The Golden U-Boat

Chapter Two

The Bell 212 helicopter lifted off its dockside pad with a grinding roar. From the copilot’s seat, David Lawton peered out the plexiglass windshield, and watched the city limits of Haugesund, Norway take form down below.

Unlike his hometown of Houston, Texas, there was a noticeable absence of steel and glass high-rise buildings in evidence. Instead there was a preponderance of quaint, wooden structures of approximately three stories, painted in soft pastel shades. Most were situated near a wide channel of water that allowed direct access to the open sea. A variety of boats ranging from compact sloops to cabin cruisers, fishing trawlers, and oceangoing freighters were docked along the shoreline.

As the chopper gained altitude, Lawton caught a glimpse of the breathtaking scenery visible inland.

Huge, sharply-etched mountains formed the eastern horizon, while magnificent sparkling green fjords filled the deep valleys. The Texan would have loved to explore this fascinating terrain more closely, but unfortunately his destination lay in the opposite direction. Already the pilot had pointed the rounded nose of the helicopter to the west. They would remain on this course until they were well out over the surging grey waters of the North Sea.

“Excuse me for not getting the chance to properly introduce myself back at the heliport,” offered the pilot as she turned toward her passenger, pushing back her chin-mounted microphone.

“I’m Kari Skollevoll. Welcome aboard Noroil One. I hope you’re enjoying Norway, Mr. Lawton.”

To be heard over the whining rotors, the Texan responded firmly.

“Actually, I haven’t seen much more than the Stavanger and Haugesund airports. I flew in from Edinburgh a little less than two hours ago.”

“Have you visited our country before, Mr. Lawton?”

asked the pilot, as she reached forward to make a minor adjustment to the fuel mixture.

“This is my first time, and I must admit what little I’ve seen so far is impressive. That countryside behind us looks magnificent. And Haugesund appears to be quite the charming fishing village.”

“It’s much more than that,” answered the young pilot, whose blond curly hair could just be seen beneath the confines other helmet.

“In my grandfather’s day herring fishing was indeed the city’s primary industry. Today Haugesund is much more diversified. We have a huge shipyard, where vessels up to 150,000 tons can be repaired.

The city is also a primary supply and research base for the offshore oil business.”

“So I understand,” replied Lawton, infected by her enthusiasm.

“How long have you been with Noroil?”

“I’m approaching my third anniversary. I learned how to fly helicopters in the Air Force, though I’ve been flying fixed-wing aircraft since I was a teenager.”

“I gather you’re from around these parts,” said the Texan.

“I was born and raised in Haugesund. In fact, most of my family still lives there. One good thing about my job is that I get a chance to visit them quite frequently.”

David Lawton nodded and peered out the window to the sea below. Though the sky was slightly overcast, the visibility was good, and he was afforded an excellent view of a series of small islands that barely managed to poke their rocky surfaces above the white-capped waters.

The forty-seven year old Texan scratched his thickly bearded chin.

“I have to admit,” he said, “that I was expecting to be greeted by waist high snowdrifts the moment I stepped foot on Norwegian soil. So far, considering it’s late autumn, the temperatures seem incredibly mild. And the only snow I’ve seen has been on the summits of those coastal mountains behind us.”

“You can thank the warming influence of the Gulf Stream for that, Mr. Lawton. An offshoot of the current flows just off our coast, and because of it, we have some of the mildest winters in all of Scandinavia. But just you hang around a little longer, and you’ll see plenty of snow around here. That I can guarantee you.”

As Lawton continued his inspection of the waters below, he spotted what appeared to be a large ship looming in the distance. It was only as they got closer to the monstrous object that he identified it as a huge oil platform.

Supported on thick concrete legs, the platform was in the process of being towed out to sea, clearly dwarfing the trio of powerful oceangoing tugs that had been chosen for the task.

As a veteran oil-service worker, the Texan had seen many similar rigs, yet none could compare to this one for sheer size. Dominating its equipment-packed surface was a towering derrick. A complex maze of snaking pipes and a vast assortment of pumps, cranes, and other heavy machinery was tucked beneath the latticed steel framework. Its living module rose over ten stories high, and was capped by a circular helipad and a number of white satellite dishes. All in all, it was an awesome structure, that proved impressive even to a jaded Texan.

Noting his interest, the pilot identified the rig for him.

“That’s the new Ice Field’s production platform, sir. It was just completed in Haugesund, and is designed to be placed in 200 meters of water off the Arctic island of Svalbard. I’ve been told that its total weight is over one million tons. From the base of its legs to the tip of the derrick, it’s over 350 meters high. The legs alone required 240,000 cubic meters of concrete, and the total quantity of steel utilized is the equivalent to the weight of ten Eiffel towers.”

“That’s mighty impressive, even by Texas standards,” reflected Lawton, as the platform passed beneath them.

“How much longer until we get to the Falcon?”

“We should be touching down on the ship’s helipad in another ten minutes,” answered the pilot.

“Why don’t you just sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight. I’ve got a thermos full of hot coffee in the supply cabinet. If you’d like a cup, just let me know.”

Lawton shook his head.

“No thanks, Karl. I’ve already had my caffeine fix for the day.”

“Then would you mind some music?” she asked.

“I just got a new Oslo Philharmonic recording of Edvard Grieg’s Peer Gynt. During the chopper’s last refit, the ground crew installed a cassette player and some pretty decent speakers up here. It sure beats listening to the constant chop of those rotors.”

“Sounds good to me, Karl.”

While the pilot reached up to activate the cassette player, Lawton attempted to stretch his tall, lanky frame. The equipment-packed cockpit was far from spacious, and the bulky, bright orange survival suit that he wore over his normal clothing only made the cramped cabin that much tighter.

As the spirited first chords of the Grieg symphony broke from the elevated speakers, he took his attractive pilot’s advice and did his best to sit back and relax. The stereo system was indeed first class, and the resulting music did much to filter out the harsh, grinding roar of the Bell’s engines.

Though he wasn’t much of a classical music buff, the opening movement had plenty of old-fashioned fiddle playing in it. The spirited folk rhythms were easy to listen to, and had an almost country flavor to them.

