Star Water Superstorm

by David Cline

  “It would also make a great hideout if someone came knocking at the mansion,” Wilkins said. “You could hide for months up here if you had enough supplies.”

  They stepped through the stone doorway and shined their lights around. Vines had entered through holes in the walls, circled upward against the rocks and disappeared where the ceiling should have been. A large tree grew through the middle of the floor.

  Wood walked over and examined the rock layers. He used the toe of his boot to scrape away some muck and exposed a bright pattern. “Look at this,” he said. “The floor is tiled. Blue and yellow shapes spread out forming large geometric patterns.”

  “Hitler was famous for his opulence,” Wilkins said. “It all fits.”

  They found a moss-covered bathtub half full of leaves and twigs. It had been constructed from white glass tile. The toilet was missing but it was clear where it had once stood. A square section of wall had been carved out where the reservoir for the tank had resided. They even spotted the two circular holes where the toilet paper had been.

  Wood searched two bedrooms which yielded nothing but animal droppings and bird nests.

  “Check this out,” Wilkins called out.

  Wood entered a windowless square room covered with decaying shelves built into the walls. Hundreds of rusted cans cluttered the floor. “This must have been their food storage,” Wood said. He kicked a pile of garbage. “Now it’s where you come if you want to contract tetanus.”

  Wilkins looked around the room. “I’m impressed. I have no doubt there is an independent source of fresh water nearby. With fresh water and ample food storage, a group of people could live indefinitely.”

  Wood examined a few cans, but they were so rusted, any distinguishing marks had long since faded. He looked up to where the ceiling should have been. “I wonder what their source of power was. If they had glass tiled bathtubs, they certainly had electricity.”

  “We will have to return sometime and figure it all out.” Wilkins looked longingly at the garbage on the floor. “So much history here.”

  “You’re right, Amara is waiting, and we haven’t even gotten to the mansion yet.”

  On their way out, Wood hesitated and allowed his gaze to linger on the tree growing through the floor. Something about it deserved a closer examination. He cocked his head and let different theories play through his mind.

  Wilkins stopped in the doorway and looked at him. “What are you thinking about?”

  Wood walked over and pointed his light down. “Would a tree this size grow right here if the floor was built directly on top of a slab foundation?” He reached out and ran his hand over the rough bark.

  Wilkins stared at him for a second and then his eyebrows went up. “No, it wouldn’t.”

  Together they cleared debris from the area and looked for any seams or cracks that were different than the rest. It was difficult with so much rubbish littered everywhere.

  “There is definitely some kind of crawlspace underneath,” Wilkins said. He stretched both hands toward the tree and pushed.

  The tree moved slightly. Wood aimed his light through the gap, discovering black space beneath. “I’m going to risk a little more light.” He switched the setting on the headlamp and Wilkins pushed again. This time Wood saw a dirt floor below. “It’s about six feet down to the subfloor.”

  They searched for any kind of entrance for another minute with no results. Wilkins grew impatient and using his heel, stomped the floor where the tree traveled through it. Small pieces began to break off. The eroding floor stood no chance and soon a large section broke away causing Wilkins to fall through the floor past his knee.

  Wood reached down and helped him stand. “You okay?”

  Wilkins gritted his teeth and hopped around like a wounded bulldog. He walked to the doorway and spat outside. “Just give me a minute,” he said. “I racked myself on that edge when I fell through.” He grimaced and laughed through the pain. “Why does that have to hurt so bad?”

  Wood put a hand on his shoulder. “You brought 50 pounds of gear and forgot the jockstrap. Make sure to place that on the list for next time.”

  “Noted.”

  They walked back toward the hole and peered straight down with their lights. The stomping had disbursed a cloud of dust, temporarily rendering the view below invisible. As the air cleared, a cluster of wooden crates appeared.

