Chapter 39
Flight
Leaving the murder scene, Alma fled inboard with the others. Or was it only an attempted murder, desperately thwarted? It didn’t much matter, she decided as they hurried down the dimly lit passage. The hero of the day was a pistol-packing German spy, who now led her forward with Matt bringing up the rear. One way or another it was a crime, something to be concealed.
“This is the deck officers’ quarters,” Matt said in the narrow corridor, placing a sheltering arm on her shoulder.
“Won’t we be seen?” she asked, still shaky from all the exertion and fright. “What will we tell them?”
“Well, it’s a lean wartime crew, sleeping in shifts,” he murmured back. “Most of the officers are probably out on watch. If they should challenge us, we just got lost in the fog.”
His husky voice betrayed some after-effects of the recent struggle—was it from the would-be killer’s grip on his throat, or from excess emotion such as Alma now felt? But instead of running away, it seemed to her that they were following a pre-arranged route.
Kroger led them to a doorway on the midships side, secured with a new-looking lock plate. Doing something deft that was screened by his stout overcoated body, the spy clicked the door open onto a staircase leading down. He held it open, followed the two of them through, and closed it softly behind.
Matt took the lead on the stairs, but hearing a door flung open on the level below, he immediately halted. Alma, peering around his shoulder, saw two men headed down, one in khaki shirt and trousers, the other undressed in long-johns and cotton slippers. Their careless voices echoed up the stairs.
“Come down and meet Wesley. You’ll like him.”
“Is he with the Sixth?”
“Not yet, but his papers are in. He’s a capital fellow—”
When the lower door shut, cutting off the dialog, the fugitives waited an anxious moment. Then Kroger urged them along.
Matt said, “Those two looked like enlistees to me.”
“The Winnipeg Sixth Rifles is a Canadian regiment,” the spy muttered from behind them. “The ammunition for their Enfields is down in the hold, in those cases marked ‘Non-Explosive In Bulk.’”
“I guess we’re ferrying troops, too, as well as ammo. A shame,” Matt added as they slipped past the lower door. “Any other time, I would’ve liked to interview those boys.”
So this was part of the secrecy, Alma saw. Matt had already met this foreign agent on his late-night skullduggery, and now they were headed back for more. It all seemed too much for her to worry about now.
Instead, she counted the flights of stairs taking them deeper—six decks down, lower than she’d known the ship went. At the bottom, instead of cabins, the heavy door opened out on a cargo compartment. The room was vast and cluttered, barely illuminated by sparse electric bulbs.
“This used to be part of Third Class,” Matt told her. “Last year it was stripped out for special wartime freight, and the decks above must have been sealed off for troop-carrying.”
Alma looked around, nervous. “Are we cargo-creeping again?” she asked, shrinking against her companion. “Is this really the best time for it?”
“It’s the only time, our last chance if we dock tomorrow,” Matt said. “Anyway, we’re probably safest down here, out of sight. Unless you want to go and report what just happened topside,” he added.
“No.” She shuddered at the idea, her mind racing. Any inquiry about the killing would only get back to Jim in New York. Then he’d have her, with all the more reason to exact vengeance. Far better if dirty old Knucks was just thought to have vanished along the way, jumped-ship so to speak. And she with him…they’d never even be sure she’d been aboard. Or maybe, in Jim’s jealous mind, the two of them, Maisie and Knucks, would end up living happily together on some tropical island. She almost laughed at the thought, but shivered instead.
Anyway, this deadly Mr. Kroger would probably murder them both if they tried to report anything to the captain. Though for now, he and Matt seemed like the best of friends.
As if reading her thoughts, Kroger turned and drew something out of his coat pocket–an electric torch, which he flashed on. “Here we are, back in the hold,” he told Matt. “I think we are both looking for the same thing.”
“Lead on,” Matt said, following the torch beam and drawing Alma along by the hand.
