There’s a full crew of Norwegians on that rig, and even though the damage to the German sub seems negligible, they’ve already called for a Coast Guard cutter. One’s steaming out of Haugesund even as we speak.”
“Then I guess that’s it for our NATO maneuvers,” remarked the Captain.
“Now what, Skipper?”
Before Aldridge could answer his second in command, he noted with surprise that a newcomer had just entered the control room. Petty Officer Joe Carter didn’t frequent this portion of the ship often, and the black sonar technician seemed relieved when he finally spotted Aldridge and the XO perched beside the periscope well. Without hesitation, he proceeded straight for them.
“Excuse me, Captain, but I think there’s something that you should know about.”
“Then let’s hear it, Mr. Carter,” replied Aldridge, who encouraged his subordinates to be frank with him.
Joe Carter seemed a bit uncomfortable as he continued.
“Right before we monitored that collision, I picked up something on the narrow-band processor.
I only got it for a second, but I’m pretty sure that we just had an unidentified submerged contact pass us by. From its signature it sounded like a nuke and it was headed due south.”
Aldridge looked at his XO as he responded.
“Well, I’ll be. If it is indeed another nuke, it’s got to be the Red version. This entire sector’s strictly off limits to any other NATO warship but the Cheyenne and our German friends out there.”
“If it is Ivan, what’s he doing this far east of his normal transit lane?” asked the XO.
“Maybe he’s not headed out into the North Atlantic,” offered Joe Carter.
The Captain’s eyes lit up.
“You could be onto something, Mr. Carter. Do you think that you could find them again?”
Joe Carter answered with confidence.
“If he’s out there and he’s wet, I can find him all right.”
“Then let’s do it,” ordered Aldridge.
“And if it is Ivan, we’ll secretly tail along in his baffles to see what he’s up to.”
Anxious to finally see some real action, the XO concurred.
“You know something, Skipper? This patrol might just prove to be interesting after all.”
Chapter Eleven
Mikhail Kuznetsov chose a hotel room that directly overlooked Tromso’s main wharf area. From this vantage point he could see every single ship that entered the harbor. The docks themselves were right beneath him, four floors below. Tied up there were a number of rust-stained fishing vessels, several oceangoing trawlers, and a trio of Norwegian Navy patrol boats.
It was well past noon when he finally snapped awake. He was disoriented at first, and when he finally remembered where he was and saw the time he rushed to his room’s only window. It was a gray overcast day, and snow was falling. He intently scanned the dock area, and exhaled a breath of relief only after seeing that the ship he was waiting for had yet to arrive.
Only then was Mikhail conscious of the chill in his room. He went to the fireplace and filled it with dried kindling. With the aid of a rolled up newspaper and his trusty Zippo lighter, he soon had a roaring blaze going. The heat felt good on his old bones, and he warmed himself thoroughly before turning to do his toilet.
By the time he finished his shower, he felt like a new man. He had slept for over twelve hours straight, and this more than made up for the previous evening when he was forced to drive all through the night.
Mikhail dressed himself and returned to the window to continue his vigil. He knew that the trawler was not due to arrive for at least another hour.
Still, he couldn’t afford to get lax now.
He sat down on the leather chair and stared out to the harbor, reaching down for the loaf of rye bread he had purchased in town last night. This, together with a tart green apple and a wheel of goat cheese, provided his breakfast. Though he craved a cup of coffee, he contented himself with a long swig from a bottle of mineral water. With his stomach filled, he turned his stare back to the gray waters below.
The snow was falling steadily, and several centimeters had already accumulated on the decks of the docked boats. Even so, the visibility wasn’t that bad, and he could still see the opposite shoreline, where the rest of the sprawling city of Tromso extended well up into the snow-filled mountains. An immense, single-span suspension bridge connected this newly developed portion of the city with the older section where Mikhail was currently staying.
