Mark of the Devil

by William Kerr

  “Frog Two, here. Three thousand pounds, each tank.”

  Matt made a final check of his air gauges. “Frog One’s got a squinch over three thousand each tank.”

  “This is Frog Base, one minute to drop. Lower DPVs, and prepare to disembark.”

  Matt made an unwinding motion with his hand and index finger to Steve Jr. who worked the starboard boom first, then hurried across the deck to the port boom, lowering both DPVs to where they were barely skimming the water. “DPVs lowered; waiting release from slings,” Matt said as soon as he got the a-okay sign from Steve Jr.

  Park’s voice sounded in Matt’s ear. “You’ve got a ten-minute runin, ten minutes out, forty-minute bottom time once you go to depth. No longer, or we could be looking for a recompression chamber.”

  “Gotcha,” Matt said, finishing with “Frogs One and Two on the dive platform.”

  “Thirty seconds to drop,” Matt heard Park say through the transceiver. Nodding to Davis and getting a thumbs-up, he gripped the sling release and positioned himself to drop immediately behind the starboard-side DPV as Park’s voice counted, “Twenty seconds…ten…five, four, three, two, one, go!”

  The luminescent dial on the compass, mounted just forward of the DPV’s dual, wing-shaped speed controls, showed a reading of 275 degrees. Matt had picked that course to compensate for the earth’s westerly magnetic variation shown on the chart of the area. His only worry was, at this distance and if wrong by even a degree, they’d never find the U-boat in the dark. And with Native Diver already moving south…Fortunately, there was little or no current to affect their directional progress.

  Checking his dive watch, Matt determined that, with five minutes in the water and an estimated speed of just over two miles per hour, they were approximately a quarter mile out from the U-boat. That also meant they were no more than 500 yards from the brightly lit Sea Rover. With their bright orange DPVs running at only ten feet beneath the surface, they might be seen if they got too close. As he and Davis had rehearsed, it was time to descend to the bottom.

  With the shadowy outline of Davis just off to his right and the constant sound of Davis’s breathing in his ear, Matt said, “Okay, Frogman, time to go down.”

  “With you,” Davis replied.

  As they had practiced, Matt tilted the DPV’s nose downward at a 20-degrees angle, leveling off at 40 feet, between 5 and 10 feet above the bottom based on his memory of the chart’s depth readings. At this depth, however, what had been the specter-like figure of Roland Davis at ten feet was now lost in the inky blackness. “Still with me?” Matt asked.

  “Hope so,” Davis answered. “See this?”

  The tiny red flash of a personal locator light blinked on and off, only feet from Matt’s right-hand side.

  “Great. Keep it flashing, but under your body so they can’t see it from Sea Rover. I’ll do the same with mine.”

  From there, it was a matter of maintaining compass direction, keeping track of time expended, and a periodic glance at Davis’s flashing locator light. Alternating between compass direction and stopwatch numbers flying by on the lighted lower quadrant of his watch, Matt counted the remaining minutes. Seven…eight…nine…“Almost there,” he said. “Time to slow.”

  At this point, Matt had no choice. Operate blind or risk a light. Matt switched on the pistol grip lamp attached by a stretch cord to his BC, pointing it ahead, but at a downward angle. He watched the sand bottom slide by, not more than five feet beneath the nose of the DPV. Without warning, the bow of the sunken barge took shape out of the gloom. “We did it, Roland,” he said. “That’s the barge we told you about, and so far, no sign of AFI divers.”

  “Good thing. Where’s the U-boat?” Davis asked.

  “Hard turn to your left and…” Matt’s light cut through the darkness until the mound of mud and sand ringing the U-boat came into view. “Up and over we go, and there you have it.”

  Davis stopped his DPV, added a punch of air to his BC for additional buoyancy, and hovered just above the conning tower. “Fantastic!”

  “Better believe it—U-Twenty-five thirty-seven.” Matt maneuvered forward over the tower, stopping just above the narrow bridge area. “They’ve chain locked the hatch, but we couldn’t fit through with twin tanks anyway.”

  “What about the doors on the side of the tower?” Davis asked.

