by Joe Buff
The worse the weather outside, the longer the last of the loading would take. The longer the loading took, the worse the weather. Van Gelder just couldn’t win.
The biggest problem was that, because of these delays, the Australian destroyer arrived. With typical British Commonwealth seamanship and flair, the Aussies sent over a motorized launch with a well-equipped repair party. They were aboard the Trincomalee Tiger right now. Sometimes Van Gelder could hear banging beyond the aft end of the submarine hold, where Royal Australian Navy sailors were trying to help fix machinery that wasn’t really broken. Voortrekker’s weapons reloading was supposed to have been completed, and the fake mechanical problems on Tiger solved, well before the destroyer ever got there.
Outwardly, Van Gelder maintained the appearance of calm and confidence. He didn’t allow crew discipline to slacken in the least. Inwardly, the thought of enemy forces so close, with Voortrekker so defenseless, sent chills right up his spine. Van Gelder’s hands felt like ice cubes, yet he sweated all the more. He listened to his men whispering urgently while they worked.
Van Gelder glanced aft apprehensively. How much longer will our luck hold out? The maritime patrol plane was still orbiting overhead, and the destroyer would be well armed with nuclear antisubmarine weapons. This meant that Voortrekker dared not leave until the destroyer was gone—to even have the freighter open the secret hold’s bottom doors, with the destroyer’s sonars listening nearby, was an appalling risk.
Worst thought of all, if the enemy realized what the Trincomalee Tiger really was, her neutrality would be forfeit. She could be sunk quite legally, with Voortrekker still inside. There might be no advance warning down here in the hold, and a stream of five-inch armor-piercing shells might come through the Tiger’s sides at any time.
Van Gelder wiped his dripping forehead on his uniform sleeve yet again. Yet again he urged his loading crew to work faster, without making noise. Any strange thuds or clanking forward of the Tiger’s engine room might easily trigger suspicion, and cause an investigation by an armed Australian boarding party. If the freighter’s crew were lax in their acting skills, or seemed nervous in the wrong way face to face with Royal Australian Navy officers and chiefs, the game would be up that much sooner. The Australians might even disable the tender’s bottom doors, and capture the Tiger with Voortrekker trapped inside.
A crewman dropped a wrench. It made a dull thunk against the soft anechoic tiles that covered Voortrekker’s hull. Van Gelder almost jumped at the sound. He turned to the man and scolded him under his breath. The loading work went on.
A few minutes later Jan ter Horst climbed up on deck through the open forward escape trunk. Van Gelder was surprised to see he wore a pistol belt. Two Kampfschwimmer followed, the commander and the chief, lugging scratched-up, old Russian AK-47 rifles. Ter Horst must be as worried at this point as I am.
On Challenger, inside the Prima Latina
“Buenos días, Señor Capitán.”
Jeffrey, standing outside the open weapons-loading hatch of Challenger, shook hands with the bearded seaman. Up close, now, the man looked not so much scruffy as authoritative and shrewd. He smelled strongly of cigar smoke and stale sweat.
“Yes, buenos días,” Jeffrey replied. That much Spanish he knew.
“I am sorry for the rough ride before, Capitán. The Russians, since the war, they do not like Cuba so much, you know. Sometimes they try to scare us with the hazardous maneuvers. Their trawlers make our freighters get out of the way, and we file protests. Sometimes they even throw garbage, and we throw garbage back.” The man laughed from deep in his belly, like it was all some great sailor’s joke.
“Exactly who are you?”
The man touched the side of his nose. “My real name does not matter. The important thing is that I am a friend. You may, I suppose, call me Rodrigo if you wish.”
Jeffrey looked him square in the eyes. “Who do you work for?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“I couldn’t begin to.”
“But surely you can guess. Don’t you enjoy guessing games, Señor Capitán?”
“You’re not American,” Jeffrey stated.
“But I am, or should I say, I was. I was born in Miami. My family returned to Habana, our ancestral home, after the Great Reconciliation, when our former enemy Castro retired. As Fidel himself was able to foresee, socialism and democracy are not so contradictory after all. Now I only use my Cuban passport.”
