Shouting over the roar of the gun, Bronner leapt through the doorway. He tried to vault past the wounded man, but the dying Indio grabbed at his ankle, tripping him, sending him sprawling to the deck.
And saved Bronner’s life. Mauser slugs from three directions ripped past his head. In the split second it took the pirates to work their rifle bolts, Bronner rolled, firing a quick burst up at the wheelhouse, chopping down another one.
Rising to one knee, he touched off a half-dozen rounds in the general direction of the U-boat, then dove back through the doorway as a ragged fusillade raked the deck.
Made it! But as he turned to fire again, a hammer blow smashed his left shoulder, slamming him backward into the bulkhead.
Stunned, Bronner reeled into the stairwell, staggering down the steps to escape the hailstorm of gunfire pouring into the corridor. Someone grabbed his leg from below. He tried to bring the Schmeisser to bear one-handed—
“Kapitän! Don’t shoot! It’s me!”
Bauer. Bronner almost shot him anyway. Dazed, running on reflex, it took a moment for the Bootsmann’s voice to register.
“Walli? Is it you?”
“Yes, Kapitän,” Bauer said, climbing up the steps, taking the Schmeisser, helping Bronner down into the breathless heat of the hold. “I heard shooting. What the hell happened?”
“I tried to warn the sub with gunfire. Hit one Indio, maybe two. Stroessner got away.”
“You’re wounded, Kapitän.”
“It’s maybe not too bad.” Bronner winced, probing the ragged tear in his upper arm with his fingertips. “It’s through and through, I think.”
Stripping off his bandanna, Bauer wrapped it around the wound to stem the bleeding. “Leutnant Heitman’s dead, I found his body forward. What about the others? Seaman Looff? And Heinz?”
“Dead, too, I’m afraid. We’re the prize crew now, Walli. Just us. You and me.”
“Damn.” Bauer knotted the bandanna. “That’ll hold it for now. What do we do, Kapitän?”
“We have to warn the U-boat, Walli. Stroessner will call in an air strike, then sail happily off to Rio while U-233 runs for her life.”
“I don’t think they’re headed for Rio, Kapitän. This tub would never make it. She’s breaking up at the bow, rivets are ripping out up there, humming around like bees. I think this lot crippled her with a mine or a satchel charge, then boarded her. Only the blast did more damage than they expected. They’ll have to run her for the coastal islands now. Maybe that was the plan all along.”
“It doesn’t matter. We still have to warn Scheringer. I’m going to try for the bridge, Walli. If I can’t get to the radio, perhaps the sub will hear the gunfire.”
“That’s suicide, Kapitän.”
“I expect it is. Do you have a better idea?”
“We could burn her. Set the cargo afire.”
“That’s a marvelous improvement on my idea, Bootsmann. Instead of dying topside in the fresh air we can suffer an excruciating death down here, roasted alive. Personally, I’d rather take a bullet storming the bridge.”
“We’ll still get to the bridge, Kapitän. After we kill them.”
Bronner stared at Bauer a moment, then nodded slowly, smiling in fierce understanding. “They won’t let this cargo burn. They’ll have to come below to put it out. And there’s only one way down.”
“Unless they open one of the hatches,” Bauer agreed. “Either way, U-233 will spot the smoke and put a torpedo into this tub.”
“Torpedo?”
“Your orders, Kapitän. You told Scheringer to—”
“Torpedo the Carmela, yes. Actually, I lied about that. Sinking this mb would draw too much attention to the U-boat. At the first sign of trouble Scheringer’s orders are to ran the sub back to the Amazon and go to ground. We’re on our own here, Walli, and we’d best get to it. I don’t want to bleed to death before I’ve had the pleasure of hanging Stroessner over the side by his own guts.”
Bauer eyed him oddly.
“An exaggeration, Walli. Poetic license.”
“That doesn’t make it a bad idea,” Bauer said grimly.
Pulling down a half-dozen coca bales, Bauer quickly built two barricades across the catwalk. Wincing, Bronner settled in between the bales while Bauer clawed his way up on top of the cargo stack to light several small fires. He came scrambling down to take up his position beside Bronner.
