The Golden U-Boat

Chapter Eight

It had been an exhausting, tense night for Mikhail Kuznetsov. Little did he realize the great distances that he would have to drive as he cautiously followed the flatbed truck away from the site where the heavy water had been stolen. The rain that continued to fall was both a curse and a blessing.

The roads in this region were twisting and narrow, and the freezing precipitation only made them that much more treacherous. Yet because of this storm, traffic was a minimum, and he was able to follow at a safe distance in his rented Volvo without having to worry about losing the truck.

The route that the Nazis picked took them down the eastern shores of Lake Tinnsjo and on into the city of Konisberg. Here, the roads improved substantially, with a well lit freeway leading them all the way into Oslo. Mikhail had half expected them to stop in the capital city, but instead they drove straight through it. Thankful that he had a full tank of gas, Mikhail followed them onto Route 69. This highway led them due north to the coastal city of Trondheim, some 450 kilometers distant.

It was morning when he finally braked the Volvo to a halt beside a large wharf. Trying his best to ignore the throbbing pain that coursed through his cramped arthritic limbs, he left the car to proceed on foot.

The truck had pulled right onto one of the docks, where it had backed up to a waiting trawler.

Mikhail hid behind an immense mound of smelly fishing nets and breathlessly watched as two familiar blond men dressed in black oilskins climbed out of the truck. Forgetting all about the great fatigue that had more than once almost caused him to fall asleep at the wheel, he watched as these figures proceeded to a small pier side building. The white-haired Russian would never forget the last time that he had seen this same pair at work.

He had been watching from the edge of the woods at the time as the gang initially went about stealing the thirty-three freshly salvaged cannisters.

As the drums were subsequently loaded onto the truck, Mikhail could see that most of the actual heavy labor was performed by the two unlucky Norwegians who had been forced out of the salvage ship at gunpoint. No sooner was the last drum loaded, than the two blond men ordered the Norwegians to kneel on the rain-soaked ground with their hands behind their heads. Then, without the slightest hesitation, one of the Nazis pulled a gun from his jacket, put its barrel up against the back of each kneeling man’s skull, and proceeded to literally blow his brains out.

All the time watching these coldblooded murders from the cover of the pine forest, Mikhail’s shocked thoughts flashed back to the last time he had seen such an atrocity. In that hell hole known as BergenBelsen, such shootings were an everyday occurrence.

But this was a half a century later, and the war was long over. Or was it, thought the Russian. He sighed heavily.

Mikhail’s first instinct was pure revenge, as he viewed the Norwegians’ blood-soaked bodies laying there in the mud. He even went as far as to finger the 9mm pistol that lay in his shoulder harness, and begged to be released on the fascist murderers. But ever mindful of his ultimate goal, Mikhail successfully controlled his fury. And thank the heavens that he had, for now he was another step closer to wiping Otto Koch, and his entire band of self-proclaimed Fascists from the face of the earth.

Stifling a yawn, Mikhail looked on as the pair of Nazis exited the dockside building along with a stout fellow who walked with a limp and wore a wrinkled blue suit. This individual was obviously a freight agent, for he hurriedly checked the truck’s cargo before walking over to the nearby trawler and shouting up to its bridge.

Soon afterward, several longshoremen materialized from below deck. The truck was backed up to the very edge of the dock, and the transfer of the drums was initiated with the help of a small crane.

Mikhail intently watched this process, and knew that this could very well be the end of the line for him unless he was able to find out the trawler’s destination.

He decided to wait until the ship set sail.

Then he would go and have a little chat with the portly freight agent. If a hefty bribe wouldn’t loosen his tongue, the old veteran figured that there were always other more expedient methods to convince him to talk.

It was rapidly approaching noon when the last drum was securely stored in the trawler’s hold.

Mikhail wasn’t the least bit surprised when the two nazis boarded the ship along with this precious cargo. The lines holding the sturdy vessel to the pier were parted, and with a single toot of its steam whistle the trawler was underway.

