The Golden U-Boat

by Richard P. Henrick

  “The other one is taken care of,” said the stranger in German to his coworkers.

  “But hurry all the same. I want to be on our way long before dawn.”

  His colleagues were hard at work loading the recently salvaged drums onto a flatbed truck. There were five of them, together with the two unnerved Norwegians, who had been pulled from the trawler and forced at gunpoint to do the majority of the heavy labor.

  Mikhail recognized four of the thieves as being from the local chapter of the Nordic Reichs Party.

  They readily took orders from the two blond-haired figures that accompanied them. These were the ones in which Mikhail had the greatest interest, for they would unknowingly lead him to the lair of his arch-nemesis. Only then would Mikhail move in, to wipe from the face of the earth the Neo-Nazi organization known as Werewolf.

  A gust of rain and wind hit him full in the face, and as Mikhail wiped his eyes dry, he briefly massaged his throbbing scar. One step closer to finally bringing to justice the demon responsible for this wound, Mikhail anxiously readied himself for the next stage of his lifelong quest. For the place these thirty-three drums of heavy water were ultimately destined would be the place where he’d find Otto Koch, and destroy forever his twisted dreams of a reborn Reich.

  Chapter Six

  The Falcon’s main single lock living chamber was located on the ship’s upper ‘tween deck. It was here that David Lawton, Jon Huslid, Jakob Helgesen and Arne Lundstrom patiently waited for their decompression to be completed. This critical process actually began inside their diving bell, as they were slowly pulled up from the depths after their exploration of the German U-boat. It would continue for another seventy-two hours, inside the comfortable, but cramped, cylindrical structure that provided their current home.

  The transfer from the bell took place without incident, and for the first couple of hours, the exhausted divers did nothing but sleep in their bunks.

  As they began to awaken, they moved around a bit, and were even able to sit down and have a meal, especially prepared for them in the Falcon’s galley.

  David Lawton had sampled this excellent chow before, and wasn’t the least bit disappointed as he wolfed down a tasty bowl of fish chowder and a delicious Caesar salad. Afterward, he went back to his cot to begin an ian Flemming book that one of the crew had surrendered. Though the well-written exploits of James Bond were thoroughly engrossing, the Texan couldn’t help but be distracted by the conversation of his diving companions.

  “… then say that seal carved into the gold brick indeed turns out to be Russian in origin. What in the world would it be doing on a German U-boat?” quizzed Arne. He sat at the table, sipping a mug of hot chocolate.

  “I’d like to know why that torpedo room was completely emptied out like it was,” added Jakob, who sat beside his bearded teammate.

  Jon Huslid was propped up in his bunk reading a technical manual, which he put down to join this discussion.

  “It’s only too obvious, Jakob. That compartment was cleared out so that it could hold something other than torpedoes.”

  “Then you really think that there was more gold than that single brick?” asked Arne.

  “You better believe it, my friend. Lots more,” offered Jon with confidence.

  “That hole in the boat’s hull convinced me,” said Jakob.

  “It was cut there only recently, and intended for a single purpose, namely to remove whatever was being stored inside that compartment. That brick was probably left behind by accident, when the rest of the cargo was carried out into the open seas.”

  With this, Jon sat up and reflectively commented, “Then that leaves us with one question. Who in the hell was responsible for the heist?”

  Before any of them could offer an answer, the chamber’s centrally mounted video monitor popped on. Magne could be seen seated at his console in the nearby diving control room.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” greeted the diving supervisor.

  “I hope everyone slept soundly and ate well. Your decompression is continuing smoothly.

  Right now, you have only seventy-one hours and

  The phone inside the chamber began ringing, and it was Magne who explained the nature of this call.

  “I believe your associate’s on the line for you from Rjukan, gentlemen.”

  “Damn, it’s Knut!” exclaimed Jon as he sprang for the receiver.

  Both Jakob and Arne anxiously gathered around the phone as Jon initiated an intense conversation.

