by Roger Weston
Jake did deep-breathing exercises for twenty minutes to super oxygenate his blood, a method he used while free diving. The deep breathing saturated his cells with oxygen, so when he dove, he could stay down longer.
Jake strapped his waterproof book bag to his back and dove down. Locating the rope took longer than he’d have liked because he had no mask and his vision was blurred, even with the flashlight. Once he found it, he followed it, swimming through an underwater maze of passageways through the colossal rocks that had covered the canal entrance. When he made it through, he felt about as desperate as a man who was being choked to death. His lung were getting ready to explode. He burst through the surface of the water and looked around.
The boat was gone.
“No!” Jake said. Wan-Si must have heard the explosion and gone for help.
Then Jake rose on a wave and saw a dim light. The boat was not gone, but the anchor was dragging. The boat was slowly being pulled toward the rocks on the far shore.
What was wrong with Wan-Si ?
Jake swam. The currents were strong and threatened to pull him right past the boat and far out to sea. He swam with fury. He churned up the waves like his arms were propellers. He flew through the water like a hydroplane. He managed to get in front of the boat and let the current pull him by. Just as he was passing the after deck, he heaved his grappling hook over the rail and pulled it tight. Despite his weariness, Jake had adrenaline on his side. He climbed the rope and fell over the rail onto the back deck.
“Wan-Si.”
Jake heard some shuffling movement in the shack. He ran into the wheelhouse and started up the engines. He glanced at the fathometer and verified that the boat was practically on the rocks. The anchor had dragged. Out on deck, he powered up the winch and raised the anchor part way. Then he shut off the winch and rushed inside.
He shoved the accelerator lever forward, and drove away from the danger.
Wan-Si staggered in, and suddenly the wheelhouse smelled like a distillery.
“Sit here and hold the wheel.”
“I’m not feeling very well.”
“Hold the damn thing.”
Jake ran out on deck and raised the anchor. When he came back into the wheelhouse, he found Wan-Si passed out on the floor.
Jake repositioned the boat, dropped anchor again, and put Wan-Si to bed. He was already exhausted from digging his way out of the cave in, but there was no rest for him. In the wheelhouse as the boat rocked in the waves, he watched the northern lights flutter in the sky and illuminate green the spray on the windows. Then he turned on the light. He got out the U-boats 1945 log and started reading at the back in German, focusing on the submarine’s last two weeks of service before it ended up in the remote submarine lair.
On April 15, 1945, the U-530B received a change of orders from Grand Admiral Dönitz. The U-boat was to rendezvous with a transport ship called Greifswalder. U-530B was tasked with escorting the ship to False Cape Horn on Hoste Island, Tierra del Fuego in Southern Chile. The escort was essential because of the ship’s priceless cargo and the risk of encountering enemy vessels during the Atlantic crossing.
Jake stopped reading. He put the log down, but snatched it back up. He skimmed over the paragraph again and again. He couldn’t believe it. The ship and its priceless cargo had sailed to South America. It looked like he was onto a cold trail. He kept reading.
The U-530B had been en-route to the rendezvous point off the coast of Norway when she got a fishing net tangled in one of her screws. This overloaded the electrical systems, and by radio Dönitz ordered the Captain to return to the submarine lair on Svalbard Island for repairs. His engineers would have to measure the diesel-electric engine to make sure that the systems had continuity. They made the trip back with one propeller and traveled at eight knots.
Jake put down the log book and watched the glowing multi-colored prisms spinning across the sky. He was amazed. The Greifswalder had gone to Hoste Island, Chile.
As wind howled through the rigging of his fishing boat and static from the radio scratched the air in the wheelhouse, Jake sat back and thought about the Greifswalder.
Tucked inside the log book was a transcript of a conversation marked Top Secret.
The orders were evidently transcribed due to their importance. Nobody had bothered to destroy the transcript, probably because by that time, it was fast becoming every man for himself. The orders had been received as the Third Reich was crumbling, as Berlin was bombed to rubble, and as Hitler contemplated suicide.
