The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3)

by Charles S. Jackson

  “I was real sorry to hear about that ship ‘o yours too,” Davis responded after a few seconds of silence, as if remembering something previously forgotten. “That, ahh…”

  “…Ocean Vintage, yah…” Lars Engleson, Davis’ Minnesotan chief engineer, chimed in from the seat beside him in his lilting, almost Scandinavian accent.

  “Yeah, the Ocean Vintage,” Davis repeated with a nod of thanks. “Just one survivor out of what… a crew of a hundred or more…? Sounds real unlikely to me…”

  “To most of us too…” Walkley replied, taking his turn to be sour over the bad news of just two weeks before. “We’ve been waitin’ to have a talk with that poor Filipino bugger they pulled out of the water, but the bloody government won’t hand him over.”

  “They keep insisting he’s still recovering in an army hospital in Darwin, but William doesn’t believe it,” Theresa May Stevens, his personal secretary observed from beside him in the front seat. She’d worked for Walkley since 1937 and was as driven and career motivated as her employer, the two having become extremely close in the years since.

  “No one believes it, Tess,” Walkley agreed, patting her hand as it rested on the arm of her seat.

  “Do you think they’re hiding something – that it was more than just an unfortunate accident?”

  “No one knows, Lyle,” Walkley shot back with frustration in his voice, “but what could there be to hide? We’re at war, for God’s sake… if the ship was sunk by a U-boat, then what possible reason could there be to cover it up? If it was an act of war, then what better to spur the country on anyway?” He paused, then continued with a vaguely sad expression. “It’s a hard blow, though, I can’t deny: we need to exploit every oilfield we have right now and losing even one ship like that sets us back far too much.”

  “Last I heard, you guys were thinking of drilling on land up in Western Australia… up near the Exmouth Gulf, I think… Rough Range, wasn’t it…?”

  “Rough Range, yah…!” Engleson echoed cheerfully again.

  “Oh, we’re drillin’ up there too, don’t worry… drillin’ in all sorts of places right now, based on information given to us by the same bloke who handed over those ConDeep designs…” Walkley grinned, knowing Davis would know exactly who he was referring to. “But rumour has it there might up upward of four billion barrels of oil down there in Bass Straight right now, and that’s far too much for us to ignore. We’ve lost North Africa and we’ll surely lose Arab oil soon enough too: we all need to be as self-sufficient as we can if we’re to have any chance of seeing this war through.”

  “One minute, ladies and gentlemen… please fasten your seat belts for landing…” That call from the co-pilot came through loudly from speakers mounted in the fuselage above each side window, ending any further conversation at that point. All four passengers dutifully turned to face forward momentarily as they secured themselves in preparation for their final descent to the oil platform’s helipad.

  “Holy shit, look at that…!” Davis shouted in warning, again staring out through his window once more. He had a perfect view of the rig as the chopper circled in close, and at that moment he’d caught sight of a sudden explosion rising as a surge of churning seawater against of one of the platform’s four thick, concrete legs. As everyone else turned to look, two more explosions followed the first, the sea a white, seething mass of foam as the entire rig shuddered under the blasts.

  “What the hell’s happening?” Walkley exclaimed, watching in horror as three more explosions engulfed the adjacent leg in quick succession, just seconds later.

  Turning away from the window, he unhooked his belt and lurched toward the intercom set into the cabin’s forward bulkhead at shoulder height. Ignoring Stevens’ cries of warning regarding his safety, he jammed his finger on the transmit button and shouted into the microphone.

  “Jimmy, they’ve been hit by something down there… get on the radio and get some flying boats out here from Sale: they may need to be evacuated. How much fuel have we got left? Can we afford to hang about and help?”

  “We’re down to about thirty per cent: we were supposed to be filling up after landing. Sorry, sir, but if we can’t land, then we can’t stay – I’ll be lucky to make landfall as it is on what we have left…”

  There was a long moment as Walkley agonised over what to do, unwilling to leave the men on the oil rig to their fate but nevertheless recognising the reality of the situation they were now in.

