Sins of the Fatherland (Scott Jarvis Investigations Book 6)

by Scott Cook

  I sighed and decided not to dwell on it, “I can’t imagine who’d kiss and tell on me but that’s beside the point.”

  “I’m only answering your questions,” Audrey said, placing her hand on my arm, “I wanted to get some of this out in the open before we went into a public place. I’m with the CIA and we want to hire you to help us with a unique, convoluted and possibly deadly situation that might threaten the lives of tens of millions of people. I need a man who can operate independently of any government agency and who isn’t afraid of danger and who can do some dirty work if needed. That about sum it up?”

  We began walking again. I pondered that for a moment, “I guess I’m flattered after all… although I still have to admit there are lots of people out in the world, probably in this state, who are better suited and more experienced than I, I’m sure… former military or intelligence. Why me of all people?”

  “You’re unique,” She said, “I need unique.”

  We entered the restaurant and were shown to a table. We ordered cocktails and made small talk while we perused the menu and placed our orders. I found out that Audrey was thirty nine, had a bachelor’s in criminology and had served in the navy, which had funded her education. She’d served on a destroyer as a gunner and had joined the Naval Criminal Investigation Service after graduating and had been promoted to Lieutenant J.G. before leaving the navy for a career with Langley.

  “I’m third generation Navy,” Audrey said, “My dad and my grandfather both served. My dad at the end of Vietnam in the brown water Navy and later on surface ships. My grandfather served aboard subs in World War II and later.”

  “Wow,” I said, duly impressed, “I bet you and your dad have some stories. I bet your grandfather had some real nail biters, too.”

  “Still does,” Audrey said with a smile, “He’s ninety-three and still kicking. In fact… he’s part of this. He wants to meet you, as it happens.”

  “You’re… grandfather…?” I asked in total confusion, “I thought… I thought this was some official CIA operation or something.”

  “It is,” Audrey said, “But grandpa is a big part of it. I’d rather let him give you the details, though.”

  “Can you at least hit the highlights?” I asked.

  Our waiter brought the food. I had a special shrimp dish which consisted of pasta, huge grilled prawns and fried green tomatoes covered in a light red sauce. Audrey had an herb crusted swordfish that looked delish.

  When we were alone, or mostly, she leaned toward me, “it goes back to the second world war. Or right after… are you familiar with any WW2 history?”

  I nodded, “I’m actually a bit of a history buff. I rarely watch TV, but when I do it’s usually documentaries and such. I also read a great deal.”

  She grinned at me, “I know. You’re into roman history, Napoleonic era naval history and the second world war, too.”

  I cocked my head, “You certainly know a lot about me… although I have to wonder why you’d even ask the question if you already know the answer.”

  She shrugged, “I do my homework. And sometimes it’s interesting to see what people say. To both confirm what I think I know as well as judge how somebody responds when I already know the answer. Hey, as I said, I’m a spook.”

  I couldn’t really fault her for being thorough, “all right. So how does your mission tie into the big war?”

  “You’re probably familiar with the fact that Germany operated a fleet of U-boats in the Gulf, right?” She asked.

  I felt like this might be a bit of a test, so I decided that it was okay to seem like a know-it-all, “yes. Ironically, it’s still not that widely known today. The government kept that a secret for a long time, not wanting to alarm the Gulf States with the idea that Nazi subs were prowling what was considered a safe area.”

  She nodded.

  “In early 1942,” I continued my little lecture, “Hitler started operating wolf packs and single units in the Gulf. Mostly the western Gulf of Mexico. It’s actually considered one of the most successful campaigns of the war, for Germany, I mean. They sunk something like fifty-six ships between the beginning of 1942 and late 1943 when our escorts finally drove them out. In fact, wasn’t it about ten years ago that U-166 was discovered off the mouth of the Mississippi?”

  She nodded again, “Right. Although there’s more, and even fewer people know this. Officially, the Nazi U-boat campaign in the Gulf ended in December of 1943… but there were still random incidents later. Much later, in fact. The one with which we’re concerned actually took place after the war was over. Months after VE day and a month or so after VJ day.”

