Testament

by David Gibbins

  Jack reached into the pouch on his back and pulled out a waterproof package, passing it to Costas, who unwrapped it, revealing a second Beretta in a holster. “Thoughtful of you, Jack.”

  “What was it you said a few days ago? The buddy system. We look after each other.”

  “Right on.” Costas staggered to his feet, shook himself and pulled back the slider on the pistol, chambering a round. “Full mag?”

  “Full mag. Two more with the holster.”

  Costas slotted the holster over his shorts, held the gun down and paused. “I wanted to ask about Zaheed. Last I saw of him he’d taken a round in the chest.”

  Jack gave him a grim look and shook his head. Costas nodded slowly. “I thought so. No way am I waiting this one out. There’s someone here I want to meet again.”

  “Me too,” said Jack. He stared down at the shingle. For the first time in as long as he could remember, the thought of Landor did not make him feel apprehensive, uneasy, the old sense of guilt. Seeing what they had done to Costas had removed all that. Now all he wanted was to get into that pen and end the job, to see Landor finished for good.

  Costas looked at Ahmed. “You good to go?”

  Ahmed pulled the slider on his own pistol. “Good to go.”

  “Okay,” Jack said. “Let’s move.”

  23

  Ahmed led them forward over the rocky edge of the inlet, Costas following and Jack bringing up the rear. Before leaving, Jack had made Costas eat the energy bar that had been in a pouch on his belt, and they had checked him again for signs of concussion. The Somali naval base doctor and two medics had come along in the patrol boat in anticipation of casualties, with a standby arrangement for medevac by helicopter to a French fleet auxiliary ship with a full operating theater, part of the Combined Task Force flotilla currently off the coast of Yemen.

  Jack’s friend who headed the anti-piracy force had offered to divert a Royal Australian Air Force P-3 Orion surveillance aircraft over the island, part of the routine anti-piracy patrol carried out between Oman and the Horn of Africa that had recently been retasked to deal with the threat of naval incursion from Iran. Captain Ibrahim had advised against it until they were certain that Costas was safe. Like the terrorists, the pirate gangs were not easily intimidated by Western military force, having seen it come and go with political change and knowing that the task force might be prevented from interdiction by restrictive rules of engagement. Seeing an aircraft might only stoke up the pirates’ defiance, and result in even more erratic violence. Ibrahim could request task force assistance once his marines were engaged and under fire, but until the landing team arrived in their Zodiac the three of them were on their own. Their priority now was to discover the U-boat pen and secure its contents before any damage could be done, particularly if those contents included potentially lethal radioactive materials.

  Ahmed signaled for them to stop, and they squatted down among the rocky outcrops, looking around. A light breeze had sprung up from the east, bringing with it the smell of burning from the wreckage of the trawler. For the first time Jack could see the island in its entirety, a desolate rocky outcrop less than a kilometer across, almost flat and with hardly any vegetation. The rock had been eroded by sea and wind into a variegated surface of fissures and gullies, something that might slow their progress but would provide cover as they approached their target. Ahead of them, where Ahmed had earlier seen the two men inspecting the wreckage, lay the beginning of another inlet like the one they had just left, only much wider and cutting deeper into the island. There was nowhere else obvious for the skiff from the trawler to have gone, and this was their best bet for the U-boat pen.

  Ahmed signaled them forward, and Jack acknowledged. They crept on, weapons at the ready, and a few minutes later reached the edge of the inlet, taking cover behind a crest of rock that overlooked the water about twenty meters away. “We need to get in there fast,” Ahmed said. “If they discover we’re here, they’ll make a fortress of it, and this could go on for days. But from inside we can clean them out like ferrets in a rat hole.”

  Two men appeared seemingly from nowhere on the rough ground about thirty meters in from the back of the inlet. Ahmed took out a small pair of binoculars from his belt, stared for a moment, and then put them away again. “I think that’s an entrance into the pen,” he said. “But it’s going to be tricky for three of us to take it by storm. The same problem applies: that once they know we’re outside, they can make it virtually impregnable.”

