Ghostboat (35 page)

He stopped Dorriss and made an offhand inquiry.

“Captain’s got them. Picked them all up this morning.”

“Before the attack? Why?”
 

“Says we’re on our own now. We don’t need any plans.”

Plans? Hardy couldn’t make sense out of that. They needed the log now more than ever. He paused, wondering if now was the proper time to confront Frank. He was reluctant to submit himself to more abuse. He felt shaky, and headed for the coffee galley.

Giroux fiddled with the tuning knob, winding it across the band. Static popped and crackled in his ears. Just as he was about to give up, the sweet strains of “Dancing in the Dark” filled his headset.

“We sure as hell are,” he muttered. He flipped the toggle switch that piped the music through the PA system.

Artie Shaw’s clarinet soared and dipped, and the melody circumnavigated the boat. The song ended, and once again the silken voice of Tokyo Rose purred to them:

“That last song was for all you Marines whose dancing days are over—forever.”

Hardy was leaning back against the coffee galley, and he looked up when Cookie growled, “Stuff it, lady,” at the speaker. Her voice droned on:

“My next number is dedicated to the families of the crew of USS
Candlefish—”

Men flaked out in their bunks suddenly sat up, confused.

“From the Japanese Imperial Navy—
condolences.
At fourteen hundred hours today, two of our destroyers sank your submarine. It’s just an early Christmas present. And now, Glenn Miller’s rendition of
 
‘Adios.’”

“Son of a bitch!” Hardy heard someone yell. Cookie looked at Hardy, his face clouding with anger. Neither spoke; they were too stunned.
 

Frank’s voice came from the speaker. “Congratulations, men, we’ve just been sunk. I think it’s only proper that we permit ourselves... a moment of silence.”

It lasted all of twenty seconds; then it was interrupted by the first snicker. There was a second, then a third; laughter rippled, then exploded.

Hardy turned and headed forward, shocked by the transformation.

The Captain, with the unwitting aid of a Japanese propagandist, had blown away the gloom that had settled over the crew that afternoon.

Out of eighty-four, men, he was the only one aboard who realized that the original purpose of this voyage was now lost forever. This crew was not only reacting to World War Two, they were part of it.

Hardy found Frank on the bridge.

“I didn’t get a chance to congratulate you,” he began, “That was some shooting.”

Frank regarded him out of the corner of his eye. “No thanks to you,” he mumbled.

Hardy knew he had to reason with the man.

“Ed”—Hardy used his first name, leaning over the coaming to whisper conspiratorially—”don’t you see what’s happening? Today’s action was a carbon copy of the original patrol.” Frank’s eyes shifted, centering on him, dark and unrevealing.
“You
didn’t sink those destroyers; you went through the motions, but you weren’t in control.”

“And who is?”

“It’s prearranged. You said it yourself—in the con—you couldn’t have missed today even if you tried.” He stopped, hoping against hope that he was getting through. “The only goal this boat has now is to return to Latitude Thirty. That much I’m sure of, but when it gets there—what’s going to happen?”

“You tell me.”

“If this pattern we’re on holds true, the
Candlefish
is going to sink—again!”

Hardy searched Frank’s eyes for a sign of understanding. But Frank turned away to stare over the side of the bridge at the night-dark ocean flowing past “Lieutenant, I appreciate your concern, but let me worry about Latitude Thirty.”

“There’s another thing. My log. You had every copy confiscated.”

“Captain’s prerogative.”

“But why?”

Frank’s features smoothed out “Don’t you have a watch to stand at 0400?”

“Yes.”

“You’d better pull some sack time.” He gripped Hardy’s shoulder and gave him a friendly smile. “We’ll go over this later.”

Hardy’s shoulders sagged as he moved to the hatch and left the Captain on the bridge.

Frank reached for the intercom. “Exec to the bridge.”
 

Dorriss climbed half out of the hatchwell and looked up.

Frank spoke slowly in a low voice that wouldn’t carry to the lookouts or the Officer of the Deck. “I want you to keep a close eye on Lieutenant Hardy. He’s got some cockeyed ideas, way off in left field, and I can’t make any sense out of them. Just make sure he keeps them to himself. Understood?”

The faint glimmer of a wicked smile crossed the Exec’s thin face. “I’ll watch him, sir.”

“Do that.”

Dorriss dropped below. Frank remained on the bridge, his mind ticking off the possibilities that the future held for all of them.

CHAPTER 19

December 6

Dorriss hovered over the chart spread on the long wardroom table and worried his chin with one hand. He was staring at a copy of a Japanese map which outlined the layout of the harbor in Tokyo Bay. He ran a finger over the coordinates and then traced the coastline, shaking his head doubtfully. Adler stood at his side, the backs of his knees braced against the bench, rocking back and forth and frowning, trying to look more intelligent than he was.

Ed Frank sat at the head of the table. He already knew the chart by heart; he was just allowing the two younger officers time to convince themselves of something he had already decided. He shifted in his seat and spoke: “I’m waiting.”

Dorriss unwound from his crouch and shook his head. “I wouldn’t approach from the south,” he said.

“But that’s the only way in.” Frank blinked.

“I know.” Dorriss smiled.

Frank grew dark. “I didn’t ask you in here for a humorous interlude. You’ve got a navigation background—give me a navigator’s opinion.”

“It’s impossible,” he said simply.

“No, it’s not!” Frank slammed a fist down on the table. Then he relaxed and smiled thinly.
“We are going to do it.
So you better set your minds to it now. I want an approach worked out, in terms of weather conditions and physical environment—known quantities.”

Frank came around the table and looked down at the chart himself. He glanced up at Adler. “Any opinions, Mr. Adler?”

