He next flipped through the hospital inventory forms which were neatly stapled together in a folder, then glanced through the NAVPUBMED file, which appeared complete and very up to date. Finally he opened the deep file drawers which contained the individual medical records of every man aboard the Bedford. They were inside 324 indexed folders and he leafed through a couple of them at random before, on a sudden whim, he deliberately picked out Captain Finlander’s. It was empty.
“Chief McKinley!”
McKinley came to the door of the office and braced himself against the roll of the ship. “Yes, Commander.”
“Where is Captain Finlander’s Form 28?”
The pharmacist’s mate appeared to flinch slightly and he hesitated a moment before answering. “Two or three days ago Mr. Hirschfeld took it up to the captain’s cabin, sir. He did not bring it back.”
“Any reason?”
“Well . . . not that I know of, sir.”
“Any reason why I shouldn’t ask to have it back?”
McKinley’s forehead wrinkled. “No, sir . . . not unless it has something to do with the troubles between Mr. Hirschfeld and the captain . . . That’s just a guess on my part,” he quickly added.
Porter thought for a moment, staring down at the empty folder. It was not customary to discuss such things with enlisted men, but the medical department was somewhat privileged, so he decided to ask the question preying on his mind. “What was the nature of those troubles, McKinley?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Not even any scuttlebutt?”
McKinley hesitated a fraction before saying: “Everybody likes Captain Finlander. Everybody liked Lieutenant Hirschfeld too, but . . .”
“But what?”
“But he sometimes had some queer medical ideas, sir.”
This shocked the surgeon, who was perhaps more jealous of the sanctity of the medical than of the naval profession. “That’s not exactly for a pharmacist’s mate to judge,” he snapped.
“Sorry, sir. You asked me my opinion.”
“Well, yes, and you’re entitled to it. But I’m saying I don’t think it’s a qualified opinion, that’s all.” He paused to let the man’s very evident discomfiture sink in, then asked: “How long have you been in the navy, McKinley?”
“Ever since I flunked out of pre-med at Duke, three years ago last June.”
Porter could not tell whether there was a genuine meekness or subtle arrogance in that answer. Was he confirming his incompetence or rubbing in the fact that he had, at least for a time, attended one of the finest medical colleges of the U.S.A.? Certainly it was evident that this was no ordinary enlisted man who had barely made it through high school in the lower third of his class. Even to qualify for Duke pre-med, a B+ average was necessary. Porter suddenly felt himself on the defensive with this subordinate, and before he could stop himself from saying anything so revealing, he exclaimed: “You should know better than to make irresponsible statements about a medical officer.”
The wrinkles on McKinley’s forehead rippled and vanished into an expression of blank resignation. “I am sorry, sir,” he said, leaving no doubt that he certainly was very unhappy about the whole discussion. However, it did not have to be continued, because at this moment the Bedford’s engines suddenly dropped their high whining song to a throbbing whisper. The deceleration which followed was so pronounced that the pharmacist had to grip the bulkhead to stay on his feet and the surgeon, who was seated facing aft, almost fell over backward. Without bothering with the customary bosun’s whistle, the PA system came to life with a crackling voice:
“Now hear this! Rig for silent ship! Rig for silent ship!”
Porter suspected the tactical purpose of what was going on, but, jumping at a good reason to break the tension between himself and McKinley, exclaimed with cheerful annoyance: “Now what the hell is happening?”
“Nothing to worry about, sir,” the chief pharmacist told him. “We’re going to try a maximum-effect sonar sweep of the area. When under way at high speed, the ambient noises tend to blanket our own sound gear.”
“Ah! Of course. Well, go ahead and carry on with your duties. I’ll handle Captain Finlander’s Form 28 myself.”
As the Bedford wallowed in the swells with bare steerage way and only a murmur from her turbines, the surgeon spent his time memorizing the roster of the medical department, checking through the narcotics locker and inspecting the instruments in the surgery. Finally the engines picked up their normal tone and the Bedford modified her sloppy rolling as she steadied on a course at standard cruising speed. A few minutes later the PA announced securing from General Quarters but with the retaining of all battle stations on stand-by — exactly as on a vessel patrolling under real wartime conditions. The telephone in the receiving office rang and Lieutenant Commander Porter was invited to come up on the bridge. Before leaving, he opened the file drawer of the desk, considering whether or not to bring the empty folder with him. But he decided to take up that matter later.
7.
Ben Munceford heard the recall from GQ and sat up on the lower bunk, where he had been lying for the past hour. He smoothed out some of the wrinkles and made sure the pillow was in place over Shebeona, then sat there, disgruntled and impatient, listening for any sounds which might indicate human activity. He heard the thumping of running feet, but from the deck above, and they quickly faded. The lonely isolation persisted. Then suddenly the curtain was thrust aside and he found himself looking up at a tall young man in a navy-blue duffel coat of unfamiliar cut. The insignia on his cap was also strange to Munceford, who did not recognize it until he heard the British accent.
“Hello — you must be the reporter! Or should I say correspondent?” The handsomely serious face broke into a quick smile.
Munceford half rose to his feet and accepted the handshake. “I’m Ben Munceford.”
