Cold War Trilogy - A Three Book Boxed Set: of Historical Spy Versus Spy Action Adventure Thrillers

by William Brown

  That was when he realized his breathing was becoming more labored. It was a gradual thing; but he felt his chest tightening as he ran out of air, slowly suffocating, minute by agonizing minute. Soon, he would be lying on the deck next to the dead Germans, unless he found a way out. Six years before, Eric Bruckner set him free; but fate would not be as kind to him this time.

  His air tank held a small emergency reserve. Twisting that valve would give him a new stream of fresh air. It would be such an easy thing to do, but he fought back the urge. The reserve was only good for ten minutes, not much more; and he intended to hoard it until the bitter end. He had no idea how far the main tank would take him. Perhaps another ten minutes? Maybe twenty? No telling. But when he opened that emergency valve, he was placing a finite limit on it all. Ten minutes! That would be harder to cope with than not knowing; so he pushed on, determined to take it slow and easy. Stay calm, he told himself. Put your energy into getting out of here, not your fraying nerves.

  Michael set to work on the watertight door; but no matter how hard he struggled, the wheel on this one wouldn’t turn any easier than the one back in the torpedo room. He banged on the spokes with the gold bar, but all that yielded was paint chips and dented gold. He paused to look around. The hammering had gotten him nowhere. He needed something else. There! In the corner of the compartment, he saw the table that held the radio. It had ripped loose from the wall and lay in pieces on the deck, its tubular steel front legs sticking up in the air like a dead animal lying on its back. One of those table legs might work, he thought. A human skeleton lay wedged beneath; but Michael ignored it as he had the last two, finding himself increasingly desensitized to death as each minute passed. He grabbed the table and twisted it, pulling and pushing until it broke free from the rotting wood and he could wedge it between the spokes of the wheel. He slipped his shoulder under the rod and pushed up, using the table leg as a lever, forcing the wheel to turn. The muscles in his legs ached, and his shoulder screamed in pain but he heard the wheel groan as it began to move, faster and faster, until it finally spun free; and he could pull the door open.

  He relaxed and floated free, taking several deep breaths to clear his head. A dull ache had settled behind his eyes, pounding like a kettledrum; but he refused to quit. It was the oxygen debt building inside, slowly poisoning him. But the path to the control room and the conning tower now stood open and this was not the time to give in. If he did, he was dead.

  He gathered up his makeshift collection of tools; with a few kicks, he swam on into the devastation of what had been the U-boat’s control room, where the first bomb spent its awful fury. As he looked around, Michael imagined what it must have been like when the bomb blew through the outer hull and detonated inside this confined space — the blast, the sudden flash, the searing flames, the shrapnel, the twisting metal, the bursting pipes, and the choking black smoke. The walls were burned black, the deck plates buckled, pipes bent and twisted, and the rows of dials and control levers along the bulkheads smashed beyond recognition. To his left, only tiny blackened pieces of wood remained of the chart table where he stood that night. On the far side of the room stood the watertight door that led aft toward the engine room and the aft torpedo room. That was where the second bomb would have struck, and the door looked to be shut tight.

  Michael turned his flashlight toward the ceiling. The narrow beam swept across the jagged hole where the bomb had struck at the base of the conning tower wall, exploding in the control room below. Six feet over, the hatch that had led up to the conning tower appeared to be open, only a foot or so, but it was open. The ladder and the hatch collar were bent and twisted, but it looked like he could squeeze through. That was good, because the conning tower would be his last chance to get out. He hadn’t the strength for more than one battle.

  Michael swam closer and studied the hatch collar. He squinted, fighting to keep his eyes in focus, but it was becoming harder to think clearly. His head ached and his eyes wouldn’t clear. Worse still, his arms and legs felt like they were encased in lead. He was exhausted. His brain kept screaming, “Keep moving, keep moving,” but his body refused to respond, leaving him dopey and sluggish. It was no use; he finally had to admit it. He needed air. Without his full faculties, he stood no chance down here; and he would be wasting more oxygen than he was saving. Reluctantly, he reached back over his shoulder and found the valve for the emergency air supply. He gave it a twist and felt as if he had just stuck his head in a noose.

