The entire crew gathered around the chart table in the Brunnhilde’s wheelhouse as Chief Warrant Officer David Schiff unrolled a battered hydrographic chart. It was actually a composite of four smaller charts he had taped together, showing the contours of the seabed below. He and Yuri Chorev had spent days poring over old records and planning the search pattern. Superimposed over the chart they had drawn a grid of black squares. Each square had a small red number in the lower right corner. The search would begin with the center square, the most likely place the U-boat would have gone down.
“If we were to pick one place to look, this would be it,” Schiff said as he put his index finger on the center square. “We’ll start there, making parallel passes up and down, like a farmer plowing a field. When we’ve completely covered it, we’ll mark it off with a big ‘X,’ then work squares around it in a clockwise pattern, then the next ring out, then the next ring, and so on until we find it.”
Michael had no idea which square it was in, but the area seemed right and he was confident that the U-582 was somewhere inside that search area. He could feel it tugging at him like a giant magnet, pulling harder and harder on his soul the closer he got. All this sophisticated electronic gear, the metal detector, the depth finder, and even the lights and TV cameras, were merely there to confirm what his gut already knew.
Person seemed to agree. “That winter was nasty — very cold, with wind and storms. That was the way it was the morning we found Michael floating in that rubber raft. The current would have blown him south and west by the time we found him, but this is a good place to start. Kapitan Bruckner would have looked for a dark, lee shore to shield him from the worst of it, if he hoped to see Michael safely ashore in that rubber raft. He would have put you over the side, maybe a mile out, then turned and run for deep water. So he needed a bay with no towns or houses, only dark, snow-covered fields and farms."
Person tapped his pipe stem on the center square and smiled. "This U-boat Kapitan of Michael’s was one of those fine, young gentlemen of the Kriegsmarine — gentlemen and bastards, one and all, but fools they were not.” The old Swede turned and pointed toward the shore. “The safest thing for him would have been to set you free in deep water, where he could quickly dive and be gone. If he did that though, the raft would have surely foundered and you would have drowned. If that was all he wanted, he could have simply tossed you overboard and kept the raft. No, if he wanted you to survive, he had to go in close.”
One thing about Einar Person, Michael realized years ago, was there was nothing soft or fuzzy about him, no round corners or soft spots, the man said what he thought.
“I knew those U-boat men. They wore their neat beards and jaunty white hats; but they were bastards one and all, if you will excuse my language. Early in the war, in 1942 and 1943, I captained on several runs from Scotland to Murmansk. They would hit us at night with no warning and no help, either. Hundreds of men were thrown into the sea — the dead and the dying — and not a mother’s son among them stood a chance in that freezing water. It was murder. Odd thing though, if those same rotten bastards came upon a lone sailor floating on the sea, they’d fish him out and give him hot food, medicine, even the clothes off their backs. Perhaps that was their way of compensating for all the other horrible things they did. I don’t know. So you were lucky, Michael. That night back in 1945, you caught one with a case of bad conscience.”
“Maybe, Einar; but I’d prefer to think I just caught one of the good ones.”
“One of the good ones?” Person snorted. “Perhaps you did. But good or bad, those U-boat men always went by the book. So your Kapitan must have been a bit crazy in the head that night. Too much conscience? Too much schnapps? I don’t know, because he broke all the rules.” Person pointed to Michael with the stem of his pipe. “First, he risked his boat and his crew by surfacing in Swedish water this close to the Strait. Then, to take it on into shallow water to drop off an American prisoner? Well, he knew he would have been court-martialed and shot if Admiral Carnaris ever found out. They had rules! And they pounded them into their pointy little heads in kindergarten. ‘Don’t litter. Look both ways before you cross the street. Be polite to your mother. And never take a U-boat into shallow water.’ Ah, what glorious bastards they were!” Person roared with laughter.
Mike Randall nodded, humoring him. “Well,” he shrugged, “I know how you feel, Einar; but my U-boat Kapitan was different.”
“Yes, perhaps, and maybe that’s why his U-boat lies on the bottom of the sea.”
