Crash Dive

by Martin H. Greenberg

  “Yeah,” Heitman said, wiping his brow, letting his weapon dangle from its sling. “Why is it so goddamned hot?”

  “The Indios say the sun god lives in the coca leaves. But it’s as I told the Kapitän, the bales are packed so tightly the heat of their decomposition can’t escape. It’s a hundred and twenty degrees down here already. In a week the cargo will catch fire from within. Even now it’s dangerous to smoke down here. And even more dangerous to fire a weapon. Fortunately, there’s no need to do either. Are you satisfied, Leutnant?”

  “Yes, I—”

  Bam! Heitman whirled, aiming his flashlight and his weapon down the catwalk toward the sound. But there was nothing to see. Some dust hanging in the air beside a bale. Nothing more.

  Wham! A fist-sized clump of coca jumped out of a bale, leaping across the aisle.

  “What the hell was that? It looks like something’s trying to claw it’s way out? What’s going on?”

  “Who knows,” Stroessner shrugged. “Maybe the Indios are right and the jungle spirits are restless.”

  “Spirits my ass!” Crouched, his weapon leveled, Heitman crept toward the tom bale.

  “Don’t go down there, Leutnant.”

  “Why, Stroessner? What’s the big mystery? What are you so afraid I’ll see?”

  “Nothing, but—”

  “Then shut your mouth! Stay where you are and keep your hands where I can see them!”

  “As you wish.” Stroessner raised his hands, watching Heitman creep along the catwalk, ankle-deep in bilgewater.

  Reaching the tom bale, Heitman warily poked the gouge with his gun barrel, then quickly stepped back. But nothing happened. Inching closer, he noticed something glinting in one of the bales. He pulled it free, cradling it in his palm. A twisted lump of metal. So deformed that for a moment he didn’t recognize it.

  “A rivet?” he said, puzzled. “How did a rivet get—?”

  Bam! A hammer blow smashed him in the chest, slamming him backward into the bales, dropping him to his knees in the water. Stunned, he fumbled the flashlight, gaping at the jagged wound below his sternum. A twisted rivet had buried itself in his chest, blood gushing as he clawed at it.

  “You damned fool,” Stroessner snarled, sprinting to Heitman. “Let it be!” Grabbing Heitman’s arm, he dragged the groaning Leutnant back along the catwalk to the stairwell.

  Kneeling beside him, Stroessner carefully lifted the sling of the machine pistol over Heitman’s shoulder, laying the weapon aside.

  “Hold still, damn you! Let me have a look.”

  Wincing, Heitman took his hand away from the wound. Blood spurted, but not as much as before.

  “It’s not so bad,” Stroessner grunted, “not fatal, anyway. Too bad. Here, chew some of this coca. It’ll kill the pain.” He pulled a fistful of coca leaf out of the nearest bale.

  “No, I don’t want—”

  “Eat it!” Savagely, Stroessner drove his fist into the open wound, then jammed the wad of coca into Heitman’s mouth, choking off his scream. Grabbing the Schmeisser, he slammed the Leutnant in the temple with its steel butt, sending him sprawling across the catwalk. Stunned, moaning, Heitman tried to rise.

  With almost casual contempt Stroessner kicked the Leutnant down again, then stepped onto his back and planted a boot on his neck, pinning him facedown in the filthy water.

  Heitman thrashed like a beached porpoise. But only a few moments. Then a final burst of bubbles gushed from his mouth.

  And still Stroessner kept his boot on his neck, holding him firmly down. Waiting. Making absolutely sure he was dead.

  In the engine room, Bootsmann Walli Bauer snapped awake. Confused for a moment, he smiled as he focused on the LeBlanc diesels, remembering where he was. In the engine room of the tramp, Carmela. Must have fallen asleep, reading.

  But something had wakened him. A shout? Something. Better check topside, make sure everything’s shipshape, grab a cup of coffee . . .

  As he rose from the chair, stretching, a movement caught the comer of his eye. Something rolling black and forth in the bilgewater near the bulkhead as the ship rocked. Something bloody.