That was all well and good, but Commodore Wilson expected Jeffrey to trust his command to this guy, and to whomever he represented. “So who do you work for?”
“Why, the CIA of course!…Please, Capitán, please, come with me.”
Jeffrey followed the man up the catwalk inside the Prima Latina’s clandestine hold. They came to a small hatch.
“I apologize that we must go now on our hands and knees. The secret passages must be small, you understand, so as not to be discovered by an adversary.”
Jeffrey nodded. Wilson had told him to go with the man, but told him nothing more.
“And please do not mind the rats.”
“Rats?”
“Every aged tramp steamer must have rats, no? They discourage customs inspectors from inspecting us too closely.” Rodrigo laughed again, a hearty, confiding laugh. “But do not worry, they are our pets.”
“You keep rats as pets?”
“Sí. These are all former laboratory rats. How do you say? Pedigreed. Please, Capitán, after you.” Rodrigo gestured at the entry into the crawl space.
Jeffrey hesitated.
“The rats are tame, and had their shots. I assure you they do not bite.”
Jeffrey climbed into the tight companionway, followed a bend, then took the ladder up. He didn’t see any rats. On Rodrigo’s urging, he undogged the hatch at the other end of the crawl space.
He came out in a dark and dingy cargo hold, filled with stacks of large cardboard cartons on pallets. The deck he walked on was a solid floor of wooden packing crates. The hold reeked of stinking bilgewater. Jeffrey jumped when something on the deck, brownish and ugly, hissed and scurried out of his way.
“My apologies,” Rodrigo rushed to say. “I forgot to mention we also have the spiders.”
“That thing was a spider?” It was the size of a dinner plate.
“Sí. From the swamps of Venezuela. They are called bird-eating spiders, because they sometimes eat birds.”
Oh God. Jeffrey almost vomited. “Don’t tell me,” he said sarcastically. “They’ve been defanged, and they’re also pets, to keep your pet rats company.”
Rodrigo smiled. “You understand almost perfectly, Capitán! But these are not defanged. Their venom is not poisonous to humans. They keep down the cockroaches nicely…. Many customs officials detest big spiders, you know.”
Bright lights snapped on and seven deep male voices yelled, “Surprise!”
Jeffrey almost jumped out of his shoes. All around him, standing in tight corridors between the tall stacks of cargo, stood eight heavily armed men. Jeffrey recognized U.S. Navy SEAL Lieutenant Shajo Clayton, and his second in command, Chief Montgomery. The enlisted SEALs with them were all new to Jeffrey, but Shajo and Montgomery were old friends.
Hands were shaken with bone-crushing strength, backs were pounded hard enough to knock the wind from a large man’s chest. Shajo Clayton had been with Jeffrey on Challenger’s South African raid, and then Montgomery joined them for the mission to northern Germany. They’d braved Axis fire together, seen comrades mortally wounded and die, and set off nuclear devices in the enemy’s lap. Jeffrey was very glad to see them, given where Challenger was going next.
“Gentlemen, please,” Rodrigo offered. “This is no place for a proper reunion. Come with me. Come, we have some delightful refreshments prepared.”
But Jeffrey’s face grew grim. “Shajo, Chief, don’t toy with me.”
“Sir?” Shajo Clayton was in his late twenties, from Atlanta; he possessed a tr
im build and a perfect swimmer’s body. He had a good sense of humor, was even-tempered and easy to talk to. Chief Montgomery, in his thirties, was built like a football linebacker: over six feet tall, immensely broad and strong. His humor was very biting at times, especially in the stress of combat. If he had a first name other than “Chief,” Jeffrey didn’t know yet what it was.
Like many SEALs, both men loved practical jokes.
“No more surprises,” Jeffrey said. “I have to ask. Is Ilse Reebeck here?”
Shajo Clayton looked confused and glanced at Chief Montgomery. The chief was just as confused.
“We thought she’d be with you,” Clayton said.
Jeffrey’s heart sank. He realized he finally had to give up hope. All this time, in his heart of hearts, he’d been daydreaming that Ilse’s death was faked, a subterfuge to fool the Axis. “She was killed,” Jeffrey said.
