Hurricane Hole

by John Kerr

  Hamilton stared at the dark red stain spreading on Carter’s trouser leg. Hearing hoofbeats and more shots that kicked up puffs of dust, he crouched behind a palmetto and grabbed the Beretta from his waistband. Taking careful aim, he fired two rapid shots at an approaching rider, striking him in the chest and hurling him backward. When the horse reared, Hamilton sprang up, seized the reins, and swung into the saddle, expertly turning the horse toward Carter, who was lying on his side clutching his thigh. ‘Let’s go,’ shouted Hamilton, leaning down to take Carter’s hand, hauling him to his feet and up onto the horse behind him. Hamilton spurred the animal down the fence line with Carter hanging on for dear life. Once they were safely out of sight, Hamilton glanced at Carter’s leg, where the dark stain had spread to his shoe.

  Hamilton reined in the horse with a reassuring pat. To his left he could see what appeared to be a trail he guessed led to the beach. He gave the horse a kick, sending him down the narrow trail at a canter. Before long a patch of turquoise appeared in the distance. ‘Hang on,’ yelled Hamilton over the hoofbeats and the blaring siren. ‘We’re almost there.’ Moments later the trail disappeared into the sand dunes and sea-grape. Hamilton slowed the horse and took a quick look up and down the deserted beach. ‘Damn,’ he swore. ‘Where did we leave the boat?’

  ‘Look,’ said Carter, pointing to the surf. ‘The reef!’

  Shielding his eyes, Hamilton gazed over the lines of rollers until he could distinguish waves breaking over the coral. With a slap of the reins, the horse broke into a trot on the soft sand as Hamilton scanned the vegetation bordering the beach. He brought the animal to an abrupt stop. ‘There it is.’ Quickly dismounting, he helped Carter down and then gave the horse a slap on the rump, sending him galloping away. He ripped off his shirt and tore it into strips, fashioning a tourniquet at Carter’s groin and binding the wound. Hamilton dragged the rubber boat from the sea-grape and, with Carter hanging on to his shoulder, hauled it into the surf. After helping Carter to sit, he unslung the camera and then scrambled in and began to paddle. After cresting one breaker that filled the craft with seawater, he stroked steadily, conscious of the hot sun on his back.

  Hamilton paused to look back. A group of men stood on the beach beside an open-air vehicle. ‘Damn,’ he muttered, paddling even harder. He lunged for the ladder at the stern of the Chris Craft, reached for the camera, and scrambled over the transom. As he leaned down to pull Carter on board he was relieved to see the men driving down the beach in the opposite direction.

  ‘Thanks,’ Carter managed to say, before he slumped on the seat and passed out. Checking his faint pulse, Hamilton was relieved when Carter opened eyes with a look of vague recognition.

  ‘OK,’ said Hamilton, ‘just take it easy.’ He sprang into the cockpit and reached under the dash for the key. Aware of the sound of another boat in the distance, he pumped the throttle and the powerful V-8 engine roared to life. With a glance at the anchor chain, he gunned the engine and threw the boat into reverse, lurching backward as the bolts holding the chain ripped free. Quickly shifting, Hamilton spun the wheel and jammed down the throttle. As the Chris Craft gained speed, planing across the glassy sea, he looked over his shoulder at a patrol boat rounding the eastern point of the island. Hamilton glanced at the speedometer, the needle trembling at 45 m.p.h., a speed the patrol boat could never match.

  Exhausted and craving water, Hamilton stared at the weathered boards as the boat drifted alongside Sir Philip’s pier, where a massive frigate bird gave him an indifferent stare from its perch on a piling. He shut down the engine and turned back to Carter, who was lying motionless in the stern, but breathing normally. After checking his makeshift bandage, Hamilton climbed up on the dock, fastened a line to the bow cleat and loped up to the house. Marnie, who’d watched their return from the living room window, appeared on the terrace and ran down to meet him.

  ‘It’s Carter,’ said Hamilton, gasping for breath. ‘He’s been shot.’

  ‘I’ll get Henry,’ said Marnie, starting back toward the house.

