Crash Dive

by Martin H. Greenberg

  “If the Reich emerges victorious we’ll wire the prize money to the Führer on his birthday. If not? The crew of U-233 has fought too long and hard and honorably to end up penniless in South America, beached, with no way to get home.”

  “I don’t trust this Stroessner,” Heilman said stubbornly.

  “My goodness, why ever not? You really should cultivate more faith in human nature, Heitman. It might brighten your outlook on life. Walli, does anyone in our crew speak Spanish or Portuguese?”

  “No, sir. I understand a little, though.”

  “Really? How much?”

  “Enough to find a cathouse or a cantina anywhere we go ashore.”

  “I doubt that we’ll need either on this trip, Walli. Get down to the engine room and see to the diesels. Captain Stroessner, could I have a word please?”

  “Of course, Kapitän.” Stroessner hurried over eagerly.

  “We’re considering your offer, Stroessner. But not for half the money. Our share will be three quarters. If that’s acceptable to you?”

  “A quarter is better than a bullet in the head, no? In any case, what choice do I have, Kapitän Bronner?”

  “None, actually. The Carmela is now the lawful property of the Reich. I will command the prize crew myself. U-233 will escort us to Rio to provide security until her cargo is sold. And if anything seems even slightly amiss, I’ve given Leutnant Scheringer orders to sink this ship and machine-gun any survivors. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Kapitän.”

  “I thought you might. As you said, we’re all bright fellows, Stroessner. Let’s behave like it. Please instruct your crew to obey my men without question.”

  “I’m afraid there’s a slight problem, Kapitän. These crewmen are Indios from Yucatan. They speak no language but their own.”

  “A language you happen to be familiar with, I take it?”

  “I speak several languages, including theirs, yes.”

  “I see. I imagine that would make these men very loyal to you.”

  “I would hope so, Kapitän.”

  “Good. Then would you kindly explain to them that at the first sign of treachery, you’ll be killed and so will they. Quicker than a bat can blink. Understood?”

  “Of course, Bronner, but why all this talk of killing? We’re both Germans. We’re all on the same side in this thing.”

  “No, Captain Stroessner, we’re not. We’re not comrades and we’re certainly not friends. For the moment, we are renegades, thrown together by the storms of war. And I’m the renegade with the U-boat and the guns. And don’t ever address me by my family name again.”

  “As you wish, Kapitän.”

  “Good. What accommodations are aboard?”

  “Only one cabin, the owner’s. I’m sure you’ll find it satisfactory. There is a small dayroom off the bridge. The deckhands sleep below in the hold.”

  “Not anymore. Your men will sleep on deck, under guard.”

  “They won’t like it, Kapitän. They prefer sleeping with the cargo. The scent of the leaves reminds them of their homes, and brings them dreams.”

  “I’ll wager it does. But they can buy all the dreams they want later, with the riches you pay them from your share, Stroessner. Meantime, they sleep on deck, in view of the wheelhouse sentry at all times. Heitman!”

  “Sir!”

  “This is Leutnant Heitman, Stroessner. You’re to stay within his sight at all times.”

  “Kapitän, I assure you—”

  “Oh, you needn’t assure me of anything, Stroessner. I trust you completely. But Heitman here has a dimmer view of human nature, I’m afraid. He’s quite distrustful. And if he loses track of you, even by accident, he’ll probably shoot you.”

  “That would be an expensive accident, Kapitän Stroessner said evenly.

  “More expensive for you than for me. If you die, I’ll still be a seaman of the Reich, poor but honest. But you’ll be, well, wherever dead drug smugglers go. In hell, I would think.”

  “I’ll save you a warm seat next to mine, Kapitän. But meantime, I’ll be happy to stay close to Leutnant Heitman.”

  “Thank you. With a little cooperation, we’ll all get along famously, Stroessner. Walli, you look puzzled. How goes it with the engines?”

  “They’re fine, Kapitän. Seawater was splashing around below, shorting out the plugs, is all. This old tub must leak like a sieve. There’s a lot of water in the hold and for some reason the bilge pumps were off.”