Clayton’s and Montgomery’s faces fell.
“What the hell happened?” Montgomery said. He sounded angry. “An enemy hit? Her ex-boyfriend’s goons get even?”
“No, nothing like that. An accident. A freak accident.”
“I’m really sorry,” Clayton said. “You two were dating, last I heard through the grapevine, weren’t you?…I’m—I’m sorry. How recent was it?”
“Just before we sailed.”
“She was a good person, and a good fighter,” Montgomery said. “We’ll miss her where we’re going. Wherever that might be?”
Jeffrey shrugged. “Commodore Wilson fills me in one step at a time.”
“Commodore Wilson?” Clayton said.
Jeffrey nodded. “I made full commander. Challenger’s mine now.” He’d removed his rank insignia, for security.
Clayton and Montgomery, all too experienced at coping with the loss of friends in war, congratulated Jeffrey with obvious relish. Jeffrey donned his mask of command, forgot about Ilse, and accepted their congratulations with warmest thanks.
Jeffrey turned to the Cuban, who’d been standing there stroking his beard. “Rodrigo, with all gratitude for your kind hospitality, I think we should just get to work.”
Shajo and Montgomery and the enlisted SEALs agreed. They had a lot of equipment to load aboard Challenger, and all of it had to go through the crawl space.
“I understand,” Rodrigo said. “Work first, refreshments perhaps later. There is no hurry, gentlemen. We will be several hours to reach and then go through the canal…. And Capitán, my sincerest condolences for your tragic loss.”
EIGHTEEN
On Voortrekker
“HOW MANY MORE torpedoes still to be loaded, Number One?”
“Six, Captain, not counting the one on the loading chute.”
“Make it quick,” ter Horst said. “The enemy’s so close I can almost smell that destroyer through Tiger’s hull.”
“I know, sir.” Van Gelder glanced again to the rear of the hold, where there’d just been more Australian clanking and hammering.
On Voortrekker’s deck, someone shouted.
Van Gelder turned to censure the man. Instead he watched his worst nightmare of all unfold.
The Tiger’s overworked loading crane failed. A big two-metric-ton nuclear torpedo, a German Sea Lion, teetered on a single length of fraying metal cable. The cable snapped and the Sea Lion landed nosefirst on Voortrekker’s deck, then fell over. It instantly crushed one crewman to bloody pulp, maimed another, and knocked two more off the deck and into the water. The torpedo rolled into the water with a heavy splash. It began to hit Voortrekker in the side, as the Tiger rolled and the water inside the hold sloshed.
The maimed crewman on deck was screaming in agony, both legs from the knees down flattened like pancakes. The crewmen in the water also screamed, as the loose torpedo chased them in the demonic swimming pool the Tiger’s hold had become. One of the swimmers was caught and crushed against Voortrekker’s side. He screamed loudly before he went under in a cloud of blood, and didn’t come up. The other man in the water splashed his arms desperately—he wasn’t wearing a life jacket.
Van Gelder was first to react. He dived into the water, and both Kampfschwimmer followed immediately. Van Gelder dimly heard ter Horst shout orders, to silence the screaming crewman on deck and get him first aid, to rig lines to try to snag and hold the floating errant torpedo, and to rig more lines to pull Van Gelder and the others from the enclosed but vicious water.
Van Gelder plunged headfirst, rose to the surface, and gasped for breath. The salt water filled his ears and went up his nose. It tasted sharply brackish and made his eyes sting. He blinked and looked up and saw Voortrekker from an angle he’d dearly hoped never to see—the view by a man fallen overboard. Van Gelder reached the surviving crewman in the water, who grimaced and said he’d injured his thigh. Both Kampfschwimmer helped hold the man’s head above the water.
The Tiger took a nasty roll to starboard, then righted herself. The Sea Lion was thrown against the side of the hold, and caromed off the Tiger’s hull with a deafening crash. The Tiger rolled to port.
The Kampfschwimmer shouted and Van Gelder turned, seeing the Sea Lion coming right at them. They had nowhere to go. It was impossible to climb the smooth, curved, slimy side of the submarine, and the crewmen on deck, caught by surprise and exhausted from hours of loading, were too slow with their man-overboard drill.
