Kilo Class (19 page)

The spell had thus been broken by the nuclear submarine CO, but the curiosity of his wife was not. For the next hour Jo made Laura tell the entire bittersweet story of her romance with Bill, the fight over the children, the bruising war with her husband’s divorce lawyers, and the public humiliation back in Scotland, a place she never wanted to see again as long as she lived. And how she would have probably committed suicide but for Bill.

“’Course if it hadn’t been for him, none of this would have happened in the first place,” Boomer had remarked, cheerfully but unhelpfully. “Still, I guess he proved himself to be what we all know he definitely ain’t… steadfast, reliable, sound of judgment, loyal.”

“Will you guys gimme a break?” yelled Bill, laughing. Jo had joined in, “Yes, shut up, Boomer… Bill’s gone through a terrible time.”

“As the Captain of the ship, I just wanna announce I’m ready to marry ’em,” said Commander Dunning. “By the powers invested in me… right here I’m talking holy matrimony. No bullshit.”

“Jesus, this is unbelievable,” said Bill. “I’m sailing to the end of the earth with a goddamned heathen skipper… Laura’s still married.”

“Well, sir,” replied Boomer formally, standing to attention and raising his glass, “if that’s the case I’d have to say you are regarding the Ten Commandments… er… opportunistically.”

“Try to ignore him, Billy,” said Jo. “He’s drunk with power.”

“This is probably the nearest to drunk anyone’s going to be for the next four weeks,” added the skipper. “So I guess I’ll have another scoop of that good wine before I turn in. We’re under way early…”

But that had all been the night before, and now they had set sail, and the sun was high up behind them, over the mast, and the temperature was in the low nineties. All four of them were experienced sailors, and they all wore large caps with visors and layers of zinc ointment on their noses, the cooling breeze, disguising as it does, the fierce rays of the blistering sun.

Thwaites served lunch in the stateroom at 1300 and received a round of applause for perfectly cooked Spanish omelets, with french fries and salad. The crew ate ham sandwiches in the cockpit, where Roger Mills had the helm. Bill Baldridge kept them on a southeasterly course, 135, and as the wind increased they were making twelve knots through a quartering sea. Down here they were way out of range south of the trades, but they were still slightly too far north for the big westerlies.

At 1600 they saw their first whale, a fifty-footer, with a massive square head, blowing not thirty feet off the port beam, the vaporized jet of oily water aimed unmistakably forward in a fan shape. “That’s a sperm whale,” said Boomer. “Big male, migrating north from the Antarctic.”

“How the hell do you know that?” asked Bill.

“By the shape of his head. No other whale this big looks anything like that. And because he blows at a forward angle, out in front of him. I also know that only the male sperm whale migrates. The females stay in the tropics. This guy’s been feeding in the Antarctic all summer and now he’s on his way home. I know about whales, like you know about cattle. Coupla friends of mine run one of the whale-watching boats back home on the Cape.”

As he spoke the big whale moved forward with the ship, staying close in a kind of gesture of camaraderie. It was a huge demonstration of both might and majesty. And there was something touching about this docile giant. Bill and the women stood watching him, transfixed. “Christ,” said the Kansan. “Can you imagine going after him with a harpoon in a tiny whaling boat with two guys rowing… can you just imagine what it musta been like when the harpoon hit and that sucker charged forward?”

“A bit more tricky than it is today,” growled Boomer. “Those Japanese butchers never give sperm whales a chance. They blow them apart from the main ship before they even have time to dive. That used to be the big danger to the guys from the old whaling ships… a big sperm whale like this guy can dive two thousand meters and stay there for about an hour and a quarter.”

As if on cue, the whale suddenly arched forward, and they all heard his great sigh; it sounded like a long drawn-out SAAAAARRH, and then he was gone, his massive tail fin rising fifteen feet out of the water and then sliding slowly beneath the waves, almost without a ripple. And the ocean seemed strangely bereft without him.

They scanned the water for a long time afterward, and ten minutes later, he blew again. They watched him four more times until he was on the horizon, edging his way north, one of the last of an endangered species — the largest of all the creatures on this planet, being slowly hunted to extinction.

