Ghostboat (10 page)

“After thirty years? I’d say she’s had time to cool off.”

Frank smiled tolerantly. “Maybe you haven’t heard, but the
Candlefish
is still in running condition.”

Hardy stopped smiling. He went cold. “That wasn’t on the news.”

“There’s a certain amount of internal damage, causes unknown. We suspect it has to do with—well, with what you put in your original reports. Anyway, she’s seaworthy.”

Hardy was very quiet, eyes boring into Frank. “I don’t see how.”

“She surfaced about six hundred miles northwest of Pearl Harbor. We’ve had her towed back to the sub base and we’ve opened her up and checked her out There is no sign whatever of the crew.” He watched Hardy’s features tighten. “No bodies, no bones, no trace.”

Hardy slid back in his chair very slowly, eyeing Frank. His face was a mask.

“I thought maybe you might come out to Pearl and have a look at her.”

It must have been a full thirty seconds before Hardy said, “No.” And Frank made him repeat it.

“The Navy will certainly pay your way—”

Hardy waved it off. “That’s old business, Commander.
Old
business.”

“It’s new to me,” Frank said stiffly. And then he smiled again, still trying to find the warm side of this man. “I’ve been going through your reports to SubPac and the Board of Inquiry. Your ideas on what might have happened? I find them intriguing.”

“Nobody believed me then—why should they believe me now?”

“I see,” said Frank, and got up to pace around. He felt his patience going. “I guess we’ll just have to park the
Candlefish
in a used-submarine lot somewhere and hope we can find a buyer who wants to turn her into a floating museum. Or maybe we can put her back into service—a refit, a bit of conversion here and there—brand new!”

Frank spun around quickly and growled at Hardy, “I’ll tell you, Professor, that thing has been in my hair nine days now, and everywhere I go I find people who range from uncooperative to downright ignorant! My own superiors would just as soon sweep the whole boat under a rug and pretend it never even existed. It’s a thorn in everyone’s hide, and nobody wants to take the responsibility for doing any more than
removing it!
Well, I want more! I want to find out
how
that bloody boat came back! And I need help!”

Hardy shifted uncomfortably. “What do you want with me?”

“I want you to come out to Pearl.”

Hardy shook his head,
No.
Frank closed in on him. “As a scientist! You’re a survivor and an oceanographer. You know the boat and you know the sea!”

“No.”

Frank scowled and realized he must appear comical to the old man—all loud and eager foolishness. “Professor, in 1965 you were writing letters to the Navy outlining your plan for investigating Latitude Thirty.” Frank saw Hardy’s body stiffen. ‘That spot off the coast of Japan is renowned for the disappearance of ships and planes, for crews turning up dead or vanishing without a trace...”

Hardy’s arms folded across his chest; he looked as if he were preparing to retreat into himself.

Frank pressed on. “It’s an area uncomfortably similar to that goddamned Devil’s Triangle off the coast of Florida. Only this one is in the Pacific!”

Hardy tried to remain unconcerned. “So?”

Frank’s next announcement was delivered with quiet but deadly conviction. “Professor, the
Candlefish
is the first one of those things that has
ever come back!”

An unmistakable swell of fear crossed Hardy’s face, and Frank didn’t know whether he had secured him or lost him. It was to be several days before he would know few sure.

CHAPTER 7

October 15, 1974

Joanne came home from work early and found Frank changing uniforms in a stumbling hurry. She let out a shriek of joy and leaped all over him. He laughed and hugged her tightly.

“I missed you. I missed you!” she purred in his hair.

“Did you miss me?”

“No—” She pulled away with a smile and fixed his tie.

“What sort of trouble have you been getting into?” He played with the buttons on her blouse.

“Oh, I shacked up with two sailors from the Mexican Navy. We survived eight days on beans and tacos.”

“Sure. And what are you doing home at two thirty in the afternoon?”

She padded away in calculated nonchalance. “There was a fire in my wastebasket.”

Frank blinked in surprise. He followed her into the bathroom and watched her run cold water over her face. She made a ceremony of the ablutions, until finally she glanced up at him out of the corner of her eye and said, “Yes, I started it, but don’t ask.”

He burst out laughing and grabbed her around the waist. Her face was dripping wet when he pulled her around for a kiss. He never saw her hand come up over his head, but the rush of water down his neck made him leap a foot in the air. She jumped back, the washcloth still clutched tightly in her hand.

“Son of a bitch,” he growled, and ripped off the clean shirt.

After a moment, she came up to him in a warm slink.

“Isn’t it lucky I came home early?”

Two hours later, Frank was convinced that Lady Luck certainly had played a big part in his afternoon. In fact, she’d made his day. He drove over to the Pentagon at six o’clock and met Admiral Diminsky in the coffee lounge. It was hot, and the admiral was wearing short-sleeved suntans. He was busy dictating to his secretary, and would hardly even look at Frank while they waited for John Allen Smith, the civilian chief of the NIS, to appear.

Smitty came in at six thirty and crossed over to them with a big smile. The rest of him was even bigger. Smitty was a huge, forty-seven-year-old Mormon; he neither drank nor smoked, and didn’t approve when others indulged. So Frank, who had brought his pipe kit from the apartment, had to refrain from smoking through the entire meeting. It was a trial.

“Ed, how are you?” Smitty’s voice boomed across the lounge. He shook Frank’s hand and sat down. He ordered a club sandwich and a pitcher of iced tea. “Down to business. The admiral has filled me in on your efforts to date, and he has acquainted me with certain details of your plan. Namely, the expected cost.”

The old knife-in-the-back routine, thought Frank. No wonder Diminsky wouldn’t look him square in the eye.

