by Tom Lowe
O’Brien went in the galley, found the milk carton in the rear of the refrigerator, got his camera, and called to Max. “Let’s go find a patch of grass for you, little lady, okay?” Max looked up at him through excited brown eyes and barked once.
As O’Brien walked by Nick and Jason, he said, “Jason, take some fish home to your mother. I remember her as a gourmet cook.”
Jason grinned and wiped a fish scale off his eyebrow. “Yeah, she is. Thanks, I’ll see you Saturday for our first customers.”
“Sounds good. I’m really glad you’re aboard. We’ll make it a good summer.”
Nick tossed a fish head to a calico cat, big as a raccoon. “Ya’ll got me in the mood for submarine, Greek-style, grouper sandwiches. Stay for dinner, Jason.”
“I appreciate it, but I promised Nicole we’d hang out tonight. My birthday’s tomorrow. I think she wants to do something special.”
“Happy birthday!” O’Brien said.
“Thanks.”
Nick chuckled. “Women like it when their men come back from the sea.”
“We’ve only been gone a day,” Jason said, dimples popping.
Nick raised both eyebrows, his dark eyes catching the late afternoon light. “I understand, but it’s not how long you’re gone. It’s how you greet them on your return. Trust me, I’m an old sailor. The smell of the sea, it’s something women like to taste. Only thing that makes ‘em more passionate is after a good fight when you make up and then make love like you invented it. The meaning of life is to live it.”
Jason laughed and hosed water inside the stomach of a gutted snapper, the dappled setting sunlight breaking through palm fronds.
“Come on, Max,” said O’Brien. “We’re hearing some real fish tales now. I’ll be on Dave’s boat when you’re done, Nick.”
“Tell Dave I’m bringing over some Ouzo. Need something to chase the ghosts away. I’m still seein’ those bones.”
***
ALMOST EVERY STOOL at the Tiki Bar and Grill was taken by a mix of charter boat captains, deck hands, tourists, and bikers. A teenage girl worked the wooden plank floor and its dozen tables, about half filled with diners.
As O’Brien walked with Max back from the oyster shell parking lot and its grassy places, he looked up and saw Kim Davis working behind the bar. She spotted him at the same time and waved. Kim was in her late thirties, brunette, high cheekbones, her raven hair pinned up, firm body, and eyes that could hypnotize most men. To a college-aged bartender she said, “Tim, I’m taking five.”
“No problem.”
Kim stepped to the end of the bar, next to the open-air ramp leading down to the dock. “Sean O’Brien and his first mate, Miss Max.” She leaned down and petted Max. Kim lowered her voice and took O’Brien aside. “Sean, we have to talk. You okay?”
“Last I checked all was fine.”
Kim smiled. “I bet. Channel Nine had video of your boat, you, and your crew in the inlet. They showed the Coast Guard questioning you. Said something about a local fishing crew catching a German submarine. They said the details are coming up at six. What’s going on, Sean? Did you find a German submarine somewhere out there?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
O’Brien’s cell phone chirped on his hip. He looked at the caller ID, but didn’t recognize the number. “Excuse me a second, Kim. I transferred in-coming charter calls to my cell. Not that I’ve had a lot of calls.” O’Brien answered the phone, “Jupiter Charters,” he said.
“I just saw your boat on the news preview,” the man said. “If you can take me out to catch a submarine, I’ll book your fuckin’ boat for a month.”
O’Brien disconnected. “The nuts are falling and calling.”
Kim smiled. “They saw the news promo on Channel Nine, huh?”
“Looks that way.”
“What’s the news talking about, Sean? Who started it?”
“Coast Guard heard something on one of the marine channels. Probably a practical joker. Said they’d found a lost German submarine out in the Atlantic. We were fishing there today and I guess the Coast Guard got a little jumpy. Could be because of the last scare at Port Canaveral. Can’t blame them for being suspicious these days.”
“That incident at Port Canaveral was a fishing boat with some Middle Eastern types cruising in a restricted area. You guys don’t fit that profile. We’ll, maybe Nick looks a little like a terrorist.” She smiled. “I can’t even begin to imagine Nick being arrested in some mistaken identity thing. He’d start swearing in Greek.” She glanced over toward the TV in the corner of the bar. “There it is again!”