The search began that afternoon. As Yuri Chorev had warned, it was hot, slow, boring work. They would lower the platform over the side and let it dangle seventy-five feet or so above the ever-changing bottom. They learned that if they let it ride much lower, the field of vision of the instruments would be too narrow. Worse still, the aluminum frame might hit a rock and damage the delicate equipment. If they let the platform ride too high, they ran the risk of missing everything in the shifting sands and mud. That was why the most nerve-wracking job was to sit at the equipment console hour after hour, watching the sea bed rise and fall beneath the keel, continually calling out instructions to raise or lower the winch. With the wind and currents, a job like that could put a man’s blood pressure in orbit in a matter of minutes. In fact, Michael’s worst nightmare was for them to spend weeks combing these waters over and over again, only to open a newspaper years later and read where some local fisherman snagged a derelict German U-boat in his nets, right in the middle of their search grid.
In the beginning, though, it was exciting. Everything was new, they were actually doing something, and there was the anxious anticipation, waiting for the equipment to start screaming at them that they’d found something. It only took a few days for the novelty to fade into insufferable boredom. They worked in two-hour shifts with Person, Michael, and Balck alternating at the helm while the others took turns at the consoles and winch. On a good day, they saw their progress on the chart as Chorev crossed off a square, then two squares as their techniques improved. On a bad day, however, the hours dragged and dragged. Then, just as the boredom was about to drive them mad, the dials would leap and buzzers would sound. Their hopes would soar with cries of, “Reverse engines!” and “Stop the boat!” They’d turn on the underwater lights and the TV camera and drag the platform back over the spot to get a second set of readings. With a dozen eyes glued to the small black-and-white TV monitor, they’d argue whether it looked like a long rock formation, a large hunk of scrap metal, or maybe the U-boat. They would raise the platform and lower it, trading the width of the view for the resolution, but at that point, there would be no choice. Two members of the crew would don their wet suits and go down for a closer look.
Diving was new to Michael, but he caught on fast. He stood at the head of the ladder decked out in all of his diving gear and caught his reflection in the wheelhouse window. He wore a thick, black rubber wet suit, a hood, gloves, padded boots, regulator, hoses, a big air tank, buoyancy vest, fins, a plastic writing slate on his thigh, a watch, a depth gauge, a knife, and the small spear gun they all carried. Amazing! All of that gear had the sole purpose of permitting the human body to go somewhere it was never meant to go.
On his first dive, Michael’s blood ran cold as he realized what might be down there and where he was about to go. Even worse, he remembered the cold February night on the deck of the U-boat. He remembered every detail and it took every ounce of courage he could muster to walk to the ladder, step off, and sink six years back in time.
The Baltic was never warm, even in mid-summer, and the first touch of ice-cold water on even the tiny gap of exposed skin between his mask and hood took his breath away. The only comparable experience he could remember was sleeping on the beach at Lake Michigan on a blazing hot summer day when one of the girls threw a cup of ice water on his bare back. This was about the same. “Calm down, calm down,” he told himself. That is what Schiff told them. “Take a few slow, steady breaths, then
float, get your buoyancy balanced, check out all your equipment, and get your bearings.”
It all felt so different in the water, so new. In a minute or two, the icy tingling passed; but with that first bubbly splash and a few hurried breaths, his other senses came alive. He was floating beneath the surface, and raised his head a few inches to look up. Like Alice through the looking glass, the surface above was like the backside of a silvery, shimmering mirror. The odd thing was, rather than go silent; you could hear everything. After a moment or two, small trickles of water seeped around the seals of the wet suit, and he could feel sharp pricks and stinging on the exposed bands of skin at the base of his throat, along a thin line along his forehead, and around his ankles and wrists. The temperature never got much over forty degrees down here. At first, it felt strangely refreshing; but in a few minutes, those icy pinpricks turned to a dull ache. Without the heavy wet suit, it would overwhelm a human body in seven to ten minutes. The muscles would slow and refuse to respond. Swimming would become awkward, forcing a diver to suck down oxygen in bigger gulps, faster and faster as the body strained to fight the cold, trying to warm itself as it inevitably slipped into hyperventilation and hypothermia.