  Jack looked at the inlet. “How much air did you have left in your tank?”

  “Not yet sucking, but can’t be more than a few minutes’ worth.”

  “I have an idea. We think the U-boat got into that pen, right? There must be a channel underwater large enough to take it. If I can swim through there, I might be able to achieve an element of surprise.”

  Ahmed thought for a moment. “Okay. Let’s do it.” He scrambled back and returned a minute later with his diving rig and Jack’s mask and fins. “I’ve got two fragmentation grenades left. You can have one, we’ll have the other. As soon as we hear yours go off, we’ll toss ours down that entranceway.”

  Jack quickly put on the gear, checked his Beretta and made his way down the rocky slope toward the inlet. A man with a Kalashnikov suddenly appeared a few yards in front of him; he had barely had time to register his surprise when three jets of blood spurted out of his back and he fell. Jack glanced over his shoulder and saw Ahmed’s Glock with its silencer poking out from behind a rock, a wisp of smoke curling up from the muzzle.

  When he reached the water’s edge, he slipped in, then pulled on his mask and fins and dropped down, putting his regulator in his mouth and swimming quickly in the direction of the inlet. As he had suspected, the inlet was deep, eighteen meters according to his dive watch, and wide enough for a U-boat to make its way in. He swam toward the dark patch that he knew must mark the entrance into the pen, swiftly finning under the rocky overhang and hoping that none of the men had spotted his bubbles. Ahead lay blackness, and no certainty that he would be able to get through; he doubted he had enough air to make it in and out again if the way was blocked. But he had no choice now, and he kept going, running his hand against one rock-cut wall for guidance in the dark.

  His breathing began to tighten as the tank emptied, but he tried to keep cool, to keep his swimming measured. A few seconds more and he saw a smudge of green light, and then it became clearer, the shapes around him more defined. He realized that the huge bulk that had appeared to his right was the stern end of a submarine, its rudder and screw now clearly visible. He had no time to be astonished at the sight; his air was almost gone. He saw an iridescent patch above him and rose into it, taking out his mouthpiece as he broke surface and trying to keep as quiet as possible.

  He was on the edge of a rock-cut platform forming one side of a dock that had been designed to take two submarines. There was artificial light from bulbs strung up on the far side of the chamber, and he could hear the hum of a portable generator. Glancing at the submarine, he could now clearly see that it was a U-boat, rusted but intact, with its forward gun still in place. On the conning tower he could see its designation painted in black letters: U-409. Ahmed had been right. The U-boat had been sitting there for over seventy years, since the end of the war, with a cargo inside that could be as lethal to the world today as it might have been back then, had it reached its intended destination.

  He crawled up onto the dock, slipped off his fins and mask, and began to unstrap his rig. Suddenly there was a shout from the platform ahead, and he froze. The crack of a rifle reverberated in the chamber, and a bullet slammed into the rock just behind him. He quickly pulled out his Beretta, found his target, and fired five rounds, dropping the man. Then he got to his feet and ran forward behind a concrete revetment. He could see where four more men had been coming down the rock-cut stairway that must mark the entrance, about fifteen meters away; they were now all crouched down. He pulled ou
t the grenade, pulled the pin and threw it in their direction, falling prone with his hands pressed hard against his ears.

  He felt the detonation more than he heard it, a shock wave that coursed through his body. He remained where he was, hoping and praying for the second grenade from Ahmed, and seconds later it detonated, sending a shower of rock fragments in his direction from the entranceway. He got up again just as Ahmed and Costas appeared at the top of the stairs, advancing down in a flurry of gunfire as they finished off any of the pirates who were still alive.

  While Ahmed replaced the magazine in his Glock and began to skirt round the dock, Costas walked cautiously along a gantry toward the deck of the U-boat. Jack ran toward him, passing a slew of carnage where the grenades had exploded, and joined him beside the conning tower. Costas beckoned him forward. “The Boss wasn’t among them,” he whispered. “Nor was Landor. The Boss had a lot of interest in what he thought might be inside the U-boat, so I think he’ll be in there.”

