Tidal Effects (Gray Tide In The East Book 2)

by Andrew J. Heller

  “That’s what our man thought, too,” Sims agreed. “He made a few inquiries, and confirmed that there is a big construction project underway at La Trinitie. When he asked the German commercial attaché about it, he was told it was a project of the Hamburg-America Line, who wanted to have a modern base for some new Caribbean routes they plan to develop. Oddly enough, neither the commercial attaché nor the Hamburg-America could provide any details. The consul… his name is Welles, by the way… wasn’t satisfied with this explanation, so he went over to La Trinitie to see what was going on for himself. The new facility is being built directly across the bay from the old town on the Caravelle Peninsula. They had put up fences all around the land side, and more barriers floating on rafts to obstruct the sea level view.”

  “It almost sounds as if Hamburg-America has a guilty conscience, or something,” Spruance commented.

  “Or something,” Sims agreed grimly. “The gate to the site was protected by a detachment of armed guards. Welles went over there, identified himself as the American consul and asked to look around in his official capacity.”

  “Let me guess: they declined to give him the nickel tour,” Spruance said.

  “Within ten minutes a flunky appeared at the gate to tell Welles that it was completely out of the question because the company was not allowing any unauthorized persons inside until the facility was ready to open. Welles was advised not to return to La Trinitie and was told that if he was found prying around the site again, the colonial Governor would ask the State Department for his recall,” Sims said. “Now, what do you think of that?”

  “It sounds like a very strange, even eccentric way for a commercial shipping line to treat an official representative of the United States government,” Spruance replied slowly. “Of course, if the new port facility is not really a Hamburg-America venture at all, but is in actuality a government project…”

  “The German government, let’s just say…” Sims interjected.

  Spruance nodded his head and continued, “…and that government wanted to keep the facility a secret until it was completed before officially announcing it, so as to present a fait accompli to…”

  “To the United States, for example…” Sims added.

  “…then, I suppose there is a certain logic in trying to keep the new facility under wraps,” Spruance finished. “But what could they be building behind those fences that they would need to keep secret, except…” He trailed off.

  “Yeah,” Sims said. “What could it be other than a brand new base in the Western Hemisphere for the High Seas Fleet?” Sims asked. “And if that is what they’re doing down in Martinique, we could be at war with Germany before the leaves fall.”

  Chapter Two

  Wilhelmshaven, Martinique, April 19, 1923

  It was hot in Wilhelmshaven, a sweltering 85 degrees under bright sunshine. By the time Ray Spruance reached the end of the long concrete wharf where he had come ashore from the tramp steamer that had brought him to Martinique, sweat had soaked through his shirt to spread in dark patches under the arms of his white linen suit, and had stained the brow of his new Panama hat. He had been expecting it to be hot, but he was unprepared for the suffocating reality of the blazing Caribbean sun combined with sauna-like humidity.

  Customs was an open-air wooden shed roofed with palm fronds at the end of the wharf. The casual look of the building suggested an equally casual, perhaps even friendly customs inspection, but Spruance was not surprised to find the German customs officials were neither casual nor friendly. There were only two inspectors to examine the passports and baggage of the more than 30 passengers from the newly arrived ship, and they did not believe in taking half-measures. Each passport was subjected to intense scrutiny and if the contents of each piece of luggage was not put through a painstaking item-by-item examination, it was at least opened and pawed through. As he stood in the line, slowly melting in the tropical heat, Spruance wondered what the customs men thought could possibly be worth smuggling into Martinique. Finally, after a frog-faced official had inspected every page of his passport, including subjecting visas that could not possibly concern him to extended examinations, then groped the contents of Spruance’s small leather satchel, he grumpily affixed a stamp, approving his entry into the newest gem in the diadem of freedom in the Caribbean Sea, German Martinique.

  Spruance waved off the swarming locals who came down to the docks whenever a ship put in, declining their offers of cabs, hotels and girls. The American consulate was less than a mile from the harbor (indeed, nothing in the little town was much more than a mile from docks), so Spruance decided to walk. It would give him a chance to look the town over and begin to get acclimatized to the island.

  The cobblestone streets of the old colonial settlement were narrow and twisting. For the most part there were no sidewalks, so Spruance and other pedestrians had to share the streets with a variety of vehicles ranging from taxis to tiny delivery vans, to bicycles, to donkey carts. He witnessed a number of hair-raising near-collisions as he made his way inland and up the steep hill behind the harbor, but witnessed no actual accidents, or even any serious traffic-related arguments. It appeared that the locals accepted the insane traffic conditions as a matter of course, and were confident that any oncoming car or van would stop or swerve aside rather than run them over.

  A few minutes of observation as he walked along persuaded the American that this confidence was justified, so Spruance decided to adopt the local methods. He plowed straight ahead at a steady pace, neither altering his stride or changing direction, even when a Peugeot cycle-car screeched across his path and very nearly ran over his feet. The driver, a young woman wearing a red printed scarf bound around her head from which a few long, blonde hairs had escaped, waved, laughed, and cheerfully fluted, “Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur!”

