Ghostboat (33 page)

Hardy gave Frank a big smile, counting on that little piece of flattery to open things up between them, to relieve the tension. Frank looked surprised, then pleased. Congratulations went round the compartment like a brush fire, whipped by the rush of fresh air through the vents. Somewhere in all the noise, Frank mumbled quietly, “Nothing to get our bowels in an uproar about...”

The sub broached at exactly 0011.

After a half-hour on the bridge, studying the smudge of black smoke several miles astern—all that remained of the two Japanese tankers—Frank dropped back into the conning tower. He stopped Lang, the quartermaster. “Fill out your log. When you’re done, I’ll sign it.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Lang went below to pull the ship’s log and make the appropriate entries. Frank remained in the conning tower, alone except for the helmsman. Frank looked around the tiny con in silence. He straightened up, proud, immensely pleased with himself. He smiled and took a short tour around the tower. He reached up and drummed his fingers along the overhead. The helmsman glanced around, saw who it was, and gave him a big confident smile. Frank smiled back.

December 4

Frank was in his quarters by 0051. He sat on the bunk and sipped a cup of consommé, contemplating the peculiar feeling in his gut. The door was closed; his cabin was quiet. He could hear the far-off whine of two diesels and the hum of the air conditioners, but he wasn’t interested in sounds. He wanted to know why he felt psychological discomfort in addition to physical queasiness. He reached over and pulled down the hinged desk. He studied the collection of papers, pencils, books, and reports. He made a mental note to start files on the crew: personnel reports, recommendations, the usual. He wanted to sleep, just lie back on the bunk and let it all drift away: the
Candlefish,
Latitude 30°, Jack Hardy, Basquine, Byrnes...

Everything seemed mixed up. He tried to sort out all the faces and found himself running unfamiliar names across his lips. Corky Jones, Slugger, Bates, Walinsky... who were these people?

Frank’s head began to ache, as if somebody were clutching it in a vise, pressing into it things he didn’t want to know or think about.

He stood up slowly, sensitive to a shift in his center of gravity. He placed his hands on the desk and threw his weight on them. His eyes fell on the day-to-day log, in the center of the largest cubbyhole. He pulled it out and opened it, pulling pages. November 30th, December 1st, 2nd, 3rd... There was no entry on December 3rd.

Damn! Still had that to do. And he remembered something else. He had to get back to control and sign the official log. But this one... There was something about this log that wasn’t right. Entries that he hadn’t written. That was it. He looked at the handwriting, and his brow furrowed deeply. Again he felt a wave of nausea washing over a wave of confusion.

Hardy.

Only Jack Hardy could have made unauthorized entries in the log.

He reached for the intercom. “Mr. Hardy to the Captain’s cabin on the double.”

Frank met Hardy at the door to the cabin and motioned him to sit on the bunk. Frank sat on the single chair, pulling it around so he could fold his arms on the backrest.

“You remember there were no entries after November twenty-first in the Captain’s log?” He lifted the log from his desk and held it under Hardy’s nose.

Hardy nodded. “Then look,” said Frank.

Hardy opened the book. Frank reached a hand over and flipped the pages to December 2nd, pointing to the center of the inked account. Hardy looked blank a moment, then flipped pages back, one after another, seeing that every entry back to November 21st was inscribed in full. His eyes came up and locked onto Frank’s.

“Have you been filling it in?” he asked.

“I was going to ask you that.”

They looked at each other.

“Where have you been keeping it?” Hardy asked.

“High and dry in my locker until yesterday, then locked in this desk. Somebody’s been filling it in.”

“It’s Basquine’s handwriting,” said Hardy.

“It’s not yours?”

“You say it’s been locked up. How could it be mine?”

“How could it be Basquine’s?”

“It’s not mine.”

“Maybe you’re imitating him.”

“Maybe
you
are.” Hardy met his accusing glare with one of his own.

“Why would I do that?” Frank’s question was genuine. The thought had never occurred to him.

“You’ve been prancing around just like him since the meeting yesterday morning.”

Frank sat up straight. “That’s not true.”

Hardy shrugged. “Maybe it’s just something that comes over submarine skippers when they take command. Maybe they’re all essentially alike.”

Frank’s arms came off the back of the chair and dropped between his legs. He stared down at the deck and felt suddenly cold. “What’s going to happen to us?” he asked in a quiet voice, the chill rippling up his back and causing a pain in his jaw. “What if we start spraying torpedoes all over the Pacific?”

“We won’t,” said Hardy. “We’re just going to follow my log.”

“And what if we don’t?” Frank asked. “What if we go off on a tangent, do something unexpected?”

“I don’t expect that.”

“Did you expect what happened to Byrnes?”

Hardy was silent, thinking a moment. “It got the crew down to eighty-four. I told you that. Look—you’re the one who wanted to find out what happened thirty years ago. Well, the
Candlefish
is going, to
show
you.”

It was an expression of certainty, and Frank couldn’t understand how Hardy could be so calm about such an incredible thing.

“I want to live to tell about it,” he said hoarsely.

Hardy looked at him a long time and then shrugged. It was no answer. He got up and reached for the door.

Frank grabbed him. “Well?” he said. “How does it end?”

“I don’t know... Captain.”

Hardy pulled open the door and walked out. Frank got up and looked down the corridor after him, watching him move—and realized something that he hadn’t seen before.

Hardy’s limp, once so pronounced, was now distinctly absent.

In the forward engine room, Googles reached up to the intercom speaker and turned up the music Giroux was piping through. A slinky female voice cut in:

“You are listening to the voice you call Tokyo Rose, telling you of a war that is almost over. And you have lost. Courtesy of the Japanese Imperial Navy—a big hello to the crewmen of the American submarine
Candlefish...”

