Dive to Oblivion

3

Commander Thomas Moore stood outside the USS Iwo Jima’s infirmary — where the captain’s mast was taking place-still dressed in the uniform of a petty officer first class. He had been outfitted in this manner for three long weeks, and no one on board knew his real rank, except the ship’s commanding officer.

A freckle-faced seaman, whom Moore readily recognized, walked stiffly down the passageway escorted by a pair of burly marines. Barely nineteen years old, the youngster noted Moore’s presence beside the hatchway and spoke out with a high-pitched, strained voice.

“I’m scared to death. Chief. What are they gonna do to me?”

Moore looked the youngster straight in the eye and replied directly.

“Just tell the truth, son. And don’t be afraid to take your punishment like a man.”

This proved to be the extent of their conversation, as the marines quickly led the terrified enlisted man into the infirmary. A captain’s mast was never a pleasant experience. While at sea, this was how justice was handed out for a variety of infractions ranging from consistent tardiness, to petty theft and assault. As an investigator with the Naval Investigative Service, Thomas Moore knew very well that this afternoon’s session signaled the end of yet another successful mission on his part. Once again, he had gone undercover, this time to expose a group of illegal drug users aboard the amphibious assault ship.

This had been his first extended stay on a “gator freighter,” and Moore was ready to be airlifted to a more comfortable location. Originally built over three decades ago, the USS Two Jima was the first assault ship exclusively designed to carry helicopters. Six hundred feet long, and displacing over 18,000 tons, it currently held in addition to its crew of 684, an entire Marine battalion landing team, their weapons, equipment, a reinforced squadron of transport helicopters, and various support personnel. Thus space was at a minimum, with normal creature comforts sorely lacking.

Moore was very fortunate to find a spare bunk in the ship’s three-hundred-bed hospital. This allowed him some privacy, and kept him from having to mix too closely with the crew. As it turned out, an unsuspecting member of the infirmary staff provided him with his first real clue in the case.

Moore’s “official” job on the Iwo Jima was as a clerk in the hospital’s supply department. He did his best to fit in as one of the gang, and to not call any undue attention to himself.

One of the primary assets that allowed him to make a success of this undercover assignment, was his rather bland physical appearance. Thomas Moore’s average looks fit his role perfectly. He was the type of person who could blend into a crowd. Of average height and a bit overweight, he could readily pass as the typical guy next door.

For as long as he could remember, he had kept his brown hair in a crew cut. He had his father’s chubby face, and could easily go several days without needing a shave. Like his mother he had blue eyes, capped by thick, blond brows, that merged together on the bridge of his flat nose. By habit, he tended towards the sloppy, and it was an effort for him to keep a clean uniform, or for that matter, even to keep his shirt tail securely tucked in place.

When not on assignment, this tendency often got him in trouble with his superiors back in Washington.

Far from being the perfect example of an officer and a gentleman, he was more like the U.S. Navy’s version of detective Columbo. And much like Colunbo, his ability to crack a difficult case where others had failed, forced his superiors to overlook personal traits that they found distasteful.

The door to the infirmary opened from the inside, and out walked the two marines, with a single, balding individual between them. This sailor wore handcuffs, and as he passed by Moore, he said, “I didn’t mean any harm. Chief. The guys needed something to stay awake, and the captain came down on me like I was a heroin dealer.”

Before Moore could reply, one of the marines forcefully intervened.

“Keep your mouth shut and those eyes straight ahead, sailor! And no more talking until we reach the brig.”

The prisoner did as ordered, and Moore silently conveyed his pity with a solemn shake of his head. Two weeks ago, Moore had learned that this sailor was stealing amphetamines from the hospital pharmacy.

As a pharmacist’s mate, his job had been to dispense potent drugs for the treatment of such maladies as hay fever and severe head colds.

By faking the symptoms of a bad sinus infection, Moore sought treatment. His prescribed medication, an amphetamine derivative, had been replaced by a simple aspirin compound. In such a manner, the pharmacist’s mate had been able illegally to accumulate hundreds of pills, which he efficiently resold on the ship’s black market.

It took Moore fourteen days to uncover the distribution network. It extended to almost every department on the Iwo Jima, including the embarked marine battalion.

Misuse was especially prevalent amongst the engine-room crew and the helicopter mechanics. Often called to duty for exhausting twelve-hour shifts, they used the amphetamines to help them stay awake.

Also known as speed, the amphetamines could have dangerous physical side effects including dizziness, dry mouth, and increased pulse rate. Such drugs could also lead to dangerous mistakes in judgment, a disruption in normal sleep patterns, a decrease in one’s appetite, and even paranoia and other serious psychotic behavior. Although the military often used speed to keep pilots and combat soldiers alert during long missions, this was an exception rather than the rule, and such use was always closely monitored by attending physicians.