Both Kampfschwimmer gestured frantically. Van Gelder realized they only had one choice. They held their breaths and grabbed the injured man and swam down. The Sea Lion rushed right over their heads and slammed into Voortrekker’s side. At this rate, even her thick ceramic-composite hull might be damaged fatally. With the endless banging and screaming, the Australians were bound to investigate.
Finally ter Horst directed men to corral the torpedo and hold it firmly against Voortrekker’s side using a hastily rigged rubber bumper. Others helped Van Gelder and the crewman and Kampfschwimmer back on deck. The deck was covered in blood, thick and gumming up the antiskid coating.
Then Voortrekker jolted hard against the rubber blocks that held her, and Van Gelder was almost knocked from his feet. The Trincomalee Tiger was getting under way—the faked mechanical problems to engines and rudder must have been solved, and her crew couldn’t delay the Australians any further.
Soon someone came through the hatch that led from the rest of the ship to the catwalk. He was dark-skinned and wore a turban. He said in heavily accented German that he was the master of the Tiger. He wanted to know what was going on, then took in the scene on Voortrekker’s deck and gasped.
Ter Horst and Van Gelder turned to speak to him. Behind the ship’s master, smiling and obviously pleased with themselves, suddenly appeared two Australian navy chiefs. They’d followed the master without him realizing it, drawn by all the noise, and now they were obviously expecting another mechanical problem to fix.
They took in the clandestine hold, the nuclear submarine sitting there, and their jaws dropped. Ter Horst drew his pistol and aimed at them and fired. He missed. Each report echoed harshly, and pistol bullets zinged as they ricocheted. Everyone on Voortrekker’s deck ducked for what cover there was. The Australians ducked, realized they had no cover at all, and dashed for the hatch from the hold.
Ter Horst shouted to the Kampfschwimmer. They grabbed their AK-47s. Both fired well-aimed shots on semiautomatic fire. The muzzles flashed hot gases; the staccato reports were deafening. The Australians flopped on the catwalk, dead, and spent brass flew and clinked. Gunsmoke filled the air; crewmen coughed. More bright blood dripped to stain the water in the hold.
Ter Horst stared at the bodies. “Now that’s just great.”
Van Gelder considered their options. It was hard to think straight soaking wet, shivering from the coldness of the seawater and from the closeness of his brush with death.
The ship’s master still stood on the catwalk, unharmed.
“Come down here, you,” Van Gelder shouted in his best German. “Quickly!”
The master ob
eyed. He seemed an unsavory sort, someone you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, and this gave Van Gelder a desperate idea.
“Your crew,” Van Gelder demanded. “What are their nationalities?”
“Most are Malaysians. They work cheap, and know how to keep their mouths shut.”
“We have to do something to explain two dead Australians to the others on that destroyer.”
“I know,” the master said. He stroked his thick beard, thinking.
“Pirates,” Van Gelder said.
“What?” ter Horst said.
“Some of your crew,” Van Gelder said to the master. “They were pirates.”
“Pirates?”
“Yes. That’s what you must say…. Say that it was hard for you to hire experienced hands willing to sail through the war zone. Say you hired men you didn’t know were criminals with weapons smuggled in their seabags. Say they must have reverted to their old ways—”
“Maddened when they thought my ship was sinking?”
“Yes, precisely. They ambushed the Australians in the cargo hold, intending to rob them.”
“Yes, yes,” ter Horst said. “You sensed something was wrong, you took your pistol, and went to investigate. You saw the crewmen, saw what they’d done, and had to shoot them in self-defense.”
“But I don’t have a pistol.”
“Take mine,” ter Horst said. “It’s already been fired.”
The master examined the pistol. “It’s Czech.”
“Yes, not German or Boer.”
The master looked from ter Horst to Van Gelder. His eyes narrowed to mean slits. “I’ll need to trick two of my men into coming down to the cargo hold.”
“Kill them with the pistol,” Van Gelder said. “Then put the AK-47s in their hands. If you have liquor, put some in their mouths and on their clothes. Try to force some down into their stomachs.”