  “What do you mean, they’re both dead?” questioned the astounded photographer. “… Why that’s simply horrible, Knut. Are you going to be okay?. No, you shouldn’t leave until the doctors allow you. A concussion can be serious business … I understand, Knut. But your life is much more important than that damn heavy water. As soon as we’re out of this decompression chamber, we’ll be there, big fellow. That you can rely on. Just listen to those doctors and be cool. The police will find the bastards responsible, and then they’ll rot in jail for the rest of their lives … I will, Knut. You know where to find us. Take care, my friend.”

  Jon thoughtfully hung up the receiver and looked up to meet the concerned stares of his teammates.

  “My God, Knut’s in the hospital at Rjukan with a concussion, and both his cousin Lars and friend Thor have been found shot to death!”

  This surprise revelation drew David Lawton from his bunk, as the shocked photographer continued.

  “They had just finished bringing up the rest of the heavy water; and were waiting for morning to transfer the drums to the warehouse when a group of armed men broke into the trawler. Both Lars and Thor were apparently forced at gunpoint to load the heavy water onto a truck, while Knut was pistol-whipped inside the trawler’s auxiliary cabin. When he eventually snapped back to consciousness, not only did he find the thirty-three drums of heavy water gone, but the bodies of Lars and Thor as well.

  Both had been shot a single time in the back of the head, and were long dead by the time the first ambulance got there.”

  “Oh, that’s horrible!” managed Jakob.

  “Will Knut be okay?” quizzed Arne.

  Jon shook his head.

  “I hope to God he will, Arne. Fortunately, the big guy’s tough, though he’s really taking the news of the shootings badly. He feels personally responsible, and was carrying on about sneaking out of the hospital and tracking down the murderers himself.”

  “That would be a big mistake,” interjected David Lawton.

  “The police are the ones that are best prepared to handle such a dangerous investigation.

  Your friend will only be interfering, and also very possibly putting his life needlessly on the line.”

  “Try to tell that to Knut,” retorted Jon.

  “He’s already made some calls to his local network of friends and family in the Telemark region. If those coldblooded bastards are still anywhere in the area, Knut will soon know about it.”

  A moment of thoughtful silence was broken by the return of Magne’s solemn image to the video monitor.

  “I just heard what happened to Knut, gentlemen.

  I want you to know that I’m deeply sorry, and that Noroil won’t rest until the ones responsible for this heinous crime are brought to justice. We’ll be sending in a specialist from Oslo shortly to have a personal look at Knut’s injuries. Since this is a company matter now, our internal security division will be getting involved. You can rest assured that once your decompression is completed, one of our choppers will be available to convey you to Rjukan if you so desire. Meanwhile, I’d better let you in on some other important news that just arrived. The Falcon has been ordered to proceed north with all due haste. It seems that the new Ice Field’s production rig, that was being towed to the waters off Svalbard, has hit some heavy seas. It’s in danger of capsizing, and the Falcon has been called in to stabilize it. So just hang in there, Gentlemen, while we pull anchor and get some steam up. We’ll be relaying to you positi
on updates as they’re available.”

  With this the monitor went blank, and for several seconds the group of divers continued staring at the empty screen, their shocked thoughts still focused on their wounded colleague, the senseless deaths of his friends, the stolen heavy water, and the type of sick individual that could be responsible for such a heinous thing.

  Charles Kromer looked up expectantly from the book he had been reading when the Braathens Safe Boeing 737’s ‘fasten seat belt’ sign activated with a distinctive chime. The forty-six year old former West German naval officer was a veteran traveller, who long ago learned to always keep his seat belt fastened during a flight. Thus he only had to pull it a bit tighter around his lower waist as the plane began its descent into Svalbard’s Longyearben airport.

  Kromer wasn’t surprised to learn that it had been the Norsemen who made the first mention of this isolated archipelago back in 1194 A.D. Four centuries later, while looking for the fabled shortcut to

  China, two boats under the command of Willem Barents sighted a land of snowcapped mountain peaks which they called Spitsbergen. Today this collection of frozen islands was known as Svalbard, with Spitsbergen being the name of its largest island.

