Dive to Oblivion

5

It took them a full hour to complete their search of the submarine. Much to their dismay, the redheaded sailor that they found in the galley, proved to be the only crew member aboard the vessel. With Thomas Moore’s blessings, it was decided to convey the seaman back to the USS Hewitt, where the destroyer’s medical officer would try to get additional information out of him through hypnosis.

Lieutenant Kelso and Chief Daley were instructed to remain on the submarine, while the rest of the group returned to the Hewitt, where they would inform Command of their find, and await further orders.

The short voyage back by launch seemed to take place at a snail’s pace. Since their departure from the Hewitt, the fog had thickened, and with the setting sun, the air was chilled.

Moore sat in the launch amidships, doing his best to ward off the damp cold by pulling his thin khaki jacket tighter around him. Lieutenant Weatherford and his patient, who remained wrapped in a blanket, sat near the bow, with Captain Stanton seated close at Moore’s side. The Hewitt’s CO held the sub’s log in his lap, and was doing his best to skim its contents by the light of a flashlight.

“Whoever recorded this log had to have made a mistake with these dates,” whispered Stanton, so that only Moore could hear him.

“I can’t wait to find out what Command has to say about all this,” returned Thomas Moore.

“Most likely, that log’s from a previous cruise, though for the life of me, I still can’t figure out what happened to the rest of the Lewis and Clark’s crew.”

Stanton thoughtfully grunted.

“My best guess is that there was some sort of serious accident aboard the sub, and that caused the crew to abandon ship.”

“But surely they’d have the time to get off an SOS,” countered Moore.

“And you saw yourself the condition of that vessel. Except for that minor flood in the galley, it was in perfect shape.”

“I hear you loud and clear. Commander. And I guess we’re just going to have to wait for the results of Doc’s hypnosis session to get some real answers.”

Stanton slammed shut the log, when a blinking white light cut through the swirling mist. The sharp grey outline of the Hewitt’s foredeck suddenly loomed above them, and an alert sailor at the destroyer’s rail threw down a weighted nylon mooring line.

Five minutes later, Thomas Moore was entering the ship’s wardroom, with a hot mug of coffee in hand. A trio of officers were in the midst of then-evening meals, and Moore sat himself down on a leather lounge chair, positioned on the opposite corner of the fairly spacious compartment. He pulled out a small notebook from his breast pocket, and jotted down all that he remembered about his visit to the Lewis and Clark, while the facts were still fresh in his mind. These initial impressions would comprise an integral part of his official report, and would provide a firm groundwork for his full investigation of the perplexing incident.

He was in the process of documenting the moment when he had first laid eyes on the sub’s only apparent surviving crew member, when an intercom page directed him to the captain’s stateroom. A bright-eyed seaman escorted Moore to the proper cabin, and he knocked on the closed door before entering.

Inside was an office much like that of a successful junior executive, though a bit more cramped for space and without a view. The ship’s CO sat behind a compact, wooden desk, with a telephone nestled up to his ear. He beckoned Moore to have a seat in one of the two high-backed upholstered chairs in front of the desk, and then continued with his telephone conversation, all the while taking notes on a legal pad.

“I understand. Chief. Inform CINCPAC that we’ll do so at once.”

Stanton hung up the telephone handset and looked his newly arrived guest straight in the eye.

“As I expected, CINCPAC wants us to take the Lewis and Clark in tow. We’ll be conveying it to a top-secret anchorage on the northern coast of Okinawa.”

“Any word on the sub’s operational orders?” asked Moore.

“I’m afraid not, Commander. Though I did receive a message from CINCPAC that I was to pass on to you. It seems that Command merely wants you to stand by for further orders.”

“The story of my life,” said Moore with a sigh.

Stanton’s phone rang with a growl and he picked up the handset and gruffly spoke into the transmitter.

“Captain … I hear you. Doc. We’re on our way.”

He hung up the telephone and addressed Moore while scooting back his chair and standing.

“Follow me to sick bay, Commander. Doc’s ready to put our redheaded friend under hypnosis.”

They arrived at sick bay by way of the ship’s hightech bridge, where Stanton stopped briefly to discuss details of the Hewitt’s new towing assignment.

Satisfied that his XO could handle this task, that was complicated by the ever-present fog, he then led Moore back down into the destroyer’s bowels.

Thomas Moore had never seen an individual hypnotized before. He was genuinely surprised how very easy it all seemed.

The patient had the benefit of a relaxing hot shower beforehand, and was dressed in a fresh set of dungarees. He also managed to wolf down a couple of ham and cheese sandwiches, before being led into one of the examination rooms. Homer hadn’t spoken since his frantic outburst in the submarine’s galley, and Doc Weatherford made certain that he was comfortably seated, before bringing out a shoe-box-sized object with a strobe light mounted inside. Homer was then instructed to keep his eyes on this box, while the medical officer flicked off the room’s lights and activated the strobe.

Shielding his eyes from the intense, flashing light, Moore listened as Doc’s smooth voice induced Homer into a relaxed, sleep like state of trance. It took him less than thirty seconds to succeed, and his first suggestion was for Homer to close his eyes and totally make himself at ease.

