Ghostboat (23 page)

Cook had attempted to relay his suspicions, but Captain Melanoff refused to act without concrete evidence.

“How in the hell can I convince anyone that something is wrong purely on the strength of
vocal inflections?”
he had demanded.

So Cook was left to wrestle with the problem alone. As he tried to deal with it in the stern of the destroyer, the first tendrils of fog drifted past him and off into the wake. He turned and watched as the
Frankland
entered a massive fog bank. Her superstructure lost its crisp lines, and the running lights diffused in a cloying dampness. Cook frowned and began to plod forward, hoping that Frank could handle the problem himself—whatever it was.

A mile ahead of the
Frankland
and sixty feet beneath the surface, the
Candlefish
slithered through the water, her sleek hull offering a minimum of resistance in the familiar liquid world. Whatever the weather was topside, it could not impede her progress in this element.

It was quiet in the conning tower. Frank rolled his shoulders, stretching his back muscles, grateful for the opportunity to sort out his thoughts.

Hardy’s wardroom lecture, as carried aft by the steward, had exploded among the crew like a bomb. What had been until then a tightly knit boat now was showing signs of coming apart at the seams. Hushed conversations in the crew’s mess and quarters, conversations that trailed off whenever an officer passed through, were the rule rather than the exception. Frank had felt the undercurrents of tension and reported them to Byrnes. The Captain had seemed unconcerned, dismissing Frank’s warning with a laugh and some remark about “superstitious.”

Frank had taken it upon himself to form a flying squad with Dorriss, Cassidy, and Roybell, to talk to tie men, to assure them that what Hardy had expressed was a theory and nothing more. He had even tried to enlist the Professor’s help—but Hardy had refused. So a coolness had developed between them. The old man just would not listen to reason.

It had taken them the better part of a day to calm everyone down. Frank was determined to avoid making Hardy the “scapegoat. He did not want to be responsible for recreating that aspect of the 1944 patrol.

By midwatch December 1st, nearly everyone had forgotten the lecture and its implications. But Frank was worried by his own attitude toward Hardy: Was it the fact that the Professor had punched as many holes in his theories as he had into that skewered globe? Was it jealousy he was feeling?

Lieutenant Danby came up the ladder to relieve Frank as conning officer. “We’ll be surfacing soon, Mr. Frank. Skipper wants you below.”

As Frank dropped into the control room, the bridge lookouts, wearing red night goggles, were already standing by to surface. Byrnes and Dorriss were at the plotting table, deep in conversation. Hardy was behind them, his face puckered, as if he didn’t like what he was hearing. Frank moved forward, well past the hatch ladder, and waited. With the barest hint of a smile, Byrnes stepped away from Dorriss and shouted up the hatch, “Mr. Danby, take a look!”

Over the whine of the other motors, Frank heard the hiss of the periscope hoist lifting the tube out of the well.

“All clear, sir,” Danby replied, “but we’re in fog.”

Byrnes grunted something as he stepped to the center of the control room. Then he gave the order, “Prepare to surface.”

The red combat lights went on as Stigwood readied the boat. He gave the orders quietly.

“Slow to one-third.”

The talker passed the order back, and Byrnes waited for the change in rhythm. He glanced at the clock. It was 1952. He snapped, “Take her up, Mr. Stigwood.”

Dorriss punched the button, and the blare of the surfacing alarm rang through the boat. Frank shifted his balance to compensate for the lifting sensation that would come when the main ballast tanks were blown free of water.

“Blow all main ballast,” called Stigwood.

Roybell timed his move with the third blast of the klaxon. His hand closed over the high-pressure-air manifold valve wheel. He strained, trying to turn it. He gave it a tremendous yank, but the wheel would not budge.

“Sir,” he said, “pressure manifolds are not responding.”

Stigwood was caughtoff guard. “Try it again.”

Byrnes turned a steady gaze on Roybell. The Chief wrapped both hands on the valve wheel... nothing.

