He moved to the door now, which was inset into a recess in the wall.
Hanging just inside the door was a small lantern.
Denzel picked up the lantern to inspect it. From what he could see it ran on a small battery pack. Small, but heavy. It had to weigh five pounds, at least, which meant it might be lead acid. That could be bad news since it was nearly a century old. The chances of it working were slim.
On the side of the lantern was a hand crank.
Denzel gave this several turns, and then held his breath and hit the switch.
The lantern came on, dim and wavering, but faded soon after.
Still, a good sign and Denzel was grateful for it.
Denzel cranked the handle for several minutes and turned it on again. This time the light was a bit brighter and stayed relatively steady. There was no way to know how long the charge would last, but it was a miracle that it held a charge at all, considering its age. He'd take any miracles, great or small.
Denzel tucked the radio receiver back into the pouch on his belt and gave the lantern a few more cranks for good measure before putting a hand to the door and opening it.
The noise was awful, as ancient steel moved on hinges that hadn't been used or oiled for nearly a century. Denzel looked around as if the sound might have immediately brought the bad guys down on him, but the room remained dark and silent.
He went through the door, wrenching it closed behind him. There was no way to lock it, but it might not matter. On the other side of the door was a short corridor that led to a wooden panel. The panel had a little flap of wood mounted to it with a single screw. There was a tiny little handle attached to the flap. Denzel took the handle and moved the wooden square in an arch, revealing a small peephole.
He looked through this and saw nothing but darkness on the other side.
That was actually a good sign. It meant that the room behind this hidden door hadn't yet been discovered, so no one was in there waiting to jump him the moment he went through.
He searched until he found a small handle on one side of the panel and pulled this, sliding the wood into a pocket in the wall. No one cried out, no spikes fell from the ceiling, and nothing exploded. So far so good. He stepped through, closing the door behind him.
The lantern light cast everything in the room into shadow, but it was all still very comforting, nonetheless. The space was a well-decorated bedroom—clearly an officer's quarters, with a large bed in the middle of the floor and a writing desk in one corner.
Denzel slid the secret door closed and looked around for a way to block it. There was a large wardrobe just to the side of the passage door, and with some effort, Denzel was able to move this to block the way in. He searched the wardrobe, finding more Nazi garb but nothing else of interest. He then shoved the bed against the wardrobe, hoping to strengthen the blockade.
Feeling a bit more secure, Denzel began riffling through the room, looking for anything that might be useful.
In a drawer of the writing desk, he came across a folded paper, and took this out, gingerly opening it and spreading it on the desk. He held the light up to inspect it ... and found it familiar.
It was the same map that had brought them here. The map of Antarctica, complete with similar notations. He wasn’t sure if this might be useful, but it seemed significant, so he folded it again and put it in his improvised rucksack.
He was about to turn away when he noticed something peeking from under the corner of the leather desk blotter.
He pulled the blotter away and found a piece of paper with a diagram drawn on it—a floor plan.
He couldn't read German, but he was able to make out some of what was there.
It was a map of the base.
Denzel noted the submarine dock, as well as the utility and storage rooms he and the others had explored earlier. He found the corridor they had used to get into the base, as well as one other entrance that seemed to only be accessible from high up in the mountain.
That might come in handy later.
The only other exit from this base was the waterway, which would be navigated by sub. The floor plan showed the path leading out of the base but ended before revealing how the sub would leave Antarctica's interior.
It was possible they might be able to use the sub to make an exit, but he had no idea how to drive something like that. Maybe Vicente could. The guy seemed capable of driving anything. Denzel decided to keep that as a backup plan. It helped stoke the fire of hope a bit, which he needed.
He tucked the floorplan into his bag, alongside the map. Having the lay of the land was good.
One thing, he'd noted that the secret tunnel he had used to get in here wasn't on the map.
Maybe that meant there was another escape tunnel that could get them out of here. Something the map maker either didn't know about or couldn't share.
Again, it was a hope to cling to.
The lantern was starting to fade, and he cranked it a few more times to charge it back up. He was doing this when there was a sudden creaking sound from beyond the wardrobe. The sound was muffled, but he recognized it as the steel door swinging open. An unintentional early warning system. He couldn't have planned it better if he had tried.
Time’s up, he thought.
He sprinted to the door of the room and hid the lantern as he opened the door just a crack. He couldn't see or hear anything outside. The floorplan had shown him that the docks were on the other side of a network of tunnels, from his present location. So, he should have some time, and the ability to move around unmolested as he felt out his location and made a plan.
At either rate, he couldn't stay here. Whoever was on the other side of that secret door would find a way in, eventually.
There was a series of thuds as whoever was on the other side of the wardrobe slammed against it, trying to break through. Denzel stepped out of the door of the room and into the darkened corridor beyond, keeping the lantern shielded and dimmed, providing just enough light to keep his path in sight. In his other hand, he held the Luger, ready and loaded. It was comforting, even if he would have preferred something more modern.