O’Brien looked up and saw his face on the screen. Then there was a wide shot of Jupiter and the Coast Guard boat, the shot cutting back to him, Nick and Jason being questioned by Chief Wheeler.
The reporter’s voice said, “Could a local fishing guide have found a German U-boat somewhere in the Atlantic? That’s the question the Coast Guard is asking. The full story on Eyewitness News tonight at six.”
“See!” said Kim. “They’re going to have everybody buzzing about the story.”
“There’s no story. There’s only an over-zealous reporter who wants to accelerate her career by doing inaccurate, sensationalized stories. Trash TV. Junk journalism.”
A man sitting nearest them at the bar laughed at O’Brien’s comments. He held a bottle of beer in a large hand, knuckles thick and scarred. The man, late thirties, had the shoulders and arms of a pro football quarterback, short cropped dark hair, tanned angular face and a Paul Newman nose.
“Eric Hunter, meet Sean O’Brien,” said Kim.
Hunter extended his hand and O’Brien shook it. “Looks like the Coast Guard had a lot of firepower pointed at your boat.”
“You noticed that, too?”
“Hard not to.”
“Overkill.”
“They get jumpy out there in today’s hostile climate.”
O’Brien laughed. “Out there was right here in Ponce Inlet.”
“I see you’ve got Jason Canfield on board. He’s a fine young man.”
“How do you know him?”
“His dad was a friend of mine. We served in the military together. His mother has done a good job raising him after his father died.”
“You knew his father?” O’Brien asked.
“Yes. Frank died a few years ago.”
“How’d he die?” Kim asked.
“He was one of the men killed when the USS Cole was bombed.”
O’Brien was silent.
Hunter said, “I really appreciate you taking the kid on, showing him the ropes, letting him earn some bucks. If you ever need a diver, I’d be glad to help you.”
“So you dive?”
“I’ve done a few dives in my time. Maybe one day you might need your hull cleaned.” He reached in his wallet for a card.
“Thanks, I’ll remember that,” O’Brien said, wondering why Hunter hadn’t asked him if the submarine sighting story was real. “I have to get back.”
“Let me give Max a fried shrimp,” Kim said. “That’s one of her favorites, Eric.” Hunter smiled and sipped his beer as Kim stepped back to the open kitchen and picked up a fried shrimp. O’Brien noticed a postage stamp sized tattoo high up on Hunter’s arm, only visible when the T-shirt he wore climbed farther back revealing solid biceps. The tattoo was the insignia of the Navy Seals.
Kim returned, the shrimp at the end of a toothpick catching Max’s eye. “Here’s an appetizer for the only lady I can see Sean O’Brien with and not feel a little jealous.” She winked at O’Brien and let Max take the shrimp off the tip of the toothpick.
“Between you and Nick, Max will never eat her dog food again.” To Hunter he said, “Good meeting you, Eric.”
“Same here.”
O’Brien nodded and said to Kim, “Maybe you can change the channel before the six o’ clock news comes on.”
She smiled. “Actually you look pretty good on TV. Maybe the publicity will jumpstart your bu
siness.”
***
AS O’BRIEN WALKED BACK down the long dock, Max at his side, he watched a flock of pelicans sail effortlessly over the marina and cast slow-moving shadows against a sky lit in shades of maroon by the setting sun. The breeze across the Halifax River and tidal estuaries propelled the faint scent of rain in the distance.
Dave Collins stepped from the salon of his trawler, Gibraltar, to the wide cockpit just as O’Brien and Max were approaching. Collins, in his early sixties, looked like a seasoned college professor, thick mane of white hair, wide forehead, bushy gray eyebrows, and a cleft chin. He walked two miles a day to clear his head and burn off the remnants of his favorite vodka. He’d never told O’Brien details of his former work in the covert intelligence business. But after a few dinners, and a few glasses of wine, he’d let just enough slip out that O’Brien was convinced Dave had spent years as a foreign field agent before retiring and divorcing his wife three years ago. Now he did occasional “consultant work” from his boat and his beach-side condo.
