Ghostboat (44 page)

“Blow all negative!” Cassidy barked.

“Blow it out your ass,” growled Roybell. “We’re losing depth control—forward must be flooding.” He nodded toward the hatchwell. “Get moving—we can’t hold it!”

Brownhaver and Googles joined the line of men streaming in from forward, men who couldn’t make it up the forward hatch because of flooding. One of the machinist’s mates was stuck in the well, sobbing. Cassidy shot up the con and ripped him bodily off the ladder.

“Never mind the wheel,” he told the helmsman. “Pass these guys up the ladder.” He yelled below. “You guys better move it—we’ve got chlorine gas in the after battery!”
 

He stayed in the con, pulling the, men up in relays. “Dankworth, come on—that’s fine—up you go. Get a jacket, Googles—in the stowage. One at a time, fellas! Any officers left aboard?”

Hardy stood at the bottom of the ladder, catching his breath. Suddenly he remembered.

Bates
.

No—Dorriss. Lieutenant Dorriss, socked by Cassidy, left—where? In the CPO cabin, on his bunk.

Can’t let him stay there.
He turned and rushed forward.

As he stepped into officers’ country, a powerful tremor ripped through the compartments, jerking the deck plates apart. He heard a crashing sound and peered into the wardroom. The wall units lay in a heap on the deck, undulating with the waves of vibration. And now a new sound: rivets pulling apart with great ratchet shrieks.

The port side shuddered, and the bulkhead protecting the Captain’s cabin ripped right in half, metal shredding like paper before Hardy’s eyes. He stumbled toward the flapping door and peered inside as the boat gave another twitch to port—and the folding desk slammed down and all the Captain’s papers poured out of it.

Hardy stiffened.

There was a groan from the CPO quarters.

He pulled himself along the trembling panels and stepped through. He stared at his bunk. The curtain was flapping as if whipped by a breeze—but there was no breeze. Dorriss wasn’t there, nor was the guard. He stepped closer to the bunk. His wife’s picture was on the deck, the glass shattered, ground into shards—by a boot heel. Who would do that?

“Knew you’d come back...”

Hardy whirled.

A wild man stood in front of him. A skinny wild man with blood on his shirt, hair matted with blood, more blood crusted on an open head wound, a twisted smile of triumph cut deep into his ghostly pale features—and a tightened fist that came up with a powerful sweep to the right, around and into Hardy’s jaw, flinging him off his feet, back against the bunk, his head smacking the metal frame.

Lieutenant Dorriss watched him go down like a stone. His eyes blazed; then he turned and stumbled out of the cabin, slamming the door shut and feeling it jam. It was already twisted out of its frame.

He lurched toward the control room.

Danby had spotted the swirling green-yellow gas pouring up out of the open hatch. He spluttered water, then gasped as he got a lungful of the gas. He blew it out and reached for the hatch, slammed it down. He spun the dogs and looked up. The stern cables had broken and were dancing around the deck, threatening his feet with electricity. He dodged them and glanced out to sea. In the deepening golden fog he could see the life rafts tossing about, only yards from the hull.

Up on the bridge there were still a few men coming out. The Captain was watching from the starboard side. Danby saw a figure black with oil climb up to the bridge coaming, pause for a moment with the Ann Sheridan poster tucked under one arm. It was Clampett. He yelled, “Geronimo!” and flung himself clear of the sub.

The water was climbing up Danby’s legs. Up to his knees now. He sloshed forward as fast as he could, grasped the deck gun for support and yelled up to the bridge, “She’s going under! Clear the bridge! Abandon ship!”

The only one left on the bridge was the Captain. Stigwood was still forward, helping the last men out of the forward hatch. Danby tried to wade to the conning tower, intending to throw the Captain overboard if necessary.

He never made it. The sub took another jolt and then an abrupt three-foot drop. A shower swept over the afterdeck and tore Danby off his footing. He was plunged into the sea. He came up spluttering, looking for a raft.

Witzgall’s head popped through the hatch, and Cassidy pulled him up. “Where’s Hardy?” Cassidy asked.

“Don’t know. Think he went forward.”

“Went where?”

Witzgall didn’t wait to answer. He shot up to the bridge and went overboard.

“Can’t hold her any more,” said Roybell as he sent the two auxiliarymen up.

Then Cassidy saw who was next up the ladder. The skinny man with the blood encrusted on his head.

“Bates...?”

It was involuntary. Cassidy had meant to say “Dorriss,” but—

Dorriss quivered out of control; a vibration much like those convulsing the boat went through him. He tore past Cassidy and scrambled up the ladder to the bridge.

“Hardy!”

Cassidy yelled and squeezed down the ladder past Roybell, the last man up.

“Cassidy, come back!”

“HARDY!”

His voice echoed through the empty control room as he disappeared through the next hatch. Roybell continued up, pulling the helmsman after him. They got to the bridge. Dorriss was poised on the railing, afraid to jump. Roybell looked down and saw the forward deck awash—the strakes completely under—and pushed Dorriss. The lieutenant screamed as he plunged into the sea. The helmsman flung himself overboard, and Roybell climbed up after him. He was poised to jump when he heard Stigwood still yelling, “Jump! Jump!”

But it wasn’t directed at him.

He turned and, in the split-second before the next shudder threw him overboard, saw the Captain step away from the starboard coaming and approach the bridge hatch, eyes coal-blazing, intent on that black circle at his feet, waiting—

Roybell pitched into the sea.

And at the bow Stigwood too let go and slipped over.

Cassidy plowed through officers’ country, yelling “Hardy!” over and over. With another rending shudder the wardroom bulkhead split in two.

