Deadly Apparition

by G. Ernest Smith

  “What do you think we should do with these guys?” asked Taylor.

  “Put a fish into that barge! Send her to the bottom,” said someone over the command circuit. Sounded like Chief Brown.

  There was some agreement. “Damn right!” “Let’s do it!”

  “No,” said Taylor. “They don’t represent a threat any more.” He removed his shades and blew a piece of lint out of them. He turned to McConnell and asked, “What do you think, Miss McConnell?”

  “I think they should answer for what they did. They fired on us and they hurt Don Castillo.”

  “True. They’ve violated international maritime law and should answer to the authorities. I’d like to throw a line on that thing and tow it back to base, but I doubt they would hold still for it. There would probably be more bloodshed.” Taylor stood up and arched his back, stretching his tall frame. “Maria, get a lot of pictures of that thing and save the video of the attack on us. I have a feeling authorities will want to review it after we file our complaint.”

  “Aye, sir. Archiving today’s video, and we’ll also get some HD stills of it.”

  “I’d like to call in medical help for Don Castillo and the injured men over there, but we still can’t get anyone on radio.” Taylor thought it over before finally saying, “They don’t seem to have much fight left in them, so I’m going to send an armed medical team back over there with a couple corpsman to patch up their wounded. It’s the least we can do. They’re drifting toward the Scottish shore, aren’t they, Eric?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Tanaka. “If the wind holds, they should be there in about fourteen hours.”

  “Good,” said Taylor. “They can get their injured off and call for help when they get there.”

  When they had recovered their medical team, Kansas backed away from the galleon and crew members lowered the big Browning down into the ship along with the ammo cases. The inflatable was deflated once again and stowed below decks, and when the ship was buttoned up tight, it submerged.

  • • •

  The man the crew called Doc was first class corpsman George Aultman. He was the head of their medical staff. He performed first aid and dispensed pills mostly. He could stitch up wounds and set broken legs, but that was about it. Anything else had to be done at a Naval hospital. The crew was lucky to have him, however, because he wanted to be a surgeon and had finished his pre-med at Virginia Commonwealth. When he examined Castillo, he knew at once that Castillo needed blood. He knew the commander had AB positive blood so it shouldn’t be hard finding a match and there were plenty of willing donors. He set him up in Kansas’s small two bed dispensary.

  When Taylor looked in on Castillo, he was hooked up to a crewman being transfused.

  “How do you feel?” asked Taylor.

  “How do I look?” rasped Castillo.

  Castillo had a puffy plum colored face and his left eye was swollen shut. He had bandages across his chest and one on his left hand. “Like you lost an argument with a piece of agricultural equipment.”

  Castillo chuckled slightly, then winced at the pain it caused him. “What did you do to the galleon?”

  “We let them go. The authorities should be able to find them easily enough. A ship like that can’t hide.”

  “Oh.” Castillo looked disappointed.

  Taylor decided he needed some cheering up. “But not before we kicked their asses!”

  “Really?”

  “Hell yeh! Well, we decided we had to get you back, so we dug out all the SEAL’s weapons and put together a team. Did you know they have a 50 caliber?”

  Castillo brightened. “Really?”

  • • •

  Doc Aultman’s copper eyebrows knitted as he talked to a concerned Susan Lambert and Crystal McConnell.

  “None of his injuries are life threatening. His face has substantial bruising. He has knife wounds and severe burns on his chest and two knife wounds to his left hand. Also the two smallest fingers on his left hand were amputated. These wounds are all designed to inflict pain, not kill, but he still might’ve died from the blood loss and shock.”

  “Oh my God!” said an appalled Lambert. “Why would someone do this?”

  “Don’t know.” Aultman stroked his copper mustache. “He’s stable now. We’ve had more than enough blood donors come forward. That was my biggest concern. His loss of blood. We’ll transfer him to the infirmary at Clyde, but I think he’ll make a full recovery.”

  • • •

  “How many dead?” asked a troubled Castillo.

