Ghostboat (28 page)

Of course!

The escort. There was no mention of the escort He thumbed back to November 21st and checked it through day by day, incredulity growing by the second. He swallowed hard. There was no mention of an escort destroyer anywhere in these pages. In these new, fresh pages.

December 2nd. Early in the morning before submerging time.
“Lt. Hardy reported hearing planes off to the north. Lookouts unable to confirm. No visual, due to heavy concentration of fog.”

It was an accurate record of the 1944 patrol. Up to date. It wasn’t their patrol at all—not today’s—not 1974’s. It was the Captain’s version of exactly how it really was back then. He turned the page—and stopped.

December 2nd was the last entry. Frank stared at the next blank page and felt nausea threatening him. It was up to date, all right. Exactly up to date and no more. Up to the minute was more like it. Basquine’s writing accurately described the sonar tracking of an unidentified target, presumed to be a Japanese submarine, the careful cat-and-mouse game, the setting up of the shot from two hundred feet below the surface, firing—the direct hit! Surfacing in a sea of debris and oil, the inability to determine precisely what they had hit, but the satisfaction that whatever had been sneaking around up there had deserved it. And Frank sensed meaning between the lines: Basquine’s personal contentment over the kill. He knew why, too. It was the first kill of the patrol. The first in months. It must have overjoyed him. Quite a contrast to Louis F. Byrnes and his nervous panic.

That was the end of the log for the moment. He stared at the rest of the blank page and wondered when it would be filled in, and who was doing it. He began to suspect Hardy. His thumb brushed the ink on the entry under December 2nd as he was closing the book, and some of it came off on his skin. He stared at his blue thumb, and this time felt a quiver of terror course through his body. He flung the page open again and rubbed his fingers over it.

He couldn’t believe it. The ink smeared. It was fresh, as fresh as if it had just been set down. Impossible. The book had been in his locker all day, buried under his underwear and shirt and Hardy’s handwritten log. No one even knew it was there. And he had been lying on his bunk all day. The curtain had been closed, but he could swear no one had been in or out of the stateroom—except perhaps Stigwood...

And Stigwood was buried under the covers right now, in the bunk above Frank’s, fast asleep. Frank had heard him come in, open his locker, hang up his clothes, slam the locker, then swing up to the bunk. It wasn’t Stigwood. It couldn’t have been. Besides, he didn’t have the brains...

Frank pulled Hardy’s log out and took two quick steps to his bunk. He spread both logs out on the covers and opened them to November 21. Then he went through, page by page, comparing details and wording, and handwriting... Nothing was the same. Hardy’s words were the words of a scholar, remembering things as they came back to him, and setting them down as neatly as he could. Basquine wrote in captain’s lingo, short and to the point, almost cryptic. And the handwriting was so different—Hardy’s precise penmanship against Basquine’s ugly scrawl. And Hardy had written in pencil. Of course, that meant nothing. Somewhere he might have gotten hold of Basquine’s fountain pen. But when could he have done the writing? And why? It didn’t make sense.

Frank had another stroke of curiosity. He flung the pages back to the days prior to November 21st, to Basquine’s record of events in port. It was the same handwriting—definitely Basquine’s. Whoever was imitating him—presuming someone was—had his handwriting and his word style down pat.

Frank leaned back and stared at the two open logs. What about the other logs—the ones they were keeping on this cruise? The quartermaster’s log was okay; he and Hardy had been checking it daily. But Byrnes’s day-to-day log—he wondered what he would find in that. Again he became conscious of the sweat under his arms. He felt a need to visit the head. He closed both logs and wondered what to do. Who should he tell? Hardy? He didn’t feel like confiding in the old man any more. The only one to tell was Byrnes. And Byrnes would act to protect the sub. He felt little knives stabbing at him, twisting and turning, pulling his guts out. He was not in control any more, and he resented it, feared it, and generally could not cope with it. Who
was
in control?

Whoever had written those entries in the log, obviously.

