Submerged

by Thomas F Monteleone

  “According to some captured Czech documents, the Bell was reportedly a metallic object, approximately 9 feet in diameter and 12 to 15 feet tall, which vaguely resembled a bell, which gave rise to the codename die Glocke. It was comprised of two counter-rotating cylinders. Like centrifuges. Inside was a purplish, liquid-metallic-looking substance which was code-named ‘Xerum 525’ by the Germans. The machine rotated the Xerum 525 at extremely high speeds. The substance gave off an extremely high amount of radiation which the Germans called ‘Tau,’ and they kept the substance in lead-lined containers twelve inches thick.”

  Entwhistle had leaned forward, clearly intrigued. “Is there more?”

  Sinclair nodded, continued: “The Bell required outrageously high amounts of electrical power to operate, and could only be run for approximately one to two minutes at a time. It apparently gave off strong radiation and/or other electromagnetic or unknown field effects. Rumors insist many scientists and technicians were killed during the lifetime of the experiments with the device.”

  “What the fuck were those jokers messing with?”

  “No one knows for sure,” said Sinclair as he resumed. “Another captured document claims that tests involving various plants and animals caused them, in every case, to be transformed into a ‘blackish ooze’ without normal putrefaction, within a matter of a few minutes or hours after exposure to its field effects when in operation. In addition, technicians near the Bell during these experiments reported metallic tastes in their mouths after being exposed to it. The chamber where the Bell was tested was lined with ceramic bricks and rubber mats, all of which were replaced after each test. The removed linings needed to be burned in a high temperature furnace, and the unlined chamber walls were scrubbed with brine by concentration camp laborers.”

  Entwhistle shook his head slowly. “What happened to it? To the people who worked on it? How come nobody ever spilled the beans?”

  “It says here the project was so classified, all but the top scientists were routinely executed and replaced on a rigid schedule. The Bell itself was transplanted out of Silesia to a destination that has never been discovered. It is believed Dr. Bernhard Jaeger was a project director on the Bell, along with General Hans Friedrich Karl Franz Kammler, but they, along with their device, simply vanished, never to be seen again.”

  “Sounds like mythology to me,” said Entwhistle, but his tone of respect belied his supposed skepticism.

  “Well, somebody believes it. The most prevalent theory based on incomplete evidentiary shreds suggests that both the Bell and Jaeger were transported by U-boat to a base outside of the Reich.”

  “Station One Eleven, of course.”

  “It is a possibility.”

  “I need to have a look at all that claptrap.”

  Sinclair grinned, handed him the folder. “It’s all in there. After you’re through, just be sure to put it through the heat-shredder.”

  “I wouldn’t dare forget,” said Entwhistle. He paused, as if ordering his thoughts, then: “So what do you think? If the Guild is interested in that base, do you think we’ll be having any competition from the rest of the world?”

  Sinclair shook his head slowly. “Hard to figure that. You never know how efficient any clusterfuck bureaucracy is going to function.”

  His Second smiled. “On target, there, mate.”

  “If any of them took notice of the U-5001 news, it may take some time to work its way to the right desk. Or…it may never happen.”

  “But we work from the assumption everyone is as sharp as we are.”

  “Only way we stay in business.” Sinclair smiled. “But you can bet the farm if there’s anything of use to the Guild, they will want it and they will get it.”

  Entwhistle nodded, picked up the datafile, began reading through it. Sinclair tapped his fingers silently on the console, wondering what kind of action they would be taking, and upon whom.

  Twenty minutes later, Sinclair received an updated briefing. And as he was fond of saying…it wasn’t pretty.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dex

  The Chesapeake Bay

  Morning.

  Coffee. Dream fragments still bubbling up to the surface of his thoughts. Dex was certain his deep sleep had been filled with images and ideas from Bruckner’s journal, but there was no remembering much of it.

  Didn’t matter, though. He knew he had to concentrate on the business of the day. This was it. Last dive. Dex could just feel it.