  Finally, after helping the broad-shouldered Bahamian carry Carter into a waiting car, Hamilton wearily returned to the boat for his camera. As he jumped down from the pier, he imagined Colonel Donovan’s surprise when he saw the detailed images. Lifting up the case, he watched in disbelief as a small stream of seawater poured out. ‘What the hell,’ he murmured, as he examined the case, discovering a bullet hole in the side. He popped open the clasps and removed the water-soaked Hasselblad. ‘Ruined,’ he said, fighting the impulse to heave the camera into the sea.

  After washing the grime of Hog Island and shoe polish from his face and hands, Hamilton changed into fresh clothes and found Sir Philip on the sun-dappled terrace, staring serenely out at the sparkling sea. Once Hamilton had drawn up a chair, Henry appeared and placed a tray in front of him with a plate of scrambled eggs, fried grouper, and hash-browns.

  ‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering your breakfast,’ said Sir Philip.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Hamilton with a sigh, ‘though I’m not sure I’ve got much appetite.’

  ‘You’ll need the nourishment,’ said Sir Philip. ‘And then you can give me a full report.’

  ‘I feel terrible about Carter,’ said Hamilton. ‘Maybe I was overconfident.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Sir Philip. ‘It’s a wonder you managed to get him back alive. Marnie examined the wound and assures me he’ll be fine, with a transfusion and injection of antibacterials. The bullet missed the femur and the artery.’

  ‘Thank God.’ Hamilton sampled the eggs and fish and then, feeling ravenous, greedily attacked his plate. Putting aside his fork, he pushed back from the table and looked at Sir Philip. ‘What Ericsson is building,’ he said after a pause, ‘is a first-class submarine base for the Jerries.’

  ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘Absolutely. They’ve dredged a canal wide enough for the latest class U-boats, the big VII-Cs, into these massive concrete pens. The roof has to be ten feet thick, reinforced concrete. We watched them pouring a section.’

  ‘Where do you suppose he’s able to find the re-bar?’

  ‘Not only re-bar,’ said Hamilton between mouthfuls, ‘but the aggregate, lumber, the whole shooting match. Obviously, he’s using that ship of his to bring in all the supplies, probably from Mexico. Tampico or Veracruz would be my guess.’

  ‘This large concrete structure … there’s no other explanation?’

  ‘No. Given the size, the height over the water, the flat roof, like a bunker, easy to camouflage. If only I’d managed to get out the photographs.’

  ‘Yes, a pity. But that camera may have spared you from a bullet in the back.’ Hamilton nodded as he took another hearty bite. ‘Well, Tom,’ said Sir Philip, ‘I agree that what you’ve described are submarine pens. How close are they to completion?’

  ‘Weeks, with the number of labourers working on the project. A month at most.’ The door from the living room opened, and Marnie appeared, looking worn out, with no make-up, in shorts and a wrinkled blouse.

  ‘How is your patient?’ asked Sir Philip as Hamilton drew up another chair.

  ‘He was out by the time we got him to the hospital. But he came around when they got some plasma into him. The biggest risk now is infection, but frankly, the saltwater should have done a lot of good.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’ asked Hamilton. ‘I mean, how did you explain…?’

  ‘Another Bahamian with a gunshot wound?’ said Marnie with a wry smile. ‘The British doc at the hospital just shrugged.’

  ‘The usual condescending attitude, I’m sorry to say,’ commented Sir Philip.

  ‘At least they admitted him,’ said Marnie. ‘Which is more than I can say for our hospitals back home.’ She wearily ran her hands through her thick blonde hair. ‘The wound should heal, but he’s lost a lot of blood, and is totally exhausted.’

  ‘Carter’s a remarkable individual,’ said Sir Philip. ‘A Jamaican serv
ing with the local police when I found him.’ He took a briar pipe from his jacket and began filling it from a small leather pouch. ‘Mr Hamilton has deduced, darling, that a U-boat base is under construction on Hog Island.’ He struck a match and cupped it over the bowl of his pipe.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said Hamilton with a grimace, ‘the only proof I had was ruined.’

  ‘The camera, you mean,’ said Marnie.

  Hamilton nodded.

  ‘What do you suppose Washington will do about it?’ asked Sir Philip.

