Finally, Michael saw two heads break the surface near the ladder. Eager hands helped them climb up on deck. When they raised their masks, Leslie’s and Yuri’s faces were all smiles. “And you’re sure?” Michael asked, still not believing.
“No question about it,” Yuri spoke first. “The U-boat is sitting almost upright and its number is painted on the side of the conning tower in big white numerals just like you said.”
After quickly climbing the ladder, Leslie beamed as she threw her arms around his neck. “You’ve got your submarine. Can we go home now?”
He held her in his arms and wanted to say more, but Yuri Chorev interrupted, the words bubbling out of the normally restrained college professor. “It really is incredible, Michael,” he said. "Your description was accurate down to the smallest detail and the proof lies down there on the bottom, just as you said it was. There’s a big hole in the aft deck and some twisted pieces of metal where you said they put that rack of oil drums. The hull and all the rest of it on the aft deck are black from the explosion and the burning fuel oil. We saw a second big hole at the base of the conning tower, down low where it meets the deck. Lord, with two direct hits, she must have sunk like a rock. Like you said, there’s no deck gun. The mount was there, but no gun; and when we swam up to the bow, we saw that the forward torpedo tube doors were welded shut. We did not check the rear doors, but I would like to know how many U-boats had that done to them.”
“And you don’t have to ask, Michael,” Leslie loosened her hold on his neck and looked up at him. “We tried.”
“Tried what?”
“The hatch in the foredeck that goes down to the torpedo room. We tried to open it, but it’s sprung or rusted shut; so we’ll have to cut it open.”
“In the morning,” he insisted. “For now, let’s raise the platform and stow the gear. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It was nearly midnight and Michael had chosen his spot well. He was crouched behind a wooden crate near the stern of the old whaler, where he had a clear view of the entire deck. He could see down and across it, up both railings, and into the wheelhouse as far as the head of the staircase. Below, the holds and engine room were locked up tight. So he was content to hunker down here in the shadows, knowing they had to come up here on deck to try anything, and that meant coming through the wheelhouse and past him.
He drew his dark jacket tighter around him. The night had grown cool. A thin mist hung on the water, obscuring the Swedish coast in the distance. Another romantic summer night in Scandinavia and an excellent opportunity to get himself killed if he wasn’t careful. After all, wasn’t this exactly what Manny was doing the night he disappeared? Michael touched the grip on the Beretta in his jacket pocket, because tonight, someone was going to pay. Michael had grown to like the fat police detective, and he was not going to forget what they did to him. Soon he would call in all the IOUs.
Despite the danger and the late hour, today had been deeply satisfying, undoubtedly the most satisfying day Michael had had in the past six years. They actually found the U-582, as impossible as that once seemed. Almost no one believed him in the beginning, only Eddie’s father, Leslie, and Manny; but now, it wasn’t hope, unsupported theories, or even bad guesses. The U-582 was real; and it was here, just as he said it would be, lying not one hundred fifty feet beneath them. Here! Off the coast of Sweden, not Poland, and this would sink the official version of Eric Bruckner deeper than his U-boat. Someone had spent years crafting layer upon layer of lies on top of the U-boat Kapitan’s memory. He wasn’t lying in a feather bed in Bonn, where his Russian masters wanted a naive world to think he was. It had to be the Russians. The trawler proved that and tomorrow morning Michael would prove it.
As for all the rest — the gold, the art, the jewels, and all those crates and boxes full of loot in the forward torpedo room — he felt no elation over finding any of that. The submarine could be forty tons of scrap iron as far as he was concerned, and that included all the treasure Martin Bormann and Heinz Kruger had crammed inside her. Finding it and returning it to where it belonged would be satisfaction enough for Michael; and denying it to those black-hearted bastards would be a nice bonus, knowing that might put at least a small crimp in their plans. That would be his revenge.