The first transcript from Grand Admiral Dönitz related in a frantic tone that the mission would be carried out on a need-to-know basis. Von Köhler ’s cargo ship, the Greifswalder, would be escorted to a position near False Cape Horn, where they would meet a submarine with orders of the ship’s final destination regarding where in Chile to drop the package. Due to the fall of the Reich, there would be no further radio communications.
The second transcript related that Von Köhler ’s had requested a change due to the extreme weather conditions of Cape Horn. He requested to receive the orders in the vicinity of South Georgia Island to ensure the success of the mission and avoid the high risk of a Cape Horn rendezvous. At first this option was rejected by Grand Admiral Dönitz; however, he swiftly came back with a confirmation. He had a spy among the Norwegian coast watchers on South Georgia. That man would receive two sets of sealed orders, both of which would be protected in weather-proof packages. The orders would be placed in two different locations on the island. Köhler ’s shore party was to proceed to whichever location was safest: In the case of any adverse ice conditions around position A or a known enemy patrol ship in the area, then Köhler was to proceed to drop point B. The orders would identify his final location in Chile, where he would deliver the cargo. At each of the drop points on South Georgia, a set of orders would be placed under an elongated, grave-shaped pile of small rocks found at the heads of coves identified by huge stones as landmarks.
A huge shipment of Nazi treasure had been smuggled to South America and lost forever. If the second set of orders could still be found on South Georgia, then just maybe Jake could locate a fortune in lost Nazi loot.
CHAPTER 1
Two Weeks Later
South Atlantic
East of Cape Horn
Jake stood at the rail and looked out across wild seas that swept the length of the red cargo ship, spilling Antarctic broth over the rails—freezing water, stinging, bone-aching, frigid water that rolled past in a blizzard of howling winds and blowing snow. Jake loved this—the sounds of water splashing against the hull and rumble of waves crashing on deck. It was just like Alaska. Not only that, he was on the trail he’d picked up on Svalbard Island, Norway. He was living fast and high, the taste of salt on his lips.
He had been on many sea voyages, but they didn’t get any better than this. To follow the trail of a legendary cargo that had been lost in the fogs of history since 1945 was his dream. He could only imagine the tales he would have to tell on the lecture circuit.
As the ship staggered past an iceberg under a gray sky, he wondered if the lost Nazi orders he’d learned about in the sub lair in Iceland were really on South Georgia Island. They had to be. He was sure of it. Two sets of orders had been planted, but only one was picked up. Of course the other set was still there, as long as the metal cylinder had preserved it. Few people went to South Georgia. Thanks to Ashley lending him her metal detector, he was prepared for anything—including digging the protective cylinder out of the snow and rocks.
He imagined himself actually finding the lost ship of World War Two infamy. He could see himself ranting and raving at his maritime history classes about his memories of swimming through her sunken halls and finding relics. Never mind her cargo, which would make international headlines. That would be fantastic, but even if he just recovered the lost orders, it would be a great discovery—to know what became of the ship and her hoard of Nazi treasure.
He spun t
he dog latch and stepped inside the house as a shutter ran through the whole ship. As he made his way up the narrow, bucking stairwell, he felt the entire hull shake and rumble as the cargo ship Beth smashed into another wave. The impact sounded like thunder, and as the ship absorbed the shockwave, Jake’s fingers clung to the cold metal hand rails so that he wasn’t thrown back down the stairwell to the lower deck.
The cargo ship Beth was a relic herself, but she was tough. Like most cargo ships, the Beth accommodated a handful of passengers. Currently, she was carrying a dozen scientists and academics.
And Beth was now taking him to South Georgia Island, one of the most remote islands in the world. It was there that he hoped to make his find—evidence of an operation to smuggle away a mother load of Nazi treasure during the fall of the Third Reich in 1945. One of the two sets of orders would surely be on South Georgia Island.
