Ghostboat (13 page)

Hardy pushed his brandy snifter away. “I don’t know why... but I have some theories on the how,” he ventured. “But then, I don’t think they’d do you any good. You’re not a scientist.”

“Try me.”

Hardy leaned back in his chair and, steepling his hands, tapped his index fingers together. “Suppose the boat was sealed up tight. Complete hull integrity. No leakage.”

“All right.”

“That could account for the lack of deterioration.”

Frank recalled Nails’s description of the bridge when he had boarded her at sea. The hatches had been dogged tight. “Go on,” he said.

“Some of the subs carried nitrogen flasks. I forget what they were for, but suppose one of them popped loose, broke, causing a nitrogen atmosphere to fill the boat. Suppose? Okay, it would act as a preservative—everything aboard would be pickled—if there was a vacuum. If all the air had been sucked out, the interior of the sub could have remained
intact.”

“What about the outside hull?”

“If she’d sunk to the bottom...” He started to wave his hands. “If she’d been buried up to her bridge in silt all these years, given the coldness of the waters in those latitudes, she
could
have survived without any sea growth at all.”

“That’s not bad, Professor. In fact, it’s damned good.”

“It’s just a lot of
ifs,
Commander.”

“Granted, but it sure sounds better than some mysterious Japanese secret weapon.” He regretted his words as soon as they were out. Hardy looked at him through a half smile; he wasn’t angry, just a little hurt.

“That’s what you get for my twenty-five years in oceanography.” He paused, tapped his glass, and added, “Anyway... we never carried any nitrogen.”

There was silence for a few moments, while Hardy ordered another round from the waitress and refused to talk until it arrived.

Frank tried to regain lost ground. “What about the crew?”

“Well... if they rode out the final dive, they could have tried to escape later. The fishing boat that picked me up had a radio. I could hear them sending, but it was obvious they never even sighted the
Candlefish”
He paused and took a big swallow of cognac. “Did you check the ship’s log? See if there were any entries after December eleventh?”

“We haven’t been able to find it, Professor. It’s missing.”

“Well, Basquine kept his own day-to-day log.”

Frank reached down and opened his attaché case. He pulled out Basquine’s logbook and handed it to Hardy.

“You check it,” he said.

Hardy gingerly flipped it open and thumbed through to the date he remembered. “Let’s see... we left Pearl on the twenty-first of November... Here.” He read from the top of the page: “
‘0800. Underway from Pearl, proceeding under orders to general area Kuriles, Pacific.’“
He lapsed into silence.

He stared at the rest of the blank page.

Frank concentrated on Hardy’s reaction as he turned to the next page and surprise grew on his face, turning quickly to incredulity. He thumbed the next page and the next. Finally he closed the book and sat very still for a long time, before handing it back to Frank.

“That’s right, Professor. They’re all blank. After the first day—nothing!”

“But Basquine never missed. I tell you, he was a fanatic! There must be a mistake.”

Frank returned the log to his case and snapped it shut. He knew Hardy felt uncomfortable, unsure of himself.

“You don’t believe me.”

“Yes, I do. Your theories are just as valid as anyone else’s, but this log—it says more where it says nothing. Do you see what I mean? The
Candlefish,
Professor, is one hell of a puzzle.”

“What are you going to do with her?”

Frank paused, choosing his words carefully. “I’m going to refit the boat and reshape a crew. Then I’m going to retrace the last patrol—from start to finish.”

Hardy was astonished. “You can’t do that.”

“If I get the authorization, Professor, I can and I will.”

“For what reason?”

Frank sat up and looked him in the eye. “Because after thirty years,
it came back!
And it’s just aching to tell us what happened. You’re not only a scientist but you served aboard her! Don’t you want to know?”

Hardy didn’t answer, but
No
was written all over his face. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to complete the missing twenty days in Basquine’s log.”

Hardy laughed; he couldn’t believe it. “I’m flattered, but... you said it yourself, Commander: after thirty years... ?” His voice trailed off, waiting for Frank’s reply.

“I’ve thought of that, sir. Two men that I have sent for will meet you tomorrow morning. They’ll help you.”

“To do what?”

“To remember.” He saw the fleeting look of pain. “Just the portions that I need to fill out the log. Nothing else.”

“How? Do they use drugs?”

“I’m going to have to depend on you for that answer,” Frank smiled. “I don’t even know. But I know they get results, and that’s what we want.”

The harsh, official tone went out of his voice, and he became softer, more pleading. “It’s what we
need,
sir.”

Five minutes later, he paid the bill and they left the Clean Sweep. Hardy was quiet during the drive back to the BOQ. Frank kept the car idling while Hardy lurched up to the building, a slightly plastered list to port compensating for the limp.

During the drive back to the
Imperator,
Frank said a silent prayer. Cohen and Slater had better come through. Hardy was right: Thirty years was a long time.

October 22, 1974

At 1230, Frank headed for the
Candlefish.

Cook met him at the foot of the gangplank. “Just coming to get you. Mac passed the word. Number one is in, seated and hooked up to the main shaft.”

They went down the after hatch and swung through to the forward engine room. They hovered over McClusky. “Gimme another half-hour or so, Commander, and you can fire her up. But keep everything crossed.”

Frank’s eyes surveyed the” huge engine. The once oil-spattered Fairbanks-Morse, now wiped clean, was receiving last-minute adjustments. Frank went off to inspect the damaged bulkhead. In a few moments he was satisfied that those repairs would be minimal.