  Wilkins stepped back and gestured with his arms like an airport employee guiding a plane into the terminal. “After you Sancho.” He grabbed both of Wood’s arms around the wrist and lowered him through the hole. “See if you can find an easier way down. For some reason the idea of jumping right now sounds most cruel.”

  Wood landed silently on the soft ground. The floor above his head was too close to stand up straight. He crouched and pulled his shirt over his mouth trying to filter out some of the lingering particles in the air. He knew from personal experience that the next time he blew his nose it was going to look like wet sand.

  Wood pivoted in place and got his first good look at the crawlspace. He turned his headlamp to full power. “You better get down here.”

  “Is there a trapdoor with a ladder somewhere?” Wilkins asked from above.

  “Sorry old boy, none that I can see.”

  “Damn.” Wood could hear the debate in Wilkins’ voice. The explorer historian versus the recovering prostate.

  “I’ll help you down like a parent lowering their child into a swimming pool,” Wood said.

  There was a long pause. “Then let’s crack on.”

  His legs appeared over the edge and soon they stood together looking around. Wood gestured to the end of the cavern. Where a wall should have been, a sloping tunnel disappeared into darkness.

  Wilkins shook his head. “Nazi’s and their underground tunnels. I can understand why they would have had miles of tunnels under Berlin. To this day there exists a dizzying network of multilevel passageways spreading under the city. But this…” He paused. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Ten bucks this tunnel leads all the way to the mansion,” Wood said.

  Wilkins stared, his mouth wide open. “Sorry mate,” he said, “This is one time I think I agree with you.”

  Wood smiled. “Still think we won’t find anything but moth balls and rat feces?”

  Wilkins looked at him and shook his fist like an elderly citizen reprimanding local skateboarders. “You win this round Wood, you win this round.”

  Wood turned his focus on the crates scattered around them. He approached one and pried the lid off. Inside was more canned food. He removed a can and held it closely. Sheltered from weather and time, these cans still had readable labels on them. The paper had yellowed and curled at the edges, but the black and white text was still legible. “You know what Eintopf means in German?”

  Wilkins joined him. “Stew,” he said. “I brought a can opener, you want to try it out? Nothing like century old canned food.”

  “Botulism toxin you mean, no thanks. I think I’ll pass.” He opened a few more crates and saw they all possessed cans with yellowing labels on them. He regretted not bringing a German dictionary.

  “Remember that game we used to play as kids,” Wilkins asked, “where we would hide something and then tell the searcher if they were getting warmer or colder?”

  Wood nodded. “Good times with the neighborhood friends.”

  “Well I have a feeling we are getting warmer.”

  “To Odessa? Or just proof Hitler lived out his days in South America?”

  “Both.”

  They moved farther back into the earthy basement and opened another crate. Wood’s breath caught short when he saw a row of carefully stored luger pistols. He reached in and removed one. “Now we’re talking,” he said. He held it up to the light. The grip was a dark brown. He pulled the toggle back and checked the chamber. The metal was black and clean. “I don’t think this pistol has ever been used,” Wood said, turning it over in his hands
. “It looks like it just came out of the factory.”

  “Check this out,” Wilkins said, reaching in and extracting a yellowed card from the box. On one half were instructions and specs of the pistol in German. Wilkins flipped it over and saw it contained the same in English. “Classic arms dealers. Selling the same guns to both sides.”

  Wood read the card out loud. “Automatically reloads and cocks itself and is absolutely safe against discharge. The best automatic pistol made for power and accuracy. 9-millimeter caliber, 4-inch barrel, weight 40 ounces. Shots in magazine 8. Range, approximately 1500 yards.”

  Wilkins moved the box and opened the next one below it. He whistled. More lugers stacked neatly. “It looks like they bought entire boxes straight from the manufacture and transported them all the way from Europe.”

  Wood ruffled through the bottom of the crate looking for ammunition. “They probably used this building as a cache for weapons. If the mansion ever got raided, the weapons would be safer up here. Even if someone happened onto this secret compound, the compartment in the floor would be almost impossible to find. There is no other entrance except the tunnel. You would have to tear up the floor.”

