The Heirs of Babylon - Glen Cook

by harry

  Otto shouted, “How many of you want to go on? What’s in this War for us? Where’re we going? Why? Just because Beck told us to? Let’s go home. If we have to, we should —”

  “Ott!” Kurt snapped, cutting him off before he could damn himself with a proposal of mutiny. “Shut up!”

  “You shut up, Kurt! Don’t you want to see Karen again? Maybe you don’t. Beck says there’s a War, and you always let people run you.... What’s the matter with all of you? You don’t want this stupid trip. We’ll all get killed if we go. Why don’t we do something about it?”

  He was hitting them hard, Kurt saw. They were thinking. Trouble would come soon, bad trouble. “Hans, Erich, Fritz, give me a hand,” he whispered. They rose and a moment later were wrestling Otto forward, down to his compartment, with Kurt praying he had acted in time to keep Kapp’s head out of a noose. Von Lappus and Haber seemed to have low opinions of Beck, but they would not refuse his orders in a mutiny case.

  Otto passed out before they heaved him into his rack. They tied him in, returned to the mess decks, Kurt thought he had better warn his men off the Polish liquor, lest they wind up as Otto had, spouting nonsense which made all too much sense.

  Silence reigned on the mess decks. Men stared into their food, thinking much what Otto had said aloud. The same thoughts were in Kurt’s mind, which made him frightened and sad; frightened he would eventually follow Otto’s lead, sad because he had not the courage.

  After his watch — which was miserable because he spent it dwelling on Otto’s words and the possibility of never seeing Karen again — Kurt went to his compartment determined to sleep. But his thoughts would not cease haunting him. He was hag-ridden. Never again to see Karen, to hold her.... After an hour’s tossing, he gave up, decided to take a walk topside. He found the last of the storm gone, so strolled along the starboard weather deck, watched the phosphorescent water rush past and the occasional flying fish flutter away from Jager’s side. These small miracles he never tired of studying.

  He climbed to the torpedo deck and took a seat astraddle the starboard tube, still watching the passing sea and the rolling stars above. The soft sigh of the water swirling past, the gentle crump of waves being broken under the bow, was restful, eased his tension. He gradually regained peace.

  He had been sitting there nearly an hour, thinking, when he heard angry voices on the maindeck portside. The sounds of the wind in the rigging, and of the passing sea, muted those voices, making them unidentifiable, yet

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  left the anger easily detectable. He rose and started over, curious.

  A scream.

  Kurt ran, stopped at the port lifelines, looked down. Aft, a watertight door squeaked shut. Directly below, a hand clung to the lifelines while another tried for a grip. The man called for help, weakly. Kurt scrambled down the nearest ladder, shouting, “Man overboard! Man overboard! Port side!”

  As his feet hit the maindeck, Jager nosed into a heavy swell. He staggered, grabbed handholds welded to the bulkhead. The swell hastened along the sides of the ship, seized the man clinging to the lifelines. His hold broke. He shouted something as his hands fell out of sight. Kurt reached the lifelines just in time to see the terrified face of Otto Kapp disappearing in phosphorescent foam.

  A shouted question came from the bridge. Kurt shouted back, without words. Jager ceased shuddering as her engines were taken off the line, to keep the man overboard from being dismembered by the screw. She slowly swung to port, throwing her stem away from him. Von Lappus, like a roly-poly teddy bear, appeared in nightshirt and sleeping cap. No one had suspected — neither did anyone laugh. No one noticed.

  The Captain rumbled, grumbled, asked pointed questions. Kurt was too distraught to answer coherently, certain this was all his fault. If only he hadn’t talked Otto into coming.... Would Frieda ever forgive him?

  But he never mentioned his suspicion that Otto had had help going over. Why? He did not know, though he asked himself repeatedly.

  Von Lappus quickly stopped trying to get anything out of him. He took command of the vessel, and, after a Williamson turn failed to bring her back to Kapp, ordered a search pattern. Searchlights probed the night, pale fingers caressing silver wavecrests. The few starshells in the magazines were squandered, floated down the darkness like tiny, sputtering suns. But there was little hope of finding a man overboard at night when he had gone without a lifejacket and flares.

