by Ken Pelham
Becker’s face was pale and haggard. Sweat glistened on his forehead. Not unusual in a submariner, but unusual in the hearty Becker. “Are you well, Becker?”
He looked at me, nodded. “A bit seasick today, I think.”
It was a lie. Becker hadn’t been seasick in four years. “Inspect the boat for further damage, from end to end,” I said. “After that, get some rest.”
The boat limped east, the batteries slowly running down.
When my watch told me that twilight was gathering above I returned to the control room. “Bow up five,” I said to Becker. “Periscope depth.” Carbon dioxide was building up in our air and we could not stay down much longer. U-498 angled upward and leveled off just below the surface. We raised periscope and I scanned the darkening horizon.
All was clear, yet I waited for total darkness. I refused to make the same mistake twice. When the night satisfied me, we surfaced and switched to diesel. The vessel picked up speed.
Our guest became impatient. “Why are we heading east?” he demanded.
“Because the enemy will be looking for us where they bombed us or where they expect us to flee, south or west. Not east, not toward the Florida peninsula. We shall turn south in due time, thirty kilometers from land. Until we leave American waters, we travel submerged by day and at the surface only under cover of darkness. It is the only sane option.”
Shreck paced back and forth for a moment, and suddenly rushed me. “Again you waste time,” he shouted. “You will turn this boat south!”
I spun on him, collared him with both fists, and shoved him against the hull. “Against my judgment, I acceded to your demand that we surface in hostile waters,” I shouted. “And you nearly sent us to our graves. No more! I am captain of this vessel!”
His hand shot under his coat and withdrew an ice pick. He handled it with a sureness that informed me that it was a practiced weapon of choice.
Three of my men drew Lugers and leveled them at Shreck. “Careful, Shreck,” I said, struggling to contain my rage. “It’s unwise to discharge guns inside a submarine; my men must really want to use them.”
The spy settled back, fire in his eyes, regarding me. He replaced the ice pick, gathered himself, rose, and stalked past me. He stopped, his eyes widening with fright, glancing about.
“Over here,” I said, nodding toward Shreck’s precious bundle. In the violence, Shreck had lost his grip on it for the first time since he’d joined us. It had fallen open and I glimpsed two gray boxes inside. He cinched it quickly closed, hefted it, and struggled past us, casting suspicious looks, and settled into a corner of the control room, scowling and mumbling. I directed him to bunk with the crew. He declined and huddled with his treasure. That was perfectly fine with me.
Becker arose from his bunk. His pallor had not improved. I placed him in charge and retired to my cabin to catch a few hours’ sleep.
As directed, Becker woke me two hours before sunrise. I noted his condition but he shrugged it off. “A full third of the men are seasick, Captain,” he said.
“Seasickness is not contagious,” I said. Shreck lay bundled where I had left him, softly snoring. I approached and kicked his boot. He stirred.
“Shreck,” I said, “You are quite ill.”
He mumbled something and sat up. “A cold,” he said sleepily. “It’s passing.”
“My men have it now.”
“Bless their poor hearts.”
“You’ve been with us one day. I’m not a doctor, but I know that flu and other viruses take days before symptoms show. So let me ask you: in God’s name, what poison did you bring aboard my ship?”
Shreck clutched his bag tighter. “A common cold, Remarque. And though the gravity of my mission is dawning on you, you are forbidden to inquire further into the matter. Now then; I believe it is time that we steer southward.”
I was tempted to cast the son-of-a-bitch overboard. “We shall see. Kohler, our position?”
“Thirty-two kilometers from the coast, Captain.”
“Depth to bottom?”
“Twenty fathoms.”
“Hofmann is still on watch topside? Good. Let’s join him.” I climbed the tower and emerged onto the bridge to find Hofmann peering out into the darkness. No stars were visible. Far to the north, silent lightning illuminated towering black thunderheads. The fresh, cool air felt good on my face.
“What news, Hofmann?” I asked.
“None, Captain. The sky will be graying in an hour.”
