In the far corner, he saw a pile of large metal boxes that looked as if they had bounced back and forth off the bulkheads before they crashed back to the deck. Michael remembered lowering them down through the hatch. They looked like ammunition boxes, with handles that snapped down, to lock and seal the tops in place. Some were still intact, but the tops had popped off others, spilling piles of official-looking papers, index cards, and ledger books across the deck. What were they? Nazi Party financial records? Gestapo files? Party membership cards? He touched the cover of a ledger book and it broke apart. The cold saltwater turned the wooden crates and boxes and the cloth and paper to mush, but the jewels and gold bars would look about as they had that last terrible February night.
He looked down at his oxygen gauge. He would love to spend longer exploring the compartment; but his air tank was more than half-empty, and he had to get back to the Brunnhilde. He glanced quickly around the cluttered compartment trying to decide what to take with him. A gold bar? That would get their attention, he thought, as he picked one up and jammed it inside his belt. A few rare coins? Maybe an antique ring and a couple of those diamond-studded necklaces? Yes, those should do nicely. They ought to be enough to convince the American State Department, the West Germans — hell, the whole world — of what lay down here and what it meant.
However, Michael’s joy was suddenly short-lived when he heard a loud Clang! on the deck above, followed by the creaking and groaning of metal scraping on metal. Had the Russian divers come back to finish the job? He swung the flashlight beam toward the hatch and saw what he feared most. It was closing, settling back down into that heavy steel collar. He kicked his fins and swam furiously upward, but he was too late. In the bright flashlight beam, a face stared down at him through the narrowing gap; and squeezed inside that black-rubber mask were a pair of laughing blue eyes. That was no Russian; it was Balck, and the bastard was closing the hatch, trapping him inside the U-boat. Michael managed to get his hands on the hatch plate before it came all the way down, but he had no leverage. The momentum of the heavy steel pushed him back into the compartment until he heard it close with a dull Clang! He beat on the hatch, first with his fist, and then with the gold bar, leaving bright yellow scratches on the thick steel. That accomplished very little, so he wedged his legs inside the collar and pushed up with all his might. He even turned and twisted the locking wheel, but none of that was any use. The hatch moved up an inch or two, until it hit something and stopped. That bastard Balck must have jammed something into the collar and wedged it shut.
That was when it dawned on him that he had now come full circle. He was trapped inside the same compartment he had hidden in some six years before. How ironic. But this time, there would be no German sailors coming in to get him and set him free. This time, the torpedo room really would be his tomb. He ceased his futile struggle with the hatch and tried to think. Think, he screamed, as he turned the bright beam of his flashlight back on the hatch, hoping this was all some monstrous joke; but it was not.
Michael stopped breathing, listening for some sound outside; but he heard nothing. No, there was something, here inside, not out there. He whipped the flashlight beam around the empty compartment and swore he heard faint noises in the compartment, laughter and voices, faint and muffled, but coming from the dark corners of the compartment. Now, he really began to sweat. He knew he was alone in here; but there! He swore he saw thin figures moving about in the dark corners, growing bolder. Ghosts? My God, he thought, he really was beginning to crack under the pressure. Then out of the corner of his eye, he saw pale gray figures in German Navy uniforms marching aft. Some were dressed in work clothes and some in those bulky oilskins they wore when they went up on watch. As they marched past him laughing and smiling, they pointed long, bony fingers at him. They waved and smiled and welcomed him back; and this time they had no intention of letting him leave.
After he entered the water the second time, Kruger kept well back, content to let the American lead him down the cable. Rather than go for him now in open water, Kruger was content to watch and wait for the right moment to strike, hidden by the inky black water up above the floodlights. Strange to be here looking down on the very deck where he himself had walked that cold winter day in 1945. It was a chilling reminder that life could indeed be fleeting, even his own. So he knew it was best to pull back and wait.
Randall! Kruger remembered he had almost come unglued that morning in the corridor when he saw Randall fondling his silver cigarette case — his silver cigarette case! Did Randall know who he was? Was he trying to provoke a reaction? Kruger had spent years training his emotions, and that morning he kept it all inside. But the cigarette case had become a matter of personal honor to him; Kruger had sworn a blood oath he would get it back, and that the American would die for taking it. He blamed himself for allowing Randall to stow away and escape from Königsberg in the first place. By doing so, he became a witness, and he could not allow that. Kruger should have known that their German guard Stolz was utterly incompetent, and required a head count of the prisoners before the trucks left the submarine pen. But that was only the first time he underestimated the pesky American and failed to take his life. There was also that morning in New York. He should have shot Randall himself rather than trust those damned Spaniards. Finally, he should have killed him this morning when they went down on the first dive. Instead of toying with that last Russian, he should have turned the knife on Randall.
