by Stephen Ward
“Very good, sir. Sonar is gone. Radio appears okay but we have warning lights on the Fire Suppression board.”
“Very well. We seem to have helm control and the engines are still running,” said Turnbull throwing the Wheel hard over and then back.
Through the smoke a blast of white CO2 extinguished the small fire by the door and Alex Craig came through, face dirty and sweat streaked.
“Report,” coughed the Admiral.
“We have internal intercom problems, sir; flooding midships but contained. Engines are working but we've lost one fuel tank as the pump is fused shut. Many of the corridors are blocked by fire but control parties are working at bringing them under control.”
“Good man. Can you handle Engineering?”
“Yes sir, I can,” replied Craig confidently.
“Concentrate on regaining control of the flooding and the fires but get the internal ship's communications fixed rapidly,” ordered the admiral. “I need information about my crew.”
Nodding, Craig returned to his duties below deck.
The ship had developed a fifteen degree list but gradually the smoke started to clear. The scenes of devastation soon became apparent. Part of the rail and deck just below the Bridge had been torn away.
Further down the deck, Wilkes was curled up and cowering behind one of the winches. Breathing heavily and hands shaking wildly from the shock, his overriding instinct was to get off this ship. All thoughts of duty forgotten, he made his way to the motor launch stored forward of a turret and swiftly unfastened the chains which secured the boat to the deck. As the boat swung over the side, the squeal of the pulleys filled the air. Crew stared up in amazement as they witnessed the Captain jump into the launch and begin to manually turn the crank to lower it. A few moments later, the boat hit water pulling and bouncing on top of the still-moving Talismans' wake.
“Look, Admiral!” shouted Moorhouse from the Bridge window.
“Wilkes!” snarled Turnbull. “Slow the ship, Moorhouse.” His hostile tone warned the doctor not to question the order. “If he launches at this speed, that boat will most likely tip.”
Moorhouse pulled the lever on the Engine telegraph to 'SLOW' and the two men watched in disgust and disapproval.
Chapter 70
Huber stared in amazement as the tug brought the massive sub closer until it gently nudged the dock and stopped. Soldiers ran to tie off the lines. Two seamen stood on top of the conning tower gazing blankly at Fisher and Huber. The Lieutenant hailed the seamen, “Where did you find this one?”
“She was adrift on the surface. We haven't been able to assess her yet as the hatch is stuck fast. So we brought here here to you!”
Fisher puzzled, “The crew?”
“Who knows. Could be inside but she was without power and drifting on the tide.”
Catching a glimpse of Huber's worried face, he asked, “What's with you? You look like you've seen a ghost.”
Swallowing hard, Huber replied, “We sent this out on trials not long ago. She's a prototype. My predecessor and I designed her to be the next generation of U-boat. She contains state of the art systems and weapons.”
“Well then, what are we waiting for? Let's get to work,” and as quickly as that Fisher beckoned the yard crew who had been unloading a nearby truck.
Looking on, Huber had mixed feelings. At first he had wanted the sub's return but now his instincts were telling him something was very badly wrong. Where were Stein and the others? The boat drifting with no power – this made no sense!
After a fruitless ten minutes or so of trying to open the hatch, Fisher shouted for Huber, “Hey! Did you guys design a special lock for this thing?”
Making his way over the deck, Huber climbed the tower. As the others moved to the side, he knelt down, grasped the wheel with both hands and firmly turned it. There was a clunk and the seal broke. Instantly a smell emanated. “Gas!” shouted Huber, “Get away!”
Fisher stood and with gritted teeth said, “This explains a lot. Get us two sets of breathing apparatus,” he ordered. “So the gas from the batteries killed the crew?”
Huber nodded glumly. He felt terrible. “This is my fault, Fisher. I checked the boat and I reported her sea-worthy.
Placing his hand on the man's shoulder, the lieutenant said, “A lot of things can change on a sub when she is at sea. It's not your fault. Now let's leave her to air out for a while then we'll go in and check for evidence.”
Actually the designer would have preferred someone else to have gone in. The thought of coming across dead bodies, especially of people he knew, filled him with dread. He'd seen enough death over these past few weeks to last him a lifetime.