The strobe was deactivated, and the room light switched back on. Homer appeared to be calmly sleeping, his previously tense facial muscles at long last slackened, his breathing deep and regular.

From their vantage point on the other side of the room, both Moore and Stanton looked on as the medical officer carefully began his interrogation.

“Son, this is Doc Weatherford once again. Please give me your full name and rank.”

Homer readily replied.

“Seaman Second Class Homer Earl Morgan, sir.”

“How old are you, Seaman Morgan, and where were you born?” asked the physician.

“I’m twenty-two years old, sir, from Eureka Springs, Arkansas.”

Lieutenant Weatherford glanced over to meet the gazes of his rapt audience before continuing.

“Seaman Morgan, I’m going to ask you some questions now about your current duty. Some of them might be a bit painful to think about. But I want you to take your time answering them and be as truthful as possible. What ship are you presently assigned to, son?”

Homer’s voice slightly quivered.

“The USS Lewis and Clark, sir.”

“And what do you do aboard the Lewis and Clark. Seaman Morgan?”

“Sir, I’m assigned to the ship’s galley.”

“How do you like this duty?”

Homer hesitated a moment.

“It’s okay, sir, especially now that the chiefs designated me assistant wardroom server.”

A moment of doubt briefly clouded Homer’s previously tranquil expression, and he appeared temporarily puzzled. Lieutenant Weatherford noted this character change and pursued it.

“It’s very important that you tell me just what you’re feeling right now. Homer.” “It’s the chief!” shouted Homer, his tone strained and bordering on panic.

“I’ll never see him again, because I’m responsible for killing him and the others!”

“What do you mean by the others. Homer? The rest of the crew?”

Homer looked confused and dumbfounded as he nodded yes, and brushed a tear off his cheek.

“You’re not going to sit there and tell me that you killed all one-hundred and forty members of the Lewis and Clark’s crew, are you, son?”

“But I did!” admitted Homer bluntly.

“I think that you’re lying to me. Seaman Morgan.

No one could kill that many men at one time.”

“Well, I did, by opening the TDU!”

Homer appeared flustered, and his inquisitor allowed him a moment to calm down and catch his breath before continuing.

“Now this is going to be the real hard part for you, Homer. Because I want you to describe in detail just how you managed to kill all of your shipmates, and then survive yourself. Why don’t you start off by telling me all about the TDU.”

Homer sat forward and thoughtfully replied with ever-increasing intensity.

“I guess you could say it all started when I went and shot the trash. I could have sworn that Chief Cunnetto gave me the authority to do it. But he said that I messed up, and that I caused the sea to come pourin’ in. As sure as rain in spring, we all would have drowned. And when the XO asked for volunteers to try to seal the TDU, I was the first in line.

“I went under a good five feet of water just like he instructed, and even managed to locate the hand crank and close up the sprung ball valve. Yet when I went to surface, all that weird shakin’ began. And when I popped my head out of the water, and saw what was happening’ to the chief and the rest of the guys, I knew then that I was too late. I tell you, I killed every single one of them!”

Homer’s eyes were wide with horror, like they were when he was first discovered back on the submarine, and the strained tone of his voice indicated that he was rapidly approaching his breaking point. Regardless of this fact. Lieutenant Weatherford knew that it was now or never.

“Don’t stop now. Homer. No matter how painful it is for you, you’ve got to tell me just what it was that you saw when you surfaced. What happened to the rest of your shipmates?”

“They just went and disappeared, that’s what happened!” screamed Homer with tears cascading down his flushed cheeks.

“I don’t know what the hell I did, but there was the chief fading away before my very eyes. I’ll never get his cries of pain out of my ears. It was like a pack of dogs was tearin’ him apart, and then the others started in. And before I could get myself out of the water to help them, they were gone, all of them vanished, right into thin air! Oh Lord, what did I do? What did I do?”

Homer began sobbing uncontrollably and Lieutenant Weatherford was forced to break him from his trance and administer a strong intravenous sedative. This signaled the end of the session, and both Moore and Stanton left the examination room even more confused than when the session first started.

“It sounds to me like that young man is totally insane,” offered the captain as he led the way back to the ship’s bridge.

“What do you think. Commander?”

Moore offered his own opinion while following his escort down a long passageway.

“You could very well be right. Captain. Though one thing that you can be sure of, is that he certainly believes his story. I could see it in his eyes.”

“But what about all that crap about his shipmates disappearing into thin air?” countered Stanton as he stepped through a hatch and began his way up a steep stairwell.

“To me, that sounds like the wild ramblings of a crazy man.”

Moore held back his reply until both of them had completed transiting the stairs, and were crossing yet another passageway.

“Right now, the only scenario that makes any real sense is your theory that the crew abandoned ship during an emergency, and Seaman Morgan was somehow left behind. Who knows, perhaps it was all precipitated when Homer shot the trash, and the TDU began flooding.”

“But why no distress call on the part of the crew?” returned Stanton.

“And better yet, why haven’t they shown up yet?”

Unable to answer any of these questions, Moore soon found himself entering the destroyer’s bridge.

