“At 0400.”
Finally, Tug rose and slid his hat under his left arm. “Seems I owe Wanks a new shirt, and he’s determined to collect.”
“He did ask for you.”
“I’ll be there, sir.” Tug saluted.
Tug and Charlie stood on the forward deck, watching as Wanklyn climbed up to the conning tower and saluted his first lieutenant.
“Thank you, Number One,” he said, relieving the officer of command and assuming his place.
Tug could see the lines of stress in his old friend’s face. He’d heard this would be the twenty-eighth patrol for the Upholder. She held the record for the largest tally of enemy shipping sunk: some 125,000 tons, including three U-boats, a destroyer, and numerous troopships. But so many subs had failed to return to base since the start of the year. It was tough to keep up the infamous British good cheer around the Lazaretto. Every man on Wanks’s crew knew the Upholder was pushing her luck.
The captain began issuing orders for their departure. The crew pulled in the lines, and the sub started to drift away from the catwalk.
“Slow ahead, port,” Wanklyn said. The prop wash churned at the stern of boat. The skipper turned to wave to the men standing just inside the old hospital galleries. A good crowd had gathered to see the Upholder off.
Captain Shrimp Simpson stood leaning on the stone wall of the second-floor gallery. He called out, “Good luck, David, and good hunting.”
As the sub headed for the booms that protected the harbor entrance off Dragutt Point, Tug and Charlie made their way belowdecks and checked on their gear. After all the organized chaos of men returning to the sub with their seabags and loading the last-minute stores and equipment, the scene below was remarkably orderly. As they passed through the control room, they saw the helmsman, the asdic rating, and the second officer leaning over the chart table. Tug found the familiar odors of sweat, oil, and stale food rather comforting. What would he do with himself on leave back home?
Earlier that afternoon they had seen to the loading of their folding canoes, called folboats, as well as an inflatable RAF rubber dinghy. They also checked over the radio equipment they would send ashore with the agents.
They found the two Arabs squatting in the torpedo room just forward of the ratings’ mess. The rest of the crew had no clue what to do with the two, and they were in the way. Tug could understand. When he and Charlie had first started coming aboard subs, the crew didn’t know what to do with two army men, either. As an officer, Tug’s lot had always been a bit better. He got to hot bunk with another officer, while Charlie often found himself in a hammock above a torpedo.
They were a superstitious lot, submariners. They believed that having “guests” aboard was bad luck. It was only when they saw the results—after Tug and his mates in the Special Boat Service had succeeded in their missions to sneak ashore and destroy the enemy’s supply lines—that the submariners grew more friendly to him. Also, he learned how to stay out of the way of the crew as they did their work, and that was equally appreciated.
Tug directed the agents to the ratings’ mess and showed them how to make themselves some tea. He confirmed that they knew where and when they could sleep.
“If you hear this sub go to battle stations, the best thing you can do is stay out of the way. I suggest you come here to the mess.”
Once he had them settled, he wanted to find out what this mission was really going to be about.
“Let’s go see if the skipper’s in his quarters,” Tug said to Charlie.
Submarine commanders were always issued their orders in writing. They picked them up in a confidential envelope before sailing. Tug hoped to learn their destination, and that it wouldn’t be too far, so they could get rid of the Arabs as soon as possible.
They found Wanklyn in the wardroom, pouring himself a cup of coffee. A couple of officers were already playing a game of cribbage.
“Follow me,” the commander said. “Sorry, Parker, no room for three, but Captain Wilson will fill you in.”
“No problem, sir. I’d rather like to chat with those Arab blokes about their county’s history.” Charlie cheerfully doubled back to where they’d left the agents.
Once inside the captain’s cabin, Wanklyn pulled the secret orders out of his jacket pocket and slit open the envelope.
“Let’s see what we’re up to this time round,” he said.
“I know what we’ll be doing,” Tug said. “Just not sure where.”