Denzel started pulling together a plan as he moved. His options and resources were unclear, but his objective was crystal: He would find a way back to Kotler, somehow. He prayed his partner was alright. But if he knew Kotler at all, he knew him to be capable and resourceful. If a bit annoying.
Denzel did his best to keep his head down and move at a rapid pace. He'd eventually need to find someplace to take shelter and regroup.
Kotler and Vicente were on their own, for now.
Chapter 14
Kotler found some tools stashed in a metal toolbox nearby and was using a pry bar on the crates as he wrestled each to the floor. The limited space in the torpedo-bay-turned-storage-room meant that he had to be strategic in his prying and exploration. He'd have to do this one crate at a time.
Kotler loosened the ratchet on one strap, stood on top of the rusting toolbox to use it as a step stool, and then took the top crate down, placing it in the makeshift walkway leading to the torpedo tubes. He then pried the container open and inspected the contents.
Inside were several small, metal tubes held in two rows of five, in a foam insert within the crate.
Kotler paused, leaned back, and considered.
The Nazis had experimented with nuclear weaponry, and the very first image these canisters evoked was a series of atomic cores. There could easily be plutonium or some other fissionable material in these things.
The housings weren't made of lead. They appeared to be aluminum. They might be lead-lined, though.
He hoped.
The risk here was that Kotler might already have been bombarded by radiation, ripping through his cells without him even realizing.
He put the top loosely back on the crate, in a vain effort to put at least something between him and any potential radiation poisoning. Without a manifest for the boat's cargo, there really was no way to
know what was in these things, without opening them.
A risk he wasn't yet willing to take.
Was every crate in this bay filled with those canisters?
Would Gail really want to get her hands-on nuclear material, if that was what this turned out to be?
It didn't seem likely. In fact, from what Kotler knew of Gail and her network if the goal was to get her hands on something nuclear, there were more accessible and far safer ways to go about it. She had control of one of the largest smuggling operations on the planet, and there was almost nothing that was entirely out of her reach. She wouldn't need the risk and hassle and danger of recovering a Nazi sub to obtain hundred-year-old, potentially unstable radioactive material.
Logic. Kotler relied on it, and in this case, it made him feel much better.
Gail's smuggling network dealt in a little of everything. Guns, art, even human trafficking. An organization like that wasn't above dealing in nuclear arms, Kotler was sure. But the more he considered it, the more he was satisfied that this had to be something else. Something Gail could leverage for more power without endangering herself in the process.
He went back to the crate, set the top aside, and removed one of the metal containers. He held it up in the glow of the flashlight he'd wedged into one of the cargo straps.
He took a deep breath, and then twisted the top from the canister, peeking inside.
It wasn't lead-lined, which was kind of a relief. It meant that the likelihood of this being radioactive material was slim. Of course, if there really was radioactive material in this thing, Kotler was already cooked.
It seemed far more likely, though, that the substance was inert, at least enough for it to be safe for human handling. Lack of precaution indicated a lack of danger.
He turned the metal canister on its side, and a glass tube slid into his palm.
In the light, it was a black, sooty-looking substance. The tube was sealed with wax on one end.
Kotler had no idea what this was. He felt a little disappointed that the big reveal, after such a dramatic pause, wasn't anything he could readily identify.
He put the glass tube back into the metal sleeve, screwed the top back on, and placed it back into the foam. He replaced the lid on the crate, and then went back to the stack he'd been working on.
He took down the next crate, stacking it on top of the first, and opened it to reveal another series of metal tube.
Whatever this stuff was, there seemed to be a lot of it.
He used a hammer from the toolbox to tap the square-headed nails back into place and then hoisted both crates back to the top of their tower. He ratcheted the straps down again, and once they were secure, he stepped back and huffed as he looked at the looming towers.
The best approach might be to randomize his search.
He'd pick one of the other towers he hadn't yet searched, and if the contents of the top crate happened to be the same metal tubes, he'd call it done and just assume that was what all of them contained. If he found himself stuck here for days or weeks, he could always come back to verify that assumption. Call it a hobby. Or a distraction.
He picked up the toolbox and carried it over to one of the towers closest to the torpedo tubes. He opted to search the second to last tower, on the opposite side from where he'd started, and over the next fifteen minutes he removed the strap, pulled down the crate, and opened it with the pry bar.
More canisters.
That was good enough for him, for the moment. He reaffixed the top and replaced the crate on its tower, ratcheting it in place.
It had been an hour of work, but it remained to be seen if it was either fruitful or wasted. This substance, whatever it was, apparently had some significance. Assuming it was the object of Gail's desire, Kotler's plan of keeping it from her was still sound.
He moved back through the sub, now carrying the flashlight and the pry bar. It felt comforting to have the heavy metal bar in his hand, resting it on one shoulder as he walked. He had the guns, but he was keenly aware that he was inside a steel tube. If gunplay broke out, it would be twice as dangerous in here. Having something substantial with which to pummel an opponent felt good.