“No response, sir. It’s frozen.”

Stigwood barked the next order: “Pump trim tanks to sea!”

The trim manifold operator tried his best. “Nothing, sir. I can’t even move the trim pump switches.”

Byrnes kept his voice quiet as he ordered, “Blow the bow buoyancy tanks,” and got the same results.

Frank slipped between the men to check the barometer and the depth gauge. “We’ve still got pressure,” he announced. “Holding steady at periscope depth.”

The boat was holding where it was, refusing to respond. Examining all the options, Byrnes made up his mind quickly. Turning toward the radio room, he shouted, “Giroux!”

The radio operator stuck his head out of his cubicle. “Yes, sir?”

“Contact the
Frankland!
Tell them we are having problems surfacing and request them to stand by.” As Giroux ducked back, Byrnes gave a string of instructions to the control-room talker. He wanted watch commanders to check all compartments and Cassidy to take some men to check the air-bank hull stop valves.

Frank felt no threat of immediate danger, but he noted, with some satisfaction, that most of the men in the control room showed signs of a tension that he did not feel at all.

Giroux approached Byrnes with the reply from the
Frankland.
“She’ll stand by until we’re surfaced, sir. She wants us to remain surfaced until everything checks out.”

Frank saw the smirk on Byrnes’s face and knew why it was there. Byrnes would not even consider submerging again until he had found out what had prevented them from coming up. Safety. Safety first Frank continued his appraisal of the control room. His eyes rested on Hardy. The Professor was rooted where he stood, stroking his beard and, for want of a better description, looking pleased... Frank blinked in surprise, wondering what
he
had to be tickled about. He followed Hardy’s gaze to the clock on the forward bulkhead. The time was 1959.

Byrnes’s movement to the air-manifold operator’s station distracted him. The Captain grabbed the valve wheels and tried them himself. After three tries, and just as he threatened to become violent, one of the wheels responded. Roybell stared at him, incredulous.

“Why you and not me?” he asked.

Byrnes triumphantly moved the other valve wheels. Frank was still staring at Hardy when the whoosh of compressed air brought him around. Byrnes stepped back from the panel, satisfied.

The general surprise lasted all of four seconds. Stigwood took over and controlled the
Candlefish’s
rise to the surface. Whatever tension had been building in the control room vanished as the sub’s low-pressure blowers kicked in. And Hardy watched the clock tick off the seconds past the hour of 2000.

Frank gazed at the depth gauge and called out, “Zero feet!” He heard Danby in the conning tower giving the order to crack the hatch, then open it. This time nobody minded the change of pressure as the sea air washed over them, replacing the staler air that they breathed while running submerged. What was normally considered an uncomfortable transition was greeted with enormous relief as fresh air circulated through the boat.

“Lookouts to the bridge!” came Danby’s voice over the intercom. The lookouts scampered past Byrnes and up the ladders to the bridge. The Captain took one sweep around the control room, then followed. Hardy limped over, swung in behind him, and horsed himself up the metal rungs.

Byrnes ordered, “Ready main engines!”, then checked the dense fog that all but obliterated the top decks of the sub.

“Anybody pick up the escort?” He tried to pierce the white blanket that shrouded them. “Sound the foghorn,” he ordered.

The deep blasts seemed to get swallowed up. And no one picked up any answering sounds. He hit the intercom button. “Scopes! This is the Captain. Where’s the
Frankland

Frank’s eyes moved up to the high triple towers over the scope shearwater and the slowly turning radar dish.

“I’ve got them at range thirty-two hundred yards astern and bearing one-seven-three starboard, sir.”

Byrnes gave the order to charge all batteries on two engines, ahead one-third. He rested his hands on the TBT and stared straight ahead.

Frank stepped closer. “What do you think went wrong?”

Byrnes glanced at him and started to answer.

He was interrupted by Hardy. “It wasn’t twenty hundred.”

Byrnes glanced over the other shoulder quizzically and muttered, “What?”

