Thin Air (37 page)

Smitty slid his gaze down to some papers on his desk. "If you can prove any of this with rock-hard, indisputable connections—believe me, it won't stay in private hands. But we cannot ignore the importance of that weapons system."

Hammond swore aloud. "That's what they're counting on! That nobody will make a move against them because the U.S. Navy has its greedy little eye on one tree while there's a forest growing under its feet!"

Smitty said nothing. Hammond walked over to Gault and said, "How about it, Admiral?"

Gault studied the floor. "Do your best, Nick."

He left the meeting feeling that he had been supported, but with empty words. He suspected, in fact, that if he failed or even got himself killed, the whole matter would be swept under the rug because it would be "what's best for the Navy." By making counter-threats to Corso, all Smitty had done was buy Hammond some time. Corso would go running back to his boss and make noises about his own credibility being at stake and couldn't they lay off Hammond for a few days...?

But that's about all that threat was worth, Hammond was on his own. So he and Yablonski had better move now. As Yablonski had said, today was the day.

Hammond stormed into his office and found Yablonski nodding; half-asleep.

"How'd it go?"

"I've just been promoted...to resident football."

"Congratulations."

Hammond paced behind his desk, plotting revenge against Corso, Coogan, Traben, Bloch—all of them. He stopped when he realized they were probably doing the same for him—and there were more of them.

He pulled off his uniform jacket and threw it over the chair. Yablonski watched silently as he unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. He shrugged into the shoulder holster, rolled his arms several times to make sure the straps weren't binding, then unzipped the leather case that held his personal weapon: a Browning 9mm pistol. It was non-regulation, and so were the hollow-point rounds that nestled in the clip—thirteen of them. Hammond shoved the clip into the butt, pulled back on the receiver, and jacked a round into the chamber. He flipped on the thumb safety and slid the pistol into his holster.

As he patted down his jacket, Yablonski got up sternly. "It's our turn, isn't it?" he said.

Hammond nodded.

The Washington Navy Yard was on the southern tip of Capitol Hill, facing the Anacostia River. In the southeast corner of the yard, just back of the riverfront, was the Naval Historical Display Center. Hammond and Yablonski met Lieutenant Gordon McWilliams in the lobby at 1330. Hammond estimated him at six-foot-six and still growing.

McWilliams escorted them to Classified Operational Archives in Building 210 and led them into his office.

McWilliams' desk was flanked by heavily sagging bookshelves. "We inherited most of this stuff when they broke up the old reference group in BUSHIPS," he explained. "Guess we were doing the same work. You know how it is with rampant bureaucracy. What can I do for you fellows?"

"Lieutenant," said Hammond, "we're trying to establish the disposition of certain special equipment that was once aboard a destroyer-escort, back in the 1950s."

"Which one?"

"DE-166, the
Sturman."

McWilliams threw a long arm over the back of his chair and pulled down a copy of the Naval Vessel Register from about three shelves up.

"We've already checked the NVR. She was struck in late 1957."

"That's okay, sir. Just like to look for myself." He flipped pages and stopped on one, ran his finger down a list and then across. Then he nodded. "December to be exact."

"The people at NAVSEACOM were of the opinion she might have been sunk for target practice."

"Very possible. I don't know why you went to them. That information would be here."

"Can you give us the disposition of that ship from about October of 1953 to her demise?"

"Sure." McWilliams reached back again and pulled down Volume 2 of the Directory of Naval Fighting Ships. He prowled through it in silence for a few minutes while Yablonski borrowed his NVR.

"Okay," said McWilliams. "USS
Sturman,
DE-166, on Special Status until July of 1955, then reclassified AGTR, Technical Research Ship, and placed under the Admiral's Reserve Fleet at Norfolk. Stayed there until June of 1957, then placed on DAR, scheduled for disposal—out of commission—Atlantic. She was returned to Philadelphia in October of that year, stayed there until she was sunk as a target on December 8." He looked up.

Hammond glanced at Yablonski, who was deep in thought, then paced the office and stared at the volumes of Naval records around him.

"She was at Norfolk from 1955 to 1957?" he asked.

McWilliams nodded.

"Any way to determine what she was doing in the Admiral's Reserve Fleet?"

McWilliams thought for a moment, then wheeled around in his chair and scanned his books. He got up and stretched to reach the top shelf and a thick ledger filled with yellowed papers. "These are the Fleet Transfer Records of the Commander, Naval Base, Norfolk, from 1950 through 1960. All the records on "East Coast bases are kept in this office."

It took some twenty minutes of skimming through memos and reports of 1955 before he landed on the right one. It was a memo signed by Rear Admiral Costigan, the base C.O. at Norfolk. As of September, 1955, the
Sturman
was placed on loan as a research vessel...to RTI.

He found return papers dated February, 1957.

Hammond and Yablonski exchanged looks. For almost a year and a half, DE-166 was in F.P. Bloch's hands—more than enough time for them to have removed all the special equipment.

Hammond pored through the memos relating to that transfer and found not one mention of any equipment disposition. To Admiral Costigan, it had apparently been just another DE taken out of commission. Hammond saw the pattern: Traben must have connived to have the ship moved to Norfolk immediately upon shutting down Project Thin Air. A new home, new yard workers, a new base C.O. unaware of her history...

McWilliams produced the final memo signed by the same Admiral Costigan releasing DE-166 to be towed out to the Atlantic and used for target practice in late 1957.

Hammond sat back and clasped his hands behind his head. "That's that," he said to Yablonski. "Twenty years ago. We'll never be able to track down that stuff now."

Yablonski didn't hide his unhappiness, Then Hammond caught a puzzled expression on McWilliams' face.