  Now relax, he told himself. Take a few deep breaths and clear your head, just a few slow, easy breaths. Savor the air. Caress it with short, shallow breaths. Nurse it along; but remember, once it is gone, there is no more.

  “Answer me, damn you!” That infuriating American woman screamed at Kruger, but he ignored her. “That’s Manny Eismer’s gun, isn’t it?”

  Kruger shook his head. It was all so amusing. He had killed many men, so many that he had lost count years before, but very few women. Somehow, it did not seem… sporting. This irritating woman was different, however. He so wanted to shoot her then and silence that mouth of hers, but he knew he must wait until he got them all below.

  Person’s eyes narrowed as Leslie’s words sank home. “By god, you really are a pig, aren’t you, Balck?” the Captain sputtered. His hands closed into two large, menacing fists as he stepped toward the German.

  Balck answered with a look of complete disdain. He raised his Beretta and pointed it at Leslie’s nose. “Stop right there, Captain. I might have to empty the whole magazine to stop an old bear like you, but one shot will splatter her brains all over the deck. You would not want to see that happen, now, would you?”

  As usual, Kruger knew how to play a man. The threat of shooting the girl was enough to stop Person in mid-stride. “Now back up!” Kruger ordered, his blue eyes hard and cold as arctic ice. “While you are at it, take that pistol out of your pocket, Captain. You seem to have acquired one too many bulges today. Two fingers, if you please. We would not want anyone else to get hurt, would we?”

  Person growled something angry in Swedish, but he did as he was told. Slowly, he reached back and pulled out his old Nagant revolver. “Toss it over the side, if you please.” As Person’s pistol splashed into the sea, Kruger knew their last threat was sinking to the bottom of the Baltic with it.

  “Good. Now, back up, all of you!” he ordered. “And pick him up,” Kruger motioned toward Schiff’s unconscious body. “We are going below, all five of us.”

  “You can’t do that,” the American woman protested. “David will bleed to death if we move him.”

  “And he’ll bleed to death from a fresh hole in his head if you don’t,” Kruger warned. “You first, Captain. Take his shoulders. And you, Doctor, pick him up under the knees and carry him into the wheelhouse. No tricks or I really will shoot him.”

  Captain Person and Yuri Chorev looked at each other, but reluctantly they bent down and picked up the heavy petty officer as Balck ordered. He was a load for them to carry; but as gently as they could, they set off in a slow column toward the wheelhouse. The American woman was in the lead, looking back over her shoulder at Person and Chorev, who were struggling to carry Schiff between them. Kruger took up the rear. As with most former SS officers, Kruger had little experience with prisoners. On the Eastern Front they rarely took any, so he kept his automatic moving, sweeping quickly and randomly from one to the other.

  “What did you do to Michael?” that damned woman shouted at him as she stopped at the wheelhouse door and blocked their way. “Did you kill him, too?”

  “Who? The good Sergeant Randall? Oh, I would have dearly loved to kill that fellow. He has been quite a nuisance, you know,” Kruger grinned, watching her eyes and enjoying the pain he was inflicting. “But he was so intent on getting inside that old U-boat; it would have been rude of me to interrupt. He so wanted to be with his old friend Kapitan Bruckner again, that I made sure he would have all the time he needed to reminisce,” the
German said as he laughed at her. “A lifetime! That is what he has now. A lifetime or what is left of one.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Michael closed his eyes and took his first breaths from the emergency reserve. He drew them in and savored them like a cold beer on a hot day. Slowly, his head cleared; and the overwhelming sense of weariness left his arms and legs. Despite the lift, when he opened his eyes, that damned hatch looked every bit as imposing as it had; and he knew he was on borrowed time. Jamming the table leg under the edge of the upper hatch, he pulled down hard, shifting it to other spots around the rim. With a series of loud, frustrated grunts, he pushed and pulled; but still, the steel plate would not yield. He flipped upside-down and hooked his fingers under the edge of the hatch collar, slipped off his fins, planted his feet firmly on the steel plate, and pushed up with all the power his legs could muster. He felt it wobble a few inches and move, but not nearly enough.