“Sweet Jesus, Kapitän,” he panted. “It’s so fucking hot up there I thought the coca might explode before I lit the first match. The fire is spreading across the damned bales like a puddle of gasoline.”
Black smoke was already roiling above them, writhing and twisting like a living thing—and coiling its way up the stairwell in a thickening cloud, seeking the open air.
Bronner eyed Bauer for a moment, then nodded. No need for words. And no time. Both men settled in, Bauer covering the stairway with the submachine gun while Bronner kept watch on the forward cargo hatches, his Luger in his fist.
Suddenly a figure materialized out of the smoke pouring up the stairwell. One of the Indios came scrambling down the steps, coughing, eyes streaming, but with his rifle at the ready.
Bauer fired a long burst with the Schmeisser, the gun bucking in his hands, spraying the stairway with lead, slugs hammering the metal steps, ripping the deckhand with a half-dozen rounds. But, incredibly, the man kept coming, staggering toward them, blood foaming in his mouth, until a second burst from Bauer’s submachine gun cut him nearly in half.
Two more followed right behind the first. Firing desperately, Bauer caught the first man with a few slugs, but the second leapt clear. Diving behind some crates, the Indio opened fire, sending Mauser slugs ripping into the coca barricade.
Above them the blaze was growing more intense, eating into the stacks, growling like a great beast feeding.
“Kapitän, get ready to cover for me. I’ll have to reload soon.”
But Bronner barely heard him. Up forward, in the smoky hell near the bow of the ship, he sensed a movement. The smoke overhead was changing direction. Finding a new way out.
Someone had opened an access door to a cargo hatch. The bow hatch. Perhaps forty meters away. A difficult shot for a pistol anytime, and through the smoke with the ship rocking . . .
Bracing himself, Bronner tried to steady his arm, focusing on the Luger’s sights as a rope came snaking down through the swirling black smoke.
And there he was. Stroessner. Scrambling down the line hand over hand, a Mauser carbine strapped to his back.
Bronner fired. No effect. Desperately, he fired again, and then again, blinking the sweat out of his eyes, nearly emptying his pistol, knowing he’d never hit Stroessner at this distance with a handgun, not with the damned smoke growing denser by the second.
But he must have come close. Or perhaps the heat was becoming too intense to bear. Halfway down the rope, Stroessner halted. He hung in space a moment, resting. Bronner fired his last shot. A clean miss. Not even close. Grinning, Stroessner flipped the Kapitän a mock salute, then began climbing slowly upward again.
He never made it. With a mighty whuff the superheated air lifted the forward cargo hatch, blowing it completely off. Instantly the blaze above changed direction, fueled by the salt air, gushing toward the open hatch in a torrent of fire!
Stroessner had no chance. Suspended in midair, he was engulfed by the flames! Howling and writhing, his clothing and hair alight, he clung mindlessly to the line. Burning alive. Until the rope gave way and he fell. And disappeared into the maelstrom.
“Kapitän. Kapitän!”
It took a moment for Bauer’s voice to penetrate. Bronner was still staring down the Luger’s sights. Aiming at . . . nothing. Stroessner was gone, swallowed by a roiling wall of flame.
“Kapitän, we’ve got to get the hell out of here! The whole damned ship’s going up!”
The Indio apparently reached the same conclusion. Throwing his rifle away, the pirate scrambled back up the
stairs and vanished overhead.
Bauer helped Bronner to his feet, then the two men stumbled to the stairwell. A strong downdraft was clearing the smoke away. The fire was sucking air down to feed the horrendous blaze howling out through the forward hatch.
Cautiously, slowed by Bronner’s wound, they worked their way up the stairs. Above, the first light of dawn was breaking. Leaving Bronner in the corridor, Bauer charged out onto the deck, Schmeisser ready to fire.
But they were gone. The Indios had hacked the lifeboat free with their machetes, dropping it into the surf. But it had landed upside down, and now they were swimming like rats for the distant green shore.
But at sea, distances are deceptive. The glowing coastline was an illusion of the dawn, much farther off than it appeared.
Perhaps the Indios would make it, but Bauer didn’t think much of their chances.