Immediately they found themselves climbing and scrambling over uneven-sized crates of cargo. Well, she was dressed for it anyway, and began to recover her strength as she looked around. The unfilled reaches of the hold seemed vast in the dimness, though the space was wedged tight with packing cases, bales and barrels. Alma could hear the faint thud of waves against the ship’s hull. They must be just below the waterline, where the ocean swells resounded against the steel plating. She remembered hearing someone say Lusi rode low in the water this trip, heavily laden with…what, not just passengers and baggage, but evidently special cargo as well.
The dipping of the bow was giddier here, too; she felt it in the pit of her stomach. To distract herself, she wondered if they were out of the fog. She didn’t suppose the sound of the foghorn would penetrate this deep into the ship. The place was dark, damp and gloomy. But then, wasn’t dismal gloom the perfect place to hide from a murder rap?
“What are we looking for?” she asked at last.
“You’ll see soon enough,” Matt said. “Here’s where it opens out for the taller pieces.”
As he spoke, they entered a broad space with the ceiling cut away to the next level above, heaped higher than ever with goods.
“See, over there are two ambulances headed for the front.”
“Well, that’s not war contraband,” Alma said. “Not any more than I am, anyway.”
“No, just medical aid in the name of mercy.”
Obviously back in his professional role, Matt still gave her hips a squeeze as they came to a halt.
“Here, Alma, can you set up the photographic gear for me?” Taking the satchel he’d brought along, he opened it up and fished inside. “This is all I need right now,” he added, bringing out another battery light and a foot-long pry bar.
“I thought you and Flash had already gotten pictures down here,” Alma couldn’t help complaining as she took out the camera.
“We did,” Matt said, “but we didn’t shoot everything. We were interrupted…by Dirk here, as it turned out.”
“You and your young friend overlooked the biggest story of them all,” Kroger said. “If it is what I think, it will make you a bigger name than Walter Lippmann.” The spy gave the American reporter’s name a German accent, with the first initial V and ending in monn.
“Just great, if I don’t decide to be anonymous.”
Bending over in front of the tallest crate, Matt cupped his interlaced hands for the ersatz Dutchman to step into. By aiding each other, the two clambered up to the top.
“We photographed small arms cartridges and artillery bombs, and we dug down to the shell fuses over there,” Matt said from his vantage, shining his light toward the starboard side of the hold.
“Did you find the gun cotton?” Kroger asked. “There must be carloads of it scattered about here, don’t you see?” He shone his electric beam on a row of crates stenciled “CHEESE–KEEP DRY.”
“What on earth is gun cotton?” Alma asked, having to call up to them from below. “I don’t suppose it’s just padding.”
“It’s shell propellant,” Matt said. “High explosive, in a less dangerous form than TNT.”
“That’s true,” Kroger said, “unless you get it wet. But watch out, it can react with seawater, poof! These crates are not the proper containers for such volatile goods.”
“What worries me is all the powdered metal down here, especially aluminum,” Matt said. “It’s highly flammable, all the more so when wet.” He flashed
his beam down briefly in Alma’s direction. “I didn’t tell you about all of this, my love. I think you can see why.”
Alma merely shrugged and didn’t answer. She felt wrapped in an odd sense of unreality. What she’d just lived through made all of these political and packaging details seem remote.
“Powdered aluminum is a key ingredient of our German high explosive, Perdit,” Kroger casually remarked.
I guess you’d know, Alma thought, still saying nothing.
“My assistant uses aluminum dust for flash powder,” Matt said to the spy. “But he’s savvy enough to keep his powder dry.”
As the men spoke, they were strenuously at work on the twelve-foot-high crate, loosening metal seals and prying up what looked like an access panel at the near corner. The huge box, braced with two-inch thick planks around the middle and edges, was stenciled “TANK” in large letters. But the heavy crating made Alma think it must be a steam boiler or turbine, maybe for another ship like the Lusitania. If it was just an empty tank, couldn’t they just lower it in and strap it down on top of other, heavier cargo?