The wheelhouse was a marriage of the old and the new. The wood paneling and wheel looked like they came from the past. Most of the electronics had been updated, and below the window banks with their panoramic views of swirling snow was an array of computer monitors. Aged levers and gauges covered the helm consul.
Static scratched over the radio, and voices in Spanish faded in and out: Jake translated a few phrases like “…sixty knot winds… More boats are turning back.”
The captain sat at the helm in new clothes and a cloud of cigar smoke. Unshaven and bearded, he used the butt of one cigar to light a new one. Then he put that down and drank coffee straight out of his thermos.
“Nice weather,” Jake said.
The captain put down a spoke on the big wooden wheel and looked at the radar. “About normal for down here.” He blew out a puff of smoke and shook his head.
Ghostly, moaning sounds of the flexing hull echoed through the ship. Jake looked out the bank of windows. The main deck was awash. As the bow plunged over one twenty foot swell, it crashed into another, and water burst over the rails in a flash flood.
As the water drained out through the scupper holes, it revealed the real problem, which was several inches of ice that covered everything.
More static scratched over the radio and Jake translated a snatch or two of dialogue: “No sign … survivors… too dangerous ...”
“What’s going on?” Jake said.
The captain puffed on his cigar and shook his head. “A small cruise ship sank yesterday near the Falkland Islands. Search has been suspended.”
Jake felt sad. A sinking ship was a frightening thing in any conditions, but down here in the winter—that was really tough. He knew the Falkland Islands were off the coast of Argentina, north of Cape Horn, and the conditions were usually bad. Based on how long the Beth had been at sea, he guessed the Falklands must have been over six hundred miles to the west.
“It was an undersized ship,” the captain said, “Two hundred and ninety feet. She was often used for remote voyages and eco tours. Hundred and fifty passengers. There’s no sign, no hope in these conditions. I wanted to turn back and help, but that would have put us in danger.”
A three-story wave loomed ahead, and Jake reached for the hand rail. The wind-raked swell curled over the rising bow and dumped a massive flood over the decks, turning them into class-five rapids. Had anyone been out on deck, they would have been history.
Jake shook his head. A fatal storm might also have doomed the German raider ship Atlantis back in 1945. Maybe that’s why none of the crew were ever heard from again. Either that or the Nazis all changed their names and lived in anonymity in South America. It was hard to know, but she certainly could have sunk. So many ships had gone down in these waters—especially over at Cape Horn.
Jake watched the ocean. Obscured by blowing snow, the rushing gray waves drooled foam off their white beards. Their wild white hair streaked off into the furious wind. The ship pounded the faces of waves like an ax bludgeoning one log after another. Great fans of sea spray flung up and doused the deck with Antarctic water that froze on contact with ice and steel.
Wind screamed in the rigging like souls of a thousand dead sailors. Each time the boat crashed into the next wave, water thundered over the bow, and the ship’s deck became a violent flashflood.
The incessant clanging of the cable against the flag pole reminded Jake that he was still above water—and he was thankful for that. He enjoyed the glory of a wild sea voyage, but at the same time, conditions like this were always a little frightening. It was hard to ignore that his life could end at any moment. It was humbling to realize just how mortal he was. The sea, which he loved, seemed vengeful and pitiless. Jake thought maybe he’d go hang out with his survival suit.
On his way down the stairs to the passenger deck, he was thrown against the wall and almost fell down the stairs. Descending a tilting, shifting hallway, he stopped twice to keep his balance. He was tired and ready for a nap. He figured his survival suit would make a wonderful pillow. On his way to his cabin, something caught his attention. Framed and hanging on the hallway wall, he spotted what looked like an article on the history of the ship. To Jake, this was as irresistible as a diamond peaking out of the sand. The article was mounted next to the doorway of the passenger lounge, where several crewmen were playing poker. In one hand, the men held their cards; with the other hand, they guarded their money so that it didn’t slide across the table.