Still, hanging suspended in the sparkling water with the tangy, pungent taste of salt on your lips was an incredible experience, he thought. As he inhaled and exhaled, the sound of each breath was amplified by air gushing and wheezing through the regulator. It sent a stream of thousands of tiny pearl-like bubbles racing up toward the surface, making the entire experience look, sound, taste, and feel amazing. That was the first dive. After a few more, the thrill quickly wore off.
“You must expect some false alarms up here in the Baltic,” Einar Person warned. “Ever since the Vikings, boats of every size and description have sailed around the southern tip of Sweden. Sometimes they don’t make it, especially in winter, when it can boil like a cauldron and things disappear.” As it turned out, Person was the master of Nordic understatement. Over the next week or so, they found the rusting hulk of an old coastal freighter, a tug, and a barge, not to mention three anchors, a load of steel beams, and a pile of scrap iron. Each one set the magnetometer and their hopes ringing; but each came to naught, just one more part of the dull routine.
On the sixth day out, Michael was taking his turn at the console, while Einar Person manned the wheel. As usual, the work was hot and boring. Michael was concentrating on the depth finder when a voice called down from the roof of the wheelhouse.
“Captain Person… Mister Randall?” they heard Balck say, “Can you come up here for a moment?”
“We’re a bit busy down here, Balck,” Person growled.
“No doubt, but I think you’ll find it worth the trip, Balck answered in a smug voice as he peered at them over the edge of the roof. “We have company.”
Person and Randall exchanged puzzled looks. Person throttled back the engines to neutral and in less than a minute, the two men were standing on the wheelhouse roof next to Balck. The Mate had a pair of powerful field glasses in his hands as he pointed toward a dim speck on the horizon.
“That’s a Russian fishing trawler out there, a big one,” he said. “She’s been trailing us all day, hull down, just over the horizon.“
Person took the field glasses and focused on the spot. “Balck’s right. She’s Russian, one of their new spy trawlers.”
“I think they were there yesterday,” Balck said with an amused smile. “Maybe the day before, too. At first, I thought it was just coincidence but not three days running.”
“They usually go on to the North Sea and the Atlantic,” Person added. “It is odd to find them this close to Swedish waters, but they appear to know where the line is, and to stay just outside.”
“I think they’re watching us,” Balck said. “Why would they be doing that, Captain? Do you think they are looking for ‘oil,’ too?”
“Russians?” Michael sounded surprised. “No, not a clue.”
“Ivan can be every bit as dangerous as your German friends,” Person warned. “If we were smart, we would go back to port now and turn this entire business over to the Swedish Navy, but that is up to you and the others, Michael. It is your charter.”
Michael took a long, hard look at the trawler. “No, if they aren’t doing anything wrong, neither are we. Besides, we know they’re out there now.”
“Your choice,” Person shrugged as he handed the binoculars to Balck. “Good work. And keep an eye on that trawler for us,” he added. “Let me know if anything changes.”
"As you wish," the German answered.
Michael stood next to Balck and continued to stare out to sea. In a way, seeing the Russian trawler out there filled in some of the blank spots, he thought as he reached into his pants pocket. Absent-mindedly, he pulled out the silver cigarette case and twirled it nervously between his fingertips. As he turned back, Balck’s eyes flashed as they saw the twirling piece of silver.
The German held out his hand. “May I see that?” he asked pleasantly enough.
Michael handed him the cigarette case, but Balck’s expression never changed. He ran his fingers across the ornate cover, fondly, almost reverently. “A lovely old antique you have here, Herr Randall. I was not aware you smoked.”
“I don’t; it’s a souvenir, a good luck charm, you might say.”
“A souvenir?” Balck smiled as he opened the top and read the inscription engraved inside. “How very… interesting,” he commented as he snapped the case shut and handed it back, his eyes giving nothing away. “A most unusual object for an American to be carrying around, especially one who does not smoke.”
