The Golden U-Boat

by Richard P. Henrick

  The Golden U-Boat

  Richard P. Henrick

  Fifty years after World War II, a fugitive SS officer is intent on retrieving Nazi war gold from a sunken U-boat in the North Sea. But his plans are interrupted by the arrival of the USS Cheyenne on routine NATO patrol — and a Russian nuclear attack sub on its own desperate mission of destruction.

  Richard P. Henrick

  The Golden U-Boat

  Acknowledgments

  The author wishes to thank Karl Ivar Bjornsen and the rest of the members of NUEX. Without your sharing of the “Norwegian experience,” this book wouldn’t have been possible.

  Epigraph

  “When one considers that right up to the end of the war there was virtually no increase in heavy-water stocks in Germany … it will be seen that it was the elimination of German heavy-water production in Norway that was the main factor in our failure to achieve an atomic bomb before the war ended.”

  — German scientist Dr. Kurt Diebner

  “The political stability of the Bonn government is slowly being undermined by millions of old fighters… who are deeply committed to a Nazi comeback. They dream of a military establishment with super modern weapons … in order to regain for Germany the status of a great world power.”

  — T.H. Tetens

  “We must hand down the brave, self-sacrificing U-boat spirit to our children and grandchildren.”

  — Admiral Karl Donitz

  Chapter One

  August 8, 1941

  The footpath was little more than a narrow, earthen track that led from the rail yard into a thick birch forest.

  Mikhail Kuznetsov first spotted it late the previous afternoon. They were still busy moving into their temporary barracks at that time, and he was forced to postpone any exploration of this promising trail until some free time presented itself. The opportunity came the very next morning.

  The twenty-one-year old, newly commissioned junior lieutenant awoke long before reveille. There was a slight chill to the air as he slipped off his hard, straw mattress and headed for the latrine. The hut they had just moved into was normally reserved for railroad workers. Far from being luxurious, it was simply constructed out of native timber, but at least had indoor plumbing.

  The dark blue sky was tinged with the first hint of dawn as he stepped outside. A gust of crisp air, fresh with the scent of the surrounding wood greeted him as he surveyed the compound. Several gray freight cars could be seen parked beside the main rail line. Directly adjoining this central track was the fuel depot. A massive heap of black coal was stored here, beside which was a soot-covered loading ramp. A large repair shed stood nearby, its grimy structure graced with several broken windows and a five-pointed, red star painted beneath its gabled roof. All in all, the view was far from inspiring, and Mikhail gratefully turned to his left and began his way toward the encircling birch wood.

  The footpath that had called him from his warm bed led him into the forest of slender white trees. Soon the world of man was replaced by the lonely cries of a raven, and a muted creaking as the wind gusted through the tree limbs, causing them to sway like a single entity.

  Mikhail felt instantly at ease in this peaceful environment.

  Having grown up near a birch forest much like this one, he was no stranger to such a place. Yet for the past year and a half he had lived exclusively in the bustling city of Leningrad. Here, along with his twin brother Alexander, he attended the Frunze Naval Academy.

  Their pace of study was intense, and innocent forest jaunts had all but become a pleasant memory. Thus to be out on his own this morning on a real hike was like a trip homeward, even though his birthplace was actually a thousand kilometers east of this spot, outside the city of Kirov.

  As he followed the path into a dense thicket of underbrush, a fat, brown ground squirrel darted out in front of him. Seconds later, a covey of quail exploded from the nearby brush with blinding swiftness. Mikhail’s pulse quickened with the unexpected commotion. Regretting that he didn’t have a shotgun to bring with him, he began his way down into an oak-filled hollow. Many of the trees were gnarled with age, and an almost reverent atmosphere prevailed.

  The sound of rushing water sounded in the distance and Mikhail soon set his eyes on the swift current responsible for this pleasantly distinctive racket. It proved to be a good-sized stream. Many of the crystal clear pools appeared quite deep and no doubt provided a comfortable habitat for the local variety of trout. Halting beside a portion of the brook where the bubbling waters swirled against a series of partially submerged boulders, Mikhail’s thoughts went back in time, for it was at a spot much like this one that his father had taught him and Alexander their first lessons in the art of fly fishing.

  Their father had been an avid fisherman, and devoted much of his free time designing and tying his own lures.

  As a veteran naval officer, whose specialty was submarines, Dmitri Kuznetsov had spent much of his adult life at sea. His leaves were therefore precious to him, and he utilized them to their fullest extent.

  Family outings drew the Kuznetsovs to such diverse places as beautiful Lake Baikal, the desolate Siberian taiga, and the tropical shores of the Black Sea. On each of these trips, Dmitri made certain to take along a variety of fishing and hunting gear, so that he could further instruct his twin sons in the intricacies of wilderness survival.

  Trout and salmon fishing were his father’s greatest passions. He would spend hours working a stream, applying the same intense concentration that he used to stalk a naval target on the high seas. More often than not, his efforts paid off in the form of a trophy-sized fish, whose flesh could feed the entire family and then some.

