here and look, but when I did I found this," Hopper said. "I called Jess right after notifying Lieutenant Strange.
Brown stood and moved away from the servo, keeping his headlamp shining at the servo base where it connected to the propulsion pod through a watertight packing case. The lamp beam revealed a mound of gray, claylike material. A thin metal tube the width and length of a pencil protruded from the mound.
"Is that what I think it is?" Gates' voice was tight.
"Yes, sir," Brown said. "Plastic explosive. Shaped charge from the looks of it. With a timed pencil detonator."
"Jesus," Gates muttered. "If that goes off, it'll blow a hole right through the packing case and the hull."
"It gets worse," Hopper said.
He stepped over to the starboard set of turning gears and focused his headlamp on its base. Another explosive mound sat against its packing case, a pencil detonator jammed into its mass.
"That could be why the crew abandoned ship, sir." Hopper said. "Similar to the Mary Celeste."
Gates shook his head. "Maybe. But if they did, it means the crew is still floating around in the lifeboat. We'll have to notify the rescue coordination center to get the big birds flying again." Gates thought a moment, then asked, "Were the watertight doors set when you first came down here yesterday?"
"No, sir," Chief Hopper said. "They were wide open when we did our hasty search after coming aboard."
"If they were in fear of sinking, you'd think they'd set watertight integrity. The crew members were licensed mariners."
"Yes, sir."
"Excuse me. I'm no explosive expert," said Weil. "But could those things still go off?"
"Jess?" Gates asked.
"Pencil detonators don't have delays longer than twenty-four hours," Brown said. "Cold temperatures can sometimes lengthen that, but they should have blown long ago."
"So, they haven't been activated?" Gates asked.
"Oh, they've been activated," Brown said.
He focused the headlamp beam on one of the detonators. Its tip was crushed.
"Oldies but goodies," he said. "These things were first developed by the Brits in World War Two. They were so reliable and so easy to use, both sides used them. A glass vial in the top of the tube holds a corrosive liquid. When you crimp the end, it breaks that vial, releasing the corrosive. In time, it eats through a retaining wire holding back a spring-loaded firing pin. The firing pen slams forward into a percussion cap which sets off the blasting cap which detonates the explosive charge. The thickness of the wire determines the delay, from a few minutes to twenty-four hours. Roughly. They're still used today. The IEDs used in the Mumbai terrorist bombings in '08 had pencil detonators."
"So, these are duds," Weil said, his voice edged with hope.
Brown frowned.
"I don't believe they're duds," he said. "As I said, time pencils can be affected by weather. It's freezing in here. The corrosive liquid may have frozen in the vials. When the ends were crimped, the liquid didn't reach the retaining wires. At least that's my guess."
"Don't they use two detonators per bomb in case one doesn't work?" asked Gates.
"Yes, sir," the gunner's mate said. He shrugged. "Perhaps they figured if only one charge went off, sympathetic detonation would set off the second charge."
"Can we pull the detonators?" asked Gates.
"Well, sir, there we have a Devil's choice," Brown said. "If we pull them, the movement could cause the retaining wire to snap if there's been any corrosion. On the other hand, if we remove the whole charge—the plastic explosive with the detonators still in them—the same thing might happen."
"So, we just leave the bombs in place?"
"I wouldn't recommend that, sir," Brown said. "If and when we get power back on, this engine room will warm, and the corrosive will thaw . . ."
"And the bombs explode," concluded Gates. "Understood. We're damned if we do, damned if we don't."
"Yes, sir. As I said, sir, a Devil's choice."
"Your best advice, then?"
Brown bit his lip and scratched his head. Then he sighed.
"I'd say we remove the charge. There should be less movement to the detonators . . . if we're careful."
Gates thought it over, the muscles in his jaw flexing, then he nodded.
"Okay," he said. "Let's do it."
Chapter 8
GATES AND BROWN STOOD alone in main engineering. Gates sent Jack Weil and Senior Chief Hopper forward to muster with the rest of the CIVMARs and Coasties on the landing pad. Everyone forward wore their survival suits—mandatory equipment in Arctic waters. Without electricity to run the winches, the Franklin's two work boats—rigid-hull inflatables with outboard motors—were muscled into the water. Two life rafts stored on the O-1 deck in canisters with hydrostatic releases were broken out and laid on the deck. Every watertight door in the ship was closed and dogged.
Gates ordered the precautions in case their attempt to remove the bombs failed and they blew holes through the bottom of the Franklin. When Gates explained his plan to Leland Strange, the young officer protested.
"Sir, I should be the one to assist Jessie," he said. "As team leader, you're more valuable to this mission than I am."
Gates smiled at Strange.
"Leland, as an officer you need to learn that you never have someone else do something you wouldn't do yourself. Understand?"
The lieutenant nodded.
He sighed. "Understood, sir."
Neither Gates nor Brown bothered with a survival suit. If they failed, and one or both of the bombs exploded, the blast would kill them instantly or they'd drown when inundated with icy seawater.
Despite the chill, Gates wiped sweat from his upper lip. It dripped down his torso from beneath his arms. Gates noticed a similar effect on Brown's close-cropped hair as he climbed over the blue safety railing surrounding the port thruster servos and squatted before the first bomb.
Gates moved so he could focus his flashlight on the charge. Brown blew on his gloved hands, then looked at Gates.
"Here goes," he said, with a grim smile.
He reached out and touched the plastic explosive. His fingers flinched as if his touch might set the bomb off. He touched it again, his fingers gripping its edges, and pulled.
The charge lifted off the packing case, leaving behind only a small residue. He turned and showed it to Gates. Both men realized they were holding their breath and exhaled, their breath creating great billows of con
densate. Brown stood with great caution and laid the bomb on top of the gear box.
"One down," he said.
Brown clambered over the guard rail, then over the railing of the starboard propulsion servo. Gates followed, using his flashlight to illuminate the bomb. This time, the plastique refused to come loose. Brown glanced at his team leader, but Gates urged him on. The gunner's mate adjusted this position and dug his gloved fingers into the plastique and gently rocked it. The movement caused the pencil detonator to tilt drunkenly. Brown froze.
"Careful," Gates said.
"Like I need to be reminded," Brown muttered.
Brown set back to work, rocking the charge until it loosened and came free. He lifted it and stood, facing Gates. Sweat streaked his face.
"Good work, Jess," Gates said. "Now let's get these things topside."
Brown stepped over the safety railing and waited as Gates retrieved the other bomb. They eased up the stairs leading out of the engineering, stopping at the top as Gates balanced his bomb in one arm and worked the dogging lever with the other. They went through, not bothering to close and dog it. A blast at that moment would do minimal damage to the ship. They repeated the motions with each hatch and scuttle they came to until they reached the main deck.
Once on deck, Gates quickstepped to the side of the ship and dropped his bomb over the side. Brown, eager to rid himself of his burden, trotted across the fantail. The quick movement jarred the loosened detonator. It fell from the explosive, clattering to the deck. Without thinking, Brown tossed his bomb overboard and both he and Gates threw themselves behind whatever cover they found. They turned and stared at the detonator as it rolled across the heaving deck.
Nothing happened.
The two men cursed, and—for the first time in what seemed hours—relaxed.
Then the detonator and blasting cap blew with a deafening crack, causing both men to jump. A splinter of shrapnel creased Brown's cheek, and he yelped. Gate's earpiece came alive with different voices calling him.
Polar Melt: A Novel Page 4