“We have everything, sir,” Keeler furnished.
“All right. Let’s go over the complete plan again,” The admiral growled. “There must be no slip-ups, I can’t emphasise that too much.”
They spent the rest of the day going over the details of unloading the special bomb from its railroad car and loading it into the hold of the Quinalt Victory without a hitch. A squad of white-jacketed mess-men served coffee and rolls at mid-morning and a full meal at noon. No one left the meeting for any reason. Marston was able to pass up the coffee and rolls but by lunchtime he was forced to consume a few sips of beverage and half a sandwich. This disgusted him.
When the meeting ended he drove into Port Chicago. He had seen the town fleetingly each day but today for the first time he parked his Cord and walked through the streets. He found a motion picture theatre and purchased a ticket. They were running a long program, the dramatic film Lifeboat with Tallulah Bankhead and Canada Lee, the lightweight Bathing Beauty with Esther Williams, a newsreel and a chapter of “Crash” Corrigan’s old serial, Undersea Kingdom.
Once inside he settled into a seat and unlaced his shoes, finding a modicum of relief for his aching feet. He leaned back and studied the neon-ringed clock mounted high on one wall of the auditorium. Most of the patrons were servicemen in uniform, whiling away their off-duty hours. None of them were coloured, of course. Negroes were excluded from the theatre and from the town’s plain restaurants. They had to find their own entertainment, or make it.
Marston ignored the images on the screen and closed his eyes. Images of undersea life swam through his mind, the peace and serenity of the submarine world contrasting with the pain and violence that dominated the world of the land-dwellers.
After a while he opened his eyes and glanced at the illuminated clock-face. Even in the long July evening, darkness would have fallen by now.
He drove back to the naval base, showed his pass to the gate-guard, and parked as near to the water’s edge as he could. He carefully locked the Cord and walked to the base of the pier. A special guard had been placed there, and even Marston’s special pass could not gain him access to the pier.
Instead he walked back to his car, unlocked the door and climbed inside. He disrobed, left the car again, and walked undiscovered to the edge of the Bay. He slipped into the Bay and swam away from the shore.
He made his way to the cold, flowing water that he knew came from the Sacramento River. The river water had less flavour than the Bay water. With a start Marston realised that he had never experienced the richness of the Pacific. He turned to swim with the current. His anticipation of the new experience filled him with an almost sexual excitement.
When he reached the submarine net at the mouth of San Francisco Bay he paused briefly, then pulled himself through it into the ocean. He was terrified but soon calmed himself. He had undergone a rite of passage, he felt, had experienced a sea change. He would explore farther in later days, he decided, but for now he felt emotionally drained and physically exhausted.
He turned and began the long swim back to Suisun Bay.
He had seen fewer of the human-like creatures than usual on this night, but as he approached Port Chicago they became more numerous. He was beginning to learn their language and felt eager to converse with them, find out who or what they were, but they kept their distance from him this night, and instead of joining them he continued on his solitary way.
In time he recognised the submerged landmarks that told him he was at his destination. He had been swimming along the sea bottom, insulated by fathoms of brackish water from the world of men, immune from the noisome companionship of air breathers and land dwellers. He rose slowly toward the top of the water. He was shocked as he breached to realise that he had spent the entire night under water. The brilliant sun now blasted down from a bright blue sky.
He made his way to his Cord, drove home and slept around the clock. He awoke Sunday morning and spent the day in seclusion, sustaining himself with alcohol and music. After dark he made his way to the nearby stream and stood in it, letting its waters soothe his feet. He went home and slept, dreaming once more of an undersea city, and rose late on Monday. He hadn’t realised how far he had swum on Friday night, or how exhausted the effort had left him. Still, the experience had been an exhilarating one and he looked forward to spending even more time beneath the surface, to travelling farther into the ocean.
When he reached Port Chicago on Monday the transfer of the bomb from railroad freight car to the hold of Quinalt Victory was well under way. Marston’s expertise had been of immense value, he would be told. He encountered Captain Kinne himself on the pier and the usually stern Kinne recognised him and thanked him for his assistance.
Powerful electric vapour-lights had been rigged to illuminate the operation once the sun had set and their peculiar glare gave the faces of the men on the pier, both white and coloured, a ghostly look.
Marston walked to the end of the pier. When he turned back toward the centre of activity he saw that all eyes were fixed on the delicate work at the Quinalt Victory. He checked his wristwatch and saw that it was ten o’clock. Bright moonlight was reflected off the surface of the Bay.
Instead of climbing down the ladder to the water’s surface, Marston left his clothing in its usual neat pile, stood on the edge of the pier, and dived into the Bay. He swam to the seabed, taking delicious water in and passing it through his gills, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the faint phosphorescence that provided illumination in this world.
He turned to observe the hull of the Quinalt Victory. He was astonished at the number of human-like forms moving around the ship, gesturing meaningfully to one another, attaching something, something, to the metal hull of the Quinalt Victory.
