Looking back at Varentsov he said, “We will soon know if that suffices. The Swedes won’t like it; but I don’t think they want a shooting war with us, either.” Ruchenko looked over at the MVD Colonel and actually felt a twinge of pity for the man. “I suggest you retire to your cabin, Comrade Varentsov. You look exhausted, and you will need all your faculties when you prepare your final report on this fiasco. Do you not agree?”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Einar Person was feeling his age. Emma was right, it was time he got out of this business for good and retired. She was always right. With a painful groan, he rolled over and took a quick inventory of his moving parts. Nothing seemed missing or broken. Slowly, he rose to his feet and looked at Leslie. She lay on the deck staring at Balck’s lifeless body. Her fingers remained locked around the butt of Schiff’s spear pistol, which she kept pointed at the German as if he might get up and come after her again. The spear gun was empty and useless now, but that no longer mattered. Balck was not getting up; and he was not coming after her or anyone else, not ever again, which was just fine with Einar Person. The Captain knelt beside Yuri Chorev to offer what help he could, but it was too late. There was no pulse, not that he expected to find one after all those gunshots and all that blood. Too bad, he was a good man, a brave one, and he died hard. Person saw Leslie get to her feet. She leaned heavily against the wall of the wheelhouse, knees shaking, staring down at the bodies and the blood spattered across the deck. Finally, she took a deep breath and walked away, her legs growing steadier with each step she took.
“Where do you think you are going, young lady?” Person called after her, but she offered no reply. When she reached the rack that held their diving gear, she began pulling on her wet suit. “Leslie, where are you going, I asked.”
“Down there.” She pointed over the side, her voice little more than a whisper.
“No, no, I forbid it! You are in no condition.”
“No condition? If I don’t, who will?” she asked as she pulled up the wet suit’s zipper. “You? Schiff? Or maybe you’d rather send poor Yuri?”
“It is far too dangerous down there, woman. Can’t you see that?”
“The only thing dangerous down there was Balck, and he’s dead now,” she said with a cold, forced smile. “But Michael’s still down there and I’ve got to go.”
“Not alone, Leslie, you can’t go alone. You will only get yourself killed, too,” he said, but his words had no effect as she slipped two air tanks into her harness and pulled it on. “Wait. Please?” he asked as his tone softened. “A few minutes, no more. You saw the jet airplanes go over. I have Navy patrol boats coming too, and a contingent of Swedish Marines. They’ll be here any minute now, you’ll see.”
“We don’t have minutes, Einar. Michael may be dead already, and he’ll be dead for sure if I don’t go down there now.”
Person looked at her. She looked so very young, but perhaps he had gotten that much older. Reluctantly, he nodded his assent. “Yes, of course, you are right. I’m an old fool, now go. I will do what I can for these two.”
As she walked to the ladder and put on her mask, she turned and asked, “Those Swedish Air Force jets… they didn’t just happen to be in the neighborhood, did they?”
“No,” he confessed. “No more than that Soviet trawler, the Israeli Mossad, the damned MVD, or a blond-headed German psychopath. It seems that everyone is interested in this little research trip Michael arranged for us. So go, woman, if that is what you must do. Go, and bring that man of yours back up here before it is too late.”
The sting of ice-cold seawater on her face revived her as she descended the cable hand-over-hand as quickly as she dared. Halfway down she saw a motionless figure floating in the water near the cable. It was a man in a wet suit, suspended in a hazy cloud of blood. Was it Michael? She panicked until she realized the wet suit was all wrong. From the design and equipment he carried, it must be one of the Russians. She quickly left him behind and continued down, taking no solace in the Russian’s misfortune. When she reached the diving platform, she saw another body and then two more floating lower, down near the U-boat in the harsh glare of the floodlights — more Russians. Thank God, Michael was not one of them, either.