When drugs were misused, Moore knew that there was almost always an increase in the accident rate.

Carelessness prevailed in such an atmosphere, and untold lives could be endangered. Thus, with a minimum of misgiving on his part, Moore sought out not only dealers, but users as well.

All told, his list implicated over three dozen men.

They ranged in rank from lowly seamen second class, to an ensign in the air wing. All would receive severe reprimands from the Iwo Jima’s commanding officer, who per Navy tradition served as both judge and jury.

Sentences would be issued to fit the crime, with the dealers being hit the hardest. They could look forward to actual jail time, while the users would be punished by a loss of rank and privileges.

Recently, the Navy had instituted a treatment program, whereby all those convicted of substance abuse would be required to undergo therapy in a support group environment. This novel program showed great promise, and Thomas Moore sincerely prayed that the sailors that he had busted would take this opportunity to get their lives in order, before they were ruined for good.

It was with this hope in mind that Moore looked at his watch, then returned to his bunk to pack up his belongings.

He didn’t have to go far to reach his locker.

The hospital ward where he had been sleeping was currently empty of patients. It reeked of disinfectant, and he couldn’t wait to return to shore and enjoy the luxury of a real bed.

The Iwo Jima was currently transiting the Ryukyu Islands, and he hoped to spend the night at Sasebo Navy base, on the Japanese island of Kyushu. Tomorrow, he planned to take the bullet train to Tokyo, and begin a long-anticipated five-day leave in the capital city, before having to return to his office at the Washington Navy Yard.

He was in the process of stuffing his seabag with socks, when the ship’s supply officer entered the ward.

Lieutenant Roger Samuels had been Moore’s division officer while on the Iwo Jima, and a pain in the behind from the very beginning.

Known as spic-and-span Samuels to his subordinates, the supply officer demanded that proper naval etiquette be applied when in his divine presence. He was the type of stuffy, abusive, know-it-all officer that Moore couldn’t stand, and he braced himself for the worst as Samuels greeted him with his nasal voice.

“So, you’re leaving us already. Chief. I cant say that we’re going to miss you. Hell, half the time you were out on sick leave. And from what I understand, when you were on the job, you depended upon others to do the work for you. Who gets the honor of your company next?”

“I can’t really say, sir,” answered Moore without emotion.

“My new orders merely send me as far as Sasebo.”

There was a look of disgust on Samuels’s pinched face as he inspected Moore from head to foot.

“Put a shine on those shoes in the meantime, and tuck in that shirt! Take some pride in that uniform, sailor, and perhaps the Navy can make something out of you yet.”

“Yes sir,” returned Moore, who practically had to bite his tongue to keep from revealing his true rank.

“I understand that we have a fink in our midst,” commented Samuels as he eyed Moore suspiciously.

“Though I certainly don’t condone drugs, a little speed never hurt the Navy. Why we practically run on caffeine as it is.” Moore kept packing as Samuels continued.

“In my department, I like my men coming to me first with their suspicions, before running off to tattle to the CO.

Do you read me, sailor?”

Moore shook his head.

“I’m afraid that I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

“Come now. Chief,” said Samuels.

“Scuttlebutt has it that you were seen talking with the captain in private on three separate occasions. Unless the old man’s a long-lost uncle of yours, I’d say that’s a bit unusual.”

With great relief Moore packed away his last item of clothing, sealed shut his seabag, and slung it over his shoulder.

“If you’ll excuse me. Lieutenant, I’ve got a helicopter to catch,” he managed, as calmly as possible.

Not to be denied, Samuels stepped in front of Moore.

“Not so quick, sailor. In the U.S. Navy that I serve, we’ve learned to take care of our problems amongst ourselves. The way I hear it, too many good men have had their service records irrevocably blemished during that captain’s mast, and all for consuming a little stimulant to help keep them working harder.

We’re a family here aboard the Iwo Jima, and we don’t take lightly to outsiders coming in and sticking their noses where they don’t belong.”

Moore reacted to this accusation with an icy stare, and he attempted to step around his accuser. Samuels stepped sideways to block him.

“Do you hear me, sailor?” he questioned as he poked Moore’s shoulder with his right index finger.

Instinctively, Moore reached up and slapped away the supply officer’s hand. Yet before Samuels could react to this unexpected movement, the deep, authoritative voice of the ship’s CO, Captain Andrew Ritter, boomed out in the background.

