by Scott Cook
“All right,” I said, “although I’m dubious I’ll be able to learn much about Brody. He’s probably pretty careful considering what he does.”
“He’s got a big ego,” Hank said, “He likes the public eye. That may help us, I don’t know.”
“We’re prepared financially,” Audrey stated, “Granddad is quite well off and I’ve got some resources as well. So whatever you need, we should be able to provide.”
“We’ll need a boat,” I observed, “I’ve got one, but she’s a sailboat. Slow. We’ll need to get out to where the U-boat is and dive…”
“That won’t be a problem,” Hank stated, “We’re setting that up.”
“We’re going to give you a five thousand dollar retainer,” Audrey said, “On top of your daily rate and expenses. Should we succeed, there will be a bonus in it for you.”
“That’s very generous,” I said, “I also assume we’re to keep this hush, hush. How free am I to draw on any of my resources?”
“Let’s discuss that on a case by case basis,” Audrey stated, “You’re right, we do want to keep a lid on this. If it gets out what’s really at stake, it could mean big trouble and granddad’s life could be in danger.”
I nodded, “understood. Perhaps that may already be the case. What did you tell Brody?”
“I told him to piss up a rope,” Hank said with a gleam in his eyes, “I told him I think it’s despicable what he does and as a Navy veteran of thirty years, I’ll have no part in it.”
“How’d he take that?’ I asked with a chuckle.
“He said he’d make it worth my while,” Hank harrumphed, “Says that every man has his price and that he’d be happy to meet mine. Tried to sell me his line of bull about bringing history to life and how he’s honoring the men and women who served.”
I smiled, “So he’s not a problem, then?”
The old Master Chief scoffed and waved that away, “Nah. I’m just a stubborn old goat. As I said, he’s got enough to go on, it seems.”
“Well, then I guess we’d better get started,” I said, puffing my cigar. It was almost two thirds gone by then. Nothing good lasted forever, “Before I do, though, I have another question… How in the hell do you know all of this stuff, Hank? I mean, I know you were on the American boat—“
“The Bull Shark,” He cut in, “Torpedoman third class.”
“Okay… but how do you know all this stuff about the German bacteria?” I puzzled.
Hank sighed heavily and leaned back, “That’s a tale for another time, son. I think you’ll enjoy the details, and you’ll need em’, too. The quick answer to your question, though… is that I met one of the German sailors.”
Chapter 7
U-2626: Eastern Gulf of Mexico
October 11, 1945 – 00:36, local time
Reinhardt peered through his periscope and examined the approaching American submarine carefully. They were less than nine kilometers apart now, and with the scope’s magnification, he could clearly see a dozen men on and around her conning tower. The ship’s running lights and bright spotlight mounted on her periscope sheers only served to illuminate the facts that much more clearly.
The Balao-class boat was ready for a surface action. Her deck guns were manned and Reinhardt had no doubt that all ten of her torpedo tubes, six forward and four aft were loaded.
“Einsvo,” Reinhardt said to Bausch who stood next to him, “Reduce speed to slow ahead. Activate running lights.”
“Sir?” Bausch asked in surprise.
“You heard the order Gunter,” The captain said sternly.
Bausch took a breath and raised his voice, “Pilot, reduce speed to ahead slow. Chief Schultz, activate navigation lighting.”
“Ya vol,” The helmsman replied, “Maneuvering is answering slow ahead.”
The diesel growl that had blended into the background reduced to a bare vibration.
“Sir,” Bausch said quietly, “There is no way now that those bastards will mistake us for anything but what we are.”
“There was never any hope of that, Einsvo,” Reinhardt stated, “Their sound gear is sensitive enough to distinguish us as a type twenty-one U-boat.”
“Should we load torpedo tubes and sink her?” Bausch inquired, “If our mission is to succeed…”
“Not just yet, Einsvo,” Reinhardt said with shrewdness in his tone that the XO could clearly detect, “We must act carefully. We’re at a disadvantage, if you recall. Only two of our six tubes are available thanks to the special packages we’re carrying. Even if they were all available, the American outguns us.”