  Curious, he reached for it, picked it up. A bit of wiener sausage, nothing more—Jesus! He gaped at it in disbelief. Not a sausage. It was a finger! A human finger. A ring finger, marked with a darkened circle. But no wedding ring was on it now. Somebody had hacked it off to get the ring. Who—

  “Indios,” Bauer breathed. “Savages.” Right. They were savages. And in that instant he realized what had been bothering him. The problem wasn’t the engines at all. Both diesels were running like clockwork now. The problem was the bilgewater slopping around in the engine room.

  Because the Indios were too stupid to turn on the pumps, Stroessner said.

  And that was the puzzle. Not the engines. The Indios. Why would the Carmela’s owner spend big money to install first-class engines in this ship, then hire a crew of savages too ignorant to operate them?

  Answer? He wouldn’t. The Indio deckhands weren’t the crew of the Carmela. They were pirates. Had to be. Nobody had lowered that fucking lifeboat. They’d used it to board her.

  Sweet Jesus. When Stroessner said the ship’s owner was dead, it was probably the only true thing he’d told them. He forgot to mention that the ship’s crew was dead, too. Unless one of them had misplaced his fucking ring finger!

  Swallowing, Bauer placed the gory trophy atop one of the diesels, picked up his Mauser carbine, and checked its load. He had to get topside to warn Heitman and the Kapitän. If it wasn’t too late already.

  From the shadows of the stairwell, Jose Stroessner checked the corridor to the left. Empty. Out on deck, the Indios were still wrapped in their blankets, asleep.

  But he knew better. Camayo, the crew’s leader, was as relaxed as the others, his blanket covering most of his face. Only his eyes were showing. Black and alert as a hunting shark.

  No words were necessary. Stroessner returning from the hold alone was explanation enough for Camayo. Only four Germans were left now, the helmsman and the sentry on the wheelhouse, Bauer down in the engine room, and the Kapitän in his quarters.

  Stroessner started to point toward the wheelhouse, then realized there was no need. Camayo was already gone. His blanket remained with the same outline as before, apparently covering a sleeping man. But it was empty now.

  The Indio had vanished into the shadows, as though he was part shadow himself.

  Stroessner smiled grimly. No need to worry about the sentry or the helmsman. Camayo would see to them. And the man below in the engine room could wait.

  The Kapitän was all that mattered now. In a way it was a pity Bronner had to die in his sleep. Stroessner would have preferred letting the Indios cut on him awhile, the way they’d worked over the owner. Taking their time. Tearing off long strips of his skin. Even after he’d told them everything they wanted to know, given them his money, the ship’s documents.

  That was when he realized the full horror of it. That nothing he could do would make them stop. They would continue torturing him until he died. Not because they wanted anything from him. Simply because his mortal agony was amusing to them.

  At the end, Camayo split the owner’s sternum with a machete and ripped out his beating heart with his bare hands. And showed it to him as he died.

  But there was no time for play now. With the Nazi U-boat trailing astern, he needed to gain control of the ship by first light. But quick or slow, killing the arrogant Kapitän personally would be a pure, sweet pleasure.

  Humming softly to himself, he checked the chamber of the Schmeisser, making sure it was loaded.

  Standing watch atop the wheelhouse, Seaman Looff breathed deep, sucking down the salt air, faintly flavored with the sour taste of the mainland jungle to the west. It’s odd. A boy grows to manhood enjoying many pleasures. A mother’s touch, good beer, a pretty girl’s smile. But after four years in the stinking U-boats, just tasting air untainted by diesel fuel, air that
hadn’t been breathed already by fifty shipmates, was pleasure enough.

  Pure sea air. Fine as wine. Shifting his rifle sling, Looff scanned the deck below. Everything normal. The seven Indio deckhands were still asleep, clustered together for warmth, like dogs—

  Something rustled behind him. He turned, squinting, trying to penetrate the shadows. Couldn’t see a thing. Probably just a rat or—a whirling shape whistled out of the dark, tearing into his chest with terrible force!

  Dropping his rifle, Looff stared with horror at the machete buried halfway to its hilt in his breast. His blood was gushing from around the blade. He felt his knees turning to water, tried to shout a warning, but couldn’t get any air. No air at all.

  As Walli Bauer started up the stairway, he felt a faint vibration on the handrail. As a mechanic, he was attuned to vibrations, the silent speech of machinery.

  But these vibrations had nothing to do with engines. Someone was coming down from above. Quietly. And he felt no thump of seaboots. The man above was barefoot. Which told him more than he wanted to know.

