Ghostboat (3 page)

The sub took a bonebreaking spasm, and Hardy was ripped loose of his hold on the slatting. Water rushed up around him and flung him hard against the base of the conning tower. For a moment he was bathed clearly in the blue-white light from the flickering St. Elmo’s fire on the antenna cables, and Bates flopped down on the cigarette deck and flung out a hand to grab him—too late. The decks went awash, and Hardy was carried away on a wave. The bow dug in deeply; Bates could feel the stern rising, the water cascading off the afterdeck. He jumped to his feet and, with a last glimpse at Hardy thrashing around in the sea, Lieutenant Bates struggled back to the hatch and rode the lanyard down. He secured the hatch himself, avoiding Basquine’s gaze. He could hear men starting to yell around him and below as the sub tilted forward. His eyes met Basquine’s, and he saw at once horror, anguish, and total, mind-bending fury.

“Not now!”
Basquine let out a roar that reverberated through the boat as he felt glory slipping through his fingers. The deck canted, and somewhere forward Bates heard a grinding noise.

The rending screech of metal cut through Hardy’s numbed senses. He watched through fog and heaving waters as the stern of the
Candlefish
lifted high in the air and loomed almost directly overhead, then slowly slipped beneath the ocean surface.

After a few moments, silence descended. The sea stopped churning. The fog wisped around him, and he looked about for some trace of the submarine. It was gone. The quickness of it all overwhelmed him. He let his arms dangle around the life jacket, and his heart began to slow its powerful thumping. After a long time just drifting around the little patch of sea, he began to swim away...

PART II

CHAPTER
2

Octobers 5, 1974

Ed Frank lay sound asleep on rumpled blue sheets. One of those hot, muggy Washington nights. Joanne was beside him on her back, her half of the sheet tossed carelessly away sometime during the night, her body splayed out over two thirds of the bed, long hair swept across her face and breast.

Frank’s eyes fluttered open at twelve minutes past two. After a few moments of groggy consideration, he knew he wasn’t going to sleep any more that night. He rubbed his scratchy chin and ran one hand through his stiff black hair.

He rolled over on one side and studied Joanne. One of her arms was crooked up at the elbow, the hand trailing over her bare midriff. Her mouth was open; he could hear her breathing. Her skin was burned red in all but a few strategic places, but Frank was tired of sympathizing. He couldn’t even work up a convincing cluck; he had spent two hours last night covering her with ointment and listening to her plaintive cries and half-assed excuses. Sunburns are deserved, he had told her, the result of unforgiveable carelessness. And if Joanne possessed one serious character flaw, it was her consistent, mind-numbing, monumental carelessness.

During a recent disastrous evening at a posh nightclub, the White Pelican, she had managed to demolish one wine glass, one tablecloth, and one waiter carrying a fully loaded tray. Frank’s five-and-a-half-foot frame had shrunk into a corner, ten degrees right of embarrassed. He hadn’t let her hear the end of it for three days.

He would flare up at Joanne, as he had with all his women, and say things he didn’t mean, and go on saying them because once he was into it there was no way out But at least she was able to take it calmly, without being intimidated.

And Joanne had other compensations. Frank sat up on one elbow and studied them: long legs, a tapering waist, a full, round bust, and a soft, heart-melting face. Perfect. Except that Frank thought she could do with a bit more in the way of brains: opinions on matters beyond TV, movies, shopping, and suntans. He would grow bored with Joanne, as he had with all the others. But he was determined to make the best of it while it lasted. At least she wasn’t in love with him, sparing him those embarrassing complications. She loved sex—but she only
liked
him. He smiled broadly and scratched his leg. Then he scratched hers. She stirred, and he waited to see if she was going to wake up.

Joanne moved, just an inch, and Frank traced a finger across her flattened breast. Again she stirred, and he anticipated the bell signaling round three for tonight...

The phone rang.

“Jesus!”

Frank jumped out of bed and ran to the dresser to grab it before Joanne woke up. He snatched up the receiver, capped his hand over it, and muttered, “Hello?” He looked back at the bed—she was still asleep.

