Somehow groping his way inside the laundromat, he snatched his clothes from the machine and beat a hasty retreat back to the boat. He spent the next day and a half rinsing thickened goo out of clothes with a hose and nozzle beside the dock.
Wayne added to the gaiety after Dirk came back from a toy store in town and produced a pirate costume. Wayne waved the Jolly Roger flag, donned a pirate hat, eyepatch, and a hook. Then he would sneak up on the French security people spying on us, threaten them with his plastic hook, and shout, " Haarr-rh! " I would have given my left foot to read the reports that were written by French security on our activities.
After two weeks of futile combat, I struck our flag. I felt there was nothing more to be accomplished. The French admiral refused to capitulate. He played his cards with great anal retentiveness. I still don't recall his name. I turned over my records, charts, and projections to the French schoolteacher who acted as our translator rather than carry them back to Colorado with me on the airplane. He agreed to keep them safe until my return. I was sure we would get the mess ironed out during the coming months and come back with a permit in hand the following summer.
Short of mooning the customs officials as we departed Cherbourg Harbor, I could not stop myself from firing the last shot. Since a side scan search for Alabama involved a fairly extensive grid, I could not risk that attempt, knowing the French Navy would be all over us before lunch. But I figured that finding a ship the size of Leopoldville within a short time was far from impossible. Paying our dock fees and casting off, we set sail for her grave early one morning before the sun came up.
Playing cat and mouse with government officials in a foreign country is not a game for amateurs, and I was about as green as a farm boy staring up at tall buildings in Fargo, North Dakota. The trick was to find Leopoldville, identify it, then beat it out of French waters to Britain.
Though no helicopters flew over the dock, and we did not spot any binoculars aimed in our direction, I still assumed we were being observed every inch of the way. If Arvor III was followed, then all bets were off, and we would continue over the horizon for Britain.
Our one advantage was that Wayne and I had requested permission to search only for Alabama. We never mentioned Leopoldville. Since Arvor III was heading away from the Confederate raider's final resting place, with our course set west toward Weymouth, England, I hoped it appeared to the French officials that we had given up and were leaving Cherbourg for good.
Strangely, Leopoldville is mismarked on nautical charts of the Cherbourg area. There is a large wreck marked about a mile to the north, but its position is not where we found the ill-fated troopship.
I decided to take the Admiralty position as gospel and work from there.
I was leery of dropping the side scan over the side. Should we spot a helicopter or fast boat heading in our direction, it would take us too long to pull in the sensor and shut down the equipment before they saw what we were up to. We would literally be caught in the act.
Because we were hunting for an object nearly 500 feet in length and 62 feet wide, I gambled on using only our boat's built-in echo sounder.
This meant we had to go almost directly over Leopoldville in order to record its hulk. Again, I deviated from my normal routine of mowing the lawn within either a square or rectangular search grid. I asked Jimmy to throw out a small buoy over the Admiralty's position and then circle around it, working outward and widening each spiral circumference. The seabed was flat with a depth of 160 feet.
An hour and twenty minutes into the chase, the echo sounder recorded an anomaly rising 60 feet off the bottom. It was a lucky hit.
Two more passes confirmed a huge, long object pointed toward Cherbourg, but on a slight angle, no doubt caused by currents swinging Leopoldville on her anchor before she sank. She lies just 300 meters northwest of the recorded position. Our navigation readings put her at 49 44 40 by 01 36 40.
I regretted that we had no wreath to drop over the side, or a ceremony prepared. Though the sun was shining brightly, it didn't take great imagination to picture that night of horror. We slowly circled the wreck, watching its mass rise from the bottom on the echo sounder.
It was a heartrending moment, but we knew the French Navy would not allow us to hang around. We all kept one eye aimed on the entrance to Cherbourg Harbor.
"Throw out the side scan," demanded Dirk.
"Be nice to see more of her," said Jimmy.
"No peeky, no findy," added Bill.
I'm easy. Over went the sensor, on went the power to the side scan.
Clickety-clack, went the recorder. "Will the boat five miles north of Cherbourg please return to port immediately," came a voice in perfect English over the radio.
"My God!" I muttered. "How did the French catch on so quickly?"
"We're in their submarine testing ground," said Jimmy. "They probably have sensors stationed on the bottom that pick up sonar signals."
"Now you tell me." I groaned and turned to Bill. "Did we get a reading on our first and only pass?"
"Not the best. She casts an immense shadow on the recorder.
Looks intact and fairly well preserved. She's not spread around the bottom like some we've found. I'd guess that she's lying on her starboard side."
"Will the boat five miles north of Cherbourg please return to port immediately," came the disembodied voice again.