The island of Utsira passed below. This compact, rock-strewn landmass was the western-most extension of the Norwegian mainland, and as they zoomed over it, nothing but the lonely gray sea stretched to the horizon.

Lawton stared out at the seemingly endless expanse of water and contemplated the man whose invitation had brought him so far from home. He had first met Magne Rystaad a year ago, at a symposium in Washington, D.C. The two were introduced immediately after a seminar on the latest hyperbaric welding techniques. The fair-haired Norwegian was tight-lipped at first. Yet Lawton liked him right off, and invited the Chuck Norris look-alike for a drink. Since they were practically the same age, and had both been employed as oil industry divers for over a decade, they were soon chatting away like old friends.

It was during their second beer that Magne accepted Lawton’s offer to visit an oil platform that the Texan was helping put in off the Louisiana coast. They left for the site immediately after the conclusion of the seminar.

This was the Norwegian’s first visit to the American south, and he thoroughly enjoyed his exposure to both the balmy weather and the variety of unique southern customs.

Magne seemed genuinely impressed by Lawton’s project.

His main interest was the crew of two dozen divers that Lawton was responsible for and he was surprised to learn that a good majority of the men were ex-U.S. Navy. In Norway, a military diver was seldom allowed to transfer to the civilian sector and apply the craft that the government had spent so much time and money teaching him.

When Lawton admitted that he was an ex-Navy diver himself, who had seen action in Viet Nam, Magne’s eyes opened wide, and for the rest of the day the Norwegian pestered his host to share some of his wartime experiences. Lawton reluctantly did so later that evening, while sipping longnecks on the platform’s deserted helipad.

The war had been a traumatic time in Lawton’s life that he would have preferred to forget about. During his two-year tour in the jung led hell of Southeast Asia, he had witnessed atrocities that had broken stronger men than he. Only by the greatest of miracles did he come out of the conflict with some degree of sanity. Yet the nightmares still returned from time to time, and just sitting there on that platform, with the humid Gulf winds hitting him in the face, brought back many a poignant memory of his exploits as a U.S. Navy SEAL.

It was well after midnight when the two veteran divers finally parted company, with their new friendship all but sealed. To reciprocate Lawton’s hospitality, Magne invited the Texan to visit him in Norway. Lawton accepted, though it was to take him a full year to find the time in his hectic schedule to fit the trip in.

With the spirited strains of Peer Gynt still filling the cockpit, Lawton sat forward expectantly when the bare outline of a ship became visible on the distant horizon.

The vessel’s unique silhouette became more discernable as the helicopter continued its approach. Though he had previously only seen pictures of the Falcon, there was no doubt in his mind this was the Norwegian dive ship he had travelled thousands of miles to visit. There could be no mistaking the bulbous helideck that was positioned on the ship’s bow, or the massive bridge and dual engine stacks situated amidships. The rest of the bright yellow vessel was dominated by an immense crane. This was the operational portion of the Falcon, where its moon pools were located. Through these openings to the sea, the ship’s remotely operated vehicles, or ROV’s for short, and manned diving bells would be lowered.

“Looks like we made it,” said the pilot matter of factly

“I’ll have you safely on deck before you know it.”

The good weather allowed their approach to be a routine one, and with a minimum of difficulty the Bell 212 landed on its shipborne helipad with a bare jolt.

“Thanks for the smooth ride, Karl,” said Lawton as he unbuckled his safety harness.

“Will you be staying on board for awhile?”

“Afraid not, sir. I’ll only remain long enough for them to unload that mess of supplies back in the main cabin.

Then I’m off for Stavanger to pick up a new load of computer hardware for the main office.”

“Well, take care, young lady. And thanks again for the lift.”

The helicopter’s rotors were whirling to a halt as Lawton exited the vehicle through its main hatchway. Outside, he was met by a gust of cool, salt-filled air and a weather beaten crew member dressed in orange coveralls and matching hard hat.

“Welcome aboard the Falcon, Mr. Lawton. I’m Olav Anderson, the ship’s quartermaster. Magne is sorry that he wasn’t able to greet you personally, but he’s in the midst of an operation in the ship’s diving control room.

If you’ll just follow me, I’ll take you down there.”

The Texan nodded and followed his guide down a latticed steel ladder to the main deck. Here they passed a silver suited figure, who stood with a fire hose in hand, his gaze riveted on the nearby helicopter. Nearby, a fully enclosed, orange life boat was stored, and Lawton was impressed by the Norwegian’s exacting safety standards.

A hatch led them below deck. While transit ting a spotlessly clean passageway, the quartermaster offered an impromptu briefing.

“The Falcon is the newest multi-purpose vessel in Noroil’s ever expanding fleet. Its main functions are to act as a diving support ship and provide fire fighting services. The Falcon is 101 meters long, with two fully equipped engine rooms, three tunnel thrusters in the fore ship and two Azimuth thrusters in the aft. All of these systems are automatically controlled through a dynamic positioning system with dual redundancy.”

“To what depth is your diving system rated?” asked

Lawton, as they passed by the ship’s mess room.

“350 meters,” answered the quartermaster.

“If needed, this rating can be easily modified for 500 meters.”

Yet another ladder led them to a spacious compartment filled with various machine tools. While crossing its cluttered length, the quartermaster continued his briefing.

“The Falcon has two moon pools and is outfitted with a pair of diving bells, each capable of holding up to seven individuals. For decompression purposes there are three separate transfer chambers, and a central four-man chamber for extended stay, saturation purposes.”

Lawton caught a brief glimpse of one of these large, cylinder-shaped, white chambers as they stepped through a hatchway and began their way over a narrow catwalk that bordered one of the open moon pools A thick cable linked to an overhead winch extended into the water here. Several crew members could be seen gathered around a nearby console, and the Texan couldn’t help but vent his curiosity.

“Is there currently a bell down below?” he asked.

“Actually, it’s a ROV” answered his guide, without breaking his brisk stride.

