Darkness: Captain Riley II (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 2)

by Fernando Gamboa

  “Where did you get her? I love this woman!”

  Riley slowly shook his head as if to say, If I told you . . .

  The politician shook his head to loosen the grip of that smile on his face. When he was able to look more or less serious, he said, “Anyway, you’re right, Miss Debagh. In both cases. Of course we’re not as clever as we think, and of course we’re keeping information from you.”

  The two military men gave a start. “Senator!” the rear admiral said. “You cannot—”

  “Shut it, Wilkerson,” he said without raising his voice. “Of course I can. And if it weren’t for your goddamn secrecy, maybe the Japanese wouldn’t have caught us with our pants down at Pearl Harbor. So stop fooling around and keep quiet.”

  If the senator had shot him in the stomach, it would have hurt less. Embarrassed, the rear admiral sunk in his seat as if hoping the earth would swallow him.

  Jack and Riley exchanged an uneasy look. They were both thinking the same thing: in case of a storm, the best thing is to wait it out, hoping you don’t get struck by lightning. As the African saying goes, when two elephants fight, the ants suffer.

  “Well, like I told you,” the senator said to Carmen, then to Riley and Jack too. “Of course there are aspects of the mission that someone decided you didn’t need to know. Wrongly, of course.”

  He got resituated in his chair and straightened his bow tie, which had gotten twisted during the laughing fit. “Of course as you’ve guessed,” he said confidently, showing himself to be the politician he was, “there’s more to the story.” He turned to Hudgens and said, “Commander.”

  Hudgens glanced at his superior for approval, but Wilkerson was too busy drilling the surface of the table with his gaze. So Hudgens reached into the briefcase and took out a new folder, this one red, with the presidential seal in relief.

  McMillan took it and put it in front of the three crew members.

  “Here’s the whole brief,” he said, opening it and spreading typewritten pages rife with warning stamps before them. “Like I told you before, whatever you read or hear in this room stays here, though I’m sure little of it will seem strange to you.” Then he cleared his throat and explained in a slow, clear voice as if to make sure it was all heard. “Both MI6 and ONI are convinced that the holds of the Duchessa d’Aosta, full of asbestos, wool, and copper, also contain something of vital importance to the Reich.”

  “Something?” Riley asked, looking at the file. “What?”

  “We’re not sure,” Hudgens said. “That’s why we have to infiltrate the Duchessa and see what’s hiding there. The distraction maneuver is directed at the English too. We have to get on the ship before they do.”

  “The night of the English assault,” Alex said.

  “Exactly. Some will execute the distraction maneuver while others board the ship.”

  “Sounds fishy to me,” Jack said.

  “We board an Italian ship while the English are robbing it,” Riley said.

  “No one said it would be easy,” McMillan said.

  “So we’re going to trick the English,” Carmen said.

  “That’s the game.”

  “Yeah, but you’ll be sitting in your office while we’re inside an enemy ship as it’s being attacked in the middle of the night,” Riley said. “What if the English commandos find us tinkering with their ship? They might not take it very well.”

  “Then I suggest you take care to prevent that from happening.”

  “But,” Carmen said, “why exactly are you interested in that particular ship?”

  “This,” Hudgens said, pointing at a page in the brief.

  Riley read it carefully. “A list of sunken ships?”

  “Submarines,” Hudgens said. “Three German U-boats have sunk since June 1940, the time when the Duchessa requested refuge from the Spanish authorities. Three U-boats we think were headed to Santa Isabel—the last of them less than a month ago. The U-206 suffered impact from a parachute mine in the Bay of Biscay, and we were lucky a British destroyer was in the area and was able to board the ship before the Germans destroyed it.”

  He took a photo from the same folder that showed the tapered silhouette of a U-boat, its turret spouting black smoke. “Though the U-boat officers were able to throw their Enigma decoder overboard and sabotage their boat, the English captured the crew and took their marine charts and list of orders, which said they were to go to Santa Isabel. It seems,” he added, “once there, and with the help of the Duchessa’s crew, they were to take all the German property onto the U-206 and return to Germany as quickly as possible. This last order,” he said after a theatrical pause, “came from the German chancellery and was signed by the Führer himself.”

