Ghostboat (29 page)

Byrnes, trying to get his balance, staggered and lunged for the hatch lid, throwing Frank off-balance. Frank hit the side of the bridge and slid to the deck. The hammering started again. Byrnes, clutching the hatch, was lifted and thrown, spinning violently. His body slammed into the side of the bridge, slid all the way aft to the cigarette deck, and crumpled to a stop against the railing. Frank scrambled to his feet and came around, then stopped, horrified. Blood welled up out of three fist-sized holes in the Captain’s back.

The flare, almost down to the water, illuminated the plane as it roared by; the cockpit canopy glistened in the fading light. Frank recognized the plane; he remembered pictures of it: the Japanese float-zero. With a last fleeting look at the Captain’s body, he dropped down the hatch into the conning tower.

Roybell, at the hydraulic manifold in the control room, watched the indicator light change from red to green as the hatch was closed. “Green board!” he reported. Quickly he opened the bow buoyancy tank and the negative flood. The boat, heavy with water, slipped below the surface, seeking the safety of the deep. The operator on the high-pressure air manifold signaled Stigwood, who called up the well, “Pressure in the boat!”

Standing at the foot of the bridge ladder, Frank heard Stigwood’s voice from below. He became aware of the men in the conning tower staring at him: Dorriss, Adler, Colby the talker, the helmsman, Hardy... Their faces were colorless, drawn taut by tension.

“Take us down fast,” he called out “Level off at two hundred feet.”

Stigwood’s “Two hundred feet, aye” resounded up the hatchwell.

Frank punched all the keys on the battle phone. “All compartments report damage.”

Colby spoke into his mouthpiece, and the-various reports filtered in. No casualties, only small leaks caused by armor-piercing shells, and these were already being plugged up. Any other damage would have to wait for a closer inspection.

“Where’s the Skipper?” Adler, standing alongside Hardy, had trouble masking the quiver in his voice.

“He’s dead.” Frank was surprised at his own composure. In the silence he heard a series of muted orders from the control room. The tilt of the deck changed as the submarine leveled off. No one in the conning tower spoke.

“Two hundred feet, sir.”

Frank stared down at Stigwood’s upturned face, sensing the unasked questions racing through the diving officer’s mind. “Very well,” he said. Slowly the enormity of what was happening sank in. The calmness he had felt started to slip away. He watched dumbly as Stigwood climbed the ladder and scanned the silent, crowded compartment.

“What the hell’s going on?”

Frank ignored Stigwood. Something wet had hit his hand. His eyes traveled to the inner gasket of the conning-tower hatch. In the half light he could just make out three red streaks. Blood He watched another drop detach itself and fall to the deck. Everyone was gazing up at the hatch. Hardy brushed past Adler’s frozen form and stood in the center of the conning tower, glancing up to see for himself.

The words were spoken quietly, but the effect was electric.

“Welcome to World War Two,” Hardy said.

PART IV

CHAPTER 16

December 2

They wasted about a half-hour submerged at two hundred feet, rigged for silent running, sitting motionless with all engines off. Confusion rippled through the boat. Crewmen waited anxiously at their posts, for some word from the Captain. What was it all about? Were they under attack? No one had ordered battle stations—there was no diversive action taken. They just sat. Silent.

In the conning tower, Ed Frank stood with his back against the port bulkhead, his eyes fixed on the closed hatch. The blood on the steel decking had long since been diluted and washed away.

Hardy stood near the hatchwell, his hand clutching the overhead lanyard. He watched Frank, a grim expression etched into his face, his beard still dripping from the spray chopped up by the zeroes’ machine-gun fire. In the first few minutes after the
Candlefish
had made her crash dive, Frank had turned to Hardy and asked quietly, “If they were so busy with machine guns, that would mean they weren’t armed with bombs, right?”

Hardy had been slow to respond. “You never assume anything like that.”

“I’m going to have to. We’ve got a skipper up there. We can’t leave him.”

Hardy didn’t say another word, because he knew they were safe. According to the log and his memory, the zeroes would only make three sweeps with cannon-fire, then depart. They could sit here in safety all day if they wanted, but that wasn’t what the log called for. He remembered the attack in 1944: Basquine caught completely by surprise on the bridge—they hadn’t even heard the planes until it was too late. Then the sputter of the guns. But not one bullet had hit the sub; Basquine had crash-dived in seconds and hauled the submarine off to the south in one fat hurry.

That’s where 1944 and the present parted company. Thirty years ago there had been no casualties. Hardy felt a fluttering commotion behind his rib cage, and then a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. No casualties thirty years ago—then why had they suffered one today?

And what might happen if they stayed here where their position was known? Would someone else come to get them? More planes? Destroyers? They should probably get out of the area, but he wasn’t about to broach the subject with Frank, if Frank wanted to surface again, to search for Byrnes, let him.

Frank was concerned about the possibility of the planes having radioed their position to waiting destroyers—assuming that Hardy really was correct and they were smack in the middle of the war in the Pacific. If that were true, then it was stupid to stand around and wait. He would give it another half-hour and no more; then they would surface and find out what had happened to Byrnes.

“Stand by to surface!”

Throughout the boat the crew reacted to the unfamiliar voice, raising themselves at their posts slowly, looking at each other. Ciampett was the first to voice the confusion: “Was that the skipper?”

The voice rang out again, firm and harsh. This time the men sprang into action.

They broached at a fifteen-degree angle. Hardy broke the conning-tower hatch and scrambled to the bridge. Frank was right behind him. There was no sign of Byrnes. They both hustled to the afterdeck and combed the entire superstructure with their eyes, hearts pounding, hoping for some sign. Frank grabbed a pair of binoculars from Lieutenant Dorriss and searched the seas for a bobbing bundle that might be the Skipper. There was nothing.

