The Golden U-Boat

Chapter Fourteen

From the private confines of his stateroom, Alexander reread the dispatch that he had just been handed three times before fully understanding it. There could be no doubting its authenticity, or the message’s underlying meaning. His brother had made a fantastic discovery, and was in desperate need of Alexander’s assistance.

The gold could only be in reference to the five-hundred golden bars that had been stolen from them fifty years ago. Alexander still had nightmares about that fated August day back in 1941, when he had thought that he had seen his beloved brother for the very last time. To this very day railroad trips triggered a stream of unpleasant memories ranging from dive-bombing Stukas to the sickening smell of burning human flesh.

The mention of U-3313 was a bit puzzling. He could only assume that his brother was referring to a German submarine. Because of the high sequence of I.D. numbers, it was most likely a Type XXI vessel, the world’s first true fully submersible warship and one of the most capable fighting vessels ever made.

Only its late introduction kept it from turning the tide of the war. It was common knowledge that several of these subs had been unaccounted for after the war’s conclusion. Could his brother have been referring to one of these mystery boats?

There was no need to ponder the next portion of the dispatch. Otto Koch had led the raid on their train, and was responsible for Mikhail’s scar and his four year internment in BergenBelsen. His twin had dedicated the next fifty years of his life to tracking this fiend down. Yet until this time, Koch had been but a shadow that Mikhail could never pin down. Not the type to exaggerate, especially when it came to Otto Koch, his brother wouldn’t say that he was close to capturing the Nazi unless he was serious.

And then there was his brother’s urgent plea for help. This was totally out of character for Mikhail.

Not once in the years since they were reunited had Mikhail asked for his assistance, not even in those confusing, bitter days following his release from the death camp. Alexander genuinely feared that his twin was in a desperate situation.

This was a sobering realization. He had almost lost Mikhail one time before, under circumstances that were totally out of his hands. How could he ignore this desperate plea, knowing full well that by doing so he could be condemning Mikhail to a certain death?

Alexander needed an atlas to clarify the last portion of the dispatch. He eventually found North Cape on the extreme northern coast of the Arctic island of Svalbard. No stranger to this desolate, isolated land mass that was so strategically critical in times of crisis,

Alexander hastily calculated that the Lena was approximately eight hundred kilometers away from Svalbard.

Even at flank speed, it would take some twelve hours to reach. But could he abandon his duty and divert the Lena for this purpose?

The dispatch had ended with his brother using the nickname Alexander had been so fond of when they were children. As far as he knew, no one else called his twin Misha. And Mikhail had purposely utilized this nickname to underscore the legitimacy of his plea.

Alexander heavily put down the dispatch and considered his options. For all his efforts, he could think of only two. He could ignore the dispatch and continue on with the plan of the day, or immediately order the Lena to change its course for Svalbard.

Their current mission was a critical one, there could be no doubt in this. The intelligence that they would soon be collecting would be channeled to the highest echelons of government. The General Secretary himself was depending upon this data to decide the fate of a multi-billion ruble project which could alter the state of the Rodina’s stagnant economy.

But it was still only a reconnaissance mission, one that they would have another chance to complete in the future. Could he say the same for the life of his brother? And what of the criminal that Mikhail had sacrificed his life to track down, and the organization that Otto Koch headed? Werewolf was just as much a threat to the Motherland as economic collapse or the hordes of capitalism were. In many ways it was even more so, especially if the neo-fascist cause was infused with a fortune in Russian gold to support its evil doings.

In the century that was just passing, the Motherland had only one true enemy. Hitler’s Germany was the antithesis of every principle in which the founding fathers of Socialism believed. To the Nazis, communism was abhorrent, and could be dealt with in only one manner — total annihilation of the USSR. Why, in the siege of Leningrad alone, one million, three hundred thousand brave Russians lost their lives. If one were to add up Russia’s total losses during the war, Leningrad would appear to be a mere skirmish!