There was only one solution, and Frank knew it even as he got up and stashed both logs carefully in the bottom of his locker, under his shorts, his socks, his Devil’s Triangle maps and charts and reports, his dirty shirt... He pulled down the padlock he hadn’t found necessary before and opened it. He closed the locker and snapped the lock shut, then put both keys on his key ring and snapped that to a belt loop. From now on he would jingle when he walked, but he would feel better.

That should put an end to the mysterious self-writing log. He smiled. He felt the pain in his groin again, and knew he had only seconds to reach the toilet. He snatched up the Xerox copy of Hardy’s log that he had been reading all day, and took it to the head with him. As he stood poised over the urinal, he read ahead. December 3rd. It looked to be quite an eventful day, if everything went according to the account. Also looked to be dangerous. Something unexpected, if they weren’t prepared for it. He decided from this point on to keep his mouth shut and let events take their course. They probably would anyway. So why interfere? The only way to stay on top of this thing was to ride it out and see where it would take him. He stared at the green bulkhead and made a silent announcement to it, a smile playing across his lips: “Bring it on, sport. All of it I’m with you.”

CHAPTER 15

December 2, 1974
 

2200 hours.

The gray-black hull of the
Candlefish
plunged through the sea, the whine of her diesels shattering the stillness of the Pacific night. An occasional wave, larger than the rest, rolled over her bow and raced the length of her forward deck, splashing against the base of the conning tower, only to fall back and pour through the strakes, then cascade down the flanks of her hull, back into the ocean. The submarine glistened with a just-washed sheen. Clusters of foam, trapped in the ridges of her soaked planking, reflected the weak light of a waning moon.

Ed Frank huddled deeper in his jacket, trying to ward off the damp, numbing chill that only oceans can bring. His sinuses were acting up. He slipped a hand out of his pocket and gently explored his face. The pain was a dull, throbbing ache under his cheekbones. He blew into a cupped palm and was grateful for the momentary warmth. He thought about finding Dankworth when he came off watch; the pharmacist’s mate would have some pills. He looked up. The wind, which had made everyone on the bridge uncomfortable, was finally dying down.

The scrape of shoe leather on metal, from one of the lookouts up on the periscope shearwater, reminded him of the five other men who were suffering with him. He glanced at Byrnes out of the corner of his eye. The Captain, aware of his movement, lowered his binoculars and turned to the men perched above him.

“Anything on the escort?”

Three mumbled “No, sirs” answered his question. For the umpteenth time since they had come to the surface, he depressed the intercom switch and listened as Scopes reported, “Still no contact, sir.”

His face a blank mask, Byrnes released the switch, but the metallic click had the sound of finality about it.

On the starboard side of the bridge, Hardy’s elbows were hooked over the top of the coaming, giving his binoculars a rock-solid support. He had held that position for quite a while, staring off to the northwest, and now his muscles were crying out for relief. Grudgingly he dropped his arms, stretched, and rolled his head, shaking the cramped feeling out of his upper body. His bad leg throbbed with pain.

His eyes met Frank’s, and he shivered. “Cold,” he said.

Frank nodded. “And then some.”

“I think we can change that.” Byrnes smiled thinly at both of them. “We’re going to head for warmer waters, Mr. Frank.” He was still smiling as he continued, “The party’s over. I have decided to terminate—as of right now. We’re going back to Pearl.”

Frank knew he had to stall Byrnes until the attack. Just one look at those planes blitzing in on their first pass would be enough to convince even Byrnes that a turnaround at this point was sheer folly.

“Mr. Frank, did you hear me? Do you have an opinion?”

As if he cared, thought Frank, but he ventured it anyway. “It’s only a matter of time until we catch up with the
Frankland,
sir, or vice versa.” He was fighting for time.

“Oh, really?” Byrnes was way ahead of Frank. “Well, we’ll see if we can find them—on our way back to Pearl. Do I make myself clear?”

Frank looked to Hardy for some support, but the Professor was once again draped over the starboard coaming, scanning the northwest skies and oblivious to the tension building behind him.

