Ghostboat (41 page)

They broached at 2000 in a cold clear Pacific night. A bright moon bathed the superstructure and topside decks, giving the boat a shimmering, wraithlike appearance. The bridge watch came up subdued, lulled by the whine of pulsing diesels.

The Captain stood by the TBT, listening to the rhythm of the engines, drinking it all in, absorbing the strength of
his
submarine.

The roar of air that blew the main ballast tanks dry woke Hardy out of a frozen reverie. His mind was groggy, lethargic. With an effort he cleared the cobwebs and tried to concentrate. He was still trying to figure out how to stop the Captain. He hadn’t thought of the time. Now it struck him like a blow below the belt.

2000.

Sixty minutes later, Hardy was losing hope. He had only thirty minutes left. And where was Cassidy? Soon it would be too late.

He couldn’t even get to the door without Cassidy’s help. Yet if he could somehow reach the control room, open the gun locker, grab a .45 and some grenades, then barrel up to the con...

The plan began to take shape. But it all depended on time. And he had less of that every second. Cassidy—for God’s sake! He didn’t believe me. He’s hiding in his fucking engine room, huddling there with Walinsky’s pipes, trying to ignore everything. He’s old! He wants to die.
 

Cassidy, please!

The thud shocked him upright. It was just outside. Then a sound like a sack of potatoes hitting the deck. Then the door closing... Footsteps...

A hand whipped the curtain aside. There stood Hopalong Cassidy, the clippers clutched in one hand and the key ring in the other. Behind him the guard lay sprawled on the deck. Hardy’s eyes went gratefully to Cassidy’s determined, grim face.
 

“Okay, Professor. Now what?”

CHAPTER 23

December 11

Hardy and Cassidy stood just inside the CPO quarters, Cassidy hefting the clippers, his only weapon. Hardy turned and spoke in a guarded murmur. “We’re going to take the gun locker in control.”
 

“Who is?”

“You are. Just take the key, open the locker, get a forty-five and two hand grenades, then call me.”
 

“Call you? While they’re climbing all over me?”
 

“Use the forty-five.”
 

“I’m not going to shoot anybody!”
 

“Fine, just don’t let
them
know that. Give me one of the grenades—I’ll take the con. You set the demo charges on the electronic equipment.”
 

“The what?”

“God, Cassidy—you said you built this thing!”
 

“I had nothing to do with electronics. That was Faber.”

Hardy glared at him. “She carries self-destruct charges on all critical electronics, circuit-breakers marked with red and yellow stripes—you can’t miss them. Just pull them down and the charges are armed.”
 

“How many?”
 

“Two radar and one sonar.”
 

“But that’ll knock the sub right out of commission!”
 

“That’s the idea.”

Cassidy grabbed Hardy’s shoulder; there was fear in his eyes.

“What about the crew?”

“We’ll get them off, but it’s going to take a very big scare to do it.”

“Coming into fog, Captain.”

The Captain acknowledged the report from the bridge, then turned back to Lieutenant Dorriss, who had the patrol chart spread out against the TDC casing.

“Fog,” the Captain repeated, and displayed a faraway look of satisfaction, as though he was being reintroduced to an old friend.

“Course?” he asked the helmsman.

“Three-five-eight, Captain.”

“All right, Mr. Bates, make your mark.”

Dorriss looked down at the chart. Course 358, if they kept on it, would take them north to the Kuriles within three days. But that was not to be the way of it. Dorriss drew an extension of the red patrol line across the chart and stopped it just over the parallels” and perpendiculars that marked latitude 30° north, longitude 146° east.

Then he inscribed it: 11 DEC 2100.

He put the red pen back in his pocket, folded the chart, and turned to deposit it in the mission locker. He closed the locker, then raised his hand, expecting to find his keys in the lock. He cursed.

Of course! He had loaned them to the guard, so he could unchain Hardy and walk him back to the can. The bastard had forgotten to return the keys. Dorriss turned to the Captain and said, “I’ll be right back.” He hurried below.

The Captain gripped the ladder and hauled himself up to the bridge, stepping out onto a cold, misty deck and squinting into the fog.

“I thought you said fog,” he growled at the OOD.

“Sorry, sir. I meant soup.”

It was thick. Terribly thick. As thick as the Captain had ever seen. But that was all right. He didn’t have to see to know where he was going. And his course change was as much a matter of timing as location. He could risk anything right up until the last second—and he would. He felt giddy with the sort of exhilaration one should only feel in battle. But wasn’t this a battle too? And he had it timed so well—down to the second. He glanced at his watch.

2108.

Dorriss ducked through the hatch to officers’ country and stopped. He had sensed something: an imbalance, a tell-tale warmth from Just behind him. He whirled and saw he was right: Two men stood there, wide-eyed, crouched in anticipation. Hardy and Cassidy, braced against the bulkhead, one on either side of the hatch. Hardy was free, without chains or cuffs, and Dorriss suddenly knew what had become of his keys.

His reaction was that of a man used to the crackle of immediate obedience. He stuck his hands on his hips and announced, “Mutiny, Mr. Hardy. Mutiny...
and
sabotage. That’s going to look very nasty on a report.”

“Is it now?” said Hardy.

“I could have you both thrown in the brig for the rest of your lives, so—”

Cassidy took a step forward “Excuse me, sir, but we’re late for an appointment.”

Before his sentence was complete, the clippers were in motion. It was an overhand swing, and it came down hard on Dorriss’s forehead. The Exec crumpled, blood welling up through the split skin.

“Watch that hatch,” Cassidy hissed, then dropped the clippers, grabbed Dorriss under the arms, and dragged him into the CPO cabin. He was gone a long time.