Now that his curiosity about the stacks of crates was sated, and it hadn’t taken him all night as he’d thought it might, he suddenly found himself with time on his hands.
He decided to use that time to explore the remainder of the boat.
He came to the round hatch of the engine room and crawled through it. On the other side, he was met by banks of diesel engines and other equipment. Every surface in here was coated in oil, it seemed, and Kotler avoided bumping or touching anything unnecessarily.
He found himself wishing he'd studied how to make a boat like this work. It was possible that this sub was the only way out of the base, and he might need it to make an escape. Maybe there was a manual or something he could study.
He'd make a point of going through every cabinet and drawer on the boat
, though he had his doubts that he'd pick up a copy of "Driving Nazi U-Boats for Dummies" anywhere. At least he was fluent in German.
Past the engine room, Kotler found another space that was lined with what looked like banks of generators. He thought about this for a moment.
Electric motor.
That was a good sign. It didn't change much about his situation, but it was somehow comforting to have this bit of information percolate out of the depths of his brain.
The sub might be powered by a diesel engine, but that engine was more for charging the batteries of the sub than for creating motive force. The sub itself ran on electric motors, depending on them for silent running as well as for maneuverability. The diesel engines kicked on as generators to recharge the batteries, and the electric motors made the boat go. It was technology that was still in use today, in some hybrid automobiles.
It was common enough, at least, that Kotler was familiar with it. His background in quantum physics included some engineering. He might stand a chance of piecing all of this together after all, given time.
It was hope, at least—something that felt in short supply lately.
Kotler took a moment to study the motor room, looking for manuals or other documentation. He found a schematic, and some papers that looked promising. Notes, mostly. They were directly related to the sub's systems, so Kotler placed them back where he found them and mentally filed them away as potentially useful.
Now, however, he had one more of this space to explore.
At the far end of the room was one final hatch. A set of steps was welded to the wall in front of it, making it easier for Kotler to step up and through, with the flashlight leading him.
On the other side of the hatch was a room nearly identical to the forward torpedo bay, and like the forward bay, the aft bay had also been repurposed as cargo storage.
There weren't as many crates in this space, but they were somehow bulkier than what he'd found in the forward bay. Kotler guessed that they might have been assembled in the sub, on this spot, with the intention of disassembling them later, porting out their contents a bit at a time after arriving at the sub's destination.
The longer, lower-profile crates in this bay made the job of exploring them more manageable, and Kotler set to the task of prying the first one open.
It took a moment to work his way around its edge, but when he had the last nail pried free, he lifted the top of the crate, letting it slide to the floor.
He couldn't help thinking that the crate resembled a rudimentary casket, and he wondered briefly if it might contain the remains of some Nazi official. Perhaps Hitler himself! Rumors abounded of the Fuehrer’s escape from Allied hands, with him making fleet to the frozen Southern continent, and to a secret base hidden in the ice.
Kotler laughed a little. It seemed far-fetched, thinking of the discovery of Hitler's remains stashed in a U-Boat under a frozen wasteland. It was the stuff of a thriller novel. But, as Kotler well knew, stranger things had happen
ed, and they were, presently, in a secret Nazi base hidden in the ice and mountains of Antarctica. Anything was possible.
Thankfully, the crate didn't contain Hitler's corpse, or anyone else's. Instead, it had a collection of parts, pieces, and components that were obviously meant to be assembled into some piece of equipment Kotler couldn't readily identify.
He stood, stretching his back and feeling his muscles resist and protest. He'd been at this for a while now, and the adrenaline from his run from Gail's people had worn off, leaving him feeling a little spent and aching everywhere. The work on these crates, climbing and lifting, prying and hammering, hadn't helped. He'd need rest soon. A meal. Maybe some sleep.
But there was one more long crate to open, and he was too close to getting some answers to stop now.
He removed the straps on the final crate and pried the top away, picking up the flashlight and aiming its beam inside.
The contents of the crate had a familiar shape, but Kotler wasn't sure it really was what his brain immediately leaped to.
The object inside was smooth and metallic, and oval shaped. It came to a point on one end but was flattened on the other. And on either side of it were two ridged wings, or what looked like wings, at any rate. In the center, rising to a peak, was a fin.
It looked like a large, flat bomb.
But that couldn't be what this was. It didn't make sense. Kotler had seen bombs from the WWII era, and though this did have some resemblance, this thing looked too well-crafted to be something the makers intended to explode. It had the feel of something machined with precision, designed to specific tolerances.
Bombs, because of their fates, didn't have that kind of craft and attention applied to them. Not in Kotler's experience, at least.
He reached out, gingerly at first, and then rapped a knuckle on the thing's surface. He was greeted by a hollow, echoing sound.
A tank, Kotler realized. Maybe some sort of fuel tank.
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