“I once debated the propriety of banging an ADCAP torpedo straight into a big Japanese whaling ship out in the Atlantic,” said Boomer. “To me, they’re just death ships, slaughtering the whales for no good reason whatsoever, except their own greed. But I decided not to do it in the end. Woulda looked pretty colorful on my résumé, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, outstanding,” said Bill. “Probably coulda kept it quiet. Called it a Black Operation — unaccountable.”

But Boomer still looked thoughtful. “I hope they don’t get him though. I sure hope they don’t get him.”

They sailed on without the whale for the rest of the evening, taking turns on watch until midnight, when they handed over the wheel to Roger and Jeff, who would work 0001 to 0400, and then 0400 to 0800. “Call me instantly if the wind gets up,” was Boomer’s last instruction.

By 0800 the following morning they had made 280 miles from Port Elizabeth and were holding their southeasterly course. There was an ocean swell now as the water grew deeper, but there was little chop, and the only difference in the weather was the wind backing round to the west, and increasing to just less than twenty knots.

“Hoist a reaching spinnaker, and see if we can make some serious headway this morning,” Boomer ordered. But shortly after 0900, the barometer began to fall. Bill, staring at his
Antarctic Pilot
, thought this might herald a whole series of depressions in which the wind might swing northwest again. He thought they would see some torrential squalls of rain. He was right about that, and the weather began to cloud over very quickly.

They put up the number three jib in place of the ’chute, shoved it back into the “sewer” under the foredeck, and Boomer ordered all hatches battened. Bill Baldridge came on deck in his foul-weather gear and suggested everyone go below, except for Roger and Jeff, who were to reef the mains’l. Gavin was still asleep.

Bill told them to trim the main out a bit and fit a preventer for heavy weather. “Be ready to take down the main if the wind goes above thirty-five knots.” They were ready for anything, except, perhaps, for the speed of the weather change. The wind suddenly gusted and increased, then howled in from the northwest at thirty knots, gusting to forty. In driving rain
Yonder
raced forward, making fourteen knots in huge swells. There were no high waves yet, none with the really big breaking crests that can be so dangerous. And Bill rather enjoyed sliding through these mountains of water, all alone at the helm. In a top-class sailing yacht like
Yonder
, he judged, he could handle just about anything.

As he expected, the squall died as quickly as it had arrived. The skies cleared after less than ninety minutes, and the wind drifted back around to the west. They jibed without incident, and the sea slowly became less heavy. Glancing over his left shoulder he sensed another buildup of clouds to the northwest, which he judged might approach in a couple of hours. In general terms, their first serious squall had not been too difficult. He ordered the spinnaker to be hoisted again in the much lighter fifteen-knot breeze, which now blew over their stern. But the real difference was the temperature. It was just that much cooler, around seventy degrees, although the sun was high.

Boomer and Laura came on deck together. Jo had fallen asleep again. Bill was glad of the chance to hand over the helm, take off his jacket, and have some coffee and French toast, which Thwaites had brought up to him.

Boomer had his foul-weather gear with him, judging that they might end up in another squall before long. Bill wanted more coffee and went below, announcing he was going to take a break.

He was an inveterate reader of newspapers and magazines, and he had brought a whole pile of them with him from Kennedy Airport. He had the Kansas paper, his local paper, the
Garden City Telegram, the New York Times, Washington Post, Time, Sports Illustrated
, and a couple of midwestern farming papers. An article in the
Washington Post
caught his attention.

It was long, and he read it right through. Then he yelled up to Boomer, “Hey, you read anything lately about that research ship which vanished down in the Antarctic ’bout a year ago… the
Cuttyhunk
?”

“Not lately, but I know about it. Find something new?”

“Not really, just a pretty good article in the
Post
…. guy seems to think she’s still floating somewhere, and he makes out an interesting case.”

“Yeah, I read some stuff by someone coupla months ago. Is his name Goodyear or something?”

“You’re thinking of the blimp, dingbrains. He’s called Goodwin.”

“Yeah, that’s him. Goodwin. He wrote a series of syndicated features on
Cuttyhunk
. I read ’em all. He was saying that if the research ship had really gone to the bottom in her last known position in some bay down there, there must have been more wreckage come to the surface than a small piece of a deck life buoy.”