  Backing away from the ladder, sweating, Bauer tried to think. Barefoot. The man coming down was probably one of the Indio crewmen. Should he try to take him alive? Why bother? Language barrier. Without a translator the Indio couldn’t tell him anything. And this one wouldn’t be coming down after him if anyone above was still alive.

  Who was on guard duty above? Looff. Damn! A good man. Quick with a smile or a joke. A shipmate. Thinking of Looff made the decision for him. Bauer backed away from the stairway, flattening himself against the bulkhead, his Mauser at port arms.

  Sweating, dry-mouthed, he waited. Trying to keep his breathing shallow. Trying to melt into the metal.

  The Indio came down so swiftly, so silently, he seemed to materialize out of the darkness. One moment he wasn’t there and the next instant he was. Startling Bauer, catching him by surprise.

  And he knew! Somehow the Indio knew Bauer was waiting! Sensed his presence the way a jungle cat scents danger. Whirling on the last step, teeth bared, the pirate raised his machete!

  A second too late. Bauer swung the rifle butt full force, catching the Indio under the ear, snapping the savage’s neck with an audible crack!

  Dropping him to the deck like a sack of flour.

  Bauer stood over the Indio, walleyed, panting, rifle poised to smash him down, finish him! But there was no need. The pirate twitched once, then went immutably still. Dead as a coal bucket.

  Bauer swallowed, trying not to gag on the bile rising at the back of his throat. Think! How much noise had they made? Not much. The engine drone and the thump of the waves probably masked the sound of the deckhand’s death.

  But maybe not. These Indios were men of the jungle. They could hear a flea fart in the forest five miles off.

  Shifting the Mauser carbine to his right hand, Bauer rested his trembling palm on the rail. No vibration. No one was coming down the steps. Yet.

  He stood there a full five minutes. Waiting. Sweating. Trying to collect himself. To decide what to do next. He was a mechanic, not a warrior. He understood engines and ships and forecastle politics. He’d spent a lifetime learning them.

  But this kind of slaughter? Men fighting like animals, murdering each other for money. Over drugs? There was no honor in it, no logic. Bauer simply couldn’t make sense of it.

  He only knew that he hadn’t come all this way, worked all these years to die like a dog in the belly of this stinking smuggler’s scow.

  He was a seaman. Kriegsmarine! And if his time was up, he damned well wouldn’t be shipping out alone.

  Grabbing the Indio by the hair, he dragged the corpse away from the stairs into the shadows. Then he took off his boots and began creeping up the ladder, rifle ready, pausing at every step, listening. Hearing only the thrum of the diesels. And his own hammering heart.

  Stroessner sidled down the narrow corridor, staying close to the bulkhead, trying to avoid squeaks. Damn. A narrow stripe of light was showing under Bronner’s cabin door. Had he fallen asleep with a lantern lit? Or was he awake? Perhaps reading?

  Or had he heard something? Looff’s body hitting the deck, maybe? Was he waiting inside with his pistol covering the door, ready to fire?

  Chewing his lip, Stroessner quickly calculated the odds. He had Heitman’s submachine gun. He could kick in the door and cut loose. If Bronner was in the bunk, he’d probably be killed instantly.

  But if he’d been alerted? He might return fire. The submachine gun gave Stroessner a big advantage, but he couldn’t afford the noise of a gun battle. The sound could carry across the water to the U-boat, warning her crew.

  Dawn was only an hour away. The submarine would have to submerge at first light. Once she was gone, he could radio an SOS to Brazilian air defense, saying the Carmela was under attack by a U-boat.

  While the airmen ran off the Nazis, Stroessner would run the Carmela ashore on Ilha de Maguas, where the rest of his Indios waited to carry off her cargo and vanish into the jungle.

  But first he had to make it to dawn without alerting the damned sub. Which meant no noise, no gunfight.

  It was just as well. Cleverness had carried him this far. A smile, a little conversation, and Bronner would never know what hit him.

  Laying the Schmeisser carefully on the deck, Stroessner gave a quick flick of his wrist, and a stiletto appeared like magic in his hand. Satisfied, he slipped the blade back into its sheath up his sleeve. Then, straightening his jacket, he rapped lightly on the door.