Curiosity finally roused her. Climbing around by the lesser crates, including the second-tallest one labeled “HOPPER,” she made her way up top alongside the men. The two were straining together, lifting the four-foot square access hatch with a loud creak of twisting metal and timber, and she joined in as best she could. When they had it upright, the men flashed their lights inside the crate.
“Ach, so,” Kroger said, shining his lamp down into the open crate. “I was warned there would be some new kind of infernal machine here.”
Matt directed his flashlight into the oil-smelling gloom. “It looks like a locomotive.”
“But it lays its own tracks, see there,” Kroger shone his beam down on grooved metal treads that covered the iron-spoked wheels.
Alma peered in over the men’s shoulders. “That’s a gun if I ever saw one.” She nudged Matt’s flash beam toward the short, ugly muzzle at the top of the contraption.
“Quite right,” Kroger said. “So much for the Lusitania not carrying any weapons.”
“It’s a land ironclad,” Matt said, “a moving fortress armed with four-inch cannons. I read all about it. It’s meant to break the deadlock of trench warfare.” He turned his light on a second gun barrel at the front of the machine. “It must be our latest American invention, for export.”
“Not good, it shouldn’t be on a passenger ship,” the spy said. “But if this device truly works, your neutral arms merchants should certainly offer it to Germany instead of England. Trench fighting is what’s holding up the natural progress of the war, delaying our victory.”
“I don’t doubt the inventors would sell it to either side, if they could ship it to the Central Powers,” Matt said, “But that’s not my business.” He turned to Alma. “Do you have the camera ready?”
“It’s here, if you want to use it.” She held up the satchel. “But does finding this make us all spies under British law?” She suddenly worried that, in Flash’s absence, Matt might want to use her as a witness if his news reports were questioned.
“We’re still neutrals, riding on a passenger ship,” Matt said, taking the camera. “I have my press credentials, and you’re my secretary. If I can get this story out, it will be open for all to see.”
“A fine thing,” Kroger said. “The whole world should see this.” Meanwhile he propped his own miniature camera on the crate edge, trying a timed exposure by the ghostly light of his battery lamp.
“Here, Alma, hold the flash tray, please,” Matt said. “Point it away from your face and don’t look at it. That lever is the trigger.”
Alma helped, though after several shots she was nearly blinded. Kroger took advantage of their flashes with his mini-camera, cursing and growing agitated in the process. “Himmel, the lying British should not have this!” he spat. “Our German factories can easily do better.”
“You’re not going to start any fires or try to sink this ship, are you, Dirk?” Matt challenged his henchman. “We don’t need any of your exploding cigars down here.”
“Matt, my good friend, if I wanted, I could have done so before now.” The spy tapped his vest pocket where a cigar poked out, but with a gracious smile he went on, “If I can help you get your story out and expose the English cheats, so much the better. But,” he added with a glance around the hold, “if this whole floating arsenal blows up kaputt sometime, don’t blame me.”
“Fair enough,” Matt said, handing Alma his camera “Now then, if this is what a Tank looks like, let’s have a look at a Hopper.” With Kroger’s help, he shoved the wooden hatch roughly back down in place.
Alma, for her part, still felt strangely unconcerned about the weapons and explosives all around them, even a bit bored by their grim destructiveness. With Knucks gone, this could be the end of Big Jim’s pursuit. She was still alive, and for the first time in memory, she had a real chance at freedom. She and Matt were together, involved in a task that had meaning—for him at least, and maybe someday for her.
Rather than blowing up, she was actually more afraid of some crewman bursting in and finding out that she had no First Class ticket.
How odd…it was a strange, terrible time to be alive, in such a dangerous place, with everyone at war. But at least they were alive, the two of them. With her nursing skills, and Matt’s notion of informing the public about war and corruption, they had hope.
She watched the men tearing into the second smaller box, and now Matt turned and beckoned. “Alma, come see this, and bring the camera.”