I peered through binoculars at the horizon. “Not a single light,” I said. “Not even the lighthouse the charts say is to the east. It would be just visible if lit; we’re at its maximum range. Wartime blackout. That’s good; there won’t be any local vessels abroad tonight. Becker, new heading, due south. Brandt, all the speed you can muster. In forty-five minutes, we dive and will be once more reduced to a crawl.”
The sub wheeled southward, heeling as it turned.
Kohler drew a sharp, sudden breath. “Captain!” He pointed twelve degrees off our starboard bow.
A pinpoint of red light glowed there, a hundred meters away.
Someone smoking a cigarette.
Lightning flashed and boomed nearby, illuminating the sea, illuminating the U-498.
The pinpoint of light suddenly went out, dropping into the sea. We heard a man shout. The boat’s engine popped and rumbled to life.
“We’ve been spotted. Light it, Kohler. To the cannon, Hofmann. Quick!”
Kohler flipped on the searchlight and swung it onto the fishing boat. Aboard it, two men scrambled, one hauling up an anchor line, the other shouting and looking into our light. The boat began to pull away.
We could not afford to have our position reported.
“Fire, Hofmann!”
The cannon blasted, spitting fire that lit the sea. Far beyond the fishing boat, a spray of water erupted.
“Steady, Hofmann,” I said. “Make it count.”
Hofmann took careful aim. The cannon roared again and the boat exploded, a fireball tearing it asunder. Flaming debris flew into the air and rained down onto the water.
I called below. “Twelve degrees starboard, two knots. Kohler, sweep the surface for survivors.”
We eased into the burning flotsam. The seas were still rough and not even a strong swimmer would last long here.
“There, Captain,” Kohler said. His beam fixed upon a single man treading water.
As we drew near, he swam farther away. “Get the hell away, you sons of bitches,” he yelled.
I addressed him in English. “Sir, unless you feel up to the challenge of swimming thirty kilometers, I suggest you surrender and exact your revenge upon us another day.”
After a moment, the man turned toward the U-498.
* * *
Kyoko stared, dumbstruck. Roscoe Nobles worked his fingers weakly. Where the bonds had bitten into his wrists, the flesh settled, open and hanging. White bone shone through red and black flesh.
“Thank... you,” he whispered.
Her mind raced, a feeling of panic creeping into her. For the first time in her life, she had no idea what to do next. The man needed urgent medical care... but would probably die anyway. And the storm was worsening. She had but one direction to go in the lighthouse. Up. But he did not appear capable of climbing the tower and she couldn’t carry him to safety with her. And she couldn’t leave him here.
Nobles seemed to guess her mind. “Leave me,” he rasped. “Blount is coming... thinks I’m trapped... still.” He coughed, his flooded lungs rattling. “I’ll... stop him.”
“You can’t stop him and I can’t leave you.”
“What... choice? None.”
“But—”
“Go!”
Kyoko heard the rattling of the door lock below her. She stood and looked into Roscoe’s destroyed face. “I’ll come back for you. We’ll both get out of this.”
Roscoe slowly shook his head.
She turned, hating herse
lf, and clambered up the creaking spiral stairs.
Nearing the top, she heard the door clatter open far below. She switched off her light and leaned over the railing, peering down into the darkness. A beam of light flickered at the bottom. Blount had returned with another flashlight.
The beam began to follow the curve of the staircase, and its light grew stronger. Soft footsteps came to her, and her hand on the railing felt the faint vibrations. Blount was climbing.
He paused where Nobles would be, and swore angrily.
What was happening?
The beam suddenly swept up toward her and for an instant she was caught in its light. She pulled away.
A gunshot rang, deafening in the hard close space inside the tower. The bullet pinged off the wall next to her and grains of concrete stung her cheek. She scrambled up the staircase and her head struck a ceiling. She reached up, felt it. Steel, set in a rectangular frame. Hinges. A trapdoor. Her fingers traced the outline of the frame and she determined that it opened upward. She shoved against it. Rust flaked off and fell into her eyes, but the door failed to budge. She heaved her shoulder painfully into it, once, twice. Still it failed to yield.