“We call it Solo. Inside that umbilical is the latest in fiber optics, allowing high quality video and data feedback at depths up to fifteen hundred meters. Solo has also got the latest in side scanning sonar, that allows for high speed pipeline sonar surveys at velocities up to four knots.”

Well aware that such a vehicle would certainly make life easier for the Falcon’s divers, Lawton followed the Norwegian into a narrow passageway lined with snaking electrical cables. The corridor led directly into a large compartment dominated by a central cluster of consoles.

Seated in front of this assemblage of high-tech equipment were a trio of technicians. Each wore yellow overalls, and had their attentions focused on the complicated assortment of video monitor screens mounted before them.

The middle figure sported a familiar mop of wavy blond hair, and David Lawton spotted the name Rystaad printed across the broad back. Magne seemed unaware of his guest’s presence behind him, his right hand glued to an airplane-like joystick, his eyes riveted to a video monitor. The Texan gingerly stepped forward until he was immediately behind his host and could just make out the flickering images visible on the video screen.

The monitor was filled by an object that appeared to be a large boulder. A digital depth gauge showed that it was laying on the seabed 283 meters beneath the sea’s surface. Yet it was a single sharp spike that emerged from the top portion of the object that indicated it wasn’t a boulder at all, but a manmade object.

“My God, is that a mine?” blurted the Texan.

Without taking his eyes off the monitor screen, Magne Rystaad coolly answered.

“As a matter of fact, it is. Welcome aboard the Falcon, David. Sorry I can’t offer you a proper handshake, but I’m currently utilizing our ROV to place six kilos of dynamite at the base of that baby, that we believe to be a relic of World War I.”

“No apologies necessary, Magne,” replied Lawton who watched intently as his host gripped yet another joystick with his left hand.

Almost instantaneously, an articulated manipulator arm came into view on the screen. At the tip of the artificial appendage was a sausage-shaped cannister that was being deposited beside the base of the mine. Only when this process was completed did Magne push back from the console, turn to face his guest, and exhale a full breath of relief.

“It’s really good to see you, David,” the Norwegian said as he stood and offered his hand in greeting.

Lawton found Magne’s firm grip a bit clammy as he replied, “Likewise, my friend. It seems I got here at an opportune moment.”

“Your timing’s impeccable, David. You’ll get to see the fireworks firsthand.”

Magne issued a flurry of instructions in rapid Norwegian to his coworkers, before returning his attention to his guest.

“We just found this mine yesterday, while in the middle of a routine examination of the seabed for the laying of Ice Field’s new oil pipeline.”

“With all of your other pipelines in this area, I would have thought that the seabed here had long been cleared of any obstacles,” said Lawton.

“So did I,” Magne answered.

“But as you very well know, the open seas are full of surprises. We only learned from the Norwegian naval authorities this morning that the mine appears to have been originally laid in 1918. At that time some 70,000 mines were deposited in a minefield between Norway and Great Britain to prevent German submarines from gaining access to the Atlantic.”

“Couldn’t you just reroute your pipeline to go around the mine?” asked Lawton.

“We tossed the idea around, but decided it just wasn’t worth the risks involved. As you well know, during pipe-laying the laying barge hauls itself along on anchors.

Some of these anchors extend several kilometers from the barge, and it’s therefore imperative that a cleared corridor over five hundred meters wide exists. Because of the presence of massive, house-sized boulders on the seabed beneath us, the route can’t be significantly altered; thus we’ve been saddled with the job of ridding the seas of this potential hazard along with all the others once and for all.”

One of the technicians interrupted with a brief comment and Magne provided the translation.

“The blast will be triggered by our ROV. Solo has just attained its firing position. Though I’m afraid that there won’t be much to see, keep your eyes on the central monitor screen.”

Lawton did just this as Magne returned to the console.

Illuminated by the ROV’s powerful mercury-vapor spotlights, the fiber optic video camera showed nothing but an expanse of grey water. It was just after Magne depressed a circular red button that the screen filled with a swirling vortex of roiling air bubbles. It took several minutes before the agitation settled.

“I’ll move Solo in now,” said Magne as he activated the joystick.

“But I doubt if there will be much left of that mine but an empty crater in the seabed several meters deep.”

Soon the video screen filled with just such a feature and David Lawton said thoughtfully, “That sure beats the hell out of deactivating mines like we did in Nam.

Back then we were still doing it the old-fashioned way — with divers.”

“Two hundred and fifty kilos of TNT can pack a wallop,” said Magne.

“I certainly wouldn’t want to have to go down there and personally deal with such a monster.”

“Tell that to the C.O.” said Lawton with a wink.

Magne smiled and stood to rejoin his guest. Only then did Lawton notice that Magne was wearing the alligator-skin cowboy boots that the Norwegian had bought in Houston the year before.

“I see you still have your boots ” observed the Texan.

“Most comfortable pair of ‘shoes’ I ever owned, David. I almost gave you a call before you left to ask you to bring me another pair.”

“That can be arranged,” said Lawton.

“Do you still have your Stetson?”

The blue-eyed Norwegian shook his head.

“As a matter of fact, I don’t. My oldest boy Karl took a liking to it from the day he met me at the airport. That was the first real cowboy hat he’d ever seen. When he asked me if he could wear it to school the next day, I couldn’t refuse.

Needless to say, that was the last I ever saw of it.” The Norwegian’s warm eyes sparkled.

“Why don’t I give you an update on the family over something to eat.”

Oil field support ships were widely known for the excellent quality of their food, and the Falcon’s galley was no exception. The buffet table displayed a wide variety of both hot and cold delicacies. At Magne’s suggestion, Lawton chose a plate of fresh herring, served with sour cream and chopped onions. For his main course he selected broiled chicken, steamed potatoes, beets, and an apple tart for dessert.

The mess was designed to hold up to one-half of the Falcon’s one hundred person complement at a time. Yet less than a dozen crew members were present as the two sat down at a vacant table near the room’s rear bulkhead.

“I hope you find the food satisfactory, David. The Falcon’s head chef was trained in Paris, although he still can’t duplicate the wonderful chili that was served on your rig. I don’t suppose you would happen to know the recipe.”