"I wonder if he does children's parties," Bill mused to no one in particular.
"At least he said 'please," " Dirk reminded me.
I looked at Jimmy. "How far to British waters?"
"About eighteen miles."
"What do you think, skipper?"
Before he could answer, our party pooper was back. "Will the boat-" Jimmy Flett is a man among men. He smiled slyly, reached up, and turned off the radio.
I nodded. "All right, that concludes the entertainment part of the program. Let's get the hell out of here."
With Jimmy grimly gripping the spokes of the wheel, his eyes set toward England, the rest of us stood on the stern and watched for French patrol boats or helicopters to come chasing after us. With our trusty boat pounding along at all of nine knots, it was like robbing a bank and then making our getaway in a bulldozer.
I was certainly in no position to endanger lives on board Arvor III by putting up any resistance. Except for a grappling hook and a couple of Swiss Army knives, our only other arsenal of weapons was Colin's incredible bounty of small boiling potatoes. Not exactly a morale builder, but a well-aimed volley might stop a patrol boat for all of about ten seconds.
Down deep, I didn't think even the French Navy would attack a British boat flying the Royal Yacht Club ensign with four virtuous Americans on board. We had caused enough problems in the news media to make them wary about inciting an international incident.
Besides, such an affair would only enhance the sale of my books, a noble endeavor to which they had no wish to contribute.
There comes a time in the affairs of men when fortune shines down through the clouds. Trumpets can be heard along with a drum roll and the lilting sound of harps. Vengeance is mine, quoth Mickey Spillane.
The time came for the meek to inherit the sea. As Arvor III was entering the harbor of Weymouth, we passed a French Navy missile frigate coming out that was participating in NATO exercises.
"How close can you shave him, Jimmy?" I asked.
"Thirty feet be okay?"
"Thirty feet will do just fine."
To the French sailors roaming the decks of the missile frigate, Arvor III simply looked like another fishing boat coming into port.
They hardly gave a second look as Bill, Dirk, Wayne, and I lined up on the stern deck. The stunned expression on their faces was like a narcotic to me as our barrage of boiling potatoes struck, burst, and sprayed over men and ship alike. They never knew what hit them. They didn't know why. And I guess they never will.
We were in friendly waters now and all they could do was shake their fists an
d shout awful things at us in French.
Revenge is sweet indeed.
Jimmy and John escorted us to the train station for the journey to London. I found it hard to say goodbye to our Scots crew. We had all gone through wild times together in the past six weeks and become quite close. Bill was especially touched at the parting, treasuring a photo he took of Jimmy and John waving as the train pulled from the station.
As shipwreck expeditions go, this one possessed the fondest memories. Much had been accomplished. Our only failure was not being allowed to hunt for Alabama. It was never my intention to set off a wave of controversy. But we scored well overall and had a boatload of fun while we were at it.
I laid over in New York and held a news conference on board the aircraft carrier Intrepid to announce our finds. I especially wanted to tell the tragic story of the Leopoldville and its sinking on Christmas Eve of 1944. It seemed strange that so few people were aware of the disaster and staggering loss of life. Every government that was remotely involved ignored the tragedy and treated it like an insignificant event not worth dwelling on. The United States Army and Navy acted as though it never happened. The British Admiralty scarcely gave it mention, while the Belgians played down the cowardly actions of the crew.
We gave it our best shot and put Leopoldville on the six o'clock TV news shows and in every major newspaper in the country. Suddenly, families who had simply received telegrams soon after the sinking saying only that their loved ones were killed in action, now began to ask questions. It warmed our hearts to be instrumental in steering a number of wives, brothers, sisters, and survivors to the Panther Veteran Organization, made up of men who had served with the 66th Division.
Bob Hesse, president and one of the founders of the Panther Veteran Organization, showed up at the news conference, and I introduced him as a survivor. He was accompanied by Alex Yarmosh, Ed Riley, and Dick Dutka, three of the men who had jumped onto the deck of the H.M.S. Brilliant that terrible night. There wasn't a dry eye in the house.
Never dreaming that any Leopoldville survivors would surface, I was deeply touched. Over the years, Bob and I, along with many of the Panther Vets, became good friends. I spoke at one of their reunions and was privileged to be named as an honorary member.
In a book I wrote entitled Cyclops, I made the following dedication.
To the eight hundred American men who were lost with the Leopoldville, Christmas Eve, 1944, near Cherbourg, France.
Forgotten by many, remembered by few.
The final act of the Cherbourg incident, however, was far from over.
The French were full of surprises, however inappropriate.
