End of Enemies (32 page)

“You think you heard something?” Oaken pressed.

“No. … No, it's nothing.”

Washington Navy Yard

Armed with a name, Henry returned to Building 57 the following morning. It took ten minutes for John to return with three boxes. “Gotta warn you, it ain't sorted.”

“That's okay, John. Thanks.”

Over the next four hours, Henry read every scrap of paper in the boxes.
Stonefish
had a long record, he found. He found lists of patrols, crew manifests, dry dock records, situation reports—everything was there. Finally, at the bottom of the last box he came across a message from COMSUBPACFLT (Commander, Submarine Pacific Fleet) to the chief of naval operations that recounted
Stonefish
's fate. He scanned past the header to the text:

PBY BASED SAIPAN REPORTS USS STONEFISH (COMMANDED IX HUGH CARPEN) SUNK BY ENEMY AIRCRAFT, 30 JULY. APPROX. POSITION 158° 12′ EAST, 27° 14′ NORTH. ONE SURVIVOR RECOVERED, EN ROUTE AUSTRALIA.

“What the …” Frowning, Henry read it again. He opened his pocket atlas and plotted the coordinates. This couldn't be right. According to the Navy,
Stonefish
was sunk not off the coast of Honshu, but almost 500 miles to the south.

Bethesda Naval Hospital

Though there would be months of interrogation in Vorsalov's future, the first questions Latham asked had been assembled by the DORSAL group. Vorsalov's answers sent Latham directly to Bethesda, where he found Fayyad sitting up in bed.

Latham introduced himself. “We have Vorsalov in custody. None of your friends from the safe house made it.”

“They were not my friends, Agent Latham.”

“So it seems. I read Agent Randal's report.”

Fayyad looked at Paul. “Randal. I owe you my thanks.”

“Why did you do it?” Paul asked. “Why risk your life for hers?”

“When I saw Ibn run for the stairs, I knew what he was going to do. In that moment, none of it made sense. What they do—what I have done—is no longer about a cause. It's about hate. Their Islam is not my Islam.” Fayyad smiled sadly. “Perhaps I am getting soft.”

Despite himself, Latham smiled back. “Well, as it stands now, the charges against you are murder, espionage, and extortion. The U.S. attorney has declined to press accessory to kidnapping charges.”

“Why?”

“He also read Agent Randal's report.”

“I see.”

“We also know about the Delta bombing. The girl survived and—”

“Cynthia. How is she?”

“She'll recover.”

“I'm glad. So what happens now?”

“That depends. If you help us, they've agreed to not push the death penalty.”

Fayyad nodded, but Latham saw nothing in his eyes.
He doesn't care.

“Tomorrow will take care of itself,” Fayyad said. “Ask your questions.”

When they finished, Latham and Randal stood up and headed for the door.

“Agent Latham.” Fayyad called. “A moment in private?” Latham walked over. “I know I have no right to ask, but … Tell me about Judith. Does she know?”

“About you? Not yet. We haven't … We're still sorting it out.”

“When you do, please tell her I am sorry. I know she won't believe me, but I wish … Just tell her I am sorry.”

Langley

“There's two immediate issues we've got to deal with,” Latham told Dick Mason. “One, Vorsalov has to contact Beirut with an update. Do we call it quits, or do we spread the net to reach the group that hired him? At most, we have four days before he's got to report.”

From Mason's expression, Latham saw he'd struck a chord.
They want the whole bunch,
he thought.
But how
?
Hollywood portrayals aside, it was exceedingly difficult to dash into a foreign country, scoop up the bad guys, and dash back out.

“And the second issue?” said Mason.

Latham recounted his discussions with Vorsalov and Fayyad. “Their stories match,” Charlie said. “The names, the dates, the places … everything. On top of that, we know Vorsalov has been freelancing for them for years.”

Coates said, “Even so, we can't rule out the chance he's lying.”

“To what end?” said Sylvia Albrecht. “We've got him, and he knows it. If I were in his shoes, I could think of a dozen clients I'd rather betray. That's a pretty strong selling point.”

Mason stared at the wall. “Charlie, before I ruin a lot of people's day, I have to be sure, so I'm putting you in the hot seat: Is he telling the truth?”

“Yes, sir, I believe his is.”

“Okay.” Mason nodded and pushed his intercom button. “Ginny, call the White House. Tell Jim Talbot I need to see him right away.” He turned to his DDL “Sylvia, I want everything you've got on General Issam al-Khatib.”

Rappahannock River

When Tanner got home, he found his father sitting on the deck. “Dad?”

“Nice view you've got here. You can almost see down to the bay.”