Handing him a breathing mask, Fisher beckoned for him to come. Moving down the ladder they could hear nothing, not a sound. Huber, his voice oddly muffled, said, “Emergency lighting switches are over here,” and he flipped a switch enabling a pale red glow to illuminate the Bridge.
As Fisher turned to look he bumped into two bodies slumped against the wall. “Jesus!” he gasped, fighting to regain his composure, “Who are they?”
“They are Klaus Vermon and Karl Heinrich. They look to have been dead for about a week.”
“Where to now?” Fisher asked.
“Mess deck is one floor below.” Leading the way nervously, Huber descended the ladder. “Nothing!” he thought. “Everything seems normal.”
Fisher mused, “I've never seen anything like this. The systems are like nothing I've ever imagined.”
Huber nodded, “You've seen nothing yet. Just wait until we go further below.” Going down another ladder they emerged onto the catwalk. “We'll check Engineering first,” Huber said, tentatively. Engineering lay empty and quiet, engines dormant.
Fisher placed his hand on one of them. “Cold! They haven't even been kept idling.”
“Gunt isn't here,” puzzled Huber. On Fisher's query, he replied, “Ernst Gunt, the Chief Engineer isn't at his post so something isn't right here. There's only the weapons deck to check now.” Making their way down the catwalk, Huber told Fisher to be careful as things seemed to be a little unstable. The lieutenant gazed at the racks filling the space. There were more torpedoes than he had ever seen in any sub. The long conveyor belts and rams designed to load the shells were still and lifeless.
“My God! You could sink a whole navy with this fire power,” whispered Fisher as they moved on. “Hey! These look different,” as he pointed to a separate rack, “What are they?”
Huber was quiet, realising that he had to tell the lieutenant everything. “They are biological warheads. Once armed they are designed to run in the shallows then to beach themselves. Then when the fuse dries out in the air they blow, filling the surrounding atmosphere with a virus which will kill everything in a 50 kilometre radius.”
“Hitler really did like to play God, didn't he? This boat was built for genocide.”
“No it was not” snapped Huber, his voice still muffled by the mask. “This U-boat was designed to end a war, but others wanted to use it for evil. Richter insisted on these torpedoes being loaded onto this boat, no one else. You must find him and when you do, we'll all be safer for it!”
Grimly, Fisher stared at the torpedoes one last time. “Well we can't do anything right now, so let's get on.” The tubes came into view. “Wait!” hissed Fisher, “Look.”
“Captain Stein!” groaned Huber. “What's happened to him?”
As they looked around Fisher noticed the cap missing from the pipe above and guessed that the pressure must have blown it off.
Huber turned to look around and felt his foot step into something strange, sticky almost. Looking down he saw the decapitated body of a man slumped against the bulkhead. retching, he pointed. Fisher took one look and turned away.
“They were having problems,” he said. “See this...” as he pulled a spanner from the track then simply let it drop.
Huber pulled himself together and whispered, “We're still
missing two crew members, Gunt and Wagner, the Second-in-Command. Perhaps they're still on the ship somewhere.”
“But we've been all over the ship.” groaned Fisher. Then suddenly a noise came from the upper deck, a scuffling sound, faint but audible.
Making swiftly for the ladder the pair were shocked to see a figure standing in the middle of the room, hair wild with an unkempt beard just visible from beneath a gas mask. Horrified, Huber gasped, “Wagner, it's me, Huber.”
The man let out a loud blood curdling shriek and raised his hands as if cradle his head. Even in the dim light the others could make out the bloody stubs of bone poking from Wagner's fingertips. As he pulled off his mask he continued screaming incoherently. Around his mouth and beard they could see matted and dried blood. His wild eyes flaring with panic he ran, scrambling up the ladder and out onto the Bridge. Sobbing uncontrollably, he pushed past the yard crew onto the dock. Just as Fisher and Huber emerged into the open air, the lieutenant shouted, “Stop!” but too late. A shot rang out and Wagner dropped to the ground.
