by Jon F. Merz
Schwarzwalder nodded his head. “I appreciate you keeping me updated. I had hoped to radio this situation in right now, but obviously, I’ll need to wait a bit before doing so.”
“Where are we now?” asked Thatcher. With the darkness, there was no way to get any sort of indication where they might be, although even if it had been daylight, Thatcher might only have seen the sea surrounding them.
Schwarzwalder pointed to their left. “That way lies the Mediterranean. Gibraltar as the gateway to it.” He nodded ahead of them. “We’re steaming south right now. We’ll pass Casablanca probably before breakfast.” He sighed. “If only we had the Suez Canal, we’d shave nearly two weeks off our travel time. But the Brits are obstinately defending Egypt at the moment and that renders such a course impossible. So we sail around the Cape and hope for the best.”
“Is it always a hard go?”
Schwarzwalder shrugged. “It depends on the seasons, mostly. But we shouldn’t have any problems. The biggest danger is any of the British naval vessels we might encounter along the way, but we have some more advanced radar on the ship that should enable us to avoid them.”
“And once we make it to the Indian Ocean?”
Schwarzwalder looked at him. “My goal is to not have you or the woman on this ship by that point. If we can solve this murder ahead of that time, I’ll put in at a friendly port and get you both off of my ship. I have orders to carry out and frankly, I’d be better off doing so without having to play host to two civilians. You understand, I’m sure.”
Thatcher held up his hand. “No offense taken, Captain. Just making idle chat.”
Schwarzwalder paused for a moment and then nodded. “Let us hope the woman is well enough in the morning to discuss the matters of importance.”
“I hope so, too.”
“In that case,” said Schwarzwalder. “I wish you a very good night’s sleep, Mr. Thatcher.”
Chapter 24
But despite the Captain’s sincere wish for Thatcher to sleep well, he did not. Thatcher tossed and turned all night long, finally awaking around six-thirty full of frustration at not having been able to get the sort of deep restful sleep he knew his body craved. He splashed some water on his face and threw on some of the clothes that the German sailors had provided for him. A knock at his door signaled the entrance of his guard who bore a tray of food.
“I heard movement so I figured you were awake.” The guard was different from the fellow that had been there most of yesterday and Thatcher smiled at him.
“I was, thanks. Is that breakfast?”
The guard nodded. “My name is Steinkopf, if you need anything.”
Despite his attempts to hide his fluency in German, Thatcher could not repress a smile. “Steinkopf? Really?”
The guard grinned sheepishly. “My ancestors were miners who worked quarries for many years. They were known as the ‘rock heads’ and the name just stuck, I guess.”
Thatcher took the tray of food from him and nodded his head. “Well, it’s a great name. Much better than something as boring as ‘Thatcher.’”
Steinkopf smiled and then backed out of the room. “If you need anything, please let me know.”
The door closed and Thatcher sat down to the meal before him. The simple meal of some type of warm pudding with a few links of sausage and strong coffee with a packet of sugar was demolished in a few minutes as Thatcher realized he was ravenous. If he could have done so without insulting his hosts, he might have even asked for another tray of the stuff, but he figured that the sailors wouldn’t be getting seconds so there was no way he would, either.
Plus, he didn’t want to single himself out as demanding extra special treatment. At the moment, he had a decent relationship with Schwarzwalder. All of a sudden becoming a pain in the ass would jeopardize that and he needed it intact if he was to accomplish anything of value for Hewitt, who loomed forever in the back of his mind like some unforgotten nightmare.
He wondered what it must have been like for his handler, sitting in some office back in bombed-out London. Was he anxiously awaiting updates? There was obviously no way that Thatcher could reach out, but did Hewitt have other methods for obtaining information about what his sacrificial lamb was up to? He was certain that Hewitt knew the Archimedes had been taken by Raider X, that much seemed sure. But would he have any other means to avail himself of or was he simply in the dark and hoping against hope that Thatcher would succeed? More to that point, did Hewitt go through this every single time he sent one of his operatives off on a mission? It must have been excruciating, thought Thatcher. You send someone off and then you have to wait to hear anything that indicated they were either successful…
Or dead.
Thatcher sighed and sipped the coffee, finding it too bitter until he dumped the sugar in. Then it was palatable. He sipped the drink and shook his head finally. There was no way he could do what Hewitt did. He couldn’t bring himself to send anyone out into near-certain death. But then again, Thatcher preferred only ever relying on himself for as much as he could.
It was why he’d left the family behind. And all its money.
He sighed and looked at the coffee cup before him. There was a time, he recalled, when a cup like this wouldn’t have been fit for him. They used to summer in Newport, near the Cliff Walk built along the sea and enjoy tea every afternoon at one of the hotels. The simplicity of the daily event provided an occasion to revel in the fact that everyone around them was swimming in money procured when their ancestors had helped create the industrial revolution within the United States. There were Rockefellers and Rothschilds and other members of that elite group circulating around the area and one couldn’t help but appreciate the lifestyle that the family money afforded them.