“Right. He’s still saying it. And he’s also saying that if the ship really was under attack, then it must have been mass murder: thus far there have been no survivors reported. It’s almost unthinkable that no one has found out anything. Not a whisper. He thinks there’s more to it than meets the eye.”

“I thought when I read the stuff last time, there was more to it. But Admiral Morgan did not agree. He thinks she went down with all hands. Anyway, save it for me, Bill, will you? I’d like to read what he’s saying now.”

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll bring it up now and hold the wheel while you read it. It’s a real good mystery.”

Bill headed back up to the cockpit with the
Washington Post
and handed it over to Boomer, who sat for fifteen minutes reading the long feature article. When he finished he said, “Yeah. This is definitely the same guy. He’s a staffer on the
Cape Cod Times
. This stuff is syndicated. As I remember he’s actually been down to Kerguelen.”

“Well, he sounds like he’s done a lot of research. And he does make a point. It’s kinda difficult these days to wipe out twenty-nine people in complete secret, and nothing is heard from them, or their ship, ever again. Specially when everyone knows exactly who they all were and exactly where it happened.”

“Yeah, and they signaled they were under attack, from the Japanese, who have since denied everything.”

“Like their goddamned whalers,” muttered Boomer.

“He makes that island sound pretty damned creepy, don’t you think?” said Bill.

“Sure does. Says it’s the end of the earth. Nowhere.”

“Well, Boomer. It might be the end of the earth to a guy in Hyannis, but it’s not the end of the earth to us. We pass close to it, coupla hundred miles to the north of us.”

Laura, who had thus far listened in silence, suddenly said, “Why don’t we call in, find the ship, rescue the people, and return home to universal acclaim? Jo can go on the
Today
show and explain to a grateful nation about the two Navy heroes she sailed with.”

Boomer chuckled. “What does a guy have to do to get a cup of coffee around here?” Then he said, “You know, I wouldn’t mind having a look at Kerguelen. Would we have time, Bill?”

“I’m not sure. But I’ll hop below and check out the chart, then I’ll bring the coffeepot and the
Antarctic Pilot
back up with me, and we can find out for ourselves.”

“Thanks, Laura,” laughed Jo. “You’ve just talked these two nitwits into a nice little holiday on the most barren, desolate, freezing coastline in the southern hemisphere — there’s nothing there except penguins. I read that stuff about Kerguelen in the
Cape Cod Times
. And there was one fact I remembered — there is a gale force wind there
every single day
. The guy said it comes out of the southwest, across the high mountains, and then literally roars down the fjords.”

“Yeah, well we probably won’t be going anywhere near the fjords,” said Boomer. “Matter of fact we might not even go inshore if the weather’s bad, except for shelter in the leeward side.”

At this point Bill handed the coffee and the southern navigator’s bible up through the hatchway and then climbed through himself. “It’s a couple of thousand miles from here,” he said, “which at our present rate of sailing is about eight days at most. It’s not that far out of our way. Right now we’re heading for the south end of Tasmania, latitude 43.50S, on the Great Circle route, the shortest way. The northern approach to Kerguelen is on 48.85S — that would be about a couple of hundred miles north of us. If we alter course a couple of degrees right here, we’d hardly notice it. I guess it would be fun just to see it.”

“Okay, guys, this is a democracy,” said Boomer. “Anyone hate the idea of going there?”

“Yeah, me,” said Jo. “But I can’t wait. Change course, Captain, and let’s go find that
Cuttyhunk
.”

They all raised their coffee mugs, and Boomer made an elaborate show of altering course two degrees to the north. Laura snuggled up to Bill in the corner of the cockpit while he studied the
Pilot
.

They sailed in silence for a while until the former Lieutenant Commander Baldridge spoke up. “This place is unbelievable,” he said, looking up from the pages of the
Antarctic Pilot
. “Let me tell you something… our course will take us well north of Prince Edward Islands, which are quite big and warrant just less than two pages in the
Pilot
. Then we may pass within sight of the Îles Crozet, a coupla fair-size groups of islands fifty miles apart on longitude 45.60S, they got about three pages.