Running over, the designer knelt beside the fallen man. “Huber?” croaked Wagner as he removed his mask.
“Yes, it really is me. What happened?” asked Huber.
“I'm sorry,” sobbed Wagner. “I couldn't stop it.”
“Stop what, Wagner? Stop what?”
“The boat. The boat did this.” Huber stared at the man puzzled, uncomprehending. It was too late for more explanation as Wagner shuddered and died.
Not long afterwards, he sat on the dock while Fisher took copious notes, photographs and measurements. “Hey man, I need a point of size reference so come over here and stand in front.” The designer stood beside the sub while Fisher clicked the button several times. “Do you want a copy?” but Huber had already begun to walk away along the dockside.
Chapter 71
After a painfully slow journey back to Portsmouth, Winters and Filmore were glad to see dry land coming into sight. The ferry, now with a very obvious list, made its way agonisingly towards its berth. Passengers milled around the deck wearing life jackets and holding hands with children and other loved ones.
What had happened was unclear, but the crew were evidently under strict orders to keep quiet.
“Take a look at that,” whispered Filmore, pointing out of the window towards three police cars parked on the dockside.
Just then a crew member walked past them and Winters flagged him over. “What happened back there?”
“Oh nothing much, sir. We hit a rock and now we have a slight hole in the hull. Nothing to worry about.”
“A rock” laughed Filmore openly. “I wasn't aware of any rocks that could explode!”
Smiling nervously, the seaman scurried off in the opposite direction.
A couple walked by talking frantically, “I'm telling you, I know what I saw. It was a torpedo. I remember my Dad telling me about the trail of bubbles they make before they hit.”
“Don't be stupid,” retorted the woman.
“I'm telling you. Why else would there be so many military vessels in the area?”
Winters listened and then interrupted, “I'm sorry, I couldn't help overhearing. You did say torpedo?”
“Yes!” replied the man, “trail of bubbles, periscope... just like in one of those old war films.”
“Are you sure that's what you saw?”
“Yes, definitely,” answered the fellow.
“I'm so sorry,” interjected the wife. “He gets a little excited sometimes. Please excuse us.” and gripping her husband's elbow she ushered him away.
“Laurence was involved in an exercise this week. I wonder if anything went wrong!” wondered Winters.
Filmore grinned, “Maybe we've found the submarine after all.”
The friends' smiles were interrupted by the Purser's voice over the ship's tannoy. “Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your attention, please. As you are aware, we've had some problems. Because we are unable to use the bow doors to unload the car traffic all passengers are requested to disembark by foot. We ask that you wait in the Terminal building whilst your vehicles are unloaded safely. Thank you for your co-operation.”
“Great! Not only are we not in the country we need to be in, but we can't even get our car back!” moaned Filmore.
Walking down the long corridor which formed the foot ramp, the pair both drew a huge sigh of relief as they stepped onto the dock. A police cordon had already been set up in front of the ferry and three officers stood behind blue and white tape, stopping each set of passengers and curious onlookers from going any further. Ship's officers and dock workers bustled around as the sound of cutting and drilling machinery rang out over the harbour area.
“Well, there's no point in standing here,” said Filmore. “Let's go get a coffee. I'm sure we'll be called when we can retrieve the car.”
Winters nodded in agreement and they headed off back towards the Terminal building and the welcome sign of a cafe.
At the neighbouring berth, a large naval vessel had just begun to disembark its crew members. Suddenly, Winters began to run. Poor Filmore panted and groaned as he followed.
“Steel,” shouted Winters. “Lieutenant Commander Steel !”
A man looked over and grinned and in a strong American accent, said “Winters! How are ya?” whilst heartily shaking him by the hand. Two MPs approached but as Steel waved them away with “These guys are with me,” they moved back to the end of the ship's gangplank.
“Filmore! Is that really you?”
“Yes, Lieutenant, it's me,” puffed the breathless Filmore.
“Hey hey hey!” laughed Steel, tapping his bars. “Commander, if you please.”
After a few more moments exchanging pleasantries, the mood turned serious.
“What brought you here?” asked Winters.