  Yet they eventually found him, floating face down, arms widespread. Kurt had recovered enough to ask himself if drowned men float, and he seemed to be the only one who noticed the small bloodstain on Otto’s jumper, in the back, about kidney-high.

  There was nothing to be done for Kapp. Von Lappus said to leave him there, with a prayer. And, among his shipmates, there were thoughts of what he had had to say in the mess decks earlier.

  Jdger resumed steaming. Kurt, knowing he would get no sleep, went to the charthouse where he and Gregor both did much of their work. He took a copy of the ship’s muster from his files, studied it a moment, used a pencil to black out four names: his own, Beck’s, von Lappus’s, and Otto’s. He told himself there would be a day when just one name remained. Then there would be a reckoning, both for Otto and for Frieda, widowed before marriage. For a few minutes there he was a grim young man his Karen would never have recognized.

  VI

  JAGER reached Cabo Ortegal on track, two hours late. K. urt had by that time recovered somewhat from Otto’s loss, although he was still withdrawn from ship’s affairs. She turned and followed the Spanish coast, passing Conma near midnight, Cabo Tourinan early the following morning, and, after turning south, reached Cape Finisterre at midmorning. There she hove to.

  A ship was on the rocks there, another destroyer. She had not been aground long — her paint was fresh and her flags flew untatfered by the wind — but she showed no signs of life.

  Kurt, called to the bridge for consultation, studied her unfamiliar colors and frowned. He did not know her flag. She was of pre-War American construction, but otherwise a mystery.

  Von Lappus said, “We’ll send a boarding party. She may have gear we can use.”

  Commander Haber, speaking to a gaggle of officers, said, “Each of you pick two men from your department to look for salvage. First Lieutenant, put a boat in the water.”

  Gregor turned to Kurt. “Find Hippke. You two go over.”

  Kurt wanted to protest. He had no desire for a boat ride across choppy seas. He killed it unborn. He could cry for a week and still have to go — thus things worked in the Navy.

  Soon the boarding party gathered. They climbed down to the whaleboat, took seats at the oars, rowed. Once started, Kurt found he was eager to go aboard and explore this strange vessel — until he actually set foot on her maindeck.

  Bloated corpses were scattered there, bodies perhaps a week old, bodies invisible from Jager because of the wreck’s cant. Weapons covered with a patina of new rust lay among them. The dead aft were enlisted men. Forward they found two mutilated Political Officers, as well as officers and ratings.

  Almost from the moment he stepped aboard, Kurt was certain of the cause of the mutiny. These men — one side — had wanted nothing to do with the War. Perhaps they had had their own Otto Kapp, one who had been successful in getting men to follow him. And, during the fighting, the ship had run aground. Or, perhaps, someone had run her on the rocks intentionally. He thought of Beck’s astounding disclosures.

  Gradually, during a cursory examination of the vessel, Kurt recovered from his initial shock. “Erich,” he muttered, “let’s get done and get out of here.”

  Hippke was as shocked, though, in his time, he had seen some grim sights. He appeared not to have heard. Kurt took him by the arm.

  They found more corpses inside the ship. Each compartment and passageway had its bloated tenant. “Let’s find the charthouse,” said Kurt, gagging in the interior fetor.

  To reach their goal, they had to climb over a corpse
with its legs tangled in a ladder. The man had been shot in the head repeatedly. In the closed, narrow space, the stench was overwhelming.

  “It should be on this level,” Kurt said. “It was on most American ships.”

  “Here, I think this’s it. Wrong side, though.”

  Kurt studied the little plaque above the door. The few words on it made no sense, but they were the same as those over Jagefs charthouse door. “Open it.”

  “It’s locked from inside.”

  Despite a sinking feeling, Kurt braced himself against the ladder and kicked. The door gave a little. Two more kicks broke the lock.

  “Oh, Christ!” Hippke muttered, gagging.

  A man lay on the deck inside. He had, apparently, been wounded in the fighting, had fled to a safe place, and had died there. The deck was covered with brown scales of dried blood.

  “All right,” Kurt growled, trying to control his stomach, “let’s get him out.” They grabbed the corpse’s clothing, heaved it into the passageway, held their breaths against the sudden increase in stench.