His own chances were better. Over the roar of the flame he heard the familiar chortle of U-233’s motor-whaler chugging through the surf to fetch the prize crew of the Carmela.
Bronner joined him at the rail, his uniform a shambles, his face ashen from blood loss.
“Damn,” he said softly. “I believe Mr. Scheringer has violated my direct orders, Bootsmann. Remind me to recommend him for a medal.”
“Yes, Kapitän. You know, it’s the strangest thing.”
“What is?”
“Despite all that’s happened, I have the most incredible feeling of . . . elation. It’s like Christmas morning and my first blow job all rolled into one.”
“I know, I have the same feeling, Walli. We’ve been breathing the smoke of the coca leaves. Don’t worry, I’m sure it will pass.”
Bauer stared at him a moment. “Damn,” he said softly. “What a pity.”
“Yes.” Bronner smiled. “It certainly is.”
As the whaler approached the flaming hulk of the Carmela, the steersman cut the throttle. Odd. The Kapitän and Bootsmann Bauer were hanging over the railing.
At first he thought they were trying to avoid the smoke pouring out of the freighter’s hold. But then he realized both men were laughing. Laughing with tears streaming down their sooty faces.
Laughing so hard they could scarcely breathe.
Mission Failure
BRENDAN DUBOIS
Brendan DuBois is the award-winning author of short stories and novels. His short fiction has appeared in Playboy, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Mary Higgins Clark Mystery Magazine, and numerous anthologies. He has twice received the Shamus Award from the Private Eye Writers of America for his short fiction, and has been nominated three times for an Edgar Allan Poe Award by the Mystery Writers of America. He’s also the author of the Lewis Cole mystery series: Dead Sand, Black Tide, Shattered Shell, and Killer Waves. His other works include, Resurrection Day, an alternative history thriller that looks at what might have happened had the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962 erupted into a nuclear war between the United States and the Soviet Union, and which received the Sidewise Award for best alternative history novel of 1999. His latest thriller, Betrayed, finally resolves the decades-old question of the MIAs from the Vietnam War and their ultimate fate. Most of his works of fiction show his deep interest in political and military history throughout the world. He lives in New Hampshire with his wife, Mona. Please visit his Web site at www.Brendan DuBois.com.
WHEN NOVEMBER FIRST finally arrived, Scott Blair went out to the deck of his home near the White Mountains of New Hampshire. He sat on a wooden Adirondack chair and propped his aching legs up on the railing, admiring the view. With November underway, the leaves of the large maple tree in the rear yard had finally fallen free, revealing the snow-covered peak of Mount Washington, the highest mountain in the northeast, just a few miles away. Oh, it had been visible off and on during the past few weeks, but since his retirement to this part of New Hampshire, he had enjoyed the little ceremony of seeing the big mountain on the first day after Halloween. It was solid, it was real, and it would be there, year after year, long after he was gone and this house was just a cellar hole in the woods.
It was warm for November, but he still had on fleece-lined pants, a cotton shirt, and a down vest. A mug of tea was balanced on his belly, his hands being warmed by the thick ceramic. He closed his eyes and let the faint sunlight warm his face, and he would have been content to sit there for at least another hour or so, except for the noise.
The damn noise, meaning a car coming up the long dirt driveway, a visitor. He opened his eyes, swiveled his head, looked down the dirt lane that went on for almost a third of a mile before ending up on Route 302. It couldn’t be Mike, the UPS man. He only came in late afternoon, and this was way too early for him. And the driveway wasn’t marked, so anybody coming up here either had a purpose, or was lost. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone came up here for a purpose—hold on, there was that census taker, four years back—and most of the lost people (his nickname for them was “lost souls”) were either hikers or nature photographers. In any event, it meant an interruption in his morning routine, and he hated having his routines disturbed.