On the bulkhead above the bunk was a nautical chart of the central Mediterranean. After reading his orders, Wanklyn put his finger on the chart in the Gulf of Hammamet along the coast of Tunisia. “About here,” he said. “Four kilometers north of Sousse.”
“And we’re just to land the agents, right?”
“No, there’s more.”
“Ha,” Tug said. “Why am I not surprised?”
Aboard the Marsamxetto Ferry
Valletta, Malta
April 12, 2014
The little Arab grocery Alex had directed them to sold everything they needed, from cheese to salami to bread. The only thing missing was wine, and they’d found a bottle at a small wine shop opposite the ferry ticket booth.
Riley chose the sunny foredeck seats on the cross-harbor ferry so they’d have a spectacular view of Marsamxett Harbour, including Manoel Island. Cole pointed out the ruins of Fort Manoel, and the old lepers’ hospital that had served as a sub base during World War II. Now, as they approached the wharf, Riley watched as the crew picked up the mooring buoy, swung the ferry around, and eased her stern in to the dock.
“Nicely done, eh?” she said.
Cole was already on his feet, staring up at the enormous stone ramparts of the city of Valletta.
“Yeah,” he said.
Riley knew he was on another wavelength, but that was okay. She was used to it.
Cole shrugged on the backpack that held their picnic supplies. “Shall we?” He pointed toward the stern of the boat, where the passengers were already disembarking.
They followed Alex’s directions. While all the other ferry passengers turned right and started up the hill to reach the city atop the walls, Riley and Cole turned left. At first, they followed a road along the base of the walls. They saw cars parked along the berm close to the rocky edge of the peninsula. Down on the rocks, fishermen with long cane poles nursed their lines in the heaving blue water.
Cole trailed his fingers along the cut-stone wall. “This place is an archeologist’s dream. I’ve been wanting to come here for years—long before I read about it in the old man’s journal.”
She was happy to see Cole acting more like his old self. “It is an amazing natural harbor.”
“It’s two harbors, really. You’ll see when we get out to the point up here. The city of Valletta is built on a peninsula with two massive deep harbors, one on each side.”
At that point, the road petered out and turned into a path across the rocks. Not boulders, but great, flat expanses of weather-beaten rock. The whole base of the peninsula appeared to be solid rock, worn and cracked by the constant battering from the sea.
Some of the swells coming in the harbor entrance were big enough to send up great plumes of spray, which the wind carried across to Riley and Cole. The sun was warm and the spray felt good. Around the point, they found a pier and partial breakwater enclosing a third of the other harbor entrance.
“See,” Cole said. “This is the entrance to Grand Harbour on this side. We’re just leaving Marsamxett Harbour on that side. Each harbor’s big enough for dozens of ships. Lots of smaller creeks, too, for boatyards and docks. This pier was originally built to narrow the entrance. During the war they put booms across the entrance to protect against enemy subs sneaking in.”
“So how old is all this?” Riley waved her hand around the horizon.
“It all varies. But when the Knights sailed in here in 1530, after having been booted out of Rhodes by Suleiman the Magnificent, there were less
than twenty thousand inhabitants between the two islands of Malta and Gozo. They were mostly subsistence farmers who barely got by, with a few noble families sprinkled among them. Like Alex said, the islands were always getting attacked by the Ottomans, who took away the Maltese as slaves.”
The rock foundation had been flat out on the point, but as they made their way along the rocks farther into Grand Harbour, their footing grew more precarious. Cracks opened up into shallow ravines, and Riley jumped from stone to stone, picking her way over the uneven ground. The deep-blue water of the harbor heaved against the stones about fifty feet below them. She stopped when she saw the sunlight shining through a natural arch in the rocks.
“Look at that,” Cole said, coming up behind her.
She leaned back into him. “Alex was right. This hike is amazing. I’m really glad we came.” She looked across Grand Harbour at the old buildings along the waterfront and the many newer buildings that covered the land as far as she could see. “It’s so built up now. Hard to imagine what it must have looked like way back then.”