“Glad to meet you.” His eyes took in the camouflage jacket carelessly draped over the chair, but he registered no special reaction. “I’m Peter Packer.”
The funny name startled Munceford. “I guess you’re with the British navy. How come?”
“Oh, this is a regular Noah’s Ark with all sorts of breeds of animals aboard.” He laughed and looked over his bunk, which had not been returned to its former state of perfection. “Would you prefer the lower berth, Munceford? All the same to me.”
“No, thanks. I’m okay in the upper. But I’d sure as hell like to get out of this cell and look around.”
Packer shook himself out of his duffel. He was wearing a white turtleneck sweater under it. “You’ve been stuck here all through GQ, I gather. What a bore!”
“That’s not the half of it. Lost my camera from the highline.”
“Oh, dear! Bad day all around, eh?”
Munceford winced at the “oh, dear.”
Packer smiled pleasantly and opened his locker to hang up his coat. Everything in it was stowed with neat precision. “The ECM lads sniffed the emission of a strange radar while we were refueling,” he explained. “The Russians watch us even as we watch them, you know. Only it isn’t fair, because this is our part of the playing field. Not that we don’t sneak over into theirs occasionally, of course.” He moved to the washbowl and began to lather his hands vigorously. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t react with proper indignation when we catch them over here. So we get lots of jolly GQ’s and chase each other all over the ocean. A nuisance, but keeps us on our toes.”
“I’m surprised I wasn’t just cut loose and dropped in the drink, like my camera,” Munceford observed sourly.
The British officer finished splashing water on his face and answered through the folds of a towel: “Oh, Captain Finlander was watching you, all right. I distinctly heard him say: ‘Let’s get that man across if we can. He may give us some good publicity.’ He’s got a marvelous dry wit, old Finlander!” Packer laughed at the recollection.
Munceford’s churlish expression did not change as he contem
plated the English officer. “So what did all this eager-beaver stuff accomplish?” he asked. “Did you find one of those Red trawlers lurking around making like it was fishing?”
“No. The emission was most likely from a sub which submerged long before we got within range.” He was back at his locker, taking from it a jacket with one and a half gold stripes on its sleeves and crowns embossed on the gold buttons. There was not a wrinkle in it. “We’re over a deep trench here with some currents which cause temperature layering. Makes sonar unreliable. A sub can hang deep, undetected. The Russians haven’t got any nuclear units that we know about, but they can go down a thousand feet or better, which is pretty safe in these waters.”
“In other words, they screw us.”
Packer turned and his face was deadly earnest. “Never fear, Munceford. You can tell your readers that in naval matters we’re giving the Russians a bad inferiority complex.”
“I haven’t got readers. I’m in television and radio.”
“Ah. Sounds more exciting. I like the telly.”
“What exactly is your reason for being here?”
“Communication liaison with NATO. And, of course, spying for the Admiralty on your latest type of destroyer.”
The curtain whipped aside and the door was suddenly filled by the hulking shape of Ensign Ralston, the officer who had briefly greeted, then deserted Munceford when he was first dumped aboard the Bedford. “Damn right he’s a spy!” he loudly exclaimed. “But we’re perfectly safe because the Limey navy can’t afford expensive toys like this any more. . . . You all squared away, Mr. Munceford?”
Munceford looked hopefully at this magnificent American animal who must have been a tackle on the Annapolis football team as well as in the top third of his class — which could hardly have graduated more than a year ago. He was scowling with ferocious affection at the English officer and, before Munceford could answer his question, said:
“I gather you’ve become acquainted with Left’nant Peter Packer of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.” He pronounced the name Peterpacker, all run together with emphasis on the p’s. “He’s not only a very funny chap, but has a very funny name too. The ship’s company gets knocked out every time it’s called over the PA.”
Lieutenant Packer was calmly looking himself over in the tiny mirror. “That’s all right, chaps,” he said. “I have a couple of middle initials in reserve for the day when I make flag rank. Admiral Sir P. L. M. Packer sounds dignified enough.”
“The day you make admiral, Pete, your navy will be down to one ceremonial barge.”
“Rowed by Yankee ensigns!” Packer quickly injected.
The two officers laughed at each other and Munceford emerged out of his grouch to join in the mirth. “I’ve got to remember to tape some of you guys’ dialogue,” he told them.
“Any time,” the ensign agreed. “But I want you to understand that I write all of Peterpacker’s funny lines for him. . . . Keeerist! What’s this?” He stepped into the cabin and picked up Munceford’s camouflage jacket off the chair, holding it between thumb and forefinger as if it were not entirely sanitary, and eying the profusion of badges and patches with amazement. Spotting the fur cap, he picked it up too, examined it and, removing his own, put it on his close-cropped blond head. “Keeerist!” he exclaimed again, staring at himself in the mirror. “What is it?”
Packer shrugged. “Anybody can see it’s the official uniform of an American war correspondent.”
Munceford was used to taking some kidding about his dress and really enjoyed the attention he derived from it. He had even once worn it up to the production offices of CBS News, a very conforming and dignified place of business. But he seldom had received the hilarious reaction which Ensign Ralston now gave him.