  “Understood, Jimmy – get us out here as best you can… Just make sure the RAAF gets some rescue planes out here as fast as –!”

  He was cut off as a huge, sparkling red ball of tracer howled past the helicopter’s nose and detonated off to port in a puff of flak that showered the aircraft with sizzling shrapnel. The shockwave struck them a moment later, slamming them sideways like the slap of a giant’s hand.

  “Accident, my arse… we’re under attack!” Walkley snarled, the evidence now incontrovertible.

  “Better strap into your seat, sir,” the pilot called down through the speaker, his voice tense as he struggled with his controls and turned the chopper into a tight bank, heading for low altitude. “It might get a little tough for a bit.”

  He dove down behind the stricken oil rig as a second shell howled toward them, this one detonating against the platform’s superstructure in a billowing explosion of flame and smoke that sent debris spiralling skyward. As they levelled out just a few hundred feet above the water and came about to a northerly leading, a third shell streaked away down their starboard side and they finally spotted the source of the incoming fire. It was clearly a submarine, currently steaming on the surface and shooting at them with a huge deck gun mounted aft of its conning tower. To the crew’s horror, they also found in that moment that their only path toward land and safety also took them directly toward it.

  Veering off to port as the sub fired for a fourth time, the pilot took her even lower, hoping to present an impossible target against the backdrop of the waves and the haze of the horizon. A fifth shell exploded to their rear, producing no damage but again buffeting the fragile craft with the force of its blast. They were now too close for such a large weapon to be of any practical use, however the pilot wasn’t to know and the evasive manoeuvres that ineffective fire produced served to draw them within the range of the sub’s lighter but far more dangerous automatic cannon, mounted atop the rear of the sub’s conning tower.

  Long, pink fingers of tracer reached out for them as they drew to within two thousand yards, the twin cannon filling the air around the slow-moving helicopter with 25mm shells. The gunners found their range quickly, and within thirty seconds the chopper was surrounded by a barrage of fire. Four shells slammed into its tail boom, shattering the small rear rotor and tearing apart vital machinery in the process.

  Suddenly devoid of any torque control whatsoever, the aircraft immediately entered into a sharp, downward spiral, trailing smoke all the way as it struck the water in a huge spray, the crew utterly powerless to prevent it. It was somewhat fortunate that the helicopter had already been at very low level, and it therefore remained mostly intact as the pontoons beneath its fuselage were snapped off by the impact, at least absorbing some of the shock of the crash. It began to settle in the water, smoke rising from its damaged tail.

  A mile or so to the north, the submarine’s commander noted the helicopter’s apparent destruction and turned his attention back to their main target – the Australian oil rig. With fire already raging from the point where the flak shell had struck earlier, the platform was now hit by round after round as the gun crew poured fire into the huge, defenceless target. The devastation wrought upon its superstructure was immense, with most of the platform burning heavily after just a few minutes. Several shells struck ruined legs that had already suffered much structural damage from the impact of three torpedoes apiece, and those further strikes were sufficient to cause the structure to fail completely. With a groan and shudder of cracki
ng concrete and tearing metal, the damaged legs finally gave way and collapsed, dragging the rest of the burning platform with it.

  The submarine slid beneath the surface of Bass Strait a few minutes later and made off at full speed, its snorkel system allowing it to run under diesel power while still at periscope depth. By the time an RAAF Catalina flying out of Sale air base had arrived thirty minutes later, it was already ten miles east and well clear of the area.

  Kriegsmarine Primary Repair Facility #4

  Belfast, County Antrim

  Reich-Protektorat Nordirland

  October 7, 1942

  Wednesday

  Seated alone at a bare, rough-hewn table, he watched from the relative comfort of the small, wooden-walled workshop at the intersection of Hamilton and Musgrave Channel Roads, and stared out at a smoky Belfast skyline that lay beneath ominous dark clouds threatening rain at any moment. An almost gale-force wind howled through off Belfast Lough from the north-east and on into Victoria Channel and the Lagan River, bringing with it a chill that cut through the city centre like an icy knife before finally dying out as it spread further inland across the Irish countryside to the south.