“Chief, can I see you a minute?”

Lieutenant Samuels instantly went at ease. He backed away, and after leaving Moore with his best “I’ll deal with you later” sneer, strode past the captain with a crisp salute, and exited the compartment.

“What was ole spic’n span’s problem?” asked Ritter as he walked over to join Moore.

“I guess he just didn’t like the shine on my shoes, Captain,” answered Moore with a wink.

“Come to think of it, they could use a bit of polish,” said the captain, who warmly smiled and added, “Commander Moore, I just wanted to thank you again before you left us.”

“I appreciate that, sir,” returned Moore, who accepted Ritter’s firm handshake.

“But the way it looks, I’ll be getting off the ship just in time. It seems that my cover’s been blown.”

“Well, no matter. Commander. Your work here is over, and I’ll be certain to pass on word of a job well done to your superiors back at NIS.”

“I hope that I haven’t caused a lot of hard feelings among your crew. Captain. These sting operations can be painful.”

“Nonsense,” replied the captain.

“In fact, all of them owe you their gratitude, especially the men that I just got through sentencing. Hopefully, we got to them in time to break their habit. And with a lot of hard work and luck, we’ll get them back on the clean and sober path to normalcy once again.”

Moore transferred his seabag to his other hand and looked down at his watch.

“What time’s your flight?” asked Ritter.

“The chopper’s supposed to leave in another ten minutes, sir.”

“Then I won’t keep you any longer. Have a safe trip, Commander, and make certain to give my regards to our shore-based shipmates inside the Beltway.”

Moore flashed the senior officer a thumbs-up, and headed out the forward hatch. A series of passageways and ladders took him through the bowels of the ship and up onto the flight deck.

The fresh air topside was cool and refreshing, and smelled of the sea. The sun was high overhead in a clear blue sky, and Moore realized that he had almost forgotten how good it could feel on his pale skin.

Six CH-46 Sea Knight helicopters were parked forward of the ship’s island. The rest of the Iwo Jima’s flight deck was empty, except for a single SH-60 Seahawk parked by the stern. This sleek chopper was painted white, and had several crewmen congregated beside it. It was obvious that this platform would be his transport to Sasebo, and he proceeded over to it without delay.

“I bet you’re our passenger,” greeted a bright-eyed airman dressed in a green flight suit.

“I’m Petty Officer Michael Knowlton, the ATO.”

Without bothering to introduce himself, Moore got right down to business.

“How soon until we get to Sasebo?”

The air tactical officer beckoned towards the open fuselage door.

“We’ll have you there in time for early evening cocktails at Mama San’s. Hop in, grab a helmet, and make yourself at home.”

Helicopters were definitely not one of Moore’s favorite methods of transportation. They were cramped, noisy, and frequently leaked hydraulic fluid. Yet the Seahawk did offer him a quick, convenient way to make good his exit from the Iwo Jima’s crowded confines, and he gratefully settled inside the chopper’s main cabin without further complaint.

Five minutes later, they were airborne. True to form, the helicopter’s twin turboshaft engines produced an incredibly loud racket. And by the time the Iwo Jima faded in the distance, his khakis were stained with a foul-smelling substance that constantly dripped from the ceiling above. Oblivious to these distractions, Moore wrapped himself up in a blanket and nestled into a vacant space situated beside the sonobuoy launcher. In a matter of seconds, he was sound asleep.

In his dream, he was back home in Alexandria, Virginia, on his favorite ten-speed, taking the bike path to Mt. Vernon. His wife Laurie was beside him on her mountain bike, and together they sped through the swamps and forests that George Washington once explored.

The Potomac flowed beside them, and in a heartbeat, he was transferred to a compact racing sloop, running before an angry thunderstorm.

Strangely enough, Laurie had disappeared, and there was genuine fear in his heart as he vainly scanned the flooded cabin searching for her.

A jagged bolt of lightning exploded from the black heavens and struck the sailboat’s mast with a thunderous crack. Temporarily blinded by the ensuing flash, he suddenly found himself back on his bicycle. He was coasting down a steep hill, with Laurie a good distance ahead of him. The wind felt cool on his face, and as he reached for the brakes, he was shocked to find them totally inoperable.

Heedless of his own safety, he cried out to Laurie to slow down. Yet she couldn’t hear him. Nor could she see the fully loaded tractor-trailer that was approaching from a side street at the bottom of the hill.

Thomas Moore’s dream turned to nightmare as he tried with all his might to catch up to Laurie. With his legs weighted down by inexplicable fatigue, he could only watch in horror as the truck continued speeding towards the bike path, on a certain collision course with his wife, who remained totally unaware of the tragedy that would soon befall her.

