The Golden U-Boat

Chapter Five

To the rousing strains of Greig’s Peer Gynt, the Bell 212 landed on the Falcon’s helipad. Jon Huslid had been seated in the copilot’s position, and made certain to compliment the helicopter’s attractive pilot before joining his teammates in the main cabin.

“That was a wonderful landing, Karl. Are you going to stick around the Falcon for awhile?”

The pilot answered while skimming the cockpit’s instrument panel.

“It doesn’t look that way, Jon.

Since the Chief hasn’t said any differently, it looks like I’ll be returning to Stavanger to get on with the job I was on my way to when they diverted me to Lake Tinnsjo.”

“Well, I hope that we didn’t inconvenience you too much. God knows what Magne’s got in store for us here. Now don’t forget, I still owe you that photo session. Just name the time and place, and I’ll try my best to be there.”

“You’re on, Jon Huslid. I’d like to give my folks a decent portrait of me for the holidays.”

“With a face like yours, it won’t be hard to do,” remarked the grinning photographer. He unbuckled his harness and turned for the main cabin.

Karl Skollevoll was blushing as she watched him exit.

“Good luck, Jon. Don’t let the Chief talk you into doing anything that he wouldn’t do himself.”

NUEX’s co-founder flashed her a thumbs-up as he disappeared into the helicopter’s fuselage. Waiting for him in the main cabin were Jakob Helgesen and Arne Lundstrom. The black-haired Lapp was in the process of reaching for his dive bag, stored in an overhead bin, while his bearded coworker was stretched out on the cabin floor, sound asleep.

“Come on, Arne. Rise and shine,” prompted Jon.

Oblivious to this request, the bearded Telemark native continued his snoring unabated.

“Damn, Jakob. I hope that you didn’t have to put up with this racket all the way from Lake Tinnsjo,” remarked Jon.

The Lapp shook his head and pointed to his ears like he couldn’t hear the photographer’s words. Only then did he reach up and pull out his earplugs.

“You industrious northerners never fail to amaze me,” said Jon, who bent over to shake his sleeping colleague’s shoulder.

“Come on, sleeping beauty.

Snap out of it. We’ve got a job to do.”

This served to do the trick, and Arne groggily stirred and opened his eyes.

“Where the hell are we?” he questioned with a wide yawn.

Jon answered this query by grabbing hold of the cabin door and sliding it backward. A gust of cool, salty air surged inside, while the distant crashing of the North Sea swells against the Falcon’s hull provided an appropriate backdrop.

Jon and Jakob climbed outside onto the helipad, with their groggy coworker slowly bringing up the rear. The rotors of the Bell 212 were still spinning above them, and they instinctively ducked until they were well clear.

No sooner did they step off the helipad when the roar of the chopper’s engines intensified. A deckhand in a silver fire-fighting suit stood alertly beside the foam gun, and Jon Huslid turned to watch the orange and white vehicle take off into the overcast sky.

“Welcome home, NUEX,” broke a deep voice from behind.

Jon pivoted and set his eyes on the rugged face and figure of their diving supervisor, Magne Rystaad.

“Hello, Chief,” replied the photographer.

“It’s good to be back, although if you would have just given us another day or so, we could have brought back one of the greatest treasures to have ever been pulled from Norwegian waters.”

Not paying this remark much attention, Magne surveyed the deck area and inquired, “Where’s Knut?”

Jon inhaled a deep breath and answered.

“He’s back at Lake Tinnsjo, along with the first piece of salvage ever brought up from the ferry, Hydro” His voice betrayed his excitement.

“We’ve got one of the sealed drums, Chief! And if all goes well, Knut will have the other thirty-two up by this time tomorrow.”

This revelation commanded Magne’s full attention.

“You mean to say that you managed to actually locate and begin salvaging the heavy water?

Why, that’s fantastic news, lad! But unfortunately, a matter of even greater importance has come up that requires your immediate attention.”

Stepping to the side, Magne briefly turned his head and beckoned forward a tall, lanky, bearded stranger, who was dressed in orange coveralls. He appeared to be about Magne’s age, and had his same no-nonsense expression.

“Jon, I’d like you to meet David Lawton. David’s a friend of mine from Houston, Texas, who has his own group of oil-service divers to supervise.”

As the two shook hands, Magne continued.

“David was with me in the Falcon’s control room when Solo discovered a hazardous object on the seafloor, one that could very well jeopardize the entire Ice Field’s gas pipeline project.”

“What in the world could possibly block the route of the pipeline?” asked Jon.

“Especially in these waters.