“Bridge, this is radar. Aircraft contact, bearing zero-three-five relative. Thirteen thousand yards and closing fast.”

The voice, coming through the bridge speaker, was flat and emotionless. Byrnes, along with everyone else, swung his glasses up, then hesitated. Angrily he jabbed at the intercom. “Did you say aircraft, Scopes?”

“Confirming, sir,” the radar man called back. “Two of ‘em. Still closing. Range now twelve thousand yards.”

Frank felt his adrenalin pumping as his eyes tried to pierce the night sky. He sensed Hardy’s excitement too. Then he noticed that they were looking in the same general area Hardy had been watching all along.

“You’ll see only one come in on the first run.” Frank barely heard the Professor’s mumbled statement.

“What was that?”

Hardy straightened out of his crouched position and brushed past Frank. “We’d better get under, Captain.”

Byrnes ignored him for a moment, his eyes glued to his binoculars, trying to find whatever Scopes had picked up. Slowly he lowered his glasses and looked at Hardy. “Do what?” he said.

“I said, I think we better dive. And fast!”

Byrnes opened his mouth to deliver a scorching reply, then stopped. He cocked his head, listening. Over the whine of the diesels they heard the faint droning of motors.

“Seven thousand yards and still closing.” At least Scopes knew where they were.

Six pairs of binoculars searched the night sky, trying to pick up the planes. The droning sound had changed pitch, becoming more of a snarl as the unseen aircraft bore down on them.

“They sure don’t sound like jets...” It was one of the lookouts voicing an opinion.

Frank’s glasses picked up the moving blue-white flicker that could be the exhaust flame of a piston-driven aircraft. He tracked it curving in toward them, lining up on the bow of the submarine. The powerful beat of the straining engine seemed to be directly overhead.

The flare lit up the submarine with the brightness of a noonday sun. Everyone was blinded by the dazzling glare. Shielding his eyes, Frank recovered first. He looked up, careful not to stare at the slowly settling, swinging light.

“What the hell—” Starkly outlined in the unnatural illumination, Byrnes was braced against the TBT.

“This time you’ll
have
to believe me!” Hardy snarled, his beard glinting silvery-white.

Frank gave up trying to locate the high plane, the one that had dropped the flare. The other one was racing toward them, low to the water and head-on. The main pontoon and the two smaller ones, one on the tip of each wing, were clearly visible. As he watched, the leading edge of both wings twinkled. Geyser spouts erupted in the water just forward of the sub’s bow.

“Down!” Hardy roared, tackling Byrnes away from the TBT and flinging him to the deck.

In the brief second before Frank ducked, he saw the line of geysers walk up to the bow. A terrific weight slammed into him, and he found himself being pressed against the deck plates in a tangle of arms and legs. The lookouts had leaped from their perches. One of them was all over Frank, swearing a blue streak. Over the yammering stutter of the guns Frank heard a series of metallic clunks, like hail pelting a roof. Chipped paint flew as a row of jagged holes blossomed on the after part of the bridge. Frank forced himself to his knees and got a glimpse as the plane flashed by. It was brownish-green with a bright red circle on the fuselage.

“Japs! They’re Japs!” he hollered. His eyes were riveted on the plane as it slewed around for another pass.

“Watch out for the other one!” Hardy struggled to his feet and desperately searched the sky. The twin blasts of the diving alarm were almost lost in the pounding scream as the second plane started its attack.

“Clear the bridge! Dive! Dive!” Byrnes, his face contorted with pain, tried to stand. His right leg wouldn’t support him. His trouser leg was turning red, the stain moving downward to pool around his shoe.

Frank lunged for the Captain, pushing Hardy back toward the hatch. The lookouts were already clear of the bridge. As the sound of the diesels stopped, Frank waved Hardy below and grabbed Byrnes under the arms, attempting to drag him. It was going to be close; the plane was boring in, growing larger by the second. When he sensed Hardy had cleared the hatch, he jerked the wounded. Skipper upright. The boat shuddered—he knew what that was. Below they were opening the vents, taking in the water that would get them away from the death rocketing in for the kill.