Cold War Trilogy - A Three Book Boxed Set: of Historical Spy Versus Spy Action Adventure Thrillers

by William Brown

  Up in the wheelhouse, Einar Person was the first to sense that something had gone very wrong below. He had one eye on the small, grainy TV monitor and one on the whaler’s controls as the first spear flashed across the screen. Between the harsh underwater lights and the murky water, the television picture had never been particularly clear, but he knew he saw something and it wasn’t electronic interference. Person leaned closer, carefully studying the reactions of the two divers. When the next spear shot past them and bounced off the U-boat’s hull, he knew it for certain.

  “Here, woman,” Person shouted to Leslie. “Take the wheel and be quick about it!” He turned and took the steep flight of stairs two at a time, heading straight for his cabin. At the rear of his closet behind a pile of musty uniforms lay an old cardboard suitcase. Person got on his knees and dragged it out. He pulled a small, brass key from his jacket pocket and opened the lock. Inside lay a small, but modern and very powerful radio transmitter and two large batteries. He flipped a bank of toggle switches and watched the dials and meters spring to life. Like that traitor Lindstromm, he knew people were listening at the other end; but the ones on the captain’s frequency spoke Swedish, not Russian. His message was quick and to the point, but the Swede insisted they repeat it back to him, because men were going to die this day — he hoped the right ones — and there was little margin for error. The fact the Russians would actually dare attack in Swedish waters was something Person never thought possible. They were desperate, and there was no room for the slightest error.

  He switched off the radio and rose slowly to his feet. The old joints were letting him know what they thought of the abuse he had been putting them through. They yearned for another slow walk on the beach, his favorite rocking chair, and a lazy afternoon nap in the sun. That was where these old bones belonged, even if he would not admit it to anyone except Emma. However, the times were perilous, and Einar Person would never turn down a request for help from his country. He had spent too many years in and out of uniform to do that. When he received Michael’s request for a boat, he knew what his young friend was after, and it wasn’t petroleum. Person liked the young American, but he immediately discussed the request with the naval intelligence staff in Malmö. He valued old friendships, but he valued his country even more.

  The Captain reached up to the shelf above his bunk and pulled down his old, gilt-edged, family Bible. In times of trouble, Einar Person knew he could always take some comfort from the Good Book. Opening the cover, he pulled a well-used Swedish officer’s Nagant revolver from the hollowed-out cavity inside. He checked the bullets in the drum and clicked the safety off. Satisfied, he slipped the old Nagant into his jacket pocket and headed back up on deck.

  One hundred and thirty feet below, while Michael thought things could not get much worse, Balck appeared quite unconcerned. The German pointed toward the Russian frogman on the far right. Michael frowned, still not comprehending, until Balck’s message sank in. The German was showing him which one of the four Russians was to be “his, as if he had "dibs" on the others. Could Balck be serious? He was delegating the single frogman on the far right to the American — if Michael thought he could handle him, that is — while the German attended to the other three. Balck even had the nerve to point a second time, just to make sure Michael got the point, before he drew his spear pistol from its holster. The German gave it a leisurely examination, completely ignoring the Russians as they closed in, knives flashing.

  At twenty-five feet, the Russians suddenly attacked in unison. Fortunately, even skilled combat under water looks more like a slow-motion ballet than a martial arts display. Two of the Russians gave big leg kicks and charged at Balck while the other two swam toward Michael. Twenty feet, fifteen, then they closed to ten before Balck raised his head and the barrel of his spear pistol at the same time, making an off-handed shot without even appearing to aim. There was a burst of compressed air and a twelve-inch silver dart sped through the water to take out the Russian closest to Michael. It hit the man high on the chest near the base of his throat and stopped him dead in the water. He balled-up like a sea urchin and thrashed about in his own blood. That was when Michael realized what Balck had done with that one shot. He had split the Russian line and left Michael’s “man” alone on the far right with a large gap between him and the other two. Michael was even more surprised when he saw the crazy German draw his sheath knife and charge directly at his “two.” If the Russians were supposed to be the hunters and Balck was supposed to be the hunted, no one bothered to let him know.