“Sir, I am as aware of cost as the admiral is. But I am convinced that an opportunity like this cannot be allowed to—”

“I am not convinced,” said Smitty flatly. “I don’t see what you are out to prove.”

“I’ll lay it out as simply as I can, sir. We all know the popular myth, the incidents that are supposed to have occurred in the so-called Devil’s Triangle. We are aware that somewhat related incidents have occurred in latitude thirty degrees off the coast of Japan as well. If we can prove to some degree of satisfaction that Latitude Thirty is actually another Devil’s Triangle, we will go a long way toward scientific acceptance of what has been up until now a purely conjectural phenomenon.”

“In English, please, Commander,” mumbled Smitty.

“Yes, sir. The point is that scientists do not take this business seriously. And if they are .ever going to, we have to provide them with evidence that they can use as a basis for further investigation. We have to prove that the
Candlefish
was a victim of forces unknown, that her sinking was not of natural cause, but clearly
unnatural.
The fact that she is here is almost enough to prove it—but not quite. There may be a scientific explanation for how she was preserved so well over a thirty-year period. And if we dumped her into the hands of scientists tomorrow morning, I’m sure they would come up with one. But it’s not the preservation we’re concerned with. It’s what got her in the first place—what got the crew—and how she came back.”

Diminsky sipped a Coke. “What evidence do you expect to turn up?”

Frank leaned forward and thought very carefully before he spoke, not wanting to commit himself too much, but wanting to tantalize as much as possible. “I feel that in this instance, as in many others taking place in the Devil’s Triangle, we are dealing with
time
more than with any other physical factors.”

“Go on,” said Smitty, attacking his sandwich and washing it down with giant swallows of iced tea.

“Time slip, time warp, time barrier. I don’t know what. It sounds like third-rate science fiction, I know, but I’m convinced these things must be taken into consideration.”

“Just a second.” Smitty dabbed his lips.

Diminsky sipped more Coke and let a little contemptuous smile creep over his face. He was happily watching Frank make an ass of himself.

“Commander, are you going to try to prove that the
Candlefish
was snatched out of 1944 and
dumped
into 1974?”

“Sir, I don’t know. Basically I am only interested in opening up areas of investigation for other, more qualified people. You have to remember, our Navy and Air Force and those of a lot of other countries have lost several hundred planes and vessels in this area. That’s costly. And if we have a line on how to stop it, we goddamned well better follow it.”

“How?” Smitty eyed Frank intently.

“If we can retrace that last patrol of the
Candlefish
and come to some conclusions about what happened to her, based purely on eyeball observations, we will be able to go before the Senate Appropriations Committee and solicit funds for a much more thorough research job, perhaps for the creation of a specific project under Naval auspices.”

“Christ Almighty, Ed”—Smitty rolled back in his chair—”the Navy can barely scrape enough money together to build up its own fleet! What makes you think they’ll spring for something like this?”

“Smitty, far wilder ventures have been attempted.”

Diminsky took offense. “What do you mean, wilder?”

“October, 1943. The Philadelphia Navy Yard. The secret application of a force field to a Navy warship which promptly disappeared from its dock and reappeared a few moments later at another dock in Norfolk.” He gazed sharply at Diminsky. “Remember that one?”

Diminsky squirmed. “If it happened.”

Smitty cut in, “That was wartime. A specific project with a specific application.”

“So is this. Let’s
save
the Navy some money. Avoid more incidents.”

“And what about the crew? The men who were aboard the
Candlefish
in 1944. They seem to have missed the return trip. Somewhere in those thirty years they got lost.”

“Yes, they did. We want to find out why. Did they get off the boat? Did they die? Did they disintegrate?”

“What?”

“Sir, these are just possibilities. All I’m requesting is the authorization to begin at the beginning, to follow that boat’s last course, to recreate as closely as possible the events that led to her disappearance.”

Diminsky volunteered information. “Mr. Frank has found a survivor of that last patrol, Smitty. Fellow happens to be an oceanographer. I would suggest his views might settle the matter.”

Frank cut in sharply. “I’ve seen him. I doubt whether we will ever
get
his views. He’s had the
Candlefish
up to here.” He tapped his neck. “Besides, his testimony was taken after the war. Nothing he said was conclusive. At best he could only offer opinions.”

“Those opinions are more valid than your conjecture,” snapped Diminsky.

“Look, the man is a scientist. Somewhere along the way, his natural curiosity will get the better of him. I can have him when I need him.”

“Boys,” interrupted Smitty, “we’re getting in over our heads anyway, so let’s keep it simple. This is all over the newspapers now. The Navy’s got people breathing down its neck: Gold-Star Mothers of World War Two, American Legion, Veterans of Foreign Wars—they all want to know what happened to their relatives who served on that boat in 1944. We’re going to be
obliged
to give an answer.”

Diminsky looked pointedly at Frank. “We wouldn’t be if somebody hadn’t taken a
leak.”

“Over a hundred men saw that sub towed into Pearl, Admiral,” purred Frank. “There was no leak necessary.”

“Stick to the essentials,” said Smitty. “The submarine people are not too pleased. They would like to avoid any unnecessary attention. They want us to wrap this up quietly.”

“That’s what
we
want, too.” Diminsky nodded vigorously.

“I just hope the admiral is exercising the royal we,” said Frank.

He watched Smitty for a reaction, but the big Mormon got very busy pouring iced tea.

“Listen, Commander Frank,” Diminsky blustered, “we are not running an investigative service for the pet projects of our own agents. We are in business to take orders, and if you cannot control your impulses, I may be tempted to give you one!”

Smitty smiled tolerantly at both Navy men. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to know that I am not among those shackled by the Chain of Command. I have a free hand with this job, and that’s the way I like it However, I am bound by certain responsibilities—one of them a cardinal rule: Do not piss away the Navy’s money.”