With that he pushed her roughly off his mattress and stretched out full length, closed his eyes, and nothing she could say or do would rouse him. For a time she paced the room again, making doubly sure there was no other way out. If what he said was true, it would be some tim

GALVESTON, Texas (AP) -- Ships and planes were searching the Gulf of Mexico off Galveston Thursday for a missing tanker with 40 persons aboard. Coast Guard officials said they found no trace of the 570-foot “V.A. Fog” which was overdue by a day from Freeport, Texas.

The tugboat crawled through strangling fog, its searchlights penetrating the murky stillness no further than the bow. The sad foghorn called only to the sailors aboard.

Seaman Second Class Stoner leaned on the fore rail, trying to let the splash of the water on the hull drown the annoying chatter from below. Revelry, oiled with stow away alcohol welled up from the galley. The rest of the crew was down there. The Captain had manned the pilothouse alone since dusk, and Mr. Planks was down in the engine room.

Another gush of laughter flowed from the hatch, and someone sang several bars of a bawdy ballad. Stoner stared into the night. Why did the sea have to be so calm? And why this suffocating fog? He fished in his breast pocket for cigarettes, got one, and tried to light it. The matches were fog soaked. He tried to stuff the weed back in the pack, but it crumbled in its hand.

He could light one on the flame of the gas stove, but that would mean facing the others. Stoner had had enough of their brass. They were a bunch of rats, snapping orders, pulling rank. They weren’t officers; they were bullies. Since leaving Galveston two days ago not one of them had lifted a finger. Stoner had been detailed to do everything. Of course, it was hazing. Stoner understood that. It was his first time out to sea.

And the Captain didn’t care. He didn’t even see it. He stayed in his cabin all day sleeping. At sunset he would come out and take command in the pilothouse. There he would stay until dawn. Then he would retire. Captain Barnicus, some captain!

This was no place for a harbor tug, out in the Caribbean, searching for some lost tanker. The waves out here were too big for a tugboat. That is, assuming they would find some waves. They had been out for two days on a completely dead calm sea.

Stoner decided to go see Mr. Planks. Planks would have a light. Even so, he would have to pass the galley to get to the engine room. As he made his way below deck. The merrymaking became more distinct, and the fog swallowed all above. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the salt air, and Stoner would have stopped, but by the way the crew was laughing, he figured only trouble would come of it. He picked up speed, hoping that no one would be facing the door as he went by.

“Mr. Stoner!” a voice rang out.

Stoner stopped short and stepped back to the galley. He looked in to see five drunk faces smiling at him.

Mr. Stoner,” First Mate Evans began. “The Captain wants coffee, and you…”

“I know,” Stoner adlibbed, quickly crossing the galley for the coffeepot. He poured a mug of steaming brew and walked to the door. �n’t keep the Captain waiting.” He smiled into their looks of bewilderment and disappeared into the passageway. That would keep them guessing all night.

Back on deck, Stoner made his way forward toward the yellow glow of the bridge. At the wheel stood Captain Barnicus, the last of a long line of sailors stretching back to the days of pirates and Spanish gold. Stoner watched the old man for a moment through the glass of the pilothouse. His tired old sea legs rocked gently with the rhythm of the ship, his heart beat in tune with the droning engine.

Stoner rolled the door to the pilothouse open and stepped in from the fog. “Brought you some coffee, sir.”

“Close the door, seaman!” the old man barked. “I can’t breathe fog!”

Stoner turned and slid the door closed, then returned and placed the mug down where the captain could reach it. The captain stared straight ahead. As Stoner turned to go, the captain spoke.

“How can you breathe the fog?”

“Sir?” Stoner asked, surprised by the oddity of the question.

“Nothing,” the captain sighed. “I was just complaining about the fog.”

“Aye, sir. Not hard to believe a ship could get lost in this. I’ve never seen fog so thick.” Stoner turned to leave, but the captain’s gruff voice stopped him.

“So thick you could cut out a chunk and make a fog sandwich.” The old man stared ahead, his expression never changing. “But!” he began again, startling Stoner. “Freeport to Galveston, that’s just over thirty-five nautical miles. A five hundred seventy foot tanker does not just get lost.”

“You think it’s piracy?” Stoner asked, finally figuring he would have to talk the old guy out.

“Maybe.”