  Regardless of how fascinating the show might be, Michael knew this was not the time to be a spectator. He drew his own spear pistol, but the Russian was on him before he could get off a shot. In desperation, he used the barrel to parry the Russian’s knife; but the force of the blow bowled them both over, sending them tumbling toward the deck of the U-boat.

  Michael was bigger than the Russian, probably stronger, but he was out of his element down here against an expert. The longer the fight lasted, the worse his chances would surely become. The two men bounced off the deck together, but the Russian managed to plant his foot and push away, quickly returning to an attacking position. Holding his knife straight in front of him, he charged at Michael. This time the American got his spear pistol between them, and pointed it at the Russian’s stomach. As the knife was about to strike home, he squeezed the trigger, knowing he only had one shot. The spear gun fired with a burst of gas and the spear struck the Russian in the stomach, stopping him and sending him tumbling over backward. He dropped his knife and pawed at the nub of the shaft; trying desperately to get a grip on it with his gloved fingers as he thrashed around in the water, but he had no chance. Finally, his struggling stopped. His body grew still and floated in the water, limp and very dead.

  Michael knew not to celebrate his kill. By now, the other two Russians would be all over Balck, slicing him into fish bait. Surprisingly, as he turned to help he saw Balck was more than holding his own. By careful maneuvering, he kept the two Russians in each other’s way, bunched together and unable to coordinate their attack; and while there was blood in the water, most of it seemed to come from the Russians, not from Balck. He had gone on the attack. There was a deep gash running down one of the Russian’s legs and a cut in the other one’s arm. More importantly, the Russians were so intent on getting at Balck that they didn’t notice Michael working his way around behind them.

  No time for games, Michael realized. He reached out and grabbed the air tank on the closest Russian. With a quick twist and a pull, he ripped one of the black rubber air hoses free, and his half of the battle ended in a mad rush of air bubbles. The Russian spun around in a tight circle like a dog chasing his tail, reaching back over his shoulder to find the hose and re-attach it; but there was nothing he could do about it. His only hope for more air lay a hundred and thirty feet straight up. Even if he made it without stopping to decompress, he faced a painful case of the bends or much worse. Well, sweet dreams, comrade, Michael thought, without the slightest twinge of remorse.

  The fight was over and Michael could now relax. It was two to one now. Somehow, he and Balck had won. Michael turned back toward the German expecting to see the fourth Russian beating a hasty retreat, but Balck wouldn’t let the man leave. He was taller and better built than the other three, and his wet suit had a thin red stripe around the bicep, marking him as an officer or a sergeant for sure. Having seen what happened to the others, the fourth Russian stayed on the defensive, with his knife in front of him, waving it back and forth in small circles as he back-pedaled and tried to get away. Unfortunately, with fins, it is much easier to swim forward than backward. Balck stayed with him stroke for stroke, not giving him any room to turn and swim away. The German’s knife had already drawn blood, and he wanted more, probing for an opening as he slashed and cut. It didn’t take the Russian long to figure out the hopelessness of his predicament. He could not get away if Balck did not want him to, so he stopped trying.
He took up a good defensive position and stood his ground, searching for an opening.

  Michael shook his head. Let him go, Balck, he thought. Why take a risk you don’t need to take? However, as he watched Balck more closely, even through the facemask he saw Balck was actually enjoying this. He was playing with the Russian, toying with him. That was when Michael remembered Leslie’s words. It was in Balck’s eyes, she said. They were evil. He executed Lindstromm, and he looked like he was thoroughly enjoying this dance of death with the Russians. Michael had enough and swam away, knowing David Schiff needed his help much more than Balck. He was floating near the deck of the U-boat. Air bubbles rose from his regulator in small, thin bursts; so he was still alive; but he would not stay that way for long if Michael didn’t get him back to the Brunnhilde.