“A little farther when the fog lifts. Come on in. You've got something?”

“You could say that.”

Over coffee they sat down at the kitchen table. Tanner could see the glint in Henry's eye as he plopped down a stack of photocopies. “You've been busy.”

“You weren't kidding, y'know,” said Henry. “This is a genuine mystery.”

It took fifteen minutes for Henry to recount his search. He ended with the report of
Stonefish's
sinking. “That can't be right,” Tanner said. “Five hundred miles south … that's near the Bonin Islands. I got the serial numbers right; I'm sure of it.”

“I believe you,” replied Henry. “I did some cross-checking. The report stated she was sunk by enemy aircraft. First of all, there's not a single documented case of a submarine going down with all hands after that kind of attack. If she sinks on the surface, somebody has always gotten off. Second, I couldn't find a single reference to a search-and-rescue effort.”

That got Tanner's attention. Since its birth, the U.S. Navy had never given up on a missing ship until all hope was lost. “Are we talking about a cover-up?”

“Maybe. I took a copy of
Stonefish's
crew list, and we plugged the names into the computer—”

“You
what
?”
Tanner asked with a grin. The closest his father came to computer literacy was using a pocket calculator to do his taxes. “You plugged the names into a
what
?”

“Well, John did it. I watched.”

“Dad, are you telling me you hacked into the Navy's mainframe?”

“I did no such thing. We checked the names against the Bureau of Personnel's listings, then matched those against the VA. I figured if anyone had actually survived, there had to be some record of it: duty assignments, separation date, that sort of thing.”

“And?”

“All but one of the crew is dead.” Henry consulted his notepad. “An ensign—a captain, I should say—William Myers, retired.”

Tanner smiled. “Are you telling me he's still alive?”

“Yep. And he's only a stone's throw from here: Manassas.”

Manassas,
Virginia

Having no idea what he would say, Tanner decided against calling Captain Myers in advance. He left Rappahannock early that afternoon and arrived in Manassas by four. He stopped at a café, had a late lunch, and asked for directions to the Myers home. The waitress knew “the Captain,” as did most everyone, she explained. Not only did Myers live in what had been the temporary headquarters of Stonewall Jackson during the Battle of Bull Run, but he also grew the best tomatoes in Prince William County.

The directions took Tanner to a plantation-style house surrounded by willow trees. If not for the sound of traffic on the nearby highway, he could almost imagine himself in the antebellum South. He knocked on the door and it opened, revealing an elderly woman. “Yes?”

“Good morning, ma'am. I'm looking for Captain Myers.”

“Come for the tomatoes?”

“Not exactly ma'am. Are you Mrs. Myers?”

“Yes … Peggy.”

“I'm Briggs Tanner.”
Now what
?
“I was in the Navy, also.”

With that, Peggy Myers smiled. “Come on in, I'll take you to him.”

She led him to the backyard and pointed toward a garden in the corner. “Just go on over.”

“Thank you.”

Captain Myers was kneeling in the dirt, tying a tomato vine.

“I didn't realize they still grew this late in the season,” Tanner called.

Myers squinted up at him. “They're tough. They'll keep growing until we get a hard frost.” Myers was of medium height, with stooped shoulders and brown eyes. “What can I do for you?”

Tanner didn't know what to say. He decided on the partial truth. “I'm doing a little research on the war. I was hoping you could help me.”

“You military?”

“Not anymore.”

“Navy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What'd you do?” Tanner told him, and Myers smiled. “Back then we called them UDT. Always thought those fellas were a different sort.”

Tanner laughed. “That's a nice way of putting it.”

“Come on, I'll see if Peg has some lemonade around.”

Myers's den was a museum of World War II submarine history. The walls were covered with prints depicting the various battles of the Pacific war: Guadalcanal, Iwo Jima, Bella LaVella. He handed Tanner a glass of lemonade and pointed him to a chair. “Haunting aren't they?” Myers asked.

“That they are.”

“Submarines played a part in all those. We were there. The silent service, y'know. It wasn't just because we were sneaky. We did what we had to do and didn't talk about it. So, how can I help you?”

Again Tanner hesitated. How do you tell a man you suspect the story behind his boat's fate is a lie? Briggs decided the direct approach was best. “I'm looking into the disappearance of
Stonefish.
”

Myers pursed his lips, nodded, but said nothing.

“You were her XO when she was lost?”

“Yep.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“Did you read the report?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then you know what happened.”

“There's a few things I don't understand,” Tanner said.

“Such as?”

“Such as why she was reported sunk near the Bonins.”

Myers took a sip of lemonade.