“It’s pure crazy!” he boomed in delight, draping the jacket across his own enormous chest. “Crazy as hell! Gee, welcome aboard, Mr. Munceford, and join the club. We’re all crazy aboard the Bedford, you know. So certified by our former medical officer. So you’ll fit in perfectly. Here! Put this outfit on, please! I’ve got to see you in it.”
Munceford laughed and obliged him, creating a terrible jam in the tiny cabin as he stood up in it together with the giant ensign and tall lieutenant. When he had the jacket on, Ralston transferred the cap to his head, then stepped back and examined him with more curiosity than hilarity.
“You cruise on a pigboat?” he asked, indicating the submariner’s insignia.
“Only for a week out of Key West,” Munceford admitted. “Just an ordinary diesel rig. I’m bucking for an assignment on a nuke, though.”
“And you’ve jumped with the paratroops too?” Ralston asked, pointing at the patch of the 82nd Airborne Division.
“Yes — I followed a pair of recruits through jump school and took the course myself to get the feel of what they went through.”
Ralston’s rugged face showed genuine admiration. “You really believe in living your stories, don’t you.”
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Steward’s Mate Collins, who was bringing in Munceford’s camera case and duffel bag. The squeeze in the cabin became intolerable and Ralston took Munceford by the arm, dragging him out into the passageway. “I actually came down to escort you to the bridge and meet our skipper. He’ll love that outfit of yours. Come on, Mr. Munceford.”
“Call me Ben,” Munceford told him, now feeling almost completely cheered up. Maybe he could scrounge a camera from somebody aboard. This ensign was all right and the Englishman was not really too bad. But, remembering Lieutenant Commander Porter’s ominous hints about the captain, he asked: “What is this Finlander like?” as he followed Ralston down the narrow passageway.
The ensign made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, but did not answer. They went through a watertight door and up a companionway to the next deck. Then another long, cramped passage lit only by the red blackout lights. The low ceiling was crammed with pipes and conduits, the gray metal walls sporadically broken by closed doors. They had not met a single man anywhere, so far.
“Where the heck are the three-hundred-odd people who are supposed to be on this ship?” Munceford asked.
Ralston’s rolling gait, which balanced perfectly with the motions of the destroyer, did not falter in its steady progress. “On stand-by battle stations,” he answered softly over his shoulder. “Or at work. Or sacked out.” His former boyishly boisterous manner seemed to have turned completely businesslike.
The ensign turned a corner and suddenly vanished upward. Munceford blinked, then noticed a ladder leading vertically up a shaft containing the same red glow as the passageways; Ralston’s silhouette was springing catlike up the steel rungs. Moving slower and more cautiously, he followed. The ladder passed a small recess, or landing, containing a closed metal door on which was stenciled the word RESTRICTED in large red letters; above it a small blue bulb burned with a faint light. “What’s in there?” Munceford asked.
“CIC,” Ralston’s answer carne down, barely audible as he continued climbing up the shaft. They were obviously going to some place on a higher level, but Munceford had lost all sense of direction and was completely confused. The shaft ended in an open hatch and he shot past the last rungs without touching them as the ensign reached down and boosted him up with an iron grip on his arm.
He found himself deposited in a large area which was not even lit by the red blackout lights. It was almost totally dark, much colder, and he immediately sensed that it was occupied by a number of men. As his eyes adjusted themselves, he made out their shadowy shapes and noticed the silhouette of one which stood out more clearly against a pale green glow emanating from what he recognized to be a binnacle and gyrocompass. So this had to be the wheelhouse and although it was only a few minutes past four, it was already shrouded by a black night. Except for a faint pinging sound which Munceford identified as sonar, and the soft moaning of the wind sweeping the bridge outside, a complete silence prevailed. The effect was eerie and tens
e.
Munceford took a couple of cautious steps, then stopped because the grip on his arm was gone and he lost Ensign Ralston among the other shadowy figures. As he stood there, the door to the port wing of the bridge opened and for a brief moment the wheelhouse was filled with the sound of sea and the ice-cold draft of salt air; then the door rolled shut on silent runners. A low voice said: “Cover is ten-ten again, sir. No sight possible.” There followed a subdued conversation in which Munceford could not catch a single word. Somebody passed very close to him and as he turned his head to follow their movement, he noticed a radar scanner, its sweeper revolving with a cold phosphorescent fire. Behind him there were the green and red and amber pinpricks of some kind of control panel.
Beyond the helmsman, the glass of windows glistened faintly and Munceford was taking a tentative step in their direction when the strong grip on his arm returned and he found himself led off in the opposite direction. A curtain was swept aside and he suddenly found himself in the same soft red light which seemed to prevail throughout most of the ship. Ensign Ralston had him in tow again and was introducing him to an officer bent over a chart.
“Sir, this is our guest, Mr. Ben Munceford.”
“How are you, Captain?”
The officer shook his head. “I’m not the captain. I’m the exec, Commander Allison. Captain Finlander apologizes for delaying in meeting you, but he and Commander Porter went down to his cabin on some business. He will see you a little later. In the meanwhile, I hope to make you feel at home.”
The Bedford Incident Page 5