Shortly after I returned to my home in Colorado, I read of the dastardly slap in the face given me by the French Navy. One of their salvage ships had launched a search two weeks after we made our great escape from Cherbourg. And guess what? They found Alabama. They claimed to have searched for twenty years, discovering the wreck site only after new research material was brought to their attention.
Mine!
I was surprised at the timing. Then a member of the U.S. Embassy in Paris wrote and informed me that the captain of the salvage vessel was given documents showing the general location. Coincidentally, the cousin of the I salvage-ship commander happened to be the schoolteacher with whom I left all my research material and my estimated position for Alabama. The schmoes- Not only were they proud of it, they were smug about it.
I underwent a total personality change and was suddenly taken sober.
I looked and felt like a basset hound who forgot where he buried his bone. I was sorely tempted to walk into a fancy French restaurant and ask for their hot cereal of the day. It sprang into my head like a Hallmark pop-up greeting card. The French Navy held a grudge against NUMA for pelting its missile cruiser with potatoes? Could discovering the remains of Alabama have been their way of getting even?
The French went one step farther when American archaeologists began creating proposals for survey and artifact recovery. In a letter to the U.S. State Department, the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs stated in no uncertain terms that since the wreck lies within their territorial waters it belongs to France. It did not matter whether or not our government considered Alabama to be the property of the United States. Their Minister of Culture and the Higher Council on Archaeological Research lost no time in funding and putting together an extensive recovery project, with the choice artifacts going to a new conservation facility and museum in Cherbourg.
Sometime later, Kevin Foster, who is with the National Park Service, was invited to dive on the Alabama site with French archaeologists.
Acting as though their archives were a national treasure, they reluctantly allowed him to study their documentation on the shipwreck.
While going through nautical charts, he discovered a chart with my name on it.
I later asked Kevin, "Did you see my estimated position of the wreck site?"
"Yes," he answered. "It was marked with a little Maltese cross."
"How far was I off target?"
"Less than half a mile."
Half a mile. With our trusty side scan sonar, the crew on board Arvor III could have easily found the wreck in one day's search.
In the final analysis, I'd have to say we'd been had.
My involvement with the French Navy and the Alabama died hard.
Several months later, I received a telephone call from a gentleman claiming to be a deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
What could the CIA possibly want with me? I wondered. Dirk Pitt occasionally walked the hallowed halls of Langley, but I'd never laid eyes on the place.
"What is this call about?" I asked, firm in my belief that I was as pristine and white as the driven snow.
"Your glittering performance in Cherbourg last summer," he came back.
"All right, so I got a little carried away with the potato war."
"The potato war?"
"Isn't this call about my assault on a French missile cruiser?" I asked nayvely.
"I haven't heard about that one," he replied.
"Forget I mentioned it."
"My boss, who is a big fan of your books, suggested I call and brief you on the mess you caused in Cherbourg."
Now I was really intrigued. "If that rotten French admiral had given me permission to look for the Alabama, there would have been no mess."
"Believe me, the admiral wasn't too happy about your clandestine find of the Leopoldville. A good thing you took off for England. If you had returned to Cherbourg, French security forces, waiting on the dock, would have confiscated your boat and locked you and your crew up in the local slammer."
Good old Jimmy Flett, I thought. I owed him big time.
"No big deal," I said. "Hardly cause for an international incident."
"Did you know that the waters around Cherbourg are submarine testing grounds?" he inquired.
"Yes, I was aware of the areas. They're well marked on the navigation charts."
"What you could not have known, Mr. Cussler, is that the French had just completed their newest nuclear submarine and planned to test it ten days before your arrival."
"If I had known, I couldn't have cared less," I said, becoming more audacious.
"What you also were not aware of was the fact that every intelligence office and agency in a dozen different nations, the CIA, the KGB, British MI-5, the Israeli Mossad, to name a few, spent great sums of money and long hours in setting up their individual covers to covertly observe the French nuclear submarine's test program."
I began to identify with the guy who wakes up in a motel room after a night of heavy drinking, reaches behind him, and touches a warm female body. Then his eyes fall on a set of false teeth in a glass beside the bed.
"A few days before the trials are to take place," he continued, "who should sail into Cherbourg Harbor but Clive Cussler, his merry band of pirates, and a boatload of underwater detection equipment."
It all became clear. Now I felt a kinship to a woolly mammoth that sank in the La Brea tar pits.
"Not knowing what to make of your theatrical appearance, the French Navy got cold feet and postponed the tests of their new submarine for six months. All the foreign intelligence undercover operations were then blown away. There was no way for any of us to sit it out for another half year, so we all packed up and went home."
"I failed my country," I murmured lamely.
"Not your fault," he consoled me. "But the agency would like you to do us a big favor."
The Sea Hunters Page 36