  Spruance waved back and replied, “Ce n’est rien,” and continued stolidly on his way. After a twenty-five minute walk from the harbor, which included two stops to ask directions, he arrived at his destination: 49 Rue de Saint Pierre.

  The consulate was located in a prosperous residential district of large houses, and was much like its neighbors. The consulate building was an airy, white, two-story clapboard converted private house, with covered verandahs wrapping around both floors, big windows and lavish, colorful tropical plantings in front and filling the narrow space with the neighboring buildings. A short, palm-bordered flagstone path led from the street to the base of the steps that went up the front porch.

  Spruance walked up to the front door and raised his hand to knock. He hesitated when he saw that the front door was open, and there was only a screen door before him, with nothing solid on which to knock. He looked around for a doorbell, but before he could find it a female voice from inside called, “Come right in, please.”

  He removed his hat and went in, letting the screen door bang shut behind. He found himself in a large room with a high ceiling. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the relative dimness of the interior after the bright sunlight on the street. There was a cool breeze blowing in the room, generated by a big fan that circled overhead. In the center of the room was a large oak desk, and seated behind it in a cane-back office chair was the young woman who had invited him inside.

  “Please take a seat, sir, and I will assist you in just a moment,” the woman said, not looking up from the papers she was examining. She spoke perfect English with a slight trace of a French accent. Spruance remembered her immediately, and when she raised her head and looked at him, her eyes flew wide open in recognition. This was the same woman who had nearly flattened Spruance under the wheels of her little Peugeot a few minutes earlier as he was walking up from the harbor.

  “Did you follow me up here make a complaint?” she asked nervously. “Did I injure you, sir? I’m so sorry…”

  He laughed and shook his head. “No, no, all you did was create a few seconds of excitement in an otherwise dull existence. My name is Raymond Spruance, and I�
��m here to see your boss, Consul Welles. Will you please tell him that I’m here?”

  The blonde woman sighed with relief when she saw that he that he had not come to report her for her driving. “We were wondering when you would arrive. Mr. Welles is in his private office,” she said. “Let me take you back to him.”

  There was another door, a few feet behind the reception desk. She knocked, and then went in without waiting for permission to enter. “Mr. Welles, Commander Spruance is here.”

  “Show him in, Elaine,” the consul said. As Spruance entered the office, Welles said, “Since his mission is confidential, I think we should refer to our guest as simply ‘Mr. Spruance’ for the remainder of his stay, Elaine.”

  “Of course, sir,” she agreed. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen,” she said, closing the door softly behind her.

  The consul rose from behind his desk to offer his hand. “Sumner Welles,” he said. “Sorry I wasn’t down to meet you at the harbor, but they didn’t tell me exactly when you were supposed to arrive. Security, I imagine.”

  “Ray Spruance,” he said, returning the handshake. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Welles.” Spruance was pleased with his first impression of the consul. A minor post like this was a dead end that would normally be filled by an older man who had no hope of advancement in the diplomatic service. He would have therefore expected to find a mediocre civil service functionary who was incompetent to handle anything beyond the kind of routine matters that would arise in such an assignment, such as a lost passport or a distressed American traveler. After having read Welles’ excellent report to Washington on the German project, however, Spruance had hoped for something more.

  Sumner Welles had an air of both intelligence and competence. He appeared to be about Spruance’s age, in his late twenties or early thirties. He was dressed neatly in an expensively tailored blue pinstriped seersucker suit. His office, although tiny, with just enough room for a small desk, a pair of chairs for visitors, and a bookshelf, was neat as a pin. The only paper on his desk was a map of the island across which was laid a large magnifying glass. Evidently he had been examining the map when Spruance arrived.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Spruance,” Welles said. “Since we’ll be working together, I might as well tell you a little about myself. If you’re wondering why I’m assigned to this backwater, I can assure you that it is not because I’m being punished by State, or that they think I’m an idiot.” He paused, as if to give his visitor a chance to deny that he had thought any such thing.

  If so, he was disappointed. Spruance said nothing, merely raising an eyebrow in an unspoken question.

  “Actually, I normally work at a somewhat higher level. My previous position in the State Department was Assistant Head of the Latin American Division,” Welles went on. “I volunteered to come down here as Consul. You see, I have long suspected that Germany was eventually going to attempt to project its power into the Western Hemisphere, and when they did, this colony would be the obvious place to start. So, I thought the Service would need a representative here who was a little more sophisticated in international relations, shall we say, than the usual run of men generally assigned to remote consular posts like this.”

  Spruance nodded. He was impressed. Welles was a man who had put duty to his country ahead of his personal interests, as he had demonstrated by placing his diplomatic career on hold to volunteer for the lowly position of consul to Martinique.

  “By the way, after I found out who they were sending down here, I had my connections in Washington look up your record,” Welles went on. “Your efficiency reports are a string of ‘outstanding, recommended for promotion.’ I asked them for their best man, and I am pleased to see that they sent him.”

  Spruance was uncomfortable with praise, and was never quite certain how to respond to it. He nodded to acknowledge the compliment, and then asked, “So, do you have any thoughts on how we can get a good look at this new port?”