  Situated in the Arctic Ocean, Svalbard was only 10 degrees and four hundred nautical miles from the North Pole. With a total landmass of 23,958 square miles, it was one-fifth the size of Norway, its mother country.

  Because of its strategic location, it had been a jumping off place for many hopeful Arctic explorers.

  This long list included Salomon Andree, a Swede who in 1897 tried to get to the North Pole by means of a balloon, and died on one of Svalbard’s frozen fjords. Twelve years later, the American Walter Wellman attempted to fly to the Pole from Svalbard. He too crashed on the way to his elusive goal, but was rescued by a group of Norwegians from Tromso.

  Svalbard was covered by immense glaciers and towering mountain peaks. It had no indigenous population, and was instead permanently settled by a handful of hearty Norwegians and Russians, who worked its many coal mines. Other Europeans also had a small stake in the hunt for this valuable fuel, as did the German consortium with whom Charles Kromer was currently affiliated. Still undiscovered by tourists, Svalbard was a relatively pristine wilderness, much of which was still uncharted.

  Anxious to see such a place with his own eyes, Kromer closed his book and peeked out the window as the plane lowered its landing gear and began its final approach. Only a few years ago, this landing would have been on the frozen tundra itself. The asphalt runway was a recent addition, as was the terminal building that they were next bound for.

  There were only a handful of passengers on the plane, and Kromer exited quickly via the rear stairway. As he climbed down onto the tarmac, briefly halting at the bottom of the ramp, he looked out to survey the surrounding landscape. A range of black, snowcapped mountains met his eyes. They had a stark, foreboding quality to them, and Kromer knew without a doubt that this was the most unique place that he had ever visited. Feeling as if he had just arrived on an alien planet, he made his way to the nearby terminal.

  A stern-faced Norwegian policeman stood immediately outside the modern terminal structure, carefully scrutinizing each of the new arrivals. There were no formal customs’ personnel on the island, and it was up to this individual to spot any potential troublemakers. Kromer looked him right in the eye and passed inside without incident.

  Next to the baggage claim area the former German naval officer spotted a young, blond-haired man dressed in blue coveralls, holding a sign that read, Rio de la Plata Coal Co. Kromer went up to him and spoke casually.

  “There’ll be one going to North Cape.”

  “Very good, sir,” returned the young man politely.

  “If you’ll give me your claim check, I’ll take care of the bags. The van is just outside, in the holding area.”

  Kromer handed over his claim check and gratefully left the assemblage of noisy passengers who had gathered here. He zipped up the collar of his parka, put on his mittens and woolen cap, and headed out the exit way The quiet was immediate as he stepped outdoors, the air brisk and fresh.

  He stretched deeply, and turned around when he heard voices behind him. The other passengers were leaving the terminal, the majority of whom got into a large, yellow bus that took up much of the holding area. Behind this crowd followed his driver. He pushed a large push cart in front of him that was packed with an assortment of cardboard cases and wooden crates. On the very top of this heap was Kromer’s battered seabag. By the time the veteran climbed into the van’s front passenger seat, his driver had neatly stacked this baggage inside, and soon they were on their way.

  A narrow asphalt roadway led from the airport.

  To the right were the mournful mountains, to the left the gray waters of Advent Bay. Several piers jutted out into this broad expanse of water. Massive piles of coal were heaped up beside these piers, along with the equipment needed to load it into a ship’s hold. Assorted clapboard buildings and steel warehouses did little to distract from the area’s remoteness.

  “Do you get into Longyearben often, young man?” questioned Kromer in an effort to get a conversation going.

  “Approximately once a week, sir,” replied his driver.

  “And that’s usually just to pick up our mail and basic foodstuffs.”

  “Well, it sure doesn’t look like much of a settlement,” observed Kromer.

  “Don’t let this portion of town fool you, sir. Up in Longyear valley there are some very nice accommodations.

