by Bobby Akart
Gunner swam toward the fading light, using his feet to thrust off any surface and his arms to guide him as well as pull him along. He focused on the diver’s position by following the light, which seemed to flicker at times, perhaps due to parts of the wreckage obscuring his view.
Then the exosuit’s computer system came to life. The monitor built into his screen was a hot mess of numbers and words that made no sense. But that didn’t matter to Gunner. He had air again, and that meant he’d regained his propulsion system. He throttled down as if he wanted to break the SR-71 Blackbird’s air speed record of Mach 3 plus.
He was closing on the other diver. Without his lights, Gunner raced through the skeletal remains of U-1226 until he was within twenty feet of his prey. He reached out with his left arm and squeezed the handle of his vise-grip flippers.
Ten feet.
Let there be light.
Gunner activated his headgear’s light kit. The first thing that caught his eye was a solitary shiny canister tucked under the diver’s arm like a football. The diver turned, startled by the sudden light and Gunner appearing behind him. That was when Gunner first saw the man’s surprised look just as the two divers collided.
The force of the impact knocked the canister from the diver’s grip. It slowly floated away from them before dropping into the dark waters inside the bow of the submarine. The diver was pushed into a jagged piece of steel behind him. For several seconds, he didn’t move.
Then using his own propulsion system, he came at Gunner. The two bounced off one another like sumo wrestlers. The battle that ensued between them would appear to be comical if not for the deadly consequences of their exosuits failing. Arms were slowly taking swings. Bodies were contorted in an unsuccessful effort to gain an advantage. Kicks were attempted although the leg movement was restricted as if the diver’s ankle were tied to a tree.
The physical battle between the two men was a wasted exercise, and the unknown diver was the first to realize it. He shoved himself away from Gunner, turned his body toward a hole created in the bow by years of corrosion, and fired his feet thrusters. His ascent was much faster than what Gunner had been able to muster, and seconds later, the man had shot through into the blackness of the ocean depths.
Gunner caught his breath and began to look around for the titanium canister. He surmised it was the last one. These thieves were clearly hell-bent on taking every last container from the submarine. All this did was elevate the canister’s importance in Gunner’s eyes.
His task was complicated by the fact that his exosuit’s onboard computer had malfunctioned. He had no idea how much air he had left before the emergency backup kicked in. He also didn’t know if his suit was still pinging to Bear and Cam so they could locate him.
He pushed all of those things out of his mind and focused on finding the canister. After searching the remains of the upper level of the bow, he searched for openings leading into the lower levels directly below where the struggle took place.
The search for the last canister was underway.
Chapter Forty-Five
Outside the Wreckage of German U-boat 1226
The Puerto Rico Trench
Depth: 27,840 feet
Fathoms: 4,640
The Deepsea Challenger 6
North Atlantic Ocean
Bear turned on the external lights as soon as the other submersible disappeared from their sonar. He navigated directly for the center of the submarine. Cam pointed across the console through Bear’s side of the window. “Look. On your ten o’clock.”
“I see him. He’s moving toward us.”
“Gotta be Gunner,” said Cam.
Bear changed course and approached the diver. That was when he saw the yellow suit illuminated in the external lights.
“Nope. He’s one of theirs,” said Bear. “Should we scoop him up? We might be able to get some intel out of him.”
“Hell no,” said Cam. She pointed to the timer. “It’ll take too long, for one thing, and we can’t compromise our safety or Gunner’s. Leave him.”
“Dude’s screwed,” muttered Bear.
“He’ll have a little while to thank his buddies for that.”
Bear accelerated. The diver turned momentarily and watched the DSC-6 motor past him. Bear set a course for the stern of the ship.
“I’ve got his beacon on the sonar. He’s out. Moving slowly toward the extraction point.”
Bear made a wide swing around Gunner as if he were flying a helicopter into the middle of a tight landing zone. As the submersible hovered fifty feet above the ocean floor, the external lights washed over Gunner and the shiny canister safely secured under his arm. Fifteen minutes later, Gunner was safely on board the DSC-6 and extracting himself from the exosuit.
Gunner cleared the brief decompression period in the submersible’s dive compartment, and when the submersible’s computer determined the time was up, the door opened for him. Bear’s and Cam’s smiling faces were awaiting him.
“Glad to see you guys,” he said as he handed the titanium canister to Bear. Bear held it like a newborn infant, careful not to squeeze the life out of it or drop it to the floor. “See if you can find a safe place for that. It’s the last one.”
Bear had already turned away toward a footlocker containing a padded compartment when he stopped in his tracks. Puzzled, he glanced at Cam, who looked equally perplexed.
“Come on in and sit down,” she offered. She had a bottle of water, which Gunner immediately consumed. “What do you mean by last one?”
“Somebody got there before we did,” he replied.
“We know.” Cam gestured for him to sit, and she immediately provided him another bottled water. The ship’s physicians had warned them that being surrounded in the pure oxygen of the exosuit might result in extreme dehydration. It was important for Gunner to drink lots of water for his body to adjust. “We came across another submersible while we were videotaping the wreckage. We played cat and mouse before they gave up and took off.”