Why, with all the other pipelines that we’ve already placed here, the seafloor west of Utsira has to be one of the most carefully charted areas on the planet.”

“I thought the very same thing,” replied Magne.

“But as all of you know, just when you take the sea for granted, it has a way of surprising you. I learned this lesson once again two days ago, when we chanced upon a World War I mine that was supposed to have been long ago cleared from these waters. David arrived on the Falcon just as we were in the process of detonating the mine.

“It was while Solo was inspecting the aftereffects of this explosion, that we discovered another military relic. This one is from World War II, and is a bit more complicated to get rid of than that mine. 283 meters below the hull of the Falcon, smack in the middle of the new pipeline’s proposed route, is a sunken German U-boat.”

“It’s a Type XXI to be exact,” added David Lawton.

“Such vessels only became part of the German fleet in the latter years of the war, and were the most advanced underwater vessels to have ever sailed beneath the seas in those days.”

Magne nodded.

“David’s our current resident expert in the matter, since as a U.S. Navy SEAL, he actually explored the wreck of a Type XXI that had been sunk off the coast of Georgia.”

Not really too concerned with the nature of this obstacle, Jon Huslid questioned, “Can’t Noroil merely route the pipeline around this U-boat?”

“That’s impossible, lad,” responded Magne.

“Our safety margin on the pipeline’s corridor is only five hundred meters wide. To reach the main pumping facility at Karsto, it has to circumvent the boulder-strewn seafloor on this side of Utsira island, so this route has to be followed exactly. And since the laying barges are forced to haul themselves along on anchors, we have to make absolutely certain that there is no unexploded ordinance inside that sub’s hull” “Then I guess that’s why we’re here,” remarked Jon matter-of-factly.

“When do we get started?”

Magne looked at his watch.

“The bell will be ready to go in another ten minutes. Since you left Knute behind, I hope you won’t mind taking along David in his place.”

The photographer didn’t like the idea at all.

“With no offense meant toward Mr. Lawton, we’re a team, and NUEX works best by itself. The three of us can manage very well on our own.”

Magne briefly caught the Texan’s glance before replying to this.

“I understand, Jon. But I’d feel much better with four divers down there. This will be a bounce dive, so one of you is going to have to remain behind in the bell. The rest of you will only have an hour to get into that sub and give it a complete once over. I seriously doubt that two of you can do it. Since David’s already familiar with this class of U-boat, and has almost more hours at that depth than all three of you combined, I’d appreciate it if you’d make an exception in this instance.”

Knowing very well that this was as close as Magne would ever come to actually coming out and ordering them to take along the stranger, Jon looked to his teammates for support. Arne didn’t appear to be too concerned one way or the other.

And when Jakob merely shrugged his shoulders, Jon reluctantly gave in.

“Very well, you can come along, Mr. Lawton. But please, no show boating

The Texan looked to his host, and stifling a grin, responded to this request.

“You don’t have to worry about any such behavior from me, young man. And by the way, I want all of you to just call me David.

I’ve been in this game for more years than I’d like to remember, and I’ve got nothing to prove but my desire to stay alive.”

Jon looked to Magne.

“Then let’s do it, Chief. We’re going to need an assortment of tools to pry open those hatches, and some of those new mercury vapor torches to light our way once we get inside.”

Magne explained just what equipment had already been reserved for them as he led the team of divers below deck. Taking up the rear of this group, David Lawton anxiously awaited his first bell dive in the North Sea. His host had previously briefed him on his diving companions’ backgrounds. As an outsider, David was anticipating some resistance, and true to form, the red-headed photographer expressed it. Yet this was a natural reaction. NUEX had been together as a team for over five years now, and it would have been totally out of character for them to welcome a stranger into their ranks with open arms.

Formed originally as a social club, the Norwegian Underwater Explorers grew from a bunch of teenagers with a shared love of diving, to a moneymaking organization with a long list of projects to choose from. Magne had explained how the missing member of the group, Knut Haugen, had inherited his father’s dive shop in Oslo. His friend from the Telemark region, Arne Lundstrom, was called in to give him a hand running the business. Their future teammates, Jon Huslid and Jakob Helgesen, were customers, and it was in this way that they met and planned their first dives together.

Jon’s love of photography inspired Knut to design several watertight housings for his camera equipment.

The first underwater photos he took were just for fun, but all this changed when a picture he snapped of a sunken German fighter plane won first place in a nationwide photo competition. Fiber optics and ROV’s were not yet readily available in those days, and Jon was asked to initiate a photographic inspection of a newly installed North Sea oil platform. He brought along his teammates for help, and together they successfully completed their first professional dive job.

