Ghostboat

Ghostboat

George E. Simpson and Neal R. Burger

Copyright © 1976 by George Simpson and Neal Burger
 

Published by E-Reads. All rights reserved.

www.ereads.com

For Jean and Maureen

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To the men of the United States Submarine Force, whose exploits provide the background of this book.

For valuable and unselfish assistance: Lt. (j.g.) Cynthia Ellis, USNR, Navy Office of Information, Los Angeles Branch, California; Donald E. Baruch, Chief, Audio-Visual Production Branch, Department of Defense; Jeanne F. Bernkopf, manuscript editor; Mel Bloom, authors’ agent; Jack Brodsky, motion-picture producer; Kenneth Dorward, friend and consultant; William R. Grose, Executive Editor, Dell Publishing Co.; John Guillermin, motion-picture director; Gary f Hamner, typist; Daryl Henry, friend and consultant; Stuart Miller, authors’ agent; Karen A. Pritchard, Curator, Pacific Submarine Museum, Pearl Harbor, Hawaii.

PART I

CHAPTER 1

December 11, 1944

Five hundred miles southeast of Tokyo Bay, night lay raven-black over a lackluster sea, its languorous movement unusual for that time of year. A long, inky shape slipped invisibly across the Pacific, stroking the surface of the watery desert. The boat cut a path through a hush so vast that even the men keeping watch on deck were moved to a reverent peace.

Below decks, Captain Basquine checked his watch and listened to the gentle whine of the diesels as he waited for Dusty Rhodes to finish his hammering. “How about it?” he asked. Rhodes gave the plug one more whack with the hammer, took a deep breath, and came out of his crouch slowly, muscle-weary, fatigue etched on his face.

“That’s the last one, sir,” he mumbled, and wiped his sweating chin and chest. He watched the Captain straighten, clear his throat, and stroll forward through the crowded torpedo room.

Billy G. Basquine, Lieutenant Commander, U.S. Navy, went as far forward as he could, turned at the torpedo-tube doors, and glanced down into the below-decks storage bays. His eyes traveled up, lingered on the torpedoes nesting on their skids; he felt the adrenalin start to pour through his body. The men settled into position and Waited as he took three steps to the center of the room, then faced them again. His arms... shot out sideways, and he braced himself between two torpedoes.

An auxiliaryman opened the intercom line so the Captain’s voice would carry to all compartments. And Basquine launched into his speech: “All right, here’s the poop. The Exec and I have been through the entire boat, and everything is up to snuff again. The Japanese had a go at us this afternoon with the MADs, and I have to admit they’re getting better. Maybe if the war lasts another three years...”

There were some titters and some groans. Basquine let them die out and then roared: “They might learn to hit their own asses with a bull fiddle!”

The men laughed. Basquine knew they liked to hear him use their own language. And they liked it loud.

“NOW THEN! Four points! In order. One: The clowns in those planes, those cockeyed little Nips, are already taking bows for sinking a big fat American submarine! That’s us—
Candlefish.
They’re probably collecting medals right now. Two: Tomorrow, Tokyo Rose is going to tell the world we’ve been sunk...
again.
That’s
twice
on the same patrol.”

Quinn, a throttleman from New Jersey, shouted out, “Dat’s a new record for stupidity!”

“Matched only by yours, bub.” Basquine grinned, and the laughter came at Quinn’s expense. “Point number three! They’re hitting oh-for-two and we’re on a streak, five-for-five, and we still have our turn at bat!”

That was sure-fire. Baseball always got to them. Three men beat on the bulkheads with tin cups and added to the din.

Basquine watched, satisfied. Those Jap peckerheads with their Magnetic Airborne Detectors had almost done them in, but they were still functioning, and that was all Basquine wanted. He took on a grim look and started aft. The men, all smiles now, scrunched back to let him pass.

“Skipper? What about point number four?”

Basquine stopped, looked around, finally located the voice. “What about it, Ramos?”

“Well, what is it, sir?”

Billy G. Basquine gazed hard at the grinning faces, and they slowly withered.

“Number four,” said Basquine softly. “Tomorrow we are changing course, and we’re changing orders. We will not proceed to the Kuriles. Instead, we will take up a station right inside Tokyo Bay.” His voice thickened. “Then I am going to shoot the living hell out of anything flying the meatball; as long as it floats.”

Smiles crumbled and men sagged as the meaning of his statement sank home. Then there was an explosion, of cheers, started by four war-rabid torpedomen. But Basquine was already moving through the hatch to officers’ country.

A stream of men moved aft, clearing the corridor for the Captain. He entered his cabin and slowly sank into the chair by his desk. He sat and reflected over the patrol up to date. He knew they were on a streak. More ships? More tonnage? Why not? The
Candlefish
could move right up alongside all the other big ones. Mush Morton’s
Wahoo,
Dick O’Kane’s Tang—Billy G. Basquine’s
Candlefish.
Just the thought of it brought a proud smile to his lips. He pulled down his drop-leaf desk top and drew the day-to-day log out of one of his stuffed cubbyholes. He flipped through the pages with their heavy ink scrawl, stopping at December 11th. He started to write his version of their afternoon encounter with the MADs.

Lieutenant Jack Hardy had telescoped his too-long frame into the too-short bunk that was his living space aboard the
Candlefish.
The navigation officer was in a nether state, between sleep and wakefulness, aware of the sounds of the sub but not taking particular note of any one thing... except the pumps...