  That shocked me. I leaned in, “Are you saying a Nazi boat was in the Gulf in the fall of 1945?”

  “I am,” she said seriously, “And it wasn’t there to defect. No Hunt for Red October scenario here. This boat was up to no good. Very, very much bad, as it turns out.”

  “Jesus…” I breathed, “How do you know? Did we capture them or something? How could this have been kept a secret for seventy-five years?”

  “No,” She said, “We didn’t capture them… but there is someone who was there and knows what happened.”

  I was stunned again, “Your grandfather?”

  She nodded gravely, “he recently told me the story. Until a week ago, my grandfather thought that he was the only living person who still knows the story… but that’s apparently not the case. Now we’re in a race against time.”

  I frowned, “Really? I mean, okay, the idea of a Nazi boat in the Gulf after the war ended is interesting… but how can it be that critical now? What was that submarine up to anyway?”

  She blew out her breath, “Bad news. I don’t even know the full extent. But the long and short of it is that good old Adolf launched a last strike against us. Even as he knew he was defeated, he set in motion a plan that would deal a tremendous revenge blow to the U.S.”

  “Christ…” I breathed, “The bastard… and even after more than seven decades it’s still an issue?”

  She looked grave, “According to grandpa, the plan failed… or he thought so. But he’s got reason to believe that Hitler’s last hammer is once again ready to fall. And it could mean the death of millions.”

  Chapter 4

  U.S.S. Bull Shark: Eastern Gulf of Mexico

  October 10, 1945 – 23:15, local time

  The war was over.

  It was weird to think of it, yet it was really over. The Jerrys had surrendered back in May and the Japs back in August after the Army air corps had dropped the two big bombs.

  Gunner’s mate second class Henry Lambert stood on the cigarette deck and drank in his surroundings. The ship was at sea in the Gulf of Mexico, steaming along at a leisurely five knots. All around him, the placid sea sparkled with the light of stars. In the eastern sky, a gibbous moon hung low, extending a silvery finger straight across the water to touch the ship. It was peaceful, in more ways than one.

  On one hand, Lambert was glad for the peace. He’d only been in the Navy for a little less than a year now, and had seen virtually no action, with the exception of one small skirmish in the Med just after New Year’s Day. A minor skirmish wherein the Bull Shark had fired on a small German convoy near the Cyclades in Greece. They’d sunk a freighter and a small escort destroyer before the main force and a Kraut sub had forced them to move off.

  “Hey, kid, what’cha doing up here, star gazing?”

  Lambert turned to face the speaker. Chief of the boat Paul “Buck” Rogers sidled up next to him and lit a smoke. The seaman shrugged, “Just taking the air, Chief. Trying to wrap my head around the fact that there’s nobody out there hunting us or vice versa, y’know?”

  The Chief of the boat, or Cob as he was colloquially known, was the senior enlisted man aboard. He was responsible for the crew and acted almost as another officer, being able to blend with both enlisted and officers alike. Rogers squeezed the young man’s shoulder and smiled.

  “I know what you
mean, Hank,” He said, “I’ve been serving since day one… was at Pearl on the big day in fact… hard to believe that after almost four years it’s over. Not quite sure what to think, really.”

  “You sound disappointed, Chief,” Lambert observed.

  Rogers took a long slow drag on his Camel, “not exactly. It’s just… you get use to certain things, kid. You get used to the action, the boredom… and the broads. I can’t tell you the number of times this boat has pulled into a port… anyway, that’s all over now. Now we’re just out here on training for the next one.”

  Lambert shivered, “You think there’ll be another war?”

  “There always will be,” Said another man’s voice. Both men turned to see the captain step over to them from the bridge.

  Commander Arthur Turner was a tall, lean man in his mid-thirties. He had a classic Navy captain’s build and carriage. He was fit, held himself erect and had broad shoulders and a lantern jaw. For all the toughness he exuded, though, he was a genial man who found it easy to chit chat with the men and who could snap out an order in a way that made even the lowliest seaman feel that it was almost his idea.