  Over a thousand people live there all year round, and they have a really nice community center with a cinema, a restaurant, school, church, and several large meeting rooms for community functions.”

  “Will we be passing this facility?” asked Kromer.

  “I’m afraid not. We’re headed straight for the central wharf.”

  Established originally as a coal town, Longyearben was founded in 1905 by John Longyear of Boston.

  In 1916 Norway bought the mines from him, and had since produced over 14 million tons of coal.

  “I understand that you were formerly the commanding officer of the Emden” remarked the driver a bit shyly.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know my brother, Hans Schmidt, would you, sir?”

  “Ensign Schmidt was my weapons officer for over a half dozen patrols,” revealed Kromer, who half grinned.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be that kid brother of his who went off and joined the merchant marine at the age of seventeen?”

  “That’s me all right,” the driver admitted proudly.

  “But I’ve settled down since then. I’ve been with Rio de la Plata for over a year now.”

  “Your brother always spoke very highly of you, lad.”

  “That’s nice to hear, sir,” said the driver as he turned off the roadway and guided the van into a complex filled with various warehouses.

  “It’s because of Hans that I ran off to sea. How’s he doing, anyway?”

  “The last I heard was that he’ll be a duly qualified submariner by the years end, lad. He’s a hard worker, and if he continues to do as well, he’ll have a full career just like I had.”

  “Was it tough leaving the fleet, sir?” dared the driver.

  Kromer shook his head.

  “I put in my twenty years and then some, lad. It was time for a change of scenery.”

  “Well, you’ll have plenty of that, sir. Wait till you see these mountains in the daylight. It’s like nothing you’ve ever dreamed of before.”

  A narrow alleyway led to a spacious wharf area.

  Several large ships were docked there, including a good-sized modern warship.

  “Is that a frigate?” asked the naval veteran from the passenger seat.

  “That’s the Norwegian Coast Guard cutter Nordkapp, sir. It just pulled in this afternoon. From what I hear, the ship is here on a routine patrol.”

  Kromer knew such cutters to be extreme
ly well equipped. Along with the various fishery, law enforcement, and rescue functions, the Norwegian Coast Guard also provided coastal defense in times of war. Much like a frigate, such cutters could also be used to track down submarines, and were armed with a full assortment of depth charges and torpedoes to finish off the job.

  “There’s our ship, sir,” observed the driver, as he pulled to a stop beside the dock’s edge. Floating in the water was a sturdy, forty-ton vessel, about fifty-seven feet long, with the clean lines of a motor sailor.

  “We call her the Weser, sir, after the river. She was originally a Norwegian rescue boat. Now she’s completely equipped with automatic pilot, echo-sounder, direction finder, and radio telephone. Her 150horsepower diesel puts out a smooth ten knots, and she even has 1,178 square feet of sail should a good breeze present itself.”

  The mere fact that this vessel once belonged to the Norwegian rescue service spoke well for it. This exclusive outfit was an all-volunteer force that sailed the coast of Norway in search of boats in trouble.

  Since they sailed in even the worst of gales, their equipment was some of the best ever made. Thus Kromer wasn’t really worried about the hundred mile journey through ice-infested waters that still lay before them.

  Kromer wasted no time boarding the ship, where he was intercepted by a short, wire-haired old salt with a game leg.

  “Welcome aboard the Weser,” he greeted in Norwegian-flavored German.

  “I am Captain Hansen. Herr Kromer?”

  The newcomer nodded and Hansen led him to a small cabin. It was immaculate, and the former submarine commander knew that he was in the hands of expert mariners.

  “When do we get started?” he questioned.

  “As soon as the baggage is stowed away,” returned Captain Hansen.

  Kromer stifled a yawn, and the Weser’s observant Captain was quick to add, “I’m certain that you’ve journeyed far today. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a stateroom for you in the forward cabin. I’m certain that you’ll find it cramped but comfortable.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you. Captain,” said Kromer, who once again tried not to yawn.