“That, my friend, is an official Texas state secret” laughed Lawton as he piled a piece of herring onto a slice of black bread.

“But I’ll tell you what — though I’m not much of a cook myself — when I return to Houston, I’ll see what I can do about getting a copy of Cooky’s famous Rio Grande chili recipe and send it off to you.

Maybe I could even manage to smuggle out a couple of packages of real Texan chili powder.”

As Lawton took a bite of herring, he appreciatively added, “This concoction’s damn tasty itself. When I eat fish back home it’s usually prepared deep fried or blackened with cajun pepper. But I think that I could learn to enjoy this herring. Yes, I think I certainly could.”

“Well, you’ll be having your fill of it during your stay with us,” said Magne as he dug into the Ceaser salad he had selected.

“Herring is a staple part of our diet, and hardly a day goes by without it being served. My wife Anna likes it raw for breakfast. I myself prefer the pickled variety, like the type that you’re eating.”

“Is Anna still teaching?” questioned the Texan between bites of his appetizer.

“She certainly is, David. This is the start of her third year, and she’s just as enthused about those fifth graders others as she was on the day she first began.”

“What ever happened to your oldest boy, Magne? Did he enlist in the Army like he was threatening to do?”

Magne put down his fork.

“Fortunately, Karl listened to the voice of reason and decided on college. A full scholarship to the University of Missouri is not something to pass over on a mere whim. He’ll have plenty of time to serve his country once he graduates and returns home in four years.”

“You must be very proud of him, Magne. What’s the little one been up to?”

The Norwegian grinned.

“Thor is as full of the devil as ever. It’s hard to believe he’ll be graduating secondary school in another year. Where in the hell does time fly?”

“Tell me about it,” said Lawton as he cut into a chicken breast.

“I still find it hard to believe that a whole year has passed since your visit. It seems like it was just the other day that we were out there on the Gulf of Mexico sipping Lone Star longnecks and swapping the stories of our lives.”

Magne nodded.

“What ever happened to your daughter?

Did you hear from her like you were hoping last year?”

There was a hint of bitterness in Lawton’s tone as he answered.

“To tell you the truth Magne, I haven’t.

Though I did hear from one of her close girlfriends that Susan’s doing real well. She’s got her own place in Santa Monica, California, and is studying to get her real estate license. I still think it’s her mother’s fault for her never answering my calls or letters. My ex has filled her with so much poison that she probably thinks I’m a demon of some kind. I should have fought harder for custody from the very beginning.”

Magne sensed he was treading on sensitive ground, and was all set to change the direction of their conversa4S tion, when he was paged over the public address system.

He left his guest to his dinner, and stood up to cross the mess hall and pick up a wall-mounted telephone. He was back to their table in less than a minute, his eyes wide with wonder.

“Solo’s made yet another surprise discovery,” he said without bothering to seat himself.

“Would you care to join me back in the diving control room to have a look?”

Without a second’s hesitation, Lawton put down his knife and fork and stood.

“You’d better believe that I’d like to have a look, partner. Is it another mine?”

“Why don’t you wait and see for yourself, David.

From what my assistant says, neither one of us should be too disappointed.”

There was a deliberate vagueness to this answer that immediately aroused Lawton’s curiosity, and he followed his host out of the galley area and aft toward the Falcon’s stern.

This time when they entered the compartment where the Falcon’s diving operations were monitored they found the room buzzing with excitement. Several jumpsuited technicians stood blocking the central console, as they watched the scene unfolding on the video monitor.

Magne impatiently pushed his way through this crowd, with David Lawton close on his heels.

Once the Texan was past this gawking mass, his eyes went at once to the video monitor. The screen was filled with an immense, elongated black, tubular structure, that he assumed to be a shipwreck of some sort. Slowly the ROV’s camera continued its sweep of the mysterious object, and several distinguishing features showed themselves, causing Lawton’s pulse to quicken.

Illuminated beneath Solo’s floodlights was a rust-streaked hull, whose length was perforated by a number of regularly spaced free-flood holes. Yet only when the Texan viewed the streamlined conning tower that had two dual cannons set into each end, was he certain enough to express himself.

“It’s a German Type XXI U-boat!” he exclaimed.

“During my UDT training, we dove on a similar wreck, that had sunk off the coast of Georgia. No other submarine has a fin with two cannons set into each end like the Type XXI. I’m absolutely positive that’s what we’ve got here, Magne.”

Seemingly oblivious to this spirited revelation, Magne Rystaad calmly questioned the technician seated to his right.

“Tell me, Knut, how did Solo make this discovery? Was it by sonar?”

“It was,” replied his associate.

“We were just completing a visual inspection of the debris field generated by that exploding mine, when the side scanning sonar unit made the first contact. At first I thought it was one of the large boulders we’ve previously seen on the seabed here.

But since our bathymetric chart had no mention of such an object positioned in this quadrant, I decided to eyeball it to get a definite I.D.”

“You did well to do so,” said Magne.

“Yet I wonder why a wreck of this size wasn’t previously uncovered by past survey teams?”

“Perhaps it was hidden beneath the same sediment that veiled that mine you found earlier,” offered the Texan.

“He could be on to something, Magne,” added the technician.

“The seabed in this region is mostly comprised of sand and muddy silt that could have shifted during last week’s gale.”

As the pointed bow of the wreck came into view on the video screen, Lawton said, “If that’s the case, now what?

Can you lay the pipeline around it?”

“No chance,” replied Magne.

“Because of the irregular shape of the neighboring seabed, the new pipeline must pass through this corridor. That means we’ll have to thoroughly salvage this wreck to make absolutely certain it doesn’t contain unexploded ordinance.”

“When will you start?” asked Lawton.

“I’d love to have a look inside her myself.”

Magne grinned.

“Perhaps in exchange for that chili recipe and a new Stetson, I could arrange such a thing.

But before we rush into such a dangerous venture, I feel it’s best if we call in some experts. We’ve got a group of young divers who are specialists in this type of thing.