Mikhail had proved time and again that the fascist cause was still alive and growing. The new bases of nazism might be hidden deep in the jungles of South America or the isolated foothills of the northwestern United States, but their reach could extend far and wide, especially if they were to get hold of a nuclear or biological weapon and a reliable system to deliver it.

A Type XXI U-boat was just such a platform.

The time for second guessing was over, and Alexander knew that he had but one choice. By the authority invested in him by the Supreme Soviet, he would order the Lena to turn northward, to counter the evil that had gathered there.

A quick phone call found the Lena’s captain on duty in the attack center. Without a moment’s hesitation, Alexander left his cabin to personally explain to the submarine’s commanding officer the nature of their new duty.

The attack center was bathed in red light as Alexander entered. Hardly giving his eyes time to adjust, the white-haired veteran went straight to the central command console. Grigori Milyutin was here, along with one other member of the Lena’s crew, the Zampolit, Felix Bucharin.

“Captain, there’s been a change in the Lena’s operational orders. You are hereby instructed to turn immediately on course zero-one-zero. We’re going to need flank speed for the next twelve hours.”

Caught completely off guard by this incredible directive Grigori Milyutin asked for a clarification.

“Did you say course zero-one-zero, at flank speed for the next twelve hours, Admiral? Why, that would put us somewhere in the Arctic.”

“Our destination is the island of Svalbard to be exact,” added Alexander firmly.

“But we still have our mission at Karsto to complete,” countered the confused Captain.

Alexander’s voice rang true and clear, his tone commanding.

“Are you challenging my authority in this matter, Captain? As your superior officer, I’m ordering you to change this vessel’s course as instructed, at once!”

“Excuse me for interrupting, Admiral,” interjected the Zampolit.

“But we weren’t informed by Northern Fleet headquarters of any such change in the Lena’s mission.”

“These orders don’t originate from Murmansk,” explained Alexander.

“As a senior fleet officer, I have initiated this change on my own.”

“But isn’t such a thing highly irregular?” observed the Zampolit.

“I don’t really give a damn, Comrade Bucharin!” shouted the angry old man.

“And if you continue with this unnecessary line of questioning, I’ll have you arrested for mutiny, and that goes for you as well, Captain Milyutin. Chart the new course that I ordered!”

Still hesitant to relay these changes to the helmsman, the Captain looked to his political officer for support. Perspiration beaded the Zampolit’s forehead as he dared to express himself.

“Let me assure you, Admiral, that our actions are definitely not mutinous. As fellow officers we’re only questioning the reason behind your sudden change of mind. Only a few hours ago, you were adamant about how vitally important our mission to Karsto was. Why you wouldn’t even allow the Captain to turn around and investigate that collision that we monitored.”

“I’ve never heard such impertinence in my entire naval career!” spat Alexander.

“How dare you question my command authority, Comrade Bucharin. My superior rank allows me to do with the Lena as I please, and I certainly don’t have to clear all my decisions with the likes of a mere political officer!”

Cut down to size, the sweating Zampolit looked meekly back to the captain. Grigori Milyutin hadn’t risen to his current rank by being a troublemaker, and the young Captain graciously bowed to the will of his superior officer.

“Helmsman, make our new course zero-one-zero. Engineering, all ahead flank speed.”

With a single twist of his joystick, the helmsman engaged the Lena’s tail-mounted rudder. As this device bit into the surrounding water, the submarine began a tight U-turn. Meanwhile, back in maneuvering, the chief engineer hit a single pistol switch that would further heat the reactor vessel’s lead-bizmuth coolant mixture. This would, in turn, raise the temperature of the steam generator, the force responsible for turning the vessel’s seven-bladed propeller.

Tightly gripping the back of the captain’s command chair to keep from falling during this high speed turn, Alexander Kuznetsov took a series of deep calming breaths. For better of for worse, he had made his decision.

Heedless to the fact that his entire career would be ruined if his brother’s fears proved groundless, Alexander felt strangely relieved. He could only wonder what awaited them on the edge of the ice pack, for this was the direction that their destinies now lay.