Occasionally, when the cloud layer lifted, he could see the ultra-modern cathedral that was the predominant landmark in this newer area of town.
From what little he had already seen of Tromso, it reminded him of similar outposts that dotted Soviet Siberia. Like them, it had a young frontier spirit. Situated well above the Arctic Circle, on Norway’s northern coast, Tromso was once known as the gateway to the Arctic, in reference to the many polar expeditions that used the city as their base camp on the way to the North Pole.
This was Mikhail’s first visit. He only learned that he’d be going to Tromso yesterday morning, while at the docks at Trondheim. Up until then, he had followed the heavy water all the way up from Lake Tinnsjo. As he watched the thirty-three cannisters being loaded into the hold of a trawler, he waited for the vessel to set sail so that he could question the freight agent and find out where the ship was bound. Mikhail was just about to get on with his interrogation when the blond Norwegian diver unexpectedly arrived on the wharf and beat him to it.
Cursing the big-shouldered Viking’s interference, Mikhail nervously waited for the diver to finish his business and leave. In actuality, he was only in the small, wooden building that acted as the freight office for a few minutes. Mikhail watched the Norwegian exit the hut and hurriedly rush off to his awaiting automobile.
Quickly now, Mikhail moved in himself. He found himself praying that the portly agent in the wrinkled blue suit would still be alive as he pushed open the door to the hut and entered. Inside, he found the room’s only occupant slumped down in a chair, taking long sips from a bottle of aquavit. His hair was tousled, his clothing disheveled, as he looked up with undisguised terror at Mikhail’s approach.
“Whatever do you want?” he asked anxiously.
Mikhail rounded his cluttered desk, and spotted hundreds of dollars in Norwegian kroners laying scattered on the floor.
“I want to know the destination of that trawler that just set sail from here,” stated Mikhail firmly.
The agent raised his eyes in panic and confusion.
“What in the world is so special about that damn trawler? All of a sudden it seems that everybody wants to know where the Elsie K is headed.”
Mikhail decided that a bluff would get him the quickest results.
“It seems that my excitable colleague has already beat me to it. Now are you going to share that destination with me, or am I going to have to call my coworker back here?”
“Please, I’ve seen enough of that brute for one day,” pleaded the frantic agent.
“The Elsie K is bound for Tromso. That’s as far as I booked her, I swear. From there her skipper can take those two who chartered her all the way to Siberia, for all I care.”
Mikhail had seen enough in his days to know that the terrified freight agent was telling the truth.
“How long will this voyage take?” he asked.
“At the very least, twenty-four hours. Though with the rough seas that have been reported to the north, it could take even longer.”
Mikhail had heard enough, and left the hut without so much as a thank you. He returned to his car, and studied the map of Norway that was spread out on the front seat. Tromso was a good eight hundred kilometers distant by car. In no condition to tackle such a trip after his long night on the road, he decided to take a plane.
He got to the Trondheim airport just as a Braathens Safe flight headed northward was preparing to take off. He made it with seconds to spare
, and an hour later was touching down at Tromso.
Suddenly finding himself with twenty-four hours to spare, Mikhail took a taxi into the town itself.
When he mentioned that he had business down at the docks and was looking for the nearest hotel, his driver seemed to know the perfect place for him, and it was on his recommendation that Mikhail found his present lodging.
It was only when he finally got up to his room that he realized the state of his exhaustion. Without even bothering to kick off his shoes, he collapsed onto the bed, and slept straight through to dusk.
He awoke with a ravenous hunger. At the hotel’s cafe he wolfed down two orders of herring, a bowl of beets, and a double serving of boiled potatoes.
Afterward, he walked over to a small roadside market and purchased a bottle of mineral water and his breakfast, which he planned to eat in his room.
There was a frigid wind blowing out of the north as he hurriedly returned to the hotel. His old bones protested at the three flights of stairs that he was forced to climb, but soon enough he was back in his room. Quickly banking the fire, he pulled off his clothes and slipped between the sheets of his bed. And here it was twelve hours later, with Mikhail feeling warm, rested, and ready for action.