Suddenly she remembered Balck’s words. He was giving Michael “all the time he would need… A lifetime!” Leslie saw the U-boat’s foredeck hatch, and she immediately understood. Balck had wedged it shut with a prying bar, jamming it between the hatch plate and the handrail so it would be impossible to open it from the inside. With three quick strokes, she reached the hatch and grabbed the steel bar. Planting her feet on the deck, she pulled on the bar with all her strength, but Balck had wedged it in tight. By twisting the bar and pulling it from side to side, she was finally able to make it move. She braced her feet against the hatch collar, tugging and yanking at it with all her might, finding strength she didn’t know she had, until the bar finally came loose.
Her hands ached and her shoulders were on fire; but she had beaten Balck again. She shoved the steel bar to the side and reached for the locking wheel. Leslie was no debutante. Working on her father’s fishing boats, hauling in nets and crab pots since her early teens, had left her with solid shoulders and legs. Still, while few people looking at the girl would think she had the strength to raise a heavy steel hatch like this, she had no doubt. Michael was trapped on the other side, and that was all the motivation she needed. She closed her eyes and used her legs and back to pull up until she felt the hatch move. As if in a trance, there was no strain or pain, but it came up, higher and higher, until she forced it upright and tipped it backward onto the deck. Somehow, with all that adrenaline and anger pumping inside her, she managed to open the hatch; and she didn’t even realize it.
Leslie was so anxious to slip through the hatch and get inside the torpedo room that she almost missed seeing a faint glow at the base of the conning tower. That was where one of the bombs from the British airplane hit, leaving a jagged hole where the conning tower met the deck. It hit her like a thunderbolt! It had to be a flashlight, and that meant Michael was there. She forgot about the torpedo room and quickly swam aft, her legs pumping as she skimmed along the deck toward the dim light. The hole had sharp edges of torn metal, but she thrust her head inside anyway. There! She saw a man in a wet suit slumped against the far wall. It was Michael, with his flashlight lying next to him. His head lay on his chest as if he had fallen asleep, and he had what looked like the brim of an old hat on his head.
As excited as she was to see him, she looked in vain for air bubbles coming from his regulator. Oh, my God, she wanted to scream, until she saw a thin stream of bubbles, maybe only four or five, rising to join a small silver pool trapped against the ceiling. She had to get to him; it had to be her; and it had to be now, she knew, because there was no one else. If she returned to the foredeck hatch and tried to work her way back, she had no idea what might be blocking her way. Besides, she could not stand the thought of taking her eyes off him. She reached in through the hole and tried to touch him, but she could not stretch that far. He was too far away and the hole too small. It could not be more than a foot across. Perhaps she could wake him? Maybe she could get him to come over here and take some air from her tanks? If they shared hers until he revived, maybe they could figure out a way to get him out. None of that would matter, though, if she didn’t wake him up.
Desperate, she swam back to the foredeck hatch and picked up the long prying bar. Struggling to pick it up with both hands, she dragged it along the deck to the conning tower. She pushed it through the hole toward Michael and jammed it against his leg. Still, no response. She pushed it into him again, even harder, but he still would not move. Finally, she raised the bar and beat it against the side of the conning tower next to where he was lying. A loud, echoing Boom! filled the small steel room. It must be like having your head inside a big cathedral bell, she figured; so she beat it against the wall again and again. Surely, that would wake him up,
but his eyes never opened. She swore she saw his head move and the corners of his mouth turn down in a frown inside his mask. He was alive, barely, but he wouldn’t be for long if she didn’t get him some air.
He was so close, she wanted to scream. Still, the more her hope faded, the more desperate she became. There was no way she was going to lose him, not when he was this close. She had to get in there, so she grabbed the iron bar again and jammed it back into the hole, working the bar under the longest and sharpest of the steel points blocking her way. With a deep breath, she placed the bar on her shoulder and set her feet firmly on the deck. She closed her eyes and pushed up with a steady, even pressure, legs quivering, shoulder screaming, with that expression of grim concentration. The steel plate inside the bulkhead had to be a quarter-inch thick, and there was no way it should have bent beneath a woman’s shoulder. Still, desperate people do amazing things when there is no choice. She pushed up, harder and harder, and felt it move. She opened her eyes and saw the jagged point of steel had bent upward, only a few inches; but it had moved and she knew those few inches were all she was going to get.