  “About ten, I estimate,” said Taylor. “And another six wounded. I sent them some medical assistance. Corpsman Bailey and Corpsman-in-training Rouse patched them up as best they could and administered some pain killers. They thought they would last long enough to make it to a hospital. I didn’t expect a thank you. They seemed very…distant.”

  “I don’t think I was worth all those lives,” said Castillo quietly.

  Taylor said nothing. Castillo was different. He had gone through a lot in the few hours he was in the custody of those mad men.

  Doc Aultman swept in and disconnected the crewman laying in the adjoining bed. “You’re done, Teddy!” The sailor sat up and rolled down his right sleeve. “I think you’re out of the woods now, skipper.”

  “Thanks,” said Castillo, reaching out and shaking the smiling sailor’s hand.

  “Glad to do it, sir!” The man replaced his ball cap and exited.

  “I owe you all so much.” Castillo’s one good eye was abruptly very wet and he had to wipe away a tear.

  “You’d do the same for any one of us,” said Susan Lambert from the doorway. Her eyes were wet too and her lips were trembling. Crystal McConnell was standing directly behind her, tall enough to see easily over Lambert’s shoulder.

  “Hey!” said Castillo, waving with his good hand. “I’m in your debt. You’re quite the pair.”

  “We just did a small part. It was a team effort.”

  “That’s not what I heard. From now on I’m going to call you Rambo and Crystal, Annie Oakley!”

  They both chuckled softly, but cast sad glances at the wreck lying in the sick bed. “How are you doing?” asked Lambert.

  “I hurt, but the doc has me on some pretty strong pain killers to take the edge off it. If I say something stupid, blame it on the drugs.” He stopped, grimmaced and shifted his body in the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position. “I’m not fit to command that’s for sure, but I’m not worried. Mr. Taylor’s more than up to the task.”

  “I hope so,” chuckled Taylor. “But if I say something stupid, what can I blame it on?”

  “Too many dead brain cells from all your partying,” smiled Castillo.

  “He’s gonna be okay,” said Taylor.

  • • •

  Castillo rested in the ship’s small infirmary and caught up on his reading. He had a NERD ereader that allowed him to connect to the ship’s ebook library, which was extensive. NERD stood for Navy Ereader Device and the ebook library was still an experimental program. But with all the drugs in his system, Castillo found it hard to concentrate. He drifted off and dreamed of his girls, running down the beach and laughing in Virginia.

  He didn’t know how long he had been asleep when he awoke. He knew immediately Kansas was surfaced by the gentle rocking. One of the corpsmen brought him a bowl of corn chowder and he discovered he was hungrier than he thought. The chowder was excellent! There was a knock on the door frame. He looked up to see Taylor looming there.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Better, I think.”

  “I’ve run into a problem. We’re inside the firth now and surfaced, but we still can’t raise anyone. I’m reluctant to navigate the firth without a harbor pilot.” There was angst in Taylor’s eyes.

  “How much daylight do we have left?”

  “Maybe an hour.”

  “What do the Brits have to say?”

  “Brits?”


  “The two British officers we have aboard?”

  A light came on in Taylor’s face. “I forgot about them. What were their names?”

  “One was named…uh…” Damn these drugs, thought Castillo. “Gas…something…Gastmeyer, I think. Yes, a commander.”

  “Good enough!” Taylor picked up the receiver next to Castillo’s bed, dialed to the ship’s general announce system and spoke:

  Would Commander Gastmeyer please report to the infirmary. Commander Gastmeyer please report to the infirmary.

  He hung up and they waited.

  Soon a young woman appeared in the doorway. “You wish to see me, sir?” Taylor and Castillo both stared at her. She had a pretty freckled face and mid length straight brown hair with bangs that fit her head like a bronze helmet. She appeared to be about 25, which both men knew was impossible. She was a full commander.

  “Yes,” said Taylor. “Are you or your companion familiar with the firth? And would you recommend navigating it in the dark?”

  She blinked at him, then said, “I take it you weren’t able to reach harbor control and contact a pilot.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I would not recommend trying to navigate the firth at night. You might ask my companion, Captain Simms.”

  “Could you go get him for us?” asked Castillo. “Thank you.”