“It wasn’t twenty hundred hours,” Hardy repeated. “If the area was clear, we
always
surfaced at twenty hundred. I told you that. Check my log.”

Byrnes made an effort to control himself. He spoke thinly. “Just what the hell has that got to do with when
I
want to surface?”

If Hardy was aware of Byrnes’s anger, he chose to ignore it. “We got away with it once, but from now on,” he continued, “if you want the boat to cooperate... I would follow that log.” His smile was lost on the Captain.

Frank was flabbergasted. He spoke across Byrnes’s back. “That’s a little farfetched, Professor, don’t you think?”

Hardy turned and gazed off into the fog.

Byrnes was disgusted. He jabbed the intercom switch and bellowed: “Cassidy! Get up a work party and check out the electrical system. From stem to stern! I want an explanation!” Then, for Hardy’s benefit, he added, “A believable one!”

He released the switch and turned his back on both Frank and Hardy, gazing down the forward deck, which was completely obscured by fog. And in Frank’s opinion, for the first time, so was Hardy’s head.

Hopalong Cassidy was stretched out on his stomach, checking the last of the stop valves, when the Captain’s order came over the speaker. “Chief engineer, chief engineer,” he grumbled. “Always the Chief—never the Indians.” He got up and went looking for Witzgall. When Cassidy found him, the old electrician’s mate had already assembled a small group of trouble-shooters. Quickly they split the boat up into sectors. Witzgall started forward, but Cassidy grabbed him. He suspected that if the trouble were to be found, it would be found aft.

The two old men zipped through the forward engine room, heading for the battery cage in the maneuvering compartment—the large junction box containing all of the boat’s circuit-breakers. There were enough volts in the cage to burn a bungler to a crisp.

Witzgall grabbed a battle lantern and opened the gate. Carefully they eased themselves inside and scanned the banks of electrical contacts. Working from memory, Cassidy isolated the sections that activated the ballast tanks. “Okay—we’ll start here,” he said.

Witzgall played his light beam on the contacts. Both men hoped that what they were looking for would be visible. They had no desire to do too much digging—not in here. After several strained minutes, Cassidy released a disappointed sigh. Everything looked to be in order. He reached for the lantern, then turned to Witzgall. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Pass the word not to make any sudden course changes.”

Witzgall grunted and went forward to relay the order.

Cassidy stooped over and placed the battle lantern on the deck. Gingerly he started to check the cables. Just hold her steady, he thought, just hold her steady... He stopped to wipe the sweat from his hands, then hunched over again. There was so little space in the cage, so little air—and the darkness. His hands felt along the bunched wires for the connectors. He tested each wire for firmness, each contact for solid coupling. He was on the next to last line when he found the problem. Cautiously he tugged on the heavily insulated wires and felt them give.

“Son of a bitch.”
 

The main air-bank connector contact was gone. A few exposed bits of copper causing all that trouble? He could hardly believe it. And he could see the outcome of all this. Byrnes would skin Danby, the electrical officer; then Danby would let a few electricians have a jolt—Witzgall included. Cassidy whipped out his bandanna and wrapped it around the defective wiring as a signal.

He picked up the battle lantern and backed out of the cage just as Witzgall returned. Cassidy played the light beam on his kerchief and said curtly, “There’s the problem. Fix it.”

Witzgall took one look at it and cursed, turning a pursed lip on Cassidy, who shrugged. They both knew it was Witzgall’s fault. The cage was the senior mate’s responsibility. Witzgall snatched the lantern and went inside.

The tension on the bridge was almost as thick as the fog. There was none of the usual small talk; even the lookouts were quiet. Frank stood over the TBT, one hand on his binoculars, his vision obscured by the mist, his brain clouded by thoughts. Hardy’s outburst could have been enough to trigger renewed doubts in Byrnes’s mind, start him building a case for scrapping the voyage.

“Found your problem, sir.” Frank turned and saw Cassidy half out of the bridge hatch, facing Byrnes on the cigarette deck.