Keeler grinned. “Petty Officer Third Ben Keeler, Lieutenant Benjamin Keeler, same fellow. ONI put me in that EM’s uniform to check out the New Deep Ones Society. They were pretty worried at one point, those kids were getting too close to the truth and the Naval Intelligence wanted them steered off. That was my job. I still attend their meetings, by the way. If you ever want to come by again, I’d love some moral support. Just don’t blow my cover.”
“All right,” Marston smiled. “I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with Naval Intelligence.”
“And they’re just a bunch of harmless eccentrics, you know,” Keeler added. He walked around the desk and put his arm on Marston’s shoulders. “Take a walk with me, Dr. Marston. There are some things you need to see, and then some questions I’ll want to ask you.”
Marston acceded, determined not to show the pain that he knew he was in for. At Keeler’s side he made his way along the pier. A freighter stood in the middle of Suisun Bay, black smoke pouring from its stacks. It would clear the Golden Gate before noon, Marston knew, en route to the soldiers and marines fighting the Japanese in the Pacific. An empty ship had already taken the place of the freighter on one side of the pier, while another, opposite it, received pallets and crates of munitions.
As they moved past work gangs Keeler took salutes from ensigns and petty officers supervising the stevedores. The latter continued to work as Marston and Keeler passed.
At the end of the pier they halted. A breeze had kicked up and the surface of Suisun Bay had turned choppy.
Marston gestured back toward the work gangs they had passed. “All of the stevedores are Negroes, all of the officers are white,” he commented. The question was implicit.
“That’s Navy policy,” Keeler said. “Not very long ago the Navy was trying to get rid of all its Negroes, even though they were just mess-men and laundry workers. Filipinos make better workers. But there’s too much pressure from Washington, finally the service gave in. And these coloured stevedores are pretty good, as long as you keep a close eye on them.”
They turned to face the buildings of Port Chicago. “What we’re concerned about, Del, is a very special cargo that we’re going to ship out this month.”
Marston nodded, then waited for Keeler to continue.
“It’s a very special bomb. It’s coming in by train next week, and Captain Kinne wanted to get your help in handling it.”
Marston shook his head. “What do I know about bombs?”
“Oh, we have plenty of people who know about bombs,” Keeler grinned. “We need somebody who knows hydrology and submarine geology to keep this baby safe.”
“What is it, something bigger than the ones LeMay is dropping on Japan? The closer we get to the home islands, the easier it’s’ going to be to hit ’em.”
“No,” Keeeler shook his head. “This is something different. Look, everybody knows that we’re close to finishing off the European war. Ike took a big risk with the Normandy landings but that was a big success and Patton and Montgomery are rolling through France. Italy’s out of the game. And the Russians are closing in on the Nazis from the East. It’s just a matter of time now.”
“And in the Pacific, too, don’t you agree, Benjamin?”
“But we’re taking terrible losses. The President is up for reelection this November and those casualties are going to hurt him. He’s put pressure on the War Department and the Navy Department to give him this bigger, better bomb. We figure once we drop a couple of these babies on Japan, maybe one on Tokyo and one on Kobe, even the fanatical Nips will cave in. Washington doesn’t want to have to invade the home islands, don’t you see. That’s what this is all about, Del.”
There was a moment of silence as a zephyr swept in from the Bay, bringing the smell of brine and brackish waters with it. Then the wind shifted and the clatter of tools, the sound of voices, the roar of donkey engines came to them from the ships and the railroad cars.
“And there’s another thing,” Keeler added. “You know Uncle Sam didn’t much care for the Bolshies when they first took over Russia twenty-five years ago. President Wilson even sent some troops over there. The government doesn’t like to talk about that any more now that Joe Stalin is our buddy but you know we took sides in their civil war and we picked a loser.”
“That was a long time ago,” Marston put in.
The combination of the choppy Bay and the increasingly brisk breeze whipped up a spray of salt-flavoured water that pelted onto the pier and onto Keeler and Marston. Keeler pulled a bandanna from his uniform trousers pocket and wiped his face, frowning. Marston licked his lips. He felt hugely refreshed.
“The US wouldn’t even recognise the new government in Russia until Roosevelt came in, and there are still a lot of powerful men in Washington who don’t trust Stalin and his gang. They want to get this new bomb and use it before the war is over as a warning to the Reds not to get too big for their britches.”
He hooked his arm through Marston’s and the two men strolled back along the pier, returning finally to Keeler’s office. Keeler said, “Will you get to work on this, Del? Captain Kinne has already worked it out with his counterparts, you’ll be excused from your other duties until the special bomb is safely out on the ocean, on its way to a bomber base in the islands. We need your analysis and your recommendations about the seabed and waters from here to the Farralons. And we need your report before that ship moves. The bomb is coming in next week, and we need to get it out of here on the Quinalt Victory. Our Negroes will be working on the Bryan most of the time, that will serve as cover for the bomb going out on the Quinalt.”
Keeler opened a safe and extracted a pass for Marston. “This will get you anywhere on the base,” he said. “Guard it, Del, it could be dangerous if it got away from you.”
Marston accepted the pass, slipped it into his pocket and left.
* * *
He spent the next few days alternating between Port Chicago and the University campus in Berkeley, studying the physical layout at Suisun Bay and existing charts and studies of the area. He could hardly hold himself back from examining the seabed in person, but he resisted the temptation until he felt ready.
Then he drove from Berkeley to Port Chicago after dark, parked the Cord, and walked out to the pier. The work here went on around the clock, seven days a week. There was no way he could use the pier without being observed, so he informed the young officer supervising the loading work of his intentions.
At the end of the pier he left his clothing, climbed down a ladder, and slipped into the water.
The Bay water was cold and dark and as it welcomed him he felt the aches leave his body and limbs. He had always been a strong swimmer; now, the webbing between his fingers and between his toes turned him into a virtual amphibian. His eyes, too, had developed a sensitivity that permitted him to manoeuvre in the dark, brackish water.
He spotted a huge dark-green crab scuttling toward a large rock on the seabed. The creature didn’t have a chance. Marston’s new, powerful jaw and strong, triangular teeth crunched through its shell. The living meat was sweet and the juices of the crab were more delicious than the finest liquor.
Marston saw human-like forms swimming nearby and pursued them. Ever since his encounter with the dead creature he had wondered about these beings. They might be a species of giant batrachian hitherto unknown to science, far larger than any recorded frog or toad; perhaps they were survivors of a species of amphibian that had evolved aeons ago only to disappear from most of the world.
He swam after them and they permitted him to approach them but not to establish direct contact. They swam with the current created by the waters of the Sacramento River as it emptied into Suisun Bay. They looked back from time to time as if to encourage Marston to follow them, but the speed and stamina with which they swam far exceeded even his enhanced abilities.