They call themselves NUEX, for Norwegian Underwater Explorers. Their specialty is military salvage, and no matter the degree of danger or difficulty, if a job can be done, they can do it.

“The last I heard, they were working inland beneath the waters of Lake Tinnsjo. Thor, I want you to get a hold of them. And if they balk at our invitation, don’t forget to remind that group of hardheaded misfits who signs their paychecks. We’ve got a multi-billion dollar job on the line here, and as far as I’m concerned, this project takes precedence over all others, no matter what they may think.”

Approximately 175 miles due west of the Falcon, another group of Norwegians were gathered around a shipborne video monitor, intently watching a picture being conveyed by an ROV. Though not as sophisticated as the system deployed on the full-sized North Sea diving vessel, the fiber optic cables of this smaller, portable unit conveyed a sharp, finely tuned portrayal of the black depths of Norway’s Lake Tinnsjo.

“Are you certain that both mercury-vapor lights are working, Knut? It’s so damn dark down there at 350 meters that I can’t make out a thing.”

These comments came from Jon Huslid, NUEX’s chief underwater photographer. Only in his mid-twenties, the red-headed Bergen native already had a reputation as one of the tops in his field. One of the original co-founders of the group calling themselves the Norwegian Underwater Explorers, Jon was the team’s self-proclaimed spokesman, and was not afraid to step into the role of leader if called upon to do so.

“Both lamps are on, all right,” replied Knut Haugen, who was seated before the ROV’s compact control board with one hand on the joystick.

“I sure wish we had that portable sonar unit. Then we’d know just where the hell we were.”

Knut Haugen was in charge of engineering. A soft spoken native of the Telemark region, he was a mechanical genius who was responsible for the operation and upkeep of their gear. His broad-shouldered, six-foot, four-inch frame was currently squeezed into the small trawler’s forwardmost cabin, the only vacant interior space large enough to hold the assortment of gear needed to run their current operation.

Seated beside Knut was diver Arne Lundstrom. Arne was also from Telemark. He was slightly built, and had a full, bushy beard and dark eyes that lit up with enthusiasm when he talked.

“Try taking her deeper, Knut,” suggested Arne.

“Why, I bet we’re still not even on the bottom as yet.”

Quick to heed this advice, Knut pushed forward on the joystick and watched the digital depth gauge begin to drop further.

“Easy now,” warned Jon Huslid.

“Our last scan showed some pretty sharp rock formations down there, and if we were to smash into one of them, that could be the end of everything.”

To ease the photographer’s anxieties, Knut gently eased back on the joystick and lessened the ROV’s forward velocity to a bare crawl. All eyes were glued to the video monitor, that continued showing nothing but a black, watery void.

“I still say that the wreck of the Hydro doesn’t want to be found,” broke a deep voice from the hatchway.

“No matter how hard we look for the ferry, all of our effort is destined to be in vain.”

The speaker of these pessimistic words was another of NUEX’s young divers. Jakob Helgesen was from the far-off northern city ofTromso, the so-called gateway to the Arctic. Lapp blood flowed in his veins, and it was said that Jakob had inherited the gift of foresight from his maternal grandfather, who was a spirit chief of this nomadic people.

“Don’t start up with that spooky crap again, Jakob,” countered Jon Huslid.

“The Hydro is just another wreck, like the dozens of others we have searched out and salvaged from all over Norway.”

The black-haired Lapp shook his head to the contrary.

“I beg to differ with you, Jon. Don’t tell me that you’ve already forgotten the twenty-six poor souls who went down with the doomed ferry when the saboteur’s charges blew its bow off. The spirits of this lake have veiled the wreck to protect their final resting place.

That’s why no one else has ever succeeded in locating the Hydro” “And NUEX is going to change all that,” said the photographer confidently.

“Besides, we’re not interested in disturbing the wreck itself. All we want to do is find the Hydro’s main cargo.”

“It’s all part of the same,” said Jakob with a sigh.

Jon Huslid turned away from the monitor screen to argue otherwise, when Knut’s excited voice redirected his attention.

“We’ve got something! Right there, on the upper right hand portion of the screen. It looks like it’s part of a boat’s superstructure.”

As he moved the ROV in to have a closer look, the monitor filled with a jumbled mass of twisted, rust-covered steel. Careful to keep the ROV and its umbilical free from this obstacle, Knut expertly guided it forward.

Soon pieces of rotted plank could be seen, along with an elongated tubular structure that Arne Lundstrom eagerly identified.

“It’s one of the Hydro’s dual smokestacks, just like we saw in the old photographs!”

“I believe you’re right, Arne,” said Jon Huslid.

“That means that we’ve done it, lads. After forty-seven years, we’re the first to actually find the wreckage of the Hydro! Now if we can only extract a suitable piece of salvage to document our find.”

Knut nodded.

“You don’t have to say any more, Jon.

When the ferry originally went down, eyewitness reports indicated that before she disappeared from sight, the railroad flatcars that Hydro was carrying broke loose, rolled off the deck, and then sunk straight down. That would put them somewhere close by

As Knut utilized the joystick to initiate an organized sweep of the surrounding seabed, Jon looked up at his dark-haired associate.

“So much for the spirits of the lake, Jakob.”

The Lapp’s scowl magically turned into a broad grin as he stepped forward to offer the group’s photographer his handshake.

“Congratulations, Jon. Some events are just destined to happen, and this discovery is one of them. So once again, NUEX has made the history books.”

“That we have, my friend,” replied the smiling photographer.

“No other human has laid eyes on the Hydro since that February morning back in 1944, when her cracked hull slid beneath these very waters. Now if the fates are still with us, perhaps we can locate that all-important portion of the Hydro’s cargo that precipitated this disaster.”

“I think I saw something, Knut,” interrupted the voice of Arne Lundstrom.

“In the foreground, in the center of the screen.”

All eyes immediately returned to the video monitor as the ROV was sent in to investigate this sighting. Its dual mercury vapor lights cut into the blackness. And when a faint distant glint momentarily flashed onto the screen, Knut needed no prompting to open the throttle wide and cause the ROV to surge forward in a sudden burst of speed.