Marston swam toward the ship, curious as to what the creatures were doing. This was the first time he had seen them using anything that looked like machinery. As he drew closer several of the creatures turned and swam toward him. As they approached he realised that they were like him in every way. The wide mouth and triangular teeth, the splayed limbs, the webbed hands and feet, the hooked claws, the oversized eyes and flattened noses.
How had he managed to pass among men until now? How had his alienness gone undetected? The scarf and dark glasses had helped but surely he would be caught out soon if he tried to continue his masquerade as human. He raised a hand and gestured, showing these aquatic beings that he was one of them, telling them in their own language, a language which he was just beginning to comprehend, that he was not a human, not a land-dweller.
He was not the enemy.
He was shocked by a brilliant flash from the Quinalt Victory, a glare that seemed as bright as the sun. Marston felt a shock wave, felt its unimaginable, crushing pressure as it reached him. Then, even before he could react, there was a second flash, this one brighter than a thousand suns, and a second shock wave infinitely greater than the first. But he felt it for only the most fleeting of moments, and then he felt nothing more.
HISTORIC NOTE
At 10:20 p.m., Monday, July 17, 1944, a huge explosion occurred at Port Chicago, California. Two ships were moored at the loading pier of the naval station there. The E.A. Bryan was fully loaded and ready to leave for the Pacific theatre of operations with a huge cargo of high explosives and military equipment. The Quinalt Victory, a brand-new vessel built at the Kaiser Shipyard in nearby Richmond, California, was preparing to take on its own cargo.
Some 320 individuals were killed in the explosion, most of them African-American stevedores. An additional 400 persons were injured. A common form of injury was blindness caused by flying splinters of window-glass in naval barracks. The main explosion was preceded by a rumble or smaller explosion, reports differing, which drew many off-duty stevedores to the windows to see what had caused the sound.
The brilliant flash, the roar of the explosion, and the shaking of the earth that resulted, were seen, heard, and felt as far away as the cities of Berkeley, Oakl
and, and San Francisco.
The Bryan, the Quinalt Victory, the loading pier, the railroad spur running along the pier, and the ammunition train that was parked on the pier at the time, were all totally destroyed. The town of Port Chicago was obliterated and a visitor to its site today will find only a few forlorn street markers to show where
once a community thrived.
While official statements about the disaster aver only to the high explosives which had been loaded in the E.A. Bryan, critics in later years suggested that the explosion was nuclear in nature. In the summer of 1944 the atomic bomb was top secret and the very existence of the Manhattan Project was shrouded in layers of security. But once the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, speculation began that more than dynamite had been involved in the Port Chicago disaster.
If the Port Chicago explosion was indeed nuclear in nature, further speculation is divided between those who believe the explosion was accidental in origin, or was in fact a test by the United States government to measure the effects of a nuclear bomb. Certainly the weapons base at Port Chicago would have made a fine test subject, with ships, a railroad spur, temporary and permanent buildings, and many hundreds of expendable human subjects.
Perhaps the Port Chicago explosion was a nuclear accident? If so, it represented a major setback to the American nuclear weapons project. The successful Alamogordo test did not take place until July 16, 1945, one day short of a year after the Port Chicago explosion. Nuclear weapons were exploded in the air over Hiroshima and Nagasaki the following month, bringing about the end of the Second World War and providing an object lesson for Josef Stalin.
Where the Port Chicago naval weapons depot once stood, there is now the Concord Naval Weapons Station, a major loading area for the United States Pacific Fleet. The storage of nuclear weapons in barrow-like bunkers at the naval weapons station, while not officially acknowledged by the US government, is one of the most ill-kept secrets of our era.
VOICES IN THE WATER
by BASIL COPPER
I
IT WAS LATE February when Roberts bought the mill. He was a successful artist and had long been trying to get out of London. The mill was a big place and one advantage was that it had already been partly converted into living accommodation. A lot more needed to be done in the way of renovation, but the price was right and Roberts snapped it up.
Another motivation was that his great friend Kent, an author, lived only a mile or so away. In earlier years Roberts had illustrated a number of Kent’s books and a lasting friendship had been formed during that period.
The estate agent, Cedric Smithson, a big, bluff man with an iron-grey moustache, who had first taken Roberts on a guided tour, was enthusiastic about the possibilities. It was not just the usual estate agent’s purchasing ploy, so Roberts was quick to catch the other’s reference points. It was also fortunate that central heating had already been installed throughout. Roberts had gathered that the previous owner had intended to make the mill his permanent residence, but his wife had left him for another man, and in the face of this personal disaster he had lost all heart in the project and had returned to London.
Another attraction for Roberts, apart from the size of the place, which would easily lend itself to further accommodation for friends as well as a large studio and another area which would provide an elegant gallery for viewing sessions for his wealthy clients, was the enormous north-facing window in the area he intended to create his studio. All in all, the facilities already existing would provide a cosy home during the bitter winters Sussex sometimes endured.
So the artist had speedily summoned his wife from their London flat and to his relief she also had become enthusiastic about the place. With its enormous beams and four-inch thick wooden floors it would become a showplace once time and money had been expended on its refurbishment.