The blue-suited agent remained on the dock until the trawler had all but disappeared. As he turned to go back inside; Mikhail saw that he was in the process of counting a thick wad of dollar bills.

Surely this was his part of the take for not asking too many questions.

Just as Mikhail was preparing to leave the cover of his hiding place and intercept the agent, a tall, muscular blond with a bandage covering part of his skull came into the picture. Mikhail cursed as this familiar giant roughly grabbed the agent by his arm and forced him inside.

“Damn it! It’s that salvage diver from Lake Tinnsjo!” cursed the Russian.

Somehow the Norwegian had also found out where his stolen treasure had been taken, and now he was in the process of demanding the same information that Mikhail was about to demand!

Hoping that the agent would talk voluntarily, Mikhail shuddered to think what would happen if he didn’t. Driven by the desire to revenge the deaths of his two coworkers, the Norwegian diver had every right to be furious. Taking into consideration his massive size compared to that of the portly, out of shape freight agent, Mikhail could only pray that the Viking’s powers of persuasion weren’t merely limited to the physical.

Back on the diving support ship Falcon, the other members of NUEX impatiently bided their time inside the vessel’s main decompression chamber. Unable to relax, Jon Huslid anxiously paced to and fro, unable to understand how Jakob and Arne could summon the patience to just sit at the table and play chess. Behind them, the American lay in his bunk as he had done for most of their stay, reading a dog-eared paperback novel.

“I’m getting a bad feeling about this whole thing,” mumbled the restless photographer to no one in particular.

“I just knew that Knut wouldn’t stay put.”

“Maybe you should give the clinic at Rjukan one more call,” offered Arne as he contemplated his next chess move.

“And what would that accomplish?” returned Jon.

“He walked out of there against his doctor’s orders over twenty-four hours ago, and the one thing that we can be certain of is that Knut won’t be found in that hospital bed.”

“Knut’s a big boy. He can surely take care of himself,” said Jakob, who thoughtfully moved his knight forward to do battle.

Jon shook his head.

“I’m not so sure of that, Jakob.

You’re forgetting the type of desperate individuals that we’re dealing with here. Not only are they thieves, but coldblooded murderers as well. This is a matter for the police, not a stubborn, hardheaded diver from Telemark.”

The deck below rolled under the influence of a large sea swell, and Jon had to blindly reach out for the edge of the American’s bunk to keep from falling over.

“Seems like we’re finally running into some of that weather that Magne was warning us about,” reflected David Lawton as he put down his book and watched the photographer struggle to regain his balance.

The Falcon again canted hard on its side, this time with such abrupt force that the chess board went sliding off the table and clattered down to the deck below.

“Damn!” cursed Jakob, who had to hold onto the table to keep from falling over himself.

“And here I was just setting you up for the kill.”

“Like hell you were,” countered Arne.

“Another half dozen moves and you would have been history.”

With his hands still tightly gripping the edge of the bunk, Jon addressed the bearded Texan who lay before him.

“I guess you don’t get many sea-states like this in the Gulf of Mexico.”

“I don’t know about that, my friend,” answered Lawton as the Falcon smashed downward into a steep trough sending a bone-jarring concussion trembling through its hull.

“Though it’s true that a good majority of the time the waters of the Gulf are fairly stable, we get our share of rough seas. This year alone we had to ride out a trio of full-fledged hurricanes. Twice me and my boys were out on a rig when a tropical depression passed by, and even though we were on the storm’s fringe, we had waves crashing into us that were a good sixty feet high.

For a while there we actually feared that the whole platform would capsize, and we were even seriously considering evacuation. Yet when you’re in a sea-state like that with hundred and fifty mile per hour winds whipping by, the big question is, how in the hell do you evacuate? Fortunately for us, the low-pressure system kept moving to the north, and we never had to answer it.”

“For some reason I always pictured the Gulf of Mexico to be nothing but a huge, tropical lake” remarked the photographer.