  After stowing all his gear, including the slab of inter-matter, in the F-150, he headed out down to the docks. As he drove the familiar streets just as the sun was coming up, he kept going over what he’d learned about the mystery U-boat, and what it could all mean.

  The Nazis had used the five-thousand level numbering sequence—most likely to indicate a new model, a new class—and it had never made it into their registries probably because the war ended so soon after it had been launched.

  So what was it?

  Dex had a pretty good idea and that was why today’s dive had him more than a little freaked. So much so he hadn’t shared his thoughts with anybody yet.

  The Germans classified their boats by “type” as well as number. They obviously scrambled to get out a special boat that was probably a new type as well. Dex knew they’d gotten a few jet fighters off the ground—until we B-17’d their jet fuel refineries. They even had mini-ICBMs—the V2 rockets. They might have been planning some kind of really nasty sub, maybe like a boomer.

  Dex had seen film of V-1 rockets being launched off the decks of the Type XXIs. Their engineers were years ahead of us. If we hadn’t pounded their factories when we did, they could have made things a lot worse on us, that’s for damned sure.

  When he reached the Sea Dog, he was glad to see Don Jordan already on deck waiting for him. Andy Mellow and Kevin Cheever were there too.

  “Hey,” said Dex. “Still waiting on Doc and Tommy?”

  Don nodded, then pointed up at the sky. “Looks like we might get some rain. Some chop too. How long you figure you guys’ll be down there?”

  “Just two of us to start—me and Tommy on the first dive. I want to check a few things and maybe cop an ID tag in the torpedo room. We’ll know almost right away whether or not we can get to it.”

  “That it? Nothing else?”

  Dex sat down on the bench by the suit lockers, shrugged. “Well, I think I’d like to get a look inside that hangar deck.”

  “Okay, but we gotta keep an eye on the weather,” Don said.

  “Gotcha.” Dex peeled off his jacket and sweatshirt, feeling the cold, early morning air brace him. When he was halfway into his drysuit, he saw Tommy pull into the parking lot. He jumped out of his vehicle with a duffel in one hand.

  “All we need is Doc and we’ll be ready to go.”

  Andy moved next to Dex, sat down. “How long before the Coast Guard does us in?”

  Dex shrugged. “Hard to tell how much publicity Mike’s wife wants on the whole thing, plus you never know when you’re dealing with bureaucracy and the media. We could be national news…or not even show up on the radar.”

  “Crazy,” said Kevin. “But sadly true.”

  “So look, let’s get out there and see what we find, okay?” Dex checked his regulator. “If the story breaks, like I said before, we most likely won’t have a chance to get down there like this ever again. I don’t want to be anywhere near this thing when all the treasure-hunters start showing up.”

  “It could be that bad, huh?” Andy said.

  Dex nodded. “Trust me.”

  The sound of a horn blowing in the parking lot caught their attention as Larry Schissel pulled to a halt with a screech of tires on gravel.

  “Gang’s all here,” said Don.

  They all continued to get ready to depart as Doc jogged up the dock and gan
gwayed aboard. “Sorry I’m late, guys.”

  “No big deal,” said Dex. “Take your time getting suited up. You can go down on the last rotation.”

  Doc grinned. “Fine with me.”

  Don Jordan headed for the bridge. “I’ll flip on the base unit and get us outta here ASAP.”

  Dex nodded, waited few ticks till Don clicked on the bridge’s Divelink.

  “Okay, sound check,” said Don. “You copy?”

  “I got ya, captain. Ready to shove off?”

  “Any time you are. Loose those ties.”

  Dex heard the big Detroit engines kick in as he unmoored the Dog. The boat eased out away from its slip, moved into the harbor and headed for the Bay. Row after row of silent vessels flanked their departure like a deployment of sentries lining the path from their fortress. Dex moved back to the bench, next to Tommy. His many years of Navy training started to kick in and he went with it.

