Ghostboat Read Online Free Page B

real fast, but their own people told them to hang around. If the sub isn’t doing anything—if she’s just noodling—they figure it’s better not to get a rise out of her. You know, sort of like standing real still on top of a coiled snake. No fast moves.”
    “Very sharp, the Japanese.”
    “Yes, sir. And mad. Jesus, they must have hauled half the State Department out of bed at two a.m. Thought we were getting even for Pearl Harbor all over again.”
    Frank smiled and drew a mental picture of a shipload of astonished Japanese officers and crewmen, gaping as a submarine swept up out of the water off their bow and settled down in their path... Whoever was skipper of that sub had better get his affairs in order. There was bound to be a Naval Court of Inquiry in his near future.
    “Where’s Diminsky?” asked Frank.
    “Golf. The whole weekend.”
    Frank nodded absently. What did he expect? The exalted presence? Assistant Chief of the NIS striding purposefully through the door at three in the morning, setting his jaw, and barking, “What the fuck is going on?” Nope. Not Diminsky. Off to the links, old boy. Round of golf, eh what?
    That left Ed Frank, the highest-ranking available Submarine Force Officer attached to the NIS at administrative level.
    “Well, Lieutenant, seeing that I’m in charge of this mess, I guess I should delegate a little work, right?”
    Cook’s smile faded.
    “Get hold of ComSubPac and have them run a complete check on all fleet boats in that area. I don’t care if they can guarantee that sub isn’t theirs. Have them check it through again. Then get back to Defense Intelligence Command. We want priority clearances and access to current fleet disposition—I want to know where every goddamned submarine in the entire fleet was sitting at exactly 0134 hours this morning. If this is somebody’s idea of a joke...”
    Cook nodded and got up quickly. He went into the next office, and Frank could hear his muffled voice on the phone. Frank sat back, sipped at the terrible coffee, and rolled the telex information over in his mind. An American submarine defies all general orders for patrol operation and surfaces directly in the path of foreign shipping in international waters. Not necessarily a threat—it could be only a joke. Poor timing, at the very least. But why? And what about the markings?
    Thirty minutes later, an ensign walked in and stopped to announce that wirephotos had just arrived and were being processed, and would everybody please meet in the enlarging room on the second floor in fifteen minutes?
    Frank was poised over a chart of the Pacific Ocean. He was studying in particular the area six hundred miles northwest of Pearl.
    He went down to the second floor with Cook, who had managed to reach everybody by phone.
    “ComSubPac will clear the information with DOD, and we can get it within two hours. But they’ve already double-checked. There are no fleet boats of any sort, not even nukes, in that general area. They are now contacting all boats on patrol, and they’ll let us know if anybody’s fibbing.”
    “What about sending out a boarding party?”
    “Defense Command wants to deploy a few oceangoing tugs, ATFs, and they’re coordinating with SubPac.”
    “Let’s insist”
    “I did. And I used your name.”
    “You get smarter every minute, Cook.”
    “Yessir.”
    “But if I get transferred to the Sahara, you’re going as my Exec.”
    “Be happy to, sir. I’m a big desert freak.”
    Frank enjoyed the banter. It always took him a while to warm up in the morning, but once he got going he and Cook could toss barbs like footballs all day long.
    Cook turned on his way out. “By the way, old Walters wants a look at those photos. I told him to meet us there.”
    “Walters? The guy from the sub force records division? Who called him?”
    “I did. Who knows? He might recognize the bloody thing.”
    Frank and Cook entered a paneled projection room. Another ensign was setting up