She went to his side by the access hatch, which opened across the middle of this crate rather than the corner. She found herself looking down on a bolt-studded tubular thing, shaped more like a water tank than the other. But this was round and tapered, like a fat cigar with a harpoon for a nose. Raised up at the top center was a manhole-sized hatch. Except for the steel spike at the front, the entire object was reddish-gold copper, like a brewer’s vat. The resemblance to news pictures of a U-boat was obvious.
“It’s a submarine,” she said in surprise, “but no bigger than a lifeboat.”
“Yes,” Matt said, “a small submersible craft, good for short trips. Call it a hopper sub.”
“Good for what, exactly?” she asked. “Launching torpedoes?”
“Nope, too small,” he answered. “But that barb up front is for ramming. Or it could even carry an explosive.”
“So it’s a suicide boat,” she asked in distaste, “made only for one-way trips?”
The spy Kroger spoke up. “Actually it may be designed for ship defense.” He thumped a broken plank-end against the hull, which rang like steel. “This copper electroplating would not last if it were kept in the sea for long periods. Do you see these hooks on top, fore and aft?” He pointed at metal stanchions set along the midline. “This craft can be lowered from davits, in place of a lifeboat, to battle submarines or any attacking vessel.”
“Exactly,” Matt said. “Just hang it off the deck of a ship to chase away subs, or simply scare them off.”
“But is it any match for a U-boat?” Alma asked. “It’s so tiny.”
“Not so,” Kroger said. “In a close fight, maneuver is most important. You will often see, in the air, one or two small birds attack a large bird and drive it off.” The spy made swooping motions with his hands.
“Even with torpedoes and a deck gun,” Matt put in, “a full-sized sub couldn’t touch a mini-sub underwater. But with enough speed, this baby could ram and disable any U-boat. Or plant a timed charge.” The idea of a purely defensive weapon seemed to make him boyishly enthusiastic.
While Matt spoke, Kroger knelt down and lifted open the vessel’s rubber-sealed hatch, shining his light inside.
“It has an electric motor, can you smell the battery acid? Power enough for short runs, and a ship’s dynamo
can keep it charged. Two seats,” he added, “pilot in front and engineer behind. The only question is,” he said with a dismissive shrug, “how is it supposed to find its target in poor visibility underwater, in the dark?”
“I can guess,” Matt said. “Hydrophones.”
“What?” Kroger turned abruptly. “What do you know about that?”
Matt shrugged, readying his camera and not seeming troubled by the spy’s sudden scrutiny. “Just some things I was hearing from the engineers and arms dealers on board. It makes sense to me now. What about you, Dirk, did you know this device was down here?”
Kroger was busy levering up planks astern to expose the hopper’s rudder and screws. “No.” He stood back to let Matt and Alma snap a photo. “There has been talk from our agents in the shipyards,” he added, still panting with exertion. “But I never thought a prototype would be ready so soon.”
Alma was surprised by the statement…not so much that there were German spies in American shipyards, but that Kroger would admit it. “Well then, why didn’t they just park it out on the Lusitania’s deck?” she asked. “It might make us all feel safer.”
“I doubt that,” Matt said. “More likely it’d scare off their passengers. Anyway, like the so-called tank here, it’s probably war contraband, and top secret to boot.”
“They will need to do tests, sea trials on this…hopper.” Kroger was tearing away the last planking atop the crate. “This model is vital to the project, to prove its capabilities, including the…hydrophones, as you said. Very likely it is the only one in existence. It will have to be destroyed.”
“What do you mean?” Alma gasped in sudden fear.
“This device is not going to be offered to my country,” the spy said. “At all events, we have no sea commerce left to protect. My duty is to demolish it as a hostile weapon.”
“What do you intend to do, Dirk?” Matt carefully set down his camera. “If you try blowing it up, you could sink this ship.”
“No need,” Kroger said. “Some of that powdered aluminum cargo you found, placed inside and on top, should quickly reduce the metal to slag. A hot flame is enough; there will be no explosion. If they douse it with water, it will only intensify the heat. We are far enough away from the gun cotton—and anyway, without a detonation it will just burn.”
Lusitania Lost Page 28