Michael looked out across the water at where he knew the Russian trawler was still circling. One way or another, they would make their move and they would make it soon. The die was cast now, and they had no choice. These might be Swedish waters, but once they knew the U-boat had been found, the Russians had to stop him from getting inside and coming back up with proof. Once they knew. Unless Michael missed his guess, someone on board the Brunnhilde had a serious problem. Was it Balck or Lindstromm? One of them had to get a message to that Russian trawler, and let them know it had been found or incur the dancing bear’s full wrath. Whether he had a radio transmitter or a signal light, Michael was betting the guy would sneak up here on deck where he would stand less chance of being seen or heard, and the only question was who “the guy” would turn out to be.
The divers would need three or four hours to get inside the submarine and finish their search, hopefully not much more than that. So, they had to keep the news from reaching the Russians until midday. Photographs, the logbook, one of the gold bars, something from the control room with the boat’s monogram, they would need something distinctive that could only have come from the U-582. Then, it would be all over. All he had to do was stop the spy from sending his message.
Michael heard the soft bump of a cabin door and faint footsteps in the passageway below. There! Someone was coming up the stairs into the wheelhouse. Michael’s fingers tightened around the butt of the Beretta and leaned further back into the shadows. Whoever it was, he might have surprised Manny Eismer; but he wasn’t going to surprise Mike Randall. He saw a small, dark figure appear at the head of the stairs and step into the wheelhouse. The shape and the stride? His hand relaxed on the butt of the automatic as he saw it was Leslie. She stepped out on deck and began slowly walking aft. When she was no more than five feet away from him, he rose from the shadows.
“What’re you doing up here?” he chided her. “I told you the deck wasn’t safe.”
“Not with people jumping out of the shadows and scaring the wits out of other people it isn’t!” she answered angrily. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came up to get some fresh air. There’s no crime in that, is there? Now, what are YOU doing up here?” Hands on hips, she demanded an answer as she saw him dressed in dark clothes and hiding in a corner behind a crate. “You’ve been playing guard up here, haven’t you? Why didn’t you tell me? I would have helped.”
“That was what I was afraid of; but there’s no need, Schiff and I are trading off every four hours. Besides, it’s just for this one night. Come tomorrow, as soon as I come back up, we’re heading back to port; so it’s no big deal.”
“It isn’t, huh?” she eyed him suspiciously as she stepped over to the railing. She stared out across the dark water, and her expression grew more troubled.
“What’s the matter now?” he asked.
“When I was down there, I touched the hull of that U-boat,” she answered as she raised her hand and looked at it, as if it belonged to someone else. She was trembling. “This whole thing had been a game, some kind of big adventure, until then.” She turned and stared up at him looking small and fragile, very female, and very much alone. "Even through those thick gloves, I could feel it. Touching it… it felt like touching… a tombstone. Can you understand that?”
“Oh, I can understand it, all right. Believe me, I can understand it.”
“It sent a cold chill straight through me, Michael, one I still can’t get rid of.”
“You did your dive today. Tomorrow you stay up on deck.”
“I don’t want to go back down there again — ever,” she shivered. “I… I don’t think I could handle it.”
“You don’t have to. The
re’s more than enough for you to do up here.”
She stepped towards him and put her arms around his waist, desperate for the warmth and the closeness. He put his arms around her shoulders and pulled her to him, feeling her body tremble. He slipped his jacket off and draped it over her, holding her even closer until the trembling stopped.
“You ought to go below," he offered quietly. “It’s getting cold up here, and it could still be dangerous.”
“Come with me,” she asked in a small, soft voice. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“I… I’d like to do that, Leslie. God, you don’t know how much I’d like to, but not tonight. I have to take a rain check.”
Her eyes flared. “I’m not some goddamned baseball game, Michael Randall!” she pinched him hard and angrily on his side.
“Ah! I didn’t mean anything, Les, it’s just…”
“Well, I did! I love you, Michael Randall. I was beginning to think you loved me too, but maybe I’ve just been dreaming all these years.”
“No, Les. I… I love you, too, but…”
“No ‘buts’, Michael. It’s a simple yes or no.”
