Secret Cargo

by John Day

  Secret Cargo

  The first in the series of compelling action adventure thrillers.

  Written & published by

  John Day

  All names, places and references are total fiction and the story is written purely for entertainment, other than that I have tried hard to make it credible.

  Copyright © John Day 2018.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Contents

  Secret Cargo

  Prologue. Date 1943

  Present day, Berlin.

  Plan B.

  Project unviable.

  Accident.

  New York.

  London.

  Montevideo.

  Sonar survey.

  News.

  Inspiration.

  Cat & Mouse.

  Caracas.

  Meeting.

  Party intrigue.

  ALAN

  SARAH

  WALTER

  ELLEN

  BENNY

  The thief.

  The embrace.

  Harsh reality.

  Hooked!

  Shocking discovery.

  A Plan.

  Afloat.

  Uncertainty.

  Steel coffin.

  The Logbook.

  Lagoon.

  Stranded.

  The cave.

  Final salute.

  Matthew.

  Lady Jane.

  Saddam’s doors.

  Walter and Ellen.

  Die trying.

  Deceitful act.

  Mutiny.

  Storm abates.

  Expedition.

  Benny.

  Walter.

  Sarah.

  Alan.

  Ellen.

  Celeste.

  Capture.

  The German.

  Escape.

  Alerted.

  The map.

  Surprise!

  The deal.

  Escape.

  A ripple of time.

  A new dawn.

  Prologue. Date 1943

  Every action we take, no matter the size, its effect ripples through time for eternity. For some people the action will result in disaster, for others, success. For a few souls, good fortune appears to smile on them, but that is not their destiny. The following action sets in motion a chain of events that resonates again, more than 7 decades later…

  Grupenfurer Franz Kaltman knew Germany’s defeat was inevitable. It was rumoured other officers were already planning for their future. The acronym ODESSA hinted at the intended formation of a secret organisation, to spirit high ranking leaders away to safety, and manage their affairs.

  It was time for him to do the same, but independently.

  His superior’s orders were clear and unambiguous. The amassed treasures of Germany were to be transported to secure, secret locations like the salt mines at Merkers, Altaussee and Siegen, for storage. Once the consignments left his charge in Jeu de Paume in Paris, what happened to them on route was not his concern.

  Franz was responsible for itemising and recording the description of every painting, piece of artwork, jewellery, and bar of gold in the city. Great care was taken to package and protect the treasures from physical damage, or changes in humidity. The unique number on the package, the typed description and photograph against that same number on the schedule, was the only way of knowing the specific content. Every package had to be checked and verified independently, by specially appointed staff.

  Franz had a dark past. To avoid execution for his earlier war crimes, he needed to go into hiding, probably for the rest of his life. At 46, there was a lot of life to live. To do that, he needed transport out of the country and as much wealth as he could take with him. The transport was easy to arrange, he had already produced false orders from Karl Dönitz to achieve that. The challenge was outwitting the SS. They had already executed looters, who diverted consignments under cover of wartime confusion. When the expected delivery failed to arrive, it would be easy for the SS to trace the lorry and track those responsible. Now it was Kaltman’s turn to stick his neck out.

  Franz Kaltman eased back in his comfortable Louis XV chair and looked around his exquisitely adorned office. He ran through the audacious plan in his mind, for the thousandth time. The moment he made his move, he knew he will have signed his own death warrant. The thoughts of humiliation and physical pain he would receive upon capture refused to lay silent, at the back of his mind. In reality, any chance of his plan succeeding was spider web thin and as full of holes.

  Bracing himself, he took a deep breath and reached for the telephone. There would be no turning back now.

  His assistant answered and Franz spoke with the tone of distracted indifference, as though he were doing two things at once. “Otto, have you completed the latest schedule for transporting the artworks and bullion?”

  His aide Otto Hemel had been working at his broad leather topped desk. He immediately sat stiffly to attention the instant he recognised the soft authoritative voice of his superior.

  Franz could tell by the stress in Otto’s shrill, crisp reply, there was a problem. “All documents are in order Grupenfurer Kaltman, as you commanded. Do you wish me to discuss them with you, Sir?”

  Changing his tone to one of mild surprise Franz queried the reason. “What specifically do you have in mind?”

  The efficient 25-year-old officer, would never let anything past him without fully understanding its place in the scheme of things. Kaltman had anticipated it.

  “The purpose of the revision you requested is unclear to me, Sir.” Otto explained.

  “Yes, I see. Bring all the documents to me and I will check them personally.” Kaltman gently replaced the handset and sat attentively, facing the tall, carved and fielded mahogany doors of his spacious room.

  Otto walked in, clutching a slim file of papers under his left arm. He smartly saluted, clicked his heels, then turned and closed the door. Like an automaton, he strode back towards Kaltman and stiffly offered the file, over the desk.

  In the calmest tone he could muster, in spite of his pounding heart, Franz swept his hand in a gesture from a nearby chair to the place alongside him. “Sit next to me Otto, it will make discussion easier.”

  Overwhelmed by the honour, Otto sat at Kaltman’s left hand.

