Captain Riley (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 1)

by Fernando Gamboa

  Marco sprang up, knocking his chair on the floor. “Hold on! Repeat that.”

  “What? Nothing. I was talking to Jack about what we could’ve done with what they were going to pay us for the job.”

  “A million?” César said. “American dollars? That’s what they’re gonna pay us?”

  “That’s the deal. Enough so that none of us ever has to work again for the rest of our lives,” Riley said. “But of course, it’s more important to be alive and—”

  “Stop playing games, Captain. A million dollars is a lot of money.”

  Marco squinted. “Too much money, I’d say. What do they want us to do? Invade Germany?”

  “I told you. He didn’t want to give me details, but I think the job is doable. We don’t have to kill anyone, and it’s on the way to Lisbon.” He looked at them. “You’re right that Juan March is a scoundrel, but he has a reputation to uphold, and I know he’s never failed to pay when his conditions are met.”

  “With our part,” César said, turning to his wife with a glimmer in his eyes, “we could buy our own boat and never have to work for anyone again.”

  “I don’t know . . . What could March want that’s worth a million dollars?”

  Riley shrugged. “He didn’t want to tell me, but what’s it matter? For a million dollars I’d refloat the Lusitania.”

  “It’s probably gold,” Marco said, lost in thought. “Tons and tons of gold.”

  “It could be,” Riley said. “But even if it’s tons and tons of chickpeas . . . Whatever it is, our job is to get it from a sunken ship and give it to March, period. And”—he put a thick wad of bills on the table—“he’s advanced us ten thousand for initial costs, so if we can’t finish the job, we still win.”

  “This smells fishy to me, especially considering who it’s coming from,” Julie said.

  “Of course it smells fishy,” Jack said. “It smells worse than my dirty socks, but it’s a unique opportunity, and the captain wants to know if you think so too and if you’ll agree to do the job.” He looked at Riley. “For my part, I think it’s worth taking the risk. What do you guys say?”

  César and Julie looked at each other, then nodded in unison. “We’ll do it. I just hope we don’t regret it,” César said.

  All eyes were on Marco, who was counting on his fingers like a little kid before he looked up and asked with a frown, “How much is ten percent of a million?”

  The next day, once they had unloaded the hull, restocked, and refueled, they sailed through the Moll Nou of the Port of Barcelona. After crossing the mouth of the harbor at maneuvering speed, they set course south-southeast, leaving the squat silhouette of Montjuïc Hill and its sinister castle behind.

  Riley left Julie at the helm. Leaning on the fore bulwark, a rosy dawn breaking at his back, he watched a group of dolphins frolic. Relieved to see the dark coastline disappearing slowly behind the horizon, he felt at home again, on the sea, as far away from the world of men as possible.

  “Captain Riley,” a voice called from behind him. “Do you have a minute?”

  He turned to find Helmut Rubinstein in an office worker’s gray suit, walking like someone who’d never been on a boat.

  “Of course. Talk to me. How can I help you?”

  “You see,” Rubinstein said, clinging to the bulwark. “I just had an interesting conversation with Mr. Alcántara, and he told me we’re heading toward the Strait of Gibraltar.”

  “Exactly, we’re going in the direction you need,” Riley said.

  “Right.” He cleared his throat and added carefully, “But the first officer also told me that this situation occurred because you’ve accepted a job nearby that will take about two weeks, isn’t that right?”

  “That’s also correct.”

  “The problem is that such an activity would doubtlessly delay our arrival in Lisbon. I would like to confirm that you’ll keep your promise and leave me and my wife in Portuguese territory before conducting such business.”

  Riley scratched his day-old beard. “Unfortunately, that won’t be possible. We have a very tight deadline for this job, and there’s no time to reach your destination. I’m very sorry, but you’ll arrive one or two weeks late. I hope it’s not a terrible inconvenience.”

  “Terrible inconvenience?” Rubinstein repeated, irritated. “It’s much more than that, and you’re breaking your contract.”

  “Allow me to correct you,” Riley said, trying to remain pleasant. “You contracted me to take you to Portugal as quickly as possible, and that’s exactly what we’re doing.”

