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.”