  ‘If this was American soil,’ said Hamilton, ‘we’d send in the navy and blow the place out of the water, and Ericsson with it. But without proof, without the photos, I’m not sure. Donovan will have to go through all the channels. If it’s just my word, do you really suppose the duke will allow any action to be taken against Ericsson?’

  ‘Besides,’ said Sir Philip, drawing contentedly on his pipe, ‘it would be a mistake to expose your cover.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about that. At least they’re not on to me, and don’t have a clue that I’m on to them.’

  ‘So what happens now?’ asked Marnie. ‘We just sit back and wait?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Hamilton glumly. ‘I’ll do what I can to persuade OSS to take action.’ Hamilton gave Sir Philip an admiring look. ‘I ought to get going,’ he said, rising from his chair. ‘There’s no way I can thank you, for everything.’ He reached down to take Sir Philip’s firm grip.

  ‘You’re leaving?’ asked Marnie. She stood up and walked over to him.

  Looking into her dark-brown eyes, Hamilton nodded and said, ‘Yes, Marnie, I’m afraid so. A plane’s coming for me this afternoon.’

  ‘Tom,’ she said, ‘will you come back?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure where they’ll send me. But some day I’m sure I’ll be back.’

  ‘Tom,’ said Sir Philip after a moment, ‘tell Donovan that under no circumstances should he place any confidence in the Duke of Windsor. If Ericsson is allowed to complete this project, and the Germans strike, our supply lines will be in great peril. Tell them to act, Tom, and the Duke of Windsor be damned.’

  Dressed in a blue blazer and charcoal slacks, Hamilton stood under the portico in the cool December breeze waiting for his taxi. Glancing down Bay Street toward Rawson Square, he thought back to his first morning in Nassau, walking down to the wharf to meet Carter. Though he didn’t consider himself sentimental, his mind was flooded with memories – lunches on the terrace at Eves, the Christmas Ball at Government House, and Greycliff … Evelyn by the pool or on the upstairs porch … A jitney with a fringed top rumbled up the drive, and Hamilton broke into a grin, recognizing the same man who’d driven him to town. As his bags were loaded, Hamilton leaned in and said, ‘I need a ride to the airfield.’

  ‘Time to go home, cap’n?’ asked the driver with a smile.

  ‘I’m afraid so. But I need to make a quick stop in town.’

  ‘You’re the boss. Hop in.’

  The driver pulled over at the kerb in front of Greycliff. ‘Leave the engine running,’ said Hamilton as he climbed out. ‘I’ll just be a minute.’ Glancing at the upstairs bedroom window, he wondered if this would be the last time he would see the gracious home. He hurried up the walk and rang the bell, and after a moment Samuel, wearing his usual white jacket and black tie, appeared.

  ‘Afternoon, Mr Hamilton.’

  ‘Is Mrs Shawcross…?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll send for her.’

  Hamilton waited in the front hall, examining a framed photograph on a table of Evelyn as a blonde-haired girl, holding the hands of her well-dressed parents. Conscious of someone behind him, he turned to see her standing on the landing, wearing a pale blue dress belted at the waist.

  Their eyes met, and for a moment neither spoke. ‘I wasn’t sure I’d see you again,’ she said finally. ‘Before you left.’

  ‘You didn’t think I’d leave without saying goodbye?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She walked the rest of the way down the stairs and took both his hands. ‘You won’t stay at least till tomorrow?’

  ‘No … Actually, there’s a taxi waiting outside.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ She threw her arms around him, burying her face on his chest. At last she looked up at him and said, ‘It’s something about the war. I know it is.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Why you’re leaving. Something you haven’t told me, but I don’t care.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said firmly, his arms encircling her slender waist. ‘I’m just going home to look after some business.’

  ‘Whatever it is, just don’t get yourself killed.’ She pulled away and brushed her tears.

  ‘Evelyn, it’s all my fault. I should never have—’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ she interrupted. ‘Merry Christmas, darling.’

  He leaned over and lightly kissed her. ‘Goodbye.’ He turned and let himself out.