“Commander Moore,” spoke a concerned voice in the far distance.

“Commander?”

It proved to be a gentle hand on his shoulder that awoke him from his deep slumber, and Moore looked up into the searching eyes of the ATO. Quickly now, his nightmarish vision faded, to be replaced by the steady chopping roar of the Seahawk’s rotors and the deep voice of Petty Officer Knowlton.

“Excuse me. Sir, but the pilot would like to talk with you.”

Knowlton pointed towards the cockpit. Moore acknowledged him with a curt nod and stiffly sat up. The cabin was wildly vibrating around him as he carefully made his way forward.

“Commander Moore,” greeted the pilot, who sat on the left-hand side of the equipment-packed cockpit.

“We just received a top-priority, scrambled transmission from CINCPAC, ordering us to an alternative destination.”

“But I’ve got to get to Sasebo,” countered Moore, his thoughts still partially clouded by his dream.

“Afraid not, sir,” replied the pilot.

“My new orders specifically state that you’re to be transferred to these new coordinates at once, sir.”

“I hope they’re not sending me back to the Iwo Jima,” said Moore.

The pilot answered while unfolding a chart on his lap.

“Not unless that gator freighter’s travelled a hundred nautical miles in the last hour.”

He circled a portion of ocean off the west coast of the Bonin Islands and added.

“We’ll be dropping you off here, sir.”

“But that’s in the middle of the damn ocean!” exclaimed Moore.

The pilot shrugged his shoulders.

“All I can tell you is that these are the exact coordinates that CINCPAC relayed to us, sir. If you can just hang on another quarter of an hour, we’ll soon enough find out what this is all about.”

Moore was in an irritable mood as he returned to the main cabin and sat down in front of a plexiglass window set into the closed hatchway. From this vantage point, he could view the sea rapidly passing five thousand feet below them. A two-masted sailboat could be seen cutting through the water, and his thoughts went back to his recently concluded nightmare.

It had been a long time since he had dreamt of Laurie. And it seemed like yesterday that they were together, sharing the best that life had to offer.

Just thinking about her again brought back a kaleidoscope of memories, some pleasant and some painful.

They had practically grown up together as neighbors, and what started out as a childhood friendship blossomed into adolescent love. There was never a doubt that they would be married, and after attending college together at the University of Virginia, they made vows of eternal love.

Laurie’s father had been in the Navy, and she knew very well what she was getting in for when her husband picked this same branch of the military for his profession.

They decided not to have children until Thomas returned from his initial sea duty, and secured a permanent shore-based position in intelligence or investigative fields.

His first assignment after getting his commission was on a sub tender in Holy Loch, Scotland. Though Laurie remained in Alexandria at this time teaching elementary school, she visited him whenever their budget and her own schedule allowed.

It had been hard being away from her at first, and he tried his best to lose himself in his work. When he got word that she was planning to spend a whole summer in Scotland, he shouted out with joy and immediately went out to rent a cottage. He found a lovely little place in the foothills overlooking Hunter’s Quay, on the outskirts of Dunoon. Though the price was a little steep, he took it anyway, and as it turned out, Laurie fell in love with it at first sight.

What followed was the most glorious time of his entire life. He managed to secure several consecutive weeks of leave, and they spent it exploring the scenic, heather-filled countryside. Together they hiked the magnificent shores of Loch Lomond, took the train up to the Highlands, and even managed to visit the magical island of lona, where Christianity first came to the British Isles. During a weekend stay in Edinburgh, they attended a musical festival at Usher Hall, and toured Edinburgh Castle, where they enjoyed a full-fledged military tattoo complete with massed pipers.

The rest of their summer together in Scotland sped by in a blur, and before he knew it, she was packing her bags for the flight back home. That final evening together, they made love long into the night. The dawn was too soon coming. And little did he ever realize that the last time that he would ever see his beloved again was from the deck of the Dunoon ferry as she sadly waved goodbye. Less than a month later, she was dead, the tragic victim of a traffic accident in downtown Washington D.C.

Thomas Moore’s life had never been the same since.

With Laurie’s death, it was almost as if a vital part of his own self had been ripped from his body. This was especially apparent in the months following her funeral.

His soulmate had been taken from him, and he would have to live out his remaining years with his only chance of love a distant memory.

It was later that year that he received his assignment at NIS, and was transferred back to Washington. He completely surrendered himself to his work. And his inner wound slowly healed. Even his nightmares ceased, only to emerge again from his subconscious when he least expected.