Dave grinned as O’Brien and Max approached. “Looks like you could use a drink.”
“You can get thirsty out there having a nice chat with the Coast Guard.”
“Saw the news tease. Jupiter’s never looked better. Might bring customers.”
“You sound like Kim. I could do without this kind of publicity.”
“Nick stopped by, said he’d be over to fry up some grouper sandwiches, the kind he makes with feta cheese, tomatoes, and those wonderful Greek spices. He said in honor of the find, he’s calling them sixteen fathom subs.”
O’Brien followed Dave and Max inside Gibraltar’s spacious salon. Dave popped two bottles of Guinness, poured them slowly down the sides of two frosty mugs and said, “I’m multi-tasking. Tell me everything you and Nick saw.” Dave sipped his beer and listened as O’Brien detailed the find and the boarding by the Coast Guard.
Dave grunted. “A German U-boat was discovered not long ago in the North Sea very near Norway. Apparently, it had a lot of weapons-grade mercury on board. The sub was found by some fishermen in four-hundred feet of water.”
O’Brien opened his camera. “If what I’ve captured on the camera is real, it’ll make mercury look like a single firecracker next to a ton of TNT.” O’Brien brought up the first picture on the camera’s screen. “This is one of the jet engines. There are two crates, both filled with the parts you’d need to build two small fighter jets.”
“Why would the Germans be hauling two disassembled fighter jets?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
“Must be a large submarine to carry all this.”
“It’s blown in half. Both parts are twisted and partially buried in sand. But if you could make the two halves a whole, I’d estimate it would be at least three hundred feet long. I told you about the human remains, or broken skeletons, in the half we partially examined.”
Dave let out a low whistle. “That, my friend, would make this particular U-boat the biggest or certainly the longest in Germany’s fleet.”
“Look.” O’Brien advanced the images. A cylinder labeled U-235 appeared.
Dave put on his glasses. “I agree with your earlier assumption. The first thing I would surmise is that you and Nick stumbled on a sub named U-235.”
“Then we found the conning tower, spent a few minutes knocking the growth off it, finding this.” The image, 2 3 6, appeared on the small screen.
Dave’s eyes fell somewhere over O’Brien’s head, his mind deep in thought. He said, “Let’s load these images onto my laptop to get a clearer picture.”
“Okay, but are you sure no one has remote access to your computer?”
“I assure you, they don’t.” Dave loaded the images, sipped his beer, and studied them closely. “If the sub is U-boat 236, and some of the cargo is labeled U-235, is it because the Germans were clumsy in their payload, or is it because this sub was hauling the most deadly cargo known to man, enriched uranium, also known as U-235?”
“That’s all I’ve been thinking about for the last five hours.”
Nick Cronus opened the salon door, brown arms wrapped around a paper sack. “Turn on Channel Nine! Weather’s on now. But they say, ‘stay tuned, coming up next … did a fishermen hook his anchor on a World War Two submarine?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The television news anchorman said, “Recently, an oil company found a long lost German U-boat off the North Carolina coast. Could a local charter boat have hooked its anchor on one of these lost subs north of Daytona Beach? Susan Schulman reports.”
The picture cut to an image of Jupiter with the Coast Guard boarding her. Susan Schulman’s voice was heard: “In Ponce Inlet today, the Coast Guard boarded a thirty-eight foot charter fishing boat, Jupiter, based out of Ponce Marina and searched it … not for drugs but for possible World War Two artifacts. What kind of artifacts? No one we spoke to is saying. Someone on a marine radio was overheard talking about his boat getting its anchor caught on a sunken German U-boat. They allegedly made a dive down to free the anchor and found the sub. The owner of Jupiter, Captain Sean O’Brien, told us he didn’t find a submarine. Coast Guard Chief Carl Wheeler said they’d heard what he termed ‘chatter’ on a marine radio frequency that led them to believe it might have come from Jupiter or a similar vessel in the Gulf Stream off Daytona Beach by timing from when the call was received to entry into the port from that direction.”