  “Forward and aft. Last time Steve and I were down, padlocked from inside.”

  “Torpedo-loading hatch?”

  “That’s how we got in before. There’re some ladder rungs on the side of the conning tower. Let’s hitch these ponies to the rungs and see if the torpedo hatch is still unlocked.”

  “What if it’s locked?”

  Matt patted the small sheath attached with two Velcro straps to his right thigh. “We’ll have to see if this little crowbar of mine can do the job.”

  Sea Rover’s operations control center was dark except for the pale green light of the ship’s surface-search radarscope. Its muted glow lent an eeriness to the silence between the three men watching the scope, a silence finally broken by Eric Bruder. “I don’t like it, Captain.” To the radar operator, he asked, “Where is it now, Thomas?”

  Thomas worked the various dials on the face of the radar as he tracked the slowest moving of four white blips on the scope, the other three much farther out to sea. The contact’s brightness increased with each pass of the scope’s sweep line, then dimmed momentarily as the radar’s topside antenna continued its rotational cycle. “Two miles southeast, on a course of one-eight-five degrees, speed four knots. Looks like it’s headed for St. Augustine Inlet.”

  “But why so slow? And why did it slow to less than two knots when it was a half mile east of us? Almost dead in the water.”

  “Not sure what you’re looking for or, to be honest, why we’re out here at night,” Sea Rover’s captain said, “but it could have slowed for any number of reasons. Fish net over the side, people partying, engine trouble, most anything.”

  “Knowing Berkeley, I wouldn’t put it past him to…” Bruder paused a moment. Thinking out loud, the words slipped through his lips in a near whisper. “Half mile out.”

  “Long way to swim in the open sea if that’s what you’re thinking,” Thomas said. “Have to be one helluva strong swimmer, currents and such.”

  “And better than any man I’ve ever known with a compass underwater at night if he’s trying to reach the U-boat,” the captain added before asking, “Is that why we’re here? You think this man Berkeley’s going to try to get to the sub?”

  Bruder’s face remained impassive. Deep in thought, he massaged his temples with the middle fingers of each hand as though the skin-to-skin friction would generate increased mental agility.

  “Why in heaven’s name, man? Why?” the captain probed. “You’ve got the gold. So far as the documents are concerned, you couldn’t find them.”

  “But there’s nothing to say he can’t,” Bruder argued grudgingly. “Starla thinks he can, given the opportunity, and that’s what we’ve given him. The only question is when and how he’ll try.”

  “How does he know the papers even exist?”

  “He knows. Of that we’re sure. As for getting to the sub, Berkeley’s former Navy Special Warfare. He’ll know other ways besides swimming a half mile. Other ways he could…”

  Bruder spun on his heel and rushed to the closed-circuit television monitors, their screens empty, reflecting only the pale green of the radarscope. “The remotely operated submersible, Captain. Lower the submersible.”

  “What the hell for, Bruder? It’s almost midnight, and most of the crew’s asleep.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the crew,” Bruder shouted, the veins standing out on the sides of his throat. “Lower the goddamn submersible and turn on these goddamn monitors.”

  “You know damn well, Bruder, the stationary lights and cameras—they’re not down there. After the gold came up, we brought all the equipment back aboard and s
towed it away.”

  Bruder slammed his fists down against the heavy Plexiglass top of the plotting table positioned in the middle of the compartment. “The submersible’s got a spotlight and a camera on it, damn it! Put it in the water. Do I have to call Starla or Mr. Shoemaker? Berkeley’s down there. I feel it in my gut.”

  “All right,” the captain said. His hands, palms forward, pushed the air in front of him as though trying to distance himself from Bruder’s anger. “Thomas, get the deck officer and have him lower the submersible, immediately.”

  “And divers,” Bruder cut in. “I want four divers, armed and standing by.”

  CHAPTER 45

  The hatch to the torpedo-loading area was as Matt and Park had left it. He could tell, however, that the salt water and its corrosive properties were beginning to take their toll. Increased effort was required to turn the wheel from the closed position. With Davis helping, the wheel finally responded, breaking the seal beneath. As before, Matt pulled back and up on the hand wheel until the hatch was halfway open, the hinges grinding against a rapid buildup of rust and sea growth. After a final push and help from Davis, the hatch gradually moved into its fully open position, offering more than sufficient room for entry with the twin air tanks weighing on their backs.

