Ghostboat Read Free Page A

himself up out of the conning-tower hatch. He looked into Hardy’s surprised face. In the fog and darkness, they could barely make each other out. Basquine’s bellows filtered up from below as he yelled instructions to the helmsman, tryingtofight the starboard lean. Hardy and Bates lay face down on the twitching bridge. Bates used Hardy’s body for support and lunged upward, grabbing the side of the bridge to survey the boat. Over the roar of a howling wind that had come up from nowhere and now whipped around them in concentric circles he could hear the Candlefish’s plates groaning, but he could not see any signs of attack.
    “Where the hell did this storm come from?” he yelled at Hardy. He moved to the voice tube, but Hardy, also on his feet, went spinning into the Exec, almost knocking his teeth out on the lip of the voice tube.
    “Dammit, Jack. Make yourself useful. Get Stanhill below!”
    Hardy ducked as a wall of spray hit them. He looked for Stanhill, then thought of Cyclops. Where was the sextant? A heavier wall of spray hit the bridge, and the sub was caught in an epileptic seizure. Bates wedged his hands around the voice tube, closed his eyes against the salt spray, and hung on. But Hardy went down again. His fingers splayed out, trying to get purchase on the wet metal. He rolled past the con structure and kept going, past the after machine gun and out the cigarette deck. His hands shot out too late as the lower railing of the cigarette deck passed over him. He fell on the top deck and landed with a crunch on his right knee. His scream was lost as the rushing water carried him back, slamming him into the base of the huge deck gun. He snatched at the traversing gear and tried to stand. His right leg was like jelly; it went out from under him. He fell, still clutching the gear, conscious of acute pain and terror. The submarine’s jolting tremors were even more severe on the deck than on the bridge. He held on tightly as the Candlefish shimmied and frothy waves formed high over his head and crashed down on top of him.
    In the conning tower, Basquine grabbed the Intercom mike and shouted, “Come to battle stations! All hands to battle stations! Secure all compartments!” He whipped around to the helmsman. “Maitless, what’s our course?”
    Maitless glanced at the compass as the alarm rang through the boat.
    “Two-five-three, sir.”
    “Left full rudder. Come to two-zero-five.”
    Maitless strained at the wheel. It was frozen. “She won’t answer, sir.”
    “Emergency helm!” Basquine shouted below.
    Bates flipped up the cover of the voice tube and shouted over the howling wind, “Captain—there’s nothing shooting at us. I’m positive!”
    Basquine’s voice crackled up: “Mr. Bates, stay on the bridge!”
    Reports were pouring into the control room from all stations. Gauges and dials were getting so hot, the glass was shattering right out of them. Main diesel number one was still sliding around in the forward engine room. Shackles had snapped; a torpedo had rolled off its skid. The reports spelled pandemonium.
    Basquine hit the diving, alarm and yelled, “Clear the bridge! Dive! Dive!”
    Hardy sloshed around on the afterdeck, still clinging weakly to the traversing gear of the deck gun. He heard the OOGA! OOGA! of the diving alarm and felt a rush of fear—they were going to submerge and leave him. He could just make out fog-shrouded silhouettes on the top of the conning tower, the lookouts rushing down from their perches and disappearing below. He was alone on the deck of a twisting, bucking sub, and she was going to drop right out from under him.
    Bates, the last man down the ladder, watched Quartermaster Jenavin secure the hatch, his face still streaked with blood. The sub’s trembling gathered momentum, and their teeth chattered in time to it.
    “Bates! Where’s Hardy?” bellowed the Captain.
    “Didn’t he get Stanhill below?” Looking around, Bates could see he hadn’t. He leaped