Hardy waited for him, pressed against the bulkhead, his nerves shifting into high gear. What’s keeping Cassidy, for Chrissakes—is he trying to revive that bastard?

Movement.

Men were leaving through the aft hatch, presumably for coffee.

Where was Cassidy?

He peered at the clock in control. 2111. My God, only four minutes, then the Captain will—

He jumped at the tugging on his sleeve and turned, fully expecting to see the ghost of Basquine or Bates. It was Cassidy.

“Let’s go,” he said.

At exactly 2112 Hopalong Cassidy stepped through the hatch into the control room, carrying his clippers. He eyed the five crewmen, sizing them up as adversaries. Roybell was nearest the gun locker. Stigwood was at the plotting table, penciling something into the log. The two auxiliarymen stood by the flood valves and the manifolds, lounging; there was nothing for them to do at the moment Only Scopes was glued to his instruments.

What to do first?

The demo charges? The three circuit-breakers. He gazed about the instrument panels, seeking out the red-and-yellow-striped switches. He found the sonar switch and saw he had a clear path to it. He could just walk right by it, and give it a flick—

He smiled at Stigwood and slipped across the control room to the sonar equipment, and, raising the clippers to shoulder level in his left hand, he stretched with his right, yawned, and flipped the switch down, one quick movement.

He was past Scopes in a flash, reaching for the gun locker—

Goddamn!

The key. The key was in the wooden box attached to the periscope well over the plotting table. Back to Stigwood... Beginning to panic now. He flashed Stigwood another grin and was regarded with a dull look, even as he opened the box. He knew exactly which key: the red-white coded one. He snatched it and swept back to the gun locker. He felt Stigwood’s eyes on him—simple curiosity. Too late for you, bastard.

Cassidy jammed the key in the lock and had it open as Stigwood suddenly came alive and said, “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Cassidy muttered, flung the locker open, and grabbed the first .45-caliber pistol he saw. He slammed in a clip, pulled the slide, and swung it up at Stigwood.

“Hey!” Stigwood barked it this time.

“Hay is what horses and cows chew, bub. Were you born on a farm?” Cassidy moved the barrel of the gun around, letting it linger briefly on each man in the compartment. The two auxiliarymen stepped uncertainly away from their instruments; otherwise, no one moved.

“That’s fine,” said Cassidy. He pulled out two hand grenades, tucked the handle of one in his belt, gripped the pin of the other in his teeth, then—in his best John Wayne snarl—”Scopes, get your ass away from that station.”

Scopes joined Stigwood at the plotting desk. Neither of them saw Jack Hardy step in behind them.

“All right,” said Cassidy, pointing to the closed destruct switch above sonar. “Demolition charges are set. They’ll go off in ten minutes.”

Hardy stepped past Stigwood and Scopes. They stared at him, suddenly understanding. Roybell made a move to stop Hardy. Cassidy raised the .45 and said, “Don’t.” Roybell jumped back. Hardy moved to the radar station and flipped on the two destruct switches. He took the second grenade from Cassidy and climbed the ladder to the con.

Adler turned first and saw him—rather, saw the grenade coming up to his face. His mouth opened.

“You’re confined to quarters,” Adler said.

“Not any more I’m not. What’s our position?”

Adler felt Hardy’s foot connect with his backside. He moved to the position indicators.

He spoke shakily. “Latitude thirty degrees nineteen minutes north, longitude one hundred forty-six degrees thirty-eight minutes east.”

“What’s the heading?”

“Course three-five-eight,” volunteered the helmsman, gaping at the grenade.

“All right, you hold this course—”

The Captain’s binoculars were trained into the fog, scanning a completely invisible horizon. The Captain was feeling the first twinge of uncertainty. His eyes were useless in this muck. He listened for the regular slop-slop of waves against the bows as the sub made speed through the sea. He glanced at his watch once more.

2115.

The Captain turned and hollered down the open hatchwell, “Slow to one-third. Bring her around to course two-five-three!”

He felt a surge of excitement.

He was waiting for the answering call from below. But there was none. It was impossible that the helmsman hadn’t heard him. Something was wrong...

He stared down the hatchwell and, from the foot of the ladder, Jack Hardy was looking back up at him.

2115.

The first effects of the geomagnetic anomaly they were passing through would occur at exactly 2132. Hardy had to keep the Captain at bay for seventeen minutes.

The Captain stepped into the hatch and went down the ladder. He turned and saw the grenade.

“Don’t say anything,” Hardy commanded. “I don’t want to hear anything from you.”

“Why? What are you going to do—pull that pin?”

Hardy hefted the grenade.

“Sure you are,” the Captain sneered. “You’re exactly the kind of man who would take a chance on destroying everyone aboard, right? That’s the kind of maniac you are, Hardy. You don’t give a damn about human life. Everything for your own crazy ends, isn’t it? Who in hell did you convince to help you? What sucker’s ear did you fill with your demented line of shit?
Who let you out?”
he roared.

“I did.”

The Captain looked down the ladder to the control room. Hopalong Cassidy stood there, holding a .45 on the crewmen.

“You
listened
to him?” the Captain bellowed down the hatch. “Walinsky, you’re a goddamned fool!”

“I’m not Walinsky! I’m Cassidy! Hopalong Cassidy!”

The Captain laughed and pointed at Hardy. “And who’s this? The Lone Ranger? You’re both out of your minds.”

“Get your hand off that switch,” Hardy said quietly. The Captain’s hand shot back from the battle-phone switch. “Nobody has to hear this but us,” said Hardy. He maneuvered the Captain away from the intercom circuit, backing him toward the helmsman. Adler retreated to a corner.