Bear returned to his seat and checked the control panel. “We also came across one of their divers heading out of the hull.”
“Yellow exosuit?” asked Gunner.
“Yes,” replied Cam. “We thought about reeling him in, but you were at the end of your oxygen, and we didn’t want to risk it.”
“I was beyond the initial supply, and the suit was fortunately running on the recycled, limited air at the end.”
Cam tilted her head. “I set the timer. You should’ve had more time.”
“Yeah, in a perfect world,” Gunner agreed. “I came across the same diver leaving the sub. As I tried to chase him down, I hit a part of the wreckage and then got body-slammed against the hull. It completely shut down my computer system and the oxygen system at the same time.”
“Damn!” said Bear.
“Anyway, we’d fought for a minute, but it was ridiculously clumsy. He dropped the last canister into the bottom of the sub and took off. I decided to let him go and locate the canister.”
Cam fist-bumped Gunner. “I see you found it.”
“The damn thing hit the bottom of the sub. I got a little lost trying to make my way to the stern and the extraction point. Otherwise, I would’ve been waiting on you guys.”
Bear turned to the Gray Fox team. “Unless you wanna go chase down the other diver, we can start heading topside.”
“We’d never find him,” said Cam. “I vote we head up.”
“Same here,” said Gunner. “I wanna get our video and still shots to Ghost so we can figure out who ran off with a thousand canisters of whatever this stuff is.”
“I’ll text the surface in a minute and let them know we’re headed up,” said Bear.
“Let’s not mention the other canisters unless we’re specifically asked how many I saw,” began Gunner. “In fact, I might very well lie to anyone who inquires. Here’s the thing. That took a lot of planning and manpower to empty the sub of all the canisters we saw on Ba
llard’s video footage. There’s no way to carry the things out more than one at a time.”
Cam ran her fingers through her hair. “Are you thinking multiple submersibles?”
“At least two, with two-man teams, operating at the same time. Even then, they must have some kind of pully system or ROV device to haul the canisters out so quickly.”
Bear began their ascent to the surface. He directed their attention to the timer so they could follow along. He turned and patted Gunner on the back. “You did a helluva job getting that thing. I gotta feelin’ we’re just gettin’ started, though.”
“Same here,” said Cam.
“Whatever this shit is,” said Gunner, pointing at the locker containing the titanium canister, “somebody moved heaven and earth to get to it before we did.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Mar del Plata
Buenos Aires Province
South Atlantic Coast of Argentina
January 1945
Weeks before, Hans Schaeffer had strolled through the streets of Dusseldorf. The once lovely, vibrant town on the Rhine River in Western Germany near the Netherlands had become his adopted home after fleeing Berlin. As he walked, he lamented to himself how Dusseldorf was a shadow of its former self, barely recognizable, as it had been ravaged by war.
Much like its people. All around him were shabby, haggard residents and the skeletal remains of their once modest homes. According to his orders, these were to be his final days in Germany, or so he thought. There would be one more trip the following year in the summer of 1945. That would be his last.
The next day, he was to report to the Elbe II submarine pen in Hamburg. His mission was secretive. His destination was known only to him and a select few. This had become the norm in the latter part of the war.
He was told to pack his most basic of belongings, and he could bring one companion if he chose to. Schaeffer had no family. They’d all been killed over the course of the war, including his wife, who never saw the Allies’ bomb coming for their home.
He’d been assigned to U-977, a Type VII submarine widely considered the workhouse of the German U-boat force. It did not have the same range as the larger Type IX U-boats, but it was faster. It was also easier to refuel when it was sailing for the far reaches of the western and southern Atlantic Ocean.
On this journey, he left Hanover and had an interim stopover in Norway, after which he began his submerged passage to the Cape Verde Islands, a fueling stop controlled by the German Navy. His journey continued into the South Atlantic for sixty-seven days, just below the surface, using the U-boat’s snorkel for travel. Word had traveled throughout the German Navy of the demise of the U-1226. The snorkel failure had been blamed for the lost contact, and therefore many U-boat commanders insisted upon traveling at a shallow depth, using the snorkel for air and navigation.
He was unfamiliar with the civilian passengers he ferried, and he looked the other way as their belongings were loaded onto his submarine. He was loyal to the Reich and knew better than to interfere with the business of the SS.
He never in his wildest dreams imagined he’d travel that far away from Europe. Argentina was completely unknown to him, for he’d never had a reason to study geography or history to understand the region.
When he’d completely surfaced, he exited the conning tower to take in his surroundings. It was in the middle of a clear, warm night, but the full moon illuminated the harbor. The U-977 had emerged in the midst of an Argentine warship flotilla. A small vessel approached and eased its hull up to the conn. Shaeffer’s crew assisted in tying off the boat, and a uniformed officer of the Argentine Army introduced himself in Spanish.
Schaeffer looked around for help. None of his crew spoke Spanish. The Argentinian didn’t speak a word of German. Eventually, they found a common tongue—French. The officer welcomed Schaeffer to Argentina and then delivered the bad news. They must disembark all passengers and cargo before daybreak. The crew and their gear could remain. But all civilians must leave immediately. Buses and delivery trucks were on standby to take them to their next destination.