“Ed? This is Ray Cook.” The voice on the phone waited for Frank to grumble back. “Hey, I’m sorry I woke you, but something’s come up. You’re needed right now.”

“What for? I’m in the middle—” He didn’t have to finish. Cook couldn’t miss the implication.

“Ed, this is really urgent.”

Frank sighed. “Where are you?”

“Guard desk, Pentagon.”

Frank digested that, and his mind began to race.

“Okay, I’ll be over in thirty minutes.”

He hung up and frowned. Joanne still seemed fast asleep. Frank stumbled to the window and looked out across the capital. He could pick out landmarks silhouetted against the moonlit sky, streetlights bathing parked cars below.

Fifteen minutes to the Pentagon. Gotta shower and shave and get into uniform, the whole bit. He knew he would be late. He swore under his breath. The Navy calling at two in the rooming. Wouldn’t do that to a goddamned married officer, he growled to himself.

He padded over to the bed and looked down at Joanne. Suddenly he was hungry for her again. He fell on her and snuggled into her shoulder. Her eyes flew open, and her arms came around him hard.

Mystifying, he thought. They all mystify. That’s how these things last...

One hour later, he pulled into his parking space at the Pentagon and locked up the Ford. Indian summer. The heat was stultifying. He strode wearily across the lot and nodded to the gaping guard.

“It’s three fifteen, Commander.”

“It’s also Saturday, Charlie.”

The outer lobby was deserted except for the security guard. Frank was admitted and then walked over to an ashtray to load his pipe. He looked out at the floodlit Pentagon grounds and waited while the security guard informed Lieutenant Cook of his arrival. Frank tamped the tobacco down deep into his pipe and lit it. He sucked the smoke and sniffed at the nutty aroma.

It was five minutes before Lieutenant Cook emerged from a long hallway in a crisp, fresh uniform, his heels clicking across the room, his blond hair and tall good looks contrasting sharply with Frank’s own dark swarthiness and short frame.

“Hullo,
Ed,
did I tear you away from something good?” Cook’s grin was infectious during working hours, but not before dawn on a Saturday.

“You better have a good reason,” growled Frank.

“I do. We have a little submarine situation. Follow me.” He led the way to the escalators, and they glided up to the third floor in silence.

Frank waited patiently. This was a little game they played: Cook in possession of vital national secrets and Frank obliged to pry them out of him like sardines from a can. Cook was young and sharp and assigned to the Naval Investigative Service because he had zeal, brains, and big ears. He was twenty-eight years old, quick, efficient, dedicated, and sometimes a downright pain in the ass.

Finally Frank broke the silence. “What submarine situation?”

“A sub surfaced in the Pacific a couple of hours ago about six hundred miles northwest of Pearl Harbor.”

“So what?”

“She broached right in front of a Japanese freighter. Scared the hell out of her captain. He got on the line to his people, and they got on the line to ours, and then everybody got on the line to
us.”

“Who called you?”

“Somebody in the State Department.”
 

“Anybody I know?”

“Somebody from Henry the K.”

Frank grunted, then spread his hands. “What’s so earthshaking about a submarine?”

They stepped off on the third floor and went on down the angular halls. “No identification,” mumbled Cook.
 

“What are you talking about? Is she ours?”

“Yes. Seems to be one of our fleet types. But there are no markings.”

“None at all?”

Cook shook his head. “That’s what the telex said.” They arrived at Room 3012, and Cook unlocked the door marked NAVAL INVESTIGATIVE SERVICE.

“Let me see the telex,” demanded Frank.

Cook swung open the door and paused to pull a rumpled cable from his shirt pocket. Frank spread it open and turned on a wall switch. A large office sprang to life. Fluorescent tubes lit up reception desks, partitioned cubicles, and the telex.