  “So secretive,” Wilkins said, opening more boxes. “They have an entire arsenal down here.”

  Wood smiled. “At least we found a good souvenir for Amara.” He stacked a couple crates on top of each other and pulled himself up through the hole in the floor.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to radio Amara and give her an update.” Wood brushed himself off and squatted near the edge. “When we wander down that tunnel, we won’t have any signal.”

  Wilkins nodded and gritted his teeth as he tried to pry open another crate. “Send her my love.”

  “Try and find some ammunition for these guns,” Wood called over his shoulder as he stepped out the doorway and into the night.

  Chapter 28

  Wood gave Amara the abbreviated version of the last hour. Amara remained silent during Wood’s monologue.

  “That’s incredible,” Amara finally said, when he had finished. “I didn’t want to sound cynical, but I honestly thought we wouldn’t find anything of interest here.”

  “Interesting we have found,” Wood said. “There is no doubt this location was used by some high-level Nazi’s in the past. Judging by the artifacts and deterioration, the timeline all fits.” He paused and looked out over the lake. The crescent moon now shone high above the mountains. A slight breeze had strengthened over the last hour. Small waves rippled across the surface of the water.

  “But we are looking for signs of more modern activity,” Amara asked.

  “Exactly. And so far, there are no signs of any kind of activity for decades.”

  Amara exhaled an audible sigh. “Well, keep at it and let me know what you guys find. I haven’t begun my boar hunt just yet, but I’m thinking about it.”

  Wood chuckled. “If you don’t hear from us by dawn, something is wrong.”

  “You just followed the slope straight up until it plateaued and then where?”

  “At the clearing on the ridge, we went to the farthest point south looking over the lake. The view is breathtaking. We should have brought some hammocks. Anyway, the ruins we are in are just southeast of that point and about 75 meters straight down. The tunnel entrance is under the floor.”

  “Sounds good,” Amara said. “Keep me updated when you can.”

  Wood clicked off and walked back toward the ruin. He shined his light through the hole. Wilkins had organized the crates in sections and was still shuffling things around.

  “Hurry down here,” Wilkins called over his shoulder without looking back. Wood was careful to not cut himself on the jagged edges as he lowered himself down.

  “Remember what started this whole thing outside of Ciudad del Este?” Wilkins asked, rubbing his hands together like a mad scientist.

  “We were checking out the Guarani Aquifer under Paraguay.”

  Wilkins waved at him impatiently. “But why did we find Amara and the gang in that abandoned bunker?”

  Wood felt like a contestant on a game show. “Because, they were trapped in there.”

  “But why were they out looking for signs of German activity in the first place?”

  Wood thought back to what Amara had recounted. It seemed like forever ago. “Because they found the coin.”

  Wilkins let out a satisfied breath. “Exactly. And what was special about that coin?”

  “The presence of the letter S,” Wood said. “During the height of the German empire, they minted coins in cities across Europe. To distinguish where the coin originated, letters were stamped onto the coin that corresponded to a specific city.”

  Wilkins shot him a mischievous glance. “Check this out.”

  Wood followed him to the back wall opposite the tunnel. A broken lock laid on the ground. Wilkins held up his hand. A small gash oozed blood. “A piece of wooden shrapnel got me when I busted through,” Wilkins said. He sucked the blood off his hand and kicked the lid off the top of the crate. Inside were thousands of coins.

  Wood whistled and picked up a handful. An eagle with outstretched wings looked to the left and held a swastika encircled by a wreath. On the bottom the year 1949 was printed. Each coin edge was reeded.

  Wilkins pointed. “World War II ended on September 2nd, 1945. History books tell us the Nazi Party was defeated for good. These coins were minted four years after the war ended.” He picked a coin from Wood’s hand and flipped it over. “Look.”