He got up and looked over the railing as the vehicle approached, mug of tea in his hand. The vehicle—a black Lexus—emerged into the cleared area below the house, and he noted the shiny paint, the fact that it was the latest model, and it all clicked into his mind that it was a rental car. Which meant an airport. Which meant a visitor. A visitor with a purpose. He sighed, just as the car came to a halt and a figure inside waved up at him. Spotted. No use hiding in the spare bedroom, reading copies of the US. Naval Institute Proceedings, until his damn uninvited visitor left. He didn’t bother waving back and went through the kitchen, lots of open exposed beams, pots and pans hanging over the countertop. From one drawer he pulled out a nine-millimeter Beretta, stuck it in his rear waistband, flinching from the cold metal on his skin, and then he went out to see who was bothering him.
The young man had a nice tan overcoat, nice black shoes quickly getting muddy from the wet soil at the front of the house, and a nice-looking black briefcase to go with his haircut. He looked like the kind of guy who haunted the halls of Congress, working for a lobbyist for some obscure mineral rights organization in the Midwest, and his smile as he approached was about as sincere as a Parisian prostitute seeing a five-hundred-dollar bill for the first time.
“Mr. Blair? Scott Blair?”
He said, “Please don’t insult my intelligence. You didn’t drive here from Boston—”
“Manchester.”
“Wherever, if you didn’t know where you were going or what I looked like. Who are you?”
He stepped forward, close, but not close enough to be a threat. “The name is Glen Kyte. I’m from Langley.”
Oh boy, he thought. This was going to be a doozie. He said, “What’s the matter? A hang-up with my pension check?”
A quick shake of the head. “Oh, nothing like that, Mr. Blair. I’ve come to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“About what?”
Kyte looked around the woods, and Scott knew what the young man was imagining: somebody out there, skulking, listening in with a shotgun mike for deep and dark secrets. Can’t allow that to happen now, can we? “I’ll tell you. But can we go inside?”
Scott shrugged. “Sure.”
He turned and walked back into the house, thinking wryly to himself that he hoped the young pup would appreciate the vote of confidence he had just given him, by exposing his back to a stranger. But the pup didn’t say a word, and in the house Scott said, “Please wipe your feet. The cleaning service doesn’t come for another week and I don’t want to see your muddy footprints around after you leave.”
From the entranceway they went through the mudroom and out to the living room, which butted up against the open kitchen. There was a woodstove in a comer, and tall windows that looked out to the woods and underbrash. Bookcases were stuffed along the walls, overflowing with volumes. Kyte started un
buttoning his coat and looked around, nodding and smiling, revealing a dark blue two-piece suit, white shirt, and red necktie. “Quite the nice place you have here, Mr. Blair. I’m sure it’s quite peaceful.”
“It is,” Scott said, “and I’m sure you’re going to tell me why you’ve come all the way up here to disturb my peace. Here, give me your coat.”
He took the topcoat, draped it over a couch, sat down in an easy chair. Kyte sat across from him on the couch, next to his topcoat, balancing the briefcase on his knees. Scott winced as the pistol dug into his back, and he said, “ ’scuse me, will you?” and reached behind to pull the weapon out. Kyte’s eyes widened, and Scott could see his fingers tighten on the briefcase. “Really, Mr. Blair, there’s no reason—”
“I’m sure there isn’t,” he said, carefully putting the pistol down on top of the coffee table, which was cluttered with about a half-dozen newspapers. “So let’s just get your bona fides out of the way, shall we?”
Kyte nodded. “Of course.”
“Let’s see some identification.”
The young man pulled a thin leather wallet out from inside his suit coat, passed it over. Scott gave it a quick glance, passed it back. “Your photo does you justice.”
“Thanks.”
“Okay, hold on. You’ve got a cell phone with you?”
“I do.”
“Pass it over.”
Which is what he did. Scott flipped open the cover and dialed a number from memory, and the phone was answered on the first ring by a woman repeating the last four digits he had just dialed. “Four six six four.”
“This is Scott Blair calling,” he said. “Case file Bravo Bravo Zulu twelve. There is a gentleman here, claiming to be from the Agency. Name is Glen Kyte.”
“Hold on.”
No music, no static. Just dead air. He didn’t have to wait long. The woman came back and said, “I have confirmation on that.”
“Clearance level?”
“Equal to yours.”
Well, that was a relief, he thought. “Can you give me an identification phrase?”
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