  “I see,” Riley said with a pensive nod.

  “I can’t believe,” Jack said, “that the orders don’t say what the cargo they’re supposed to recover is.”

  “Not even the U-boat captain knew,” Hudgens said.

  “And you don’t know what it could be? Haven’t found a way to find out?” Jack asked.

  “The British have an agent undercover in Santa Isabel who’s been there a few months but he doesn’t seem to have been able to get on the Italian ship. That’s why they’ve launched this risky mission. If Hitler’s personally interested and willing to sacrifice three U-boats, it’s definitely worth the risk.”

  “Do you know where the ship came from?” Riley asked.

  “The Duchessa has been traveling the coast of Africa for months, from the Suez to Cape Town.”

  “And you weren’t able to get the shipment record from the port authorities where they docked?”

  “Of course we did, but it only confirmed what we already knew. Whenever they embarked, they did so secretly,” Hudgens said.

  “Before,” Carmen began, “you mentioned that you weren’t sure what the ship was carrying, but does that mean you suspect something?”

  Hudgens turned to McMillan and Wilkerson as if asking whether to go further.

  It was the senator who nodded slowly.

  “There is something,” Hudgens admitted. “It’s just a wild guess based on some confused reports from a Polish agent in Germany. A remote possibility,” he said, “but it’s still worth checking out.”

  “About what?” Riley asked.

  Hudgens hesitated, looking at Riley, Jack, and Carmen as if he were about to apologize. “It’s just one word,” he murmured. “But it set off all the alarms at ONI and is related to why you are here.”

  The hair stood up on the back of Riley’s neck. “What is it?”

  Hudgens sighed loudly and said one German word: “Aussterben.”

  Carmen, Jack, and Alex were dumbstruck.

  The first two out of pure fright. The third felt like his heart had stopped between beats, and bile ran up his esophagus as he remembered the recurring nightmare that terrorized him at night.

  Carmen, aware of that, put her hand on Riley’s arm to comfort him. The seasoned smuggler had turned white as paper.

  “It’s only a remote possibility,” Hudgens insisted, on seeing their expressions. “But we have to make sure.”

  “And if it is Aussterben?” Riley asked, barely able to talk.

  “You’ll act accordingly,” Wilkerson said, “following the orders we give.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “That you’ll do what we tell you to do.”

  Riley seemed to think about it a moment, slowly shaking his head. “I’m not sure I like that idea.”

  Wilkerson stared at him. “And I’m not sure you have a choice,” he said icily.

  “I could choose not to.”

  “No . . . no, you couldn’t. I thought that was already made clear.”

  “There’s always choice,” Riley said.

  McMillan cleared his throat to gain the floor. “What are you worried about, Captain?” he asked, leaning forward with a serious look on his face. “Might you be thinking that, if there were something in the hol
d of the Duchessa d’Aosta related to that terrible virus, we would ask you to do something you didn’t agree with?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “Then you’ll have to do it,” Wilkerson objected. “You’re under orders of—”

  “Rear Admiral,” McMillan interrupted, raising a hand for quiet. Then he turned with renewed interest toward Riley. “What is it you’re really worried about, Captain?”

  Riley took a few seconds to respond. “If we find anything related to Aussterben, it should be destroyed. No exceptions.”

  Wilkerson was about to tell Riley the decision wasn’t up to him, when McMillan interrupted again. “Of course, Captain. Our sole aim is to eliminate that threat. You have my word.”

  “So,” Jack began. “The British Secret Service thinks we’re working with them, but it’s just a trick to get on that ship.”

  “Exactly,” McMillan said, lacing his fingers together. “We want to you find out what’s on the Duchessa and tell us right away.”

  “And then?” Carmen asked.