Tea time would conclude and the men would make their way to the club rooms for cocktails. It was here that Thatcher had learned to appreciate the intricacies of crafting a fine drink and all that it entailed. He heard more business deals being conducted over a drink than he ever had on a golf course. He’d mentioned it once to his father who had sniffed at the idea.
“Real men don’t golf. That idea is flouted by imposters who attempt to look wealthier than they actually are.”
It had made little sense to Thatcher. So he pressed his father for more details. The elder Thatcher had appraised his son with one of his withering looks that told his son that he’d asked something quite foolish.
“Golf is reserved for those who have never attempted daring in their miserable lives. The game is just that: a game. The drink and everything that it entails is reserved for the doers who are willing to risk it all. Tell me what risk there is to hitting a ball into a tiny hole? Are they practicing their sexual acumen? Are they simply bored?” His father had sipped his own drink at that moment and then held the glass up as if to worship it all the more. “But this…there is a simplicity and yet it unfolds with all the complexities of life and death. I can propose many things and dare even more while in the throes of a fine cocktail. Fortunes have been made and lost over drinks. Never over golf. Don’t ever get involved in such a ludicrous pasttime as it. A man’s worth isn’t defined by how many strokes he can shave off of his game; it is measured in how much he is willing to dare and risk it all. Golf is neither.”
Thatcher sighed as he took in another sip. He would have probably been willing to kill for one of those finely-crafted cocktails at the moment. But then again, at least he’d dared and risked it all as his father had espoused. Thatcher grinned in spite of himself. His father had always loved a daredevil. He used to take Thatcher to the barnstorming shows as a child, pointing out how the pilots were literally risking their lives for the approval of the crowds. And as much as his father had renounced Thatcher for leaving the family, there was part of him that knew his father probably had a level of grudging respect for what Thatcher had done: he had risked it all.
He probably wouldn’t be thrilled to learn that I’ve been fleecing wealthy dowagers of the
ir trust funds and the like, thought Thatcher. But then again, nobody’s perfect.
And now his son was a spy for the British. Thatcher shook his head. There had to be some degree of respect in that, didn’t there? Perhaps when the war was finally over, Hewitt would allow Thatcher to return home where he could inform his father of everything that he’d been able to accomplish in the name of stopping Hitler and his war machine from taking over the world.
That was, if he managed to survive.
Sitting there in the cabin, Thatcher realized for the first time that he actually missed his family. As dysfunctional as it was. He missed the dinners and the summers and the holidays. It hadn’t been the same since he’d left and while he’d had more adventures than he probably deserved, Thatcher missed the useless drama of finding out that his aunt had been seen cuddling up with so-and-so’s husband or something equally un-earth shattering.
He finished his coffee and set the mug back down on the tray. He wondered if Cyra was feeling any better today now that she’d had a full night to sleep and recover. He hoped she was because it was imperative that Thatcher find out what her role - if any - was in the death of Captain Adamson. If he couldn’t then Schwarzwalder would contact the Gestapo. And if that happened, Thatcher’s life was going to get a whole lot more awful than it currently was.
He had no desire to see that happen. And he certainly didn’t want to have to endure any sort of torture that he knew they were capable of inflicting.
He rose from the small table and was about to knock on the door to let Steinkopf know he was finished when he heard shouting from outside his cabin door. Then an alarm sounded somewhere else on the ship.
What in the world was going on?
Chapter 25
Steinkopf opened the door before Thatcher had a chance to. “Something is wrong in the engine room. Come with me.”
Thatcher needed no further encouragement and followed Steinkopf down the corridor and descended into the lower bowels of the ship. Thatcher’s knowledge of ships was limited to the times he went sailing on the bay back home. He was completely out of his element in this environment, but he understood that anything wrong within the engine compartment was cause for great concern.
As they descended the stairs, a terrible smell issued up from below and greeted them. It was so revolting that it made Thatcher almost retch and vomit his entire breakfast. But he bit back on the rising tide of bile in his throat and continued on. Steinkopf muttered in German as they made their way ever deeper into the ship. They passed other sailors coming the opposite way looking ashen-faced and pale. Whatever was down there was apparently spooking them all.
Finally, a blast of heat hit them as they ventured further. Thatcher kept with Steinkopf who seemed driven to reach the engine room. Around them, the alarm was still blaring away and it echoed in Thatcher’s ears like some never-ending bird chirping away on an early morning when you wanted to sleep in.
He smelled the heavy copper on the air before he saw the sight before him.
Steinkopf reeled to a halt, blanched, and then turned to one side to vomit. Thatcher took advantage to get his first look at the engine compartment.
It looked like a slaughterhouse. The walls of the entire compartment were smeared with deep crimson that Thatcher knew was human blood. Flesh and gristle and guts draped about the place like a sort of sick Christmas festivity scene. Thatcher’s eyes couldn’t process the destruction. As the engines continued to churn in the background, the pieces of humans that adorned the walls lay silent, still dripping their various liquids onto the walls and floors, making everything slick with viscous juices that had no business being outside of the human body.
“What is he doing here?”