Captain Steven Aldridge was huddled over the chart table with his XO, trying to figure out the Alfa’s ultimate destination, when word arrived from the sound shack that the Soviet vessel was in the process of initiating an abrupt change of course. The Cheyenne had been silently following in the Alfa’s unsuspecting baffles until this point. Fearful of being tagged themselves, Aldridge ordered an immediate drop in speed to loiter velocity. A state of ultra quiet prevailed as they anxiously waited for the Alfa to play its hand. As it so happened, it wasn’t long in coming.

“Our contact’s new course is zero-one-zero,” revealed senior sonar technician Joe Carter.

“And from the way they’re churning up the water, Ivan is sure in a hurry to get wherever he’s bound for.”

“What in the world do you make of that, XO?” asked Aldridge.

Bob Stoddard peered down at the chart of the Norwegian coastline that they had been studying and replied, “It sure beats the hell out of me, Skipper. One minute they had all the makings of a spook mission — low speed and a course that was taking them directly to one of Norway’s most inhabited regions. Now they go and turn almost due northward, not giving a damn how much of a racket they’re leaving behind them.”

“Maybe this is Ivan’s way of clearing his baffles,” offered Lieutenant Andrew Laird. The ship’s navigator pointed to the Alfa’s last position on the chart and added.

“He might have suspected that he was being tailed, and is making all this noise to lure us into showing ourselves.”

The Captain nodded.

“Interesting thought, Lieutenant.

But there are a lot less drastic ways for a sub to clear its baffles, and this certainly isn’t one of them. No, I say our Alfa just got an unexpected change of orders. Most probably there’s been an emergency of some sort. That would account for their sudden course and speed change.”

“It sure would be interesting to know what it’s all about,” prompted the curious XO, as he softly tapped the empty bowl of his pipe against the edge of the chart table.

“Then what do you say if we just go and find out ourselves?” offered Aldridge with a grin.

“But how will we ever catch ‘em, Captain?” asked the freckle-faced navigator.

“After all, that’s an Alfa we’re talking about.”

Steven Aldridge looked at his young navigator like he hadn’t heard him properly.

“Come now, Lieutenant. I hope you have a little more faith in the Cheyenne ‘s capabilities than that. This old fox might not be a rabbit like that Alfa, but in the end, we’ll be right there at the finish line.”

“Captain, sonar reports that the contact’s new course is remaining constant. Estimated speed is thirty-three knots and still gaining.”

Aldridge absorbed the quartermaster’s report with an exaggerated grimace.

“Well XO, I guess it’s time to get those cobwebs cleared out. Ring up Lieutenant Lonnon, and let him know that Cheyenne Power and Light is about to get a chance to show what it’s made out of. Because I’ve got a hunch that this is going to be a race that’s right down to the wire.”

It took the rest of the night and most of the next day to get the heavy water unloaded from the trawler, transferred up into the sub pen, and then secured inside U-3313’s forward storage compartment. Once this was accomplished, though, the Golden U-boat was ready to set sail.

It was late afternoon when the massive camouflaged door that was set into the seaward side of the mountain was raised. With a minimum of fanfare the vessel’s diesel engines were started. The final mooring line was disconnected, and slowly the sub nosed its way out of the pen where it had been stored for over four decades.

They would travel on the surface until reaching the preselected diving area. Only when there was plenty of water under the boat’s hull would the diesels be shut down and the battery-fed motors engaged, as the submarine descended below the surface into its intended medium.

Otto Koch was beaming with pride as he stood on the exposed bridge that was set into the top of the streamlined sail. Beside him, Captain Charles Kromer was also satisfied, knowing that he had once again managed the impossible by helping get his present command ready for sea so quickly. Two young seamen were also on the sail, their binoculars trained on the seas before them for any signs of ice.