  “Then you’ll await orders and we’ll tell you what to do with what you find.”

  “With all due respect, Senator,” Riley said, “I think you’re forgetting how complicated and confusing these types of operations can be. It’s very likely that, even if we get on that Italian ship and find out what they’re carrying, we won’t have a chance to contact you to ask what to do next.” He shook his head. “Things never go according to plan.”

  To Riley’s surprise, the senator nodded. “You’re right, Captain,” he said. “And that’s why Commander Hudgens here will go with you on this mission. He’ll make decisions if necessary.”

  For a second Riley was tempted to refuse.

  But before he could, Hudgens spoke up, seemingly reading his mind. “There won’t be any problems,” he said, smiling slightly. “I’ll be in charge of the operation, but you’ll still be captain of the Pingarrón and I’ll be at your orders while we’re on board. There won’t be any kind of conflict between us, of that you can be sure.”

  Riley knew from experience that dual command never ended well, but he also knew that no matter how hard he argued, he wouldn’t be able to refuse. So he managed to smile and say, “In that case, welcome aboard, Commander.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  Senator McMillan knocked on the table with satisfaction. “Wonderful,” he said. “So if there aren’t any more questions . . .”

  “You still haven’t told us when,” Jack said. “Is there a planned date for Operation Postmaster?”

  The senator seemed genuinely confused for a second. “Didn’t I tell you before?” Then he turned to Hudgens. “I thought I already said it.”

  The commander shook his head.

  “Oh, excuse me,” the senator said. “Age, you know.” He smiled guiltily and, running a finger along one of the pages in the brief, said, “The planned date to execute the mission will be . . . aha, here it is: the fourteenth of January.”

  For a few long seconds Riley looked at him in absolute silence, doing mental calculations with speed, distance, and time. If a train leaves Station A, how long will it take to get to Station B and so forth?

  “Come again?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Operation Postmaster is scheduled for the night of January fourteenth.”

  Riley put his hands on his face and rubbed as if he’d just woken up. “Hold on,” he said. “I don’t know if you’ve done the calculations, but January 14 is twenty days away.”

  “We’re aware of that,” Wilkerson said brusquely, slowly coming out of his daze.

  “We can’t be in Santa Isabel on the fourteenth. It’s more than five thousand miles away.”

  “Five thousand two hundred ninety, to be exact,” the rear admiral said, seeming to enjoy it all. “And you should be there on the evening of the twelfth.”

  “Eighteen days?” Riley almost laughed. “Are you serious? We won’t even have finished repairs of the Pingarrón by then. Don’t you get it? Why can’t you push it back?”

  “January fourteenth is a new moon, which won’t happen again until three weeks after that, and we can’t risk waiting too long. Besides,” the rear admiral said, tapping the brief, “our calculations say that with an average velocity of fourteen and a half knots it will take fifteen days to reach Santa Isabel. Plenty of time.”

  “Did you not hear me? The Pingarrón is in the shipyard, at a dry dock. It suffered horrible damage and needs several weeks of intensive repairs before it can sail again.”

  Rear Admiral Wilkerson seemed to have been waiting for that moment, because he barely concealed a smile when he said, “Well, in that case I suggest you get back to work right now and give it all you’ve got.” He shut the folder in front of him, indicating the meeting was over. “You’ll leave within forty-eight hours.”

  7

  December 26

  Chesapeake Bay

  “How’s it going, César?” Riley asked as he entered the noisy machine room.

  The Portuguese, covered in a grease-stained work suit at least two sizes too large, turned toward him and gave two slaps on one of the Burmeister engines that powered the Pingarrón, as if hitting the rear of a horse. “Purrs like a kitten,” he said with satisfaction. “Those navy mechanics are really good. I think it’s better than before.”

  “Great,” Riley replied, putting a hand on César’s shoulder. “It’s gonna be a long journey, and we’ll need all the power we can squeeze out of it over the next fifteen days.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Captain.”