  Taking up the file, Kaltman ran through the items on the list, comparing them with his own notes. He might be ripping off the Third Reich, but neither Otto nor anyone else would do so on his watch.

  After several minutes of careful checking, the last series of 60 numbers, unremarkably prefixed with a 1-, needed explanation to Otto.

  “These items with 1- in front of them are the items over which you expressed concern, are they not, Otto?”

  “Yes, they are sir. My concern is that they are duplicates of items without the prefix, yet the packaging is empty. To send such items to storage when time and resources are so scarce alarms me.” The young man was suspicious as hell and being a loyal party member, would report the issue to the SS in a heartbeat, if the reason was not convincing.

  Franz cleared his throat. In a low, conspiratorial voice, he faced his assistant and spoke. “As you know, the SS have recently executed the officers who stole artwork and bullion from the recent convoys we sent out. I have received orders that stipulate a decoy consignment be included in our shipment tomorrow. It appears even the SS are not immune from stealing from Germany and feathering their own nest. I know I can trust you Otto, that is why I decided to confide in you about it.”

&
nbsp; “Thank you Grupenfurer, I am honoured to have your trust.”

  Franz pondered, I wonder what you will be thinking when this all blows up in your face?

  Kaltman continued. “The only people who know the detail of this deception are the two of us. I have been informed that the duplicate items are the target of the thieves. The numbers without the prefix will relate to empty packaging, just in case the specially selected team watching the convoy are unable to apprehend the thieves. An unlikely possibility, I am sure.

  “The shipment with the real artworks and prefix numbers will be sent secretly from here in special vehicles, after the convoy has left. To ensure total secrecy, I am the only person who will handle that phase of the mission. Even the destination is secret, and I will go with the two vehicles to ensure safe delivery.

  “Does that ease your concerns?”

  The shocked expression on Otto’s face remained for almost half a minute, as he silently thought through the implications of what he had been told. The reasonableness of the plan dawned on him, which he expressed as a momentary frown and a mere puckering of his lips. It was highly irregular, but then so was theft. Like Kaltman, he was devoted to the treasures in his care and the chance that they might fall into the wrong hands was unacceptable.

  “I fully understand, Sir. I will make certain the prefixed items are kept to one side so they can be easily and quickly loaded under your personal supervision.” It was not lost on Kaltman that Otto was prepared to do everything asked of him, yet remain blameless if things were to go wrong. Smart lad.

  ***

  The following afternoon, two lorries arrived after the genuine convoy had left for Siegen, in the middle of Germany. Kaltman checked the loading of the genuine cargo with meticulous efficiency. The last item loaded was a large travel trunk, containing his personal belongings.

  He very carefully read through the false orders, as though reminding himself of the detail. He was actually making certain he had overlooked nothing. If he discovered an error now, he might just as well blow his brains out here on the forecourt, and save everyone a lot of trouble.

  Thoughtfully he hauled himself up into the cab of the lead truck to commence the long journey across France. Only he knew it would take him to U-159, moored at Lorient. A route in the opposite direction to Siegen.

  Timing was crucial, in Franz Kaltman’s plan.

  He felt confident there would be no reason for the SS to stop the original convoy and spot check the cargo. The consignment would probably be placed unchecked in the mine, when it arrived in 3 days’ time.

  He had allowed 48 hours to get to Lorient plus 6 hours for eventualities and unloading. This gave him an 18-hour safety margin.

  However, the fake orders for Kapitänleutnant Helmut Witte on the U-159 had only just entered the system. Kaltman guessed it would take at least 48 hours for a copy of the orders to pass through to administration, for verification. The instant the orders were found to be false, the Gestapo would be informed and would race to arrest him. There were 6 crucial hours in which he could be discovered and arrested. Very bad odds, however you sliced it.

  The journey was the worst of his life. The relentless loud drone from the racing engine and grinding transmission made his ears ring and his head throb with pain. Incessant bucking and jolting of the truck jarred every joint in his spine and caused every tensed muscle in his body to scream for mercy. Were the drivers deliberately hitting every bump to keep themselves awake?

  The three drivers per truck each took 8-hour shifts, grabbing sleep as best they could in the back of a vehicle. Kaltman had to remain alert and the luxury of sleep was denied him.

  Exhausted from the non-stop journey to Lorient and gripped with anxiety, Franz dreaded what might be awaiting him at the dock. He knew that at this very moment, a routine check on the orders might well be under way. As the two trucks trundled along the dockside to the submarine, Franz sat bolt upright looking for the slightest hint of trouble.

  As the trucks drew to a halt alongside U-159 with a nerve shredding screech of dry, dusty brakes, Franz summoned his senses. Slowly lowering himself from the vehicle like a frail 99-year-old, he regained his outward composure. Casually he dressed down his creased uniform, using the act to glance around and evaluate his situation.

  The strong breeze from the sea sent a shiver through him. A combination of cold, damp air and the chill of fear. Everything he had worked so hard for, to rise through the ranks and serve the Reich, had now been thrown away. He was a common thief and a deserter, the lowest and most despised form of life any soldier could sink to.