“Leslie!” he said as he felt another hot, painful welt throbbing below his ribs.
“Yes or no. After three years, I’m tired of waiting for you to do something.”
Michael pulled her close again, turned her face up, and kissed her hard.
She wrapped her arms around him, squeezed him, and kissed him back just as hard. When they finally separated, she looked up at him and said softly, “Let’s go downstairs.”
“Not tonight, Les. I can’t. I have to stay up here.”
“I’m not the kind who asks twice, Michael. You’d better remember that."
“Then I’ll have to earn another chance."
She reached up, dug her fingers into his hair, pulled his face down to hers, and shut him up with another kiss. Her lips were firm and moist as they parted, and her tongue explored his mouth. She pressed her body into his, and they stood there until she finally pried her fingers loose and pushed him away. “There!” she smiled. “That’s an old southern tradition. I’ve staked my claim, and now you can spend the rest of the night thinking about what you’re missing. How’s that?”
“It’s called cruel and unusual punishment,” he answered, as his voice cracked, and he felt stirrings he had not felt in years.
“Cruel and unusual? You have no one to blame but yourself. You’re the one with the bad case of will power.”
She turned away from him and leaned her elbows on the railing. Michael joined her and put his arm over her shoulder. It was a lovely, calm night, and they stood staring absently out across the calm water, neither of them saying anything more. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her lean out and tilt her head sideways. A puzzled expression spread across her face as she pointed down toward the water and forward from where they were standing. “Michael, what’s that?” she asked.
Following the line of her arm, he saw a long, thin silver wire protruding from a porthole in one of the cabins near the middle of the ship, the third one back. The wire waved about in the air; and it took Michael a second or two to realize it was an antenna, one of those telescoping, silver things they put on a hand-held portable radio. That was when the truth suddenly crashed down on him. He felt so stupid. He had been waiting for someone to come up on deck when all the guy needed was an open porthole to communicate with the Russian trawler. He must be down there right now, already sending his message.
Michael laid his finger across Leslie’s lips and said, “Stay here,” then he turned and ran toward the wheelhouse. He moved quickly and quietly on the balls of his feet, taking the stairs two at a time. At the bottom, the dark corridor was empty. It was lit by one tiny light bulb screwed into a ceiling fixture a few doors down, barely enough to cast shadows. He pulled the Beretta from his jacket pocket and worked his way back to the third cabin. That had been Manny’s! The bastard was adding insult to injury; and he would pay for that, too. The cabin door was closed, so whoever was using it was still inside. Who could it be, he wondered. Balck? Lindstromm? Whoever it was, he was in for a rude shock, Michael thought. Company was coming, and it wasn’t knocking.
Michael’s nerves were right on the edge, as they were when he was on a bombing run over Germany. His heart was racing, but he felt good, damned good. The old reflexes were coming alive again, flashing back over the situation, ticking off his options. There was only one way into that cabin and only one way to get out. That made things simple. No need to try the door handle. No need to be polite and ask. Everything would hit the fan the second he went through the door anyway, so there was no reason to play around. Besides, a little overt aggression matched his mood perfectly.
When Michael reached the spot opposite the cabin door, he took a quick look at the doorframe. How strong could those old iron hinges be, he wondered? And the wood? Forty, maybe fifty years old? There was only one way to find out. He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet like a high jumper getting his rhythm; then, with one swift, fluid motion, he drove his right foot into the door just above the lock, the way they do it in the movies. In the movies, the old doorframes are not made of seasoned Scandinavian red oak; the locks are not made of tempered Swedish steel; and the hero gets more for his trouble than a loud Bam! and a sore foot. The cabin door didn’t fly open as he hoped it would; the lock did not break; and the wood frame did not splinter into a dozen pieces, either. It did not crack and it did not even budge.
“Damn!" he swore as he stumbled back against the wall.