The Norwegian oil-service business was a tight-knit group, and when it was learned that NUEX provided excellent, dependable work for a reasonable cost, other jobs followed. Many of these assignments took them to a depth of three hundred meters, the maximum their current technology safely allowed. They accepted these jobs without hesitation, and were not afraid to go through the long hours of decompression that such depths necessitated.

Magne hired them to do a hull inspection of one of Noroil’s many diving ships. He was satisfied with their work, saw their potential, and offered them a full-time job. They only agreed to sign on when they were told that their first assignment would be to document in pictures the wreck of the German heavy cruiser Bleche, that sunk in Oslo fjord in the opening days of World War II. The Bleche still held the corpses of over fifteen hundred men, and its rusted fuel tanks were beginning to leak oil into the pristine waters of the fjord. Noroil was called in to see what could be done about stopping this flow of pollutants.

The resulting dive made international headlines.

The pictures were excellent and made many a front page newspaper and magazine cover worldwide. Because of this notoriety, and the excellent publicity it generated for Noroil, it was agreed that NUEX would be called in whenever a difficult salvage job presented itself.

Magne had also explained to David the nature of NUEX’s current project in Lake Tinnsjo. The exploration of the Hydro sounded like an exciting adventure that took on additional dimensions when the heavy water was taken into consideration.

Though Magne hated to call them away from this historic task, he had no choice in the matter. Hopefully, after a quick inspection of the submarine, the route could be cleared and the pipeline survey continued.

Then NUEX would have plenty of time to return to Lake Tinnsjo and complete their work there.

Curious himself as to the condition of the ferry’s special cargo after all these years, Lawton followed the team into that portion of the Falcon where the diving bells were stored. There were few words spoken as several attendants helped them into their heavy, black latex diving suits. Because these suits would not keep them absolutely dry, and since the water temperature at 283 meters was near freezing, hot water would be pumped into a network of tubes that lined the suit’s interior, conveyed by a rubber hose that made up part of their individual umbilicals.

Also included in this lifeline to the ship above was the tube that carried their breathing gases, and that which allowed their communication topside.

The diving bell that would convey them to the seafloor was an oblong, cylindrically shaped object that was painted bright yellow. It had an assortment of ballast tanks and air capsules welded onto its outside skin. And as Lawton was soon to learn, it was just spacious enough inside to allow the four of them room to stand upright, shoulder to shoulder.

“You’ll be breathing a 96 % helium to 4 % oxygen mixture,” instructed Magne.

“Of course, as during any bounce dive, the bell will be lowered and only then pressurized to your working depth. Once the lower hatch falls open signalling that the proper pressure has been attained, you’ll have sixty minutes to get into that submarine and see what it’s carrying.

I suggest heading right for the sub’s forward torpedo room to determine its weapon’s load.”

“What about its aft tubes?” quizzed Jakob.

“It doesn’t have any,” answered Lawton.

“The Type XXI is equipped with six bow tubes only.

Thus all of its ordinance, whether it be torpedoes or mines, should be found in the forward portion of the boat.”

Satisfied that their suits were properly fitted, Magne pointed toward the awaiting bell.

“I’ll be in constant contact with you at the diving console. At all times keep me updated on your positions, and don’t take any unnecessary chances. If the vessel doesn’t look right to you, get the hell back up here and we’ll figure out another way to attack the problem.”

As the members of NUEX solemly climbed into the bell, Magne took his special guest aside.

“And that warning goes especially to you, David. I want you around so that I can collect on that chili recipe and Stetson that you’re going to owe me after this dive.”

“Don’t worry, partner. As long as the gear holds up, it should be a piece of cake.”

“Be gentle with my boys,” added the veteran diver as he guided the Texan into the bell.

Lawton squeezed himself inside and listened as the hatch was tightly sealed behind him. He was able to lean back on a narrow ledge, and listened as the winch mechanism activated. The bell was then swung over the open moon pool and unceremoniously dumped into the gray waters below.

As they initiated their descent, Jakob Helgesen pulled out a Sorry Walkman cassette player. The Lapp then clipped on a set of headphones, adjusted the Walkman’s volume control, punched its “on” button, and proceeded to close his eyes.

“Odds are that Jakob’s listening to Pink Floyd’s, A Momentary Lapse of Reason,” offered Jon.

“Lately, he never goes to depth without it.”

“When I’m in the chamber, I like plenty of old-fashioned jazz,” revealed Lawton.

“Have any of you ever heard Aker Bilk blow the licorice stick?”

Neither Jon nor Arne had any idea what the Texan was talking about, and shook their heads to express this fact. David Lawton smiled.

