Without hesitation, Jakob plunged into the icy water to stabilize the cannister. Jon was able to continue his picture taking when Arne arrived topside to handle the winch cable. He was so engrossed in this process that he didn’t even notice the helicopter that was now circling the boat, only a few hundred meters above them.
“What do you make of that chopper, Jon?” asked Arne, who now had to practically scream to be heard.
Only then was Jon aware that they no longer shared this historical moment among themselves.
“Don’t pay attention to it, Arne!” he yelled.
“It’s most likely just a bunch of journalists who are trying to scoop the competition.
We’d better concentrate on getting that line out to
Jakob before we lose our treasure before we even have it” With a mighty heave, Arne hurled the steel cable out into the nearby waters. Jakob had to swim over to reach it. Then began the tedious job of securely wrapping it around the bobbing cannister so that they could finally haul it aboard.
Jakob was well into this task, when the loud amplified voice of a woman boomed out from above.
“Hello NUEX, this is Karl Skollevoll! I’ve got a top-priority dispatch for you from the Chief. Sorry to crash your party, but I’m dropping it down to you now.”
Clearly audible even from the water, this unexpected message caused Jakob to temporarily abandon his efforts and look up into the sky. He watched with astonishment as a familiar orange and white Bell 212 helicopter swept down from the sky and hovered only a few meters above their boat. It was from the main hatch of this vehicle that a small container was lowered on a thin guide wire. Arne was the one who retrieved it, and as he waved the container overhead, the helicopter dipped its nose and, following orders, shot off to land on the nearest shoreline.
Jakob turned back to the drum, and had just completed securing it with the winch cable, when jon could be seen on the boat’s stern madly waving for him to return.
Jakob wasted no time fulfilling this request, climbing back on board to be met by a thick terry cloth towel and the typed dispatch that had just been delivered them. He quickly read it.
“Most urgent that you return at once to the Falcon. This is a top-priority request. Magne Rystaad.”
After hurriedly rereading this message, Jakob handed it back to NUEX’s disappointed chief photographer.
“Do you believe Magne’s rotten timing?” stated Jon disgustedly.
“Maybe if he knows our progress, he’d let us finish up here before returning to the Falcon,” suggested Jakob.
“If the rest of the drums are as easy to locate as this one was, we could have the whole job done in a day at most.”
Jon shook his head.
“Nice thought, but you know the Chief better than that. He wouldn’t send Karl out here for us in the chopper unless he was damn serious.”
By this time Knut had joined them on the stern. A good five inches taller than his coworkers, the team’s engineer read the dispatch and then looked out to the secured drum that now floated off their port beam.
“So this is going to be the end of it, huh?” said Knut.
“And it’s a rotten shame, because while you guys were up here securing that drum, I did a little searching with the ROV. Not ten meters away from where we spotted the first cannister, I found the remains of the flat bed railroad car. And strapped securely on its back is the rest of the shipment, all thirty-two drums!
All I have to do is put together a big enough lifting collar, and I can raise the whole damn thing in a single stroke.”
Jon only needed to deliberate a second before responding.
“Then do it, Knut. Can you manage it alone?”
“It won’t be easy, but I can do it,” replied the giant with confidence.
“I’ve got plenty of trusted family and friends in these hills, and I can always count on them to give me a hand.”
“Then it’s settled,” said the photographer.
“Magne is going to have to be content with only three of us, because this is an opportunity that we just can’t let slip by.
Now are you certain that you can complete the salvage on your own, Knut?”
“I can do it, Jon. And I’ll make certain that those drums are under lock and key the moment I get them on dry land.”
“Excellent,” returned the photographer, while his associates readied the Zodiac raft for the trip to shore.
“God be with you, big fellow. All of our dreams are on your capable shoulders, Knut. We’re counting on you to make NUEX a part of living history.”
The two shook hands, and jon turned for the Zodiac, his palm still smarting from Knut Haugen’s powerful grip.