The footsteps below grew louder, quicker, ringing against steel, pounding upward and closer.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Captain Remarque’s Journal
The fisherman said his name was Andy Denton. He was bruised but in otherwise good condition. We fed and clothed him and cuffed him to a ladder. I gave him a cup of whiskey to ease his pain.
His fishing mate had been torn in half by the blast.
Denton was a strapping young man of conscription age. “Why are you not in the armed forces?” I asked.
“Not that it’s any of your Goddamn business, but I washed out on account of flat feet and diabetes.”
That was not good. He had no medicines for diabetes and we had but a tiny stock. Not enough to cross the Atlantic on. All I said was, “Lucky man.”
“Not in my book. Why’d you shoot us?”
“We could not afford witnesses. Why are you abroad at night?”
“We’re fishermen. Half the fishing fleet has gone to war. Somebody’s got to feed everybody. We spend a lot of nights on the water.”
I nodded. “I trust you will enjoy your voyage. You shall be treated well.”
“Can I get a drink of water?”
I shook my head. “We’re out of fresh water. If we’re lucky enough to catch some, you’ll get a sip.”
“You got no drinking water? How you expect to get back to Kraut Land?”
“We will collect rainwater and distill a little from seawater.”
“You’ll spend all your time collecting drops. I got a better offer for you.”
“And what might that be?”
“An unlimited supply of fresh water, a hundred yards from here. We anchored over it.”
“I have no time for nonsense.” I turned to go.
“No, hear me out! There’s a hole in the ocean here. A dang freshwater spring in the Gulf of Mexico. There’s a few of ’em up and down both coasts of Florida. Rainfall collects on land and seeps underground and goes where it goes. There’s springs all over the place and a few of ’em happen to be offshore.”
“This is true?”
“You bet. Me and my father, that you murdered, we found this spring three years ago. Pure dumb luck. We free-dive to it. Found us a couple arrowheads and stuff. Damnedest thing.”
“Your father?”
Denton nodded.
“You are taking his death remarkably well.”
Denton glared. “Don’t you go worry yourself about that.”
I decided to drop that issue. “You are sure the water will not be salty?”
“Sweetest water you ever tasted.”
“So you’ll show us this spring. I assume you want your freedom in return.”
“What you got to lose, Adolf?”
“You’ll report us as soon as you land.”
“Of course I will and I hope we bomb you into little pieces. So you fix that by dropping me off on Cuba. By the time I find an American to talk to, you’ll be a thousand miles gone.”
Denton was shrewd and something in his eyes told me that he could read people. He had no way of knowing I wouldn’t simply put a bullet through his head after he showed us to the spring. Yet he seemed to sense that I was not the barbaric sort.
“We will deposit you in Cuba. Show us the spring.”
“Can’t. Not yet anyhow. It’s nighttime and I ain’t a damn bat with night vision. Come first light, you’ll have your water.”
I thought for a moment. “We will wait until first light. That is nearly an hour of precious time we could make at top speed before having to submerge. When the sky lightens, this boat will become a target. But we need water and I will give you fifteen minutes to find and deliver the water. I will not accept failure. Do you understand?”
“You bet, Adolf. The spring’s barely reachable by free-dive. To bottle some water, I’ll need to stay down a few minutes. You got a dive helmet and suit? I’m going to need some gear and something to ship water with.”
I shook my head and turned to Becker. “Outfit him with a Dräger.” Becker left and returned with the Dräger. Resembling a baggy life vest, it was a forerunner of modern scuba and dispensed oxygen through a valve. “This is a Dräger rebreather,” I said. “Designed for escape from a sunken submarine. It will give you a few minutes of air.”
I ordered Denton to strip nude. He growled about that but relented. I showed him how to wear the Dräger. He strapped it snugly on and took the mouthpiece in and tested it. “Good enough, I guess,” he said.