The images cut from pictures of the Coast Guard cutter to Susan Schulman standing near the Ponce Lighthouse. She said, “In the early part of World War II, German U-boats were seen off the U.S. coast from New York to Florida. Some managed to sink a few American ships. So it’s conceivable the U.S. Navy sank U-boats that were never found. Although the crew of Jupiter says they didn’t hook a U-boat, if they had hooked one, it would certainly be an historic catch. Reporting live in South Daytona Beach, this is Susan Schulman.”
Nick said, “I take that woman on my boat to the dive site … she’ll see what a real anchorman does.”
“I don’t think you can find the exact spot to toss your anchor,” O’Brien said.
“You got the GPS numbers, but remember I’m Greek, we’ve been in boats for two-thousand years. But even if that news lady rode naked on my bowsprit, I wouldn’t take her out to the devil’s graveyard.”
Dave said, “I imagine finding a human skeleton underwater is quite sobering.”
“Sobering,” said Nick, entering Dave’s galley with Max at his heels. “It’s frightening. That’s where Hitler … Lucifer himself … that’s where his lost sailors are doin’ the dance with the devil in the dark currents of the ocean. Dave, I know where your good iron skillet is, and I know where your beer is, too.”
“Help yourself to both,” Dave said. Nick started humming and sautéing the grouper, tossing a piece of bread to Max. Dave sat at a fold-out table near the lower station and began keying information into his computer. “Sean, you said that you and Nick found two canisters labeled U-235. How large was each canister?”
“Maybe three feet long, probably a foot wide.”
“If both canisters were holding weapons-grade uranium, that is at least ninety percent pure, it would mean that Germany was as far along as the Allies, or more specifically, the United States in the race to create a nuclear bomb. If I recall, it takes about five-hundred kilos or a thousand pounds to produce an atomic bomb the size of the one that destroyed Hiroshima. Two canisters the size you found would do some severe devastation. I’m wondering why those canisters are on that part of the sub. What were the Germans going to do with the stuff? Was it connected to those jets in boxes? Fascinating scenarios at play here.”
“Wish I knew the answers to that,” O’Brien said.
Dave opened a file cabinet under the console and began leafing through dozens of folders. He grunted as he read through a file. Then he keyed numbers and letters into his laptop. “I’ll find more information in the morning. However, right now, I
can scan through some files remotely. I know it’s rude of me, but could you turn your head for a moment.”
“I can always go help Nick in the galley.”
“No you can’t,” said Nick, lifting up a knife in a mock swordfight stance. “I teach you all I know about fishing, look what happened, you catch a submarine.” Nick grinned and tossed Max a piece of cheese.
“Okay,” said Dave. “I can’t pull up the original manifest of U-boat 236, but I might be able to find it. I do have some stats on the vessel. It was commissioned in March 1945, the largest sub in Germany’s fleet, one of the few XB subs. This one was 340 feet in length. U-boat 236 carried a crew of forty-seven men. Highest ranking officer was Otto Heinz. The sub left Kiel, Germany, on April 13, 1945, to join six other U-boats in what was to be the final battle of the Atlantic. It evaded and crippled a Royal Navy sub in the North Atlantic. Those last seven submarines, known as Hitler’s Sea Wolf pack, were Admiral Karl Donitz’s, collectively, and Heinz’s last effort to strike a fatal blow to the U.S. as Germany was gasping for breath. U-boat 236 was believed to have been one of the subs that carried a more compact version of Germany’s deadly V2 rockets, which were the V3s. More powerful and more stealth-like than the infamous ‘buzz bombs’ that Hitler used against London. One or more of the subs was thought to be carrying disassembled Me2-Fighter Jets. If they had weapons-grade uranium for creating atomic bombs and V3 rocket launching capabilities, any one of these seven German U-boats could have sat a few miles off the coast and heavily damaged New York City or another target area.”
“Man,” Nick said. “A possible nine-eleven-type catastrophe almost six decades before nine-eleven.”
“The potential would have been much worse if they had about three times the amount of uranium that you two found, assuming that is indeed what you found.”
“Does it say what happened to U-boat 236?” O’Brien asked.
Dave scanned the data. “No.”
“Does it say what happened to the other six U-boats in the Sea Wolf pack?”
“Navy sent five of them to the ocean floor north of the Azores. One surrendered.”