  “But you just told me it will be delayed fourteen days!”

  “Fourteen days that are impossible to avoid.”

  “But you—” he started, raising a finger.

  “Look, Mr. Rubinstein. This is not a pleasure cruise, it’s a cargo ship. I don’t know why you chose to go to Lisbon by sea, and it doesn’t matter, but what you’ve paid us is barely enough for the fuel, so whether you like it or not, we’ve had to accept whatever job we could that would bring us closer to Lisbon. If we get there a week or a month late, all you can do is stay quietly in your cabin with your wife and enjoy the ride. Is that clear enough?”

  “It’s an outrage.”

  “If you don’t agree,” Riley said, nodding toward the coast, “tell me, and we’ll let you off at the next port. It’s no problem for me.”

  “You’re a falsifier,” Rubinstein blurted out, “and completely disrespect your commitments.”

  Riley leaned back, resting his elbows on the bulwark. “As for being a falsifier, I don’t know what that means, but the other I’ve heard a few times, though this is the first time from a man.”

  Before noon, Riley went to the bridge to relieve Julie. “How’s everything going here?”

  “Great, Capitaine. Still heading two-one-zero at fifteen knots, and if the weather stays like this, in about four hours we’ll be able to see Cap de la Nao. Then I calculate in another five hours we’ll . . . we’ll . . .” She went silent, leaving the word hanging in the air.

  Riley stopped writing in the logbook and waited for her to finish her sentence. “We’ll what?”

  Julie was staring ahead with a mix of awe and concern on her face. “Merde . . .” she murmured weakly. “Il n’est pas possible.”

  Confused, Riley looked through the window and saw, less than half a mile ahead, an ugly gray structure bristling with antennas breaking the surface.

  In seconds, a steel leviathan emerged, jets of water spouting from its scuppers. It was tapered and 245 feet long. The monster, almost twice the size of the Pingarrón, displayed a menacing gun on the foredeck and a distinctive symbol on the front of the tower: a white circle and black gammadion cross on a red background. It was a dreaded U-boat, one of the hundreds of deadly Nazi submarines that ravaged half the world’s seas and sunk all the ships they encountered on the way.

  After a moment of disbelief, Riley pressed a red button, and a siren went off. He pulled the power lever back and ordered César to keep the engines idling.

  “Mon Dieu, Capitaine,” Julie whispered. “What could they want with us?”

  “No idea, Julie,” he answered, watching men appear on the tower. “But I’d say we’re about to find out.”

  The crew members gathered in the lounge with grave expressions on their faces. As they waited, the German sub had them in the sights of their 88 mm cannon; even just one of the dozens of torpedoes in its arsenal could blow the Pingarrón apart.

  “It makes no sense,” Jack said. “The Nazis only attack Allied ships, and we’re flying the Spanish flag.”

  “If they wanted to attack us, we’d already be dead,” Riley said.

  “Then what do they want?” Marco asked. “Did they mix us up with someone else?”

  “I doubt it. They came up right under us. They were clearly waiting.”

  “It was definitely March . . . I knew we couldn’t trust that bastard,” César said.

  “Don’t be
paranoid,” Riley said. “This has nothing to do with Juan March, and we don’t know what we’re recovering from the wreck . . . Definitely not.”

  Jack spread his hands. “Well, our hold is empty, so it can’t have anything to do with the cargo. We don’t have anything that could interest them.”

  Riley snapped his fingers. “Of course we don’t have any cargo they’d be interested in, but what if it’s not a question of what”—he turned toward the two passengers in the corner—“but who?”

  “I told you!” Marco shouted. “I told you those damn Jews would bring us trouble!”

  “Shut up, Marco.”

  “I won’t die for them!” he yelled. “I’m going to throw them overboard before the Germans get here!”

  Before he could finish reaching for the knife in his belt, an unmistakable click rang out as Riley pointed his Colt at Marco’s head from a foot away. “If you pull that knife out, I swear I’ll paint the room with your brains.”