  Feeling his anxiety warp his thoughts, he knew there was no place for that kind of crap underwater. No matter how pressured he might feel, he had to slip into a state of calm resolution. Don’t let anything cloud his judgment, his ability to survive in or around that wreck.

  Take a couple of long, slow, deep breaths, he told himself, then headed up to the bridge to make sure he and Don had everything under control.

  “Okay, Chief, I’ve locked in the coordinates,” said Don. “We’ll be there in no time.”

  Dex nodded, he thought about telling him what he found in the log, then figured it could wait till they got to dry land.

  “You getting any weather reports?” he said as he looked up at the gray dome of sky all around them.

  “Not great. Could be a storm in a few hours or it might blow over. Either way, we won’t have too many pleasure boaters around to get in our way.”

  “Okay. If things look iffy, you call us in. You’re in charge up here, remember that.”

  “Got ya,” said Don, who looked out across the bleak water as the silhouette of the Bay Bridge appeared out of the mist dead ahead. Turning to Dex, he spoke softly. “So, what’s it all mean? What’re we gonna do with the sub?”

  Dex shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess we can finish up our research about it. Feel good that we added to history a little bit. And forget about it. It’ll be a popular spot for the rest of the wreck-and-salvage guys for awhile. I don’t want anything to do with that.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Don smiled and returned his attention to the thickening gray sky, which was making the water of the Chesapeake look like old dishwater.

  “I’m going down and check the tri-mix in the tanks,” he said. “Give me a yell when we’re getting close.”

  Don nodded as he helmed the Sea Dog farther south into the Bay.

  Climbing down to the main deck, Dex opened the hatch to the dive salon. Once inside, he ran through a series of checklist stuff on their equipment—regulators, dive computers, Ikelites, collection bags. Everything looked fine. Dex grabbed the underwater videocam, and hooked it to his utility belt. Last chance, probably, to get any good images. Then he clipped on a mesh collection bag and sealed the metal slab inside it. If he was going to keep that thing close at hand, that was about as close as you could get it. Besides, it was good dive ballast. Just then Don yelled down to them: “Five minutes, guys!”

  “Okay, we’ll be ready!”

  Pulling on his tanks, Tommy moved toward the aft end of the crew boat, staring down into the murky water. “Just give me the word…”

  Dex moved next to him, said nothing. They were both standing on the dive platform at the end of the boat, watching the bridge for Don to give them the thumbs-up as soon as he spotted the safe-line buoy.

  “It’s weird,” said Tommy, still staring into the water. “After reading that stuff last night, I feel like I know so much more about those guys than the last time we went down there, you know?”

  Dex nodded.

  “So the three guys, they scuttled the boat right out here, right below us.” Tommy whistled. “That is so weird, huh?”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” said Dex.

  “Wonder what happened to them?”

  “I’m thinking the same thing.”

  Tommy shook his head. “Too bad. Like, we’ll never know, huh?”

  Dex said nothing. He’d just seen Don give them the signal, and sure enough, there was the marker buoy on the starboard side of the Dog.

  Adjusting their mics and masks, they both dropped into the Bay.

  This late into spring, the water was supposed to be getting warmer, but its wintry pulse still tried to penetrate Dex’s suit as he knifed beneath its choppy surface. Tommy’s effervescent entry beside him marked the beginning of their descent—a mission they would need to conduct with great care. Visibility was surprisingly clear, especially if there were storm currents gathering, and Dex didn’t figure on much hassle.

  He was right. At fifty-seven feet, he could see a darker shape against the bottom. Reacting almost simultaneously, Tommy kicked downward and eased on down to the conning tower where they’d left the hatches open. Dex checked on the sealed case of videocam, then handed it to Tommy.

  “You wanna go first?” he said.

  “Nah.” Dex waved him in. “I’m right behind you.”

  Tommy nodded, switched on the video, and started in.

  Without warning, Dex was smacked with a memory of the last time he’d been in this sub, when he’d been trying to keep Mike Bielski alive. The images of Mike’s eyes behind his faceplate still haunted Dex, and he forced it from his thoughts. No way he could allow himself the distraction.