From the opposite shoreline, hidden in a dense thicket of Norwegian pine, a white-haired old man watched the Zodiac set sail. The veteran’s powerful Zeiss binoculars allowed him a clear view of the three young men who sat inside their grey, rubber raft. The bearded member of this trio positioned himself at the stern and started the Zodiac’s outboard engine. Even though they were over a kilometer distant, the elder could hear the whining growl of the engine as the raft sped off to the nearby shore to rendezvous with the awaiting helicopter.
Returning his line of sight back to the wooden trawler where the Zodiac had originated, he looked on as a single, muscular figure stood beside the boat’s transom.
This blond-haired giant was a bear of a man, who was busy starting up a motorized winch. A taut steel cable extended out into the water from this piece of machinery.
The old-timer had watched breathlessly as the rust-streaked drum shot up from the depths earlier. It floated innocently on the surface now, and was slowly being pulled toward the awaiting ship.
A familiar throbbing pain suddenly coursed down the entire left side of his face, causing the man to flinch and momentarily put down his binoculars. With trembling hands he reached up to gently massage the jagged scar that extended from his temple to his jaw.
For fifty long years, Mikhail Kuznetsov had been forced to live with this ugly reminder of a war that he would never forget. And though plastic surgery had somewhat masked the scarred facial skin, the deep knife wound had caused permanent nerve damage that no physician on earth could ever repair.
Certainly no stranger to physical pain, Mikhail forced himself to take a series of deep, calming breaths and gradually the discomfort dissipated. Only when his hands stopped trembling altogether did he regrip his binoculars. By the time he returned his glance back to the boat, the modern day Viking was in the process of lowering the steel drum onto the deck itself. As he proceeded to unwrap the cable that was still coiled around it, Mikhail noted that the cannister appeared to be intact.
He feared just such a thing, and knew very well that if this drum was still sealed, the others would be as well.
Inwardly cursing, Mikhail’s gut tightened as he considered the grim possibilities. When the trail had originally led to the nearby village ofRjukan one week ago, he got his first hint that his sworn enemy was after the Hydro’s treasured heavy water. They had apparently been drawn to Lake Tinnsjo when it was announced that the group known as the Norwegian Underwater Explorers were about to initiate the first salvage of the sunken ferry.
Mikhail had first heard about heavy water while a prisoner at the BergenBelsen concentration camp. He had been stricken with typhus at the time, and was laid up in the camp’s filthy, overcrowded infirmary, when his emaciated bunkmate introduced himself. As it turned out he was a Jewish physicist from Hamburg, who had been actively involved in Germany’s earliest efforts to split the atom. Though he was to die in less than a week’s time, he was able to share with Mikhail his greatest fear — the Nazis’ perfection of an atomic weapon.
Mikhail had never heard of such a device before, and could only listen in complete horror as the Jew gave him his first elementary lesson in nuclear physics. Time after time, he emphasized the utter importance of heavy water to moderate the fission process. Only when
the war was finally over, and Mikhail literally crawled from the camp as one of its few survivors, did he learn how a group of brave Norwegian commandoes had destroyed the Hydro’s cargo of heavy water, which would have made Hitler’s nightmarish dreams of world conquest a reality.
With the war’s conclusion, Mikhail had returned to his homeland a sick, broken man. By the grace of fate, his twin brother Alexander had also survived, and had emerged as a hero in the People’s Navy. Their reunion was a tearful one. As Mikhail’s weakened body gradually regained its strength, he swore to devote the rest of his life to a single cause. So that the Fascist beast would never raise its ugly head again, he would roam the world in search of fledgling Neo-Nazi movements. Only by destroying their ambitions in their infancy could their dreams of a resurrected Third Reich be thwarted.
Mikhail operated under the auspices of the KGB, and even had a small staff at his disposal. Much of his early work took him to South America, where thousands of Hitler’s henchmen fled after the Axis went down in defeat.