"What's wrong, Lieutenant?"

McWilliams was comparing entries in the Fighting Ships Directory. He skimmed the list of DEs struck or sunk and then checked it against the list of surviving ships. "That's really weird," he said.

"What is?"

He put the book in front of Hammond and Yablonski and pointed. "Here's an escort of the same class still carried by MARAD, the mothball fleet DE-161, the
Cooper."

"So?"

"That's impossible. My father was gunnery officer aboard the cruiser that sank her for target practice."

Hammond snorted. "Another error committed by the U.S. Navy."

"You miss the point," said McWilliams. "That was around 1957."

Hammond looked up. Yablonski straightened in his chair. "Are you sure?" Hammond asked "You were a little kid."

"I remember the name! My dad made up a poem for my little brother:
The Cooper was a
trooper, we fired till we tired, it took us half a day till we sank her like an anchor!"

"Where does it say she is now?" asked Yablonski.

"Philadelphia."

Hammond stared at the list, his excitement growing. Someone could have been playing musical ships. Maybe it was nothing more than a paper foul-up—and maybe the
Sturman
was still in existence, although disguised.
It was worth finding out. Fleetingly, he wondered if Joe Coogan had ever worked for Operational Archives. He stood up.
 

"Let's go have a look at her," he said?

21

McWilliams gave Hammond the registry for the Fourth Naval District. Hammond quickly found what he was looking for: Naval Inactive Ship Maintenance Facility, Philadelphia.

He called the number. The chief on duty told him that DE-161, the
Cooper,
was indeed berthed at the Navy Yard but that he couldn't go aboard without proper authorization.

"How do you want to handle this?" Hammond sighed affably. "If I go through the Commandant, Fourth Naval District, I'll be forced to tell him you were uncooperative and knowingly interfered with an official investigation. Is that what you want?"

"Uh, no, sir," mumbled the chief, thoroughly cowed. "When would you care to look her over?"

"This afternoon will be fine."

"She's rigged with interior lights. I'll have them turned on."

"Do nothing of the sort. All I want from you is a map showing her location. Leave that at the main gate, along with two flashlights. No activity around her— Hold on just a minute."

McWilliams was dancing around like an agitated scarecrow, waving his long arms in the air.

Hammond covered the mouthpiece and stared at him. "What the hell is wrong, Lieutenant?"

"I've got a sudden urge to see Philadelphia, sir."

Hammond glanced at Yablonski. He shrugged his shoulders and looked away. "I don't think so," Hammond said and took his hand away from the phone.

"Commander!" McWilliams whooped. "Sir, if it wasn't for me, you wouldn't even know about the
Cooper.
Please."

Hammond chewed on it for a few seconds, then barked into the phone, "Chief, make that three flashlights."

The Philadelphia Navy Yard was at the south end of Broad Street From the main gate, Hammond could see red brick buildings and huge sheds stretching off into the gloom, down towards the Delaware River. The Marine guard gave him a box of flashlights and stuck out a clipboard.

"Chief Mills wants you to sign for this, sir."

Hammond scrawled his signature and walked back to the car, fishing out an envelope resting on top of the flashlights. In the car, all three men studied the map. The
Cooper
was three-quarters of the way down N Wharf, across from the Supply Center, the outboard vessel in a five-ship side-tie.

Hammond drove slowly along the wharf, his car bumping over uneven asphalt. Gray dampness hung in the air, a dank, depressing soddenness. Fog rolled off the water and crept across the tops of ships, obscuring everything higher than twenty-five feet. The old warships gave Hammond a feeling of sadness. Once filled with men and purpose, now they sat quietly at their last moorings—like tawdry ladies dressed in faded paint—sealed up to protect them from the further ravages of time.

Yablonski had the map and pointed out "That's the hospital ship. Should be some submarines behind her," then ours."

Hammond grunted and parked the car behind a shed. The three men got out. He passed around the flashlights and said, "I don't want any lights topside. Wait till we get below."

They moved away from the shed, heading for the first gangplank, shivering in the chilly darkness. It was late afternoon, but the fog made it nearly as dark as night. They stopped and stood for a moment, gazing up at the enormous hulks with their multiple decks and threatening guns, tied one next to the other, side by side, parallel to the wharf, and connected by individual gangplanks,

Hammond went up first and the others followed, tramping aboard the deck of the first ship. They crossed four destroyers in silence, passing between the base of the superstructure and the back of the forward-deck gun emplacement. River smells, mixed with the oily odor of Cosmoline, wafted over them. Their faces became dick with mist.

They stopped at the starboard gangplank of the fourth DE. Yablonski wandered forward and stood for a moment, hands on his hips, studying the features of the
Cooper.
When he rejoined Hammond and McWilliams, his face was a mask of despair.

"What's wrong?" asked Hammond.

"That's not the
Sturman."

Hammond felt his excitement drain away, replaced by heaviness. "You sure?"

Yablonski pointed. "Don't you remember? The
Sturman
had no forward gun mount. It was removed to allow us more space on the main deck." His finger was leveled at an enormous three-inch cannon. "What the hell do you call that? A popcorn machine?"

Hammond studied it. It was definitely a cannon, and definitely the one that belonged there. He glanced back at the other DEs. Same cannon in the same place—on all of them.

He got a feeling of uneasiness and asked Yablonski, "Is there anything else?"

Yablonski looked at him in disbelief. "Isn't that enough?"

Hammond was mulling. "According to McWilliams' records, RTI had the
Sturman
for about a year and a half. Plenty of time to replace that gun mount. Just a simple piece of cosmetic surgery and
voilà!
Convincing disguise."