Seconds later, the screen filled with a image that caused gasps of wonder from the four men. Illuminated by the spotlights was a large steel canister, like the sort industrial chemicals were stored in. It sat upright on a relatively flat subterranean ledge. Cautiously, the ROV closed in, and soon the four awestruck observers spotted a label that had long ago been stenciled on the cannister’s rust-streaked side.

“It’s in English,” said jon

“And it reads, ‘potash lye.”

” “Then it’s not the heavy water after all,” said Arne, a hint of disappointment flavoring his tone.

“Like hell it isn’t,” retorted the excited photographer.

“Forty-seven years ago, when the last of the heavy water was removed from the Norsk Hydro plant for the trip to Germany, it was stored in cannisters marked, ‘potash lye’. We’ve done it, friends! NUEX has found the greatest treasure to be hidden in Norwegian waters since the days of the Vikings!”

A round of shouts and applause was followed by the ever practical voice of Knut Haugen.

“Shall we get on with the actual salvage attempt, gentlemen?”

Though Jon Huslid was more in the mood to break open one of the bottles of aquavit that sat in the adjoining galley, he resisted temptation.

“You may proceed, Knut. Just make certain that the collar is snuggly fitted around the cannister’s base before we inflate it.”

“Come off it, Jon,” replied the straight-faced engineer.

“Do you think I’m an amateur? Don’t forget who it was that perfected this salvage technique.”

The photographer apologetically shook his head and smiled.

“I’m sorry, Knut. It’s just that now that we’re so close to realizing our dream, I don’t want anything to happen to spoil it.”

Knut merely grunted, and went to work utilizing the ROV’s articulated manipulator arm to place a deflated plastic collar around the cannister’s base. Once this device was properly positioned, a pump would be activated topside. Air would be sent rushing down the umbilical, inflating the collar and causing the cannister to attain a state of positive buoyancy, which would send it floating to the surface like a cork.

Confident that Knut could do the job, Jon turned toward Jakob Helgeson.

“How about joining me on deck with your wet suit? You’ll have to go over the side to attach the winch cable.”

“Some fresh air sounds like a good idea,” said the Lapp, who turned and led the way up a narrow wooden ladder.

Both divers arrived topside, where a bright blue, cloudless sky greeted them. The air was brisk and hinted at the long, cold winter that would soon be upon them.

There was a light wind blowing in from the southwest, and the boat that they had rented for the week bobbed up and down in a gentle swell.

With a photographer’s practiced eye, Jon Huslid surveyed the encircling countryside. Lake Tinnsjo was an elongated, sausage-shaped body of fresh water that was over thirty kilometers long and barely three kilometers wide. Situated on the southeastern corner of central Norway’s Hardanger plateau, the lake was set in a deep valley. From its boulder-strewn shores, the surrounding hills rose dramatically upward, to a ridge some thousand meters above sea level. Sturdy pines hugged rocky soil that would never see a farmer’s plow.

They were currently positioned over some of the lake’s deepest waters, approximately one kilometer from the shoreline. Jon knew very well that the saboteurs had planned all along for the ferry to sink in this portion of the lake, for in this manner, the Hydro’s precious cargo would sink to depths that were, at that time, totally un salvageable

He briefly looked to the northwest, where a small spur of the lake extended to the town ofMael. This had been the spot where the rail cars holding the heavy water had been loaded onto the ferry for the short trip to Tinnoset.

Nearby was the village ofRjukan, where the cargo originated at the infamous Norsk Hydro plant. This facility still existed, though its days of manufacturing heavy water were long over. Today it merely generated enough hydroelectric power to feed a plant whose main product was fertilizer.

When first told about NUEX’s intended expedition to Lake Tinnsjo, the townspeople of the region rose in angry protest. Though the war had been over for well over forty years, there were many still alive in the area who had lived through the Nazi occupation. They were very content to forget all about those nightmarish times, and looked at any attempt to salvage the sunken ferry as an intrusion on their privacy.

The members of NUEX had argued that it was their historical duty to find the wreck once and for all. Of course, to convince the state-run organization that sponsored them to support their efforts, another line of reasoning was used. Beyond the historical significance of their expedition was the fact that the Hydro’s cargo was worth a virtual fortune in today’s marketplace. They argued successfully that if the thirty-three drums of heavy water were still intact, that they could subsequently be sold for over five million dollars. The executives at Noroil couldn’t ignore such a figure, and deciding that it was worth the risks involved, gave the project their blessing.

It was in high school when Jon first read about the attack on the Hydro. The incident inflamed his imagination, inspiring him to read other narratives regarding his people’s daring exploits during World War II. Yet because of the significance of the Hydro’s cargo, this mission stood out in importance above all the others. To him it was the crowning point of the Norwegian underground’s undeclared war against the Germans, and could have very possibly saved the entire world from Nazi domination as well.

The key ingredient to manufacturing an atomic bomb was heavy water. A totally harmless compound on its own, heavy water gained importance when it was learned that it was an exceptionally efficient moderator for slowing down neutrons in a uranium pile. This enabled the neutrons to collide with and split up uranium235 atoms, until the reaction would sustain itself and thus make possible an atomic explosion.

What few people realized was that most of the early research into nuclear physics was done in Germany during the 1930’s and early 40’s. In fact, the Germans were only months away from producing a working prototype of a bomb, and had only one major ingredient lacking — heavy water. Since the Norsk Hydro plant was the only facility in the world making that substance at the time, the Nazis decided to occupy Norway with all due haste.

They did so without much difficulty, and every effort was made to produce the great amounts of heavy water needed by German scientists to initiate that first self-sustaining atomic reaction.

By this time the Allies had their own atomic research projects going. Intelligence operatives closely monitored the Nazi effort, and when it looked like they were about to win this critical race, commando teams were sent into Norway to destroy the heavy water stocks before they reached Germany. After several failed attempts ended in tragedy, a group finally succeeded in penetrating the plant and blowing up much of these existing stocks. But the Nazis ordered them replenished, and in early 1944 the final load was packed up in drums, loaded onto a freight car, to be sent off to Germany.