  Franz gazed around at the frantic activity as men and vehicles carried out re-arming and provisioning on the submarines, whilst others worked on welding and repairing the blitzed and strafed hulls and superstructure.

  He spotted Kapitänleutnant Helmut Witte supervising operations from the conning tower.

  Feeling for his fake orders tucked inside his tunic, close to his pounding heart, Franz pulled them out and glanced through them. He was rehearsing in his mind how the meeting would go, as he strode aboard, purposefully and with certainty of authority.

  Kapitänleutnant Helmut Witte eyed Kaltman with both suspicion and curiosity as he took his forged copy of Großadmiral Karl Dönitz’ orders. He opened them and read through. Franz studied the man’s face for hints of trouble, but saw raised eyebrows of extreme surprise and the partially open mouth of astonishment.

  Witte looked at Kaltman and then at the two trucks. The shrewd U-boat commander was actually wondering how the cargo could be fitted in at this late stage. He had a full load of his own. It was not as though he could off load anything because once he had undertaken Kaltman’s mission, he had to continue with his original assignment.

  “I need to see what your trucks contain, Grupenfurer Kaltman. If I am to fit in your cargo, I need to see what space it will require. Are there perishables or fragile items for example?” Witte had a knowing look on his face as he hinted at the possibility that there might be artworks involved. Although unaware of much that was happening in Germany, because of his long absence at sea, some things were common gossip.

  “I am not at liberty to say too much, but there are 10 tonnes of bullion in crates. The other packages are both perishable and fragile.”

  “Ah! That is the sort of information that I can work with.” Witte called down in the hull for an officer. The eager man received his instructions and summoned men to carry the load aboard.

  “I will have to open the bullion crates and add the contents to the ballast. We can continue doing that as we get under way. The rest I will stow wherever I can fit it in. The crew’s bunks will have to be utilised.” Kapitänleutnant Witte didn’t sound at all pleased. However, he had no option but to acquiesce.

  Franz nervously paced the dark stained teak decking of U-159, chain smoking and saying his prayers, while the treasure was being loaded into the large type IXC submarine. His prayers begged for a lapse in German efficiency, to absorb the 6-hour shortfall in his timing.

  Suddenly a loud commotion startled him. He looked up at the sound of revving engines rapidly approaching. His guts churned with utter dread - SS and soldiers in vehicles, were charging along the dockside towards him…

  Present day, Berlin.

  Alan Patterson, a 30-year-old entrepreneur, looked up from a bulky, stale smelling box file of German World War II records. Benny Markowitz, a Russian researcher of similar age, rushed excitedly towards him, clutching photo copies of crucial documents. Amongst them was an order from Karl Dönitz, head of the German Navy.

  Benny could barely contain his excitement. His weasely, whiney voice started as a squeaky whisper, rising in volume to a loud outburst. The thick Russian accent severely hindered the clarity of what he had to say. “Alan, I have here de proof that Grupenfurer Franz Kaltman left Lorient aboard U-159 on 12th June 1943.”

  Other researchers in the room, unravelling mysteries of their own, shushed him with annoyance
. They resented having their concentration shattered, but more than that, the prospect that this shifty, bespectacled weed of a man had obviously got lucky. It was so unfair.

  Infected with Benny’s excitement, Alan snatched the pages from him and read the good news for himself.

  His hands shook and there was a tremor of suppressed emotion in his own voice. “You are right Benny. This is a copy of the order Kaltman would have handed to Kapitänleutnant Helmut Witte. It clearly instructs him to take the Grupenfurer and the unspecified, but top-secret contents of two trucks aboard, and head to Caracas. It goes on to say that he is to follow Kaltman’s orders when he makes landfall. After the mission, he must refuel and head back to resume his original orders to attack shipping from the Panama Canal.”

  Alan continued to scrutinise the document. “Benny, what are these other hand-written notes at the bottom?” Benny couldn’t answer, he was so excited. He was thinking in Russian and fumbled for the right words in English.

  Alan studied the scribble and official stamps, then let out a gasp. “It looks like the order was not authenticated and the Gestapo have rescinded it, demanding U-159 return to port without informing Kaltman, and to keep him under armed arrest for desertion.

  “From the dates, it appears U-159 was unable to establish routine communications with Germany, and the SS ordered another U-boat in the area to intercept.”

  Benny pawed through pages in Alan’s file until he came to the list of charges and evidence against Kaltman, compiled by the Gestapo when Kaltman vanished.

  “There!” Benny pointed out the paragraphs he was about to refer to. “We knew Kaltman left in one of two lorries with art treasures and bullion, his aid confirmed it. Otto Hemel also provided the list of items loaded onto the vehicles. The Grupenfurer had no military reason to be on a submarine at all, so it makes sense to say he stole the treasures to finance his new life in South America.

  “All we need to know is, what happened to U-159?”

  “I’m way ahead of you Benny, just give me a moment to do a search.” He typed the search details about the U-boat, into the archive department’s antiquated computer.