Cole stepped back, but he rested his hands on her shoulders. “Well, the Knights really changed things for Malta. When they arrived, the capital wasn’t even here. It was at the only real city, Mdina, in the center of the island. The Maltese thought they could protect themselves better from that city built atop a hill, but the Knights were seafarers. They made their headquarters in Birgu, over there by Fort Saint Angelo.” He pointed across the harbor at the high-walled fortress on the end of a point of land. “Over here on this side of Grand Harbour, there was nothing, just a bare mountain. Nothing in Marsamxett Harbour, either.”
“So when did the city of Valletta get built?”
“Not until after the Great Siege.”
Riley turned and pointed ahead, where a sandy path framed by flowers led along the base of the wall. She started walking but asked over her shoulder, “The Knights always fought against the Ottomans?”
“Yeah,” Cole said. “The same old rivalry had chased them from Jerusalem to Rhodes to here. It was the Christian world fighting against the Muslim Ottomans for control of the Mediterranean. During their first twenty-five years in Malta, the Knights saw the need for protection from the other side of the harbor. This peninsula was an uninhabited mountain, but they started work on the fort above us here.” Cole turned around and pointed up at the high walls. “Fort Saint Elmo. It’s now at the seaward end of the city of Valletta. But it wasn’t until they elected Jean de Valette as grand master that things really started to change. Bigger fortifications around Birgu and a growing navy. The Turks noticed that the Knights were getting it together in Malta, so Suleiman decided to use Malta as a stepping-stone to invading Sicily and on to Rome.”
“But the Knights held out?”
“Barely. It was a long, brutal, four-month siege. Jean de Valette called it the great battle of the Cross and the Qur’an. Christians fighting the infidels. Thousands died, but after four months, the Turkish fleet withdrew.”
“It’s odd that we have this word inhumane,” Riley said. “When I think about using human heads as cannonballs . . .” She shivered in spite of the warm sun. “War, murder, torture are all very common human pastimes. Such actions aren’t inhuman at all.”
Cole tapped her good shoulder. When she turned around, she saw he’d stopped walking and was looking at her with one eyebrow raised. “You’re starting to sound like me.”
She pointed her finger at him. “Now that’s frightening.” She turned and kept on walking. “I take it that Valletta is named for this Grand Master de Valette guy, so he must have built the city.”
“He started it, anyway. He only lived for three years after the Great Siege. Birgu got renamed Vittoriosa in honor of the victory, but the place was a wreck. The grand master ordered the mountain on this side of the harbor to be leveled off and a new city built. The next several grand masters continued the construction project.”
“So these walls are almost five hundred years old.”
“Yeah, well, some parts are. This place got pounded in World War II. They called it the second siege. So lots of this has been repaired and rebuilt. They probably were able to use some of the same stone, though—so yeah, these walls are about that old.”
They clambered over more rocks, and suddenly the broad expanse they had been walking on petered out. The rock foundation had crumbled into the harbor, and someone had built a small metal bridge right up against the fortress walls. There was an outside guardrail, but the drop to the water was more than fifty feet straight down.
Riley slowed and turned. “Are you going to be okay?”
Cole swallowed. “Sure.”
Back in the Philippines, when they’d had to rappel down into a cave, Riley never would have guessed that Cole had this fear of heights. He’d managed then because it was only about a twenty-foot drop. But before they’d left Indonesia to cross the Indian Ocean in her boat, Bonefish, she’d wanted to check the rigging. Her mast had been over fifty feet off the water, and when she’d asked him if he’d like to go up, since the view was great from up there, she had seen all the color drain out of his face.
Now Cole started across the bridge after her, holding on to the railing with a white-knuckled grip. He crossed slowly, but he made it.
The path widened, and she waited for him. She took his hand. “I’m proud of you.”
“Please. It’s bad enough that I feel like such a wimp over stuff like that. You don’t have to go on about it.”
“Sure.”