Indulging himself in a knife fight with the Russian Speznaz diver was understandable, but Kruger’s ego demanded that mistakes like that be corrected. He should have turned the knife on the American and carved him into fish bait, then gone up and made a clean sweep of the rest of them on the whaler; but Kruger could not stop himself. The Russian waged a more credible fight than Kruger expected, and the intense pleasure of feeling the Russian die in his arms proved too intense to pass up. That had always been Kruger’s failing, he loved to kill far too much. Even Bormann had lectured him about it, warning the young Sturmbannführer that some day it would be his downfall, but Kruger only laughed. It was not as if he had any choice. Like a powerful narcotic, he could not live without it.
Kruger watched Randall as he worked on the hatch with the acetylene torch and a long steel bar. Maybe the fool would give up in frustration and come up to the platform, making it a simple matter for Kruger to slip behind him with the knife. That would be ideal. Unfortunately, the American’s streak of good fortune continued unabated. Somehow, the devil managed to get the hatch open; and the expression on Kruger’s face turned cold and vengeful. It was time to kill him. There were four more up on the deck of the old whaler, but Randall was the head. Cut off the head and the body will wither and die.
He watched Randall use the torch and the steel bar. The American was strong, but it was a struggle as he chipped away at the cowling. Finally, he got the wheel turning, raised the heavy steel hatch plate, and swam head first down through the hatch into the bow torpedo room. As the American’s fins disappeared inside, Kruger paused to look around the platform and drew his knife. With one swift cut, he severed the thin cable that fed the TV camera. In all likelihood, the group up on the Brunnhilde was too busy to be watching anyway; but Kruger saw no reason to take any chances. Now, he had complete privacy. He swam down to the deck of the U-boat and picked up the long, steel prying bar the American had been using to open the hatch. Damn that man! Kruger never intended to let him get inside. Bormann would have his hide for permitting a sacrilege like that. Well, Kruger thought, if the American wanted to be inside that badly, there was no sense stopping him now. So, let him go inside, let him look around, and let him take his sweet time doing it, Kruger sneered as he pushed the hatch down and jammed it shut with the prying iron. He would have an eternity.
Inside, Michael refused to admit he was trapped. He tried to open the hatch again and again, gripping the locking wheel with both hands, pushing and pulling against the thick steel plate with all his s
trength; but it was no use. Someone had wedged the hatch shut from the outside, and there was nothing he could do to force it open. Finally, he backed away, feeling frustrated, stupid, and exhausted. He was breathing hard, and that was no good. At that rate, he would burn through his remaining oxygen in a matter of minutes.
It had to be Balck. Leslie was right. He had played right into the German’s hands, and Balck must be outside laughing at him right now. But beneath the anger and the frustration, Michael felt a new white-hot determination. There was no way he was going to let that blue-eyed bastard get away with this — not this time and not this easily. Balck! In the back of the American’s mind sprang the firm conviction this was not the first time they had met. He would bet his life on it; and in an all-too-real sense, he already had.
As he listened to his own labored breathing, an even sicker thought came to him. At that very moment, Balck was swimming back up to the Brunnhilde. Up on deck, who was left to stop him? One badly-terrorized woman? A wounded Israeli diver? A middle-aged marine biologist? Or, a sixty-year-old Swedish fishing boat captain? The four of them together would not even slow the big German down.
There was no choice now. Michael had to get out of this compartment — but how? His mind raced back to that night six years before when those two sailors marched him aft, trying to remember what the interior of the U-boat looked like, trying to think of another way out. The foredeck hatch was now out, Balck had seen to that, and both the forward and aft torpedo tubes had been welded shut before the U-boat left Königsberg. There were the conning tower and the aft deck hatch, but to get to them he had to get into those compartments. How many were there? Three, maybe four? Unfortunately, each had its own watertight door; if it was as badly jammed and corroded as this one, he was doomed.
Time was running out with every breath Michael took, but he had to try. Life had now come full circle. He could die here in the forward torpedo room, where he probably should have died all those years before, or he could die farther aft trying again to get out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
As he neared the surface, Kruger paused and drew his knife. He ran the sharp blade down his forearm, slicing deep enough through the wet suit to draw blood. Despite the burning chill of cold saltwater on the fresh cut, his expression never changed as it formed a dark cloud in the water around him. Nice touch, he thought, as he patted the waistband of his wet suit under his diving harness to make sure his other little surprise was still firmly in place. It was the Beretta he took off that fat Jew cop, Eismer, from New York, and he would soon put it to good use. When his head broke the surface near the Brunnhilde, Kruger thrashed about in the water and called out for help. “Hilfe, hilfe!” he sputtered, cradling his wounded arm so that the blood ran down his chest for good effect.
“Balck!” Person shouted in dismay as he ran to the railing, “My God, man, you’re bleeding. What has happened?"
“It was the Russians, they came back,” he stammered as he grabbed the ladder and hung on. “Randall and I were working on the hatch. We nearly had it open when they hit us again. I never saw them… I never saw them.”
Person reached over the side and pulled him up the ladder. The old man was stronger than he looked, Kruger realized. He leaned against the wheelhouse wall, carefully looking around to make sure they were all there. Chorev, the Israeli scientist, was kneeling next to Schiff, helping to bandage the man’s wound, and that damned American woman was kneeling next to him. She looked pale, her arms hanging limp at her side, until she realized Balck was standing behind her.