Bausch snorted with well-seasoned derision, “We’re faster beneath the surface and can dive twice as deep.”
“And they’re faster on top,” Reinhardt said, “And can fire five times as many fish as we can. And you know as well as I do that that class of submarine’s official test depth is tremendously understated. No, Einsvo, we must proceed very, very carefully.”
“Kapitan,” Yohan announced from his station at the sonar and radio gear, “Radio room reports transmission from the American. They request voice communication.”
Reinhardt smiled grimly, “here we go… Have them patch it into the hands free, Yohan.”
There was a crackle and a strong American voice said, “German U-boat, German U-boat. This is the U.S.S. Bull Shark. Captain Arthur Turner speaking. You have entered United States exclusive economic zone. Please establish two way communication and state your intentions. Failure to do so will result in immediate punitive action.”
“Prick…” Bausch muttered, “Claiming over three hundred kilometers when all other civilized nations claim only twenty…”
Reinhardt raised an eyebrow, “This is a special situation, Einsvo. He’s correct. Yohan, patch me through.”
There was another burst of static and a popping. Verschmidt gave a nod.
“Captain Turner,” Reinhardt said in very good English, “I am Kapitan Sur Se Karl Reinhardt of the Ariovistus. It is a pleasure to speak with you this morning.”
There was a short pause while the American seemed to digest this greeting, “The pleasure is mine, sir. May I ask what brings you here today? As I’m sure you’re aware, our war is over.”
Reinhardt was touched by the other man’s honorific. Calling him sir because he was of superior rank. A time honored military courtesy even among enemies that hadn’t been practiced for some time in the German’s own homeland.
He suddenly felt a stab of real guilt.
“Over…” Bausch grumbled under his breath, “And our precious Fatherland overrun by Communist swine…”
Reinhardt shot him a look, “Einsvo, please go forward and give me a report on the torpedo room’s readiness.”
Bausch didn’t even protest. He simply nodded and hurried forward through the hatch toward the bow of the submarine. Reinhardt was glad to be rid of him just then. Bausch was a capable man but his evident feelings about the Reich and the allies was all too clear.
“Captain Turner,” Reinhardt said, steeling himself for what he must do… or must he? He knew he must at least play this out. This scenario was discussed in his briefing, after all, “We were sent on a mission to the South Atlantic back at the beginning of the year. Due to the long range we ran slowly to conserve fuel. It was only in July that word of the armistice made it to us. My crew and I decided then that returning to a Germany torn by war, even one now free of Hitler’s tyranny was not in our best interests. We came this way hoping to find a friend where once we had only enemies.”
Reinhardt surprised even himself by the sincerity in his words. By the depth of feeling that had come out in them. As he looked around the zentral, he saw only the confident faces of his officers and men. They either believed in the ruse he was supposedly weaving or secretly hoped that he wasn’t lying after all.
Yet he also knew that there were steadfast Nazi’s on board. Men who, despite the peace treaty, would always be Adolf’s puppets. Men like Bausch could on
ly hate, could only see the world as a disposable commodity that they, the chosen race, could and should exploit for their own needs and desires. This was Hitler’s legacy, after all. A world torn by combat, pain and horror. A global community that would take generations to heal.
He’d enslaved his nation and tried to do the same to Europe and even the world. Had it not been for the determination and grit of the British and the Russians, as well as the bull-doggedness and industrial might of the United States, he would’ve succeeded.
Yet all Herr Wolfe, that mongrel demon in human guise, had really done was breed a generation of monsters and turned his homeland into a prison.
And now, here was Karl Reinhardt, an honorable and decent man, about to commit an act so heinous that every nation in the world had agreed never to do it. An act of terrorism. There was just no other way to put it. To poison not just millions of people but an entire ecosystem…
It made Hiroshima and Nagasaki look like a New Year’s Eve celebration.