Schaeffer didn’t question the officer about where they were being taken nor why the coming daylight was an issue. He simply gave orders to his crew, and the disembarkation began. He supervised every aspect of removing the passengers first and then the cargo.
His excitement began to build as he realized his fellow countrymen, as well as himself, had escaped the inevitable destruction of the Reich. Now each of them could forge a new path for their lives. One that enabled them to be the master of their own fate and free to pursue any dream they chose without being under the thumb of the Berlin politicians.
Once the boat was emptied, Schaeffer took a moment to address his crew. He was proud of the German sailors he’d worked with in the past. He considered them the most formidable group of warriors in the Reich’s armed forces. He continued to say goodbye to the bearded, weather-worn faces of the men he’d had the pleasure to command for two years.
A spontaneous demonstration arose from his crew. They cheered their commander as he began to board the cargo transportation flatboat to catch one of the buses.
“Halt!” a man’s voice screamed from an approaching boat. “Verlasse dein U-boot nicht!” Do not leave your U-boat.
Schaeffer stood with his hands at his sides, holding nothing more than a duffel containing a few personal belongings. The boat pulled alongside, and a man dressed in a dark suit approached the bow. As he drew closer, Schaeffer was able to see his face clearly. It was Franz Oberg, the second-in-command of the WVHA, the economic and administrative offices of the SS.
“Sieg heil, Obergruppenführer!”
“You have done well, Commander Schaeffer. However, there is still work to be done. You are to return with your crew to Hamburg to assist further with the war effort.”
“Sir, it was my understanding that—” When Oberg snapped at him, he knew he’d pushed his luck to the point of insolence.
Schaeffer pursed his lips and accepted his fate. As Oberg dressed him down for questioning his authority, Schaeffer’s eyes darted from Oberg to the woman who stood slightly behind him. She was young and attractive, but certainly wasn’t a Nazi party official or military officer. He furrowed his brow as he wondered why she’d accompanied the Obergruppenführer to greet U-977.
For an awkward moment, nobody spoke, as it was expected Schaeffer would return inside the submarine to prepare for the return journey. Then, unexpectedly, he was addressed by the woman standing behind Oberg.
“Commander, travel safe. Remember, we will rise from the ashes.”
Schaeffer would never know the mysterious woman who spoke to him was Brit Jorgensen, mistress of Himmler. She’d insisted upon coming to Mar del Plata to meet the submarine commander who was to return to Hamburg to retrieve the father of her children.
Chapter Forty-Seven
ASTARSA Shipyard
Mar del Plata
Buenos Aires Province
South Atlantic Coast of Argentina
Present Day, July
A century ago, the ASTARSA shipyard at Mar del Plata was a leader in naval and metallurgic workers. The first ship ever built in Argentina in excess of one thousand tons was built at ASTARSA. Soon, the company expanded to the construction of diesel and steam locomotives. Then the Great Depression in the United States brought the world economy to a severe slowdown, and ASTARSA was relegated to making repairs on the boats and locomotives it had built in years past.
That changed in 1946 when it was sold to an industrial machinery company funded by an Austrian conglomerate known as Knight Gruppe AG. With Juan Peron’s rise to power in late 1945, the economic conditions in Argentina started to improve. The government divested itself of the shipyard property and sold it to a wholly owned subsidiary of Knight Gruppe.
The turnaround was gradual at first, but as the decade of the seventies arrived, ASTARSA found itself gaining lucrative contracts with General Motors, Union
Pacific, and Cabot Industries, a U.S.-based shipbuilder.
By the eighties, the increased activity of the Argentine merchant navy produced an opening for ASTARSA, which expanded its operations and soon became one of the largest employers in Mar del Plata. Large container vessels who brought goods and freight into Argentina frequently used ASTARSA to offload the containers before making their ships available for repairs. One of those ships, the Tigris, was scheduled to arrive that morning.
Ordinarily, the arrival of a container ship didn’t draw any attention from ASTARSA executives above the title of dock foreman. This day was different. The president of ASTARSA, wearing his customary khaki pants, white fur-lined parka, and L.L.Bean boots, strolled along the dock where the Tigris was tied off. He was escorted across the gangway onto the ship by two members of the ASTARSA management team together with his own private security detail.
Once on board, he instructed the ASTARSA executives to stay behind while he entered the cargo hold of the container ship. With the assistance of his security personnel’s flashlights, they located the container that matched the serial numbers and description he’d received by courier.
“Open it,” he instructed, handing over the keys to the heavy-duty padlocks that secured the doors. These had arrived via the same courier who delivered the container’s details. The lock was opened and the doors were pulled slightly ajar.
“Sir, would you like our assistance?” one of the men asked.
“No, that shouldn’t be necessary.”
The president of the company took a flashlight and made his way inside. Attached to a hook on the wall of the container was a large crowbar. He quickly snatched it off the wall and tucked the flashlight between his cheek and shoulder. Using the flat end of the crowbar, he pried open one of more than a hundred wooden crates stacked inside the container. With a little effort, the lid popped up, revealing finely shredded wood that acted as a nest for the contents.