  Jack nodded, then followed Costas up the ladder and into the conning tower, holstering his pistol as he made his way down the rungs. At the bottom, Costas brought his finger to his lips and put on a headlamp that Ahmed had given him, and together they crept round the control room, heading toward the forward torpedo tubes. Costas took out something else that Ahmed had brought, a small Geiger counter, and activated it, sweeping it over the deck. As they approached the tubes, the pinging became more frequent. One of the tubes was open, and they could see that it was stacked full of lead cubes labeled U-235. Jack felt his stomach go cold. “How safe is it?” he whispered.

  “A bit heightened, but nothing for us to worry about as long as we don’t linger. Someone has recently opened that tube up, as you can see. My guess is we’ve got company forward.”

  They turned and headed back toward the conning tower. Further forward, Jack saw a smudge of light and heard noises. They crept past the periscope and the wardroom, watching intently. Suddenly a shot rang out, then another. Jack ducked into the captain’s cabin. To his horror, he saw a skeleton slumped over the table, the mildewed remains of a Kriegsmarine uniform shrouding it and a Luger pistol in one hand. What had happened here was anyone’s guess, but the captain had not died peacefully; a large section of his skull was missing. Another shot rang out, and Jack followed Costas further down the corridor. Costas caught Jack’s attention and pointed at his Beretta. “It’s jammed,” he whispered. “And it’s the Boss ahead, I can smell him. He seems to be out of his head and talking to himself, but he’s still got his Kalashnikov. I need a weapon.”

  Jack remembered the Luger he had seen in the captain’s cabin. It had looked in reasonable condition, and there was a chance it might still be functional. He peered along the passageway, and then slowly got up and made his way back, stepping through the cabin doorway. He went over to the skeleton and prised the finger bones from the pistol, peeling the mummified skin off the grip. He had no thought of repugnance for what he was doing, only of survival. He quickly inspected the Luger. It had been well oiled and had a layer of discoloration on the metal parts, but there was no obvious rust. He pressed the catch on the grip and pulled out the magazine, seeing that it still held rounds. He had no time to eject them and check the number, but the two he could see at the top, along with the one in the chamber, would at least give him a fighting chance. He pulled the toggle; at first there was resistance, but then it opened entirely and he ejected the round that had been in the chamber. He worked the toggle several times to loosen the action, pressed the round into the magazine, pushed the magazine back in and cocked the pistol with the toggle, letting it snap forward.

  Out in the corridor again, he kept hold of the Luger and passed his Beretta to Costas. “Twelve rounds,” he whispered. “Be careful.”

  Costas pointed ahead. “He’s mine.”

  They advanced along the corridor, weapons at the ready. Sitting against the hatch through the next bulkhead was the Boss, his Kalashnikov over his knees, a dusty half-finished bottle of brandy with a Nazi label in one hand and a joint hanging from his lips. “Eh, Landor, my man, about time,” he said, waving the bottle without looking, taking a drag on the joint. “Where you been?”

  “Not Landor,” Costas said coldly, the Beretta aimed at the man’s head. “English, remember?”

  The Boss looked at him hazily, then waved the bottle again. “Ah, American, yes. Sit down, have a drink.”

  Jack saw to his alarm that the Boss had several of the lead cubes in a pile on one side of him, and under a cloth he saw something else, the dull yellow of a gold bar. “Where’s Landor?” he demanded.

  “Eh?” The man’s eyes rolled. “Who are you? Gone to get me some more gold bars. More of my cut. Then we’re going to get out of here, find a helicopter to pick us up and take us away. What was all the shooting outside? Some pretty big bangs.”

  “Come on, Costas, let’s go,” Jack said. “He’s out of it, and this place stinks.”

  “Hey, not so soon, English.” The Boss whipped out a Glock and aimed it at Costas. Jack pulled the trigger on the Luger, and at the same time Costas fired three rounds from his Beretta. The Boss slumped back, his eyes half open, blood running from his chest.

  “That’s for Zaheed,” Costas said quietly. “And for my black eye.”