It was in the jungles of Paraguay that he first learned of the fascist organization that went by the code name, “Werewolf”. This group was only one of many that Mikhail was attempting to infiltrate. When a photograph arrived on his desk showing Werewolfs supposed leader, Mikhail was shocked to find an unforgettable face staring back at him from a vine-encrusted veranda.
Not even forty years could mask this individual’s cruel gray eyes, highly etched cheekbones, and narrow forehead.
The only feature that was drastically different, was that in place of closely cropped white hair, he now was completely bald.
Like a nightmare come true, here was the very man responsible for not only the scar that still lined Mikhail’s face, but for the emotional scars generated by his incarceration into the living hell of a concentration camp.
After a half decade of tortured dreams and sleepless nights, at long last he was on the trail of former SS Gauleiter Otto Koch!
Like a man possessed, Mikhail dropped all other investigations to concentrate solely on bringing this demon to justice. With the assistance of a top-secret team of specially trained Soviet commandoes, Koch’s plantation was located and penetrated. Unfortunately their man had moved out only hours before and it took another two years of intense, frustrating work to once again come across the trail of this elusive quarry. This time the tracks led to the Telemark region of central Norway, where representatives from Werewolfmade contact with a local right-wing group known as the Nordic Reich’s Party, or NRP for short. Mikhail’s intelligence network was a bit stronger in this part of the world, and it was through a tip from a local KGB informant that he was drawn to the shores of Lake Tinnsjo.
Only two days ago, four members of the NRP were seen in the nearby village of Hakanes. They were accompanied by a pair of tall, blond-haired middle-aged strangers, who were introduced as business associates from abroad. Knowing full well that they were representatives of Werewolf, Mikhail was able to follow them to a mountain hut that lay hidden in the trees of the opposite shoreline, not far from where the orange and white helicopter had just landed. From this vantage point they would have an uncluttered view of the lake, much like his own. This led Mikhail to one shocking conclusion. Werewolf was also after the heavy water, which they hoped to utilize to construct a weapon of such destructive force that even the world’s superpowers would have to stand up and take notice.
Mikhail returned his gaze to the lake. The fair-haired giant could still be seen on the trawler’s stern, securely strapping the drum that he had just extracted from the water to the boat’s deck, while on the opposite shore, the Bell 212 helicopter lifted off into the sky with a grinding roar, its cabin now filled with the three young Norwegians who had arrived here by means of the Zodiac raft.
Wondering where they had been called to, Mikhail Kuznetsov angled his binoculars up into the thicket of ri0 trees that overlooked the clearing where the helicopter had just taken off. Even though the pines effectively veiled the wooden structure that he knew to be hidden here, the seventy-one year old Russian visualized the gloating representatives of his arch nemesis as they also peered down to the lake’s surface, patiently waiting for the rest of the liquid treasure to be brought up from Tinnsjo’s icy depths.
Chapter Three
The snowmobile zoomed over the freshly fallen powder, and Alexander Kuznetsov dared to open the throttle wide. As he did so the engine instantly reacted with an ear-shattering whine, and the vehicle shot forward like a sprinting thoroughbred. The speed was intoxicating, and the seventy-one-year-old naval officer felt totally invigorated. The fresh, bitterly cold Siberian air was like a youth-giving tonic to him, and in the blink of an eye he was a lad once again, his spirit renewed by the thrill of adventure. It was only when he left the flat valley that he had been following and began climbing a steep hillside that he cut back on the throttle. The snow was encrusted with ice and dotted with dozens of jagged boulders. Taking care to steer well around these obstacles, Alexander reached the summit of the ridge and briefly halted.
In the distance he could just make out the outskirts of the city of Vorkuta. It was a drab outpost, as were most Siberian settlements, dominated by older, corrugated steel huts, and newer, four story concrete buildings.
Dwarfing these uninspiring habitations were several massive oil platforms. The derricks of these huge structures rose high against the horizon, while their equipment-packed bases were like miniature cities unto themselves. Two of these platforms had only just gone operational, with the rest soon to follow. It was projected that they would be in service for decades to come, pulling up the black gold that had been found beneath the permafrost in an incredible abundance.