The monotonous chopping whine of the Seahawk’s rotors called to him with a soothing song of a duty his entire life was now dedicated to. To serve his country with honor was all that mattered. All else was irrelevant.

Ever thankful for this renewed purpose, Thomas Moore redirected his gaze out the helicopter’s plexiglass window. The sea was all but veiled by swirling tendrils of milky white fog, which extended all the way up to their current altitude, and it was like flying through a cloud bank that filled the entire sky.

“How about some hot coffee, sir?” asked the ATO.

“I’d like that,” replied Moore, who found himself suddenly chilled.

The airman handed him a plastic cup, and filled it with steaming hot coffee that he poured from a silver thermos. The dark brown liquid was brewed navy strong, and Moore contentedly sipped it.

“I’m sorry that we don’t have anything else to serve with the joe,” said Knowlton.

“This coffee’s more than enough for me,” returned Moore.

The steady roaring pitch of the Seahawk’s engines seemed to fluctuate, and the deck slightly tilted forward.

“Looks like we’re going down,” noted the ATO, as he proceeded over to Moore’s side and peered out the window.

“I sure wouldn’t want to be flying this baby. That fog out there is as thick as my mom’s pea soup.”

The cabin began to vibrate wildly, causing Moore to spill a good portion of his coffee. Somehow he managed not to burn himself, and as he precariously balanced the cup in his shaking hand, the dim outline of a ship began to appear on the sea below. This vessel’s sleek profile came into better view as they continued losing altitude, prompting an excited response from the ATO.

“That’s the USS Hewitt} We worked with her in the Philippine Sea last week.”

The Seahawk swooped in low over the warship, passing over its streamlined superstructure, and Moore noted the lack of weapons visible on the Spruance class vessel’s deck. It was outfitted with only a pair of 5-inch Mk45 lightweight gun mountings fore and aft, and an ASROC launcher forward of the bridge. Yet in reality, Moore knew that the Hewitt’s offensive capabilities were for the most part hidden within its hull. Here the ASROC launcher had no less than twenty-four Mkl6 reloads, for its mission of attacking enemy submarines. For threats from the air, the destroyer carried a NATO Sea Sparrow launcher with sixteen reloads, and two Phalanx Gatling guns for close-in defense. It also was armed with eight Harpoon missiles, and six torpedo tubes capable of firing the Mk32.

One of the ship’s other major capabilities became obvious when the Seahawk began hovering over its stern helipad. A large hangar lay forward of this sea-going landing strip, capable of handling two LAMPS helicopters, and it became apparent that this was where the Seahawk was headed.

They landed with a mild jolt, and as the engines were switched off and the rotors ground to a halt, the relief from the noise was instantaneous. The ATO slid open the hatch, and a khaki-clad lieutenant waited outside to greet them.

“Commander Moore?”

Moore gracefully peeled off his helmet and raised his hand.

“That’s me.”

“Sir, I’m Lieutenant Kelso, the Hewitfs weapons officer.

If you’ll just follow me. Captain Stanton is waiting for you out at sea.”

Not really certain what he was referring to by this last remark, Moore followed the weapons officer forward, to a position beside the rail amidships, on the port side of the after funnel uptakes. Here a launch was being readied to be lowered into the water.

“Climb aboard, sir,” instructed Kelso.

“But where’s your captain?” asked Moore, totally confused by this whole turn of events.

“We’ll be utilizing this launch to take you out to him, sir,” revealed the weapons officer.

Moore could tell that Kelso was under orders not to say any more than he had to, and Moore resigned himself to this fact and climbed aboard the launch. A crew of three, including his tight-lipped escort accompanied him.

The launch was powered by an outboard engine, and they smoothly pulled away from the Hewitt and headed seawards. All too soon, the destroyer was swallowed by the fog, and a ghostly silence prevailed, broken only by the steady growl of the engine and the lapping of the water against the launch’s rounded bow.

Lieutenant Kelso was their navigator. With the assistance of a hand-held compass, he guided them on a southwesterly course, through fog so thick that even the immediate sea around them was veiled.

Ten minutes passed, and Moore was just about to ask where they were headed, when Kelso signaled the helmsman to cut the engine. The weapons officer put a whistle to his lips and blew a series of three long blasts.

This signal was answered by two short whistle blasts that emanated from a point nearby, though Moore could not determine the exact direction because of the fog. On Kelso’s orders, the helmsman restarted the engine, and they inched forward at a bare crawl.