Tanner pulled a sheet of paper from his file and handed it across. “According to Fairbanks-Morse,
Stonefish's
engines were installed in July of 1942. According to the Navy, she kept those engines until her sinking.”

“What's your point?”

“A few weeks ago, I pulled that same serial number off the engine of a sub I found four hundred yards off the coast of Honshu.”

Myers stared at Tanner for ten seconds, “You were there?” he whispered. “You were aboard her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How'd she look?”

“A little beat up.”

“You're being generous. Were they still there? The bodies, I mean?”

“One in the wardroom, the other in forward torpedo.”

Myers smiled sadly and nodded.

“Can you tell me about it?” Briggs said.

“It was a long time ago. I'm the only one left. It doesn't really matter, does it?”

“I think it does. I'm betting you think so, too.”

Myers went silent, studying the pictures and memorabilia around the study. Tanner guessed for his entire life Myers had been haunted by
Stonefish
and the secret he kept about her.

Finally Myers said, “You want the whole story or the abridged version?”

As soon as he started talking, Tanner realized Myers hadn't lived a day in fifty years without thinking about
Stonefish.
His recollection was vivid, as though he were watching it on a movie screen.

“We were docked at the Volcano Islands to resupply. The skipper pulled me aside and gave me a couple orders: First, he wanted me to offload sixteen of our fish. It was an odd request, but I was the new guy, so I did it. Second thing he said was he wanted everybody off the boat at sixteen hundred. Everybody, he said, including me and the brow watch. Well, I gave him an ‘Aye, sir,' and got to work.

“Two hours later, the torpedoes were off and everyone was ashore. I was in the wardroom trying to catch up on paperwork and lost track of time. It was sixteen-fifteen, so I hurried on deck and headed for the brow. Carpen was standing on the pier. He gave me a hard stare and barked at me to get moving.

“Just then a couple trucks—two army deuce and a halfs—were pulling alongside. About a dozen GIs jumped out and posted themselves around the boat. The last thing I saw was a civilian shaking hands with the skipper. I remember that clearly. This guy was tall, ramrod straight, almost bald. He might've been dressed as a civvie, but he was military for sure. I heard his name, too, but it didn't ring any bells: John Staples. Funny kind of name, I thought.

“Later that night when everybody was back aboard, we sailed. Right away the crew knew something was up. I didn't see the guy until later, but scuttlebutt said there was a civilian holed up in the forward torpedo room. I figured it was the fella I saw on the dock. I found out later it wasn't.

“The next morning, the skipper called me to his state-room. He told me to spread the word: Forward torp was off limits. Then he showed me the chart. Green as I was, even I could see where our course was gonna take us. Even that late in the war anything north of Nanpo was still bad news for submarines … and we were going
way
up north. I asked him why, but he didn't answer.

“Two days later, he sprang it on the rest of the ward-room. Up till then, nobody else knew where we were. I tell you, it was damned funny looking at their faces. I mean, three days before we're drinking beer in the Volcanos and now we're twenty miles off the Jap mainland and fixin' to get a whole lot closer.

“Round about midnight, we started out.

“Those next ten hours were the longest of my life. We slipped through a hole in the coastal net that couldn't have been much bigger than the boat, then picked our way through the minefield inside.

“Once we got through, we turned east, parallel to the shoreline. About a quarter mile from the beach, the skipper took a peek through the scope and spotted a Jap destroyer—a Naichi class—about four miles out. We took a fix, then ducked back under. Sonar got contact on four tin cans in the main channel between Honshu and Skikoku … sitting right in our path. We had four miles to go, and five destroyers blocking us.

“We were creeping along at three knots, quiet as a ghost, when we got a break. The Naichi turned away from us, so we dashed ahead and got in behind his baffles. The idea was to use his screw noise to mask us. We would slip into the channel, do whatever we came to do, maybe torpedo one of the tin cans, then sneak out in the confusion. Well, it didn't work out that way.

“The Naichi found us and started dropping depth charges. We must have taken a dozen near hits. Rivets were popping, steam pipes bursting, glass all over the deck … Seemed like it lasted hours, but it was probably only three or four minutes. The Naichi came around for another run at us. But the skipper had other ideas. That man was good … the best sub driver I've ever known.

“While the Naichi was circling, we kicked it into flank and slipped beneath 'em. If I hadn't been so damned scared, I would've laughed; here they were looking ahead, and we were behind them and heading for the channel.

“We would've made it, too, except one of the depth charges had landed a bit too close. A god-awful grinding sound shook the boat. Our propeller shaft was bent. It wasn't much, maybe half an inch, but that's all it takes. From then on, any speed above three knots would be like ringing the dinner bell. Problem was, the current coming out of the channel was a good four knots. We just didn't have the horsepower. The skipper decided to call it quits.

