Submerged

by Thomas F Monteleone

  Erich nodded. “I know. I have heard all the same reasons as you. Although, even Goering admitted the firestorm was unexpected. And the Brits tried to justify it as payback for Coventry before that.”

  “Yes, I have heard all that.”

  Erich felt disgusted by it all. “Well, what the hell are we talking about, Manny? Are we in a fucking war, or not?”

  Fassbaden flushed—either from embarrassment or anger, it did not matter. “Yes, we are…”

  “So I ask you—do we continue the madness, or do we stop it?”

  “That is sounding fearfully noble, Captain.”

  Erich knew his friend was serious when he addressed him as “Captain.” He used the formality as a means of distancing himself from his friend. “Is that such a bad thing? I have to tell you—I am weary of being a soldier.”

  “You are not alone in that.”

  “If we drop a bomb on New York,” said Erich. “We will not bring back Dresden. Or anyone else who died in this mess.”

  “I know, I know,” said Fassbaden. “I am not comfortable making decisions like this. It makes me question my own purpose. Whether or not I have wasted my time, my life.”

  “I think that is a question most soldiers must face.”

  “More so for the ones who fight on the losing side.” Manny grinned with absolutely no humor intended.

  “It is natural to feel this way. You do not have to explain yourself.” Erich smiled the fatherly smile all captains practice in the mirror. “In the meantime, I trust you took some great care in selecting two crews.”

  “Two?” His exec looked at him with curiosity. Manny tilted his head, raked his large hand through his hair again.

  “One for the rescue team. And the other to stay here and take care of my boat.”

  “Where do you want me?” said Fassbaden.

  “I want someone on board I can trust, and that would be you. But I also want you with me.”

  “Sounds like you have a problem.”

  “I think Massenburg can keep things under control here,” said Erich, who valued the Warrant Officer’s age, experience, and loyalty.

  “Agreed.”

  “All right, get the lifeboat ready for launch. Crew of six, not counting us. Make sure Bischoff is one of them—it’s not that I do not trust him alone, but I feel better having such a party loyalist close at hand. And get me that troublemaker, Liebling. I want him in my sights as well.”

  “Armament?”

  “MP40’s and sidearms for everyone but Liebling. Give him the toolbox and the radio—he can be Bischoff’s mule.”

  Standing, Fassbaden smiled as he adjusted his officer’s cap, then moved to the door. “We will be ready in five minutes. I will inform the Chief.”

  * * *

  Erich walked to his wardrobe, opened a drawer in its footlocker, and retrieved his holstered Walther P38. As he snapped it over his belt, Chief Warrant Officer Massenburg reported for duty, and Erich briefed him quickly.

  The old salt was such a professional sailor, he never asked for a clarification, never hesitated as he reviewed his orders and expectations. While the U-5001 was under Helmut’s watch, he would tolerate no abuses or derelictions; punishment would be swift and uncompromising.

  Leaving his Chief on the control deck, Erich felt confident all would be well when he returned. He climbed the ladder to the open bridge to find Fassbaden and his handpicked crew loading the last of their gear into the lifeboat, which was an inflatable large enough to carry twelve men in a pinch. The U-5001 was equipped with enough of them to evacuate an entire crew if necessary—an event he did not want to contemplate.

  As he reached the main deck, Erich could not help but notice how utterly calm the water was in this subterranean place. The U-boat lay so steady and immobile, it could have been set in concrete. While not contained by a palpable fog, there was a humidity in the air, thick enough to cloud the landscape that enclosed them. Features and details in the distance were shrouded in a thin, but concealing mist—including the source of light and heat Erich wanted to discover.

  Fassbaden awaited him on the relatively small section of deck between the conning tower and the swell of the hangar, which defined the hump-backed shape of much of the aft section. Behind him, a short, heavyset man with reddish-brown hair stood glaring at him.

  “Ready to shove off?” said Erich.

