Moments later Mikhail spotted his first German infantryman slowly moving out of the nearby tree line.
Because of the limited light, he couldn’t determine if there were more. But it became apparent there were when his comrades in the boxcar behind him opened fire. Quick to respond to this meagre volley, a multitude of muzzle flashes erupted from the black depths of the wood and Mikhail knew that they were vastly outnumbered.
Determined to send as many of the enemy to their early graves as possible, Mikhail raised his Dekyarov and began firing. He picked his targets carefully, diligently waiting until an exploding Nazi shell gave him something tangible to shoot at. He expended over a dozen cartridges before the first German mortar rounds arrived. One of the shells landed on the edge of the track directly in front of him, and Mikhail ducked for cover just as a shower of shrapnel and debris flew in through the open doorway.
Seconds later, another mortar round crashed into the freight car behind him with a deafening explosion. The floor rattled beneath Mikhail, and he could hear the horrified cries of his wounded comrades as they screamed out in anguish. Fighting the impulse to leave his position and see what he could do to assist them, Mikhail began choking on the thick, black smoke that was another by-product of the blast. His eyes stung with pain, and it took a supreme effort just to breathe. Yet not to be denied his chance to revenge this attack, he lilted his rifle and blindly sprayed bullets into the tree line.
It was while he was inserting another magazine that the first German soldier reached the side of his boxcar.
Mikhail intuitively sensed this man’s presence moments before he could actually see him. With trembling hands he did his best to get a fresh round into the chamber, but a jam kept the breech from clearing. When the Nazi soldier could be heard climbing into the entrance of the boxcar, Mikhail had no choice but to put down his rifle and pull out his combat knife. He used the roiling smoke as an effective veil and waited until the German was almost upon him before springing up and thrusting the knife deep into the enemy’s soft gut.
The German howled in pain. Bathed in spurting blood, Mikhail backed away as the Nazi collapsed onto the floor. It seemed to take an eternity for him to stop his pained whimpering. Barely aware of the scattered gunshots that still emanated from outside, Mikhail listened to the labored breathing of the man whom he had just stabbed. Remorse replaced his previous anger, and he only wished to flee from this cursed place. Yet his legs were heavy, and feeling suddenly drained of all energy, he dropped to the floor himself, not noticing the wounded German’s last desperate gasp before he surrendered to the arms of death. He was equally unaware of the fact that outside, the shooting had finally come to a conclusion.
It proved to be the sound of nearby voices that eventually broke him from his shocked reverie. Still finding himself without the energy to stand, Mikhail listened as ok a German officer barked out a flurry of orders. The blindingly bright shaft of a battery-powered torch split the blackness and a group of soldiers noisily climbed up into the boxcar.
Mikhail winced in pain as the powerful shaft of light hit him full in the eyes.
“Well, what do we have here?” asked an icy voice in broken Russian.
As Mikhail’s eyes adjusted to the sudden illumination, he viewed the face of the man responsible for this question. There was a cruelty to this stranger’s expression that belied his relatively young age. Peering down at Mikhail like he was a poisonous contagion, his steel-gray eyes displayed pure hatred. His sharp features were dominated by highly etched cheekbones, a narrow forehead, and a head of closely cropped white hair. A nervous tick caused the right side of his mouth to lift in a sneer, as he addressed Mikhail in German-flavored Russian.
“You and your comrades fought admirably. Unfortunately, you were no match for the Waffen SS. May I ask what it was that you were willing to give your lives up to defend this evening? Surely it wasn’t for this empty train.”
“Go to hell, you Nazi pig!” spat Mikhail viciously.
The German merely snickered.
“My, you are certainly an emotional people. You’re crude and manner less as well.”
Turning away from Mikhail, he spoke in rapid German.
Two black-uniformed infantrymen appeared out of the darkness, and took up positions on each side of Mikhail. Each of the muscular soldiers took a hold of one of his arms and pinned them back until he was a helpless captive. Doing his best to hide the pain, Mikhail watched as his white-haired interrogator bent over and picked up his blood-stained combat knife.
