Ghostboat (40 page)

On the bottom of the entry dated December 3rd he found what he was looking for. Rapidly he leafed through the next seven pages, pausing at each one, his heart sinking.

Three and a half points.

Every single entry had been signed with a hastily scrawled “B. G. Basquine.”

Cassidy was numb. He replaced the log and stared from the cubicle, examining the Captain, knowing that Hardy was right. He was not the man he should be. He had become someone else. Cassidy now knew for sure because he realized he too had been someone else. Or he wouldn’t have forgotten the man whose signature was on every page prior to December 3rd: “L. F. Byrnes.”

He stepped back into the control room. He was right behind Nadel when the sonar operator’s head shot up and his voice rang out:

“Picking up sound, Skipper.”

Cassidy’s mouth opened.

All eyes swung around as Nadel fine-tuned his equipment.

“Screws?” asked the Captain.

“No, sir. Can’t quite make it out—”
 

“Put it on the speaker.”

He flicked a switch, and a distant buzzing clicked in, grew louder, filled the control room. The Captain acted instinctively:

“All ahead emergency! Take her deep! Right full rudder!”

The deck tilted beneath them. The
Candlefish
shoved downward. And Cassidy’s arms sprang out He clutched the instrument panels and shouted, “MADs!”

The Captain whirled and stared at him.

Four and a half points. Cassidy held on tight and waited for confirmation. Magnetic Airborne Detectors. The Japanese contribution to anti-submarine warfare—

“Two hundred feet, sir!”

Two distinct splashes pierced the buzzing that roared out of the speakers. Nadel whipped off his headphones, anticipating the shock. The Captain braced himself against the chart table.

Twin concussions slammed into the sub with stunning force. The air was filled with flying particles of insulation. Men who hadn’t secured a firm handhold were knocked off their feet and sent sprawling.

The Captain hit the phone switches and barked, “All compartments report damage!”

Reports of “Secure” rattled back at him from stunned voices. The surprise had been complete, but the damage was minor.

It was all over in five minutes, and in less than an hour the submarine was secure. The two off-duty sections were released, and the
Candlefish
returned to normal operations.

Cassidy left the control room quietly, unnoticed. No one detected the new look of determination that had crept into his features. And no one suspected why he stopped in the forward engine room to pick up his toolbox.

Four and a half points, he was thinking. Shit, round it off to five and let’s call it a day.

The jaws of the clippers closed around the line and bit down, slicing through the fabric at the joint leading from Normal Lubricating Oil Tank number three. Cassidy shifted his weight, trying for more leverage in the crawl space. He grunted and squeezed harder. The cutting head sheared through the last of the canvas and chewed into the hard rubber line.

With a final heave, he succeeded. The line parted. Oil spurted up, coating the bulkhead. He dropped the clippers and gazed happily at the flow.

Then the two halves of the severed line very slowly crept back together and sealed themselves up again.

His elation turned to horror as the oil sputtered, then stopped. Dazed, Cassidy observed helplessly. The canvas outer wrapping reknitted, and the oil-spattered bulkhead cleansed itself.

Shivers shot through his body. He gaped down at his clippers.

“What the hell are you doing down there, Walinsky?”

Cassidy swiveled and looked up. He bit his lip and swore under his breath. What the hell was the Captain calling the Exec...? Bates!

“Nothing, Mr. Bates. Just thought I’d better check those NLO lines.”

“How are they?”

Cassidy dropped the clippers into his toolbox and secured the snaps. “Holding fine, sir.”

“You have the watch, don’t you?”

“Yessir.”

“You finished down there?”

Cassidy nodded. “Yessir.”

“Then let’s get with it.”

The mess steward placed the tray on the deck beside Hardy’s bunk and rapped twice on the bulkhead. Hardy waited till he left, then slid open the curtain with his manacled hands. He gave the food a disinterested glance, then began to pick at the spaghetti. The cuffs made it difficult, but since they hadn’t given him a knife or a fork—potential weapons, he supposed—he had only the spoon to contend with. He took a few halfhearted bites and chewed thoughtfully. The coffee was good. Warmth flowed through, giving him a false sense of well-being. One look at his handcuffs, and that sensation evaporated.

He drained the mug, set it back on the tray, and began chopping the spaghetti into bites with the spoon.

Cassidy waited until the mess steward returned to the galley, then made his way forward, pausing to nod at the guard outside the CPO cabin. He slipped into the wardroom, helped himself to coffee, then plunked down at the farthest corner of the table. The seat gave him a view of the corridor while keeping him out of sight. He sipped his coffee and waited.

Hardy stared at the crumpled note resting in his spaghetti sauce. He fished it out with the spoon, wiped the grease off the edges, and carefully unfolded it. His eyes picked up the writing in the unstained center of the napkin.

NO SLUG TEST IN LOG DEC 10 1944—MUST SEE YOU—CREATE DIVERSION—CASSIDY.

Hardy studied the note, comprehension slowly dawning. The slug test—of course. The fact that he had been able to pull it off in the first place meant that
Candlefish was vulnerable.

If he could catch the boat unawares once, why not a second time?

Suddenly he felt better, alive once again. He rolled the napkin into a ball and shoved it under his mattress, gauging the possibilities. It was overwhelming—maybe they had a chance after all.

Cassidy tensed and crouched down. He glanced over at the CPO cabin. The guard was turned away—

Come on, come on. What was Hardy waiting for?

The commotion started almost as if by signal. Hardy began bellowing to be released.

“Come on, will ya? I have to get to the can!”

The guard rushed in and saw his pained expression.

“You don’t have to bust down the bulkheads, sir—”

“You want to see something bust, stick around another minute. Come on!” He held up his chains. “Let me out of these.”

