by William Kerr
Almost immediately, more propeller and engine noise, coming closer, growing louder, and again the familiar hiss of depth charges on their way down. This time, however, the explosions seemed farther away, not as damaging, until suddenly, to Strobel, it felt as if the submarine was shifting beneath his body, cracking and splitting apart. And then, a great roaring sound. It slammed against the top and port side of the U-boat, pounding its way along the length of the hull.
As the submarine rolled and lurched helplessly, emergency lights blinked on and off. Strobel wanted to scream, to mix his voice with the cries of others, but he didn’t. He tensed his body, grasped with both hands one of the cables that ran along the periscope column and held his breath until all motion stopped.
He lay on the deck, gasping, listening. Sonar pings, prop wash, engine sounds, depth charge explosions, all gone. Only the steady spray of water from loosened pipe joints and the whimpering of men, too terrified to move or speak, reached his ears. Very slowly Strobel pushed to his feet, his hands motioning for quiet, his legs braced against the slightly more than 15-degrees starboard list. “Shhhhh,” he whispered, an index finger to his lips. “Listen.”
“For what?” Krueger demanded, raising himself to one knee, the pistol still in his hand. With a look of utter scorn on his face he added, “I hear nothing except the blubbering and sniffling of your proud, brave U-boat men. Ha!”
Ignoring the scorching contempt in Krueger’s words, Strobel ordered, “Plug the water leaks and let’s get her off the bottom. Let’s go, men.”
For a moment, the U-boat was filled with a burst of excited energy and the sound of compressed air rushing into the ballast tanks, then nothing. “What’s wrong, Chief?” Strobel asked.
“I don’t know. We can’t seem to clear the ballast tanks. It’s as though everything is blocked.”
“Move the diving planes.”
“I can’t, Captain,” the helmsman answered. “They’re frozen.” The seaman quickly shifted to the stern rudder controls. “The same, Captain. Everything seems to be frozen.”
“The sides of the trench,” the Chief said. “If they’ve…”
“If they’ve what, Chief?” Krueger demanded.
“If they’ve caved in around us. The roaring sound we heard. If we’re covered with—”
“All engines ahead slow,” Strobel ordered. But the only response was Krueger’s laughter, at first low and guttural, growing rapidly to a loud, braying sound. “Fools, all of you.”
“Shut up, Colonel,” Strobel ordered, “or I’ll have you tied to your bunk for the rest of the journey.”
Krueger’s laughter died as the words came slow and deliberate. “Do what you want, Captain, but if your chief is right, there’ll be no more journey. We could have all been free men if you’d followed your orders. Reichsführer Himmler’s orders. But you had to have the last shot, the last pathetic act against a pathetic little ship. And now, Captain, we are all buried alive.”
CHAPTER 1
Thursday, 11 October 2001
Jacksonville Beach, Florida
Wording on the side of the white Jeep Grand Cherokee read:
NORTH AMERICAN ARCHAEOLOGICAL
RESEARCH & PRESERVATION ASSOC. (NAARPA).
Matt Berkeley steered the Jeep around a tow truck. The crow’s feet of a frown stretched from the corner of each of his eyes, creating dark lines in what was otherwise a clean-cut, smoothly tanned face. The tow truck’s beep-beep-beep warning signal cut the air as it backed toward a Cadillac buried to the floorboard in sand. It had been like that all along Third Street, if you could call it a street anymore. It had become a tire-packed bed of sand, waiting to be dug out and cleared. Storm-ravaged cars littered the street, left by their owners when Hurricane Grace’s initial surge of water rushed inland from the beach. It was like so much jetsam, abandoned by diehards who refused to believe Grace would hit Jacksonville Beach, a coastal community that had escaped the past forty hurricane seasons with little more than a nor’easter or two each fall.
Billboard remnants, twisted street signs, crushed signal lights, roofing tiles, and slabs of plywood ripped from storefront windows—all lay in great piles along the edges of the four-lane street as well as its center median. It was as though he was driving through a neverending junkyard. Even worse were the people, tired and filthy from shoveling mud and sand from storefronts and sidewalks, trying to regain control of their lives and businesses.