  Mikhail was proud of his father’s skill with a rod and reel, and had tried hard to emulate him. Patience was a virtue that every good fisherman had plenty of, and Mikhail did his best to control the natural impatience of youth and focus solely on the prey at hand. He thus did his best to imitate his father’s every move, often working a single pool for an entire afternoon.

  His twin brother, Alexander had found it impossible to summon such self control. Easily bored, Alexander would give the fish an hour or so to take his bait before giving up and taking off to explore the surrounding countryside. In this aspect he was more like their mother, who was content to limit her participation in fishing to preparing the catch for dinner.

  Mikhail peered out to a promising pool of deep water and sighed as he recalled the last family outing that had taken place two years ago. They had camped deep in the Ural mountains. It was early summer, and both Mikhail and Alexander were celebrating their recent acceptance to the Frunze Academy. Though proud that his boys were following in his footsteps, their father had seemed preoccupied during the entire stay. The fishing was poor, and several times they had to resort to shooting game to fill their empty plates.

  It was three weeks after their return home from that trip that they received notice of their father’s death at sea. The submarine he had been commanding failed to ascend from a test dive. Though a faulty valve was suspected, the true cause of the tragedy that took the lives of sixty-three Soviet sailors lay hidden in the frigid depths of the Barents Sea.

  Sobered by the news, Mikhail and Alexander applied themselves to their studies with renewed intensity. Their efforts had recently been rewarded as both graduated in the top tenth of their Academy class. When queried as to the nature of their future naval service with the Motherland’s fleet, both chose submarines without a second’s hesitation. Though their mother had wept when told of their choice, all eventually agreed that this was the way Dmitri Kuznetsov would have wanted it.

  Mikhail turned from the stream and began his way back through the stand of oak. It was only when he cro
ssed the clearing that he realized the sun had long since risen in the intensely blue sky. It appeared as if it would be another hot, sultry day, for the newly commissioned naval officer’s brow was already shining with sweat. Mikhail was reaching for his handkerchief when the deep-pitched whistle of a distant train broke the silence.

  Suddenly reminded of his duties, he looked at his watch and saw that over an hour had passed since he left the barracks. He had only planned to be gone half that time, and he immediately sought out the trail that would take him back to the rail yard. He had just reentered the birch wood when a familiar voice rang out nearby.

  “Misha! Misha, are you out there?”

  “I’m here, Alex. On the trail!”

  No sooner were these words spoken, when his brother broke through the underbrush. Since both wore matching khaki uniforms, a stranger would have had to look very closely to tell the two apart. Both sported muscular, six-foot, three inch frames, identical mops of wavy blond hair, and the same handsome features down to the round dimple that split their chins. Only the most conscientious observer would note the difference in the twins’ eye coloring. Mikhail had inherited his father’s vivid blue eyes, while Alexander’s were a deep sea-green like his mother’s.

  “Ah, there you are, Misha,” said Alexander.

  “For a moment I feared that you had gone A.W.O.L..”

  “Now why in the world would I do that, my dear brother? It’s only been seventeen days since the Nazi hordes crossed over our borders, and now it looks as if our sworn duty to the Rodina will finally prove interesting.”

  “If only you knew the truth of those words,” Alexander said.

  “Rumor has it that the Germans have already reached the outskirts of Pskov. From there it’s only 250 kilometers to the gates of Leningrad, with us smack in between.”

  “Surely we won’t be here much longer,” replied Mikhail.

  “What good can a naval squad do this far inland?

  I’ll bet the orders directing us to the navy base at Tallinin are on the way even as we speak.”

  Alexander answered with a gloomy shake of his head.

  “I’m afraid not, Misha. Less than a quarter of an hour ago, a packet arrived by courier from Lieutenant General M. Popov himself. We’ve been instructed to make our way with all due haste to the monastery of Tsarkoe Selo, outside ofLuga.”

  “There must be some mistake! Such duty falls under the auspices of the People’s Army. We belong out at sea with the Fleet.”

  “Tell that to Lieutenant General Popov. Right now, we have no choice in the matter. Orders are orders. If we don’t hurry back to the station, there’s a good possibility both of us will be shot by the NKVD as deserters!”

  Without waiting for further argument, Alexander turned back toward the rail yard. His brother followed close on his heels, and they both broke into a run as the shrill whistle of a train sounded once again.

  “Most likely that train is our means of transport to Luga,” Alexander said without breaking his long, fluid stride.

  “If we miss it, there’s no telling what could happen to us.”

  The birch forest passed in a blur as the two junior lieutenants sprinted down the footpath. They broke through the tree line in time to see a massive black locomotive enter the yard followed by a trio of box cars and a caboose. On the roof of this last car was a sandbagged machine gun emplacement manned by a pair of soldiers.

  It was Alexander who pointed toward the group of khaki-clad men gathered on the trackside loading ramp.

  “There’s the squad now, Misha. Father must be watching out for us, because it looks like we’ll just be able to join them in time.”

  As the locomotive screeched to a halt beside the loading ramp, Alexander and Mikhail hurried across the tracks and climbed up the ramp where they were met by Senior Lieutenant Viktor Ryutin. Their grizzled superior officer wasted no time venting his wrath.

