Ghostboat (11 page)

Frank felt a rock sinking into his gut.

“I am not convinced by your arguments, Commander Frank, but I am not turned off, either. I think you have a point. We are faced with a hazard to navigation—not the
Candlefish,
but the area in which she was lost. On that basis I might be able to coax some funds out of Appropriations to finance your expedition. But I doubt it. I will, however, make an attempt.”

Diminsky stared at Smitty, helplessly enraged.

Frank sat back and felt the little rivers of sweat pour down his inner arms. He ordered more iced tea all around.

October 19, 1974

The morning sun bounced off the water, bathing the
Candlefish
in its warming rays and causing great aggravation to the pain of Ed Frank’s hangover. He screwed up his face and took another gulp from the steaming mug he was holding in an unsteady hand. As the warmth flowed through him, he thought back over the last three days since the Diminsky-Smith-meeting and declared, “Jesus. What a mess.”

The frigidity that had solidified between Diminsky and himself had coincided with the sudden arrival of fall in Washington. Cold rain driven by gusting winds had blanketed the city, an effective damper on everything and everybody. And the fight with Joanne had been the capper. He winced just thinking about it.

They had both said stupid, hurtful things. He had given her hell about her constant clumsiness, and she had read him the riot act over what she called his “egotistical self-sufficiency.” He had left the apartment for the flight back to Pearl, feeling about as tractable as a bull moose at the height of the rutting season.

A breeze flapped the canvas tarp that shielded the dockside desk from the tropical sun. Frank drained his mug; the “bottom of the birdcage” taste had left his mouth. Another cup, maybe a try at breakfast, and he could face the day. But first the coffee.

Thank God for the Navy, he thought, they always have enough money for coffee. He was definitely on the mend. He wouldn’t pull a dumb stunt like this again; getting blind smashed out of frustration was certainly not the answer. For the first time since he had made his way from the
Imperator
to the
Candlefish
this morning, he watched the activity with some semblance of interest.

The working party was bringing up the last of the enlisted men’s personal gear.” The old blue sea bags with the white-stenciled names and serial numbers were being loaded onto a truck, sealed, and tagged. The sailors read the names off quietly. Cook and a quartermaster, both with clipboards, checked them against the 1944 roster. Frank became aware of the hush that had fallen over the pier. Looking back toward the
Imperator,
he saw the groups of men lining the rails of her upper decks. They too were quiet. Watching.

The sound of the tailgate locking into place signaled the end of the impromptu ceremony. The clusters of men drifted away, returning to their normal duties. The truck moved off, heading for the warehouse which held everything recently removed from the sub except her explosives.

Frank eased himself into the chair behind the desk and slid open the middle drawer. He removed the pictures from the folder and studied them. They were all that remained of the thirty-year-old calamity. Compartment by compartment, the mess that had been his first view of
Candlefish’s
interior stared back at him. Now it was almost a bare boat.

The head of the maintenance team, Chief McClusky, popped through the aft hatch, bounced up the gangplank, headed toward him, and came right to the point.

“The mountings are all in and seated, sir, but I’m still worried about moving that Fairbanks-Morse.”

Frank reached for the blueprints, rolled them open, and studied the layout. “What does engineering say, Mac?”

McClusky snorted and rubbed an oil-streaked hand over his face. “They think it’s a cakewalk, sir. We can jack the mother up, move it forward on rollers okay—but I’m worried about the hoists. We’re cutting some down to size, but...”

“But what?”

“Commander—if those hoists break, I’m liable to put one hell of a hole in your boat.”

Frank looked at the blueprints. Cook approached the desk and, without being asked, put his clipboard down on one corner of the breeze-whipped paper. “What’s our alternative?” asked Frank.

McClusky’s finger jabbed at the blue paper. “Let me cut through the overhead plating, sir. I can run a crane down here and have that engine dropped into place and snugged up in a sec.”

Frank did not want to rip the deck off; there had to be another way.

The desk phone rang. Cook picked it up, listened, then shoved it under Frank’s nose. Frank barked a greeting into the phone.

“When? Eleven hundred? Thanks!” He handed the phone back to Cook, a surge of adrenalin shooting through him. He stood up. “Mac, try it with the hoists. If that doesn’t work, we’ll skull out something else.”

The Chief gave him a dubious look, then turned and made his way back aboard. Frank had already dismissed the matter. Good news was in short supply, and some had just arrived over the telephone. He savored the moment.

“Ray, guess who’s coming for a visit?”

Cook glanced up from the papers on his clipboard. He was wary. “Bob Hope?”

Frank spit out a laugh. It wasn’t just the last vestiges of his hangover; he knew a break when he saw one. “Jack N. Hardy, late of the
Candlefish.
Be here in less than three hours.”

“Congratulations.”

Frank acknowledged the slight bow that Cook tossed him, but his mind was already racing over details. VIP treatment all the way. The launch, to bring Hardy from Ford Island to the sub. A car and driver from the Base Motor Pool. And a room at the BOQ. “Make that on the first floor, Cook. The Professor’s got a bad leg.”

He left Cook and hustled down the forward gangplank, headed for the hatch, and zipped down the ladder. The stone that had been sitting in his gut ever since Washington was gone.

Below decks, the changes were astonishing. What had been a disaster area ten short days ago was now neat and shipshape. He looked at the empty torpedo bays on either side of him. Aft, through the hatch, he saw some movement in the officers’ quarters. That was where he wanted to go.

Alone inside Basquine’s cabin, he brainstormed, going over his options for handling Hardy. Without the man’s cooperation, Frank was a dead duck. The trick was to get it.

Cook found him twenty minutes later and reported that everything was set up.

“Now what?” said Cook.