  His papers, which had been thoroughly checked as he'd entered the shipyard five hours before for the start of his morning shift, showed his head and shoulders in a small photograph inside a passport-style wallet, along with his place and date of birth and the name Brian Fergus O'Malley. The date and location were accurate and had anyone in the chain of command who'd checked his identification decided for any reason to look any further, the Government of the Republic of Ireland (the border of which was probably no more than 60 miles to the south-west) would have happily been able to supply more than sufficient evidence of the existence of Mr. O'Malley to satisfy any concern.

  Nevertheless, the name was completely false. Although born in Dublin, as indicated on the papers, Jamie Riordan had spent almost the entirety of his childhood life growing up in the tenements off Shankill Rd, just a few miles from where he sat at that very moment on that overcast Sunday afternoon.

  Riordan stood at average height and would’ve looked his age of fifty-one had it not been for the refusal of his thick, black hair to display even the slightest hint of grey, making him seem perhaps ten years younger. He was of medium, stocky build, although none of that was apparent beneath the thick clothing he wore that Sunday as dubious defence against the cold. Riordan himself would've described himself as little better than 'nondescript', and he liked it that way: in his line of work it was far better to go about largely unnoticed.

  He checked his watch for the fifth time in ten minutes and stared out through dirty windows at the frenetic activity of the shipyard around him, the cacophony of men and machines loud enough to be almost uncomfortable even inside the shed. From where he sat he could look out through those windows and keep a careful eye on Sydenham Road, able to see every vehicle and individual – both civilian and military – that passed through from the Dee Street entrance. That shed and intersection, if not at the geographical centre of the yard, were certainly close to the main traffic hub going in and out, and from there it was also possible to look across the bulk of the shipyard itself.

  Further off to the northwest – several hundred yards away on the far side of Queens Road – two huge frameworks of lattice-like scaffolding rose high into the sky over the low, drab silhouettes of closer warehouses and workshops. There lay just two of half a dozen warships in varying stages of completion that were being constructed at the yard, the slipways ready to launch these new vessels straight into the main Victoria Channel and out into Belfast Lough.

  In the other direction, Riordan could also see across to the northeast and the open expanse there of the shipyard’s newly refurbished dry-docks. Hundreds of yards long and dozens wide, the docks were large enough to comfortably accept any ship in existence. Currently emptied of water, it was of sufficient immensity to make the ship being refurbished at that moment seem dwarfed and insignificant by comparison; no mean feat considering the size of the vessel itself.

  Gneisenau: Riordan knew the name well-enough. Originally launched as a battlecruiser of almost forty thousand tons, she was a Kriegsmarine veteran of the great German naval victory off the coast of Yorkshire: the battle of the Second Dogger Bank. The single largest naval battle of the Second World War to date, the engagement had come about as part of much-feared German invasion of September 11, 1940 and was the result of an attempt by the Royal Navy to interdict invasion forces crossing The Channel. A great fleet had sortied from Scapa Flow and steamed southward at full speed: the battleships Malaya, Nelson, Warspite and Queen Elizabeth, along with the battlecruisers Hood and Renown and a brace of cruisers and destroyers, with the aircraft carrier Ark Royal in support. If the force could break through the German naval blockade and get in amongst the enemy's amphibious forces, their combined firepower might’ve done much to disrupt and perhaps turn back the invasion.

  Lined up against them had been the Kriegsmarine’s Battle Fleet One: the pride of the German fleet in the superbattleships Bismarck and Tirpitz, aircraft carrier Graf Zeppelin and the battlecruisers Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, also supported by a force of cruisers and destroyers. The Kriegsmarine would pay a high cost in terms of casualties and ships lost, but they’d nevertheless ultimately carried the day.