  “These Indios,” Stroessner snorted. “They’re hard workers but they’re stupid. I swear, before signing on the Carmela none of them ever worked aboard anything bigger than a dugout canoe.”

  “Then we’ll have to keep close watch on them, Captain. To make sure they don’t make any more mistakes. How soon can we get underway, Walli?”

  “An hour, Kapitän, maybe less.”

  “Make it less. The sooner we’re done with this business, the better. Heitman, get Leutnant Scheringer on the radio. I’d better explain this devil’s bargain we’ve made. Stroessner, inform your men of the situation. We’re leaving as soon as Bauer puts the engines right. U-233 will shadow us from below during daylight and on the surface at night. And my men will be on full alert at all times. And very, very nervous. Remember that.”

  “Yes, Kapitän.”

  “Oh, and Stroessner? Tell your men to get that damned lifeboat back aboard. A tramp towing a boat looks suspicious. And it sure as hell didn’t do the last fellow much good. Did it?”

  True love. Nothing in Bootsmann Walli Bauer’s life gave him more satisfaction than maintaining maritime engines. For Bauer, servicing U-233’s three-thousand horsepower diesels and dual electrics was like having a harem. Each engine had an individual, quirky personality and its own voice. And after eleven years of U-boat service, Bauer could gauge a diesel’s rpms by sound alone.

  The Carmela’s twin diesels were older and larger than submarine engines. And a bit mysterious. They’d obviously been added recently, the bolts and welded seams on the support frames showed very little rust, and in steamy South American waters, machinery sometimes rusted solid overnight.

  The engines must have been transferred aboard the Carmela from a newer ship, a wreck, perhaps, but they appeared to be in good shape. Type J7 LeBlanc diesels the size of a small sedan, they were built in Belgium during the twenties for the maritime merchant service, twenty-six hundred horsepower, maximum torque at five-hundred rpm, single-cast cylinder blocks for easy maintenance. A machinist’s dream.

  All in all, excellent engines. The Carmela might be a scow but someone had gone to considerable expense to make her a damned dependable scow. Even secondhand, the twin LeBlanc diesels were easily worth as much as the tramp freighter itself.

  Considering the business she was in, having dependable mills made sense. Still, there was something odd about these engines. Walli couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but something about them troubled him.

  The pumps had bailed out most of the seawater he’d found sloshing around on the metal deck when he’d first checked the diesels. Only an inch or so remained, whispering back and forth as the ship rolled, probably normal for an old tub like Carmela.

  He found a well-thumbed LeBlanc-factory service manual in a tool kit. Written in French, the text wasn’t much help, but numbers never lie, specifications are specifications in any language. And to Walli, the engine specs were as intriguing as nude photos of Marlene Dietrich.

  Well, almost.

  After drying the plugs and restarting both mills, Walli pulled a chair up beside engine number two and began poring over the manual, memorizing the specifications, absorbing the symphony of the dual diesels into his soul. Perhaps their music would explain the uneasiness that kept chewing at the comer of his mind, ducking in and out of the shadows like a bilge rat.

  The Carmela got underway at sundown. Bronner sent the motor-whaler back to U-233, keeping Heitman and two U-233 crewmen in the wheelhouse and Bauer down in the eng
ine room.

  Stroessner’s Indio crew handled their duties ably enough, though it was odd to hear deck commands shouted in a guttural language that sounded like monkeys barking in the Green Hell of the Amazon.

  Night falls suddenly in Brazilian waters, fading from purple dusk to inky black in a few minutes, as though the jungle has swallowed the sun.

  For a time, Kapitän Bronner paced the bridge, but with Bootsmann Heinz at the helm, Seaman Looff standing guard on the wheelhouse roof, and Heitman on the prowl, there was little for him to do.

  “I’ll be in the owner’s cabin, Heitman. Wake me at two or if anything develops.” He paused in the doorway. “Heitman?”

  “Sir?”

  “Have you ever worked on a farm?”

  “No, sir,” Heitman said, baffled by the question. “I’m a Berliner. Why do you ask?”