Though tilted at a severe angle, many of its store names missing, the sign at the entrance to the shopping center’s parking lot was still legible. PABLO PLAZA. Matt guided the Jeep through the sand-locked entrance, over what was once a bright yellow-and-green-striped store window awning and around several tires from a nearby automotive store. Up ahead, his destination—a lopsided sign that read ATLANTIC PRO DIVERS. To one side was a traditional red-and-white dive flag, ripped and torn by the hurricane’s fury. It hung limp from a metal pole bent 15 to 20 degrees from its original position. “Unbelievable,” he muttered to himself. “Hundred and ten mile an hour winds and that damn thing’s still standing.”
As Matt pulled up to the storefront, a wave of mud-colored water suddenly poured through the open doorway and over the sidewalk. The sludge was immediately followed by a large push broom, a pair of bare feet, and a figure clad only in shorts who growled, “Goddamn useless sandbags! Next time, I’ll—”
Blaring of the Jeep’s horn drew an immediate frown on the man’s face until a quick, ear-to-ear grin of recognition brought a surprised, “I’ll be damned! Mr. Navy himself, Matt Berkeley.”
Switching off the ignition, Matt simultaneously swung his near six-foot frame out the door, grabbed the man’s outstretched hand, and pulled him close in a giant bear hug. “Steve Park, you ol’ son-of-a-tiger-shark. Should’ve known there was no way that storm was gonna blow you away.” With a sudden concerned expression on his face, Matt asked, “Family okay?”
Years of sun and sea etched deep into Park’s skin. He was in his late forties, junior to Matt by a spread of years, which Matt refused to acknowledge or count. Nodding, he answered, “Yeah. They’re over at the other store in Mandarin. It made it through without much damage, but this thing?” He waved toward the interior of the dive shop. “Air compressor covered in sand, computer and cash register turned green from salt water. Pretty much everything either ruined or in need of a good cleaning and a quick half-price sale. Course, when you consider nine-eleven last month…But what the hell are you doing here?”
“Throw on a shirt and some shoes,” Matt said, “and let’s go over to Monkey’s Uncle. Looks like they’re already open.”
“Yeah, lucky bastards,” Park said, turning in the direction of the shopping center’s L-shaped north end and nearby tavern. “Finally got electricity back last night, so maybe they’ve at least got a coupla cold beers.”
Other than plywood sheets still covering the front windows and lines of sandbags shoved away from the entrance doors, the interior of Monkey’s Uncle Tavern actually looked like nothing had happened. Despite the lighting from wall-mounted, neon signs advertising assorted beers, the dark oak paneling on the walls gave Monkey’s Uncle an unusually comfortable yet shadowy look. Shifting around on the barstool, Matt decided that from an aesthetic point of view the relative darkness of the room was more than likely a good thing. “Guess we were pretty fortunate,” the bartender explained, plunking two bottles of Budweiser on top of the bar in front of Matt and Steve. “Wind and surge hit us at an angle, but Steve’s and the rest of the stores facing the beach took it head-on.”
“Coulda been worse,” Steve said. “At least my son got the boat out of the water over at the marina in time.” Turning to Matt, he added, “But you still haven’t told me why you’re here. Navy call you back to active duty to take over a Special Warfare Detachment at Mayport?”
Matt laughed. “Not hardly. I’m still head of security at NAARPA. My Aunt Freddie died about a month and a half ago and left me a house
over on Fourth Avenue North here in Jax Beach. Came down from Charleston just before the storm hit to put it on the market with an old friend over at Watson Realty. Unfortunately, looks like it’s gonna be awhile before he can do anything with it. Storm took off part of the roof.”
“If the roof is all that’s damaged, you’re lucky.”
“Yeah. Finally reached a Jacksonville roofing company this morning, but they can’t get to it till later this week or next. I haven’t decided whether to head back to Charleston or wait here for the roof to get fixed.”
Park took a swig of his beer and slapped Matt on the shoulder. “Tell you what, ol’ buddy, if you stay, I’ve got just the thing.”
Matt laughed and raised one eyebrow. “Last time you had just the thing for me, Park, I damn near drowned on that goddamn shipwreck off Mayport. What is it this time?”
