also had their hands into many Coquille boats including the Telegraph, Charm. Others.”
He put a lighter to the sweet cherry tobacco and puffed a billow of smoke.
“Dora worked the river til the late 1920s and eventually was abandoned at the Ward Ranch. There’s a great picture of it and the Telegraph beached and decayin’. Kinda sad. But wood was plentiful. Building boats on the Coquille was relatively cheap and once the costs were covered, t’wasn’t no environmental rules that said you couldn’t just abandon the hulk wherever you wanted. So those two old sternwheelers rotted away right before your eyes.”
He puffed and shrugged.
Sated, the four of us took up various seats in the living room, fresh coffee all around.
I started. “Debriefing time. Let’s put it all in order.”
Nodding to Cookie, she said, “There was a single blip and then the Dora was on the water about a quarter mile in front of me.”
“Color?”
“Only shades of black and white, far as I could tell. Pretty indistinct outline of the boat.”
“Any sound when you saw the blip?”
She closed her eyes, reliving the sighting.
“Just the river, then the blip. You know Miss QT’s engine isn’t real quiet, Nick, so if there was a sound I wouldn’t have heard it, probably.”
“Length?”
“Maybe 65 or 70 feet.”
Moorly interjected, “The Dora was 70 feet.”
“You said you couldn’t get close to it,” I pressed.
“It was odd. I caught up to it pretty quickly…”
“How fast was it going?”
“Maybe five or six knots.” I nodded. She continued, “But when I tried to get closer than 30 feet or so, it was like I was pushed away. And it was colder than ice. The temperature dropped 20 degrees as soon as I got within 40 feet.” Sitting on the couch, she pulled her legs up under her. “Every time I’d try to slip closer, I’d get dragged away or something.”
Sal grunted. “Miss QT’s got a pretty flat bottom. Could it have been the wake?”
Cookie thought it over. “Maybe.”
I turned to Sal. “You’re up, big man.”
“Saw Cookie and the paddle wheeler up river about a quarter mile. Fired up the boat and untied.” Sal was a stickler for debriefing details. “When the paddle wheeler was about a hundred yards upstream, I edged out at an angle to intercept. I ran parallel on the starboard side, grabbed the camera and clicked off three shots. No sound from the boat. No distinguishing colors. I couldn’t read the name.” He looked at Moorly, “Thanks Stan. Now we know it was the Dora.”
The fisherman nodded.
“Like Cookie, I tried to get closer but was pushed away. But it felt like a big wake rather than anything mystical or ghostly or like the Hand of God keeping me at bay. And it was indeed colder. Noticeably. At least 20 degrees. Maybe more. Powered up a bit, but the Dora kept going faster. Maybe 8 or 9 knots at this point.”
“When you went under the bridge, did it flash or flicker like the last time we saw it?” I asked.
“Yes, actually, it did. I was getting to that. It was as if the bridge caused interference of some sort. You know, like when a hail storm disrupts your satellite TV signal.”
“You’re getting mighty close to suggesting it was an electronic image. Hologram, maybe,” I said, somewhat disappointed, but more interested in finding out the reality.
“Nick, I’ve done work with people who know holographic science. This is a moving, very large image we’re talking about. Complete with a moving paddlewheel and a wake. It’s three-dimensional and gauzy.
“Holograms are static images. The moving variety requires a screen of sorts. Besides, it would take massive computer power to pull off that kind of hologram. I mean massive. So, yes, I’m doubtful.”
“And when you shot at it?”
“At first I thought you were nuts, but actually it made sense. I put three slugs through it. Nothing changed. Nothing like a bullet trail through smoke, for instance. No reaction at all. It just kept on truckin’.”
Moorly laughed, “So you’re saying it’s a ghost ship? That’s your only alternative.”
I answered, “As much as I hate admitting the likelihood, if it’s not solid, not a projection, we’re running out of options.”
Sal had been toying with the edges of the large envelope he’d brought from his place. I wasn’t going to ask about the photos. I knew he’d bring them up when the time was right.
The time was right.
He flipped open the flap and pulled out three 8x10 prints.
“Interesting images,” he said.
He passed one to me, one to Cookie and the last to Stan. I could tell they all looked pretty much the same. From what I could tell, no paddle wheeler in any.
“Note that there is no picture of the Dora,” he started. We all nodded.
“Not much of nothin’” Moorly said.
“Not quite, Stan. What do you see at the waterline?”
We all pulled the photos closer to our eyes as if that would somehow strip away a veil of secrecy. Of course, all it did was give me eye strain.
“Actually, hold them further way, not closer.”
Like monkeys, we all did as we were told, pushing them out to arm’s length.
“Smears,” I said. “What am I lookin’ at, Sallie?”
Moorly added, “It looks like the phosphorescent skim sailors have seen.”
I’d witnessed the phenomenon over the years piloting Dragonfly around the Pacific. The glow appears at night and there are stories of aircraft pilots who followed it home when all other forms of navigation failed.
Sal pointed out, “Correct. It’s not a heat signature, per se, but a reaction to atomic disruptions.”
I cut Sal a glance. “CIA?”
“Never was, nor would I ever be… As I said, I’ve worked with scientists who know this stuff. You pick it up along the way. I also cheated and Googled it after I saw the photos and returned for an excellent breakfast.” To Cookie. “Thank you ma’am.”
Cookie nodded and smiled. “Welcome.”
Sal continued, “There’s a lot of long words involved, but basically it’s a heat signature without the