Seconds later, a dim, blinking red light cut through the murky twilight. Moore anxiously sat forward upon spotting an immense, black, rounded hull less than ten yards in front of them. He knew in an instant that it was a submarine, though he still couldn’t determine its exact class. A duplicate version of their launch was positioned beside this submarine, beneath its massive sail. The launch was vacant, though several sailors were visible on the sub’s deck, huddled aft of the sail.

Two of them assisted Lieutenant Kelso as he threw them a nylon mooring line.

“Any sign of anyone yet?” asked the weapons officer as the two sailors pulled the launch forward and secured its mooring line to one of the submarine’s deck cleats.

“Negative, Lieutenant. Captain Stanton’s just about to pop the forward access trunk,” replied one of the seamen, who lowered a rope ladder over the submarine’s side.

“Then we’ll know what in the hell’s goin’ on here.”

Lieutenant Kelso turned to address Moore.

“Looks like we got you here just in the nick of time, sir. Be careful on your way up that ladder.”

Moore left the launch, and climbed up onto the deck of the submarine without incident. He could tell now from the distinctive bulged casing that extended aft of the sail that this was an American, Benjamin Franklin class ballistic missile submarine. He was certainly no stranger to such a class of warship, since several were based out of Holy Loch. What bothered him though was the fact that the only American ballistic missile submarines supposedly assigned to the Pacific were the newer Trident class vessels, based out of Bangor, Washington.

Lieutenant Kelso joined him on deck and pointed towards the sub’s bow.

“That’s where we’ll find the skipper, sir.”

Moore needed no more prompting to begin his way forward. As he passed by the sail, he halted for a moment upon spotting an accumulation of seaweed hanging from the vessel’s hydroplanes.

“Lieutenant, what in the world happened to this submarine?” he questioned.

Kelso pointed towards the group of individuals gathered on the deck before them.

“You’ll have to ask the captain, sir. I have absolutely no idea.”

Moore reached up and pocketed a sample of the seaweed before continuing forward. There were six individuals in all, kneeling around the closed access trunk. Two muscular chiefs were in the process of unsealing the hatch, with a pair of wrench like tools, especially designed for this task. A distinguished, grey-haired officer wearing a blue windbreaker stood beside them, supervising their efforts. He alertly looked up upon noting the approach of a newcomer.

“Ah, you must be Commander Moore. I’m Captain Edward Stanton, CO of the Hewitt.”

Moore acknowledged this greeting with a nod.

“Captain Stanton, I didn’t think that we had any Benjamin Franklin class SSBN’s in the Pacific.”

“Neither did I, Commander Moore,” replied Stanton.

“Unfortunately, she has no hull markings, so we still don’t know exactly which boat she is.”

“What about her crew?” continued Moore.

“Would you believe that we’ve yet to hear a peep out of them,” observed Stanton.

“Therefore I’m afraid the outlook for them doesn’t look good. Were you briefed at all before you arrived here. Commander?”

Moore shook his head that he hadn’t been, and Stanton continued.

“The vessel was originally discovered a little over nine hours ago, by a Japanese squidder.

They notified the Japanese Maritime SelfDefense Force, and that’s when we were called in to investigate.”

“We’ve penetrated the first seal. Captain,” interrupted one of the chiefs, who had been working on opening the access trunk.

This news caused Stanton to turn his attention back to his men.

“Step back. Chief, while Doc lowers the dosimeter.”

A tall, bespectacled officer stepped forward carrying a spool of wire with a small gauge attached on one end. As he lowered the wire into the partially open trunk, Stanton explained what was going on.

“Our medical officer jury-rigged a dosimeter to determine if we’ve got a radiation problem down there.”

Moore thoughtfully nodded, and watched as the Hewitt’s doctor unravelled a good twenty feet of wire before retrieving it. All eyes were on the medical officer as he bent over and carefully read the small gauge attached to the end of the wire.

“It’s in the safe range, Captain. I show absolutely no abnormal indication of radiation inside the inner hull.”

“Can you test for chlorine?” asked Moore.

“I’m afraid not,” answered the medical officer.

“We’re going to have to rely on our noses for that.”

“I think that they had a fire down there,” offered Stanton.

“Most likely, all of them were asphyxiated before they could get off an SOS.”

“Shall we go ahead and open up the trunk. Captain?” questioned the senior chief.

“Do it, sailor,” ordered Stanton.

As the two chiefs went to work on the trunk with their tools, Stanton beckoned Thomas Moore to join him further up on the foredeck.

“Commander Moore, I understand that you’re affiliated with the Naval Investigative Service. Because of your specialized training. Command wants you to lead the search party once we go down below. For discretion’s sake, I believe that it’s best if we keep this initial group to a minimum.

“I agree,” concurred Moore.