She let the bar fall from her shoulder and a wave of intense pain shot down her back and thighs. Ignoring it, she unbuckled her diving harness and vest, slipped the air tanks off her back, and shoved them through the hole ahead of her. She dropped down and put her head through the hole again. Next, she took off the flotation vest, the weight belt, writing pad, and even her knife — anything that might stop her from getting through that hole. Extending her arms over her head, she squeezed inside. Taking a deep breath, she laid her mouthpiece and regulator aside, freeing herself to maneuver the soft lines of her body around the razor-sharp points of steel. She turned onto her side, feeling her way, bending and trying to float over them. She pushed with her arms and kept kicking, moving forward one inch at a time, slowly squeezing and twisting until she got her shoulders through, then her chest, and finally her waist.
Halfway in, she paused to take a few deep breaths from the air tanks. Halfway! She was so close that she could feel his presence now; so close she could almost touch him, but not quite. Leslie felt a sharp pain as a sharp steel edge dug into her hip. She was stuck. She shifted around several times, trying to find a fit, but there was no slack. The sharp point dug in and it really began to hurt. Worse, it was holding her back. She looked at his face and took one more long, deep breath from the tank. Closing her eyes, she tried to relax, to float, and make her body soft and pliable as she pushed. The sharp steel cut through her insulated rubber suit and into her left hip. She bit her lip as the hot pain and icy cold water flooded in, but she didn’t stop. Wiping her mind clean, she pushed and twisted, slowly but firmly, blocking out the searing pain. Reaching both hands, she stretched out, wrapped her fingers around the periscope housing, and pulled with all her strength. A sharp, new pain shot down her leg like a hot poker. Gritting her teeth, she pulled even harder until her body suddenly popped through the hole.
She’d made it! She floated free for a moment and closed her eyes as the salt water hit the open gash and her leg exploded with a new round of pain. Leslie was used to the ocean. She knew the numbing cold of the Baltic would soon anesthetize the sharp, burning pain in her hip. She started to count backward from one hundred and got to eighty-seven before the pain began to fade. Daring to look down, she saw a deep, twelve-inch gash in her hip and thigh, but it was worth it. She had made it inside. As for the cut? She had far more important things to worry about now.
With her air tanks in her hands, she swam over to where Michael lay, pausing to take a deep breath from her mouthpiece as she grabbed his. She tried to pull it out of his mouth, but he would not let it go. Probably reflexes, she thought, but his teeth were clamped tight on the black rubber of his own mouthpiece. It was his last tie to life, and he was too far gone to realize his empty tanks were going to kill him.
She pulled on the mouthpiece again, harder this time. She saw his brow wrinkle in discomfort, but he still would not let go. Well, at least he was alive, but Leslie was growing desperate. First, she knocked that absurd hatband off his head and pulled back the thick rubber hood of his diving suit. Something like eighty percent of a body’s heat loss is through the head, and she was about to prove it. The assault of ice water made Michael’s eyes flutter, so she grabbed a handful of his thick black hair and twisted hard. His eyelids fluttered again, and this time his lips opened to form a protest. When they did, she ripped the regulator out of his mouth, quickly cleared hers of water, and shoved it into his mouth as a replacement.
Michael’s reaction was immediate as his oxygen-starved brain realized that air was entering his lungs for the first time in a long, long time. He coughed as he sucked hard on the regulator, leaning back and clutching the mouthpiece with both hands. His chest heaved as he devoured the air in deep gulps. She watched him take breath after breath, trying to be patient and wait, until she realized she was now the one who needed the air. She tried to ease his hands aside and take the regulator back; but his hands wouldn’t budge. He was not fully awake yet; and he still held the mouthpiece as if it were his safety line, without realizing he was slowly killing her in the process. There was no way she could pull it out of his grip if he didn’t want her to, because he was far too strong. No, she had to make him give it to her; so she placed her gloved hands on his, touching them gently, lovingly, stroking them. She prayed the feeling would pass through, and he would understand.