“So this is evidently the weapon that you used to kill my corporal with. I understand that a knife wound is a most painful way to die.”
Briefly examining the finely honed blade, he accidentally nicked his finger. Blood oozed from the tiny wound, and he quickly brought it to his lips.
“This is certainly a most lethal weapon, comrade,” observed the Nazi, who re gripped the knife and waved it menacingly before Mikhail.
“It would be a shame to ruin such a handsome face.” Then he stepped forward and pressed the tip of the blade up against Mikhail’s left temple.
“I’ll give you one last chance, comrade. Where was this train bound and what is your cargo?”
Mikhail could only think of a single fitting response.
Even though his mouth was dry, he managed to summon forth a wad of thick, white phlegm, which he proceeded to deposit squarely onto his interrogator’s forehead.
“Insolent Red heathen!” cried the Nazi, who without bothering to wipe off the spittle, pressed down onto the knife until its tip just penetrated Mikhail’s skin. Then with a single slashing motion he traced a bloody line from the tip of Mikhail’s left eyebrow all the way down to his jaw.
Any further retaliation on the Nazi’s part was cut short by the excited shouts of one of his subordinates.
“Over here, Herr Koch! You’ll never believe what I’ve found hidden beneath a tarp just waiting for us!”
Oblivious to the see ring pain that filled the left side of his face, Mikhail watched as the white-haired Nazi turned in the freight car’s smoke-filled interior. He couldn’t help but catch the glint of gold as the Germans excitedly scanned their find. A pain just as intense as that which racked his torn face filled his being with pure anguish.
With the realization that he had failed his assignment, Mikhail collapsed into his captors’ vice like grasp. As the blood from his wound splattered down onto the floor, he listened as the Germans sang out in celebration. Their incredible find brought pure joy to their lips. As a way of expressing his satisfaction, the white-haired officer known as Koch decided to spare Mikhail’s life. Instead of a bullet to the back of his head, he would be shipped off to experience a living death in a hellhole known as the BergenBelsen concentration camp.
While Mikhail Kuznetsov was granted yet another temporary reprieve from his pain by slipping off into blessed unconsciousness, his twin brother Alexander had just experienced his own near brush with death. He had been positioned inside the caboose when the first Nazis were spotted. Standing beside him, Senior Lieutenant Viktor Ryutin gave the order to open fire.
The light was poor, and Alexander waited for an enemy muzzle-flash to show itself before taking aim and squeezing off a shot, and then another and another. His confidence was reinforced when several of his bullets hit their mark. But when the mortar shells began falling, he knew they were fighting a losing cause.
When one of these rounds detonated right outside the caboose, Alexander looked to his left and saw that Senior Lieutenant Ryutin had been hit. There was no need for him to apply first aid, for the entire top portion of the veteran’s skull had been blown off by a piece of razor sharp shrapnel. Finding himself on his own, Alexander decided that in this instance, discretion was the best policy, and off he went through the shattered window on the opposite side of the railroad car.
He didn’t stop running until he was a good fifty meters away from the train tracks. Here he took advantage of a
dense thicket and dove for cover. With his pulse pounding madly in his chest, he dared to look back and cringed when he saw the column of black smoke rising from the boxcar located immediately beside the caboose.
It was here that the majority of his comrades had been stationed, and the smoke surely meant that they had taken a direct hit.
An even greater concern crossed his mind as he peered at the adjoining freight car, for it was here that not only had the gold been hidden, but his own brother as well.
The conspicuous absence of gunfire certainly meant that the battle was over. The Nazis had succeeded in overwhelming them and Alexander watched as a squad of German troops assembled at the trackside. The deep, rumbling roar of an advancing tank broke the temporary quiet. He looked on in disbelief as the armored vehicle broke out of the woods and smashed into the caboose and the still smoking boxcar that was attached to it. As the cars tumbled off the track, the Germans loaded themselves into the remaining freight car, where both the gold and his brother had been situated.
