Ghostboat (8 page)

In the galley they found perishable foods, all of it fresh and new. One of the technicians held up a loaf of bread and, squeezing it, remarked: “Could’ve been baked last night.”

Another man came up the ladder from the below-deck icebox, carrying frozen meats under his arm. “Most remarkable case of preservation I ever saw. Anybody care for a steak?”

Frank stepped in and gruffly ordered, “Get all that stuff out of here—all the perishables.”

He went back to officers’ country and peered into the wardroom. It was a shambles: books, records, record player, charts, cups, pencils, clipboards, everything flung about as if someone had had a violent tantrum.

He opened the door to the captain’s tiny cabin. It resembled a dozen others he had seen, including the one he had lived in when he took over command of the
Prang
for a month in 1969. It held a double bunk, the lower one tucked out of sight behind an overhanging curtain. There were two chairs, a stainless steel washbasin, and a desk, the last two on piano hinges that could drop from the bulkhead. Frank opened the desk and found it crammed with stacks of papers, a few books, and other litter. Either the captain of the
Candlefish
had been a very disorganized man or someone had worked his desk over in a cocktail shaker. Frank paused over the signature flamboyantly displayed on a ship’s order dated 20 NOV 1944:

LT. COMDR. BILLY G. BASQUINE, U.S.N.

The name was a mouthful. Something slipped out of a cubbyhole, and Frank caught it before it crashed to the floor: a black-and-white portrait of the Captain, with his arms around his wife and two young children. Frank stared at it a long time, trying to measure strength and resolve in the man’s features. But something lurked behind the stiff smile, and for the moment Frank couldn’t decipher what it was.

He turned and saw the low filing cabinet across the tiny cabin. He sat down on the bunk; and opened the drawers: They were thick with manila folders containing dossiers, fitness reports, promotion recommendations, a ship’s-organization pamphlet, copies of the watch bills, diving bills, emergency bills—a wealth of information. Good. He would have Cook remove all this material to his office right away.

He got up, and as he turned to close the desk the log caught his eye. It was not the official ship’s log; that was kept in the control room by a quartermaster. This was the captain’s day-to-day log, his personal account of all events aboard the boat that ran counter to the Ship’s Daily Orders. In it there should be records of every dive, every attack, every gun action, every course change or order change enacted by the
Candlefish
during her last patrol. Immensely valuable. The book was open, face down, buried under a stack of papers. He flipped it over and gazed at the open entry, the top of the page ribboned with the Captain’s hasty scrawl.

The date was November 21, 1944. The entry began:
“0800. Underway from Pearl, proceeding under orders to general area Kuriles, Pacific.”

That was all. Nothing more on that page or the one opposite. Frank flipped back and found entries running back to January. He flipped to November 22, 1944.

His hand froze, and he stared at the page.

It was blank.

He went on. November 23rd, 24th... right on through to December... up to December 11th, the day the
Candlefish
was reported lost.

Nothing. Blank and fresh, not even the mark of an eraser.

How could that be? The sub had left Pearl; that much was certain. They had fired eight torpedoes. SubPac had records of their kills on that last patrol. Had Basquine failed to keep his log? Frank stared at the blank pages until he was interrupted by a tapping on the door. He closed the log and tucked it under his arm.

“Come in.”

Cook opened the door and grinned at Frank. “Found a survivor.”

CHAPTER 5

October 11, 1974

Frank was angry. Cook had obviously taken time to read all the material before he even told Frank he had it Cook turned red in the face and apologized profusely. The notes
had
come in that morning; he
had
read them through himself; he wanted to be able to brief Frank. “And I mean brief,” he added, and indicated the crammed manila folder under his arm.

They walked back up the dock together, heading for the
Imperator.
Cook gave Frank a resume, occasionally referring to the file.

“He came aboard the
Candlefish
in January of ‘44 as a lieutenant and served eleven months as navigation officer. He was the only known survivor of the sinking, and it’s largely his report that makes up the history of the incident.”

“What happened to him? How did he get off the boat?”

“Washed off the bridge and busted up his knee just before she sank, picked up by a Japanese fishing boat within two hours, then delivered over to their Navy. He was put in with the surviving crew of an American destroyer, and they were all taken to the copper mines in Ashio. He worked there till the end of the war. They never took care of his knee, so all the time he spent in the mines the pain was so intense he could hardly walk.”

Cook and Frank went to their quarters aboard the
Imperator
and closed the door.

“Did he file reports on the sinking?” asked Frank.

“Yes. He was repatriated August of ‘45 and taken to a hospital at Pearl. Must have been there four, months while they worked over his knee. He was questioned repeatedly by SubPac and the Office of Naval Investigation, all preparatory to the Board of Inquiry. But on the subject of his competence as a witness, everybody wrote a different opinion.”

“Oh?”

“His story seemed to change a lot. He was unsure of the sequence of events and, in some cases, the events themselves.”

“What information did you get on the sub?”

“She went down at about 2130 on the night of 11 December ‘44. The approximate position was thirty degrees forty-nine minutes north and one hundred forty-six degrees thirty-eight minutes east. That’s based on her last reported position, speed, and direction. From all weather reports—ours and the Japanese—they were surrounded by calm seas and clear skies. But according to Hardy there was fog, thick as soup, and some kind of inexplicable heavy sea action.”

“Inexplicable?”

Cook skipped some papers in the folder and came to one and read: “ ‘Asked if the
Candlefish
came under attack on December eleventh, Lieutenant Hardy said, “No—no—no. She simply started shaking herself to pieces.” When asked what in his opinion had caused this, Hardy had no explanation.’“ He closed the paper and looked up. “The first few go-rounds, that’s the way all the interrogations went. They kept throwing suggestions at him, possible explanations, and he kept fielding them, insisting that there was rough sea and some kind of electrical thing going on.”