“With surfers and bikini-clad girls playing on its shores, and dolphins frolicking in its depths.”

The Texan grinned.

“Don’t get me wrong, my friend. We have plenty of that too. And also some of the most beautiful beaches in all the world. Why, I guess you’ll have to come down to Texas and see for yourself.”

“I’d like that,” said Jon as yet another massive swell sent the Falcon pitching to and fro like a toy boat in a bathtub.

“How’s everyone doing in there?” broke a deep, familiar voice from the mounted video monitor.

The divers looked up to this screen and the rugged face of Magne Rystaad peered down at them.

“And for goodness sake, don’t be too proud to shout out if you feel a bit seasick,” continued Magne.

“The doc’s got plenty of medicine to ease any queasiness that you may experience. Because I’ll warn you right now that we’re in for a long, rough ride.

“We’re presently just about to pass by the Odin production area. The Ice Field’s rig is a good one hundred kilometers due north of us yet. She’s currently floundering in the same heavy seas, and it looks like it will be another six and a half hours until we can reach her.”

“Can the tugs hold the rig upright until then?” asked Arne.

Magne was quick with his answer.

“Between the three of them, they should manage. The rig itself is heavy enough so that its center of gravity is close to the sea’s surface, and with the additional support of those oceangoing tugs, I seriously doubt if the platform will be in any real danger.

“Now in respect to your decompression. We’ve got you up to 155 meters. So it looks like you’re right on schedule, which means that you have another twenty hours and eleven minutes to go.”

As the next swell struck, Magne could be seen reaching to the console for support.

“Have you heard from the authorities in Rjukan yet, Chief?” asked Jon Huslid, whose thoughts were on other matters than the rough sea state.

“I’m afraid not,” replied Magne.

“The detective with whom I spoke on the telephone last night warned me that it could be some time yet until the first lead comes along. But he sounded very optimistic, and mentioned that if I didn’t hear from him this morning, I was to give him a call later in the afternoon.”

“Any word from Knut?” questioned Arne hopefully

The strain in Magne’s face was apparent as he somberly shook his head.

“It appears as if your coworker has managed to disappear off the face of this earth. The last I heard, he was still A.W.O.L. from the Rjukan hospital. The specialist that the company sent up from Oslo to treat his concussion has already checked out the home of Knut’s parents.

Our friend was nowhere to be seen, and with that the physician could only return to Oslo to wait until Knut shows himself.”

“Locate those thieving murderers and you’ll most likely find Knut close behind,” said the worried photographer.

“I know that big ox only too well. He’s out there right now playing amateur detective, and nothing in the world is going to stop him from doing whatever he can do to track those bastards down.”

“When Knut gets something on his mind, he’s like a one-track record,” added Jakob.

“He’s one of the most stubborn, headstrong individuals that I’ve ever known. If anyone can track down those murderers, Knut’s the one who can do it.”

“But can he do it without getting a bullet in his skull along the way?” queried David Lawton.

The deck canted hard aport as Magne responded.

“Knut’s always impressed me as the sensible, practical type. If he is indeed playing detective, he’ll do it discreetly. And with that said, I’ll be signing off for now. Just holler if you need that Dramamine. I don’t know about you fellows, but I’m feeling a little green around the gills myself, and my next stop is going to be straight to the infirmary to get some medication to counter it.”

The video monitor went blank and David Lawton reached for his paperback. Jon Huslid initiated his nervous pacing once again, doing his best to keep his balance as the deck continued ‘to roll beneath them. This left the chess players staring at each other from each side of the table.

“Well Arne, shall we give it another try?” quizzed the Lapp.

The bearded Telemark native nodded.

“I’m game if you are, Jakob. And this time I’m going to beat you so quickly that there will never be any doubt as to the outcome.”

“We’ll see about that,” replied his opponent as he bent down to begin retrieving the fallen chess pieces.