Cassidy sloshed into the forward torpedo room.

“Hardy?”

Sea water was plunging in through the open forward hatch. The compartment was dark with lights popping on intermittently—the red combat lights. Oil and steam blasted from broken pipes and filled the room with a black, sticky mist. Cassidy could hardly see.

“Hardy! For God’s sake—no games!”

He hoped to God he would get a reply.

Jack Hardy’s body rolled across the CPO cabin deck and came up against the forward bulkhead. He woke and moaned. There was a terrific throbbing at the back of his head. He dragged himself up. Shaky. He blinked around. Water sloshed at his feet. The boat was rolling and pitching violently—but the vibrations no longer came in waves. They were steady. Seventy-eight rpm’s, he thought, and laughed to himself.

He shouldered aside the door and stepped into the corridor, stumbling past the crumpled wardroom bulkhead—and thought he heard someone calling his name. The ladder—in control—

He fell through the hatch into the control room. Instruments blinked back at him. Levers moved. The Christmas tree flashed strange green and red lights. Up the ladder—get to the con. No one there—deserted. Up the last ladder—get to the bridge.

He stood weakly on the bridge ladder and managed to move his head, to look up. The ladder shook in his hand. The open hatch—black sky. He wanted to see black sky.

Instead—fog. And a face.

Basquine.

Just a glimpse. That’s all he got. Basquine’s face—no, his look, his unmistakable expression on somebody else’s face. He didn’t know whose. It was unfamiliar. But the meaning was clear.

Even before the hatch slammed down on top of him, shutting out the sky and freedom.

He watched the dogs slowly spin around, then let go the ladder and collapsed to the deck.

The Captain rose from the deck of the bridge, his eyes gleaming with triumph. The sub rolled to port. The Captain flung his hands put but missed the coaming.

And the
Candlefish
expelled him into the sea.

CHAPTER 25

December 11

Cassidy found a battle lantern wedged between a torpedo and the forward skid. He switched it on and played it around the raging mess he was standing in. He felt the deck shift; he slipped and went down in the water, then was washed back toward the tubes. He thrust his arm up and held the lantern high. When he managed to regain his footing, he felt the deck tilting down by the bow. She was taking on water fast, going down. Sheets of it poured through the topside hatch.

“Hardy!”

Still no answer. He sloshed around the skids and searched up the other side. He was thigh-deep now, and frightened.

“HARDY!”

His voice broke. He felt a sob welling up in his throat.

“Hardy! For God’s sake—”

Clang.

He heard it far back in the boat, resounding and final. A hatch slamming shut.

“Hardy?”

He whirled and floundered back around the skids, trying to beat the rising water to the after hatch. The water roared around him, drowning out his yells.

“HARDY!”

Hardy tumbled down the ladder and landed on his knee. He seemed to remember the pain from somewhere else. It was sharp and familiar, a shock of recognition that stopped him in his tracks for a moment. He stared at the aft controlroom hatch and suddenly knew he had to get through it, had to escape something that was following him, surrounding him...

Clang.

He saw it close even as he took his first faltering step to -reach it. The dogs turned and locked it shut.

He couldn’t steady himself. He collapsed to his knees and felt the pain throb in the bad one. His hands were under water. His clothes were drenched. His body surged with the insistent pounding rhythm around him. He glanced at the instruments and saw the valve controls moving. The inclinometer needle was creeping down. He felt another driving shudder rake through the boat, and then he saw the forward s hatch waving at him.

He lunged across the deck and dove through it.

He was in officers’ country again. The crumpled bulkheads of the wardroom threatened to collapse on him.

“Hardy!”

He heard the voice calling. From where?

“Hardy!”

He heard splashing forward. The torpedo room.

“HERE!” He heard himself yell the reply. He picked his way across the remains of officers’ quarters, then thrust himself to his feet and thought he saw Hopalong Cassidy loping through the water in the forward torpedo room. He was within three feet of the hatch.

Clang
.

He fell to his knee again and bellowed in pain and frustration. The wheel spun slowly around to lock.

His hand shook at his side, creeping up to touch the wheel, to try to spin it back. He could do it; he knew he could;
he had to do it!
Why shouldn’t he be
able
to do it?

He didn’t want to.

He knew this was how it would end. He had always known it Hemmed in, trapped, surrounded by his past, unforgiven...

He heard Cassidy calling, splashing up to the locked hatch, fingers clawing at it. Shoulders pushed into that wheel, desperately pushing it—pulling it—trying to get him out—

The red combat lights flickered around him.

Cassidy couldn’t budge the wheel. He strained, nearly dislocating his shoulder. Through the sight glass he saw Hardy cowering just on the other side.

Cassidy screamed at the door in helpless rage.

“Christ—what’s going on here!”

The lights went out He backed away in fear and, turning, saw water and a bit of light pouring through the topside hatch. He was waist-deep now; in another moment he would have to swim for it. He whirled, flung himself at the door and screamed:

“HARDY! For God’s sake!”

The red lights beyond the sight glass flickered on again, and he saw Jack Hardy staring at him from the other side, motionless, the fear replaced by a warm serenity on his boyish features—his beardless, slick, pudgy farmboy’s face.

The shiver started in Cassidy’s toes and gripped him all the way up to his scalp. The man looking back at him was a young, clean-shaven lieutenant in clean, pressed khakis.

Jack Hardy at age twenty-six. The Jack Hardy who had sailed aboard the
Candlefish
in 1944.

Once again Cassidy hurled himself at the door. But when he looked up he saw the young officer’s back retreating to the control room, walking unsteadily, balancing himself against the settling tilt.