Then the sweat began. First the hands, then under his arms. The hum of machinery blended into nothingness. He felt himself sliding over... again.

“God in heaven,” he murmured, “no more, please...”

Once more: the sharp hiss of compressed air, followed by the rending of metal, the tube door ripping open, slamming Kenyon back against the bays, crushing the life out of him. The gush of sea water that slammed through the after torpedo room, sweeping Hardy off his feet along with the torpedomen. The sudden knowledge of responsibility—

The hand shaking his shoulder pulled him back to reality. Jack’s eyes snapped open. He looked around for the hand and heard only a voice: “Twenty-one hundred hours, Mr. Hardy.”
 

Hardy pulled the curtain aside and gazed up into the somber, unsmiling face of the executive officer, William Bates.

“Disturb your nap, mister?”

“No... I was awake.” Hardy threw his legs over the side and hit the deck.

Bates permitted himself the smallest of smiles, his own precious sneer. “Captain wants a position report. For some reason, he still thinks you’re qualified.”

“Well, sir, I suppose he knows best.”

Bates blinked but let it slide by. This cat-and-mouse game was so familiar to both of them that each knew how far the other would go. Hardy had just reached his limit. Now it was the Exec’s turn.

“I’m feeling charitable tonight, Hardy. So just get your ass up on the bridge.”

Hardy glared at him. “Walinsky’s checking out Cyclops—”

“Get your ass aft, get your one-eyed wonder, and get up to the bridge—on the double!” Bates spun on his heel, stepped out into the passageway, and was gone.

Jack Hardy ripped open his locker, shrugged into his black watch sweater, and tore his foul-weather jacket off its hook. He slammed the locker door shut, promising to do the same to Bates’s face some day when the war was over. Then he stalked out of his quarters, heading aft.

He was in no mood to appreciate the complexity of this mechanism he was a part of, this fleet boat. Basquine’s Boomers. “Three hundred twelve feet of lean and mean,” as the Captain put it.

What bullshit! Too often Hardy found Basquine an insufferable bore.

He ducked through the hatch into the control room, A petty officer was leaning over the plotting desk, studying a chart. He looked up and smiled at Hardy, but from here on the smiles would be fewer and further apart.

Past the radio room and into the galley. Slugger was busy fortifying his peanut-butter habit, loading up crackers with the brown goop, He glanced up at Hardy, turned suddenly cold, then marched around to the crew’s mess, careful to back out with his plate so he wouldn’t have to offer Hardy any.

Hardy followed and slipped quickly through the crew’s quarters, the one compartment aboard ship he wished were located somewhere below, so he wouldn’t have to traverse it so frequently. But what difference did it make? He was trapped aboard this floating cocoon with eighty-three other men, and three-fourths of them considered him the scapegoat for all their ills. Especially since Kenyon’s death.

In the crew’s quarters, most of the men simply ignored him. Corky Jones, poring over his Ann Sheridan scrapbook, started to say something but caught himself in time. Hardy continued through to the forward engine room, looking for his one friend among the lower ranks: Anton Walinsky, King of the Diesels. The Chief had served aboard the old S-boats before the rest of the crew had their first teeth.

The Fairbanks-Morse engines were immense, each one covering deck space nearly the entire length of the compartment, some twenty feet. As usual, the
Candlefish
was charging her batteries on the forward diesels, main engines one and two, while running surfaced at night. The sheer power of those giant pistons, coupled with the heat they threw off, was overwhelming.

Walinsky was aft, near the engine stand, a diminutive figure bathed in sweat, securing a wooden cabinet to the bulkhead over one of the engines. It was a handmade, felt-lined, carved mahogany pipe rack. And the pipes it contained were Walinsky’s pride and joy: Danish Larsens, British Charatans, Dunhills, and a couple that Walinsky had carved himself.

The Chief straightened and surveyed the cabinet, admiring his collection. He felt Hardy’s presence and turned to him.

“Mighty handsome, Chief.”

“Me or the pipes?”

Hardy smiled and inquired about Cyclops.

“All fixed,” Walinsky said, and called to one of the oilers tending main engine number two, “Hey, Rieser, bring me Mr. Hardy’s sextant!”

Rieser looked up dully from the gauges he was reading, regarded Hardy coldly, then turned away and winked at his cronies. His eyes scanned the small workbench, passing right over the sextant Stooping, he opened one of the drawers in the bench and made a show of rummaging through the tools. Hardy took it all in stoically. Walinsky built up steam. He approached Rieser from behind as the greasy oiler went on fumbling around the workbench.

“Can’t seem to find it, Chief... I...” He saw Walinsky coming and, at the last second, scooped up the sextant like a prospector discovering a gold nugget. “Here it is! Right in front of me all the time.”

Walinsky snatched it out of Rieser’s hand. He ran a practiced eye over the tangent screw, tested the clamp screw, then turned and marched back to Hardy.

“Okay, sir. She’s as good as new. Like the day we put her together. You won’t drop her again, will you?”

Jack smiled and took the strange device from Walinsky, palming it in his left hand. Cyclops looked like any other sextant, but with one variation: Instead of the standard eyepiece, one half of a pair of 7x35 binoculars had been secured to the clamp.

“Thanks, Chief. Maybe coffee later, hm?”

Walinsky nodded and watched Hardy walk forward, past the gazes of the men, his eyes straight ahead. Walinsky swept a gaze over his domain. The men were working. Rieser was taking readings from the gauges as if his life depended on it.