“Can’t,” said the guard.

Cassidy slipped in behind him.

“What do you mean you can’t?” Hardy snapped.

“Have to get the key from Bates.”

“Well, get a move on—my back teeth are starting to float!”

Cassidy spoke softly, right in the guard’s ear. “I’ll watch him, son.”

The guard turned uncertainly, then nodded and took off.

Hardy dropped his chains and looked up at Cassidy, searching his eyes.

“That slug test broke the pattern, Hopalong.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Didn’t happen on December tenth. I caught her off guard.”

Cassidy shook his head. “Not for long. The damage repaired itself.” Hardy blinked, not quite comprehending. “Repaired
itself,”
Cassidy repeated. “And that’s not all. I tried to cut the lines from the NLO tank. Sealed itself right back up in front of me. It was a nice try, but it’s the wrong approach.”

Hardy sagged.

“You were right about one thing. The Captain. Since December third, he’s been signing the log ‘Billy G. Basquine.’“

Hardy struggled to a sitting position. “That’s the day Byrnes was killed.”

Cassidy nodded. “What about that? You didn’t lose your Captain in ‘44. How come it happened now?”

Hardy hesitated to sort out his thoughts. Then it came to him, a disgusting realization of just how hopeless their situation was. “I know why—I don’t exactly know how. Byrnes was the weak link. He was ready to turn us around and head back to Pearl. The sub didn’t want that. Besides...” He paused, uncertain of what he was about to say. “We set out with an eighty-five-man crew, one more than we had in 1944. The boat killed two birds with one stone. Bumped off Byrnes and let Frank take over. It must have sensed that Frank would be easier to control.”

“It might control Frank,” Cassidy contended, “but Basquine?”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re not dealing with Ed Frank anymore—it’s Basquine. How could anything control
him?
I told you I knew him back at Mare Island. I thought he was crazy then, but
now?”

Hardy struggled with it. Who or what was running things? The sub? Ed Frank? The ghosts of Basquine and Bates and the rest of the—

“My God!” Suddenly he knew it. “It’s all of them! It’s everything in tandem. The
Candlefish
is operating as it was meant to operate—
as a weapon!”

Cassidy was blank.

“Christ, he said it himself.
Crew and machine—we
make up the weapon! This boat couldn’t pull all that stuff on its own. It needs Basquine, and Basquine needs the boat! Deprive him of that—”

He stopped and scanned Cassidy’s face for a response. “You’ve got to bust me out of here. We can still stop him, but I can’t do a damned thing as long as I’m chained to this—”

The voice over the speaker interrupted him.

“This is the Captain speaking...”

They stiffened and waited. The hum of the air conditioners took on an ominous tone.

The Captain stood at the head of the torpedo skids, one hand on a green-and-yellow monster, the other clutching the battle phone. He was ringed by tired crewmen.

“Well, they’ve had a go at us again. Magnetic Airborne Detectors. Radio tells me they’ve reported us sunk once more...” He smiled, and the men around him smiled too. “So I think we should take advantage, don’t you?”

There was no reply, but he could feel spirits rising.

“The pickings have been pretty slim for us these last few days. I intend to change that. We’re not going to wait for them any longer, gentlemen. We’re going to hit them right where they live—in their own ball park. We’re coming off station this evening and setting course for Tokyo Bay.”

He paused and nodded affirmation around the compartment. A cheer went up—then another.

“Where we’ll shoot the shit out of anything flying the rising sun.”

Hardy was stunned. “Oh, goddammit,” he muttered.

Cassidy was smiling. He threw a palm up in Hardy’s face. “Hey—we’re off the hook! He’s not going to Latitude Thirty. We’re okay!”

“The hell we are. Can’t you see what’s going to happen?”

“Nothing—we’re home free. He’s going to bust right out of this pattern.”

“You bet. Right out of 1944 and straight into 1974.”

“I still don’t—”

Hardy growled into his face. “This sub never
got
to Tokyo Bay. It was
thwarted.
At 2130 tonight, the recreation of that last patrol is over. There’s nothing left to
re-create!
It’s all new!” He paused, then added quietly, “Can you imagine the
Candlefish
on the prowl in Tokyo Bay—in 1974?”

Cassidy went white.

“A fully armed submarine on the loose in a crowded, unsuspecting harbor? It would be a disaster!”

“Okay...” Cassidy paced to the door, checking for the guard, then came back. “How come
he
can break the pattern and we can’t?”

“We were interfering with
them.”

“So what do we do?” Cassidy asked helplessly.

“Now we’ve got to switch tactics. We have to force the boat
into
Latitude Thirty.”

“Into
it?” Cassidy returned his gaze painfully, “And sink?”

“That, or take the chance of killing an awful lot of innocent people.”

“Awful lot of innocent people aboard this boat, too.”

“I can’t help that!” Hardy snarled between clenched teeth.

“How are we going to do it? Just tell him please forget about Tokyo Bay and stay on this course, please sir pretty please?”

“Just get me out of here.”

“Any trouble, Chief?”

Cassidy swung around. The guard came in, dangling a key ring.
 

“No. Just humoring him.” He glanced sideways at Hardy, a look of bitterness. “Better keep those keys handy. The way he’s been raving, he’s gonna piss himself blue. In my opinion”—he gazed directly at Hardy, and Hardy thought he meant it—”he’s a certified section eight. A maniac.”

The guard unchained Hardy but kept the cuffs on.

Hardy glanced back at Cassidy as he was led from the cabin, his stomach contracting into a tight knot. Had he been suckered by the Chief? Strung along so that a report could be made to the Captain?