“But you don’t think so.” Stoner felt sure the captain was suggesting another possibility.

Finally, the captain picked up the coffee and took a sip. “I don’t know,” he said.

A few moments went by as silence permeated the pilothouse. Stoner shifted stance, thinking about Mr. Planks down in his warm engine room. The green line on the radar screen swooshed around, showing nothing in the

scope of its scan. An odd feeling began to creep in on Stoner’s nerves, as though the fog outside were seeping into the pilothouse through cracks in the walls.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“You must have some opinion of what happened.”

“Sailor,” the captain took a big breath, and Stoner knew a lecture was about to begin. “I’ve lived in these parts all my life. I’ve sailed these waters since I was old enough to hold a tiller. My father sailed before me, and my grandfather before that. In all my years at sea I’ve learned one thing, one thing, Seaman.” Barnicus suddenly jerked his head to look at the lad, sending an unexpected cold shiver through Stoner. “The Gulf is almost alive when the fog is this thick. I’ve known many a ship that disappeared within fifty miles of port. They have never been found, and they never will!”

“Maybe they drifted out to sea,” Stoner ventured.

“I don’t…” The captain paused, seeming to think better of what he was going to say. “Maybe you’re right,” he concluded.

The two stood watching the halo around the searchlight.

“Captain?” Stoner finally injected. “You were going to say something. Why didn’t you?”

“Ah,” the captain hesitated. “It’s rubbish, a lot of bunk.”

“I’m interested, sir.”

“Well,” the old captain drew a deep breath. “It’s just an old story my grandpa used to tell me when I was little. Davy Jones’s Locker, he called it. He’d sit me on his knee and blow his pipe smoke in my face. ‘You must look out for Davy Jones’s Locker!’ he would say. “It’s lyin’ out there waitin’ for you and for me!’ Then he’d point out into the Gulf. On he would go, on and on. Usually my mother would hurry me off to bed. She said I’d be frightened.”

The captain stopped to hunt his pockets for his pipe and matches. White smoke soon filled the pilothouse in mockery of the fog.

“I can still hear him,” the captain continued, wiping the tip of his pipe stem on his sleeve. “ ‘You can see the door almost a mile away,’ he used to say. ‘And inside the door you can see all the lost ships of all time. And there on those ships are all of the lost sailors, doomed to pace the decks. They will wave at you, calling you to come through the door, to sail into that parallel universe and sail with them forever. But you must not go through. No, you must not go through that door!’ And with that, he would look out to sea. It was that vacant look in his eye that would scare me the most.”

“Sir?” Stoner said, pulling up the collar of his coat. It suddenly felt very cold. “What has that got to do with the Fog, sir?”

“The fog?” Barnicus stared forward.

“Yes, sir. The V. A. Fog, sir, the ship.”

“One night I heard my father talking about the Locker too.” The captain said, as though no interpretation had occurred. “I overheard him talking to my mother when they thought I was asleep. I wasn’t. I heard it all. My father said that he knew what Grandpa had been talking about. Said he had seen the door, the ships, and the lost sailors. It was right before he died.”

“Died, sir?”

“Lost at sea!” Barnicus cried out, causing Stoner to jump back.

“I remember his last night at home. I stood at the top of the stairs, watching his shadow on the hall rug as he paced the floor. He said he had seen the door again. He’d come closer. My mother started to cry, but he kept talking as though he were obsessed. He said he could hear the lost sailors calling, calling out his name. He said he could see Grandpa in there too, sitting in the little dinghy of his ship, all that was left when his ship went down.”

In an attempt to clear his mind, Stoner glanced at the radarscope. It still showed no reading.

“Sir?” He said checking the compass. “Shouldn’t we change course soon? We’ve almost covered this sector.”

“No, we’ll go on a little further. Get some shut-eye. I’ll keep the wheel.”

Seeing this as an opportunity to escape, Stoner simply said “Aye, aye, Sir.” He pulled the door to the pilothouse aside and stepped out into the oppressive fog. He made his way aft to the ladder and climbed down to the main deck. The crew was still laughing below. Undaunted, Stoner went below and walked boldly into the galley. He retrieved another mug and filled it.

“Well, Mr. Stoner!” Tom Bogus exclaimed. “How’s the captain?”

“Stoner ignored them and turned to leave. “I figure Mr. Planks could use some coffee too.”