“It’s a nasty habit I never picked up, even during the war.”
“I did, but I gave it up. It seems when I really wanted one, I could never find one, so I quit. But that silver case, I’m sure there must be a story that goes with it.”
“Someday, I’ll tell you all about it, Balck,” Randall answered as he slipped it back into his pocket. “You might find it interesting.”
“Oh, I’m certain I would,” Balck answered.
“You’re German," Randall commented. “Bormann and that fellow Kruger, did you ever hear of them or see them during the war?”
“Me? Oh, no,” Balck shook his head as his lips curved into a wry smile. “I was a junior officer in cargo ships, mostly on the Rhine and back and forth in Holland and France. As I remember, that fellow Bormann was one of the beer hall roughnecks who worked for Hitler in Berlin. I think I read he is dead. The other name? Kruger? I don’t recall hearing it during the war, so he must not have been too important, eh?” Balck smiled innocently. “Remember, Herr Randall, not all Germans were Nazis. Most of us were only trying to stay alive, and stay one step ahead of the Russians.”
“Speaking of which…” Michael reminded him.
“Ah, yes," Balck replied. “I shall keep an eye on that trawler for you. Then you and the Captain will be surprised how useful I can be around here,” he chuckled.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Nine more days passed, each as uneventful as the one preceding it while the Brunnhilde passed back and forth across the surface in precise patterns. As she did, Schiff had the unwelcome duty of crossing another square off his hydrographic chart, each “X” signifying the crew’s mounting sense of frustration. When they began the search, completing a grid square was cause for celebration or at least a smile. As the days passed, that changed. Now, each “X” represented a dry hole, as one more good possibility had turned bad and the remaining list got shorter and shorter. Yet, as fruitless as it appeared from the Brunnhilde’s wheelhouse, they could take comfort from a quick glance out to sea. All the Russians could do was sit out there and watch, earning their frustrations vicariously.
It was on the tenth day that they found something.
From the first contact, they all knew this one was different. The readings on the sonar and the magnetometer were louder and stronger than they had seen or heard before. All eyes i
mmediately turned toward David Schiff as he leaned over the instrument panel and concentrated on the dials and gauges. With a deft hand, Person reversed the engines and let the boat drift slowly back over the spot. As he did, the results were there on the instruments and the graph paper for everyone to see.
They made three slow passes over the same spot, each revealing a slightly different shape; but it was a linear hump on the ocean floor, it was long, and it was metal. They turned on the bright underwater lights and TV camera and lowered the platform until the object came into clearer focus. Unfortunately, at this depth the water was murky, with sediments swirling through the cold currents. To get a clear picture, the field of vision had been sharply narrowed; but something was there, no doubt about it. It appeared flat and smooth, nestled in a field of large rocks, with large piles of sand and sediment pushed up against the near side. Could it be the U-boat? Maybe, Michael thought, but there were many other possibilities to consider; so don’t get too excited, he warned himself. There had already been too many false alarms.
“It’s my turn to go down,” Michael asserted as he walked out the door and headed for the rack of wet suits. “Balck,” he called back over his shoulder. “You’ve been itching to dive. Why don’t you come along,” thinking that was also the best way to keep the big Mate close and know where he was.
Even with practice and a half-dozen extra hands helping, putting on their dive gear seemed to take forever. Finally decked-out from masks to fins, he and Balck slipped over the side and began their slow descent down the cable. It had bright yellow stripes at five-foot intervals. When they reached the thirty-foot mark, Michael paused to equalize the pressure in his mask and vest, and looked back up. The round, slime-covered keel of the old whaler looked black against the glittering silver sea around it. As he dropped lower, the water darkened from a pale blue-green at the surface to a deep indigo at the fifty-foot mark, and finally an oppressive matte-black further down. The total darkness of the sea bottom seemed to swallow everything, from sunlight to ships and planes, and flesh and blood, until they saw the diving platform below, and the dim circle of white light around it.
Cold War Trilogy - A Three Book Boxed Set: of Historical Spy Versus Spy Action Adventure Thrillers Page 60