  Pausing for a few deep breaths, he went at it again, jamming both legs against the steel plate, knees bent, thigh muscles straining, grunting. His legs quivered and the rough, steel edge cut through the palms of his diving gloves. He ignored the pain, determined to pound away until the plate gave way; but after a few minutes, he had to stop, because the pain was too intense. He let his body go limp and gathered his fading strength for one last try. He focused it through the lens of his own anger, breathing deeply and concentrating all his energy on the hatch. Slowly he drew his feet back and launched them against the metal plate like a battering ram, blocking out the pain shooting up his legs. This time the hatch did move. Not far, but it moved and that was all that mattered. He threw himself at it again and again, like a maniac, until the hinge snapped and the big steel saucer broke free. It floated upward into the conning tower, tumbling slowly through the water until it fell onto the deck above with a loud Clang!

  Like an old club fighter who had taken one too many body shots, each of the battles he had fought over the past eighteen hours had taken its toll. His entire body ached. His rubber gloves were shredded; and the skin inside was raw and oozing blood. Well, one good thing about cold saltwater, he thought, it would stop the bleeding and kill the pain soon enough. His arms were weak and his fingers slow to obey, but Michael managed to retrieve his flashlight, the table leg, and even his prized gold bar. Clutching them to his chest, he swam slowly up through the hatch into the conning tower.

  Michael swung his flashlight beam around the conning tower. Everything had been burned black, with bits of oil slickers, boots, and bones lying among the twisted metal. The men who died in here were the ones who stood that last watch up on deck, the ones who helped him climb down into the rubber raft, and, of course, the Kapitan himself. Maybe they were the lucky ones. They would have died instantly, not like the men trapped in the compartments fore and aft. They would not have spent long, agonizing minutes being tossed around, knowing the U-boat was heading to the bottom with no hope of getting out alive. No one could have escaped — no one. Not the lowest seaman, not the Kapitan, and certainly not that phony admiral sitting in an office in Bonn.

  Looking around, Michael knew his own end would not take very long either. The hatch that led up to the bridge was blocked by a twisted steel plate that had been ripped from the ceiling and completely blocked his way. He would need an acetylene torch and a set of jacks to stand half a chance of getting through. Funny! He found himself laughing. It all seemed so damned funny now. His head was pounding, but it was so damned funny. What kind of fool would come back here to Sweden, dragging Manny, Schiff, Chorev, and Leslie with him in an amateur attempt to find this U-boat? He should have stayed with her back in Rock Creek, South Carolina, on the oyster boat. Yep, some things should be left alone; and some people should be allowed to rest in peace.

  Low on the far bulkhead, about three feet above the deck, he saw the hole where the British bomb punched through the side of the conning tower and the deck before exploding in the control room below, killing everyone in both compartments. Michael looked at the hole. Could he squeeze through it? He stared at the hole and blinked, trying hard to concentrate on the problem; but the hole was too small and the edges too sharp. The jagged edges had been bent inward like the teeth of a hungry shark, daring him to come and try. He ran his finger across the metal and saw the futility of even trying. He was far too big, and the rusty steel would cut him to ribbons before he was halfway through.

  He had reached a bitter dead end here in the conning tower, one hatch short, he realized as he leaned back against the bulkhead, exhausted. It was far too late for him to go back down and try to reach the hatch in the rear torpedo room. Then again, perhaps this was the way it was meant to be, he thought. Perhaps Bruckner made a big mistake six years ago. Perhaps Mike Randall was supposed to die here in the U-boat after all. Maybe that was to have been his fate. He glanced around and knew he could get comfortable with the idea, but there was that promise he made to Eddie Hodge. And there was Manny Eismer and the other dead cops back in New York. Worse still, he realized Leslie, Yuri Chorev, Schiff, and Einar Person were still up on the deck of the whaler, and none of that had anything to do with fate. It was Balck.