  “I have an idea,” Welles answered. “I trust you won’t mind a little hike in the hills.”

  * * * * *

  The next morning, they were barreling down a narrow mountain road in bright yellow Citroen coupe, leaving a long plume of dust to mark their passage. The car’s maximum speed was 40 miles per hour, but it seemed to Spruance that the consul was taking some of the sharper curves at double that speed. With an effort, he kept his voice casual as he asked, “Are you going to try to get us in through the gate?”

  Welles shook his head. “We wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near the front gate. The colonial administration has closed the coast road from La Trinitie to the project site. Without written authorization from the Governor, we couldn’t get within a mile of the place. We’ll go around the back. Take a look at the map.”

  Spruance opened the glove box and removed a topographical map of Martinique, which he eventually managed to unfold in the cramped car. It was an excellent map, which had been prepared for the French Army as part of a military survey of the French colonies in 1902. It depicted every road, paved, graveled, or dirt, on the island, including mountain trails used primarily by goats. It also showed changes of elevation in ten meter increments with contour lines.

  “We’ll stay on the main road and pass south of the town, then pull off the road somewhere around here,” Welles said, poking at the map with his forefinger. “There’s a hill about a mile behind the site where we should be able to get a good view of what’s going on behind those fences from 400 feet above the harbor.”

  A few minutes later they passed the outskirts of La Trinitie on their left. Spruance caught a brief glimpse of the little town with its colorfully painted houses nestled along the improbably azure waters of the bay sparkling in the bright sunshine. Then the road curved back inland and around a hill, and the town vanished from his view.

  Welles drove on for about a mile after passing the town before he pulled off to the side of the road. He consulted the map, and then pointed at a hill ahead and to the left. “That’s where we want to go. There’s the ruins of an 18th century chateau up there that looks right down over the bay. It should be an excellent place to observe the new facility without troubling our German friends. Let’s just find a place to hide the car, in case anybody driving by gets curious.”

  A few yards further from the road at the base of the hill was a stand of scrubby trees and underbrush. Welles slowly drove the little car into the bushes. He and Spruance gathered up some of the branches the car had broken in its progress, and piled them on the trunk and rear bumper.

  Welles stood back, hands on hips as he examined their work. “What do you think, Commander?” he asked.

  “Assuming that nobody is looking for us here, it will do,” he answered. “It’s good enough to keep casual passers-by from seeing it.”

  He took a leather knapsack from the back seat of the car and slid it over his shoulders, then followed Welles toward the path that ran up the hill. The trail meandered up the grassy slope between pitted boulders of volcanic rock. The incline was gentle at the bottom, but quickly became steeper as they went on. Although it was less than a mile from the car to the top of the hill, Spruance’s calves were aching by the time they reached the ruined chateau.

  Chateau Dubuc, Martinique

  “This is the Chateau Dubuc, or what’s left of it,” Welles said, gesturing at the tumbledown gray stone walls on either side. “It was built around 1700, damaged in the earthquake in 1727, and abandoned about 1815. That wall is the remnant of the main house,” he said, pointing to a tumbledown, undulating stone structure, which had obviously been part of a building at one time. It was perhaps twenty feet high at its highest point. “Why don’t we climb up there and have a look?”

  By picking their way carefully along the top of the ruined wall, the two men were able to reach the highest point of the structure. When they turned east and looked down, they were rewarded with a magnificent view of the town of La Trinitie on the other side of the bay and, more importantly, the ne
w German port project.

  Spruance straddled the wall, and slipped the straps of his knapsack off his shoulders. He laid the pack across his lap, and removed a large sketchpad, a ruler and a draftsman’s pen with a fine nib. As he was unpacking, his companion was surveying the site through a pair of field glasses.

  “Hamburg-America must have some big plans for Martinique,” he commented. “Whoever planned this project was not thinking small.”

  By now Spruance had his own binoculars focused on the site. He was impressed by the scale of the development. He estimated that there were more than two hundred workers swarming over the new port. Massive quantities of dirt were being dug up by steam-shovels, moved about by heavy trucks and planed flat by bulldozers. He saw wooden forms that would require thousands of cubic feet of concrete to fill. “They have enough earth-moving equipment down there to build a medium-sized city. That big rectangular hole down by the shoreline on the left is the beginning of a dry dock, a big one. Why Hamburg-America would need something like that out here is a little hard to fathom.”

  “Do you think it will be big enough to handle a battleship?” Welles asked.

  “Probably,” Spruance said. He lowered the glasses, and began to sketch.

  Three hours later, they were back in the yellow Citroen, on the road to Wilhelmshaven. The consul had been silent as Spruance filled the pad with sketches of the new facility, allowing him to concentrate on his work. The naval man remained uncommunicative as they returned to the car, appearing to be lost in thought. As they drove along, he reviewed the drawings he had made, flipping back and forth through the pages of the pad. Finally, he raised his head to look at Welles for a long time in silence.

  “So, Commander, after seeing the new facility with your own eyes, what is your professional opinion?” Welles asked.

  He did not respond immediately. “I think,” he said, after a considerable pause, “that if the Germans are serious about completing it, there will be a war.”