  “Yes, Captain.” Manny gestured with his eyes to indicate the man at his back. “But first, Seaman Liebling requests a word with you.”

  Normally, Erich would not have appreciated one of his men doing such a thing, but in this instance, he welcomed it.

  “What is it, sailor?”

  Liebling stepped out from behind Manny’s tall presence. “Captain, I only wish to make my case clear—I am not a submariner.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, captain.”

  “How is it, then, that I just saw you emerge from a submarine?”

  The man’s voice was a bit high-pitched, and his tone was one of careful indignation. “I was dragooned onto this boat only hours before it pushed off, and—”

  “I am well aware of your situation,” said Erich, cutting him off. “Do you think for an instant I would not know everything there is to know about everyone on this boat?”

  Liebling looked suitably surprised, but marshaled himself to push on. “Yes, Captain, I am sure you do, and I do not wish to suggest otherwise. I only mention it because I feel I am unfit for this…this present mission.”

  Erich remained silent for a moment, letting this jackass twist in the wind a bit. Then: “Do you recall me asking you how you ‘feel’ about this mission?”

  “No, sir, I do not.”

  “Do you believe you might be a better judge of the fitness of this boat’s personnel than its captain?”

  Liebling’s lower lip quivered, either from anger or anxiety. “No, sir, I do not.”

  “Then why do you address me on the subject?”

  “Quite simply, Captain, since you have asked—I do not wish to go.”

  Erich looked at Liebling with the dispassion of a lion eyeing its next meal. A hush had settled over the men in the lifeboat as they collectively looked up to watch the small drama playing out. After perhaps a minute of silence, Erich slowly unholstered his Walther.

  Liebling’s eyes widened. Several men drew in tight breaths, held them. “I am within my command to simply shoot you on a charge of mutiny,” said Erich. “But for now, this will suffice…”

  Holding his sidearm by its barrel, he backhanded Liebling across his face, driving the heavy handle across his upper jaw and nose. The blow was administered with stunning quickness and Liebling’s knees folded him into a limp heap, which toppled off the deck and into the water between the sloping hull and the rubber boat.

  “Yank him out of there,” said Erich as several of the men moved quickly to haul Liebling over the gunwale like a gaffed fish. Blood streamed over his face from the calculated glancing blow; his eyes had rolled back toward his forehead. He was conscious, but just barely.

  When Erich looked back at Manny, his exec was trying to stifle a smile. “Quite a memorable statement, Captain.”

  “Glad you appreciated it,” said Erich. “Let us push off.”

  They both climbed into the boat, and the crew eased it away from the huge bulk of the U-5001. As they slipped oars into the green glass surface, the sound of their splashing sounded like a violation of the sacred silence of the place. Erich directed them toward the far shore, above which hovered the strange source of light.

  As they glided away from their boat, Manny looked back and attempted to get a visual fix on its position in case they might lose it in the mist. A precaution in the event the batteries of Bischoff’s funkmaat failed. Liebling huddled alone in the stern, holding a kerchief to the side o
f his face. He averted his gaze from Erich, and that was exactly the posture he wanted from garbage scow material such as him.

  “Take her ninety degrees of starboard,” said Erich to the men on the oars. “Use the light source as your target.”

  “I brought this along,” said Manny, lifting a Leica rangefinder camera from the outer pocket of his field vest. “So we will have a record.”

  “Good thinking.” Erich stared ahead into the gossamer mist, which hung close to the water’s surface, possibly because of well-defined layers of differing air temperatures. “Bischoff. Try to raise the Station again.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Erich looked into the mist and the curious light source.

  “Whether they reply or not,” he said. “Soon we will have some real answers.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dex

  Crofton and Little Italy

  It was dusk by the time Dex reached his neighborhood. All the townhouses on his street had windows aglow with television light; everybody doing the same silly thing. Funny how most people ran their lives—like they were all following the identical, dull script; all cast in the same vapid play. Even though he’d always been glad to have escaped that fate, right now he almost longed for a little more of the purely mundane existence.