The locomotive built up a head of steam, and to a heart rendering blast of its whistle, the now shortened train roared off in reverse, without ceremony to the presumed safety of the German lines.
The tank disappeared back into the trees, and Alexander waited until the sound of the locomotive had completely faded in the distance before leaving his hiding place. Ever fearful of what awaited him alongside the tracks, he carefully returned to the site of the ambush.
The smashed boxcar was still smoking, and by the flickering light of the burning wreckage, he searched for any survivors. As he expected, there were none. Only the smashed, lifeless corpses of his comrades met his eyes.
Yet one observation was a bit more heartening. Nowhere within the twisted wreckage were the remains of his brother. Was his corpse still inside the boxcar alongside the gold? Or had he perhaps been wounded and taken prisoner? With this hope in mind, Alexander reluctantly left this site of carnage and death, to get on with the huge task of ridding his homeland of the bloodthirsty scourge that was responsible for this slaughter.
Chapter Two
The Present
The Bell 212 helicopter lifted off its dockside pad with a grinding roar. From the copilot’s seat, David Lawton peered out the plexiglass windshield, and watched the city limits of Haugesund, Norway take form down below.
Unlike his hometown of Houston, Texas, there was a noticeable absence of steel and glass high-rise buildings in evidence. Instead there was a preponderance of quaint, wooden structures of approximately three stories, painted in soft pastel shades. Most were situated near a wide channel of water that allowed direct access to the open sea. A variety of boats ranging from compact sloops to cabin cruisers, fishing trawlers, and oceangoing freighters were docked along the shoreline.
As the chopper gained altitude, Lawton caught a glimpse of the breathtaking scenery visible inland.
Huge, sharply-etched mountains formed the eastern horizon, while magnificent sparkling green fjords filled the deep valleys. The Texan would have loved to explore this fascinating terrain more closely, but unfortunately his destination lay in the opposite direction. Already the pilot had pointed the rounded nose of the helicopter to the west. They would remain on this course until they were well out over the surging grey waters of the North Sea.
“Excuse me for not getting the chance to properly introduce myself back at the heliport,” offered the pilot as she turned toward her passenger, pushing back her chin-mounted microphone.
“I’m Kari Skollevoll. Welcome aboard Noroil One. I hope you’re enjoying Norway, Mr. Lawton.”
To be heard over the whining rotors, the Texan responded firmly.
“Actually, I haven’t seen much more than the Stavanger and Haugesund airports. I flew in from Edinburgh a little less than two hours ago.”
“Have you visited our country before, Mr. Lawton?”
asked the pilot, as she reached forward to make a minor adjustment to the fuel mixture.
“This is my first time, and I must admit what little I’ve seen so far is impressive. That countryside behind us looks magnificent. And Haugesund appears to be quite the charming fishing village.”
“It’s much more than that,” answered the young pilot, whose blond curly hair could just be seen beneath the confines other helmet.
“In my grandfather’s day herring fishing was indeed the city’s primary industry. Today Haugesund is much more diversified. We have a huge shipyard, where vessels up to 150,000 tons can be repaired.
The city is also a primary supply and research base for the offshore oil business.”
“So I understand,” replied Lawton, infected by her enthusiasm.
“How long have you been with Noroil?”
“I’m approaching my third anniversary. I learned how to fly helicopters in the Air Force, though I’ve been flying fixed-wing aircraft since I was a teenager.”
“I gather you’re from around these parts,” said the Texan.
“I was born and raised in Haugesund. In fact, most of my family still lives there. One good thing about my job is that I get a chance to visit them quite frequently.”
David Lawton nodded and peered out the window to the sea below. Though the sky was slightly overcast, the visibility was good, and he was afforded an excellent view of a series of small islands that barely managed to poke their rocky surfaces above the white-capped waters.
The forty-seven year old Texan scratched his thickly bearded chin.