“Ooh! Aren’t we the humanitarian!” another of the crew exclaimed. Stoner was surprised any of them would know a word that long. He left them and walked back to the door of the engine room. Noise erupted into the passageway as the door opened, and Stoner stepped into the hot chamber, closing the door behind him.

The great diesel engine lay in its berth in the center of the room. Mr. Planks was in the far corner filling an oil can from a drum. He stopped cranking the pump and smiled. “Stoner!” Mr. Planks was Stoner’s only friend. He had no axe to grind. He was essential to the ship. He had one duty, to keep the diesel running at peak efficiency. Mr. Planks had no time for on ship politics like the others.

“Brought you some coffee,” Stoner said, holding the mug up. This produced a wide smile on the oil-smudged face of Mr. Planks. Stoner wasn’t sure if Planks’s hair was white, gray, or black. The old guy was in the habit of tying a rag around his head to collect sweat, invariably rubbing oil and grease into his hair and grizzled beard. This, plus the loss of the old guy’s right eye gave Stoner the strange feeling that he was talking with Popeye the Sailor when he came down to the engine room. The old fellow secured the oil can in its holder and grabbed a rag from the workbench, wiping his hands free of loose oil. Reaching for the mug he spoke.

“Thanks a lot, Stoner. I guess the others are pretty drunk by now, eh?”

Stoner nodded.

“How’s the captain?” Planks asked, surprising the lad.

“The captain? Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Planks eyed Stoner with a sidewise glance. “Just worried about him a little.” The older man sipped his coffee. “Probably nothin’.”

“I was up to see him,” Stoner offered. “Took him some coffee. He was going on with some pretty strange tales.”

“Strange? In what way?” Mr. Planks asked.

“He was talking about his father and grandfather.”

“Getting lost at sea?” Planks perked up.

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“Me and the captain go a long way back. We’ve been out on many a search together. Lotta’ boats go down, ya’ know… lotta’ boats.” The old man swigged his coffee and walked around the great diesel, pulling open small oil cup caps to check if they needed filling. “What else did he say?”

Stoner wasn’t sure how old Planks would take the truth and decided to dodge. “Oh, just some weird old sea tales.”

“Talking about the Locker, eh?”

Stoner was shocked.

“Ye…ye…yes,” he affirmed hesitantly.

“Thought so!” Planks hooted. “Didn’t talk of much else, right?”

“That’s right.”

Stoner was beginning to wonder about old Planks. He had always been a nice old guy, but now he displayed a menacing side. No, Stoner thought. Planks was his friend, and he, himself, was just upset by the captain’s demeanor a few moments ago. There was no Davy Jones’s Locker. It was just another way of hazing a new sailor. The younger crew took the direct route, bullying. These older guys had a more subtle way of getting under your skin, that’s all. Planks was watching Stoner intently with his good eye. His scrunched face grimacing or smiling; Stoner could not tell.

Finally Stoner smiled.

“All right.” He said. “I’m new to the sea. You old guys really had me going. Davy Jones’s Locker… You guys…”

“You think we’re kidding?” Mr. Planks’s grizzled face was suddenly in Stoner’s face. “You won’t laugh long. I’ve seen it!”

“The Locker?” Stoner croaked.

“Damn right!” Planks backed away and spat into the grease pit below the engine for emphasis. “You can see it out there on the horizon. It shines white,

like a searchlight. And when you get close… well it’s a door. That’s all.”

Stoner wiped the sweat from his forehead. “You guys are too much. You really think there’s some… thing… out there that swallows up ships. Where do they go? Some other dimension?” He let a nervous laugh escape his lungs.

“Sure!” Mr. Planks drained his coffee and pushed the mug into Stoner’s gut. “You go ahead and laugh. You can afford to laugh, a young kid like you.”

Stoner grasped the mug and stepped back from the fierce face of Mr. Planks.

“Young kid like you probably has a long time till you start looking for the Locker.” Mr. Planks turned his back on Stoner and walked around the great diesel to his workbench and stool. He sat and fixed his eye on Stoner. “Go on up and get drunk with the rest. That’s how they pass the time, ignoring the inevitable. We all go down into the waves in the end. Some just go sooner than others. Anyway…” the old man pulled a screwdriver from its wall clamp and flipped it into the air, catching its handle again. “You don’t have to worry. Captain hasn’t sighted the Locker tonight.”