The compartment was a buzz with activity. While the captain joined his XO beside the helm, Moore walked over to the wraparound observation window.

Though fog veiled any view of the ocean, he could readily see several lookouts on the exterior catwalk, with their binocular-amplified gazes focused out into the swirling mist. “I’ve got a visual on the sub!” cried one of these lookouts, his outstretched hand pointed out to sea.

“It’s off our port bow, range twenty yards.”

The XO alertly ordered the ship’s gas turbine engines cut to a crawl, and the Hewitt crept forward to make good its rendezvous. Behind him, a pair of ensigns were discussing how the tow line was to be attached, while the radar operator continually called out the range to their floating target.

“Commander Moore,” said the captain from the helm.

“It looks like you finally got some orders.”

Moore turned, and joined Stanton beside the digital annunciator.

“This just came in for you,” added the captain, as he handed Moore a folded dispatch.

The brief directive was from his superiors in the NIS. Without any mention of his current assignment, he was merely ordered back to Washington with all due haste.

“As soon as you can manage it. Captain, I’m going to need a lift to Sasebo,” requested Moore.

“So you’re leaving us just when all the fun is about to start,” said Stanton, who looked at his watch.

“I can have a Seahawk ready on the helipad in fifteen minutes.”

Moore checked his own watch, and as he folded his orders and put them in his pocket, his hand made contact with a stringy, alien substance that had been stored there. He was genuinely surprised when he pulled out the seaweed sample that he had previously taken from the Lewis and Clark’s sail.

“Captain, before I leave you, I’d like to try to identify this seaweed sample that I found tangled in the sub’s hydroplane. Is there a set of encyclopedias on board?”

Stanton’s attention was diverted by the latest range update from the Hewitt’s radar operator, and when he answered Moore, he appeared a bit distracted.

“Check Doc’s office, Commander. It’s on the way to the helipad. And good luck to you.”

Taking this as the extent of the captain’s goodbye, Thomas Moore hurriedly left the bridge and headed aft. A series of stairwells conveyed him below deck, and with the invaluable assistance of several members of the crew, he found his way back to the sick bay.

Lieutenant Weatherford was seated at his desk, when Moore entered the office. Pushing away his paperwork, the medical officer smiled and warmly welcomed this newcomer.

“Do have a seat, Commander. Can I get you some coffee?”

“No thanks. Doc,” returned Moore, who remained standing.

“I’m afraid that I’m in a bit of a rush. You see, I’m going to be catching a flight for the mainland in another couple of minutes, and I stopped by to see if you had an encyclopedia that I could take a quick look at.”

“May I ask what you need it for?” asked the curious physician.

Moore pulled out the seaweed sample and handed it to him, adding.

“I found this hanging from the Lewis and Clark’s sail, and I’d like to know just exactly what it is.”

“That should be easy enough,” returned Weatherford, who took a moment to study the greenish brown specimen under his halogen desk lamp.

“It looks like a type of brown algae,” he said.

“These hollow, berry-like objects that branch out from the central stern, appear to be air bladders of some sort. I know I’ve seen this type of sea plant before.

Let’s check the computer data bank, and see if we can’t get you an exact genus.”

Moore looked to his watch, while the Hewitfs medical officer reached over to address his keyboard.

It took a full minute for the monitor screen to blink alive, and Moore wondered if he shouldn’t wait to continue this portion of the investigation back in Washington.

Sensing his impatience. Lieutenant Weatherford did his best to calm Moore’s anxieties, all the while efficiently addressing the keyboard.

“Hang in there, Commander. I’ve just got to access the right source, and we’ll get you that answer. While we’re waiting for it to key up, I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear that our patient is doing just fine. His pulse rate’s back to normal, and as of ten minutes ago, he was still out cold.”

“What do you think it was that caused him to have those strange delusions?” asked Moore, whose eyes never left the blank, green-tinted screen.

Weatherford thought a moment before answering.

“I don’t know, maybe Seaman Morgan’s experiencing post-traumatic shock syndrome. It’s also very apparent that he’s feeling his fair share of guilt for being the only one of his shipmates left behind.”

The computer beeped a single time, and Weatherford turned his attention back to the monitor.

“Ah, here we go.”

The screen filled with what appeared to be a page from a botany textbook. A number of detailed specimen sketches were included in this text, and Weatherford scanned several pages of the document until he found what he was looking for.

“I believe that this is our baby. What do you think, Commander?”

Moore peered over his shoulder and viewed an almost exact duplicate of the sample that he had been attempting to identify.

“That’s it, all right. What is it. Doc?”

The physician hastily read the text that accompanied the sketch and wondrously observed.

“So that’s why it looked so familiar. It’s nothing but common sargassum, otherwise known as gulfweed.”

“But that can’t be,” countered Thomas Moore.

“I thought sargassum was only found in the Atlantic Ocean.”

The medical officer looked back to his monitor screen like he was seeing a ghost. “The text concurs with you. Commander. Sargassum is indigenous to the Atlantic — which means that unless someone is playing one hell of a sick practical joke on us, we’ve got us one strange mother of a mystery on our hands!”