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!”