Googles dropped his tools with a resounding clang and barked, “Screw you with a wet torpedo, baby!”

Witzgall rose to conduct the engine-room orchestra. “By the numbers!” he shouted. One by one, each man down the line raised his arm and gave the Italian elbow salute, accompanied by a chorus of Bronx cheers. Cassidy stared at them; they were acting like a pack of refugees from a John Wayne movie. He didn’t understand the sudden surge of morale, but he felt glad to be a part of it.

Jack Hardy came through with coffee and sat down with him. They sipped quietly and listened to the music.

“Maybe things are going to be all right after all. What do you think, Lieutenant?”

Hardy arched an eyebrow and studied Cassidy. The gnarled old Chief with his religiously polished pipes, his fatherly smile, and his honest sympathy... In spite of their differences earlier, Hardy had grown to like him. Why? Hardy’s brow furrowed, and he gazed deep into Cassidy’s face.

Walinsky. Cassidy was just like Walinsky. Just
like
him? Or...

Hardy closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about it. He could accept the other things—the fact that they were somehow back in World War II, that they were fighting a shooting war, that they were actually duplicating the last patrol of the
Candlefish-—
but the changes in the crew? That was too much. It amounted to one thing: He didn’t
want
them back.

But did he have anything to say about it?

It was 0145 when Ed Frank woke up, something nagging at him, something he had forgotten to do. He rose like an automaton, sat down, at his desk, reached for the Captain’s log, and opened it to December 3rd. The blank page stared back at him. Was he looking for yesterday’s report? Was that why he had opened the book? Was there some detail he wasn’t sure of?

No. Of course, the blank page?
He
had to
make
the report. He looked around for his pen. His fingers shot over the clutter of pencils and the single ballpoint he had brought with him on the voyage. He was looking for something else. Rummaging in the cubbyholes, he found it. A fountain pen. Always used a fountain pen in the log—it looked better. He took the pen between the fingers of his right hand and began to scribble notes on the day’s events. He wrote quickly, creating a page full of choppy scrawl. He didn’t stop until the entry was complete. Then he blotted the ink, stared at it a moment...

He flipped back to December 2nd and compared. He wanted to be sure that his wording was the same, that his position notations and attack descriptions were consistent. He compared and grunted in satisfaction.

Everything matched perfectly. He flipped back to December 3rd and signed the log with a flourish.

Lights were down in the crew’s quarters, but Torpedoman 1st Class Clampett stood with his arms folded at the forward bulkhead, grinning happily at the Ann Sheridan poster. He stood quite silent for a long time, then whispered for her ears only, “Hey, baby, everything’s lookin’ grand...”

CHAPTER 18

December 5

The squall line stretched to the horizon, obliterating the wintry afternoon sun in a jumbled mass of black clouds and sheeted rain.

The mist-shrouded destroyer, her outline softened by the water streaming off her decks, sliced sharply through the tortured seas.

The periscope slid smoothly above the sea. Ed Frank watched the destroyer plod on its tormented course.
Fubuki
class, he decided. His scalp tingled with excitement. He folded the handles and announced, “Destroyer! Sound battle stations! Right full rudder— all ahead full!”

The clang of the bell rang through the
Candlefish.
Frank wiped sweaty palms on his trousers and stood back while the fire-control party formed in the conning tower. Dorriss was the first one up the ladder; he snatched the
is-was
from its hook, draped it around his neck, and moved forward of the scope well. Stigwood, Vogel, and Hardy bolted up the ladder and slid behind the Torpedo Data Computer.

Frank waited for everyone to settle in.

“Sound, what’s the bearing?”

“One propeller, bearing zero-nine-four relative, Captain.”

Stigwood fed the information into the TDC. Frank flicked thumbs-up to Lang, then stooped and pulled down the handles as the periscope slithered back up. He peered through the glass.

Rain obscured everything on the surface. It was so bad he couldn’t see the horizon line. Great, he thought, all we need is a goddamned white wall.

“Bring me up,” he said. “Three feet.”

The sub rose, and his field of vision improved. A gray silhouette loomed out of the rain and mist.

“There she is,” he muttered. “Bearing—mark!”

Dorriss checked the relative bearing line on the scope plates. “Zero-eight-zero relative.”

“Range—mark!”

“Seven six hundred.”

“Set!” The TDC ground away as Stigwood punched the information in. Dorriss computed more numbers on the
is-was.

“Angle on the bow—port zero-four-four.”

“Set!” Stigwood’s voice crackled with tension.

“Down scope!” hollered Frank.

The whir of the periscope hydraulic blended with the clatter of the TDC. Frank stepped back to the computer.

Hardy’s eyes scanned the tense faces of the other men. He was aware of the excitement rippling through the con, so thick he could almost taste it. Yet he felt a certain remoteness; he was still an outsider. But why? Was it because he had no assigned battle station? Ridiculous—that could be explained. Thirty years away from war, naturally they would relegate him to a backup role. Naturally.

He was the fifth leg on a four-legged horse. The intricate details of the attack were handled by more experienced hands, just as they had been during wartime. Except— No. No exceptions. This was as it should be.

The roles were reversed—that was all. Once again he was the passive scientist, the observer—while Frank and his crew were the active participants.

In what?

The clatter of the TDC startled him. Frank crouched over the scope and again rode it up from the deck.

The movement was so damned familiar—the way Frank stooped to pick up the scope. It jogged memories. He found himself admiring the way Frank had taken control—