Thanks to a daring operation in which a Norwegian commando team hid a time bomb in the Hydro’s hull, the shipment only made it as far as the bottom of Lake Tinnsjo. The rest was history.

Proud to play a part in the final chapter of this incredible story, Jon Huslid prepared his Nikon for the moment when the first cannister popped to the surface.

Hopefully, it and the others that would follow would still be sealed. His country would then have a liquid treasure on its hands, to do with as it pleased.

Barely aware of the distant chopping sound of a far-off helicopter, Jon’s attention was caught by a deep, familar voice behind him.

“Knut’s got the collar in place, and Arne’s started up the compressor. The drum should be surfacing off our port side, any moment now.”

Jakob Helgesend joined his associate beside the boat’s stern railing. The Lapp was dressed in a full black rubber wet suit, that had NUEX stenciled on its back with bold white letters.

“I’ll go over the side as soon as it shows itself,” he added.

“That way I can make certain the collar is firmly in place when you throw me the winch cable.”

The characteristic clatter of the helicopter seemed to intensify, and Jon briefly scanned the blue sky in an effort to locate it. His examination was cut short by a booming voice that emanated from below deck.

“It’s on its way up!”

The photographer’s pulse quickened as he returned his glance to the waters off their port side. No sooner did he pull off his camera’s len se cap than the surface of the lake erupted in a frothing circle of agitated white bubbles. Just as he snapped off the first picture, the drum responsible for this wake shot out of the depths in which it had been buried and smacked back into the blue waters with a resounding slap.

Without hesitation, Jakob plunged into the icy water to stabilize the cannister. Jon was able to continue his picture taking when Arne arrived topside to handle the winch cable. He was so engrossed in this process that he didn’t even notice the helicopter that was now circling the boat, only a few hundred meters above them.

“What do you make of that chopper, Jon?” asked Arne, who now had to practically scream to be heard.

Only then was Jon aware that they no longer shared this historical moment among themselves.

“Don’t pay attention to it, Arne!” he yelled.

“It’s most likely just a bunch of journalists who are trying to scoop the competition.

We’d better concentrate on getting that line out to

Jakob before we lose our treasure before we even have it” With a mighty heave, Arne hurled the steel cable out into the nearby waters. Jakob had to swim over to reach it. Then began the tedious job of securely wrapping it around the bobbing cannister so that they could finally haul it aboard.

Jakob was well into this task, when the loud amplified voice of a woman boomed out from above.

“Hello NUEX, this is Karl Skollevoll! I’ve got a top-priority dispatch for you from the Chief. Sorry to crash your party, but I’m dropping it down to you now.”

Clearly audible even from the water, this unexpected message caused Jakob to temporarily abandon his efforts and look up into the sky. He watched with astonishment as a familiar orange and white Bell 212 helicopter swept down from the sky and hovered only a few meters above their boat. It was from the main hatch of this vehicle that a small container was lowered on a thin guide wire. Arne was the one who retrieved it, and as he waved the container overhead, the helicopter dipped its nose and, following orders, shot off to land on the nearest shoreline.

Jakob turned back to the drum, and had just completed securing it with the winch cable, when jon could be seen on the boat’s stern madly waving for him to return.

Jakob wasted no time fulfilling this request, climbing back on board to be met by a thick terry cloth towel and the typed dispatch that had just been delivered them. He quickly read it.

“Most urgent that you return at once to the Falcon. This is a top-priority request. Magne Rystaad.”

After hurriedly rereading this message, Jakob handed it back to NUEX’s disappointed chief photographer.

“Do you believe Magne’s rotten timing?” stated Jon disgustedly.

“Maybe if he knows our progress, he’d let us finish up here before returning to the Falcon,” suggested Jakob.

“If the rest of the drums are as easy to locate as this one was, we could have the whole job done in a day at most.”

Jon shook his head.

“Nice thought, but you know the Chief better than that. He wouldn’t send Karl out here for us in the chopper unless he was damn serious.”

By this time Knut had joined them on the stern. A good five inches taller than his coworkers, the team’s engineer read the dispatch and then looked out to the secured drum that now floated off their port beam.

“So this is going to be the end of it, huh?” said Knut.

“And it’s a rotten shame, because while you guys were up here securing that drum, I did a little searching with the ROV. Not ten meters away from where we spotted the first cannister, I found the remains of the flat bed railroad car. And strapped securely on its back is the rest of the shipment, all thirty-two drums!

All I have to do is put together a big enough lifting collar, and I can raise the whole damn thing in a single stroke.”

Jon only needed to deliberate a second before responding.

“Then do it, Knut. Can you manage it alone?”

“It won’t be easy, but I can do it,” replied the giant with confidence.

“I’ve got plenty of trusted family and friends in these hills, and I can always count on them to give me a hand.”

“Then it’s settled,” said the photographer.

“Magne is going to have to be content with only three of us, because this is an opportunity that we just can’t let slip by.

Now are you certain that you can complete the salvage on your own, Knut?”

“I can do it, Jon. And I’ll make certain that those drums are under lock and key the moment I get them on dry land.”

“Excellent,” returned the photographer, while his associates readied the Zodiac raft for the trip to shore.

“God be with you, big fellow. All of our dreams are on your capable shoulders, Knut. We’re counting on you to make NUEX a part of living history.”

The two shook hands, and jon turned for the Zodiac, his palm still smarting from Knut Haugen’s powerful grip.

From the opposite shoreline, hidden in a dense thicket of Norwegian pine, a white-haired old man watched the Zodiac set sail. The veteran’s powerful Zeiss binoculars allowed him a clear view of the three young men who sat inside their grey, rubber raft. The bearded member of this trio positioned himself at the stern and started the Zodiac’s outboard engine. Even though they were over a kilometer distant, the elder could hear the whining growl of the engine as the raft sped off to the nearby shore to rendezvous with the awaiting helicopter.

Returning his line of sight back to the wooden trawler where the Zodiac had originated, he looked on as a single, muscular figure stood beside the boat’s transom.

