Mikhail Kuznetsov was last in line. With Karl’s assistance, he passed on the carton that he had been carrying and began his way below deck. The scent of diesel fuel and machine oil met his nostrils as he climbed down into the sub’s control room. This compartment was in an unbelievably superb state of preservation. The dozens of pipes, gauges, wheels and levers looked as if they were brand new. And even the brass fittings shined as if they had been installed just yesterday.
Having only seen such a vessel in books before, Mikhail knew that the Type XXI was a revolutionary breakthrough in submarine design. Produced by the Germans in the closing days of World War II, it was the world’s first real submersible warship. As such, it could operate beneath the sea’s surface for extended periods of time, allowing it to avoid detection by spotter planes, surface ships, and radar. It was the same model that the present batch of diesel-electric powered submarines were patterned after, and if properly crewed could hold its own even in today’s high-tech battlefield.
Mikhail shuddered to think what Werewolf could do with this boat. It could be quite an effective pirate, and haunt commercial shipping worldwide. Even more frightening was that scenario in which Otto Koch and his band of demented fanatics used this platform to deliver an atomic weapon. Able to silently penetrate even the most sophisticated harbor defenses, this U-boat could deposit a nuclear device in places such as Upper New York Bay and hold the entire island of Manhattan hostage!
Knowing full well that he had to do everything with in his power to stop this machine, Mikhail listened as Knut began conversing with one of the vessel’s crew members. It was this same sailor who volunteered to lead them to the storage compartment.
With his case of beans in hand, the white-haired Russian followed his
Norwegian friends down a narrow, cable-lined passageway. There were several compartments adjoining this corridor and one of them had its door open. As he walked by, Mikhail peered into this vacant room and viewed the bank of equipment belonging to the U-boat’s radio compartment. He spotted an old-fashioned Morse code transmitter on the counter and could visualize the dispatches already relayed to South America on this ancient, yet still effective, set.
They continued down the main passageway until it ended at a sealed hatch. Their guide opened the steel dogs that would keep this hatch watertight in the event of flooding, and pointed inside.
“You can stack the cases on the left side of the room, next to the other canned goods.”
Anxious to get rid of his load, Mikhail followed the group inside. He handed his case to Arne, and was just about to return to the passageway when the glint of a light on shiny metal caught his eye from the room’s opposite corner. Whatever was responsible for this reflection was locked behind a sturdy wire mesh cage and Mikhail walked over the investigate.
The old-timer almost fell to his knees. Not knowing if this all was but a cruel hallucination, he looked on with unbelieving eyes at the stack of rect angularly shaped, golden bricks that were clearly lit by several overhead flood lights. He saw the distinctive Romanoff Imperial crest that was carved into the surface of each bar, and knew that there were most likely five hundred of them locked away here. Tears began falling down his leathery cheeks. After a half century, he had been strangely reunited with the treasure that had been stolen from him soon after the Nazi invasion of the Motherland!
Mikhail hardly noticed it when this glittering stash drew his companion’s attention as well.
“Oh my God, Jon!” whispered Jakob.
“These bricks appear to be identical to the one that I picked out of the pressure hull of U-3312.”
“I can see that” responded the astonished photographer.
“Magne’s never going to believe it!”
The stern voice of their escort interrupted them.
“Hey you, get away from there! That portion of the ship is off limits per express orders of the Director.”
Though Karl and Knut were dying to find out more about what Jon and Jakob were talking about, they wisely held their tongues. The group reluctantly returned to the passageway to retrieve the rest of the cases. Tailing behind them, Mikhail shivered with heightened awareness. U-3313 would not only be carrying the precious heavy water southward, but a fortune in gold also! Werewolf would be virtually unstoppable once this cargo reached the Rio de la Plata. Now, it was solely up to him to insure that it didn’t.