The gray, overcast sky was rapidly darkening. The air was cold and fresh with the salt spray that whipped over the bow and flew as high as the bridge. Soon the whole deck was dripping with salt water, which was already beginning to freeze.

“The engines sound good,” observed Kromer in response to the steady throbbing sound that emanated from below deck.

“They’ll work themselves in nicely enough,” said Otto Koch as he wiped some spray from his eyes.

Kromer quickly scanned the horizon with his binoculars before checking his watch.

“I’ll still feel better once we’re under, Herr Director,” he commented.

“An iceberg can end this mission long before we can even get to the open seas.”

“How much longer to the diving point?” asked Koch.

“Another quarter of an hour,” answered the Captain.

“We could go under earlier than that, but I want plenty of water beneath us for that first dive.”

“She’ll do just fine, Captain,” offered Koch as he turned and viewed the shoreline still visible behind them.

The hollowed out mountain from which they had emerged was hardly recognizable. It seemed to have long since blended in with the desolate, snowcapped mountain ridges. Only a single blinking beacon indicated the location of the outpost known as North Cape. Several dozen hearty souls would remain there, keeping the facility habitable for the next time that it would be needed.

The sound of a barking dog diverted his attention to the open hatch set at his feet.

“Beowulf, behave yourself down there!” shouted Koch.

Almost instantly the barking stopped, only to be replaced by the shrill voice of a young woman.

“Herr Director, are you certain that you are dressed warmly enough? I have another muffler with me in case you need it.”

Otto Koch looked over to the captain and winked before replying to this offer.

“Thank you, Lottie, but I’m doing just fine.”

“Well, your tea is ready whenever you’d like it, sir,” added his faithful servant.

The old man chuckled.

“That one is a real gem, Captain. She takes better care of me than my own mother did.”

“Are your quarters comfortable, Herr Director?” questioned the captain.

“They’re more than sufficient, Captain. Lottie even got down there beforehand and did a little decorating.

Right now the bulkheads are covered with my Bavar ian prints and my favorite cuckoo clock.”

U-3313’s hull bit into the gathering swell and as Kromer reached out to steady himself, he asked guardedly, “Herr Director, I’ve been meaning to ask you, could you explain to me why we’re taking those prisoners along with us? Wouldn’t it be better to just throw them overboard and be done with them? They would certainly be a lot less bother to us.”

“I understand your concern, Captain. But please bear with me just a bit longer. The young Norwegians will make excellent hostages. Should the need arise, we can use them for blackmail purposes. As for the old Russian, I’ll deal with him myself when the time is right.”

“I gather that you knew this man previously,” probed Kromer.

“Let’s just say that we’re old acquaintances from the war, Captain.”

The excited shouts of one of the lookout’s interrupted Koch.

“We’ve got ice dead ahead of us, Captain!”

“More ice off to the port, Sir!” screamed the other seaman.

Kromer raised his binoculars and quickly sized up their situation.

“I was afraid of this, Herr Director.

The winds have apparently shifted and sent this pack ice down from the north. If we don’t want to risk a collision, we’d better think about going under.”

“Then let’s do it, Captain,” urged Koch.

“I’d much rather take my chances with the bottom of the sea, than take on one of those floating menaces.”

Even without the benefit of binoculars, the ice was clearly visible. It seemed to cover the whole horizon, and came in a varied assortment of shapes and sizes.

Kromer looked at his watch, then barked into the waterproof intercom box.

“Rig for diving!”

As this order rang through the boat, Kromer ordered the lookouts below. As they scrambled down the conning tower ladder, the captain helped Otto Koch climb through the hatch. After taking one last look at the sea in front of them, Kromer descended the ladder himself.

Below deck, the warmth was most noticeable. As an alert seaman took Kromer’s parka, hat and gloves, the captain looked over to the diving station. Standing there, before the collection of vent and hull opening indicator boards, diving rudder indicators, and trim indicators, was Senior Lieutenant Hans Kurtz.

“The boat is rigged for diving, Captain,” informed U-3313’s second-in-command.