  Once inside the control deck, Dex followed his torch beam to show the way to the forward torpedo room. Checking his tool belt, he eyed the mini pry-bar, snips, and pliers he might need if they found what they were looking for. The passage was remarkably clear, and all the hatches down the line were open—because of the scuttle, no doubt. That made their progress almost effortless without the need to struggle with any sealed doors or stuck handles.

  “Okay, Don,” said Dex into his mic. “We’re about halfway down the aft section. All clear so far.”

  “Copy that. Just be careful.”

  Despite the easy access, he and Tommy still moved slowly. Their torchlights played along the steel bulkheads, occasionally touching on an object still recognizable beneath the crust of marine growth. Shelves of canned goods, junction boxes of wires and pipes, and a fire axe caught Dex’s eye. Tommy was getting good images of everything.

  As he moved along, he was again impressed by the sheer size of the vessel. Even by today’s standards, this remained a big sub. Absently, he wondered how she’d handled, and imagined her German engineering was the only reason a crew of three had been able to drive her to this final destination.

  “Okay, what’s that up there?” said Tommy. “That the one we’re looking for?”

  Up ahead, glowing faintly in Dex’s light, he saw the half-open door; its red paint indicating the torpedo room, was flaking off in many places.

  “That’s it. And I guess I don’t have to tell you to be extra careful in there. Just in case they left any live rounds laying around,” said Dex. “You on that, Donnie? We’re almost there.”

  “Gotcha. Keep me in the loop.”

  “Didn’t the captain say he dumped all the torpedoes?” said Tommy.

  “The captain said a lot of things.”

  “What’s that?” said Don.

  “Tell you later,” said Dex as he motioned Tommy to sshhh.

  “Okay, why don’t you go first?”

  “Sounds good to me.” Dex eased his shoulder against the hatch and exhaled slowly as he felt it move with little resistance. Once he floated past the bulkhead, the first thing he noticed was the amount of open space in the chamber—another testament to the larger size of the
boat.

  Torpedo racks ran the length of the room on both sides, and true to Bruckner’s log, all were empty.

  “Looks clear, Tommy. Come on in.”

  As his dive partner slipped past the open hatch, Dex moved close enough to inspect the doors to the torpedo tubes, and saw what he was looking for almost right away. Under the strong beam of his torch, he could see the outer edge of a metal tag on the center tube door. Scraping the faceplate clear with the edge of his pry-bar, Dex could read the engraved lettering clearly:

  U-5001

  Germaniawerft, Kiel

  30 March 1945

  The boat’s number, shipyard, city, and launch date. That locked it up, and gave that extra layer of proof to the log and the translation.

  “That’s it,” he said. “U-5001. We got all the positive ID we need. Get a little closer and get some good shots.”

  “Got it,” said Tommy. “You were right on the dime, Chief.”

  Using his tools, Dex broke the tag loose without extensive effort, and slipped it into his collection bag. He checked his gauges, then signaled Tommy to back out of the torpedo room.

  “We have enough time to check that hatch to the aft deck-housing if you want,” he said.

  Tommy gave him a thumbs-up. “This might be our last chance. Let’s do it.”

  Several minutes of careful maneuvering had them in the engine room amidst the crumbling banks of batteries. Atop a short ladder lay the access hatch to the deck above them. Tommy floated up and gave the wheel a wrenching yank counter-clockwise—it should have been enough to break open the seal, but the hatch refused to disengage.

  “Hmmmm,” he said. “Stuck.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Dex.

  Tommy braced himself as best he could with tanks and equipment in the way, pulled again.

  This time, there was a loud squeak as the hatch wheel turned.

  “How ’bout that? You want me to go up first?”

  “Easy. Slow. Just get your head up there and take a look first, okay?

  Tommy nodded and he worked his hand holding his big flashlight up ahead of him. “Looks really dark up there.”