  One of those casualties had been Gneisenau. Battered into submission early into the main engagement, she’d slipped quickly out of line and played no further part in either the battle or the invasion it was part of. She was, however at least able to limp back toward Calais and the safety of Luftwaffe air cover, which was more than could be said for either her sister ship, Scharnhorst, or the superbattleship Tirpitz. Both were lost in the battle, leaving the Kriegsmarine with an extremely costly victory indeed.

  The invasion had gone ahead regardless, hordes of Wehrmacht and SS ground forces and supporting armour sweeping all before them as they’d pushed quickly through south-east England. The instrument of unconditional British surrender was eventually signed at Leeds Town Hall on December 20, 1940 by Clement Attlee in front of the Führer himself and the bulk of the Wehrmacht High Command.

  Gneisenau had seen none of that. Her ravaged hulk had been towed back to Calais and had lain dormant for over a year as the occupation of Great Britain had been completed, followed by a German advance through Greece and the Balkan States. Only at the end of 1941 had she finally been again placed under tow, and this time taken west to the newly-reopened shipyards of Belfast. Her hull had then been all but gutted to make way for what was nothing less than a complete internal redesign; her guns and most of her superstructure removed to make way for the full-length steel flight deck that was currently under construction. Gneisenau’s short life as a battlecruiser had ended prematurely on September 11, 1940, but the huge ship would eventually return to service with the Kriegsmarine as a fully fitted-out aircraft carrier.

  Riordan was drawn suddenly back to the present by a knock at the door, followed by the entry of a man wearing a thick, woollen coat over denim work coveralls and heavy, steel-capped boots. A black beanie was pulled down tight over hair that was a deep red and would otherwise have been as thick and unruly as Riordan’s, and the paleness of the man's face was as much an indication of the unpleasant conditions outside that door as the icy blast of wind that came with him as he entered. An inch or two taller than Riordan and perhaps ten years younger, the newcomer was a solid man with a tendency toward being overweight, although little of that fact showed beneath so many layers of warm clothing.

  “Where the fook've you been?” Riordan growled in frustration, more out of nervousness than any real tardiness on the part of his colleague. “I've been sittin' here, freezin' my bollocks off for the last half an hour waitin' fer y’ to drag yerself in to work!”

  “Must be a terrible imposition in these desperate surroundings, I grant y’, Jamie...” Tomás Glynn replied with a dry smile, glancing pointedly at the small, cast-iro
n stove burning quietly in one corner of the shed. “Why not take yerself out for a wee walk in the glorious sunshine to warm those poor, Loyalist balls o’ yours?” Glynn was an IRA volunteer who’d grown up on Crumlin Road, not far from where Riordan had spent most of his childhood. Crumlin had historically been home to a volatile mix of Catholic and Protestant families, while Shankill Road had always been a more predominantly Loyalist stronghold. With Riordan a fiercely active Protestant Loyalist, there was every likelihood he and Glynn had traded insults, blows, and even shots at one stage or another in the years prior to German Occupation.

  “Aye, Tomás, and y’ should be on the stage with a mouth such as yours, y’ Catholic bastard: I'm hopin' you've got some actual news to go with the biting wit?” There was business in Riordan’s tone but he'd lightened his level of seriousness all the same, barely managing to keep a faint smile from his face in spite of himself. Neither man would’ve openly considered the other as a friend, yet each would nevertheless just as readily have acknowledged their professional respect for the other. Necessity made for strange bedfellows indeed on occasion.

  “Both trucks are at the Dee Road entrance now, waiting to be cleared through,” Glynn answered with a grin that turned thin-lipped and decidedly cold. “I just got the warnin’ through from Flannery at Q-Block...”

  “Jaysus, I hope the boys've got their wits about 'em this mornin'! One sniff of fear, and those SS bastards will have ‘em for breakfast!”

  “Relax, Jamie!” Glynn reassured, showing a brave face that hid his own misgivings regarding the rushed job they were taking part in that morning. “Eoin and Seán know what they’re doin’ and you know how many times those trucks have come through in the last three months without any problem. We’ve smuggled all kinds o’ shite through those gates and Fallon's a bloody expert: they're not going to find anything, comin’ or goin’!”