  From above they heard a clattering, and then Ahmed’s voice shouting down. “Jack. Costas. I think I’ve found what we’re after.” They quickly retraced their steps back to the conning tower and climbed out, following Ahmed down onto the deck and across to the dock on the other side of the U-boat. “Up there,” he said, pointing at a rusted metal ladder leading to a balcony about ten feet high, robustly built and with a rock-cut entranceway at the top.

  They heard a noise from the entrance passageway on the other side, and all three turned and trained their weapons. A Somali marine came cautiously down, his rifle at the ready, followed by two more. Ahmed whistled and showed himself, and then pointed to Jack and Costas. More marines entered and began to spread around the pen, checking and searching, kicking the bodies of pirates on the way. Jack turned to Ahmed. “Only one bad guy still missing. Where the hell is Landor?”

  Ahmed pointed up to the balcony. “Let’s go and check it out.”

  Jack climbed the metal ladder onto the balcony and peered round the corner into the passageway, Luger at the ready. Ahead of him, recessed into the rock, was a metal door, the bolt open, with a symbol the size of his palm stamped into the front. He stared at it, his mind racing. It showed a sword facing downward within a loop, and surrounding it an exergue with the words Deutsches Ahnenerbe. He turned back to Costas, who had followed him up, Ahmed close behind. “This looks like a strongroom.”

  Costas edged closer, panning his headlamp beam over the door. He put his shoulder to it, but there was no movement; it presumably opened outward. “I don’t suppose you packed any C-5 into that belt of yours?”

  “I didn’t, but Ahmed did.”

  “Just a word of warning. This door would normally be padlocked and bolted from the outside. It presumably has some kind of latch on the inside as well. What I’m saying is that there could be someone in there.”

  Ahmed passed Costas a plastic-covered package that looked like plasticine, and a pair of pencil-shaped detonators. Costas immediately set to work pressing a wedge of the explosive into the edge of the door, and slotted one of the detonators into it. “Okay. I’m setting a thirty-second timer. We need to get out of the way. Ready?”

  They quickly backed out, taking shelter behind the rock face on either side of the entrance. Costas looked at his watch. “Fire in the hole.” They covered their ears and pressed themselves against the rock. Seconds later the charge went off with a violent crack, sending a spray of debris out over the balcony and clattering onto the U-boat below. They waited while the dust cleared, and then Costas ducked back around, followed by the other two. The metal was dented, but the door was still intact. Jack and Costas each held one of the padlock retainers and
pulled hard, inching the door outward. Once it had moved far enough, Costas went behind it and heaved, coughing in the dust, until the door was completely open and they were staring into the chamber beyond.

  At first Jack could see very little, the dust still filling the space and his headlamp beam only penetrating a few meters. Then, as the dust settled, he saw a breathtaking sight. What had seemed a narrow passageway was in fact a wide chamber stacked from floor to ceiling with gold bars, hundreds of them, a cache that must have represented more than one U-boat cargo. Beyond the gold lay the open door of a further chamber, stacked trays and racks with objects on them just visible on either side.

  In that instant Landor emerged from the dust, lunging toward Jack, barreling into his midriff and pushing him out onto the balcony. Costas and Ahmed watched in shock, their weapons out but unable to shoot for fear of hitting Jack. Landor swung him round against the railing above the water, putting a knife to his throat. “This is our final showdown, Jack. You lost me that gold on Clan Macpherson, but you’re not going to lose me this.”

  Jack looked up, feeling the vice-like grip, remembering that it was Landor who had always won the wrestling matches at school. There was no point in struggling, and with the edge of steel against his neck, even the slightest movement might prove fatal. He could see Ahmed trying to aim his Glock to get a head shot, but it was too close to try. “Tell your friends to drop their weapons,” Landor snarled.

  Ahmed and Costas did so without being prompted, laying them on the balcony and backing off. Jack could feel the knife against his throat as he spoke. “Do you remember our dive in the quarry, Anatoly? Amazing we made it back up with the gear we had. Me jamming my valve against that beam, us buddy-breathing all the way up, you dropping our only flashlight. And then the next day we went back and did it all over again. Those were the days.”