  On the back was a large number 5. On the bottom between two leaves was the letter S. “South America,” Wood whispered.

  Wilkins picked up a coin and bit it. “For a second I thought these were made from zinc, but it looks like silver.” He spit. “After ransacking Europe, maybe they melted a lot of the silver down to mint coins in the new world.”

  “The 5 Reichspfennig coin was minted between 1940 and 1944,” Wood said. “I believe they were all made from zinc back then. They weighed 2.5 grams and had a diameter of 18 millimeters.” He ran his hand through the box like a pirate. The coins made a satisfying clinking sound as they jostled together. “These all look like they meet those same specifications except they are made from silver.”

  Wilkins gave the tunnel entrance a furtive glance. “Why would they leave all of this here untouched?” He gestured to the piles of crates. “This is worth a small fortune. Between the weapons and currency, someone could have lived quite well.”

  “Maybe only a few people knew it existed,” Wood offered. “Even the men on guard back then might not have known what laid beneath their feet.”

  Wilkins shot him a skeptical look. “If that tunnel runs underground all the way to the mansion, that would have required an extraordinary amount of labor. Not just advanced engineering skill, but a lot of people removing dirt and rock with pickaxes and dynamite. It would be impossible for rumors not to leak.”

  “I’m sure the community was airtight back then, just like it is today. But you are right, it would take a small group of people a long time to tunnel all the way to the mansion from here. I don’t remember seeing any mine tailings on the satellite photos.” He shined his light to the entrance again. “Unless they capitalized on a cave system that already existed.” Wood began walking toward the tunnel.

  “Everything good with Amara?” Wilkins asked, sliding the lid back over the coins.

  “So far she has only been threatened by boredom. I told her if she doesn’t hear from us by dawn, something is wrong.” He looked over his shoulder. “So, let’s make sure not to lose track of time down here.”

  Wilkins reached down and handed Wood two lugers. “You never know what we will find in abandoned Nazi tunnels. I know I always feel better when I’m armed.”

  “You found ammunition?” Wood asked, as he strapped the pistols securely across his chest.

  “Ask and you shall receive.” Wilkins handed him ten magazines. “There are e
ight rounds in each. With your aim, it should be enough if you run into an oversized rodent.”

  “Or a cave snake.” He put a magazine into each pistol and pulled the toggle back, causing the top bullet to enter the chamber. He made sure the safeties were on and glanced back at Wilkins. “You got enough guns?” he asked. Wilkins looked like he belonged in an art exhibit. Every free space on his person had been replaced with a pistol. “You look like one of the three Amigos. Where is your bandolier?”

  Wilkins looked up and smiled. “They’ve been sitting down here for the better part of a century. What if one doesn’t work?”

  “What if ten don’t work is more like it?”

  Wilkins shrugged. “What can I say? I love this stuff.”

  They took one last look up through the hole in the floor. The stars twinkled high above them. Small wisps of clouds cruised across the night sky.

  Wilkins sighed. “We have a long history of underground tunnels. Let’s hope this time things go a little smoother than normal.”

  Wood started toward the black void. “At least this time it’s not underwater.”

  “Very true.”

  Stringy roots of all sizes grew through the tunnel walls as they left the crawlspace behind. Wood felt like he was traveling through some sort of biological creature, like in the Empire Strikes Back. He half expected to be thrown off his feet by sudden movement.

  The tunnel slanted downward. The ceiling was low, forcing him to duck low. Wood’s back began to ache. About 50 feet inside the roots all abruptly disappeared. Wood stopped and examined the walls. They were a dark grey and felt coarse and gritty.

  “I think you were right,” Wilkins said from behind. “There is a cave system here they must have discovered and used to their advantage.”

  Wood pointed his light. The horseshoe shape of the tunnel became jagged. Narrow offshoots ending in shallow dead ends abounded. “We better mark our path every time there is a side tunnel,” Wood said. “If we’re not careful, we’re going to get entombed down here.”