The element of surprise was gone, but there was no turning back now. Like hitting a blocking sled on the practice field back in high school or taking out a linebacker on an end sweep, Michael lowered his shoulder and ran at the door with bull-rush, accelerating through it, and giving it a solid forearm shiver for good measure. If he was certain about anything, he was certain that something would break; he hoped it would be the door. This time he was right. The doorframe splintered with a sharp “Crack!” and the heavy oak door blew back on its hinges and crashed into the sidewall of the cabin with a loud, echoing “Blam!”
Michael’s momentum carried him through the doorway and into the cabin, but he was off balance and out of control as he tripped over his own feet and fell forward onto the deck. In the end, that was what saved his life. For as he fell, someone fired a large-caliber handgun at him from out of the darkness. In the narrow confines of that small oak-paneled cabin, the blue-white flash from the muzzle sounded like a howitzer. So much for catching the bastard by surprise, Michael thought. If he had to guess, he figured the man inside was even more scared than he was. He had been hiding inside this dark cabin; and the crash of the door would have rattled anybody. Without thinking, he would have spun, raised the gun, and pointed it toward the dim light in the doorway, right where Michael would have been standing if he had not stumbled.
Michael hit the floor and kept rolling into the shadows along the sidewall as two more gunshots rang out. Fortunately, the guy was still aiming high. The first bullet slammed into the door, and the next two punched holes in the sidewall. Michael could feel the impacts of the heavy slugs, and wondered if the guy was using an elephant gun. Whatever, this gun battle was already too one-sided, and it would soon be fatal if he did not do something quickly. Lying on his back, he gripped the Beretta with both hands. He pointed it in the general direction of the gunman, and started pulling the trigger, again, again, and again; knowing there was no time to aim and figuring it really did not matter. Whether he hit the bastard or not; even if he missed flesh and bone, the guy would need the balls from a pawn shop marquee not to be totally unnerved by all the bullets flying in his direction.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Lindstromm’s nerves had been fraying ever since that night in port when he was stupid enough to climb down into the forward cargo hatch to sneak a quick peek at their diving gear. What did he think that would accomplish? Did he really th
ink the Russians would give him a bonus, a little extra money? Those ingrates. All he ever got from them was more trouble. Lindstromm never could understand what had happened that night. When he was prowling around the hold, he was positive he heard a noise up on deck near the hatch. He immediately switched his small flashlight off and pressed himself flat against the bulkhead. They had caught him in the act, and he knew he was doomed. He hadn’t brought his favorite old Webley revolver, or even a filleting knife along; he left them wrapped in an old pair of overalls at the bottom of his sea chest. All he was carrying was the little radio, and he felt utterly naked. Cold sweat rolled down his back as he stood there, wondering how he would talk his way out of this one. There was nothing he could do, so he stayed hidden in the cargo hold; but as the deafening silence dragged on and on, nothing happened. Nothing!
After ten minutes, perhaps fifteen, he slowly inched his way back to the ladder without making a sound. He closed his fingers around the first cold, iron rung, and began to climb. His palms were so sweaty he thought he would lose his grip and fall, but he kept climbing until his hands reached the top rung. Finally, he took a deep breath and raised his head above the rim of the hatch for a quick peek. Still, nothing! The deck was as empty and deserted as it had been when he climbed down into the hatch. How could that be? Lindstromm knew what he had heard. Someone had been up here walking around on deck, but who was it, and why did they leave him alone? Why were there no bright lights stabbing down through the darkness and pinning him against the bulkhead like a bug on the wall? Why? None of it made any sense.
He scampered up the remaining rungs, dashed across the deck, and scurried below to the safety of his cabin, thoroughly shaken. The next morning he learned that the fat New York City policeman was missing. He wasn’t just missing; they found him in an old warehouse not a quarter mile away from the pier with his throat slit. It had to be those damned, double-dealing Russians. He knew it. He never should have trusted them. They had been setting him up all along, the devious shits! They were the ones who grabbed that fat policeman, Eismer; and they left Lindstromm here on the Brunnhilde to take the fall.
Cold War Trilogy - A Three Book Boxed Set: of Historical Spy Versus Spy Action Adventure Thrillers Page 62