Even though the air was cool, the sun felt hot when they were sheltered from the wind. All the hiking and fresh air was having an effect on her appetite.
“I’m ready for a picnic,” she said. “How about you?”
“Sounds good. Let’s try to find a spot off the path, though.”
Riley chose her words carefully. “So far we haven’t seen a soul out here besides us.”
“I just don’t want to be too out in the open,” he said.
Cole found a spot where they could get off the main trail. A U-turn led them to a path that angled back down the hillside leading to some stone steps and a deep ledge. She could see it was difficult for him, even though both the path and steps were broad and even. It was the drop to the water below that unnerved him. Finally they reached the ledge, and they sat with their backs against the rocks, their feet stretched out in front of them. Riley would have preferred to dangle her feet over, but she knew Cole wouldn’t be comfortable so close to the edge.
She took the backpack from him and began to spread out their food. Cole opened the wine.
“This is a Meridiana Cab-Merlot blend,” he said. “It’s local. The guy in the wine shop recommended it.”
“Terrific. Cheers.” They tapped their plastic glasses. “Now dig in.”
Riley took out her Swiss Army knife and cut a piece of salami, then she ripped off a piece of the hearty Maltese bread.
Cole ignored the food and stared across the harbor. He pointed his finger at the fort on the opposite shore. “Dr. G. told me that the Knights of Malta recently signed a ninety-nine-year lease on Fort Saint Angelo over there. They’re back in Malta again.”
“I wonder why.”
“Not sure, but that used to be where they kept their treasure.”
“Hmmm. Come on, Cole, eat something.”
He picked up a piece of cheese and nibbled on the corner.
Riley knew what he was thinking about. What was it Cole’s father had written? There is an object of great power frozen inside. And here he was, staring at the Knights’ fort. “Have you been working on the cipher?” she asked him.
“A bit.”
“You told me once that your father taught you a bunch of ciphers.”
“Most of his letters included some cipher text. He’d sent me a kids’ book on codes and ciphers, and I loved working out the cryptograms.”
“I don’t suppose you still have that book?”
He tu
rned to look at her, the corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “In that container in the corner of the boatyard? No, but I do remember lots of them. I’ve been working my way through them.”
“Like what?”
“The usual. Anagrams and word scrambles. Substitution ciphers like the pigpen or the checkerboard.”
“I’m not even going to ask what any of that means.”
“Don’t. None of it’s working, anyway,” he said. “But I got an idea last night. I think it might be a shift cipher. My father mentions the word shift in that passage in the journal, and I remember he really liked those.”
“You’re staring at Fort Saint Angelo. Our cipher word is eight letters. If you think about it, S-T-A-N-G-E-L-O”—she spelled out the words—“is eight letters, too.”
“Yes, but the Knights didn’t have their lease on the fort when my father wrote that bit in his journal.”
“Perhaps they leased it because of something they think is hidden inside? I read in a tourist brochure that it’s now closed to the public. Maybe we could break in?”
He picked up a piece of bread and gnawed off a mouthful. He didn’t say anything while he chewed.
Riley poured them both more wine. “I suppose it’s not a very scientific method to find a solution and try to make it fit.”
“You wouldn’t be the first.” Cole sipped his wine, then softly repeated the phrase from the journal. “I learned there is an object of great power frozen inside V-y-i-p-m-m-l-u. My friend told me, I must get it for your birthday.” Instead of trying to pronounce the capitalized word—the presumed cipher text—he spelled it out.
“Well,” Riley said, “I suppose we must assume that he wasn’t really talking about finding some historical thing of great value for your birthday. It wasn’t a shopping list for your presents.”
“Definitely not.”
“Maybe your birthdate is some kind of key.”
He grinned. “Miss Maggie Magee, former US Marine, now noted code breaker.”
Riley punched him in the arm. “So you’d already thought of it. If you’ll recall, I came up with a few solutions last time we were working at this. I’m a natural.”
Knight's Cross (The Shipwreck Adventures Book 3) Page 8