  “Farmers spread manure on their fields, Heitman. It helps the crops to grow. But it means that sometimes a farmer has to work with shit to feed his family, honor his obligations, and pay his debts. Do you understand?”

  “I . . . don’t know much about agriculture.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Bronner sighed. “My point is, I know you dislike Stroessner and his crewmen. You think they’re untennensch, subhumans. But we need the money from this cargo, Heitman, even if we have to work with shit to get it. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You . . . want me to work with this Stroessner, Kapitän?”

  “Very good, Heitman. That’s exactly what I mean. We need him to sell this cargo. I want no trouble between you two.”

  “Don’t worry about Stroesnner, Kapitän, I can handle him.”

  “I know you can, Heitman, that’s what worries me.”

  “Sir?”

  “Never mind. Just remember, no trouble, please. Good night, Leutnant.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  At the ship’s wheel, Bootsmann Heinz arched his eyebrows at Heitman. “Fertilizer? What was all that about?”

  “None of your fucking business, Heinz. Mind your course.”

  “Aye, sir.” Officers, Heinz thought. Nutjobs, the lot of them.

  The owner’s cabin was almost barren; a bunk, a writing desk and a short, glass-fronted bookcase. Compared to Bronner’s curtained cell aboard U-233, it was as lavish as a five-star hotel suite.

  It even had a small liquor cabinet. Idly, Bronner opened it. A fair bottle of port, some cheap Mexican tequila and . . . one bottle of Napoleon brandy. Chateau Marchant, 1911. A classic vintage and very rare. Chateau Marchant and its cellars had been blown to hell in the Nivelle offensive of 1917. A terrible waste of fine brandy. And roughly a hundred thousand men. Pity.

  An even greater pity that he considered himself on duty twenty-four hours a day as long as he was aboard this tub. No booze. Not even an exquisite vintage. Damn.

  Well, maybe one small sip wouldn’t hurt. He poured a finger’s worth into a coffee cup, then tasted it, rolling the brandy around on his tongue.

  Ambrosia. A slightly nutty taste, with the faintest flavor of smoke. Marvelous. He let it slide down the back of his throat, savoring it all the way to the pit of his stomach. Then he regretfully replaced the bottle in the rack.

  Perhaps when this was over he could treat himself to a quiet evening with the Chateau Marchant and some poetry.

  Assuming he lived that long.

  Shedding his boots, pistol belt, and uniform jacket, Bronner eased down on the bunk, fully clothed. He checked the magazine in his Luger, then placed it on the nightstand, readily at hand.

  He wasn’t sleepy; too much had happened, but he forced himself to lie back and rest. Midnight would come soon enough. And the next few days were going to be dangerous and complicated. And the last man who slept in this bunk was cruising the seas in the belly of a shark.

  Sleep wouldn’t come, though. After three years crammed in a steel coffin with fifty seamen, the bed seemed too large and too soft. And the whisper of the night wind through the porthole was such a pure pleasure that he didn’t want to miss a moment of it. He loved inhaling the fresh scent of the sea, feeling the Brazilian breeze caress his face like a woman’s touch Carmela shuddered. In the engine room Walli Bauer glanced up from the engine manual, frowning. The sea was mild tonight, long, regular swells, orphans of the storm the day before. The tub should be rocking gently as a child’s cradle. But every time the bow met a roller . . . a noticeable vibration. As though the sea was clutching her for just a moment with each wave.

  Barnacles near the prow? A dent at the waterline, perhaps from banging off a harbor piling? It didn’t matter much, Carmela was loafing along at ten knots anyway, staying within U-233’s surface cruising speed. Still, he’d remember to check the bow in the morning to see if he could spot the problem. Engines like these deserved a tub that was shipshape. . . . There.

  For an instant the riddle of the engines popped out of the shadows, only to vanish again before he could grasp it. Smiling, he shook his head. Must be getting old. Still, he knew it would come to him eventually. Almost had it there for a moment.

  Shrugging off his uneasiness, he went back to the manual, poring over it again from the beginning, soothed by the thrum of the engines.

  Heitman glanced up as Stroessner stepped into the wheelhouse, closing the door behind him. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing. This is my post. My men are asleep and a captain’s place is on the bridge, no?”