  She disappeared and returned a short time later trailing a British captain. Castillo had seen him before in the control room. He always looked like he was about to deliver bad news. He had kind of a permanent sour look on his face with bushy gray eyebrows and a mouth that turned down at the corners.

  “Can I be of help?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” replied Taylor. “We were thinking of proceeding in the dark up the firth and to Clyde without a harbor pilot. Do you think you could serve in that capacity?”

  “Um…” He considered it. “Sure! I know these waters, and I used to sail here as a boy. It’s not impossible.”

  “Good!” said Taylor.

  Castillo studied them both. What is it with the British? They drive on the wrong side of the road, name tags on their uniforms are backed in white instead of black. And what’s with the shoulder epaulets? They put them on everything. Even their informal service shirts.

  • • •

  They stood in a cold pouring rain and fading light squinting through binoculars at the horizon. Lieutenant Commander Mason Taylor, U.S. Navy, Commander Lauren Gastmeyer, Her Majesty’s Royal British Navy, and Captain Miles Simms, also of Her Majesty’s Royal British Navy. They wore black rain slickers and hats as they stood in the bridge well at the top of Kansas’s sail. They were traveling up the Firth of Clyde at 6 knots and Simms was perplexed. Taylor could see it in his eyes and his tense face.

  “I don’t understand,” said Simms.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Taylor.

  “Where are the channel markers? They should be right here. One red and one green.”

  “Are we in the right place?” asked Taylor.

  “I’m pretty sure we are.” Simms turned left and put the glasses to his eyes. “Yes, that’s Little Cumbrae, isn’t it, Gastmeyer?”

  “Yes,” said Gastmeyer. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the strumming of the heavy rain against Kansas’s metal surfaces. She swiped water away from her eyes before bringing the glasses up again. “But I don’t see the Clydeport Hunterson terminal. It should be right here.”

  “What’s that?” asked Taylor.

  “A rather large shipping terminal where coal carriers load,” replied Gastmeyer. “It’s hard to miss!”

  “Something’s wrong,” said Simms. “We should be able to see the city of Millport dead ahead.”

  “Alright,” said Taylor, sighing. “Without a harbor pilot and navigational aids, I think the best thing to do would be to keep station right here and try it in the morning. What do you think, Captain Simms?”

  “I concur.” Taylor could tell by their faces Simms and Gastmeyer were very troubled by what they were seeing.

  The following morning the skies were clear and an apricot sun was breaking over the eastern hills lining the firth. After breakfast, the three climbed up to the sail on Kansas. Taylor had to chase some of the crewmen below: it was a little crowded. But he could use all the help he could get, so crowded into the sail’s bridge well was himself, Simms, Gastmeyer, Tanaka and Chief Brown. In the watch’s well was Lambert and McConnell. Down below in the control room were about fifty people watching the camera screens.

  Taylor heard Lieutenant Guerrero’s voice in his ear. “According to our charts and radar, we’re at the mouth of Clyde Chanel at the Little Cumbrae Elbow. We’re ready down here, sir.”

  “Still no word from harbor control?”

  “No, sir. Nothing.”

  “Alright, Maria,” said Taylor. “Lets make turns for 6 knots. I want to go slow with this.”

  “Aye, sir,” replied Guerrero. “6 knots.”

  Taylor turned over control of Kansas to Captain Simms who expertly made course corrections to maneuver the ship into the Clyde Channel and then head north toward Gare Loch. Simms and Gastmeyer grew increasingly alarmed at the changes they were seeing. There were no roads, no towns, only a few buildings. They passed a few small sailing vessels, the crews of which stared at them in open-mouthed awe as if they were seeing a sea monster straight out of a nightmare.

  “Hey,” said Lambert. “A few days ago, there was a cell tower there! Remember, Crystal? There was a boy playing with his dog beneath it.”

  “Are you sure it was here?” asked McConnell. “These hills all look alike.”

  “I’m sure. Remember the stone house that was there before that outcropping of rock?”

  Crystal McConnell frowned and said, “I think you’re right.” She looked up channel and added, “How do you explain it?”