“Well, after the run-in with the torp, sorry I mean, rock, we were asked to escort you back to Portsmouth by Admiral Turnbull.”
“So, it was a torpedo!” said Filmore.
“You know quite well that I can't confirm that!” answered Steel.
“Listen, Commander. You know our security level is high enough. What's going on?” asked Winters.
Steel sighed, “OK. But not here. I guess you're waiting for your vehicle to be off-loaded?” Gesturing for the car keys, Steel shouted one of the MPs and after looking at the rental key fob said “There's a Ford Granada coming off that ferry soon. Be good enough to park it dockside for my guests.”
The MP nodded then saluted as Commander Steel led Filmore and Winters up the gangplank and on board his ship. Settling back into a comfortable chair and taking a sip of excellent coffee, Winters waited for Steel to explain.
“You know a guy called Forrester? Nice man, XO of that old tub 'Talisman'.”
“Yes. I know of him,” replied Winters.
“Well, it appears he's got himself into a pickle. He found someone else's problem and now he's trapped.”
Puzzled, Winters held up his hand, “What do you mean someone else's problem?”
“Submarine! It seems he went fishing and some old war relic surfaced. He went to explore and now he's trapped aboard it!”
“Is that all the information you have,” gabbled Winters excitedly, sitting forward on the edge of his seat.
“Yeah, that's it! Seems to be rampaging on some sort of autopilot”.
“Commander, take us out with you. We can be of help,” urged Winters.
“Hey now wait! You know we can't do that. It isn't safe!”
“Goddamn it, Steel. You know we are the, yes, THE most qualified to help you and the Admiral. We'll sign any forms or release you wish.”
Steel paused, the furrows on his brow deepening. “OK I'll take you over to 'Talisman'. I'm sure Admiral Turnbull will be grateful for the insight.”
“Thanks, Commander, we do appreciate it.”
“No problem. It's the least I can do for you after all you've done for me and my family.” smiled Stee
l.
“How is your brother?”
“He's OK. It was touch and go for a while after the navy recovered them, but he's doing fine now, thanks.”
Chapter 72
Fresh from his success with the engine destruction, Forrester set about doing as much damage as possible, ripping out wiring and jamming pulleys. His recently repaired radio was still giving off what appeared to be incessant static and any attempt at contacting Talisman had hitherto proved fruitless.
The sub began to list gently and a shudder became noticeable. “Reverse,” he realised. What was going on? Then as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped and for a moment all was still. He knew that something was being aimed, but how? He had jammed the forward tubes so it couldn't reload. “Agh!” he thought, “the stern tube. Shit!” He'd forgotten there were more than usual. Racing through the sub he arrived in the aft compartment just in time to hear that familiar rush of air as the stern tube blew and sent the torpedo on its way. “Fuck!” for a moment Forrester was too angry with himself to think clearly but then the pause for thought gave him a chance to weigh up the options. There was no reloading this stern tube unless it was done manually. That meant it was vulnerable from behind.
Deciding that it would be best to continue the sabotage before the spectre reappeared, he moved down the catwalk and onto the lower level.
A massive explosion rocked the sub, knocking the commander off his feet. The impact from the blast was so strong that the target must have been close. Pulling himself up onto a rack of torpedoes beside him, he slowly began to rise to his feet until something caught his eye. These torpedoes looked longer and somehow, even with his limited knowledge about such weaponry, he instinctively realised that these were different. Curious writing was hand-painted on the heads. He couldn't read the language but he did recognise the skull and crossbones as the international marking for poison. “Oh Shit!” That meant these were biological weapons and the problem suddenly became infinitely worse. Explosives were bad enough but bio bombs put a totally different perspective on this. Suddenly he recalled what the spectre had said to him about the home of the naval fleet. Portsmouth! It was going to launch them at Portsmouth! He desperately needed to contact Talisman immediately, but how? There had been no response from the ship despite increasingly desperate attempts on his inadequate radio. As he tried to move quietly, he found himself grinning. “You idiot. Whatever this thing is, it knows everything that happens on board.” With this in mind he determined to return to the Control room where the light was, if anything, slightly brighter and might afford him a greater chance of radio communication.