“This.” Park pulled a folded sheet of paper from his hip pocket, opened it, and used the fleshy edge of his hand to smooth it flat on the bar counter. “Fax from the Coast Guard. Tug and barge caught in the hurricane little less than three miles off Jax Beach. Heading south from Brunswick to Port Everglades. Tugboat skipper cut the barge loose and made it back into the St. Johns River as far as Blount Island before going aground.”
“What happened to the barge?”
“Nobody knows for sure, but they think it’s probably on the bottom near where he cut it loose. It was taking on water pretty bad.”
Matt reached over and, with the tip of his finger, slid the sheet of paper closer until he was able to read aloud, “With all Coast Guard assets currently employed, it will be at least two weeks before we’ll be able to locate and mark the barge as a hazard to navigation. Based on your willingness in the past to work with the Coast Guard, your assistance in this effort is requested. All expenses relative to the operation of locating and buoying off the barge will be reimbursed. Sincerely, John W. Worley, Commander, U.S. Coast Guard Group Mayport.”
Matt pushed the fax back in Park’s direction. “Steve Park to the rescue, huh? Gonna do it?”
“Probably not far enough out to be in the normal shipping lanes, but it can screw the hell out of a shrimper’s net. I was gonna try to do it tomorrow, but I’m shorthanded right now. Son’s wife’s expecting anytime, so don’t want him stuck out there with me if the baby comes knocking.”
“You got nobody else?”
“My two dive masters, but one’s in Texas visiting relatives, the other’s on crutches with a broken leg. Motorcycle accident. How ‘bout it? The shop’ll be closed for another day or two anyway. I’ll furnish the dive gear. Anything you want. You can keep it when we’re finished, courtesy of Uncle Sam’s Coast Guard.”
Matt shrugged his shoulders. “Something to do while I’m waiting on the roofers, I guess. Let me call Ashley and let her know this is taking a few days longer than I thought. If she’s tied up on a job, she’ll have tunnel vision until it’s over and won’t know whether I’m around or not.”
Park finished his beer before turning to Matt. “Never met Ashley. Your second wife, right?”
“Yeah, four years now.”
“You never told me what happened to your first wife. Peyton, wasn’t it?”
Matt sat for a moment, gnawing at his bottom lip, slowly dredging up part of the past he really wanted to keep locked in the deep freeze of his mind. Finally, he said, “She died in childbirth. In ninety-three. They called it amniotic embolism. To make a long story short, her heart stopped. They tried, but they couldn’t bring her back.”
“And the baby?”
“From what the doctor told me, once they realized Peyton was gone, they did an emergency C-section, but too late.”
“I’m sorry.”
Pulling the last of the beer from the bottle, Matt said, “Don’t be. It’s one of those things you learn to live with. Time does a hell of a healing job, or so they say.” Tossing a ten and a couple of ones on the bar, Matt pushed himself off the stool, adding, “C’mon, Steve. Let me call Ashley. Then let’s go find that barge of yours before somebody stubs their toe on it.”
CHAPTER 2
Friday, 12 October 2001
Offshore, Jacksonville Beach, Florida
When he’d first stepped off the dive platform at the stern of the 36-foot Native Diver, the sky had been a clear, autumnal blue, the seas running no more than one to two feet, and the water unusually clear for so short a distance off the northeast Florida coast. Within what seemed only minutes, however, clouds had rolled in and the scarred white bottom of the Native Diver was now a barely visible outline which Matt had to strain to see.
As he moved over the sand and limestone bottom in an ever-widening circle, he allowed the quarter-inch, yellow nylon search line to play out from a handheld reel until he reached the red tag signifying 50 feet. With bottom visibility rapidly decreasing, he pushed the transmit button and spoke into the tiny microphone nestled at the side of his full facemask. “Steve, I’m at fifty feet on the line and already completed a half circle in my search pattern. Nothing. Current’s hitting a good two to three knots and whipping up a sandstorm down here.”
“Yeah,” came the reply from the surface. “Wind’s picked up to maybe fifteen to twenty knots up here. I’m bobbing up and down like a cork. Hear the wind?”