  Taking a small xenon halogen lamp from a pocket in his BC, Matt wound its Velcro strap around his head. With the light mounted just above the window of his facemask, providing hands-free operation and always pointing in the direction he was looking, he angled his way down through the hatch.

  Torpedoes, the six resting in the two top tiers of racks, were already losing their gray metallic color, taking on the soft orange of sea algae, but the piles of splintered wood lying on the floor of the compartment remained unchanged. Looking up, Matt saw Davis hovering next to the torpedoes, the man’s headlamp and handheld light playing the length of the cylindrical objects.

  “Familiar?” Matt asked.

  “For long operations, carried twenty-three of these beauties. Six bow tubes, no stern. Could fire the first salvo in five to six minutes. With its electrically powered trolleys and rails, the second salvo in twenty minutes. Absolutely amazing for that era.”

  “I’m impressed,” Matt said without enthusiasm, “but torpedoes aren’t what we’re here for.” Matt pointed his light toward an open, normally watertight door leading aft. “You’re the one who knows the way. You first.”

  Keeping at least 6 feet of distance between Davis’s fins and his own facemask, Matt finned his way through the opening until, suddenly, he heard a quick intake of breath and Davis erupt with “Oh, shit!” Matt maneuvered himself up and over Davis to a horizontal position just below the overhead. At the same time, he swung his own pistol grip light around the compartment. “The crew,” he said very softly, almost a whisper.

  Still wearing uniforms, the skeletal remains of men lay in bunks, others stretched out along the deck where they had taken their last breath. Many still held picture frames to their chests as though whispering a last good-bye to loved ones.

  “Keep moving, Roland,” Matt ordered.

  “Sorry,” Davis said, his light sweeping the compartments. “Not something you see every day.”

  “I know, but we’ve only got so much time and so much air. Let’s go. If the documents are here, they’re more than likely in a safe. CO’s quarters, radio room, wherever.”

  Their movement carried them through and past more compartments, more remains. Davis volunteered, “Officer quarters. Junior officers. No safes here.”

  Finning their way through the narrow passageway, their lights darting to and fro, Davis announced, “Horchraum. Hydrophone room. One safe.”

  Matt quickly pushed his way through a set of double swinging doors and entered the compartment, asking, “Where?”

  Davis, at his side, pointed to a bulkhead-mounted safe. Its door was open, hanging by a single hinge. Matt swam closer, his headlamp illuminating the safe’s interior. “Empty.” Waterlogged books and papers lay scattered on the desk below the safe. Fingering the material, he said, “From what I can tell, technical manuals. Where’s the next safe?”

  “Funkraum. Radio room. Across the passageway.”

  Not waiting for Davis, Matt pushed back through the double doors, across the passageway, and through another set of narrow double doors. Again, a safe was mounted on the bulkhead just above a Morse key position and a machine that looked much like a typewriter with a set of attached rotors. “I’ll be damned!”

  “Be damned, what?” Davis asked, easing into the space.

  “If that contraption’s what I think it is, it’s the Enigma, the German encryption machine. A little like something we used back in the fifties and sixties.” Dismissing the machine with a swat of his hand, Matt moved closer to the safe, his headlamp revealing the safe’s emptiness. “Busted open like the other one. Where next?”

  “Only two more that I’m aware of. CO’s quarters and Chief Engineer’s. They’re the only ones with separate quarters from the rest of the crew.”

  “Then it’s time you meet the commanding officer.” Matt led the way out of the radio room, aft along the passageway, and to the right for less than 6 feet before pointing to the SS officer’s remains still lying against the base of a desk, the back of his skull blown away. “Meet SS-Colonel Jürgen Krueger, or I’m pretty sure that was his name. If so, formerly of the Auschwitz Birkenau labor and extermination camps, emphasis on extermination.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Not quite. And to my right, Korvettenkapitän Helmut Strobel, commanding officer of the U-Twenty-five thirty-seven. Of that I’m fairly certain.” Matt surveyed the cramped compartment. “Where’s the safe?”