  “I know, I know.” He nodded, looking over the two five-hundred-horsepower motors whose cylinders rose and fell rhythmically to cause the unequal rolling of the cranks. “When we get to open sea, Jack promised to make us a special meal,” he added, raising his voice over the noise. “We earned it.”

  “I think so too,” César confirmed. “I didn’t think we were going to make it.”

  Riley gave a tired smile. “Me neither, honestly. But we’re not done yet.”

  “Yes, I know. But the worst is over, or almost. We can do the rest bit by bit during the trip.”

  “Julie had the great idea of putting an assembly shop in the hold. With all the disassembled wood and furniture we have we could furnish the Pingarrón twice over.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t take her too seriously. You already know,” César said, raising a finger, “if you let her she’ll end up putting a dance studio on deck.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Riley smiled and headed out. “No dance studios.”

  Riley walked down a corridor lined with boxes of furniture, equipment, and supplies that they would install on the ship over the next two weeks. Besides the machine room and the bridge, the rest of the ship was little more than an empty shell, the only furniture being some cots, tables, and chairs. It was not going to be a luxury cruise.

  He went up the stairs to the deck and then to the bridge, where the French pilot held the wheel firmly, her gaze fixed on the horizon covered with heavy gray clouds that seemed ready to break on the bay.

  “Everything okay, Julie?” he said.

  “Tout droit, Capitaine,” she said without looking.

  Riley looked at the open map next to the binnacle and compared it with what he saw beyond the glass of the cabin.

  The edges of both banks—Cape Charles to the north and Cape Henry to the south—were invisible beneath the dim light of that cold, humid afternoon, typical of December on the Virginia coast.

  Luckily, it had been bright for most of the day, which allowed them to go down the Potomac and pass through the bay at a solid ten knots without having to walk on eggshells, blowing the foghorn now and then to keep from ramming someone.

  “There’s the lighthouse on Cape Henry,” Riley said, pointing at the intermittent light to the starboard side. “We’re almost there. Then it’ll be open sea for thirty-five hundred miles to Cape Verde.”

  “Mm
. . . Cape Verde,” Julie said, pretending to shiver. “With this cold it sounds amazing.”

  “I can imagine. But after three weeks suffering in the equatorial heat I bet you’ll miss the cold.”

  “C’est impossible, Capitaine. I love the heat!”

  Riley smirked. “Of course, Julie. Of course.”

  Minutes later, he left Julie in control of the ship and opened the door to the main room.

  He still hadn’t gotten used to the dumpy look it’d taken on since the fire, and the four chairs they had (stolen on the last night from the shipyard cafeteria by crew members disguised as maintenance personnel) didn’t do much to help. But at least they had somewhere to sit. Jack, Carmen, and Hudgens were sitting now around a table covered in a couple maps of Fernando Póo, a diagram of the inside of the Duchessa d’Aosta, and a white piece of paper on which the ONI commander had outlined the port of Santa Isabel and the positions of the Italian cargo ship and the two German ships.

  “So,” Riley said, taking a seat at the table, “know where the treasure’s buried yet?”

  Hudgens raised his gaze to meet the captain’s. “Pardon?”

  Riley waved off his own comment. “Forget it. Marco’s not here?”

  “He said he had a headache and went to his room,” Jack said. “Want me to go look for him?”

  “Leave him. All his suggestions are ‘let’s blast this or that’ or ‘let’s kill everyone.’ So we’ll save time not having to cut him off.”

  Jack nodded and looked back at the table.

  “You guys think of anything?” Riley asked, looking at the sketch.

  “Better, we’re going over everything that could go wrong,” the commander said. “We can’t let them think they’re being attacked, even on the other side of the island, because that would put not only the Spanish troops on alert but also the sailors on the three ships. If that happens we’ll have to cancel the mission indefinitely.”

  “Indefinitely?”

  “If the Germans begin to suspect what we know about the Duchessa, they’ll immediately send troops to protect it and our attack will be impossible.”