Matt automatically nodded as the rushing sound of wind reached his ears. “Visibility’s dropped to less than half of what it was when I first came down,” he said. “Next time, get your goddamn sonar fixed so I don’t have to crawl around the bottom looking for a needle in a haystack. Sure you got the coordinates right?” His knees in the sand, his body bent into the current, Matt checked his depth gauge. Just over 50 feet.
Suddenly, sensing the presence of potential danger, Matt swept the now murky horizon, doing a double take as his peripheral vision picked up a dozen or so dark scaled barracuda hanging not more than ten feet away. Their long, slender bodies hovered only feet above the yellow search line, their eyes fixed in a curious stare that made him shiver. “Steve, you there? Got some barra-scooters down here, looking at me like I’m next on the menu. Appreciate if you’d hurry it up. What’ve you got?”
“I’m here,” came the response through the receiver mounted over Matt’s left ear. “Close as we can make it. Tugboat captain was pretty vague on the location. Just inside three miles and between the fishing pier and the Jax Beach water tower. Using his coordinates, I’ve got the end of the pier at two-niner-two degrees and the tower at two-four zero. Where the bearings cross, X marks the spot, and that’s where we are.”
Without warning, the line tugged at Matt’s hand and jerked him forward across the sand. It stopped, then another jerk. “Not any more, you’re not,” he growled. At the same time, he realized he was on a collision course with the formation of barracuda. “Shit!” The barracuda stared at his approach, impassive except for the hungry gleam in their eyes and the anticipatory grin on their teeth-filled snouts as dinner approached.
Unable to dig the heels of his swim fins into the bottom to stop the drag, Matt yelled into the microphone, “My search line’s tied to the ring at the top of the anchor, and the damn thing’s dragging me with it.” Releasing the transmit button on the side of his mask, he muttered to himself, “Right into a bunch of bad-ass barracuda.”
As he was pulled closer, he growled, “All right, fish heads, take this!” Matt punched the purge valve at the front of his regulator mouthpiece and held it down for a moment. An explosion of compressed air shot forward in the direction of the barracuda. As though executing an abrupt about-face, the barracuda turned and, leaving only the faintest slipstream of tail fins propelling them forward, disappeared beyond Matt’s visual horizon. “That’ll teach you to screw around with Berkeley-san, uh-huh.”
“Hey, you’re right,” Steve shouted through the communication system. “Bearings are changing. See what the hell’s happening.”
Already pulling hand-over-hand along the length of taut, nylon line and unable to hit t
he push-to-talk button, Matt mouthed into his facemask, “On my way, as if I had a choice.” At the thirty-foot marker, the line suddenly went slack and Matt tumbled forward. Quickly righting himself, he finned his way through the thickening swirl of sand just above the length of yellow line lying on the bottom until he reached the anchor. One fluke was firmly hung up on…“What the hell is this?” he asked himself. Looking up, he was surprised to see what remained of the sunken barge, its bow leering at him through the gloom. “Son of a bitch! There it is.”
Grabbing hold of the anchor’s shank with one hand to keep from being pushed along by the increasingly strong current, Matt punched the transmit button on the side of his mask and said, “Hey, good buddy, guess what I found? The barge. The anchor’s right fluke just dug smack dab in the middle of something, but it doesn’t look like it’s part of the barge. Whatever it is, it’s a good fifteen to twenty feet in front of the barge.”
“What is it?”
“Hell if I know. It’s sticking about three to four feet out of the sand. Round at the top, then like the apex of a triangle on one side, rounded off on the other. Got some kinda gizwiz sticking out before it goes back into the sand.” Still holding onto the anchor’s shaft, Matt ran a bare hand across the surface of the object. “Grid-like surface. Like a waffle iron. Covered with a hard, black, rubber kind of material. No marine growth. Can’t have been down here long. Otherwise, it’s been buried and not exposed to the water.”
“Maybe the hurricane uncovered it,” Steve said.
Matt yanked on one side of the object, trying to loosen it from the bottom’s grip. “Whatever it is, it’s not going anyplace.”
From topside, Steve asked, “Can you free the anchor?”