Jake also noticed a passenger, who was seated in a lounge chair. He was a rail-thin man who was hunched forward in his chair, his shoulders bunched up. A cane was leaning against his thigh, and he held a novel with a shaking hand. With his free hand, he clung to a plastic prescription bottle, which he was rattling as if from some nervous habit. It seemed odd to him that a sick old man would be on this ship.
Jake focused on the wall-mounted article about the Beth’s history. Unfortunately, he’d barely finished the first paragraph when a big man slapped his cards down on the table. Skull tattoos stretched around his bulging biceps, and a snake tattoo wrapped around his bull-like neck.
He said, “Hey, you quit rattling that damn thing or I’ll shove it down your throat.”
“Come on, Tupac,” one of the ex-convicts said to the big man. “It’s your play.”
Tupac ignored his fellow sailor. “Is that clear, Paco?”
When the cripple’s hand froze, the rattling stopped, and the man was as still as a frightened mouse. “I’m sorry, mister. I won’t do it again.”
Tupac swept up his cards and resumed his game. Jake went back to reading the article. He’d barely gotten through two paragraphs when the cripple dropped his pill bottle. It bounced off his foot and rattled across the floor.
Tupac said, “I thought I told you to be quiet.”
A look of panic crossed the cripple’s gaunt face. “I’m sorry, mister. I don’t have the best control of my hand muscles. It was an accident.”
Tupac tossed his cards on the table and gathered up his money. “I’m out.”
Jake was reading the article when Tupac hurried out of the lounge and bumped into him.
“Hey, slow down there, partner.”
The big man cursed at him but never looked back.
Jake’s stateroom was dated, but the wood paneling gave the room a homey feeling. It was the fine-quality wood and joinery common on prewar-built vessels. The bed was like a large bench with a cushion mattress and had the kind of patterned wool blanket he might have found in his grandmother’s redwood chest. He sat down on his bunk and took off his shoes. He grabbed a handful of maritime history books from his bag and looked around. If he piled his books on the desk, they’d slide onto his face when he was sleeping. He fed them into the overhead bookshelf with its safety bar. No matter how rough things got, the books would stay put there. Maybe.
He lay back in his bed. They would be at South Georgia Island in another day or two. He reached over and slipped his gun into the desk drawer, sliding it closed. He then opened up Louis L’Amour western novel and started reading.”
For the next
two days, he only left his cabin for meals.
When on the third day the engines stopped abruptly, the quiet woke him from a catnap. He checked his pocket clock and couldn’t believe it. Finally, his search for the lost Nazi orders would begin.
He looked out his port hole and saw a little outpost with a green warehouse and a dozen other buildings, all of which were buried in snow. The wharf had been cleared, but a couple of inches of fresh snow had since accumulated, and Jake was surprised to see that the snow was practically undisturbed. From his vantage point, he saw no sign of a single human footprint in the snow or any loader tracks. He saw penguin tracks and even a couple of seals, but that was it. This kind of neglect surprised Jake. He’d expected at least a couple of stevedores or dock workers to meet them and help secure the lines. After all, how many boats even came here in the winter?
Jake hurried up to the wheelhouse to see if there was time to go ashore. King Edward Point was a little research station across the cove from historic Grytviken whaling station. The whole cove was surrounded by stark, snow-covered mountains that rose thousands of feet above sea level.
“I don’t know yet,” the captain said. He took a long puff on his cigar. “I sent my boy Andreas and a couple of others to look for the team members of the station.”
“Why? Are they still in bed?”
The captain shook his head and raised his binoculars. “Something is going on.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we’ve been trying to make contact with them for the past twenty-four hours with no luck.”
Jake looked ashore. “I thought they had a dozen people here during the winter.”
“They do. I was thinking that maybe the communications officer was ill, but now the dock crew doesn’t even show up. It’s very unusual. Normally, they’re all out here to greet us. I don’t know what they’re doing.”
Jake hung around the wheelhouse for twenty minutes until Andreas came in. He still had snowflakes in his graying hair. “There’s nobody there, sir.”