  Marco stopped short and raised his hands. “Captain,” he said smoothly, “don’t you understand? They’re looking for us for a reason. If they find them here, they’ll blame us for helping them.”

  Riley turned to the passengers. “He’s right about that. The Nazis wouldn’t send a submarine to catch a couple of refugees. You lied to us about who you are, didn’t you?”

  Mr. and Mrs. Rubinstein exchanged a guilty look. “Yes,” Elsa said, shaking. “We did . . .”

  Riley rushed out of his chair and pointed the pistol at them now. “Is there a reason not to hand you over to the Nazis or throw you overboard with a bullet in each of your heads?”

  Rubinstein tried to shield himself with his hands as if that would stop a bullet from the 45. “I . . . We . . .”

  Julie appeared in the doorway of the dining room, trembling with nervousness. “They just threw over two inflatable boats. They’ll be here in less than ten minutes.”

  Riley holstered his gun. “Jack, take these two liars and get rid of them. Have Marco help you. You have nine minutes.”

  “No! You can’t do that to us! You can’t!” Rubinstein screamed.

  Riley continued giving instructions. “Take them out the back in case they’re watching us. César, go to the passenger cabin and eliminate any evidence they were here. And Julie, radio the sub. Use your best smile to tell them we’re a Spanish ship and we’d be delighted to welcome our German friends aboard, got it?”

  “You’re a murderer!” Elsa screamed as Jack and Marco pushed her out of the room. “Murderer!”

  7

  Six soldiers rowed the launch alongside the Pingarrón. Tying themselves to the freighter, they used the rope ladder to climb on deck, followed by a tall, thin officer, who surprisingly did not have the insignia of the Kriegsmarine on his cap but a silver skull that matched the one on the right lapel of his black uniform. The emblem distinguished the members of the dreaded Gestapo. As if to increase his ability to cause disquiet, his skin was almost transparent and his eyes were extremely pale blue with pinhead pupils that exuded pure evil. Without asking permission to come aboard or give any explanation whatsoever, the Nazi looked around indifferently, ignoring the captain and crew as if they were inanimate parts of the ship.

  The initial six soldiers were joined by another six from another boat. They surrounded the crew and pointed their guns at them, so Riley and his sailors put their hands up.

  Finally, the officer strutted over to the little group. He looked them over one at a time like they were cockroaches, then asked with an accent so strong it seemed exaggerated, “Which of you is the captain of this boat?”

  Riley stepped forward, putting his hands down. “Me. I’m Captain Riley, and I’d appreciate it if you ordered your men to stop pointing their guns at us and tell me who you are and what you’re doing on my ship.”

  He looked puzzled. “Is this the whole crew?”

  “It’s a small ship, we don’t need more.”

  “Ja.” He took off his leather gloves and fixed his eyes on Riley. “And passengers? Do you have passengers on board?”

  “We’re a cargo ship,” Riley said as calmly as possible. “We don’t have passengers, or—”

  The officer slapped Riley with his gloves. “I will ask it a different way. Is there anyone else aboard, besides you five?”

  “I assure you—”

  He hit Riley’s face again hard, and Riley fought the urge to rub it. “You are wasting my time,” the officer said, “and my patience is limited. You are Captain Riley, and thanks to a long conversation I had with the now-late Mr. François Dubois in Marseille, I know for sure that you and your men picked up two fugitives with the intention of taking them to Lisbon. Tell me where they are, and none of you will get hurt.”

  “I already told you there isn’t anyone else besides us,” Riley said, staring back at him.

  The officer tried to slap Riley a third time, but he put his hand up to block it. For a moment, the two of them stood frozen with their wrists pressing against each other.

  The soldiers pulled back the bolts on their rifles as the officer took a step back and drew his Luger pistol. “You want to play?” he asked warmly. “Let’s see.” He drew a dagger with his other hand and pointed it at Riley’s heart. “My men will search every inch of this ship, and if they find anyone else, I will cut your beautiful crew members’ fingers off one by one, and you will have to watch before I do the same to you. And then I will sink your pathetic ship. Sound fair?”