This blond-haired giant was a bear of a man, who was busy starting up a motorized winch. A taut steel cable extended out into the water from this piece of machinery.

The old-timer had watched breathlessly as the rust-streaked drum shot up from the depths earlier. It floated innocently on the surface now, and was slowly being pulled toward the awaiting ship.

A familiar throbbing pain suddenly coursed down the entire left side of his face, causing the man to flinch and momentarily put down his binoculars. With trembling hands he reached up to gently massage the jagged scar that extended from his temple to his jaw.

For fifty long years, Mikhail Kuznetsov had been forced to live with this ugly reminder of a war that he would never forget. And though plastic surgery had somewhat masked the scarred facial skin, the deep knife wound had caused permanent nerve damage that no physician on earth could ever repair.

Certainly no stranger to physical pain, Mikhail forced himself to take a series of deep, calming breaths and gradually the discomfort dissipated. Only when his hands stopped trembling altogether did he regrip his binoculars. By the time he returned his glance back to the boat, the modern day Viking was in the process of lowering the steel drum onto the deck itself. As he proceeded to unwrap the cable that was still coiled around it, Mikhail noted that the cannister appeared to be intact.

He feared just such a thing, and knew very well that if this drum was still sealed, the others would be as well.

Inwardly cursing, Mikhail’s gut tightened as he considered the grim possibilities. When the trail had originally led to the nearby village ofRjukan one week ago, he got his first hint that his sworn enemy was after the Hydro’s treasured heavy water. They had apparently been drawn to Lake Tinnsjo when it was announced that the group known as the Norwegian Underwater Explorers were about to initiate the first salvage of the sunken ferry.

Mikhail had first heard about heavy water while a prisoner at the BergenBelsen concentration camp. He had been stricken with typhus at the time, and was laid up in the camp’s filthy, overcrowded infirmary, when his emaciated bunkmate introduced himself. As it turned out he was a Jewish physicist from Hamburg, who had been actively involved in Germany’s earliest efforts to split the atom. Though he was to die in less than a week’s time, he was able to share with Mikhail his greatest fear — the Nazis’ perfection of an atomic weapon.

Mikhail had never heard of such a device before, and could only listen in complete horror as the Jew gave him his first elementary lesson in nuclear physics. Time after time, he emphasized the utter importance of heavy water to moderate the fission process. Only when the war was finally over, and Mikhail literally crawled from the camp as one of its few survivors, did he learn how a group of brave Norwegian commandoes had destroyed the Hydro’s cargo of heavy water, which would have made Hitler’s nightmarish dreams of world conquest a reality.

With the war’s conclusion, Mikhail had returned to his homeland a sick, broken man. By the grace of fate, his twin brother Alexander had also survived, and had emerged as a hero in the People’s Navy. Their reunion was a tearful one. As Mikhail’s weakened body gradually regained its strength, he swore to devote the rest of his life to a single cause. So that the Fascist beast would never raise its ugly head again, he would roam the world in search of fledgling Neo-Nazi movements. Only by destroying their ambitions in their infancy could their dreams of a resurrected Third Reich be thwarted.

Mikhail operated under the auspices of the KGB, and even had a small staff at his disposal. Much of his early work took him to South America, where thousands of Hitler’s henchmen fled after the Axis went down in defeat.

It was in the jungles of Paraguay that he first learned of the fascist organization that went by the code name, “Werewolf”. This group was only one of many that Mikhail was attempting to infiltrate. When a photograph arrived on his desk showing Werewolfs supposed leader, Mikhail was shocked to find an unforgettable face staring back at him from a vine-encrusted veranda.

Not even forty years could mask this individual’s cruel gray eyes, highly etched cheekbones, and narrow forehead.

The only feature that was drastically different, was that in place of closely cropped white hair, he now was completely bald.

Like a nightmare come true, here was the very man responsible for not only the scar that still lined Mikhail’s face, but for the emotional scars generated by his incarceration into the living hell of a concentration camp.

After a half decade of tortured dreams and sleepless nights, at long last he was on the trail of former SS Gauleiter Otto Koch!

Like a man possessed, Mikhail dropped all other investigations to concentrate solely on bringing this demon to justice. With the assistance of a top-secret team of specially trained Soviet commandoes, Koch’s plantation was located and penetrated. Unfortunately their man had moved out only hours before and it took another two years of intense, frustrating work to once again come across the trail of this elusive quarry. This time the tracks led to the Telemark region of central Norway, where representatives from Werewolfmade contact with a local right-wing group known as the Nordic Reich’s Party, or NRP for short. Mikhail’s intelligence network was a bit stronger in this part of the world, and it was through a tip from a local KGB informant that he was drawn to the shores of Lake Tinnsjo.

Only two days ago, four members of the NRP were seen in the nearby village of Hakanes. They were accompanied by a pair of tall, blond-haired middle-aged strangers, who were introduced as business associates from abroad. Knowing full well that they were representatives of Werewolf, Mikhail was able to follow them to a mountain hut that lay hidden in the trees of the opposite shoreline, not far from where the orange and white helicopter had just landed. From this vantage point they would have an uncluttered view of the lake, much like his own. This led Mikhail to one shocking conclusion. Werewolf was also after the heavy water, which they hoped to utilize to construct a weapon of such destructive force that even the world’s superpowers would have to stand up and take notice.

Mikhail returned his gaze to the lake. The fair-haired giant could still be seen on the trawler’s stern, securely strapping the drum that he had just extracted from the water to the boat’s deck, while on the opposite shore, the Bell 212 helicopter lifted off into the sky with a grinding roar, its cabin now filled with the three young Norwegians who had arrived here by means of the Zodiac raft.

Wondering where they had been called to, Mikhail Kuznetsov angled his binoculars up into the thicket of ri0 trees that overlooked the clearing where the helicopter had just taken off. Even though the pines effectively veiled the wooden structure that he knew to be hidden here, the seventy-one year old Russian visualized the gloating representatives of his arch nemesis as they also peered down to the lake’s surface, patiently waiting for the rest of the liquid treasure to be brought up from Tinnsjo’s icy depths.