We escorted him to the deck. The seas had slackened and the eastern sky grayed as dawn approached. When the sky and sea resolved into distinct planes, Denton asked for binoculars. I handed him mine and he searched the eastern horizon. “There’s the Hammond Lighthouse,” he said, pointing. “Brigands Key. Where I live. The lighthouse is dark these days, but you can just see the tip of it over the curve of the Earth.” He looked southeast. “And Bishop Bay Lighthouse, way over yonder.” He held up his hand to arm’s length and counted six palm-widths between the lighthouses. “We ain’t drifted far since you blasted me off the water. Go north about a quarter-mile.”
I took the binoculars from him and looked all around. All clear. I ordered the new course and the U-498 headed north.
After a minute or so, Denton pointed and said, “There she is.” I followed his direction and spotted a small object apparently adrift forty meters ahead. We closed on it, and I could see that it was merely a glass jar bobbing in the water, nearly invisible.
“If Daddy and me had a marked our little secret with a buoy, some bastard would have found it. We marked it with trash, a hundred yards east of the actual spot.”
“Clever,” I said.
Five empty barrels were brought onto the deck for water collection. Each was filled with seawater to allow them to sink. The idea was that the full barrels would be dropped by ropes above the spring and guided by Denton into its mouth. The barrels would be opened and tipped and the denser seawater would settle out and the less-dense freshwater would replace it.
Over the side man and barrels went.
Two minutes later, a tug came on one rope. We hauled the first barrel onto deck. I opened the valve and water trickled into my cupped palms. I tasted it. The water was fresh and cold.
As the second barrel was hauled aboard, the deck shuddered beneath my feet. Startled glances passed among my men. I motioned to Becker. “Accompany me to the engine room.” As I scrambled down the ladder of the tower into the control room, the vessel shuddered again, accompanied by an ominous groan of metal.
I had heard that sound before. It was a ship’s death-knell.
* * *
Kyoko desperately threw her shoulder against the unyielding trapdoor above her. The door creaked but held fast.
A second gunshot reverberated thro
ugh the lighthouse. The bullet plucked at Kyoko’s blouse and ricocheted off the wall, striking the steel handrail beside her with a clang. The handrail shook, bent outward by the bullet.
She grabbed the bent rail and pulled it inward. It yielded slowly; the bullet had torn through the rotted metal.
The footsteps were close now.
She strained against the broken rail. With a snap it broke free, sending her falling backward and into the rail opposite her. She teetered, losing her grip, and nearly tumbled over the rail. She regained her balance, gripped the rail, and jammed its sharp, broken end between the steel door and its frame.
She lifted herself bodily off the platform, using all her weight. The steel shaft crow-barred the door upward a hair. She pulled down hard on the rail.
The footsteps stopped, just below. She could hear the panting of the man.
With a pop, the door jerked upward, fell, and slammed back into its frame. Kyoko fell to the deck, scrambled to her feet, pushed open the door, and bounded up the stairs. She slammed the door shut behind her.
The door jumped open a few inches as Blount shoved it. Kyoko threw herself onto the door, forcing it shut again.
Blount swore and pushed again.
Kyoko whipped the flashlight about, taking in her surroundings. Glass walls encircled the small round room. In the center stood a gigantic glittering glass, the Fresnel lens, standing taller than her. Light played through the great lens, splitting and dancing among the dozens of angular glass ribs that encircled its surface.
She returned her attention to the trapdoor. Two small metal rings attached the frame on either side of it, apparently a security measure. She slid the metal railing through the rings and stepped back.
The door shook and yielded a fraction of an inch, but held.
Blount was barred on the other side, cursing and pounding on the door.
The windows rattled in a powerful gust of wind. She clicked off the flashlight, wiped the glass, pressed her face to it and peered out.
After the inky blackness of the lighthouse interior, the world outside resolved itself in the charcoal twilight of the predawn. She caught her breath. She had read of the fury of a hurricane and had seen the film of flying debris and falling trees. The reality of a Category 5 was far worse. She doubted anyone possessed film of that type of event.