“I have to admit,” he said, “that I was expecting to be greeted by waist high snowdrifts the moment I stepped foot on Norwegian soil. So far, considering it’s late autumn, the temperatures seem incredibly mild. And the only snow I’ve seen has been on the summits of those coastal mountains behind us.”
“You can thank the warming influence of the Gulf Stream for that, Mr. Lawton. An offshoot of the current flows just off our coast, and because of it, we have some of the mildest winters in all of Scandinavia. But just you hang around a little longer, and you’ll see plenty of snow around here. That I can guarantee you.”
As Lawton continued his inspection of the waters below, he spotted what appeared to be a large ship looming in the distance. It was only as they got closer to the monstrous object that he identified it as a huge oil platform.
Supported on thick concrete legs, the platform was in the process of being towed out to sea, clearly dwarfing the trio of powerful oceangoing tugs that had been chosen for the task.
As a veteran oil-service worker, the Texan had seen many similar rigs, yet none could compare to this one for sheer size. Dominating its equipment-packed surface was a towering derrick. A complex maze of snaking pipes and a vast assortment of pumps, cranes, and other heavy machinery was tucked beneath the latticed steel framework. Its living module rose over ten stories high, and was capped by a circular helipad and a number of white satellite dishes. All in all, it was an awesome structure, that proved impressive even to a jaded Texan.
Noting his interest, the pilot identified the rig for him.
“That’s the new Ice Field’s production platform, sir. It was just completed in Haugesund, and is designed to be placed in 200 meters of water off the Arctic island of Svalbard. I’ve been told that its total weight is over one million tons. From the base of its legs to the tip of the derrick, it’s over 350 meters high. The legs alone required 240,000 cubic meters of concrete, and the total quantity of steel utilized is the equivalent to the weight of ten Eiffel towers.”
“That’s mighty impressive, even by Texas standards,” reflected Lawton, as the platform passed beneath them.
“How much longer until we get to the Falcon?”
“We should be touching down on the ship’s helipad in another ten minutes,” answered the pilot.
“Why don’t you just sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight. I’ve got a thermos full of hot coffee in the supply cabinet. If you’d like a cup, just let me know.”
Lawton shook his
head.
“No thanks, Karl. I’ve already had my caffeine fix for the day.”
“Then would you mind some music?” she asked.
“I just got a new Oslo Philharmonic recording of Edvard Grieg’s Peer Gynt. During the chopper’s last refit, the ground crew installed a cassette player and some pretty decent speakers up here. It sure beats listening to the constant chop of those rotors.”
“Sounds good to me, Karl.”
While the pilot reached up to activate the cassette player, Lawton attempted to stretch his tall, lanky frame. The equipment-packed cockpit was far from spacious, and the bulky, bright orange survival suit that he wore over his normal clothing only made the cramped cabin that much tighter.
As the spirited first chords of the Grieg symphony broke from the elevated speakers, he took his attractive pilot’s advice and did his best to sit back and relax. The stereo system was indeed first class, and the resulting music did much to filter out the harsh, grinding roar of the Bell’s engines.
Though he wasn’t much of a classical music buff, the opening movement had plenty of old-fashioned fiddle playing in it. The spirited folk rhythms were easy to listen to, and had an almost country flavor to them.
The island of Utsira passed below. This compact, rock-strewn landmass was the western-most extension of the Norwegian mainland, and as they zoomed over it, nothing but the lonely gray sea stretched to the horizon.
Lawton stared out at the seemingly endless expanse of water and contemplated the man whose invitation had brought him so far from home. He had first met Magne Rystaad a year ago, at a symposium in Washington, D.C. The two were introduced immediately after a seminar on the latest hyperbaric welding techniques. The fair-haired Norwegian was tight-lipped at first. Yet Lawton liked him right off, and invited the Chuck Norris look-alike for a drink. Since they were practically the same age, and had both been employed as oil industry divers for over a decade, they were soon chatting away like old friends.
The Golden U-Boat Page 3