“Lookouts!” Dorriss yelled.

The lookouts combed the water from their upper perches and, one by one, shook their heads. Frank walked heavily around the conning-tower, pausing for a moment to stare at the neat pattern of bullet holes cutting a slash right through the
Candlefish’
s number, 284, as if crossing it off.

More holes were found in the steel plate decking. Even the strakes, the wood planking forward and aft, were torn up. But nowhere, not anywhere, was there a trace of what had become of Louis Byrnes. Not a scrap of clothing, not a spot of blood.

It was as if he had never existed.

Frank and Hardy both risked as much time as they could inspecting the damage, not for the sake of repairs but to let reality sink in. Here they were in the middle of the Pacific, in the middle of a shooting war, virtually defenseless. Or were they? They had the torpedoes, armed and ready. They carried armament, the standard equipment on all fleet boats of the time: the big deck gun aft of the cigarette deck, the machine guns stored below, pistols and grenades in the control-room weapons locker. And they had a crew! They weren’t defenseless at all—just out of time and out of place.

Frank walked to the bridge rail and looked over into the forward machine-gun position, at the gunner’s chair and the feeder’s stirrups. Could this crew fight, if it became necessary? If! Christ, who was he kidding? It was mandatory! They were going to fight. They had no choice in the matter. Unless... unless he turned the boat around and took them home. Could he do that— now? He wondered if it was still possible. He looked at his hands—did he have any control at all over this boat? Or was it really on a set pattern?

Frank turned slowly and looked at Dorriss, who had retrieved his binoculars and was sweeping the seas with them. Dorriss, the captain’s hand-picked Exec, competent and efficient, just like Byrnes himself, but without Byrnes’s air of authority. Still, his quiet intensity and reputation for fairness had put him on a decent footing with the crew. He had been Byrnes’s buffer. Byrnes had maintained the stiff and formal aloofness; Dorriss had been warm and pleasant with everyone. A good combination. Frank began to wonder how he could make it work for himself. He was already positive of one thing: He was about to assume undisputed command of the
Candlefish.

He caught Jack Hardy looking at him, frowning. Hardy met the look and asked, “What are you going to do?”

There it was—even Hardy was throwing it to him, laying it right in his lap.

Frank straightened and watched all eyes turn to him, following the Professor’s lead. “Dive,” he said, and hit the alarm.

They scrambled below, and within one minute they had dropped down to periscope depth. Frank had Dorriss pull out the charts and show him their position and course. He thought for a moment about attempting to turn back, then shook his head at no one in particular. “Keep her on this heading.”

“Are you taking over, sir?” asked Dorriss.

“Yes.”

“Hadn’t you better make some announcement to the crew, sir?”

Frank nodded. He reached for the intercom. “This is Lieutenant Commander Frank. We have had an accident I am sorry to report that Captain Byrnes has been lost. And we have been unable to recover his body. I am assuming command of the
Candlefish.”

His hand left the switch. Hardy grabbed his arm. “You better tell them the rest. How it happened.”

Frank looked at him grimly. “I’m not out to scare them.”

“You’ve already done that.”

Frank sighed. Reluctantly he punched the switch again, and his voice echoed in every compartment of the boat. “It’s not going to be easy for most of you to understand what I am about to tell you. Those of you who do understand it will not want to accept it. But it will be for the general good if you receive what I say with calm, controlled objectivity.” He paused and glanced at Hardy. “At twenty-two hundred hours tonight, the
Candlefish
came under surprise air attack. We took heavy machine-gun fire on two successive sweeps from a pair of planes that looked to be Japanese float-zeroes of World War Two vintage.”

The listeners fore and aft had stopped what they were doing. All eyes were fixed on the crackling loudspeakers.

“We are not sure who was responsible for the attack or why. Guesswork on the part of any member of this crew will not be appreciated.” He stopped and waited.

In the crew’s mess, Cookie wiped his hands on his apron and pressed the intercom. “Sir... what happened to Captain Byrnes?”

Frank replied quickly. “Captain Byrnes was on the bridge. He was hit by a burst of fire and went down. He did not make it to the hatch in time for the dive. We have searched the area and there is no trace of his body. That is all.” He choked on the last words, and knew he could not go on.

He closed the switch again and looked up at Hardy. The old man’s face was closer now, still burning with insistence.

“Now what?”

“Tell them all the facts,” said Hardy.

“I just did.”

“No. All of them.”

Frank knew what he meant. Hardy wanted him to level with the crew, bring them in on the whole incredible story. It was just what Byrnes had tried to stop him from doing. “You’re responsible,” he had said, “I don’t want him alarming the crew.” Well, it was too late now. And maybe the moment called for complete candor.

Again he pressed the intercom. “There are a few more facts you should all be aware of. This Voyage appears to have taken a turn that no one expected or could have foreseen. We are in some kind of situation that for the moment is unclear. When we get it sorted out, we will probably head for home.” Frank paused—that should calm everyone. “We are alone out here. I mean alone. We have lost all contact with our escort. We don’t know why; we don’t know how, we don’t know what it all means. It’s going to require patience and trust. I’m asking you for that.”

He paused again and looked at Hardy. The Professor nodded agreement. Frank went on, “There will be a meeting of all officers in the wardroom at twenty-three fifteen hours. That is all.”

He turned immediately, not giving Hardy the chance for another objection. “Mr. Dorriss.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You will resume your duties as executive officer. Mr. Hardy, you will resume duties as navigation officer.” He stepped to the well and called below, “Mr. Stigwood!”

“Yes, sir!”

“You will take over the con!” Stigwood shot up the ladder. “Maintain course three-five-zero until further notice. Quartermaster!”