But could he go through with it?
No, Reinhardt knew at that moment as he waited for his counterpart to respond that he could not. He’d either turn this boat over to the Americans or he’d send her to the bottom in water so deep his deadly cargo would never be found and could never harm anyone.
Turner held the mic in his hand and looked meaningfully at Williams, “Well, XO? What do you think?”
“I think he’s feeding us a line of bullshit, Skipper,” Williams said matter-of-factly, “he got caught with his pants down, recharging his batteries and this is his cover story. There’s no damned good reason why a Kraut boat is driving up the Gulf without any forewarning. That’s my opinion, sir.”
Turner couldn’t argue. Reinhardt had said exactly what any American ship would want to hear. Yet the fact was that if he was really defecting, then the German captain would have made radio contact with someone on his own. Possibly gone straight to Key West. On his present course, the U-boat was headed straight for the Big Bend section of Florida. The part of the Gulf Coast where the land turned west to form the upper shoreline of the Gulf.
There wasn’t anything up there, really. Just the Ocala national forest. What the hell was he doing?
On the other hand… what if the German was telling the truth?
Turner depressed the talk button, “Captain Reinhardt… isn’t it unusual for a full captain to command a submarine?”
“Normally, yes,” the German replied in his crisp English. It was accented but spoken very well, “yet as you’re probably aware, our resources have been depleted for some time. How do you Americans have the expression…? The pickings are slim?”
Turner smiled at that. Reinhardt had a sense of humor at least, “Sir… I would like to believe you. It would be nice for Germans and Americans to meet with an exchange of handshakes instead of bullets for a change…. Yet you’ll understand if I’m skeptical.”
“Yes…” The German replied quietly. Turner couldn’t help but be touched by the deep sadness and longing in the other man’s voice, “It would indeed. I understand your concern, Captain Turner. In what way can I prove our intentions? As you can now see, my deck gun is not manned as yours is.”
That was a telling point. However, what Turner didn’t need to say was that there was no way for him to know that Reinhardt’s six torpedo tubes were not loaded and ready to fire. As his were.
“And they’ll stay that way,” Turner said, “Until such time as I know you’re not a threat, sir.”
“Understood,” Reinhardt replied, “I shall come to a full stop and deactivate my diesels. Will that satisfy you?”
“It’s a beginning,” Turner replied, “We’ll come alongside and you and I can go topside and talk in person.”
In the forward torpedo room, Hank Lambert stood by with his loading gang and waited nervously. Hung from tubes one through six was a simple tag that read war shot loaded. Green lights were lit by each tube to indicate that the torpedoes were ready to fire. Of course, the reality was that before they could shoot, the inner tube doors might have to be opened again to make some last minute adjustment to the torpedo. Or at least some gyro settings might have to be changed.
“Are we gonna shoot, chief?” Lambert dared to ask Sparks, who stood in the center of the deck with the big Y-wrench in his hands. The wrench that he’d use to crank open the outer doors in preparation for firing.
“You hear a fuckin’ order, kid?” Sparks growled, “When the Old Man wants to shoot, he’ll let us know. Until then, keep your trap shut and we’ll let you know what to do.”
Lambert flushed with embarrassment. Although the Chief’s words were stern, he did have a wry grin on his face which softened the blow a little.
“Forward torpedo, control,” The torpedo room phone talker said, “Flood all tubes and crank open the outer doors.”
Sparks seemed to jump to life. He placed his wrench on the tube one stud and began to crank, his powerful arms bulging with effort. Beside him, Johnny Wilks, first class petty officer and second in charge of forward torpedo started cranking on number six. The wrenches provided the men the leverage they needed to work the long worm gear that manually opened the outer pressure doors on the torpedo tubes.
Lambert’s guts began to twitch. Was this it? Would this be the beginning of a knock down drag out between two submarines…? Would he be a bloated and water logged corpse an hour from now?
“Transient noise in the water!” Yohan exclaimed suddenly, “American submarine is opening the outer doors on their forward tubes!”