To call in his brother at once, he slipped into the still vacant radio room. His heart was pounding madly in his chest as he scanned the collection of vacuum-tube operated transmitters and receivers that now lay before him. Thankful for his previous military training on just such gear, Mikhail Kuznetsov switched on the transmitter. While he waited for it to warm up, he located the transmitter’s frequency knob.
This would allow him to isolate a channel that would convey his signal directly to KGB headquarters. Then it would be up to his comrades in Red Square to pass this urgent message on to his twin brother.
Otto Koch was having after dinner drinks with U3313’s two senior-most officers, when he received the emergency call from security informing him that something was seriously wrong down in the sub pen.
The Director immediately passed on this upsetting news to his guests, and they headed quickly for the elevator.
The ride downward seemed to be taking unusually long, and even Beowulf sensed his master’s relief when the doors finally slid open.
Waiting for them on the landing was Koch’s assistant, Klaus Dietricht. A young, blond security guard stood beside Dietricht, and one didn’t have to look very close to see that his jaw was broken.
Dietricht’s tone was urgent as he initiated a rushed briefing.
“Herr Director, the Norwegians who landed here by helicopter yesterday have broken out of their dormitory. We believe they have stolen a van and have succeeded in penetrating the pen.”
“And where are they now?” asked Koch impatiently.
Dietricht turned around and pointed toward U-3313.
“Oh, no!” cried out the furious Director.
“Captain Kromer, we must act to protect the ship at once!”
Already well on his way to doing just that, Charles Kromer and his senior lieutenant sprinted toward their threatened command. An empty van with its cargo door wide open lay parked beside the sub’s forward gangway. Strangely enough, their grease-stained chief engineer could be seen sitting on the deck before this ramp, calmly puffing away on a cigarette.
“Siggy!” shouted Charles Kromer.
“Where are the individuals who belong to that van?”
“Oh, you mean the delivery crew,” returned the Chief, who was puzzled by his captain’s frantic state.
“There’s no need to get upset, Skipper. They’re securely storing away the last of the beans in the forward storage compartment.”
Kromer raced up the gangway and cursed.
“Damn it, Siggy! We must get down there and round them up at once!
“Yes, sir!” snapped the confused engineer as he stood and looked on as Senior Lieutenant Kurtz followed the captain up the ramp.
It was the sudden barking of a dog that drew the chiefs attention back down to the dock. And he knew then that something was seriously wrong, for even the Director himself was headed toward the boat with a bone in his teeth.
Otto Koch accepted the chiefs grease-stained hand as he hurriedly stepped off the boarding ramp.
“Where’s the captain?” breathlessly quizzed the old-timer.
As coolly as possible, Siggy replied.
“The last I saw he was running for the forward hatchway. If you’ll just come with me, I’ll escort you, Herr Director.”
Otto Koch anxiously beckoned the chief to lead on.
Siggy did so, and was genuinely surprised when the Director ordered him to carry the snarling German shepherd below deck with them. Somehow the chief managed this task without falling off the ladder or having the dog bite him.
Once in the
control room, Beowulf continued his incessant barking as he took off running for the forward passageway.
“Beowulf, where in the hell do you think you’re going?” shouted Otto Koch, who scrambled after his dog as fast as he could manage.
Siggy was totally confused by the turn of events and took off in the Director’s wake. It was the angry growl of the German shepherd that drew him into the radio room. As Siggy cautiously poked his head inside this compartment, he witnessed a bewildering tableau.
Standing in the middle of the room was the Director, his hard gaze locked on the dull blue eyes of a white-haired old man, who was seated in front of the radio transmitter. This same stranger had a long scar lining the entire left side of his wrinkled face, and looked at the Director as if he were seeing a ghost.
With Beowulf still snarling away at his side, Otto Koch’s face lit up with a wicked grin as he spoke.
“So we meet again, Mikhail Kuznetsov. Don’t think that I haven’t been following your exploits these last fifty years. For an old man, your resiliency astounds me.”