  “I can’t.”

  Simms called out landmarks as they passed them: Holy Loch, Cloch Point, Gallow Hill, Rosneath Point. But it was with increasing dread that they approached the Clyde Naval Base. They were afraid of what they would find…or not find. They proceeded up Gare Loch until they arrived at the proper place and stopped.

  The Clyde Naval Base was not there!

  No one spoke. They only stared in disbelief. The atmosphere in the control room was the same. Disbelief! Guerrero double checked her charts and the radar repeater. They were at the correct location, there was no doubt. Guerrero’s logical mind wanted an explanation, but what could explain the disappearance of a burgeoning British Naval Base? She stared at the camera screens showing the rolling green hills. It was devoid of any activity. There were only grass-covered hills, and outcroppings of gray rock dappled with white bird droppings and at the water’s edge, craggy trees.

  “Okay, Maria,” said Taylor. “Let’s shut down and go to station-keeping here.”

  “Aye, sir. Engaging station-keeping.” The submarine stopped its forward motion and held position in the middle of the loch.

  • • •

  Castillo shook his head in disbelief. “Nothing?”

  “Nothing,” affirmed Taylor. He sat down heavily in a chair at Castillo’s bedside. “I can’t explain it, Don. Are we all mad?”

  Castillo stared at a spot on the wall and said nothing. He was in deep thought.

  “No sign of Clyde…or any other sign of civilization.” Taylor slouched as if a weight had descended on his shoulders.

  “Did you have time to verify the star shift Mr. Bloomberg pointed out to us?”

  “Yes,” replied Taylor. “I found several good astronomy books in the ebook library and I think Norm Bloomberg knows what he’s talking about. The star drift, the Polaris pointer stars, all of it. Something’s happened, Don. It’s in the heavens.”

  A chill went through Castillo. “Could you go get Bloomberg? I’d like to talk to him.”

  “I think Doc Aultman has ordered him to stay off his feet. He has a blown right knee.”

  “Oh! I
forgot. Okay, we’ll go see him then.” Castillo pulled out his IV, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

  “Should you be up?” asked Taylor.

  “My legs work fine. Besides I’m tired of laying here.”

  Castillo stood and steadied himself, gripping the door frame until his dizziness passed. Castillo and Taylor went to Norm Bloomberg’s stateroom. They found him laying in bed on his back reading. His trousers had only one pant leg. The right one had been cut away to expose his right knee. It was very inflamed and swollen. When he saw Castillo and Taylor, he put down his ereader and propped himself up on an elbow. “Well, hello, gentlemen! I would invite you both to sit, but I only have one chair. Sorry. Not much room in here. How are you feeling, sir?”

  “Better, thank you,” answered Castillo. “How’s the knee?”

  “It’s killing me. I was supposed to have surgery in Glasgow, but I think that possibility has slipped away if reports I’m hearing are correct.”

  “You’ve heard?”

  “Yes, Susan told me. I was afraid of this.” He pushed his glasses up his nose with a single finger.

  “If you understand what’s going on,” said Castillo, “I would appreciate an explanation.”

  “Certainly,” said Bloomberg, tenting his hands. “Indulge me first. You had direct contact with the galleon crew. Do you think they were acting?”

  “Acting?”

  “Yes, you know, were they re-enactors?” Bloomberg squinted, seeming to focus completely on Castillo, awaiting his answer.

  Castillo took a breath and said, “Well, if they were, they were damned convincing.”

  “I’ve watched the video recordings several times, and I can only come to one conclusion.” His mouth worked to form the exact words. “The crewmen looked like scarecrows. They were pale, malnourished and some of them had open sores. The same kind of thing you would see in sailors of 400 years ago, before refrigeration and modern medicine. On Kansas we dine grandly, but 400 years ago it was salt beef and hard tack. Maggots and rats infested the food stores. They often got dysentery from their water stores because they went bad. That’s one reason they drank grog. Many sailors in those days were in terrible shape. They would look exactly like those men you saw on the galleon. Now, did you see the weapons they were using?”