As he looked out to the harbor, he could see that the three navy patrol boats were preparing to put to sea. Each of these very capable-looking craft had large search radar domes topping their masts, and were heavily armed with a cannon on the foredeck and an assortment of torpedoes and depth charges stored on the stern. The Norwegian Navy took its job very seriously, and this was most evident as the first patrol boat smartly cast off. The two others followed close behind, the three vessels looking sleek and deadly as their angled hulls cut a frothing, v-shaped swath through the gray waters of the harbor.
Mikhail looked at his watch, and noted that he had several hours yet before the trawler was due.
Not daring to leave his current vantage point, he would continue this vigil as long as necessary.
The only thing that could go wrong now was if the trawler known as the Elsie K wasn’t headed to Tromso at all. Then his long wait would be in vain.
But he had been absolutely certain that the freight agent had been telling the truth back in Tronheim.
Mikhail had gambled that this was the most sensible course open to him, because it would have been virtually impossible to find another ship in time for him to shadow the trawler. Though it tore him apart to watch the two Nazis and their dangerous cargo slip through his hands like they did, Mikhail had no choice. If it was fated to be, he would meet with them once again in these next few hours.
Then, and only then, could he continue his quest, one step closer to fulfilling his lifetime goal.
There was close to a full gale blowing when No-oil One finally lifted off from the Falcon’s helipad.
Because of the worsening weather conditions, Karl Skollevoll had full authority to postpone the flight if she so desired, yet she didn’t dare disappoint the group of three young divers who were her anxious passengers.
The Bell 212 leaped off the deck and temporarily shuddered when a powerful gust of wind did its best to hurl the chopper back downward. Karl had been anticipating this downdraft, and countered it by pulling the throttle back and sending the helicopter spiralling upward.
Her crew was unusually quiet as she turned for Norway’s northern coastline. The members of NUEX remained huddled in the main cabin in the midst of a hushed conversation. Well accustomed to flying alone, she doublechecked her course, and then hit the ‘on’ switch to her cassette player. Once again it was Grieg’s Peer Gynt that provided the spirited accompaniment as she settled back for the long flight that followed.
The tape was well into Peer Gynt’s last act when Jon Huslid entered the cockpit and crawled into the copilot’s seat. Karl was in the process of reaching up to turn down the volume when the photographer stopped her.
“Leave it the way it is, Karl. If I knew that you had Grieg on up here, I would have joined you much earlier.”
Together they listened to Solvejg’s Song in the Hut, Song of the Churchgoers and Solvejg’s Lullaby before the tape came to an end.
“That was wonderful,” observed Jon.
“Do you mind playing the tape over again?”
“Not at all, Jon. There’s so much varied music in the piece that I can never hear it enough.”
“I know what you mean, Karl. I started listening to Peer Gynt as a kid. The music never failed to bring forth visions of trolls and fantastic forest creatures.
I used to hum the melodies to myself when I was out on the fjords, with my very favorite being In the Hall of the Mountain King.”
“It’s funny, but I always associated that particular piece with witches, warlocks and Halloween,” commented Karl.
“From what I understand, those are the exact images that Grieg wanted to convey in that segment,” returned Jon.
Barely aware of the constant background whine of the Bell 212’s rotors the two continued listening to the unfolding music. It was just after the haunting violin solo in the Spring Dance was concluding that Jakob Helgesen poked his head into the cockpit.
“It sounds pretty good up here,” said Jakob.
“Of course, practically anything would sound better than having to hear Arne go on about why he’s the better chess player. How much longer until we touch down, Karl?”
The pilot looked up to check the clock.
“We should be landing in Tromso in another half hour.
Luckily, we’ve got a hell of a tailwind.”
Jakob peered out the plexiglass windshield and could see nothing but clouds.