“That's when the civilian flipped his wig. Nobody had seen him come into the control room, but there he was.

“Two things about him hit me right off: One was that briefcase he was carrying. The damn thing was chained to his wrist. Second thing was those leg braces. He got around pretty good, but you could see the brace poking out his pant leg.

“Anyway, he started shouting that we couldn't turn around, that we had to reach the ‘drop-off point,' is what he called it. He looked like a ferret, the way his eyes kept darting around. Depth charge attacks have a way of doing that to your brain, I guess.

“The skipper ordered him back to forward torp, but he wouldn't go, kept saying how we had to make it, we
had
to. A couple of men tried to calm him down, but he backed away, swinging that briefcase like a wild man. Finally, me and a bunch of guys tackled him to the deck. Carpen ordered him handcuffed in forward torpedo.

“As shaken up as we were, we were damned glad to be getting out of there. From the start, the whole patrol had been odd, and it was getting worse by the minute. I mean, here we were in Tojo's front yard, Jap warships all around us, our propeller shaft bent to hell, and this guy looses his marbles right in front of us.

“So, with the four tin cans north of us and the Naichi to the west, we turned south along the coast of Honshu. By then we'd been submerged for six hours; the air was getting thick. We needed to ventilate. We went to periscope depth and took a peek. We couldn't have been more than a couple hundred yards offshore. I scanned the beach and saw a bunch of huts and a couple cooking fires. That's how close we were. Tanabe Point—our exit—was nine miles. At three knots, it would take us a few hours, so the skipper decided to come up and get some air. A fog bank had rolled in, so we figured it was okay.

“We took her up until the deck was awash, then me and Carpen climbed the bridge ladder and popped the hatch. I still remember that smell: Air. Just plain, clean air. It was the best smell in the world.

“Astern of us I could just see the running lights of the Japs doing racetracks in the channel. I started thinking we were gonna make it. I guess I jinxed us, because that's when it started.

“The only thing I can figure is a coast-watcher spotted us. All of a sudden, three parachute flares exploded over the beach. It was almost like daylight, they were so bright. Bullets started smacking into the hull. The bastards were taking pot shots at us from the beach … shooting at us with goddamned rifles.

“The skipper ordered emergency dive and shoved me toward that hatch. I looked back, and there she was … the Naichi. She was maybe two miles behind us and blasting away with her five-incher. I was almost down the hatch when the first shell hit. It sheared off the tops of both periscopes and dropped into the water ahead of us. I heard a scream and looked up. The skipper was gone. I ran to the railing.

“He was lying on the foredeck, half underwater. His whole left arm was gone. It was just a stump. I heard another shell hit, this time just off the port side. The skipper was crawling toward the ladder, yelling, ‘Take her down, Billy! Take her down!' and I just stared at him. I was frozen. Blood was gushing from his shoulder. He yelled again, ‘Take her down! That's an order!'

“So I did it. I left him. God help me, I left him.

“By the time I got the hatch closed, we were angling down sharp. Just then I heard the shots, three of them—
pop,
pop,
pop
—right in a row. They sounded like caps. I could tell they came from the forward part of the boat, and I had a pretty good idea who was doing the shooting, but there was too much going on to worry about it

“I ordered full dive and hard right rudder. Above us, I could hear the shells dropping. I don't remember much of what happened next, except knowing we'd taken a hit. I figured out later a shell had clipped our bow and taken off one of the planes. The boat tipped forward … must've been seventy degrees. We were dropping fast Everybody was looking at me. I remember thinking, ‘Christ, I'm in charge. They're waiting for me to do something.'

“I ordered ‘blow all ballast,' hoping it would either level us off or bring us to the surface. I figured we'd have better luck there than sitting on the bottom, suffocating to death. We slowed a bit but kept heading down.

“It got real quiet in the tower. Nobody was saying a word. Nobody looked at anybody else. I felt helpless. There was nothing else I could do. I ordered ‘all hands brace for shock.'

“It wasn't a bad landing, all things considered. After we hit, I remember hearing the hull grinding on the sand. It reminded me of fingernails on a chalkboard. We'd almost settled when she rolled hard to port and started sliding again. I thought we were going off the shelf, but after a few seconds, we stopped. It got quiet again. I could hear creaking and bubbling, but aside from that, silence.

“First thing I did was check for injuries. There were some, but nothing too serious. The sound-powered phones were out, so I sent out runners, one forward to find out about the shooting and another to the engine room to get a damage report.