  “So the Kuznetsov twins have decided to grace us with their company after all,” spat the red-cheeked veteran.

  “I was going to send the NKVD out looking for you. But I really wasn’t worried, because if our men couldn’t find you, the Nazis would. So come on, comrades. Onto the train with you. We’ve got ourselves a real live war to fight.”

  Though Mikhail would have liked to get a clarification of their orders and find out why they weren’t being sent to the nearest navy base, he didn’t dare incur more of the senior lieutenant’s anger. Meekly saluting to the veteran’s orders, he followed his brother into the boxcar.

  Inside they found the rest of the squad huddled around a seated figure, who was propped up against the wooden slat wall. The twins wasted no time joining their comrades and listened as the bandage-wrapped stranger described his experiences on the front.

  “… I tell you, those Nazis came upon us like crazed demons!” exclaimed the infantryman, scanning the faces of his rapt audience.

  “I was assigned to guard a hospital unit that was supposed to be well within our lines. I had heard gunfire for most of the day, but most of it was a good distance away and nothing to worry about.

  It was getting toward sunset, and I was just thinking about breaking for chow, when all hell broke loose. First came the Stukas, diving out of the sky screaming like banshees from the underworld. The bastards didn’t bother dropping bombs. They were content to strafe with their infernal machine-guns. I can still hear those exploding rounds as they ripped through our tents. Our wounded boys never stood a chance!”

  The boxcar shifted as the locomotive jerked forward and began picking up steam. The infantryman took a deep breath and continued.

  “I’m not afraid to admit my hands were shaking like an old woman as I shoved a live round into my Dekyarov and tried to draw a bead on one of those Lufwaffe bastards. Yet just as I was about to let a round fly, a new racket caught my attention. It sounded like a hundred locomotives and when I dared to look to the south, my worst fears were realized. Headed our way was a line of more than a hundred Panzers! It was then that my rifle jammed, and I had no choice but to run for cover and find a new weapon!”

  “Sounds like a German blitzkrieg to me,” said one of the young sailors.

  “With such a lightning attack,

  the Nazis were able to conquer Poland and France all in a matter of days.”

  “Nonsense!” said another ensign.

  “Such tactics might have worked in Poland and France, but never in the Motherland. Everyone knows that we have the Stalin Line to protect us.”

  “That’s a good one!” the infantryman said with an ironic grin.

  “If we had saved the millions of rubles it cost to build that ridiculous line of ineffective tank traps and bought rifles instead, we’d be much better off. I was right there, comrades, and saw with these very eyes how those Panzers broke through our lines and mowed down our troops without quarter.”

  Alexander Kuznetsov nodded.

  “There are said to be many in our General Staff who have doubted the effectiveness of the Stalin Line all along. No fortress can ever provide one hundred percent protection. One only has to look back at France’s so-called impenetrable Maginot Line to demonstrate this point.”

  “Well said, comrade,” spoke the infantryman.

  “It’s too bad we turned a blind eye to history, because even as we speak, the Germans continue their penetration of the Motherland. Soon they’ll be unstoppable. First they’ll rape and pillage our beloved Leningrad. Then it will be onto the gates of holy Moscow itself!”

  The train was travelling at full speed and the deafening clatter of the wheels made conversation difficult.

  “I wouldn’t give up hope just yet, comrades,” Mikhail said.

  “Even if the Stalin Line has indeed been circumvented, there are still many battles to be fought before the walls of Moscow and Leningrad are breached. No country on this planet can summon as many brave men and women to arms as the Soviet Union. Our Air Force is equipped with thousands of modern planes,
and we’re living testament to the awesome power of our Navy. Yet one thing still puzzles me. Why are we being taken further inland to Luga, instead of joining our comrades in the fleet? Surely as trained sailors we can best strike back at the enemy from the sea, as we were taught to do in the Academy.”

  “That is not ours to question, comrade Kuznetsov,” answered the gruff voice of the senior lieutenant.

  “Our orders come direct from the High Command. We can only trust that General Popov and his staff know how we can best serve the Rodina. And no matter where they might send us, we will go into battle without flinching. To die in the defense of the Motherland is to die the death of a hero!”

  The infantryman was suddenly possessed by a violent fit of coughing, that brought bloody spittle to his cracked lips. As the medical corpsman bent down to attend to him, Mikhail and Alexander retreated to the boxcar’s opposite corner and sat down on the straw-covered floor.

  “I still think Command has made a major screw-up,” said Mikhail in a forceful whisper.

  “For the sake of Lenin, we belong at seal” “Easy, Misha,” cautioned his brother.

  “Like the senior lieutenant says, we’re just going to have to trust in General Popov’s judgement. And who knows just what’s waiting for us outside of Luga?”

  “One thing we can be certain of,” Mikhail said.

  “It won’t be a submarine!”

  Alexander sighed.

  “My greatest fear is that the Motherland doesn’t have enough time to properly mobilize.

  The Germans caught us completely off guard, and unless we can reorganize, they’ll continue to slice our forces to pieces.”

  “Come now, brother,” Mikhail said with a grin.

  “You’re beginning to sound like that scared old infantryman.

  Have you so little faith in the power of our people?