“Since we still don’t know what we’re dealing with down there, I think it’s best if we leave everything just like we find it.”

“You’ve got it,” returned Stanton, who turned around when one of his men called out behind him.

“The trunk’s open, Captain!”

“I guess the moment of truth’s upon us,” reflected Stanton.

“Shall we see what all of this is about, Commander?”

Thomas Moore’s gut tightened as he followed Stanton back to the access trunk.

“The initial search party will consist of Commander Moore, myself. Doc, Lieutenant Kelso, and Chief Daley,” instructed Stanton.

“Everyone else is to remain topside, with absolutely no one going below except for an emergency.”

“I hope someone brought along some flashlights,” said Moore, who curiously peered down into the darkened recesses of the open trunk.

“It’s pitch black down there.”

“Break out those lanterns and two-ways. Chief,” instructed Stanton.

“And for all those going below, don’t touch a thing without my permission. If you come across anything suspicious, use your radios and let me know about it.”

Moore soon had a battery-powered torch in hand, as well as a compact, two-way radio. With a minimum of ceremony, he stepped into the trunk and began his way downwards.

A steel ladder conveyed him directly into the sub’s forward torpedo room. Cautiously, he sniffed the air, all the while scanning the compartment with his flashlight.

There was no hint of chlorine, or even of smoke.

As with all the submarines that he had ever visited in the past, the primary scent present was the characteristic smell of amine.

Neatly stacked on their pallets were a full complement of Mk48 torpedoes. These potent weapons would be launched from the vessel’s four bow mounted tubes. Curiously enough, there was no sign of the men who would supervise such a launch, and Moore stood by while his four associates joined him.

“Apparently it wasn’t chlorine gas or smoke that got them,” observed the Hewitt’s medical officer.

“The air smells remarkably fresh.”

“Let’s continue aft,” said Stanton.

Moore led the way through an open hatchway. The passageway that lay beyond held several vacant berthing compartments, and it was Chief Daley who summed up the condition of these spaces.

“Most of the bunks appear to have been slept in recently.

But where are the guys now?”

“If I remember correctly, the control room of a Benjamin Franklin class submarine lies on the other side of that bulkhead,” said Moore, pointing further aft down the passageway.

“Hopefully, we’ll have some answers waiting for us there.”

With his flashlight cutting a narrow swath of light before him, Moore proceeded in this direction. He found the far hatch sealed shut, and with Chief Daley’s help, they undogged it, and Moore anxiously continued on. As anticipated, this next compartment indeed turned out to be the control room. It too was vacant of all personnel, and Moore had a distinct eerie feeling as he initiated his cursory inspection.

He began at the helm. Three padded chairs were bolted to the deck here. This was where the planes men controlled the depth and course of the vessel, and Moore scanned the variety of instruments and gauges positioned on the forward bulkhead, immediately above the airplane like steering yokes.

Beside the helm was the diving console, where the sub’s all-important ballast functions were controlled and monitored. Unable to tell the status of the main vents because of the lack of electricity, Moore continued his rounds, and passed the vacant radar, sonar, and firecontrol stations.

“Will you take a look at this!” a voice behind him broke the silence.

This was all Moore had to hear to join his co-workers beside the periscope well. The lights of their torches clearly illuminated the navigation table, where a detailed bathymetric chart lay exposed.

“This is sure one for the books,” reflected the Hewitt’s astounded Captain.

“Because this chart is of the Tongue of the Ocean in the Bahama basin! What in God’s name is going on here?”

Moore examined this chart himself, noting that the last grease-pencil course update was off the northeastern coast of Andros Island.

“Either someone’s playing an incredibly sick joke on us, or we’ve got one hell of a strange mystery on our hands,” observed Stanton.

“What do you make of this, Commander Moore?” “Right now, your guess is as good as mine,” said Moore with a heavy sigh.

“Well, we’ve still got most of this vessel to search,” continued Stanton.

“And to cover it in the least amount of time, I think it’s best if we separate at this point. Chief, why don’t you head down below and check out the galley and officer’s country. The rest of us will continue aft.”

“I’m almost afraid of what we’re gonna find in that missile magazine,” said the Hewitt’s weapons officer.

“This baby is designed to carry enough firepower to win World War III singlehandedly.”

“I want to get into that engine room, and make certain that the reactor is safely scrammed,” added the medical officer.

“Then let’s get on with it, gentlemen,” said Stanton.

As Chief Daley turned for the access way that would take him to the decks below, Moore led the way aft. Yet another hatch had to be undogged, before they entered a cavernous compartment dominated by sixteen missile-launch tubes. Painted dark green, the tubes were positioned in two rows of eight apiece, with a long passageway of latticed steel flooring between them.