Through the good offices of Smithson, Roberts engaged some excellent local craftsmen and stayed on to supervise the work which occupied several months, so that it was not until early July that the couple were able to take up permanent occupation.
Another major benefit for Roberts was that a large stream ran beneath the building, as might be expected as it had been a working mill until about thirty years previously. The stream—though it was more a small river—ran foaming between the massive piles and from a vantage point, obtained via an enormous wooden hatch immediately above the race, he could savour the roar and power of the clear white water which swirled through beneath.
He was told by Smithson that the enormous mill-wheel, which was still in situation, had been rendered inoperable for years and that gratings had been installed to prevent any driftwood or foliage that might come down the stream from causing any damage beneath the building.
Once the hatch was raised and Roberts was able to look down on his first visit to the place, he was impressed with the roar of the water and the great power it would have exerted on the machinery in its heyday. But once the hatch was closed the movement of the water was muffled and, in any case, the living quarters were far above so that the surge of the stream was quite unobtrusive.
During the early days of Roberts’ ownership, his wife, Gilda, who acted as his secretary and agent, stayed in London to supervise the business side of the artist’s work—keeping in touch with clients in New York, Paris and Amsterdam, for her husband was now becoming a sought-after and celebrated painter, after long years of struggle and relative penury.
At this time Roberts had made his studio in the largest lower room of the mill and installed himself in a living room above, where Kent often visited him for drinks and a chat. Or, as the weather got better, the pair walked the short distance to the local pub, The Three Horseshoes, for white wine and the occasional meal. Kent, a strongly built man with an open countenance and black, curly hair, was almost as enthusiastic as Roberts about the new project and gave his friend valuable advice on the conversion and guided him in the direction of reliable specialist craftsmen.
One evening, when the weather was a little warmer and Roberts had finished work for the day on his latest commission, the two men sat in the vast living room with its massive beams and huge stone fireplace.
Roberts suddenly said, “Do you remember that canvas I did some years ago—the one I called ‘Faces in the Fire’?”
Kent, who wore grey slacks and a tweed hacking jacket, was slumped with his legs over the huge arms of the chair opposite. He sat up and wrinkled his brow as he put down his glass on a small table at his side. “You mean the one that was featured in that Town and Country magazine? An oil wasn’t it? I think those people did a very good colour shot. The publicity couldn’t have done you any harm.”
Roberts gave a short laugh. “You’re right about that. It was a bit of an experiment, but Gilda got me a thousand guineas for that one. A wealthy Dutchman bought it and thought it a bargain at the price. Gilda is a very smart girl when it comes to extolling my wares.”
Kent nodded. “She is that. But why do you ask about that work now?”
Roberts was re-filling his glass at a sideboard and didn’t answer for a moment. Then he came back to sit facing his friend. “Well, it’s more in your line than mine,” he began. “You’re the one with the fantastic imagination that you put into those novels of yours. I must have caught something of that from you. It was just a study—you know the sort of thing. In winter if you have a fire, you can stare at it and sometimes it seems as if you can detect faces in the flames.”
“Oh, that,” Kent said. “I quite understand. But I don’t know why you’re asking...”
Roberts held up his hand to interrupt him. “There’s something similar at work in my imagination here,” he said. “It’s to do with the movement of the water. Oh, not up here, of course, where we can’t hear it at all. But when you open the hatch down below, to look at the water, it can be quite fascinating.”
Kent shook his head. “I don’t get what you’re driving at.”
“Well, I k
now it sounds rather silly,” Roberts began haltingly. “But it sometimes seems as though I can hear voices in the water.”
“Oh, I see,” Kent replied. “I’ve noticed it myself when wandering along the stream in winters past. It can be quite hypnotic. Don’t tell me you’re going to try to paint something along those lines? Mighty difficult, I should imagine.”
Roberts shook his head, smiling. “Just a thought. Have another drink.”
And the conversation passed on to other topics.
II
As spring lengthened into summer so did the work on the house progress. Gilda came down from London for several weeks, supervising the delivery of their furniture. She took over one of the top bedrooms for her office, where telephone, word processor and fax machines were installed. There was a magnificent view of the village from there and the silver thread of the stream making its way down to the building, which they had decided to call The Mill House. Furthermore, she had obtained a very good price for their London flat, with the result that Roberts, perhaps for the first time in his life, was becoming quite an affluent person. Of course he realised it was all down to Gilda, for without her he would never have received such sums for his artwork.
The couple had become quite friendly with the Smithsons also, and on one memorable evening they came to the house together with Kent and his fiancée, and they had a great housewarming party which went on until 3:00 a.m.
Roberts was spending more time in the studio down below and the faint, though constant, fret of the water made a soothing background to his painstaking and meticulous draughtsmanship. They had had a telephone installed there, and Gilda would call him at 12:30 p.m. each day and he would ascend to the main house for pre-lunch drinks, and after the meal they would wander along the stream for an hour or so before Roberts resumed his work.
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