  CHAPTER NINE

  HANDS CLASPED BEHIND his field-grey tunic, Major Wolfgang Krebs slowly paced the upstairs sitting room at Shangri-La, heedless of the spectacular view of the sunset, his face a mask of concentration. Apart from the tap of his infantryman’s boots on the plank floor, the only sound was the whir of the ceiling fans. Halting abruptly, Krebs withdrew a watch from his pocket and checked the time. ‘I say,’ he asked the servant in the corner of the room, ‘you’re certain Herr Ericsson knows I’m here?’

  ‘Ja, gewiss,’ replied the servant without averting his steady gaze, ‘quite certain.’

  ‘Hmph,’ snorted Krebs, resuming his pacing.

  Fifteen minutes later, Nils Ericsson appeared in the doorway, immaculate in a dinner jacket with a starched shirtfront and mother-of-pearl studs, his silver hair glistening with oil and his round face suffused with a rosy glow. ‘Ah, Krebs, there you are,’ he said in German.

  Krebs halted and assumed a martial stance, with his hands at his sides and the heels of his boots together. ‘Guten abend,’ he said with a nod.

  ‘Sorry to be late,’ said Ericsson as he strode across the room and gave Krebs a firm handshake. ‘I was on the telephone with my agent in Tampico. Johann,’ he said, turning to the servant, ‘bring my drink. Major? What will it be?’

  ‘You have schnapps?’ enquired Krebs.

  ‘Of course.’ Once the servant was gone, Ericsson motioned to his guest to sit on the sofa while he chose an over-stuffed armchair. ‘Now, Major,’ he said, ‘tell me what you hear of the situation in Stalingrad. I know only what I read in the American newspapers.’

  The young German officer stiffened and a slight blush appeared on the fair skin of his neck. ‘The situation is dire,’ he replied. ‘The Sixth Army is completely encircled. The Führer insists there will be no surrender, but I don’t imagine our troops can hold out much longer.’

  ‘So it’s true,’ said Ericsson with disgust. ‘What a disaster.’

  Krebs nodded. ‘The word within the army is that the Russians fight like devils. You kill two, and a third appears. And the winter conditions … Mein Gott im Himmel.’ The servant appeared with a tray and served each of them a tumbler of clear liquid, chilled vodka for the host and schnapps for his guest.

  ‘Skaal,’ said Ericsson, reaching out to clink glasses. ‘Well,’ he said, after taking a sip, ‘after this set-back on the Eastern Front, it would place great pressure on the German Army if the Americans and British open a second front in the West.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Krebs, ‘as in the last war. Something the Führer vowed would never happen.’

  ‘It would be impossible for the Allies to stage an invasion of France without bringing virtually all of the equipment and supplies, to say nothing of the men, across the Atlantic.’ He swirled his glass and took another sip. ‘And therefore,’ he concluded, ‘the attacks on their Atlantic convoys offer the best protection against a second front.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Krebs, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knee
s. ‘Which is why the operation here has such obvious importance. With our own U-boat base in the Caribbean, we can prevent fuel from the refineries on the Gulf Coast and Trinidad from ever reaching Great Britain.’

  ‘Which brings us to the status of Hurricane Hole.’

  Joined by the chief of his khaki-clad security force, Ericsson led Major Krebs to the rear of the villa where they boarded an open-air staff car for the short drive along the channel from the sea to the massive U-boat pens. Exiting the vehicle on a concrete apron, Ericsson and Krebs followed the security chief inside the brightly illuminated structure.

  ‘As you can see,’ explained the chief, ‘we have berths for five boats.’ Looking up, he said, ‘The roof has a thickness of ten feet, built with reinforced concrete. We shall cover it with a blanket of soil, completely camouflaged from detection by enemy aircraft. We have loading cranes for torpedoes, underground fuel tanks, and refrigerated meat lockers.’

  ‘When will it be ready?’ asked Krebs, as his boots echoed in the empty space.

  ‘The building is essentially complete,’ replied Ericsson. ‘But more time is needed for the barracks for the crews and a dining-hall. And to complete the canal across the island. In another six to eight weeks, we should be ready for the Kriegsmarine. When,’ he added with a smile, ‘your men will swing into action.’