  The vessel shivered. A small shriek of protesting metal ran through her as she shifted on the rocks. Hippke looked ready to panic, which surprised Kurt, considering the man’s past. He fought his own fear.

  “Let’s go through their stuff!” he snapped. “There’ll be plenty of time to get off if she starts breaking up.” He opened a drawer, wishing he were more confident of that. “Hey! Look here! Notebooks.”

  He had found a dozen of them. Paper! Invaluable paper. Jager’s records were kept on scraps likely to crumble at any moment.

  “Yeah?” Hippke replied, excited. He opened another drawer. “Look at this! Ball-point pens. And they work.” He tested one after another with the wonder of a child.

  Like children in an attic they pawed through the endless treasures the charthouse offered: publications lager lacked, charts, instruments, more ball-points, pencils, paper — a wealth of usable paper.

  “Kurt,” Erich said after a while, “it’s like digging for treasure and finding it.”

  Kurt remembered other duties. “We’d better go send the word.”

  “Good idea. The sooner they start, the more they’ll get off before she breaks up.”

  As if on cue, the ship shifted and groaned.

  They scrambled up ladders to the signal bridge, too excited to be bothered by corpses. “See if the lights work,” said Kurt. “I’ll look for a set of flags.”

  A moment later, Hippke called, “No power.”

  “Didn’t think there would be,” Kurt replied, coming out of the signal shack with semaphore flags. “These’ll do. See if Brecht’s ready.”

  Erich looked through the ship’s telescope. “He’s waiting. Captain’s with him.”

  “Von Lappus? On the signal bridge? How’d he haul himself up?”

  “Got me. Brecht’s seen us. He says he’s ready.”

  Kurt sent for several minutes, finished, read the Captain’s reply, said, “Erich, tell the others it’s time to go. Ill be down in a minute.”

  He scrounged up a pillowcase and quickly filled it with plunder, hauled it to the quarterdeck. The others were waiting. He laughed. The whaleboat rode low in the water, piled with loot. Kurt tossed his atop the rest. A moment later they pushed off. There were soft curses as water washed over the gunwales.

  “You men report to the mess decks,” von Lappus ordered once the boat was hoisted aboard Jager. “Wiedermann, post a man at each door. We’re not to be bothered.”

  Kurt did as he was told, found the ship’s officers already gathered on the mess decks.

  “I imagine,” said the Captain on arriving, “from all the excitement, that salvage will be worthwhile. What’s she

  got? You, Ziotopolski.”

  One of Czyzewski’s engineers replied, “There were stores of coal, grease, lubricating oil, and gasoline. The screws were both intact, and of the same type as our own.”

  Von Lappus caught the inference, said, “Chief Engineer, thatll be your most important task. Deckinger?”

  Deckinger spoke briefly of paint, tools, line, and such, which were of interest to Deck. Kurt stopped listening, thought about von Lappus and Haber. They were changing. The Captain grew steadily sloppier. Rumor said he was eating poorly. Haber was growing increasingly nervous, and in dress was following the lead of von Lappus.

  Gunnery’s man spoke mostly of ammunition and small arms. “Ranke?”

  Kurt was jolted back to the discussion. “Sir, our gear is primitive compared to theirs. Their bridge, charthouse, and Combat were all well equipped. There’re supplies and charts we need desperately.”

  “Mr. Obermeyer, you’re to salvage her,” von Lappus told the continually seasick First Lieutenant. “I want all available boats in the water. We’ll work around the clock till she’s stripped.”

  Kurt went to the bridge that evening to distribute his loot. Hippke came up, still shaken. Could this be, Kurt wondered, the same Erich who claimed to have adventured all through the Littoral? Who, supposedly, had served in Freikorps Flieder, a vicious private army officially ignored because it performed a valuable service;

  to wit, it confined its predations to Russians, who, given a chance, did the same to the Littoral. Hippke claimed to have been present at some noteworthy massacres, yet the mess aboard the wreck had shattered him. He was not what he claimed, despite his excellent credentials.

  Before Kurt could question Hippke, Erich said, “Beck wants you.”

  “Now?”

  “In his stateroom.”