  Davis moved to the small desk. “Here, but it’s hidden.” Above the desk’s surface were several narrow shelves, their contents obviously scattered about the compartment.

  “Apparently somebody had already been looking before I was here the first time,” Matt said. “Papers and logs scattered around, but it didn’t dawn on me. More concerned with the two skeletons.”

  To one side of the shelves were three relatively wide yet shallow drawers, pulled open and empty, but still in their slots. Davis yanked each of the drawers from the desk, letting them fall to the deck, the beam of his headlamp focused on the remaining vacancy. “There, and it hasn’t been opened like the others.”

  “My turn,” Matt said, peering inside the opening at the tumbler on the safe’s door. Automatically, he pulled the 12-inch crowbar from the sheath on his thigh and edged himself into position, bracing against the bulkhead for support. With just enough room to spare, he jammed the curved, double-pronged end of the crowbar between the door and side of the safe and jerked backwards. Again, counting each jerk of the crowbar in his head…. 5, 6, goddamn it, 7… With a metallic popping sound, the safe door sprang open, the momentum of the effort sending Matt through the water and into the opposite bulkhead. The clanging sound of his air tanks hitting the bulkhead rang in his ears.

  “You did it,” Davis yelped, but his enthusiasm dimmed as he pulled folders and papers from the opening, most already ruined from water that had seeped into the safe. “Mush, that’s all they are. Mush. If it was as important as you think, they’d be in something waterproof.”

  “Agreed.” Matt exhaled his frustration in a long swoosh of air, sending bubbles streaming from the exhaust port on the right side of his mask. “Okay, one to go. With a high-ranking SS officer on board, maybe he kicked the chief engineer out of his quarters.” Matt looked at his watch. “And time’s a’tickin’. Let’s move.”

  Following Davis, Matt worked his way out into the passageway, taking a hard right into what would have been the chief engineer’s quarters, separated from the passageway by a heavy curtain. “The desk,” Davis said, pointing to the same type of shelf and drawer arrangement as in the CO’s quarters. Again, papers littered the top of the desk and on the deck, the drawers pulled open and empty. And again, Davis jerked each o
f the drawers from their slots and shone his light into the darkness. “It’s here, and still secure.”

  Matt quickly moved into position with the crowbar and tugged at the safe door. This one was harder, requiring twice the exertion of the first until Matt realized he was sucking air like there was no tomorrow—and he desperately wanted a tomorrow. “Here.” He handed the crowbar to Davis. “You try.”

  Three heavy tugs with the crowbar and the safe door popped open, Davis falling backwards onto the empty bunk.

  Matt quickly moved forward and thrust his hand into the safe. “Whatta you know? Got something besides mush!” He pulled, but his hand slipped off. “Slippery little bastard!” Digging his fingernails into the leathery material, he pulled again. “There you are, but what the hell are you?”

  Matt played the light from his headlamp on the object, turning it over and over in his hands. A brown leather pouch, rectangular, maybe four-by-nine inches, yet its thickness indicated an outer flap had been tightly wrapped around and folded over many times to keep out moisture. The slickness he felt was due to a coating of some kind of waxy substance. A further effort to waterproof the material, he decided.

  Davis angled in closer and took the pouch. He turned it over several times before saying, “There. You can barely make it out. Something printed in German.” He held the pouch close to Matt’s facemask.

  Matt took the pouch and studied the words. “‘Grösstgeheim. Auf uh…Verordnung Heinrich Himmler, Reichsführer-SS.’”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “Most Secret. By order of Field Marshal of the SS, Heinrich Himmler. Heavy stuff, man!”

  “Looks like more writing on the other side,” Davis said. “Hard to tell with that waxy stuff or whatever it is all over it. What do you think?”

  Matt turned the pouch over, his eyes straining to read the print. “‘Zweite Con…Concordat zwischen de uh…der Heiligen See und…und das Deutsches Reich, Zweiundzwanzigsten Mai Neunzehnhundertz weiundvierzig.’ Aw, man! This has gotta be it.”