  “Evening, Skipper,” Rogers said. Neither he nor Lambert saluted. On a battleship or a carrier, if the “Old Man” approached you, you damned well came to attention and snapped one off. But on a submarine, where eighty men lived and worked as close as any infantry unit, a certain degree of informality was observed. The usual lines between enlisted and officer were blurred because every man aboard was not only skilled at his particular job, he could also do anybody else’s job.

  At any moment, a lowly gunner’s mate or torpedoman like Lambert could be called to the control room to man the dive planes or the wheel, or even the sonar gear. The XO might have to run aft and take charge of the after torpedo room due to damage or injury.

  No one was too low for the lofty work and no one too lofty for the grunt work aboard a Balao-class submarine.

  It was this unity and equality that drew many black sailors into the submarine service. While the 1940’s Navy no longer practiced segregation, black men were still often tasked with the jobs nobody wanted to do. But on a submarine, while a black sailor might only be signed on as the cook, he received the same total training as any other sailor. He could and would, during a battle situation, man a deck gun, operate the engines or even stand on the bridge or in the control room right next to his white captain.

  On top of that, the white sailors treated these men as equals. Even with extra deference due to their dedication, hard work and the fact that a man who filled your belly three times a day was a friend indeed.

  That’s why when the officer’s cook, Eddie Carlson, appeared out of the hatch in the conning tower with a tray of coffees and walked right up to the Cob and the Skipper, nobody even batted an eye.

  “Eddie, just in time,” Turner said with a grin, “I could use a cup of java right about now. How about you gents?”

  Lambert and Rogers each accepted a cup even though they were from the officer’s mess. Carlson grinned, “You boys talking about the end of life as we know it?”

  “You got it, Eddie,” Turner said, “I think Cob was lamenting the loss of easy pickings in port, if you know what I mean. You’ve got two extra cups, there. Who are they for?”

  Carlson laughed and indicated the lone lookout up in the periscope sheers, “Figured Graff could use one and wasn’t sure who else was up here, sir. So I brought extras.”

  “Good thinking,” Turner said, “Send Graff’s up and take that one for yourself and join the clutch.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Carlson said with a warm smile.

  “What do you think is in store for us, sir?” Lambert asked the great man. He was still a bit intimidated by the captain, even though Turner went out of his way to make him feel comfortable. Yet seeing how he treated Carlson helped to overcome his natural shyness.

  Turner eyed the young man for a moment. He considered Rogers and Lambert together. Rogers, a burly man of thirty-five with a football players wide shoulders and bulging biceps, his black hair cut in a crew. Then there was the kid. Lambert was tall and skinny, still not quite filling out yet, with blonde hair and blue eyes that looked out of a boyishly handsome face that would mature into a lady killer’s visage in a few years.

  Turner smiled, “Well, son… after this training cruise, we put in. After that… I’d say that in the parlance of the sailing age, we’ll be paid off and laid up in ordinary.”

  Rogers looked crestfallen even in the darkness, “You don’t think they’ll keep us on, Skipper?”

  Turner sighed, “Who knows, Cob. We’ll probably all get medals and citations. But a wartime navy is a big expense. You know the Navy will have to cut back.”

  “But seasoned skippers and crews like us,” Rogers argued, “Are too valuable to mothball. Like you said, sir, there will be another war sooner or later.”

  Turner chuckled and watched as Carlson strolled over and stood next to Lambert quietly sipping his coffee. He sighed, “That’s the problem, Chief. I’ll probably get a promotion. They don’t let four stripers command boats, especially in peacetime. Hell, Williams will probably get the boat, if they keep her and him on active. You might get booted up to Master Chief and sent onto a flat top.”

  Williams was Elmer Williams, the ship’s executive officer. Rogers groaned, “That’s the last thing I want.”

  “Me either,” Turner mused, “Don’t mind the scrambled eggs and the extra pay… but I’ll miss this boat.”

  “It ain’t happened yet, Skipper,” Carlson put in.

  Turner grinned, “It ain’t over, till it’s over, eh, Eddie?”

  Whatever Carlson might have said was interrupted when Williams appeared in the hatchway. Williams was a compact man in his early thirties with an open friendly face, “Skipper, we’re picking up a surface contact to the south at long range, about twenty-five miles.”