“The feeling’s mutual,” returned the intruder, who bitterly added.
“I’ve been praying for this day to come, Koch, and by the grace of God, I’ve managed to find you before you were able to launch yet more evil into the world.”
The Director stifled a laugh.
“Ah, that’s a good one. General Mikhail Kuznetsov, the faithful Party watchdog, imploring the divine assistance of a God his Communist forefathers long ago refuted. The next thing you’ll be telling me is that you go to church on Sundays.”
“Shut up, Koch!” spat the stranger, who struggled to stand on his trembling limbs.
Beowulf reacted to this movement with a renewed fit of angry barking, that was only interrupted by the sudden reappearance ofU-3313’s Captain.
“It looks like we’ve got all of them, Herr Director,” revealed Charles Kromer.
“There were five of them altogether, four men and a woman. They all appear to be Norwegians, and I don’t think they were able to do any damage to the ship. We’ve got them confined in the forward storage compartment.”
“Here’s one more for you, Captain,” said Koch triumphantly.
“You can go ahead and lock up this old bag of wind with the others.”
As Kromer beckoned his Chief Engineer to carry out this directive, the radio room’s intercom activated with a loud buzz. It was U-3313’s C.O. who answered it.
“Captain here.”
“Captain,” broke a hoarse voice from the wall-mounted speaker.
“This is Seaman Frank in radar. I’ve got the Elsie K on the screen, Sir. The trawler’s approximately ten kilometers out of North Cape, and should be arriving within the half hour.”
“Thank you, Seaman Frank,” said Kromer as he switched off the transmitter and looked at the bald figure who still stood in the center of the room.
“That’s wonderful news, Captain,” observed Otto Koch, who noted that the Chief had yet to remove Mikhail Kuznetsov as ordered.
“Chief Dortmund, are you going to stand there all night? Remove the prisoner at once! And when he’s securely locked away with the rest of his pathetic comrades, perhaps you’ll join us at the wharf, so that we can get on with transferring the liquid treasure that awaits us there.”
As Siggy reached out to take the thin arm of his white-haired prisoner, he momentarily caught this stranger’s icy glance as he stared at the Director. If pure hatred had a look, the chief knew that this was it.
Chapter Fourteen
RED BANNER FLASH DISPATCH To: Admiral Alexander Kuznetsov.
Message relayed via: Northern Fleet Headquarters, Murmansk
START… FOUND GOLD ABOARD U-3313…
KOCH CLOSE… URGENT SEND HELP…
SVALBARD NORTH CAPE… MISHA… END
From the private confines of his stateroom, Alexander reread the dispatch that he had just been handed three times before fully understanding it. There could be no doubting its authenticity, or the message’s underlying meaning. His brother had made a fantastic discovery, and was in desperate need of Alexander’s assistance.
The gold could only be in reference to the five-hundred golden bars that had been stolen from them fifty years ago. Alexander still had nightmares about that fated August day back in 1941, when he had thought that he had seen his beloved brother for the very last time. To this very day railroad trips triggered a stream of unpleasant memories ranging from dive-bombing Stukas to the sickening smell of burning human flesh.
The mention of U-3313 was a bit puzzling. He could only assume that his brother was referring to a German submarine. Because of the high sequence of I.D. numbers, it was most likely a Type XXI vessel, the world’s first true fully submersible warship and one of the most capable fighting vessels ever made.
Only its late introduction kept it from turning the tide of the war. It was common knowledge that several of these subs had been unaccounted for after the war’s conclusion. Could his brother have been referring to one of these mystery boats?
There was no need to ponder the next portion of the dispatch. Otto Koch had led the raid on their train, and was responsible for Mikhail’s scar and his four year internment in BergenBelsen. His twin had dedicated the next fifty years of his life to tracking this fiend down. Yet until this time, Koch had been but a shadow that Mikhail could never pin down. Not the type to exaggerate, especially when it came to Otto Koch, his brother wouldn’t say that he was close to capturing the Nazi unless he was serious.