“Where is Michael?” she demanded to know as she turned and glared at him. “What did you do to him?”
“It was the Russians!” Balck snapped back, unaccustomed to a mouthy woman chastising him. “They grabbed him and there was nothing I could do to stop them. I tried, and this is what I got for my trouble,” he said, as he held up his arm and let the blood drip on the deck. “He was a brave man. He held them back so I could get away.”
Leslie stepped closer and looked into Balck’s eyes. “You’re a liar!” she shouted.
“What are you saying, woman?” Person tried to cut her off. “Can’t you see Balck’s been hurt?”
“No! I don’t think there were any Russians down there — not this time.” She pointed an accusing finger at the German. “There was only him.” That said, she rose and ran to the rack that held their scuba diving equipment.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Person demanded to know, trying desperately to reassert his authority.
“Where do you think!” she said as she pulled her wet suit off the rack.
“Don’t be impertinent with me, woman,” Person grabbed her arm.
“I’m going down there!” she said as she pointed over the side.
While she and Person argued, Kruger slipped his hand inside his waistband and pulled out the Beretta. He rose to his full height, and when he next spoke, his voice was not that of a wounded, exhausted man; it was loud and confident, and in full command. “No, you aren’t, Fraulein,” he demanded. “You aren’t going anywhere.”
Leslie spun around, ready to answer his challenge, and she saw the small automatic in his hand. In that instant, a look of complete understanding passed between them. Maybe it was the arrogant smirk or the icy detachment in Balck’s eyes that set her off; but Leslie’s expression of defiance quickly flared into white-hot anger.
“That’s one of our Beretta’s, isn’t it? It’s Manny Eismer’s gun, isn’t it?” she accused him. “You bastard! You took it from him when you killed him, didn’t you?”
Kruger didn’t even bother to answer. He looked at her with those cold, cruel blue eyes and laughed.
Rivers of sweat ran down inside Michael’s wet suit as he set to work on the round watertight door at the rear of the torpedo room. He closed his eyes, picturing the compartments on the other side of the door, trying to remember the details. There was the wardroom and another compartment between there and the control room, but he could not recall exactly what it was. He had ducked his head to go through three doorways, but it was all a blur now. Each of the watertight doors had a round locking wheel in the center. They were standing open when he went through, but surely they would have closed them before the U-boat dived. If they did, he would have to find a way to get them open. He grabbed that first wheel with both hands and gave it a hard turn, not expecting it to move; and it did not.
Michael backed off, took a close look at the door mechanism, and then pulled the heavy, gold bar from his belt. He began pounding it on the spokes of the wheel, hoping to loosen six years of corrosion so it would turn. It did not; but he kept pounding, because the loud clanging seemed therapeutic. Not only did it channel his anger and frustration into some constructive violence, but the heavy blows helped mask his own heavy breathing. He bashed the spoke again and again, making the U-boat ring like a big church bell until the wheel finally moved. He let the gold bar drop onto the deck and grabbed the spokes again, trying to muscle the wheel the rest of the way around. His arms began to quiver as he strained to keep it turning, groaning right along with the old, rusted steel, until the wheel would turn no further.
The watertight door opened inward, toward him. He pulled on it, but the seal would not break free. Figures, he growled. Nothing was going to be easy today. Turning on his side, he planted both feet on the bulkhead and he tried to lift the door up. As with the locking wheel, after enough sweat and grunts, it finally broke free and opened. He had to stop. His head was pounding, forcing him to gulp down huge mouthfuls of air from his tank. Funny, he didn’t realize how hard he’d worked until he stopped. He retrieved the flashlight and the gold bar, and wiggled through the gap into the next compartment.
It was the wardroom. That was where he saw the first one, as the white circle of light from the flashlight passed over a human skeleton. He held the light there as a sour taste of stomach acid rose into his throat. One skeleton? No, there were four, lying amid the debris in th
e far corner. Ever since that terrifying moment in the fuselage of the old British bomber, he tried to prepare himself; knowing he would need to deal with them, probably with little warning. Like the wooden crates in the torpedo room, the sailors would have been flung around the small compartment before they came to rest in the corner that last night. Not a very pleasant way to die, but it would have been quick. He swung the light beam away, but the image remained there, burned onto the back of his eyelids. They were little more than bones bound together by the thick seams of their uniforms, covered with a fine layer of silt. Were these the two German sailors who helped him that night? He would never know, but they were in here somewhere.
He had to get a grip on himself. If he didn’t, he’d be joining them in the very near future, so he turned away and swam aft. He had to keep moving, because his time was expiring with every breath he took. Fortunately, the next watertight door stood open. The hatch plate had been badly bent on its hinge, and the collar was sprung, probably when the U-boat sank and hit the bottom; but it was open and it took him into the radio room. A small victory, he thought, considering that the next hatch was shut tight. On the deck lay two more skeletons. He ignored them and focused on the hatch. These two didn’t bother him nearly as much as the ones in the wardroom. Maybe the shock and novelty had worn off, and they’d become easier to ignore.
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