“I wonder what the ceiling is like in Tromso?” asked the Lapp.
Karl delicately adjusted the fuel mixture and answered.
“The last I heard, visibility at the Tromso airport was down to three kilometers. They’ve also got some pretty strong wind gusts coming in from the west, and at last report it was snowing. But its certainly nothing that I can’t handle.”
“Compared to that weather that we had during take off, Tromso sounds pretty tame,” said the photographer.
“You certainly did one fine job back there, little lady,” added Jakob.
“When that downdraft hit us, I could have sworn that Arne was going to wet his shorts.”
Karl laughed.
“Thanks, Jakob. Coming from you, that’s a real compliment. I take pride in my job.
But I still think that the work that you guys do is far more difficult.”
“Perhaps you mean dangerous,” said the Lapp.
“It takes a real skill to fly this chopper. What do we have to know but to watch our decompression tables and swim?”
“Come on, Jakob. Don’t give me any of that,” returned the pilot.
“Nobody goes down to the depths that you guys work at without plenty of hard-earned experience. Diving might not be as technically challenging as flying, but it’s a complicated endeavor all the same, that nobody walks into overnight.”
“She’s got you on that one, Jakob,” said Jon Huslid.
The Lapp shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ll tell you what, Karl. I’ll swap you diving lessons if you teach me to fly.”
“That’s a deal,” shot back the pilot.
“But only if those lessons take place someplace warm, like the Caribbean.”
“You fly us there, and you’re on,” replied Jakob.
By the time Act III of Peer Gynt was ending, the helicopter had completed its transit of the Norwegian Sea and was flying over the rugged, fjord-filled Kvaloy peninsula. Minutes later, they were landing at the Tromso airport.
Because of the continued high winds and falling snow, Karl decided to remain in Tromso for the night. This was fine with the members of NUEX, who flagged down a cab and instructed its driver to convey them to town.
The team had been to Tromso before, while doing a preliminary salvage survey on the wreck of the G
erman battleship, Tirpitz. This vessel lay on the bottom of a nearby fiord, and provided them with hours of fascinating exploration.
Since Jakob was from this region, he provided a running commentary as they approached the city center. Karl’s previous visits to Tromso had been limited to the airport, and she enjoyed seeing such sights as the city’s new planetarium, its bustling streets, and the famous Polar museum. When they passed a statue of Roald Amundsen, Karl asked the taxi driver to stop, and she ran out in the snow to have a closer look at it. As it turned out, Karl’s grandfather had once helped outfit the famous Arctic explorer, who was like a god to the people of Norway.
Leaving the statue behind, the cab headed for the nearby docks. The driver had no trouble at all conveying them to the Northern Lights Cafe, located on the bottom floor of a converted four-story warehouse.
The cafe itself directly faced the harbor. In fact, Tromso’s fishing fleet was docked almost right in front of the cafe’s large picture window.
The raucous, electric sounds of a live rock band practicing upstairs could be clearly heard as they entered the cafe. Inside, it was warm and cozy. The majority of the clientele was students, and Jon instantly scanned this crowd for any sign of Knut Haugen. The big blond was nowhere in sight, and after choosing a round table that stood right beside the picture window, they went up to the counter to order.
“I wonder where the big fellow is?” asked Arne.
They returned to the table to await their food.
“He’ll show up eventually,” said Jakob, who picked a chair affording him a clear view of the snow-covered wharf outside.
“You know Knut when it comes to getting anywhere on time. That one’s going to be late to his own funeral.”
Their drinks arrived, as music blared from the cafe’s p. a. system. The three divers sipped on their bug juices, while Karl contented herself with a cup of herb tea.
“You never did explain what Knut was doing here in Tromso,” observed the pilot.
“The last I heard, he was still hospitalized with a concussion back in Rjukan.”
Jon took his time answering her.
The Golden U-Boat Page 22