COMSUBPAC

P050221Z OCT 24

FROM COMSUBPAC TO COMNIS WASH DC

CDR JAPANESE CLASS 5 FRTR SHIMUI MARU POSIT 34-56N 149-12W COURSE 0B4 SPEED 4 DEST SAN FRAN REPORTS UNIDENT SUB SURFACED 0124 HRS BEARING 000 POSIT ANGLE 90 STOP SUB HAILED NO RESPONSE STOP NO RADIO CONTACT STOP SUB UNCONFIRMED USN FLEET STOP ADVISED STATE DEPT AT REQ JAPANESE ADMIRALTY STOP SITUAHON VERY HOT ADVISE ACTION STOP

“This doesn’t say anything about markings.”

“No,” said Cook, leading the way back toward their cubicles, “that must have been in the phone call.”

“From Henry the K?”

“You betcha. And the one from DOD, and the one from SubPac, even.”

“By George, you
have
been busy.” If the Submarine Force was already involved—
and
the Department of Defense—who was going to listen to the NIS?

Cook opened one of the glass-partitioned cubicles and let Frank pass through first. “I’ve got a pot of coffee going, Ed. Maybe you’d like some.”

“Yeah.”

Cook went to an adjoining cubicle. Frank sat behind his desk and stared at the telex. An unidentified United States fleet boat pops up and scares the hell out of some Japs? Why no markings? Why no response to the radio?

“Cook!”

“Yessir?”

“What the hell is SubPac
doing
about that boat?”

Cook walked back in with two cups of coffee and sat down opposite Frank. “Defense Intelligence Command has scrambled a recon from Pearl. There’s a carrier in the area, about a hundred miles away, and they’re sending up a chopper to take pictures. Should be coming over the wire shortly. I called in our photo division and they’re standing by downstairs. That’s where I was when you came in.”

“Have any units tried to make contact with this sub?”

“Every U.S. ship within two hundred miles.” Cook sipped his coffee and made a face.
 

Frank frowned and glanced over at the framed picture of Joanne. She smiled back at him. “What about the Japanese freighter—the
Shimui Maru?
Is she still in the area?”

“They wanted to get the hell out real fast, but their own people told them to hang around. If the sub isn’t doing anything—if she’s just noodling—they figure it’s better not to get a rise out of her. You know, sort of like standing real still on top of a coiled snake. No fast moves.”

“Very sharp, the Japanese.”

“Yes, sir. And mad. Jesus, they must have hauled half the State Department out of bed at two a.m. Thought we were getting even for Pearl Harbor all over again.”

Frank smiled and drew a mental picture of a shipload of astonished Japanese officers and crewmen, gaping as a submarine swept up out of the water off their bow and settled down in their path... Whoever was skipper of that sub had better get his affairs in order. There was bound to be a Naval Court of Inquiry in his near future.

“Where’s Diminsky?” asked Frank.

“Golf. The whole weekend.”

Frank nodded absently. What did he expect? The exalted presence? Assistant Chief of the NIS striding purposefully through the door at three in the morning, setting his jaw, and barking, “What the fuck is going on?” Nope. Not Diminsky. Off to the links, old boy. Round of golf, eh what?

That left Ed Frank, the highest-ranking available Submarine Force Officer attached to the NIS at administrative level.

“Well, Lieutenant, seeing that I’m in charge of this mess, I guess I should delegate a little work, right?”

Cook’s smile faded.

“Get hold of ComSubPac and have them run a complete check on all fleet boats in that area. I don’t care if they can guarantee that sub isn’t theirs. Have them check it through again. Then get back to Defense Intelligence Command. We want priority clearances and access to current fleet disposition—I want to know where every goddamned submarine in the entire fleet was sitting at exactly 0134 hours this morning. If this is somebody’s idea of a joke...”

Cook nodded and got up quickly. He went into the next office, and Frank could hear his muffled voice on the phone. Frank sat back, sipped at the terrible coffee, and rolled the telex information over in his mind. An American submarine defies all general orders for patrol operation and surfaces directly in the path of foreign shipping in international waters. Not necessarily a threat—it
could be
only a joke. Poor timing, at the very least. But why? And what about the markings?