Excerpt from Chapter 1, Sailing into the Abyss
Underway
and darkness covered the abyss, while a mighty wind swept over the waters.
Genesis 1:2, New American Bible
The Pacific Ocean, the desolate graveyard of dead sailors and wrecked ships, is a colossus. Stretching eleven thousand miles across at the equator, it plunges downward an average of two miles to the ocean floor. Over eons, it has swallowed whole enormous mountain ranges and ridges and valleys, in spite of which all the world's continents, and all its unwilling inhabitants, would still fit nicely in its belly with room to spare.
But there is more to this ocean than its size. Possessed of a savage temper and a capacity for random violence, it is a breeding ground for disaster. Giant typhoons routinely spawn in its equatorial regions; tidal disturbances spring up from the nearly three-hundred active volcanoes on its rim; and wintry hurricane and gale-force winds drive huge waves to distant shores, disrupting the temper and schedules of countless numbers of seamen and their ships. Mariners venturing forth on this sea do so at their peril.
In one corner of this turbulent ocean, at a point south of Alaska and west of Seattle, sailed one such challenger. Shrouded in mottled gray paint, rust streaks bleeding down her hull like blood from a mortal wound, she looked the part of the tramp ship she was. The letters branded on her stern, still visible after years of ocean abuse, spelled out the name SS Badger State. A United States merchant vessel owned by States Marine Lines, the ship sailed in pursuit of her Country's business. In the winter of 1969, that business meant carrying rockets and bombs urgently needed by American troops fighting the war in Vietnam.
High up on the exposed bridge deck, extending from the wheelhouse, crouched a lone figure, Captain Charles Wilson. Strong winds sweeping across the open deck billowed out the back of a loose-fitting foul-weather jacket he wore--like the main sail of a small boat scudding before a nor'easter. Matching trousers helped protect a six-foot muscular frame from cold winds and wet spray. His bare hands were wrapped tightly around an ice-cold metal railing.
The Old Man, as the crew privately referred to him in their kinder moments, was in his late thirties. Dark penetrating eyes dominated an even-featured face, unremarkable save for a pointed tuff of whiskers covering a prominent chin--admiration for a cousin fighting in Vietnam inspired the last. There was a sort of weary, hard-bitten look about him that sometimes sets apart young men dealing with difficult decisions. . .
Wilson shivered uncontrollably. The cold air had a sharp edge to it, honed by the frigid watery spray drifting up from the gray-green waves rampaging over the ship's bow. He hunched up his shoulders, trying to withdraw within himself for warmth. He could not stop the shaking, or the chattering of his teeth, as he automatically braced himself to keep his balance on the steel deck that rocked beneath his rubber-soled shoes. "To hell with this," he muttered, fumbling with cold fingers to unfasten the latch to the wheelhouse door, held tightly shut by the sheer force of the winds battering the ship. . . .
Wilson secured the door. The idle chatter of the men in the wheelhouse subsided into a familiar silence at the sight of the Old Man. Acting unconcerned, he automatically checked the radar screen. Another ship in the area was highly unlikely given the vastness of the ocean and the relatively few ships sailing on its broad expanse.
Third Mate Willie Burnette was the watch officer on duty. Thickly built, crew-cut, he had the look of a sailor comfortable with his calling, one who fancied ships over a wife and home ashore. A veteran of World War II, he had also sailed on vessels carrying bombs to American military forces during the Korean War. The experience would stand him in good stead during this voyage. One of his major jobs on the Badger State was to con the ship-see to her navigation. He was preoccupied with a set of parallel rulers marking off the ship's course on the navigation chart. . . .
A grab-bag collection of claymore mines, detonators, small arms ammo, and, in particular, bombs weighing from 500 to 2,000 pounds were stuffed into the ship's holds. The bombs were packaged in pallets, framed with steel for the blockbuster bombs, wood for the 500- and 750-pounders. The belly of the bombs rested within elliptical cuts inside the frames. Metal straps tied the whole of it, frame and bombs, together. Each pallet held multiple bombs: six 500-pound bombs, for example, or two 2,000- pound bombs.
The pallets were stowed in the cargo holds in rows running fore and aft (bow to stern), side to side, or a combination of the two. Additional rows of bombs, or related hardware such as bomb fins, were sometimes piled on top of that bottom layer. . . .
Wilson turned to the watch officer. "Mr. Burnette, see what you can do to head the ship into these confused swells-"
"That'll take us off our heading, sir."
"Don't worry about that." Wilson said sharply. "We need to cut the ship's roll a bit. I don't like the pressure these steep angles are putting on the cargo." The words were no sooner spoken when the two men were interrupted by Chief Mate Cobbs entering the wheelhouse, breathing heavily.
Cobbs was the second most senior man on the ship, and in line to assume command. He was an old salt who, as scuttlebutt would have it, actually served on ships that depended on sails and wind to get from one port to another. Of course he was hardly that old. It was just that with his rolling gait and a wind-blown face bearing a few navigational lines, it seemed like he must have sailed before the mast in more storied times.
Water streamed down the mate's face. Wiry wisps of gray hair stood at attention on his scalp despite all attempts by wind and water to lay waste to them. He looked up at Wilson, agitation plainly visible in the furrowed lines crisscrossing his brow.
"We got trouble, Captain, serious trouble; we got cargo loose-" The Mate paused to catch his breath.
Wilson groaned. "Where?"
"In the tween decks, sir!"
"Number?"
"No. 3, lower, amidship, Captain."
"Dammit to hell!" Wilson exploded, then paused briefly to rein in his emotions. He took a deep breath, pausing, and then spoke in a quieter tone. "Okay, mate, okay. Let's take a look at it."
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