  Pulling into the garage, Dex killed the engine, hit the Genie door-closer, and reached for the backpack on the passenger seat. He was hungry, thirsty, and dog-tired, but he knew he had a long night ahead of him, and he wanted to be out on the water at first light. He grabbed the pack—which held the Nazi captain’s little box and Tommy’s bar of weird metal from the sub—and headed inside. Just in case he might need his laptop, he was stopping in to grab it before leaving for Tommy’s place. As he was loading it into its case, he glanced at the thin, lightweight Canon scanner on the corner of his desk. A notion struck him—another one of his hunches. Just to be sure, he stuffed the scanner and cable into his backpack.

  A Guinness and a sandwich later, as he was heading back out the door, his cell phone rang. When he saw Kevin Cheever’s name on the ID, he accepted the call.

  The first minutes of the call rehashed the whole thing with Mike, and Dex figured Kevin needed to just get it off his chest. And not surprisingly, his wife was talking in the background about how she didn’t want him anywhere near the sub anymore.

  “Well,” said Dex. “Tell her after tomorrow, she probably won’t have to worry about it.”

  Kevin understood the lid had been lifted on their discovery. They couldn’t count on the Coast Guard keeping any secrets. “I hear you. No way to tell who will want to join the party when the news breaks.”

  “Anything else we want to know about this boat, I figure, is going to have to happen tomorrow.” Dex turned off the kitchen light as he talked. Headed out to the garage.

  “We can handle it.”

  “I know we can.”

  “Funny, though,” said Kevin. “I have this weird feeling about that boat.”

  “You got that, bro.” Dex knew exactly what Kevin was talking about. “Like there’s more to it than we’ve been able to figure so far. And I’m not just talking about the hangar on the aft deck…even though that is very cool.”

  “No damage to the hull. Looks like they scuttled it.”

  “I agree. So the real question is why?”

  “Yeah, and what happened to the crew? And how come nobody has a record of the boat?”

  “Somebody does.” said Dex. “We just need to find out who it is.”

  “Which reminds me—I already put out a feeler,” said Kevin. “I think I mentioned it. One of my guys at the lab, Sal, he has a pal at the Naval Historical Center in Southeast.”

  “The Navy Yard,” said Dex. He knew the place pretty well but he didn’t know much about the Historical Center.

  “Sal already called them. They said they’d have to check and get back to him. Official records is what we want. A lot better than the stuff on the web. You never know what’s accurate on half of that crap.”

  “Okay, see what you can find out. Meanwhile, I’ll see you on the Dog in the morning. Regular time.”

  Dex was in his truck by the time he punched out the call, alone with his thoughts as he pushed his pickup up I-97 just as nightfall settled over it.

  * * *

  A half-hour later he was looking for a parking space in Little Italy. It was an interesting little neighborhood comprised of a grid of short blocks, narrow streets, and century-old brick rowhouses maybe fifteen feet wide and fifty deep. Tommy had inherited one of them on High Street, right up from Da Mimmo’s restaurant. The entire block was always full of cars, and Dex had to park a few blocks away.

  But he didn’t really care because he liked walking through the neighborhood. Decades earlier, it had become surrounded by some of the worst slums and benighted government housing projects, but it had survived brilliantly. An island of culture and cleanliness, both physical and spiritual, Little Italy was a safe, vibrant monument to people who understood the value and reward of self-reliance. Suffused with so many restaurants, it was hard to imagine how they all made money. But they did; the sidewalks were always crowded with regulars and tourists. Definitely a place to be in Baltimore.

  “Hey, man, c’mon in!” said Tommy only a second or two after Dex knocked on the door. “I’ve been waitin’ for ya.”

  Dex eased through the door carrying his laptop bag in one hand, his backpack in the other. “How’s it going, Tommy?”