She was about at her wits’ end when somewhere in the rear corners of Michael’s brain, that loving sensation must have registered. His eyelids fluttered, and he looked at her. Ever so gently, she used his own hands to pull the regulator out of his mouth; and he seemed to understand. He let her have it this time, long enough for her to take three quick gulps of air before she gave it back. He took a few more breaths, and she saw his eyes beginning to clear. He was coming out of it. His eyes darted around the conning tower and he sat up. He was groggy and confused; but when she reached for the regulator again, he let her take it without any resistance. They were over the hump now, and they traded the regulator back and forth as she watched him revive. She could tell from his eyes that he knew who she was, and he knew where they were.
It was a good thing that the compartment was dark and gloomy, because tears were running down inside her facemask. Not that she cared what he saw, but this was neither the time nor the place for her to deal with any of that.
She reached down, picked up his flashlight, and pointed it down toward the hatch that led down to the control room. That must have been how he got here, working his way aft from the bow torpedo room, and it was how they would have to get out. Holding the air tanks between them, she led the way; but as they reached the hatch, he suddenly stopped and turned back. He took the flashlight from her hand and began searching the deck where he had been sitting. Reaching down, he picked something up and tucked it into his vest. She could not tell what it was, but she saw his eyes light up inside the mask.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
It was one week later that Michael stood at the railing of the Brunnhilde watching a Swedish Navy salvage team hoist the last of the U-boat’s priceless cargo of gold bars and jewels onto their barge. Bucket by dripping bucket, they were lowered and set down ever so gently into the barge’s hold. The Swedes were pros, but it took nearly six days of painstaking work to sift through the debris and empty the submarine’s forward and aft torpedo rooms. The broken jewelry and smashed sheets of amber took the most time. Like archeology, each shard and small chip had to be carefully photographed, picked up, brought to the surface, and stored. With that delicate job done, the divers would soon make one last trip back down to weld the hatches shut and weld steel plates across the holes the two bombs tore in the hull. That would return the submarine to the private tomb she had been for the past six years. Michael agreed. The ghosts inside that old U-boat should finally be allowed to rest in peace, his and theirs.
“Looks like the work is near
ly finished, eh?” Einar Person’s bass voice rumbled as the Captain joined him at the railing. Michael offered no reply. Finished? Not by a long shot, he thought. “You caused quite a stir in Stockholm; I can tell you that,” Person laughed as he leaned on the railing and pulled out his old meerschaum pipe. "Some very important people think you should be clapped in irons.” Michael turned and looked at him, but offered no reply. “But there are others who think we should pin a big shiny medal on you and give you a parade. Then again, there are those who think it would have been better if you had never come up here in the first place.”
“Which group are you in, Einar?”
“Me? Oh, part of all three,” Person answered as he struck a match and held it to the bowl of his pipe. “One thing is for certain; you will not be soon forgotten.”
Ever since he and Leslie climbed back on deck and dropped a wet bar of gold bullion and the tattered remnant of a U-boat Kapitan’s hat at Person’s feet, salvos of diplomatic cables had been flying back and forth between Stockholm, Moscow, Washington, Bonn, and Tel Aviv, and the shots were coming from some large caliber guns. Slowly it dawned on each of those governments that a former B-17 waist gunner from Wisconsin and his ragtag group of amateurs had put five national capitals under siege. Finding the U-582 lying five miles off the coast of Sweden, packed with a king’s ransom of gold, jewels, and art, was an uncomfortable reality that each of them had to deal with in their own way; not to mention four dead Soviet divers, a dead Israeli scientist, and the dead German Mate, Balck.
The CIA, FBI, State Department, US Navy, and the West Germans had chosen to ignore their expedition, because it was easier for a government to do nothing than to agree on something. Besides, everyone knew there was nothing there. The story that fellow Randall told in New York was preposterous. The U-boat had sunk off Poland; everyone knew that. Off Sweden? That was entirely too troublesome for NATO or Bonn to even contemplate. So, this entire fiasco must fade quietly away; but that did not happen. Instead, it blew up in their faces and splattered their morning coats with huge gobs of unwanted truth. What now? Some very rude questions were being asked from other quarters. They neither knew nor cared about the subtleties of international because it was painfully obvious there was more involved here than a long-forgotten German submarine.
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