Thatcher snapped back to the moment as he recognized Schwarzwalder’s voice booming up from the floor of the compartment. Steinkopf recovered himself quickly, but before he could say anything, Thatcher took the offense and addressed the Captain.
“I insisted he bring me here. It’s my fault.”
Schwarzwalder frowned and then shrugged. “Well, as you can see, we have…this.” He gestured for Thatcher to come down and join him.
As much as he would have preferred staying exactly where he was, Thatcher descended the last of the metal stairs and gingerly touched his shoes to the slick floor of the engine room. He was already sweating buckets given the profuse heat the bellowed out from the engines as they churned away. The temperature of the room combined with the smell of the slaughter did not make containing his breakfast any easier. Still, he forced himself to get closer and engage with the Captain.
“There were five men in this compartment,” said Schwarzwalder. “Now they’re all dead.”
Thatcher looked around but he wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking at. There were limbs that looked as though they had been torn from bodies littering the ground and some were stuck to the walls by some unseen adhesive most likely comprised of drying liquids the nature of which thatcher had no desire to know.
But what drew his eye the most as he surveyed the carnage was the presence of the bones - at least he assumed they were bones. Splotches of pure white were rare, but every now and again he would spot some. For the most part they were stained by blood and broken apart in such a way that made it look as though they had been forcibly removed from their host bodies and then broken open almost like a coconut.
How was such a thing possible? Thatcher clamped his jaw shut and tried his best to focus on viewing the scene before him as objectively as he could lest the reality of it force him to expel the contents of his stomach. He didn’t think that adding his own contribution to the scene would enamor him to the Captain.
For his part, Schwarzwalder looked angry and concerned. Losing five men in a single night to some unknown occurrence was something that none of the military academies across the world would ever be able to prepare him for. How had this happened? And who had done it?
Schwarzwalder rose from where he squatted and looked at Thatcher. “Five men. Good men at that. Now dead.”
Thatcher shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything this horrible before.”
“You seem to be handling it all right.”
Thatcher smiled weakly. “Frankly, it’s taking every ounce of self control not to vomit profusely.”
Schwarzwalder nodded his head. “I’ve seen abattoirs before. That is probably what’s helping me. But in any event, we should get some fresh air. I need to get this mess cleaned up before the fear infects the entire crew.”
Thatcher shook his head. “Word has already spread.”
Schwarzwalder looked around. “Someone shut off that damned alarm!”
Within seconds the alarm died off, leaving a ringing in Thatcher’s ears. But he was grateful for the lack of the blaring now. He waited as Schwarzwalder ascended the steps leading out of the room, taking one final glance around. Was there anything that he could see that would clue them in to the identity of the killer? Because surely this wasn’t some sort of industrial accident. But who could have done this? Or what-?
Thatcher took a breath. What indeed.
He turned and followed Schwarzwalder up the steps. They passed by Steinkopf who fell in behind them without saying a word. He nodded a grateful thanks to Thatcher as he passed however. Thatcher nodded in return and continued following Schwarzwalder up the steps to the next deck. Gradually, as they ascended, the smell of the slaughter receded mercifully and Thatcher even felt the heat lessening. He was soaked from sweat and the breezes as they walked up the stairs and passed through corridors on the ship cooled him.
Finally, Schwarzwalder stepped out on to deck into the fresh air and the early morning light. Thatcher stepped out as well and his lungs instantly demanded that he breathe as expansively as possible in an attempt to flush every bit of what he had just witnessed from his body and mind. He reeled and had to reach out for the side of the ship to stabilize himself.
“Are you all right?” asked Schwarzwalder.<
br />
Thatcher nodded without saying anything. He continued to breathe for several moments until he felt his head clearing. The ocean was thankfully calm and the ship wasn’t rolling. Thatcher leaned against the railing and then looked over at Captain Schwarzwalder.
“What the hell happened back there?”
Schwarzwalder shrugged. “Five men on duty overnight. While there was a skeleton crew on duty, they were slaughtered somehow.”
“But who - what - could have done that?”
Schwarzwalder eyed him. “I do not know. Certainly nothing that I can imagine. It is as if some sort of animal was loosed within that compartment with the sole purpose of devouring everyone inside.”
“I am unaware of any such animal that could produce such an amount of damage and devastation and leave no trace of it passing out of the same compartment.”
“Indeed,” said Schwarzwalder. “I saw no tracks. No footprints. Nothing. It was as if it materialized within the room, did its killing, and then disappeared in much the same way as it entered.”
“It’s impossible,” said Thatcher. “Nothing could have achieved that.”
“And yet, the results say otherwise,” said Schwarzwalder. “I would otherwise agree with you were it not for the very evidence we just witnessed.”
Thatcher shook his head. “I am no forensic scientist. Is it possible we missed something?”
“Nor am I,” said the Captain. “But I do not think we need to be to see what is obvious before us. There is, somewhere aboard this ship, a killer. We knew this already with regards to Adamson. But now it would appear that whoever is doing this is also intent on attacking my crew.” He paused. “How did you sleep last night?”
“Fitfully,” said Thatcher. “I tossed and turned all night long.”