  The young firefighter shrugged, took another pull off the Moretti he was drinking. “I don’t know, Dex. I just can’t believe it, you know. Mike bein’ dead…it’s like so weird. So hard to believe.”

  “I know what you’re saying. Now maybe you’ll understand a little better why I went off on you.”

  “Say no more, man.” Tommy rubbed his chin with the back of his hand as if to wipe away the embarrassment he obviously still felt.

  “Look, we’ve got to push through it, that’s all. Nothing else we can do.” Dex stood in the center of a narrow living room, still crammed with the inherited, old-fashioned furniture from Tommy’s uncle. On the walls, other than some Baltimore City Fire Department commendations in Walmart frames, it didn’t look like Tommy was much of a decorator.

  “Ya wanna beer before we get started?” Tommy held up his own as if to remind Dex what they looked like.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Tommy retrieved a bottle from a forty-year-old Frigidaire, then led him down a narrow staircase to a basement—half of which had been finished off in sagging ceiling tiles and ugly linoleum. Tommy used it for storage and it was filled with boxes and junk. Beyond it, running to the back of the house’s foundation, lay the furnace and water heater, plus a big workbench, over which Tommy reached up and flicked on a big fluorescent light.

  “Whaddya think of this piece,” said Tommy, patting a professional grade drill press with obvious affection. It shared space with a small lathe covered with the dust of disuse.

  Dex dropped his backpack on the bench, retrieved the stainless steel box. “I think it’s exactly what we need.”

  Tommy smiled. “Great. You know how to run it?”

  “I can be dangerous enough on it.”

  “Okay, it’s plugged in. Let’s give it a rip.”

  After lining up the lock and latch assembly with the metal-chewing bit, Dex grabbed the press handle and slowly eased the business-end down. The perfect balance and mass of the drill press gently kissed the surface of the lock and almost gently bore into the metal assembly holding the box fast. Within a few minutes, the steel mechanism of the lock had surrendered to the carbide invader. Although it had heated up fast, the box had opened with a minimum of damage. As Dex looked at it, he knew whatever it held would still be unscathed, even though the steel chips curling off the box were still smok
ing.

  “Like butter,” said Tommy.

  “Hot butter. Watch it, the friction heats it up quick.”

  Grabbing a screwdriver, Dex popped open the box, which had been as dark and silent as a tomb for more than sixty years. Amazingly, the interior was dry and clean; it contained folded envelopes, a leather breast-pocket wallet, and another military medal.

  “Hey, looks like Christmas mornin’,” said Tommy. “Whatta we got here?”

  The first thing Dex removed was the flat leather wallet, which he unfolded to reveal a sheaf of documents.

  “Man, look at that,” said Tommy.

  The one on top was a small, gray booklet, emblazoned with the standard, Bauhaus-style Nazi eagle. Under the image a single word: Wehrpas. Dex opened it, and a black-and-white photograph of a young man in civilian clothes (suit jacket, white shirt, and tie) looked back at him. The man had blondish hair, large dark eyes, and a chiseled jaw. If not for the inked traces of various government stamps, his photo could have been a “publicity still” for one of the old Hollywood matinee idols. But this one lacked the posed dreaminess of many of those old shots. This man appeared serious, intelligent, and full of energetic vision. Under the photo was a place for his signature, and his printed name.

  “Erich Heinz Bruckner,” said Dex. “Our captain.”

  “What’s that, his passport?” Tommy reached out, barely touched it with his fingers as if it were a magic amulet.

  “Something like that. But strictly military. See these tables and spaces on the right pages? That’s where they kept track of your service—ranks, promotions, assignments, duty tours, commendations, all that stuff. You were to keep this with you at all times.”

  “Is that what the guys in the movies are always talking about when they say ‘your papers’?” Tommy chuckled at his small humor.

  “Yeah, one of them.” Dex pulled the next item from the box—a tan booklet similar to the first one. Under the eagle carrying the swastika was the word Soldbuch, and beneath that the word Kriegsmarine.

  “And this one too.”