“Back in Holy Loch, the boomer crews used to call this compartment Sherwood Forest,” commented Moore.

“I can certainly see why,” said Stanton, who followed his weapons officer over to the nearest tube.

Lieutenant Kelso hurriedly unscrewed the metal viewing plate set into the tube’s base, and anxiously peered inside.

“The weapons load appears to be intact, sir,” said Kelso, his relief most obvious.

“Thank God for that,” returned Stanton.

It was while Moore peeked inside the missile tube to have a look himself, that the captain’s two-way radio activated with a burst of static. This was followed by the excited voice of Chief Daley.

“I found one. Captain! I found one of the crew.” “Where are you. Chief?” asked Stanton into the radio’s transmitter.

“In the galley, sir,” replied Daley.

“And you’d better bring along the doc, because he don’t seem to be makin’ much sense.”

“We’re on our way,” returned the captain, who looked up and met the glances of his co-workers.

“At long last,” he triumphantly added.

“We’ll finally get some answers.”

The sub’s galley was located on the deck immediately below the control room. They got there by way of the officer’s wardroom. This tastefully decorated compartment was filled with a large conference table. Two place settings of china sat on this table, still partially filled with food.

“Looks like someone never got to finish their breakfast,” observed the weapons officer.

“Those hotcakes still look fresh.”

It was Thomas Moore who spotted the picture hung on the wardroom’s forward bulkhead. This rendering showed two frontiersmen standing on an elevated river bluff, looking out to a vast wilderness valley.

“I believe I know what boat this is,” he suggested.

“From the looks of this picture, she’s the Lewis and Clark.

“That answers one of our questions,” said Stanton.

“Now let’s answer the rest of them.”

A short passageway led them directly into the galley.

Three pots were secured to the stove here, including one filled with hardened oatmeal. The deck was covered with several inches of water, and as they continued on aft, they heard Chief Daley’s voice sound out softly in the distance.

“Come on, sailor, chill out. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

They found the chief perched beside the flooded space containing the trash disposal unit. A single, redheaded sailor, dressed in wet dungarees, sat on the deck before him. This lanky, wild-eyed individual was shivering from the dank chill that pervaded this portion of the ship. He had some sort of leather-bound notebook held tightly in his grasp, and reacted to the arrival of the newcomers with instant horror.

Quick to note his mentally imbalanced condition, the Hewitt’s medical officer cautiously stepped forward.

“Hello, sailor,” he said, displaying his best bedside manner.

“I’m doc Weatherford, and these are my friends. We’re here to help you. So you can relax now.

Everything is going to be just fine.”

“I’ll try to find him a blanket and some dry clothes,” volunteered Lieutenant Kelso.

“Has he spoken at all?” asked Stanton.

“When I first discovered him here, he was mumbling to himself,” answered the chief.

“I couldn’t make much sense out of him, though I believe his name’s Homer.”

“How are you doing. Homer?” greeted the Hewitt’s CO with a forced smile, as he positioned himself beside his medical officer.

“I’m Captain Stanton. What the doc here says is true. We’re your friends, and we’ve come to help you. But before we can do that, you’ve got to relax and trust us. Is there anything we can get you?”

This question generated silence, and the medical officer intervened.

“Homer, I want you to take a couple of deep breaths, and then tell me what’s bothering you so.

Does it have anything to do with the location of your shipmates?”

Homer Morgan’s eyes opened wide, and he began babbling.

“I didn’t mean to do it. I swear! All I did was shoot the trash!” “Where are your shipmates, Homer?” asked Stanton.

“You’ve got to tell us!”

Homer’s expression was one of pure bewilderment as he stared out at the forward bulkhead and cried out.

“I killed them all!”

Lieutenant Kelso picked this emotional moment to return with a blanket. The medical officer wasted no time wrapping it around Homer’s shoulders, and took this opportunity to wrench the book from Homer’s grasp. Thomas Moore was the first to examine it, while the doc turned his attention back to his sobbing patient.

“It’s the ship’s log!” exclaimed Moore, who excitedly turned to the last entry.

What he saw there caused him to gasp, and he struggled to find words.

“I know that this is going to sound utterly illogical,” he managed while skimming the page.

“But the Lewis and Clark’s last log entry was dated only yesterday, when the sub was transiting the waters between Andros Island and Nassau.”

“But that’s on the other side of the world!” objected Chief Daley.

“Tell that to the person who wrote this entry,” retorted the perplexed investigator, whom fate had picked to solve this strangest of nautical mysteries.