“Very good, Hans,” replied Kromer.

“Stand by to, dive! Sound the alarm!”

The compartment filled with a blaring klaxon. And as Kromer readied his stopwatch to record their diving time, he momentarily caught the glance of the bald old man who was responsible for this mission.

Standing calmly beside the vacant fire-control panel, with his dog Beowulf faithfully seated beside him, Otto Koch returned the captain’s glance with the barest of supportive nods.

“Open all main ballast valves!” orded Kromer.

“Open vents of bow buoyancy. Open vents on number one ballast, number two ballast, and the safety tanks. Bow planes at hard dive!”

“All engines stopped and valves closed, Sir,” reported the Senior Lieutenant.

Charles Kromer knew that the moment of truth was finally upon them. In a few more seconds, U-3313 would start to plane below the water’s surface, driving forward with the push of its electric motors.

Back in the engine room, he could picture Chief Dortmund at work making absolutely certain that the hull and engine induction valves were securely closed off against the sea. It was through these valves that the diesel engines were vented and got the enormous amounts of air that they needed to breathe. In the watery realm that they now entered, the diesels would be useless, with the U-boat depending upon its battery-powered engines for propulsion.

“Main inductions closed,” informed the quartermaster.

Kromer felt an alien pressure on his eardrums as pressurized air was bled into the boat. His eye went to the aneroid barometer, and as it gradually rose and the needles held steady, he was positive that the hull was airtight from within.

“Take us down, Hans,” ordered the captain tensely.

This was all the senior lieutenant needed to hear to move the levers of the main ballast tanks. The compartment filled with the loud hiss of the air being vented through the tops of these tanks, followed by the onrushing surge of seawater that poured in to replace this air from the bottom valves.

“Pressure in the boat. Captain. Green board,” reported Hans Kurtz.

Kromer walked over to the diving station to note the time it took for them to reach a depth of 35 feet.

Next he studied the bubble angle indicators, that showed them down by the bow at about eight degrees.

This meant that the top deck was thoroughly submerged now, with the sail soon to follow.

At forty feet, Kromer ordered the bow buoyancy vents closed. At forty-five feet, he instructed Hans Kurtz to close all vents, informing the planes man to level them off at a depth of sixty-five feet. Only then did the captain look at his stopwatch and exhale a long breath of relief. A hand gently touched him on the shoulder, and he turned to be greeted by a warm, almost fatherly voice.

“Nice job, Charles,” complimented Otto Koch.

“You have made this old man very proud.”

This was the first time that the veteran had ever called him by his first name, and Kromer felt the bond between them further tighten.

“Thank you, sir,” he humbly replied.

“But it’s this crew of ours that deserves the job well done. They handled themselves like true professionals.”

“Sonar reports ice dead ahead, Sir,” relayed the quartermaster.

Called back to duty, Kromer turned to his second lieutenant.

“It’s time to see how tough this old wolf really is, Hans. Take us down to 450 feet. All ahead full. We’ve only got the Kongsfjord Strait to transit now, and then it will be nothing but open sea all the way to the Rio de la Plata!”

Throughout the boat, the crew began settling in for their long voyage. Electricians crawled into the dark pits that stretched almost the entire length of the hull, monitoring the vessel’s hundreds of batteries, while other seamen focused their attentions on the minor leaks and other petty mechanical difficulties that were an inevitable part of any such submerged run.

In the forward storage compartment, the only indication of the great depth in which they were now travelling was the ominous creaking of the outer hull.

Locked inside a wire mesh cage that was previously utilized to store foodstuffs, the U-boat’s six prisoners tried to make the best of their captivity.

The cage itself was barely large enough to permit all six of them to lay down on the cold metal decking at one time. Each of them had been permitted the luxury of a single woolen blanket. The toilet facilities consisted of two metal buckets, one of which held foul tasting, tepid drinking water, and the other to be used for bodily eliminations. This spartan arrangement was particularly distressing for the only female present, and it had been Knut who had suggested rigging up a blanket to give Karl a bit of privacy.