  “Kapitän? Kapitän Bronner?”

  “Come in.” Bronner was in bed, reading. In his underwear, wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, he looked like someone’s good-natured grandfather. Which he probably was. “Ah, Herr Stroessner. What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Leutnant Heitman sent me to fetch you, Kapitän. He’s in the hold. Apparently the storm damaged the Carmela more seriously than we thought. Her hull plates are ripping loose, rivets are flying around down there. It looks bad.”

  “I’ll come at once,” Bronner said, placing the book on the nightstand beside the bunk. And grabbing the Luger. Which he levelled at Stroessner’s belly.

  “Kapitän, what—?”

  “Forgive my doubtful nature, Stroessner. And step a little closer to the light, please.” Removing his spectacles, Bronner placed them carefully beside the book. But the Luger never wavered.

  “Kapitän Bronner, I don’t understand—”

  “Spare me anymore lies, you incredible piece of shit. Heitman was ordered to keep a close watch on you. And yet here you are. Alone. Which means Heitman is either dead or a prisoner. Which is it?”

  Stroessner swallowed. “He’s a prisoner.”

  “Really? Why do I doubt that? You should be more careful about your appearance, Captain. You seem to have bloodstains on your jacket. Raise your hands. Now!”

  Stroessner did as he was told, backing slowly away as Bronner slid out of the bunk. But the instant Bronner started to rise, Stroessner flicked his wrist, then hurled the hideaway stiletto straight at Bronner’s head!

  Diving to avoid the blade, Bronner fired wildly as Stroessner dodged out the door. The Kapitän was only a step behind but stumbled over Heitman’s submachine gun. He fired again and nearly got him. A bullet whacked into the doorjamb above Stroessner’s head as the pirate dove through the doorway, vanishing into the darkness at the end of the hall.

  Covering the corridor with his Luger, Bronner picked up Heitman’s Schmeisser, his lips narrowing as he spotted the bloodstains on the butt. Damn Stroessner and his damned coca and this godforsaken tub. Damn them all to hell!

  Grabbing up the submachine gun, Bronner retreated back into the cabin. With the door ajar, he quickly pulled on his jacket and trousers.

  There. He’d thrown away his honor chasing fool’s gold and he’d probably be dead meat by morning, but at least he wouldn’t have to die in his damned underwear.

  His mind whirled as he buttoned his jacket. Were
any of the prize crew still alive? Not Heitman, certainly. Stroessner showing up alone proved that.

  And when Stroessner ran down the corridor, he’d bolted out onto the deck but there’d been no challenge from the sentry and no shots. Which meant Seaman Looff and Jak Heinz were dead, too. Stroessner’s men were probably in control of the ship.

  Bronner was alone. Trapped in a cabin at the end of a blind corridor. But somehow he had to warn the U-boat, even if it meant his death. Think? What was the layout of this hell ship?

  There were two doors at the far end of the passageway. One led out onto the deck. The other opened into the main stairwell, the spiral staircase that led up to the bridge or down into the hold.

  How could he warn the sub? The ship’s radio? Could he get to it? Not likely. Too far. Assuming they hadn’t already smashed it.

  Gunfire then? Maybe. The U-boat lookout would almost certainly hear gunfire. But it would have to be soon. It was nearly dawn and Scheringer would submerge at first light. No time to waste.

  Holstering his Luger, Bronner checked the load on the submachine gun. Full magazine and a round in the chamber. He took a deep breath, then stepped out into the hall, covering the far doorway with the Schmeisser.

  One step, then another. Inching his way down the corridor until at last he was beside the exit door. It was open. Stroessner hadn’t had time to close it. He could fire a burst in the direction of the U-boat as a warning. Then charge out on the deck and try to kill as many of the pirates as—

  No. Wait. Suppose Stroessner left the door open deliberately? Trying to lure him through it?

  He heard the faintest creak from overhead. And instantly guessed what it meant. There was a man up there on the quarterdeck, waiting for him to come through the door.

  Where would he be? Close enough to swing a machete. They’d want to kill him quietly. Too damned bad. Time to start the dance.

  Raising the Schmeisser, Bronner fired a burst up into the ceiling, punching a ragged line of nine-millimeter holes through the metal, shattering the legs of the Indio above, sending him crashing to the deck, writhing, screaming.