  The officer gestured to his soldiers and gave them short orders in German. They went into the superstructure.

  Riley took a breath and lifted his chin. “This ship sails under the Spanish flag,” he said, trying to sound confident. “We’re in Spanish waters, and I’m an American citizen. You have no right to board us, let alone threaten us.”

  “No right?” The officer laughed. “We are in the middle of a war, Captain Riley. I could sink this pile of junk, and no one would ever know.”

  “You’re wrong,” Riley said. “The first thing I did when I saw you was to radio our position to the maritime command with orders to copy the American embassy, saying a German submarine was forcing us to stop. I’m sure your superiors wouldn’t be too happy if you started a conflict with the Spanish government or especially the United States.”

  “Do you think I am an idiot?” the officer said. “Neither your government nor the Spanish would lift a finger for you or your ship. Do you think you are that important?”

  “Absolutely not. But both countries are neutral in this war, and though my death wouldn’t be important in itself, you can be sure it’d set a precedent in German cruelty, and who knows, maybe it’d give them a reason to enter on the side of the Allies.” He took a step closer. “How do you think your beloved Führer would like that?”

  “If I send him the fugitives,” he said, bringing the blade to Riley’s neck, “he would give me a medal and probably promote me.”

  “Too bad,” Jack said, “because you won’t find anyone here.”

  The officer took two strides toward Jack and pressed his pistol to his forehead. “Okay, Captain Riley,” he said tiredly. “I will count to three, and if I do not find the two people I am looking for I will blow Fatso’s brains out. Then I will move on to the others. One . . .”

  “Fatso?” Jack said.

  “Two . . .” He pressed the barrel of the gun harder.

  “Enough!” Riley yelled. “Promise you’ll let us go, and I’ll tell you where they are.”

  The officer lowered his pistol. “See? Was that so hard? Where are they hiding?”

  “Nowhere. We did pick them up in Marseilles, but we left them in Barcelona the next day.”

  “Liar.” The officer raised his dagger.

  “Do you think I’d risk so much for a couple of strangers?” Riley said. “As soon as I knew they were Jewish pigs, I kicked them off my boat. I hate Jews. This whole war is their fault, and if they were here I would’ve handed them over immediately
.”

  The officer looked surprised, then brought his face close to Riley’s. “In Barcelona, you say?”

  “I can give you the name of the person taking care of them. It should be easy to find them. They should still be in town, and the girl isn’t one to go unnoticed, if you know what I mean.”

  The officer seemed to weigh Riley’s words. He took off his cap with exaggerated tiredness and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief as the soldiers started to return, saying they hadn’t found anything.

  “All right,” the officer admitted. “It seems what you are saying is true. Although if I find out you have tried to fool me . . . I will look for you again and I will find you, and my face will be the last thing you see before I kill you slowly and painfully.”

  Five minutes later, the two black launches were heading back toward the submarine. The crew of the Pingarrón waited on deck, their hearts pounding. They sighed with relief as the Nazis moved slowly away.

  “Son of a bitch,” César mumbled, breaking the silence.

  “I almost shit myself,” Jack said.

  “You should’ve,” Riley said. “That would’ve scared them away.”

  “What did the bastard say his name was?”

  “Captain Jürgen Högel, of the Gestapo, and I hope to never see him again as long as I live.”

  “He gave me the chills,” Julie said.

  “That was stupid,” Marco growled. “We should’ve handed them over. I can’t believe we risked our lives for that.”

  “When you set out, you knew it was a risky job, and sometimes it’s worth it to risk our lives, especially yours,” Riley said.

  Julie pointed down. “Captain, are we going to—?”

  “Not yet. Let’s wait till the Germans get the hell away . . . and I want our passengers to sweat a little more.”

  When the submarine had disappeared completely, Riley, Jack, and Marco went down through a hatch into the empty holds. They then descended stairs and walked silently toward the stern between giant iron frames that looked like the ribs of a huge whale. The strong smell of oil and kerosene enveloped them. In front of the bulkhead between the hold and the engine room, they opened a heavy iron gate and went inside to the two large fuel tanks.