And then there was his brother’s urgent plea for help. This was totally out of character for Mikhail.
Not once in the years since they were reunited had Mikhail asked for his assistance, not even in those confusing, bitter days following his release from the death camp. Alexander genuinely feared that his twin was in a desperate situation.
This was a sobering realization. He had almost lost Mikhail one time before, under circumstances that were totally out of his hands. How could he ignore this desperate plea, knowing full well that by doing so he could be condemning Mikhail to a certain death?
Alexander needed an atlas to clarify the last portion of the dispatch. He eventually found North Cape on the extreme northern coast of the Arctic island of Svalbard. No stranger to this desolate, isolated land mass that was so strategically critical in times of crisis,
Alexander hastily calculated that the Lena was approximately eight hundred kilometers away from Svalbard.
Even at flank speed, it would take some twelve hours to reach. But could he abandon his duty and divert the Lena for this purpose?
The dispatch had ended with his brother using the nickname Alexander had been so fond of when they were children. As far as he knew, no one else called his twin Misha. And Mikhail had purposely utilized this nickname to underscore the legitimacy of his plea.
Alexander heavily put down the dispatch and considered his options. For all his efforts, he could think of only two. He could ignore the dispatch and continue on with the plan of the day, or immediately order the Lena to change its course for Svalbard.
Their current mission was a critical one, there could be no doubt in this. The intelligence that they would soon be collecting would be channeled to the highest echelons of government. The General Secretary himself was depending upon this data to decide the fate of a multi-billion ruble project which could alter the state of the Rodina’s stagnant economy.
But it was still only a reconnaissance mission, one that they would have another chance to complete in the future. Could he say the same for the life of his brother? And what of the criminal that Mikhail had sacrificed his life to track down, and the organization that Otto Koch headed? Werewolf was just as much a threat to the Motherland as economic collapse or the hordes of capitalism were. In many ways it was even more so, especially if the neo-fascist cause was infused with a fortune in Russian gold to support its evil doings.
In the century that was just passing, the
Motherland had only one true enemy. Hitler’s Germany was the antithesis of every principle in which the founding fathers of Socialism believed. To the Nazis, communism was abhorrent, and could be dealt with in only one manner — total annihilation of the USSR. Why, in the siege of Leningrad alone, one million, three hundred thousand brave Russians lost their lives. If one were to add up Russia’s total losses during the war, Leningrad would appear to be a mere skirmish!
Mikhail had proved time and again that the fascist cause was still alive and growing. The new bases of nazism might be hidden deep in the jungles of South America or the isolated foothills of the northwestern United States, but their reach could extend far and wide, especially if they were to get hold of a nuclear or biological weapon and a reliable system to deliver it.
A Type XXI U-boat was just such a platform.
The time for second guessing was over, and Alexander knew that he had but one choice. By the authority invested in him by the Supreme Soviet, he would order the Lena to turn northward, to counter the evil that had gathered there.
A quick phone call found the Lena’s captain on duty in the attack center. Without a moment’s hesitation, Alexander left his cabin to personally explain to the submarine’s commanding officer the nature of their new duty.
The attack center was bathed in red light as Alexander entered. Hardly giving his eyes time to adjust, the white-haired veteran went straight to the central command console. Grigori Milyutin was here, along with one other member of the Lena’s crew, the Zampolit, Felix Bucharin.
“Captain, there’s been a change in the Lena’s operational orders. You are hereby instructed to turn immediately on course zero-one-zero. We’re going to need flank speed for the next twelve hours.”
Caught completely off guard by this incredible directive Grigori Milyutin asked for a clarification.
“Did you say course zero-one-zero, at flank speed for the next twelve hours, Admiral? Why, that would put us somewhere in the Arctic.”
“Our destination is the island of Svalbard to be exact,” added Alexander firmly.
The Golden U-Boat Page 28