One and a half hours later they were still immersed in this same game. Though it took great effort to keep the continued rough seas from ruining this game also, they somehow managed to keep the board stabilized and the pieces in place. Behind them, the American was contentedly snoring away in his bunk, and Jon was seated on his mattress scribbling away in his diary.

Through a bit of masterly deception, Jakob had just managed to pick off his opponent’s queen with his rook. Arne swore for revenge, and as he began his offensive, the chamber’s telephone began ringing.

It proved to be Jon who answered it.

“Knut!” he excitedly screamed into the receiver.

“Where the hell are you?”

These words caused both Jakob and Arne to instantly abandon their game and sprint over to Jon’s side. Even David Lawton snapped out of his slumber to see what all the commotion was about. As the Texan sat up in bed, he spied Jon Huslid anxiously speaking into a black plastic telephone handset.

“I’m just glad to hear that you’re safe and feeling all right, Knut … I believe that can be arranged.

We’re out of decompression in eighteen and a half hours, and if Magne can provide the transport, we’ll be there. But why Tromso?… Okay, I can hang on until then. That’s the Northern Lights Cafe, twenty-four hours from now. See you then, big guy.”

The photographer hung up the handset and issued a loud sigh of relief.

“For heaven’s sake, where is he?” questioned Jakob.

“Knut’s in Trondheim,” replied Jon.

“And I’ll be damned if he hasn’t gone and tracked down the heavy water, along with the bastards who murdered Lars and Thor.”

“All right, Knut!” shouted Arne triumphantly.

“Is he going to sic the police on them?”

“Actually, he didn’t say,” said Jon.

“All that I really got from him was that except for a headache, he’s feeling pretty good. He said he’d explain all the rest to us tomorrow at this time in Tromso, at the Northern Lights Cafe.”

“But how in the hell are we ever going to get to Tromso?” asked Arne.

“That’s way above the Arctic Circle.”

“I’ll tell you how you’re going to get up there” broke a firm, deep voice from the mounted video monitor.

“I’m going to have Noroil One fly you there.”

As the divers turned in unison to the monitor, Magne continued.

“I’m afraid I’m guilty of eavesdropping, Jon. I couldn’t help but keep listening when I patched Knut through to you. It’s wonderful that he’s feeling good, and I’m thrilled to hear that he’s managed to track down those criminals. You have my word that if the sea state allows it, the company chopper will be available to give you a lift into Tromso. I really don’t understand what Knut’s up to, but I’m counting on you fellows to make certain that he doesn’t try to take the law into his own hands. Can I rely on you for that, Gentlemen?”

“You got it, Chief,” replied the photographer.

“You just get us to Tromso, and we’ll get to the bottom of this mystery once and for all.”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” said Magne, who looked visibly relieved as he signed off.

“So Knut’s in Trondheim,” reflected Jakob.

“And next he’s going to be meeting us in Tromso. I wonder what he’s got planned?”

“Whatever it is, you can be sure that it involves our heavy water, and the murdering crooks who stole it,” answered Jon.

“Now I just pray that the big fellow can stay out of trouble for the next twenty-four hours. Damn! If we could only get to him right now.”

The ship rolled hard on it’s side, and once more the unattended chess board went clattering to the deck. But this time both Jakob and Arne barely paid it any attention.

“Why’s that, Jon?” asked Arne.

“Did Knut sound like he was in trouble or something?”

The photographer took his time answering.

“I can’t really put my finger on it, Arne. I’ve just got a hunch that Knut’s on the trail of a real tiger, and the sooner we’re all together to give him a hand, the better it’s going to be for all of us.”

David Lawton decided that it was time for a little fatherly advice.

“When you do get together, just make certain that the authorities know what you’re up to. I mean it, guys. We’re talking about coldblooded murderers here, the type of individual who would blow your brains out just on a whim. So play it smart, and let the police do the job that they get paid to do.”

A moment of contemplative silence followed as these words of wisdom were absorbed, and the ship ominously rolled in the largest set of swells yet encountered.