  “Turner shrugged, “Not surprising, Elmer. Lot of shipping out here, especially now. Probably a freighter or tanker headed for the upper Gulf.”

  “Well…” Williams said hesitantly, “I had the guys in forward torpedo train the sound heads and Dutch and I have been listening for a few minutes. It’s a distant contact so I can’t be totally sure… but I’d swear it’s a submarine running diesels.”

  Lambert exchanged glances with Cob and Carlson. They shook their heads no ever so slightly.

  “XO,” Turner chided but in a friendly tone, “The war is over and there hasn’t been a German boat in these waters in a year and a half.”

  “Sir…” Williams set his jaw, “I know a Kraut signature when I hear one. And Dutch agrees. Our guess is a type twenty-one charging its batteries and she’s headed north.”

  That dampened the good mood some. Williams could be hesitant sometimes. He was a good submariner but he sometimes doubted himself. However, as he spoke, he became more and more confident. As the three enlisted men watched, Turner’s smile slowly drained away into a frown.

  “Okay, Elmer,” Turner said, “No harm in verification. Order right standard rudder. Come to course… one-six-oh. Make turns for ten knots. Let’s pass close but not too close and see what our mystery ship does.”

  “Aye, aye,” Williams said and ducked below.

  “Well, boys,” Turner said to the men, “if the XO is right, then the pleasure cruise might be over. Or at least interrupted for a while.”

  “Skipper,” Rogers asked, “What if it is a Nazi boat? Why would they be here now, with the war over and all?”

  Turner drained his cup, “Good coffee, Eddie. Well, Cob, I’d say that if it turns out to be the Jerrys, then there are only two possibilities. First, they were caught at sea when peace broke out and they’re looking for a safe port. Maybe want to come to the States rather than go back to war torn Germany.”

  “And the other, sir?” Lambert asked with butterflies in his stomach.

  Turner sighed, “The other is that this guy either hasn’
t gotten the memo or he’s not done fighting yet.”

  “Can we fight him if that’s the case?” Lambert asked.

  “Of course we can, kid,” Cob replied.

  Turner grinned, “We’ve got plenty of ammo for the Pom-pom and the five inch. And we’ve still got eight fish on board.”

  “Wonder how many he’s got?” Carlson pondered.

  “Only takes one, boys,” Cob said.

  “Let’s not panic yet,” Turner stated, “It’s probably a false alarm.”

  As Bull Shark drew ever southward, though, it appeared less and less likely that Williams and Joe Dutch, the sonar officer, had made a mistake. After about an hour, the two ships had closed the distance by about half. It was now pretty evident that Dutch’s fine-tuned ears were on the money.

  “She’s a type twenty-one or I’ll eat my hat,” Dutch said over the bridge speakers.

  “Very well,” Turner said into the phone, “Sound battle stations torpedo and prepare to dive the ship. We’ll stay on the surface for now, but let’s get her buttoned up just in case.”

  Turner turned to the three enlisted men who were still on the cigarette deck, “All right, boys. It’s show time. Cob, I’m not happy about having only eight fish and them all being forward. I’d like to have at least two moved aft. Find out from Sparky how long that’ll take.”

  Rogers grinned, “I’ll see to it, sir. Come on, guys, let’s go.”

  By the time Cob and Lambert reached the forward torpedo room, the chaos was in full swing. Chief Walter “Sparky” Sparks was at the center of it all, bellowing orders and cursing a blue streak in his heavy Alabama drawl. Sparks was in charge of the forward torpedo room and the next senior enlisted below Rogers.

  “Come on, for fuck’s sake!” Sparks was barking at a loading team, “When the Old Man calls for a Goddamned fish, I don’t’ want to get caught with our dicks in our hands!”

  “How’s it going, Sparky?” Cob asked.

  “They’re getting’ soft, Buck,” Sparks grumped, although his eyes were sparkling. He loved his work and even though he barked and growled and swore like a sailor, he was a good natured man who understood the balance between pushing his men and when to ease off, “too much time sitting on their fat asses and not enough drill.”