Since their capture, they had been fed only a single time. This feast consisted of a can of cold pork and beans, that had to be eaten with the hands as no utensils were provided.

Adding to their mental discomfort was the view that they were forced to endure. Secured to the deck immediately in front of them was the heavy water that only a few days ago lay on the bottom of Lake Tinnsjo. The precious fluid had been transferred into several dozen heavy plastic carboys that looked temptingly close, but for all effective purposes were miles away.

Just visible on the opposite side of the room was the locked cage in which the gold was stored. Mikhail Kuznetsov found this particularly ironic. Here it had taken him fifty years to track this treasure down, and now it appeared that his life would end with the gold within his sight, yet still completely out of his reach.

The white-haired Russian was taking their incarceration particularly hard. Since being locked inside the cage, he had done little but sit in the corner, his blanket wrapped tightly around him. He seemed completely deaf to whatever conversation was going on around him. Instead, his attention was focused inward.

Haunting Mikhail’s inner vision was the face and figure of a single man. It had been half a century since he had last laid his eyes on Otto Koch. Though the years had aged him considerably, Mikhail knew who he was the instant he came hobbling into the radio room. It had been his eyes that had given him away. The cold, steel-gray orbs flashed with the same vicious cruelty that had characterized them fifty years ago. They were a direct channel into hell, and Mikhail would never forget staring into their evil depths on that fated August day in 1941, when Koch physically and mentally scarred him for life.

And now … it appeared that the evil would triumph again. Koch’s gloating grin had sickened Mikhail’s very soul. It was the German who would get the last laugh, as he once more ordered Mikhail to be imprisoned, to await a sentence that would have only one outcome. And with his death, Mikhail’s entire life would have been completely wasted!

He had managed to tragically drag in the innocent group of young Norwegians. They, too, were condemned to suffer Koch’s wrath, all because the cruel hand of fate had brought their young lives together with his.

Mikhail’s only hope was that somehow his brother had received his desperate call for help. Being a realist, he knew that the odds were slim that the message had even reached its intended party. Even if it did, would Alexander have the courage and foresight to heed his plea, and act?

At stake here was not only Mikhail’s life and those of his young Norwegian allies, but something much, much bigger. If the U-boat was to reach its goal, with the heavy water and the gold safely delivered into the clutches of Werewolf, the entire world would be faced with its greatest threat since Adolf Hitler.

Over forty years ago, shortly after Mikhail had been released from BergenBelsen, he was faced with a crisis of faith. At that time his broken body and spirit stripped him of his very will to go on living. It had been Alexander who had given him the priceless gift of renewed purpose, and as Mikhail’s body grew strong once again, he focused his energies on one purpose only-to insure that the Nazi demon would never again run rampant on the planet.

The saddest part was that he had actually fooled himself into thinking that his efforts were succeeding in this task. He had been responsible for bringing dozens of escaped Nazis to justice, and had even managed to infiltrate several of the most prominent neo-fascist organizations. But all this meant nothing now.

Infused with new capital, and bolstered by the nuclear weapons that it would soon be producing, Werewolf would rapidly grow into a powerful force, one to be reckoned with. Its growing ranks filled with the twisted slime of the earth, the new Reich would continue where the old one left off, with a new and even more dangerous leader at its helm. Though old in years, Otto Koch was still an effective organizer, as this current operation proved.

It was evident that Koch would be able to give Werewolf its initial direction, until a younger, more dynamic leader was found to guide the fascist cause into the twenty-first century.

Mikhail had come so close to ridding the earth of this cancer once and for all. Yet his best efforts had been in vain, and soon millions of innocent men, women, and children would pay the price in tears and broken dreams. This was the ultimate injustice — that evil should prevail over good, death over life, and hatred over love. Soon the scourge of world war would once more be unleashed, this time with the horror of a nuclear apocalypse only a heartbeat away.