“Electrical?”

“Yeah, he reported that the antenna cables were all lit up like Fourth of July sparklers.”

“That doesn’t sound like anything to do with rough seas.”

“I know. That’s what I mean when I say his story doesn’t jibe. He jumps around from detail to detail, and you put all of them together—well, they just don’t make sense. It really sounds as if he had a bit of a trauma and afterwards couldn’t remember things properly.” Cook opened the folder again, pulling out another letter. “A supervising officer from ONI writes the following: ‘Further questioning led us to suspect Lieutenant Hardy had suffered delusions—either at the time the submarine was lost or later as a result of his treatment in the POW camp.’”

“Well, that’s just an opinion,” Frank said.

“Yeah, but everything from Hardy comes out as conjecture.” Cook flipped the page and read on: “ ‘On the fourteenth day of questioning, Lieutenant Hardy ventured a new theory and, when pressed, insisted on its validity. He theorized that the Japanese had developed an electromagnetic weapon powerful enough to pull a boat apart.’“

This time, even Frank frowned skeptically.

Cook skipped a few more pages in the file and continued: “ ‘During the Board of Inquiry, Lieutenant Hardy brought up this and other theories and, as he could not substantiate any of them, they were regarded as inadmissible evidence. In view of Hardy’s apparent unreliability, no further effort was made to investigate the matter.’”

Cook folded the file on his lap and waved a hand. “The
Candlefish
was chalked up as missing in action, and that was the end of it.”

“I see. And how did they chalk up Hardy?”

“They didn’t. They just ignored him.” Cook thumbed to the back of the folder and drew out papers, handing them one by one across to Frank. “Here. Fitness reports, qualification exams and reports, summaries by ComSubPac. Here’s his whole history since he was discharged in 1946—everything relating to the Navy.”

Frank hefted the pile of papers. “What do you mean? He had more contact with the Navy?”

“Yeah. Lieutenant Jack Hardy is now Dr. Jack Hardy of the Scripps Institution of Oceanography. He’s been in the field for twenty-odd years. Very well thought of, in fact.”

“That’s a pretty responsible position...”

“You mean for a guy who shows such an apparent lack of it?” Cook again closed the folder.

Frank said nothing. He picked up one of Basquine’s dossier files with Hardy’s name penciled on the lip. He glanced through it quickly while Cook sat in silence. Suddenly Frank sat up in surprise. “Listen to this! This is the Captain’s report, dated August 14, 1944.” He read through Basquine’s account of an incident involving Hardy and the performance of a routine slug test in which Hardy made a gross error of mechanics, resulting in heavy damage to the sub and the loss of a torpedoman’s life. Basquine’s account was heavily laced with terms like “gross negligence.”

Cook frowned his concern. Frank placed the report on the desk and pointed out the words: “The Executive Officer, Lt. Bates, recommends Lt. Hardy for immediate transfer to shore duty upon our return to Pearl, pending investigation for court-martial. In my judgment, justice will be better served by full disclosure of the facts to a Board of Inquiry, no transfer acceptable even if requested by Lt. Hardy himself, and no recommendation for court-martial.”

The meaning was abundantly clear to both Frank and Cook. In effect, Hardy was being “sent to Coventry.” Basquine was recommending that he be forced to remain aboard a submarine with eighty-three men who were probably all convinced he was a monumental fuckup.

“Pretty stiff,” said Cook. “I wonder if Lieutenant Hardy knew he was being shafted.”

“I wonder... if he didn’t deserve it.” Frank dropped the report. “And he ends up in
oceanography?”

Frank got up, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and moved to the porthole. He gazed out at the
Candlefish
and ran the name “Hardy” over in his mind. Hardy—and
oceanography.
Cook saw the smile.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m suddenly very impressed with our good fortune.” He ignored Cook’s puzzled look and slapped a hand down on Hardy’s dossier. “We can
use
this guy.”

The first newsmen began calling at mid-afternoon, interrupting Diminsky’s last-minute packing. He played dumb with the first man, annoyed with the second, and outraged with the third. Then he stopped answering the calls. When he stepped off the
Imperator
after a fruitless search for Frank, he ran smack into the first crew of cameramen from the local Hawaiian TV station. They hurried past him to set up cameras alongside the
Candlefish
and get some footage before they lost the sun. Diminsky stood on the dock and fumed.

He found the base commander in his quarters and demanded to know who had authorized the break in security around the
Candlefish.

“I did.”

Diminsky sat back in defeat. Admirals don’t outrank admirals, and the man across the desk looked really to argue the point. He explained quite calmly that his brother-in-law was a vice-president of the same local TV station and had asked for permission—

“How did he get wind of it?” Diminsky stuck a finger on the base commander’s desk. He was rewarded with a cold silence.

“Somebody leaked the information!” Diminsky snarled.

“I don’t know that, Admiral, but if you would like to hold an inquisition, I’ll provide you with the implements of torture.”

Diminsky left the base commander’s office without getting satisfaction. Once he had calmed down and sorted everything out, he realized the admiral hadn’t withheld anything. He had only been miffed.

Diminsky stood on the dock as the TV crew were wrapping up and suspected the fine hand of Ed Frank. But he had no proof. And, as yet, no motive.

For the rest of the afternoon, he couldn’t find Ed Frank anywhere.

Diminsky left Washington on a 9 P.M. flight, unaware that the information from Captain Walters had arrived earlier aboard the same plane. Frank was very pleased with his tactics so far. He had the publicity he wanted—he watched it on TV at 6 P.M.—he had Diminsky out of his hair for a few days, and he had managed to spend the day hiding in Captain Melanoff’s office, poring through the mountain of documents sent by Walters.