“How can you tell?” Stoner asked, not sure why he even stayed in the engine room.

“Because of that right there!” Mr. Planks pointed to the telegraph. “It’s said ‘steady as she goes’ all night. If the captain was to see the Locker, the telegraph would shift over to ‘full speed ahead’.”

At that moment, bells rang as the handled indicator on the telegraph

moved back and forth, finally resting on FULL SPEED.

Stoner and Mr. Planks locked eyes to eye.

“Aha!” Planks crowed! “He’s found it!” The old seaman ran over to the telegraph, grabbed the second handle, and pushed it back and forth, ringing the bell to affirm receiving the order, resting the handle on FULL SPEED. Then he raced over to the engine controls and throttled up the great diesel.

“Wait a minute!” Stoner gasped.

The old sailor was dancing around in the back of the engine room, singing! Stoner couldn’t believe it. Old Mr. Planks was dancing a hornpipe, running one hand up his stomach and the other up his back. “We’re gonna live forever… we’re gonna live forever!” the oldster sang as he danced.

Live forever, Stoner thought, in some kind of limbo reality? He dropped the mug and lunged for the hatchway.

“Mr. Stoner!” someone called as he passed the galley. “Hey, Mister. You come back here. That’s an order!”

But their voices, still shouting, faded as he climbed the pilot boarding ladder. Finally at the pilothouse door, Stoner noticed something strange in the fog. Ahead of the ship was a glowing brightness, as though another ship with a searchlight lay before them in the stillness of the night sea.

Stoner rolled the pilothouse door aside and jumped into the room.

“Captain, what’s that?”

“Close the door. I can’t breathe fog!” Captain Barnicus barked.

Stoner closed the door, then turned to the old seaman. “Captain Barnicus, what is that?”

“What is what?” Barnicus squawked, looking straight ahead.

“Don’t you see it? That… that horseshoe of light. It looks like a small white rainbow in the distance, about a mile off.”

“Oh yes.” The captain seemed unconcerned.

“It’s getting closer!” Stoner made a quick check of the instruments. Why, it’s moving toward us!”

“Yes,” the captain said, standing rigid at the wheel.

“You know what that is, don’t you?” Stoner said

“Why don’t you go below and booze yourself into oblivion like the rest of them?” Barnicus said.

“You brought us here! We should have changed course like I said, but you didn’t.” Stoner shouted without thinking.

“Stand down, sailor!” Captain Barnicus returned. “You’re dismissed! Return to your quarters.”

“Captain, that’s Davy Jones’s Locker. Right?”

“Shut up!”

“No! You knew what you were doing all this time!” Stoner shouted. “You brought us here! What is that thing? Why are you doing this?”

The old man stood motionless at the wheel. Before the ship the apparition had become a great crescent of white light. Stoner looked out through the fog and thought he could see movement under the strange sight.

“Turn away, captain!” Stoner tried to grasp a handle of the wheel, but the captain deflected his hand.

“That’s enough, Mr. Stoner!”

“No, it’s not, sir! What’s going to happen to us?”

The crescent of light was only two hundred yards away, but it towered over the tugboat, its brightness streaming into the pilothouse. Beneath its shimmering arch could be seen a multitude of ships, ships of all designs and sizes, stretching out into… into what… limbo? And just inside the crescent, floated a tanker whose name, V. A. FOG, could clearly be seen.

“We’ve got to turn!” Stoner screamed.

“No!” shouted the captain, steadfast on the wheel. He seemed to be straining to see something in the apparition before them. “Pa, Grandpa!” he croaked.

Breaking under pressure, Seaman Stoner threw himself at the captain, carrying them both to the deck. The two wrestled, but the captain was filled with supernatural power, pinning Stoner. In desperation, Stoner kicked the wheel with all his might.

White light streamed into the pilothouse as the tug swung hard about.

Suddenly everything was dark. Stoner lay on the deck, quite alone in the pilothouse. Captain Barnicus had vanished. The crescent of light was gone. The tugboat began to rock as a light breeze blew the sea into waves. Through the deck, Stoner could hear the great diesel rumbling below, and the stamping feet of the drunken crew hurrying up to see what had happened.

What could he say?

THE END