  Michael felt his eyes begin to close. He was tired, but his flashlight batteries were fresh and the beam still clear and bright. Yes, it would last a lot longer than he would, he realized. Well, that wasn’t all bad. When he finally nodded off, the flashlight would keep him company; as his other flashlight kept the pilot of that old British bomber company, for a while anyway; and that made him laugh. A dead man with a night light, sitting alone in the conning tower of an old German submarine where he could spend eternity keeping all the skeletons company — how funny. He lowered the flashlight beam to the deck. It came to rest in the near corner, only a few feet from where he sat. Protruding from a soft mound of sediment, he saw a shredded boot, a few bones, and a hat. A hat? Well, what was left of one, jammed against the bulkhead and half-buried in the silt. He reached out and picked it up. No, it was only the headband and visor of an old, high-peaked, German naval officer’s hat. The gold-braid and brass emblem were now black from the flames and years of emersion in seawater; and except for a few seams of dingy, white cloth, the cover had completely rotted away. It was Bruckner’s; he was the only one up on deck wearing this kind of hat that night. It was his!

  Michael leaned back against the bulkhead and heard those voices again; they were faint at first, but he heard them. He glanced around the conning tower, it was those same voices he heard back in the torpedo room, whispering his name and calling out to him. They were singing a rousing military march; their voices growing louder. He leaned over, looked down through the hatch into the control room, and swore he saw a column of German submariners, shaggy and ill-kempt, dressed in their peaked forage caps, boots, and oilskins, ready to go up on deck. They were gathering in the control room below, smiling and waving to him, welcoming him back.

  Michael began to laugh into his mouthpiece. He needed a hat, too. How else could he join the crew if he didn’t have a hat? That old hatband would have to do. He picked it up and put it on his head, but he was too tired now. Maybe he could concentrate tomorrow, but not today. He was so very tired. Just a short nap. A few minutes, that’s all.

  Leslie stood in the doorway of the wheelhouse and glared at Balck, consumed by a white-hot hatred she never thought anyone could ignite inside her. The German had trapped Michael down in that submarine. Worse still, he may have already killed him. One way or another, Leslie knew she had to get down there and help him, but how? As she raged, Leslie became aware of a new sound. It was only a soft whisper at first, but as it crept into her brain, she heard it grow into a soft whine, then louder and louder until it demanded she turn and look. Her eyes were drawn toward a loud roar and three black dots coming straight at them from the Swedish coast at an incredible speed.

  Even Balck was forced to look. It was a tight formation of new, swept-wing jet fighters that roared directly overhead, barely clearing th
e old whaler’s radio mast. From the blue circles and gold crowns on their wings and fuselages, these were Swedish Air Force jets. The hot downdraft of their Saab engines was deafening as it slammed into the small ship and set it rocking like a child’s toy. Then they banked and continued out to sea, heading straight for the Russian trawler. Clearly, the Swedes wanted to send a message to everyone aboard both boats to let them know these were Swedish waters and they had arrived.

  That was when Yuri Chorev made his move.

  Leslie never understood why the small, marine geologist did what he did. It seemed so uncharacteristic of the man. He was a gentle, thoughtful academic, the last one anyone would expect to challenge a man like Balck, but maybe that was the whole point. He dropped David Schiff’s legs, spun around, and threw himself onto the German’s gun arm; wrapping his body around it and hanging on with every ounce of strength, pushing Balck back toward the railing. The Berettas that Manny brought were small caliber, and Leslie heard Balck’s go off with a muffled Pop! She screamed, and wanted to grab Yuri Chorev and pull him away from the gun, but it was too late. All she could do was watch and scream.

  When Yuri Chorev dropped David Schiff’s legs, Einar Person became the sole support of the muscular petty officer, and the old man wasn’t prepared for that. He stumbled backward into Leslie, knocking her off balance; and all three of them tumbled onto the deck. Both she and Person tried to get back up, but all they accomplished was to get in each other’s way, hopelessly tangled on the deck as they watched the cruelly one-sided fight play itself out above them, unable to stop it.