Frank smiled, eased himself out of the chair, and checked his watch. Hardy’s jet would be landing in a little over two hours. They both had a lot to do, but first he had to get Cook on his side.
 

“Hardy’s quarters are still intact, right?”

Cook nodded. “As per your instructions.”

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.”

Cook listened, a look of distaste spreading over his handsome features. “Sextant, pictures, gear from the warehouse... You’re setting him up! Salting this boat like a phony gold mine.”

“That’s right. I want to put a hook so deep into this guy that he’ll
beg
to go along.”

“Why?”

“I need him. Badly.”

Cook didn’t like it at all.

“Now, I want you to make one more phone call. Cohen and Slater. By fastest transportation possible, I want them here and set up at 0800 tomorrow morning.”

Cook’s distaste turned to outright horror. “The Gold-Dust Twins? Are we going to do a little mind-bending?”

“Not bending, Lieutenant. Just peeling. Now make the call and get that sextant up to the dock.”

Cook nodded coldly and turned toward the door. He stopped and directed a blast at Frank. “You know, it’s strange. Hardy’s coming back after thirty years, and he’s still getting shafted... by the Navy.”

Frank and Cook watched the launch glide up to the pier. One of the crewmen held her fast with a boathook as Hardy prepared to disembark. Frank reacted to Hardy’s hopping steps. He hadn’t realized the man limped as badly as that. Christ! All he needed was for the good professor to fall down a hatch. Then what?

“Welcome to Pearl, Dr. Hardy. I’m very glad you came.” Hardy stood at the foot of the gangplank to remove his jacket and loosen his tie. He smiled up to them.

“I forgot just how hot it gets out here, Commander.”

Frank introduced Cook, who hurried down the plank to take Hardy’s suitcase.

“Well, want to see her?” Frank asked. Hardy nodded, and Frank led them to the opposite side of the dock. He stood aside to let Hardy view the
Candlefish.

The professor lifted his sunglasses and studied the low, sleek hull. He stood quite still, his eyes traveling the length of her back and forth several times in succession.

“How does she look to you?”

Hardy lowered his glasses, saying nothing. He turned and asked about a hotel.

“You’ll be in the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters right on the base. Everything is set.”

Hardy nodded and slowly turned back to the sub. His eyes riveted on it. Tiny beads of perspiration broke out on his weather-beaten face.

“Come on,” said Frank, and led him toward the dockside desk. He glanced back as they walked, and was pleasantly surprised. Bad leg and all, Hardy moved well enough.

The sun, now almost directly overhead, beat down on the three men and cast shadows on the steel- sheathed sides of the submarine. Frank walked around the desk and slipped his hand under the tarp. He found the strange-looking sextant buried under the blueprints. He stood behind Hardy a long time, watching the old man scrutinize the submarine’s bridge superstructure.

Hardy stared at the raised bolts on the conning tower which spelled out the sub’s number.

“Two eighty-four,” Hardy muttered hoarsely.

“Professor?”

Hardy turned slowly, and his eyes locked onto the” strange device that Frank was holding out for him to see.

“Cyclops,” he said, in a low, strained voice. “Where did you find it?”

“Wedged just forward of the breach lock on the deck gun.” Frank handed it to him. “You recognize it?”

“It’s mine,” Hardy mumbled. “Or it
was
mine. Thirty years ago.” He cradled the sextant; his fingers turning it, feeling the metal. The muscle in his left cheek started to pulsate. The vein on his forehead stood away, the blue line clear beneath the tanned skin.

Alarmed, Cook moved to his side. Hardy took off his sunglasses and wiped his eyes. His breathing returned to normal.

Frank was stunned. “Are you all right?”

Hardy nodded and rubbed his temples, regaining his composure. “I’ve been bracing myself for this ever since you left my office at Scripps. Guess I just wound myself up a bit too much.”

“Look, why don’t we get you settled into quarters? We can go aboard later.”

Hardy refused and stepped toward the gangplank. He got on and limped down to the deck, holding the rail tightly. Frank returned the sextant to the desk and opened the drawer. He grabbed the manila folder containing the photographs and approached Cook.

“Did you get everything I asked for?”

“And then some.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Frank tried to read Cook’s expression. “Hey, no surprises, Ray. Not now.”

“Just some things to sweeten the pot.” He added quietly: “Go easy on him.”

Frank went aboard the boat. What the hell did Cook think he was going to do? Take a rubber hose and beat the man?

Hardy was on deck just aft of the cigarette bridge, his head craned upward. He ignored Frank and stepped back a few feet, his eyes dropping to the wooden strakes covering the deck. He was measuring.

“I must have hit—right about here.” He stomped the deck with his good leg, then tapped his bad one. “That’s how I got this.” Frank followed his gaze, measuring the distance, getting a mental picture of this man, thirty years younger, trying to keep himself from being swept from the protection of the bridge in a rush of raging water.

Hardy moved to starboard of the sail and looked up again at the raised bolts—at the number 284. That was the evidence. That made it true, made it fact. This was the USS
Candlefish.
No doubt about it. Frank saw the old man’s cheek muscle start to throb again.

“We can go below by the forward hatch, Professor.”

Hardy smiled tightly. “Don’t let my leg fool you, Commander. I still move pretty well’—he grabbed the metal ladder and hoisted himself up to the bridge, his powerful arms compensating for the right leg—”even for a man of my
superior
years.” He stood on the bridge and beamed down at Frank, daring him to do better. Frank smiled, impressed. He clamped the manila folder between his teeth and shot up the ladder.

Hardy’s head slipped from view as he dropped down the conning-tower hatch. Frank scooted down the ladder after him.

Hardy scanned the tight quarters and sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose at the familiar odor of machine oil. He moved toward the helmsman’s seat, his eyes climbing over the instruments. “What happened to the glass on the gauges?”