  Again with heart pounding, Kurt went down to that place of fear. As he entered, the Political Officer whispered, “I’m indebted to you again. You must be my guardian angel. What happened over there?”

  Kurt lifted his eyebrows questioningly.

  “The wreck. Nobody’s seen fit to tell me anything. All I know is what I overhear of conversations in the passageway.” Beck looked much better now, past his worst days. He would heal, though it would take a long time.

  “Nothing. We just poked around.”

  “Don’t be coy. What happened to her crew?” If anything, Beck’s gaze was more cold and penetrating than when he had been well. His face was more skull-like.

  Kurt shifted uneasily. “Mutiny, I think, sir. They were too busy fighting to work ship.”

  “Mutiny? I’d heard it, but not believed.... Why?”

  “Sir, it looked like the crew didn’t want to go to the War.” Kurt’s words were almost inaudible, so frightened was he. “They shot the officers and ratings, then tortured their Political Officers to death.”

  Beck looked both startled and afraid — the first time Kurt had seen him express the latter. Perhaps he knew of Otto and how near Jager had come. “They killed each other off?”

  “The boats were gone. Some got away.”

  Beck grunted. “Damn! Wish I could go look. I’ll have to file a report.... This’ll cause a stir, give the extermination faction a powerful argument in the dispute about the underground. Tortured, you say?” He was quiet for a minute. Talking obviously pained him. Kurt waited nervously, hands cold and clammy, heart beating faster than ever. He wondered if he should have marked Beck’s name off his suspect list — but no. Beck would have taken care of Otto legally, with a trial and execution.

  “Does this give you any ideas about the situation here?” Beck finally asked. “A mutiny could go hard on you, you being a senior rating. Have you discovered anything I should know?” His pale face seemed eager, predatory.

  More frightened than ever, Kurt shook his head while remembering a blower room. Otto’s death, and Hippke’s strange behavior. He wanted away from the Political Officer badly, yet could not walk out unbidden. And he did feel sorry for the man, alone there day after day now continual nursing was no longer a must. He stayed another hour, talking of mundane things — including the harridan wife Otto had once mentioned — always staying clear of troublesome topics. Kurt thought he might have liked the man
, had his appearance been more pleasant and his power lessened.

  Kurt had to return to the wreck three days later. He was in the charthouse filing salvaged charts, when Gregor leaned in the door, said, “Kurt, you’ll have to go over again. I know you don’t want to, but Beck insisted. He’s making a report for High Command. He wants the ship’s nationality. Captain’s name, home port, things like that.”

  “But...”

  “You’ll have to go.”

  Knowing further protest was futile, Kurt got a jacket and cap, then caught the next boat. He found the wreck’s decks clean. “Deckinger,” he asked as the junior boatswain happened by, “where’re the bodies?”

  “Deep six. Couldn’t work with them around. Gag a maggot”

  “Yeah.” Kurt walked forward, looking around. The

  progress amazed him. The ship had assumed a gaunt, skeletal look. Then he groaned as two cooks came from the galley with a stainless-steel sink, the bowl filled with a paint locker. Hans’s voice, commanding, came from the firerooms. Above him and aft, there was a clatter and curse as a man dismantling a 40mm gun dropped a wrench. Forward, boatswains grumbling like trolls raided a paint locker. Hans’s voice, commanding, came from the torpedo deck. Kurt wound his way past piles of salvage to

  a ladder. He made a cursory search of the bridge, found nothing. And the charthouse was clean. He saw nothing to indicate whence the ship had come, nor why, though that was obvious. She had been on her way to Gibraltar and the Gathering.

  He sat in the charthouse and tried to think where the information might be hidden, stared at himself reflected badly in the dusty glass door of a bookshelf stripped days earlier. Where? Where?

  He straightened suddenly, smashing fist into palm. It would be out in the open, simply overlooked. He rushed to the bridge and went to the chart table, stared at the chart pinned there. He pulled two tacks with his thumbnails, lifted the chart of the Spanish coast.

  “Oh, you beautiful!” Beneath the chart was another, of a smaller scale, showing the coasts of Spain, France, and parts of England and the Low Countries, which told him very little except that the ship had come from the north, following a penciled track almost matching Jager’s.