“Sounds like a fine plan to me, sir.”

Dorriss knew he was outnumbered. He shrugged and leaned over the chart with Frank. His skinny fingers tapped the knobby inlet, and he said, “I can get you weather and current details, and you can go in there. You’ll be up to your ass in mines, but so what? If you do go in there,
sir
... you better go slow. You better
creep.”

Frank smiled. “Like a fucking pussycat.”

Hardy was stripped down in the after head, about to step into the shower, when he caught a glimpse of the steward passing by with an armload of what looked to be trash. Hardy hesitated a second, not sure what he had seen, then turned and hurried to the hatch. The steward was already down the aisle, making his way aft. Hardy stepped through the hatch and followed. Cassidy looked up, and Brownhaver gave a wolf-whistle.

Hardy ignored them and swung into the aft engine room. The wolf-whistles picked up. Hardy ran the gauntlet down to the maneuvering cubicle, where the steward turned to see what he was missing. Hardy stopped and stared at the bundle in his arms.

It was the remains of the skewered globe and all of Ed Frank’s carefully compiled notebooks and charts: his entire arsenal on the Devil’s Triangle. And something else: all the copies of Hardy’s log. Everything they had set out to follow—the very reason for their voyage.

Hardy stood rooted to the spot as the wolf-whistles became raucous yowls and limp-wristed chortlings of “Whoops, my dear!” and “Oh my Gawd, it’s a naked man!”
 

The steward grinned at Hardy and continued into the after torpedo room. Hardy watched from the hatch as the gear was stashed in one of the green bulkhead lockers. Ignoring the hecklers, he padded back to the head.

So Frank had decided to discard the scientific purpose behind this patrol, to store it away so it wouldn’t be around to remind him, so he could concentrate on...
what?

That elusive
what
again.

Hardy wondered if he should keep his mouth shut, let the
Candlefish
sail into Latitude 30°, and just see what would happen.

Wasn’t that the scientific approach? And now, wasn’t he the only true scientist left aboard? Frank was no longer interested—it was up to Hardy to pick up the pieces.

He stepped into the shower and let the water beat on his tense muscles. But as soon as he was dressed, he went back to the control room. He had to have another look at Frank’s face.

He had to find out for certain just
who
the man
thought
he was.

He stopped to glance over Lang’s shoulder. The quartermaster was checking the ship’s log. He turned with it, and Hardy said, “I’m going up. You want me to have him sign it?”

“He already has.”

Lang put the log down on the plotting desk and turned to consult with Scopes. Hardy’s eyes rested on the OCS handbook protruding from Lang’s back pocket, and he felt a shiver of discomfort. Then he turned to look down at the log.

The second shiver hit without any warning at all.

It was nothing in the report itself that shocked him. It was the signature at the bottom of the page: that hasty little scrawl, the name...

He couldn’t look around, afraid of the faces he might see around him. A terror shrieked silently inside him, and he felt thirty years of life slipping out of his grasp, as if they had never occurred, as if he had never parted company with the
Candlefish
or her crew.

He shook himself. He had forgotten something again. He had come here with a purpose, and it had dribbled away from him. He felt like a man trying to scoop up a drink of water with open fingers. He was unable to hold on to anything. The
Candlefish
was all he had—the boat and her crew. It was wartime, and there was nothing he could do about it. There was no way to get off. He had to ride it out with the rest of them and endure the Captain’s unstable ventures.

And he couldn’t warn anyone—because he simply was not trusted.

December 7

There was only one bulb burning in the CPO quarters at 0200. Hardy was stretched out on his bunk, hands clasped over his stomach, somewhere between sleep and consciousness.

His eyelids fluttered as music wafted in over the speakers and came to him muffled by his drawn curtain. It was Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade.” Soft, sustained notes lulled him into dreams, recollections, summer nights in New Haven, the club near the pier, Elena dancing with him that last night before their departure for San Diego...

One eye came open, and he gazed up at her picture, attached to the underside of Stanhill’s bunk. Every time Stanhill came in, he would leap up to the bunk; it would sag, the picture would come loose, and he would have to replace it—

Stanhill? Not Stanhill. Stigwood.

Somebody turned up the volume, and Hardy felt himself being dragged away from sleep. The big-band sound had always been his favorite. But Stanhill was impossible. Every time he got his hands on the wardroom phonograph, it was Glenn Miller for three hours.

He became conscious of other sounds interfering with the music: feet tramping, shouts, laughter.

Hardy sat up slowly and listened. He parted the olive-green curtain shielding his bunk and peered out. The CPO quarters was deserted, but he saw something out in the corridor. Eerie shadows on the bulkheads, flickering lights...

He rose, pulled on his pants, and struggled into his shoes. There was something going on in the forward torpedo room. He stepped to the door and saw Lieutenant Dorriss appear in the entrance to officers’ quarters, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Nadel came bounding aft, whizzed past Dorriss, and opened the door to the wardroom. Stigwood was inside, alone with the record player.

Nadel stood straight and barked, “Sir, Captain requests ‘Anchors Aweigh’ on the phonograph piped into all quarters immediately.”

“Anchors a-what?” said Stigwood.

Nadel excused himself. “Permission to enter the wardroom, sir. Thank you, sir. Excuse me.” He ripped Glenn Miller off the player, which brought a howl of indignation from Stigwood. Then he fumbled in the stack for an old seventy-eight. He found it and put it on the machine.

The march blasted out like a cannon. There was a matching roar from the forward torpedo room. Then a swarm of men tumbled into officers’ country, carrying torches—rags stripped from old bedding, soaked in diesel fuel, and then wound onto sticks.