Reinhardt wasn’t surprised. If anything, he wondered why the American hadn’t done this long before. Although upon reflection, the answer was obvious.
“It’s all right, Yohan,” Reinhardt reassured him, “He wants us to hear. He’s letting us know that we’re in his cross hairs. How many tubes?”
“I hear…” Yohan said and frowned, “Six. Only the six forward tube doors have been opened.”
“Hmmm…” The captain muttered thoughtfully, “Only six out of ten? Interesting. Perhaps he is low on ammunition.”
“As we are,” Yohan said glumly.
Down in the torpedo room, Gunter Bausch was furious. The captain had the ship wide on, so that everyone aboard could both hear the radio conversation as well as the talk in the zentral. Bausch just couldn’t understand it. Had they loaded tubes five and six, their only available torpedo tubes, they could’ve blown the American out of the water long ago, before the ship even got close to them.
Now here they were, with two fish in the tubes but not ready to fire. It galled him that Reinhardt was playing this game of subterfuge with the American. All the while, the Yankee had his deck guns loaded and pointed at Ariovistus and now had six torpedo tubes ready to fire at a moment’s notice.
Was this subterfuge? The thought that maybe the captain was truly hoping to abandon his homeland made Bausch ill. Their mission was far too important to risk. They needed an insurance policy.
He looked at the stone faced torpedo room crew all around him. Chief Kumanz stood by with his door wrench in his hands. The chief’s pudgy face showed no emotion, but his eyes locked onto Bausch’s with an obvious question in them.
Bausch’s gaze then met Ernst Schumer’s. He wasn’t very fond of the whipper snapper. The lad had lied to get aboard the boat and was as green as they came. Yet he did have one redeeming quality.
Schumer hated the Americans as much as Bausch did.
Schumer’s gaze seemed to flame with anger. Bausch knew that the boy wanted this mission to succeed as much as anyone. Although he couldn’t know the exact nature of what was in tubes one, two, three and four, the young man knew it was a deadly reprisal and that was good enough for him.
Then a thought struck Bausch.
The vibration of the diesel engines, which had been noticeable through the deck plating suddenly ceased. His ship was lifting her skirt, so to speak, and exposing herself to the American.
Of course, this
would open up an opportunity. Once alongside, the other submarine couldn’t fire torpedoes. They’d be too close and the fish couldn’t be aimed. The American could hit them hard with deck guns, of course… but would they?
Bausch had an idea. In one single action, he could both prepare his ship for battle and guarantee that if Reinhardt did entertain some foolish notion of surrender that this would be impossible.
“Schumer,” Bausch ordered and pointed to Kumanz, “Stand by to assist the chief. When I give the word, you two close the inner doors, flood tubes five and six and open the outer doors.”
Kumanz opened his mouth to say something but closed it again. Schumer didn’t even blink. He stepped forward and placed his hands on tube one’s inner doors.
“Quietly,” Bausch reminded the men, “As quietly as you can. Close those inner doors and trickle in the seawater, chief. Begin now…”
“All stop,” Turner said into the bridge phone.
Bull Shark coasted to a stop only a few dozen yards from the smaller ship. After a moment, a tall fit looking man in a German submariner’s jumper appeared on the sleek bridge of the U-boat.
“Captain Turner!” Reinhardt called with a wave and a friendly smile, “Thank you for your forbearance. I know this is quite unusual.”
Turner could see Eddie Carlson standing by at the forward Pom-pom. The man’s dark face was set in stone, yet he gripped the weapon’s aiming handles tightly and it was pointed right at the conning tower of the other boat.
“At ease,” Turner said softly but loud enough for the men around him to hear, “Centerline your weapons. Don’t point them. We can train round if we need to, but let’s not look too aggressive.”
There was a grumble of assent and all the weapons were trained fore and aft at ready rest. Turner turned to his counterpart, “Captain, is your entire crew in line with your desire to surrender and come ashore in the States?”