  He grabbed Schiff by his diving harness and pulled him upward toward the diving platform, beginning the long ascent back to the surface. When he reached the cable, he turned and looked back down. Balck had not even noticed he was gone. He was totally focused on the Russian as they continued to circle and turn, first left then right, slashing and feinting at each other with their knives. Suddenly, to Michael’s horror, he saw the German make a mistake. Balck swung too far to his right and exposed his left side to the Russian’s knife. That gave him the opening he must have been praying for, and the Russian went for it without a second thought, lunging forward with his blade. Michael wanted to scream a warning but that was impossible underwater. All he could do was watch in horror.

  It was over in a split second but not the way the Russian had planned.

  Balck had anticipated the Russian’s knife thrust. Hell, Michael thought, he baited him into it. As the Russian continued his forward thrust, Balck completed his turn. He deflected the knife blade at the last possible instant. It creased his wet suit, but that was as close as the Russian would come. With his body now stretched-out and off balance, it was child’s play. Balck swung in behind and wrapped his arm around the Russian’s neck. He even paused to show him the blade before he drew it across the Russian’s throat. A dark, billowing cloud of blood engulfed the two swimmers. Leslie had it right. The German was a psychopath, a skilled and highly dangerous killer. Balck executed this Russian the same way she said he executed Lindstromm, not because he had to but because he wanted to. Taking on and killing three Russian Navy frogmen singlehandedly? With odds like that, he would look like a hero; but not to anyone who had witnessed the one-sided slaughter.

  When Einar Person arrived back on deck, he found Leslie and Yuri Chorev bent over the railing looking into the water. Two heads had broken the surface, not ten feet from the side of the boat. It was Michael, pulling that young Israeli, Schiff. Person breathed a sigh of relief, thankful for that much at least. He could not imagine what had gone on down below, but Schiff had a spear protruding from his side. Carefully, the four of them working together managed to drag him up the ladder and lay him out on the deck. Person quickly joined Dr. Chorev as they set to work on the young petty officer’s wound.

  Moments later, when Person looked back up, he saw Leslie and Michael standing near the side of the wheelhouse, arguing. What fools! Her eyes were red and her face was flushed as she gripped his arm. If such a thing was possible, the girl appeared to be even more disturbed than the night before. Person knew he should never have brought a woman on board, not with all the risks this trip entailed, but there was nothing he could do to stop her from coming. Suddenly, her head turned; her eyes grew round as saucers as she saw Balck emerge from the water and climb the ladder. He stepped on deck and pulled off his facemask, unbuckled his harness, and let his air tanks drop to the deck with a loud Clang! She glared at him and he smiled back at her. His face was flush; he appeared to be enjoying this, taunting them with a cruel, defiant smile. He turned and strode away, but her eyes never left him until he disappeared around the corner of the wheelhouse and went below.

  Leslie looked even worse than she had before. She appeared to be coming apart at the seams as she shook her head and buried her face in her hands. “No, you can’t do that,” she argued as Michael put on a fresh set of air tanks and walked back to the ladder.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Person chimed in, his voice carrying a new and more authoritative edge.

  “I won’t be long,” Michael answered. “Have the ship ready to run back to port the second I come back up.”

  “Who are you to give me orders?” Person bellowed. “I forbid you to go back down there, Michael,” but the foolish American boy ignored him. He stepped off the ladder and disappeared beneath the surface, leaving Person standing on the deck, fuming.

  The girl knew how foolish he was, as she stared down into the water. “He wouldn’t listen to me, either. He said this would be his last chance, and he refused to listen to me.”

  As she spoke, a long shadow fell across the deck. Person turned and saw Balck standing behind them. The German must have heard Leslie’s last words, too. He had an amused smile on his face; and he, too, was carrying a fresh set of air tanks. He threw the harness across his back and stepped toward the ladder, but Leslie stood there and blocked his way. Balck responded with a cynical laugh and shoved her aside, none too gently.

  “See here, Balck! What do you think…” the Captain said, but Balck was not listening either. They both stood helpless as Balck jumped into the water and disappeared beneath the surface.

  “At least your man will have some help down there,” Person tried to comfort her.