Moving forward, he checked Basquine’s cabin. Pads and pencils were neatly laid out on the desk. The aroma of fresh coffee attracted him to the wardroom. “Sure enough, a pot was brewing. He helped himself to a cup and sat quietly on the leatherette couch. He was on his second cup when Hardy found him. There was a quizzical look on the Professor’s face, as if he had just been through a confusing experience.

“How did it go, Professor?”

“Oh, fine...”

Frank couldn’t tell if the reply was dipped in sarcasm or— “Did you have lunch, sir?”

Hardy took a cup from the rack and poured from the pot. “Look. If we’re going to be working together, there’ll have to be some changes.”

“Such as?”

“No more Professor or Doctor or sir. My name is Jack.”

“I’m Ed.” Frank reached across for the extended hand, expecting a sudden rush of warmth and openness. But not so. Hardy simply wanted to get the point across. It seemed he would forever be holding something of himself in check.

Frank rose. “C’mon, you’ll be working in Basquine’s cabin. It’s all set up.”

“Why not here in the wardroom?”

“There’s going to be a lot of traffic through here in the next few days. You don’t need distractions.”

Hardy finished his coffee and followed Frank across the corridor. Frank held the door open for him and pointed out the pads and pencils. As he settled into the chair, Frank inquired about his session with Cohen and Slater.

“Can’t tell you. They made me promise.”

“Okay, but if you hit a dry spell, relax. Get up and take a stroll through the boat. Let it jog your memory. You know where the coffee is. Meals—I’ll come and get you. If you need me this afternoon, I’ll be aft.”

Hardy sat still for a long time after Frank left. He looked around the small space that once held the man who had made his life miserable. And his thoughts kept going back to his morning meeting with Cohen and Slater.

His first reaction to them was resentment. Those two total strangers somehow knew almost everything there was to know about Jack Hardy. But they were so smooth that once he got over his anger, he was filled with admiration. They had dissected him, but in such a way that he had found himself helping them, filling in blank spaces, enlarging on a comment and, what’s more, enjoying it. The last half-hour was spent in going over facts he had long since forgotten.

Finally Slater explained what they were doing. “We’re isolating the last patrol. We’ve dispensed with all the other areas. Now you can just concentrate on key points. Push everything else out of your mind, and the log will practically write itself.”

Now Hardy picked up a pencil and opened one of the pads. He started to write. He forced his mind to follow Slater’s instructions. He felt awed by his fresh powers. He could and would write the log, and, what’s more, he would do it in Basquine’s cabin.

Frank hung up the phone. Slater had been cautiously optimistic. “Hardy wasn’t all that complex. And he responded well.” Frank put a seventy-two-hour hold on them and hotfooted it back down to the forward engine room. For now, Hardy would do his best work alone. More important things were going to be happening aft.

McClusky’s men were ready, gathered around main engine number one like a gang of expectant fathers. The Chief was at the engine stand with Cook. Frank came up the aisle and asked, “Ready?”

“Just in time to give the order, sir.”

Frank crossed fingers on both hands and held them up high. “Fire away, Mac.”

McClusky’s stubby finger punched the starter button. The engine roared to life, filling the compartment with its power. Eyes checked gauges and experienced hands made adjustments. McClusky, a smile splitting his face, gave Frank the thumbs-up sign. Frank grinned back, letting the noise and the rising heat blanket him. Another plateau had been reached.

He felt great.

Hardy didn’t.

The sound of the starting diesel coursed through the boat and went through him. Was he imagining it or did he hear the diving alarm? Images crowded in on him. A blur of movement as men raced to battle stations. Periscope sliding down the well. He felt a tight dry feeling in his mouth, the one he always got bracing himself for an imminent depth-charging. The fear of showing fear. He struggled for control, forcing the dark impressions out, and he won. The cabin, which had seemed to be pressing in on him, lost its threatening crush. The vibrations faded away to nothing. He wiped his sweaty palms, picked up the pencil, and started to write, gathering momentum, driven by something deep within him. Something he didn’t understand.

CHAPTER 8

October 23, 1974

Frank had determined the date of departure would be November 21st, to coincide with the original 1944 patrol. As each day passed, he became increasingly upset with the slow grinding of government wheels. He and Cook were virtually buried under a blizzard of paperwork. There were requests every morning from Smitty’s office for more detailed briefs on the intention, the procedure, the requirements of Frank’s project. An interoffice memo that Frank was sure had originated with Diminsky requested a study on backup safety measures for the voyage, to be submitted through regular channels at his convenience.

“Regular channels!” Frank screamed. “The bastard is trying to bury us!”

He threw the memo to Cook, ordering him to work up the information. “And then just hand it over to me.”

“In triplicate?” asked Cook.

“In
twenty-four hours!”
Frank roared.

Frank avoided Jack Hardy as much as possible, reluctant to let him see the strain taking its toll.

Cook reappeared the next afternoon, grinning unnaturally, He tossed a fresh manila folder on the desk and said, “Escort.”

“Escort?”

“We can’t cram any safety devices into that boat—we’d have to remove too much existing equipment Plus the time necessary to install it. Instead, we have all the Boy Scout stuff aboard
another ship.”
Frank gaped at his shit-eating grin. Cook went on: “I had Walters check into that memo. It
did
originate with Diminsky. He figures he can hold us up at least a month. By that time he could get Smitty to change his mind. Stall tactics.
Candlefish
disappears from the headlines: no pressure—no project. An escort will get us around the whole problem. With a support vessel tailing you, we eliminate the risk.”

Frank chewed on his pipe and studied Cook with a gleam growing in his eye. Cook couldn’t get rid of the grin. “And guess who’s volunteered to be on the escort?”