  “You’re not captain of anything, Stroessner. Not anymore. This ship is the property of the prize crew, to do with as we please. I have orders to work with you, so I will, but make no mistake, I don’t like you and you’re not one of us. As far as I’m concerned, you’re no more German than those jungle bunnies out there.”

  “Indios, if you please, Leutnant,” Stroessner corrected gently. “Their people once built pyramids in this country.”

  “So they piled up rocks, so what? How is it you speak their language, anyway? Was your mother one of them?”

  “I speak many languages, Leutnant, French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese. South America is a continent of many tongues.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “About my mother, you mean? How old are you, Leutnant! Twenty-two? Twenty-three?”

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “Just wondering how you’ve lived so long without learning that it’s unwise to question a gentleman’s parentage. Especially in this part of the world. Some men might take it as an insult.”

  “I don’t give a damn how you take—what was that noise?”

  “What noise?”

  “That popping sound. Gunfire? Sounded like it came from the hold. Heinz, did you hear it?”

  “I heard . . . something, Leu.”

  “Carmela’s an old ship,” Stroessner said. “Full of creaks and rattles.”

  “Bullshit. I know gunfire when I hear it.”

  “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

  “Then you won’t mind coming below with me to investigate.”

  “Investigate what? A rat-infested hold in the dark?”

  Heitman jacked a round into the Schmeisser MP38’s chamber, his eyes locked on Stroessner. “You were saying?”

  “I was about to offer you a guided tour of the hold, Leutnant Heitman. It’s charming this time of night.”

  “Good. Heinz, I’m going below to check out that noise,” Heitman said, slipping the Schmeisser’s sling over his shoulder. “Hold your course but keep your eyes open and your rifle handy. If you hear the Schmeisser go off, don’t come after us. Send the sentry to wake the Kapitän, tell him where I went. Understand?”

  “Yes, Herr Leutnant.”

  “All right, lead the way, Stroessner. And I’ll be right behind you.”

  After a word with Looff, the sentry on the wheelhouse roof, Heitman followed Stroessner down to the deck. As they passed, one of the Indio deckhands glanced up from his blanket, glassy-eyed, his chin white with foamy drool. He muttered someth
ing to Stroessner, then lay back on his blankets, staring vacantly up at the stars.

  “What did he say?”

  “Only that the ghosts are moving tonight. And they don’t like white men.”

  “Then you should be safe enough. What ghosts is he talking about?”

  “Jungle spirits. The Indios believe the coca leaf is magical, a passport to the spirit world. In daylight they chew it for stamina. At night it brings them dreams.”

  “They chew it like cattle chew their cuds. Animals.”

  “No, Heitman, they are men, like you and me. But their lives are very hard. The coca gives them endurance, which they need to survive. And more importantly, it lets them dream of a better life. It gives them hope.”

  “False hope.”

  “Perhaps. But in the jungle, even false hope is better than none if it helps you go on. I would think a German would understand that.”

  “What would the likes of you know about being German? Quit stalling and take me below.”

  “Certainly, Leutnant.” Stroessner led the way down the long, spiral staircase that descended into the cargo hold of the Carmela. It was like crawling into hell’s bowels. The temperature crept up a few degrees with every step, and when they reached the bottom, the sweltering rush of humid air washed over them like the rank breath of the jungle itself.

  Belowdecks the freighter was a vast, floating warehouse, divided into three cargo sections forward, with the engine room, galley, and cabins in the stem.

  A narrow plank catwalk ran the length of the hold between the towering stacks of coca bales, which rose nearly to the cargo hatches above, Ailing every inch of space.

  Heitman played his torch down the narrow passageway. Reflecting from the bilgewater slopping over the catwalk, the light flickered across the coca stacks, giving them movement, making them writhe like living things.

  Heitman gazed at them intently for what seemed like a long time, shining the beam around, then lowering it to the catwalk.

  “There’s a lot of water down here.”

  “She’s a leaky old tub, but she’ll make it to Rio, and that’s all we care about, right?”