  “You don’t understand,” she answered in a tense whisper. “Balck isn’t going down there to help; he’s going down there to kill him.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Stupid? Of course it was; but that U-boat was pulling him back down like a giant magnet, and knowing it was there was not enough. He had to open the hatch and get inside. It was a moral commandment, a debt of honor he owed those men. He was their witness. He had to find iron-clad proof no one could excuse or slither out of; and he had to bring it back up before the Russians returned and destroyed it, because the broken hulk of Eric Bruckner’s U-boat was the long, accusing finger that pointed back through time to the depravity that had sent it out on that last mission. He owed them — Bruckner, his crew, Eddie Hodge, a dozen half-starved Russian POWs, those cops back in New York, Manny, and maybe David Schiff. They were the price that had to be paid to rip the cover off Martin Bormann’s evil conspiracy and to shed light on the reality of what happened.

  This time, the descent seemed to take forever. When he reached the deck and swam forward, he remembered Schiff had almost gotten the hatch open when the Russians attacked. His sputtering acetylene torch was still lying on the deck where the petty officer had dropped it. Michael picked it up, readjusted the flame, and resumed cutting through what was left of the collar, hoping it wouldn’t take much more time. Finishing the first cut, he laid the torch aside. Wedging the long prying iron into the new crack he had cut, he pulled down on it and leaned back, rocking back and forth, straining until he felt a big chunk of steel break off with a loud Clank! He slipped the bar between the spokes of the wheel and used it as a long lever to try to turn the locking wheel. Slowly and painfully, it started moving, creaking, and squeaking at first, but it moved, then a quarter turn, a half, then one full revolution before it jammed again. He shoved the bar back in and went at it again, forcing it around another turn, then another and another, finding it easier each time. Finally, he withdrew the bar from between the spokes and wedged it under the lip between the ring and the hatch. When he pulled down and rocked back this time with all his weight, the heavy hatch plate groaned; but it did begin to rise, if ever so slightly. He gave it one last pull and the hatch came up, only a few inches, but it broke free of six years of rust and corrosion and was open.

  He floated next to the hatch as a large air bubble slipped through the narrow gap and rushed past him toward the surface, reminding him how tired he was and how much his arms, his neck, and his thighs ached. Har
d work at depth in cold water could be exhausting in a very short time. He was breathing heavily now, sucking down his own air in big gulps, which was not a good idea. The bar dropped from his fingers and he reached down for the hatch plate. He curled his fingers under the lip, got his legs beneath him braced against the deck, and pushed up with his last reservoir of strength. He could feel his muscles beginning to tremble from the strain, and he knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer. Finally, he felt the hatch plate move. It came up, only a few inches at first, but he refused to let it stop. His legs pushed harder, then even more, screaming in pain; but he ignored it as the hatch came up, all the way to vertical. He let himself float free, hanging in the water, and taking slow, deep breaths until his muscles started to relax.

  Michael reached for his flashlight and looked down through the hatch. This was the very compartment he had gone into when he and the Russians lowered all those wooden boxes and crates into the torpedo room six years before. As far as he knew, it had lain undisturbed since those two German sailors came to get him and escort him aft to the control room. Michael shivered; it was as if this hatch was the portal of a time machine that would carry him back six years into his own past. His past? It could have been his grave, and it should have been. He was tempting fate going inside a second time, but he had to.

  Holding his flashlight in front of him, Michael went in head first, careful to make sure his tanks, regulator, hoses, and harness did not snag on the freshly cut edges around the collar. It was a tight fit, but he made it through and righted himself. Floating free, he swung his flashlight around the compartment and quickly saw it had taken a severe pounding when the submarine sank. The flashlight beam danced across the smashed wooden crates and boxes strewn about the deck in piles. What if he had been in here that night, he wondered. That was a thought too terrible to contemplate. In the midst of the destruction, he saw the glitter of gold bars, the twinkling of fine jewelry, broken porcelain figurines, pearls, diamond broaches, coins, bundles of soggy, rotting tapestries, carpets, and the broken frames of shattered amber panels. Incredible. Even after six years submerged in cold, corrosive saltwater, nothing could take away the luster of what was obviously a king’s ransom. But it was not a king’s ransom, it was loot. Whether it came from a bank vault, a public museum, a Czar’s palace, or the house of a defenseless Jewish shopkeeper, Michael intended to put it back where it belonged.