This was Alexander’s first visit to this region and his heart filled with pride as he thought about the thousands of brave, resourceful men and women who chose to make their homes here. Cut off from the rest of the USSR. as they were, they braved both isolation and the raw elements to do the all-important job at hand. They were true heroes who deserved the Republic’s heartfelt thanks.
Alexander couldn’t help but wonder why he had been picked to attend this conference. He was but a Vice Admiral assigned to Northern Fleet headquarters in Murmansk, and had no business mixing with the likes of such notables as Defense Minister Vladimir Kamenev, Energy Minister Pyotr Glebov, and Deputy General Secretary Viktor Rykov. All the same, he had been summoned to attend, and now he only had to wait for Viktor Rykov to arrive to learn the reason for his presence here. Anxious to get to the bottom of this mystery, he decided to take a brief excursion to clear his mind and help pass the time before Rykov’s plane landed.
The local militia commander had sketched out a route which would allow him to safely enjoy the area’s scenic splendors and not take him too far away from the city. This was a once in a lifetime chance to see a portion of the Rodina that was far from the nearest Intourist office, and he returned to his snowmobile eager to get on with his adventure.
His route led him down the opposite ridge. He was travelling straight into the piercing wind, and he pulled up his woolen scarf to cover as much of his exposed face as possible. As he reached the bottom of the hill, he began following a narrow ravine. The snow was deep, and he had to make certain to keep moving along at a good clip to keep from sinking.
Soon this ravine opened up to yet another broad valley. This one was coated completely in a veil of white, and contained not a hint of human habitation.
Alexander readily crossed its virgin length, all the while pondering a thought that the local militia commander had shared with him. In several weeks time the sun would set beneath the western horizon, not to be seen again for three months. This would signal the time of darkness, when the frigid Arctic night prevailed twenty-four hours a day. The commander had mentioned that at this time the crime rate usually shot up in Vorkuta as the locals vainly struggled to adjust to this occurrence. With their biological clocks abruptly knocked off kilter, insomnia was shared
by all, while a handful of unlucky individuals were driven to even greater extremes of hallucinations, schizophrenia, and even suicide. Having participated in submarine patrols, submerged for up to two months at a time, Alexander was no stranger to a perpetual world of darkness. But he had to admit that undergoing such a phenomena while on solid ground would be very disorienting.
The snowmobile skimmed over a frozen lake. Beyond a distant ridge, Alexander spotted a lofty mountain range that he knew to be the northernmost extension of the Urals. This chain stretched for over twelve hundred kilometers, efficiently cutting the USSR. in half, and acting as the natural dividing line between Europe and Asia.
Wishing that he had the time to continue right up into these foothills, Alexander caught sight of a group of dark alien forms in the snow beyond and instinctively cut back on the throttle and guided his snowmobile up onto a small hillock that lay beside the frozen lake bed. With the assistance of a pair of binoculars,
he identified the previously alien forms as being a herd of musk-ox. This was only the second time that he had seen such creatures in the wild before. They were covered completely with long, shaggy brown hair, with yoke-shaped horns that tapered down to stiletto-sharp points. They were feeding on dwarf shrubs that lay exposed beside a large boulder, totally unaware that they were being observed from afar.
Alexander was in the process of deciding whether or not he should try getting closer to the herd when a distinctive, low-pitched growl redirected his attention to the area right behind him. At first he could see nothing but pure white snow. But when the growl once more sounded, he scanned the ravine again.
Then he spotted the snow bear. It was an awesome looking beast of incredible proportions completely covered in a thick coat of white fur. Only its jet black eyes and nose gave it away. Since it was only twenty meters or so distant and appeared to be headed straight for him, Alexander knew he had to act at once. Having ignored the militia commander’s suggestion to take along a weapon, he found himself with two alternatives: he could make a break for the snowmobile and pray that he could get it started in time to escape, or make his stand right where he stood.
The Golden U-Boat Page 6