“Too bad. Old Aker and his Strangers on the Shore has gotten me through many a nasty decompression.

And there’s the Professor of Brass himself, Dizzy Gillespie. That man can hit notes that even the angels in heaven can’t reach.”

A bit doubtful as to the sanity of this lanky American, both Norwegians seemed relieved when Magne’s steady voice broke from the bell’s p. a. speakers.

“Hello, gentlemen. You’re presently breaking the fifty meter threshold. How do you read me?”

“Loud and clear, Chief,” answered Jon.

“And how are you doing, David?” added the voice of Magne.

“It’s a walk in the park,” replied Lawton.

“You know, I forgot to ask you, Magne, but what do you have planned to keep me occupied during decompression?”

The supervisor of Noroil’s diving operations hesitated a moment before responding.

“You’ll have to give me some time to work on that, David. I’ll spread the word and see what the crew is holding in the way of English books and magazines.”

“I appreciate that, partner. And if any of the crew has any jazz tapes, send them along, too. It’s time my fellow divers down here got a dose of some real music.”

“I copy that, David. I’ll do my best. You’re presently breaking one hundred meters.”

Lawton yawned wide to clear his blocked eardrums.

Other than the alien pressure in his ears, there were no other physical symptoms of the great depth that they had already attained.

“What kind of depths were you working with during the job that you left for this one?” asked Lawton in an attempt to break the ice.

“Our initial sonar contact with the sunken ferry was at 415 meters,” answered Jon.

“So needless to say, we were able to keep our feet dry for most of the project, and let our ROV do all the work for us.

“How did we ever do it without those ever-loving ROV’s?” reflected the Texan.

“Our teammate, Knut, who’s the technical genius of NUEX, says that in a few years, with all the electronic advances in robotics we’re seeing, that human divers won’t even be needed anymore” offered Arne.

“I seriously doubt that,” said Lawton.

“But I must admit that we’ve got ROV’s doing things that we never dreamed possible just a couple of years ago.”

“You’re breaking 150 meters,” observed the calm voice of Magne from above.

“Continuing pressurization.”

After clamping shut his nostrils and blowing out hard to clear his ears, Lawton added, “Of course, when I started in this business, just a dive to our current depth would have been unthinkable. So who knows, maybe ROV’s will progress to such a stage that the really deep, dangerous work can be handled solely by the machines. Though as far as I’m concerned, nothing will ever beat having a real live diver on the job.”

“I’m with you, David,” broke the voice of Magne.

“You’re all starting to sound like a bunch of ducks.

Approaching two hundred meters.”

Magne was referring to one of the aftereffects of breathing almost pure helium, the phenomenon known in the diving industry as “Donald Duck” voice. Inside the bell, the four divers weren’t aware that they sounded any different than normal, and instead found their main concern being to keep the pressure on their eardrums equalized.

At 250 meters, Lawton found it a bit more difficult to catch his breath. But like someone who lives in a mountainous region, his lungs soon became adjusted to the new gas mixture, one quite different than that found at sea level.

“You’re at target depth,” said Magne as the bell gently jerked to a halt.

“Initiating final pressurization”

For one last time the divers were forced to equalize the pressure on their eardrums. By the time this task was completed, the bottom hatch popped open, signalling that the pressure inside the bell was the same as that outside.

At this point, Jakob neatly stashed away his Walkman and began gathering his diving equipment.

Both David Lawton and Jon Huslid also reached for the tools of their dangerous trade. Their bell man helped each one make the final adjustments to their masks, which entirely covered their faces. Arne would remain inside, with his own gear close by ready to leave the bell should one of the others need his assistance.

“Getting ready to leave the bell,” said Jon, his mouth now covered by his mask.

Magne’s tinny voice broke from the mask’s small recessed speakers.

“I read you. You now have sixty minutes and counting to complete your work and get back to the bell.”

With his umbilical held carefully in his right hand, Jon climbed down through the hatchway. Before leaving the bell altogether, he put on his fins, switched on his mercury-vapor torch, and grabbed the canvas sack full of tools that Arne handed him.

As Jon swam free, Jakob followed, with David Lawton once again bringing up the rear.

The Texan was genuinely excited to be back at work again. The hot water that circulated throughout his suit effectively countered the frigid cold of this depth, and since hypothermia could kill a man just as quickly as a poor breathing mixture could, he was especially careful with his umbilical. Only when he was absolutely certain that it was playing out smoothly did he begin swimming away from the bell with speed.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to go far. His teammates’ torches lit the black waters like a flare, and as he swam up to join them, he spotted the immense gray hull of the vessel that they had been sent down to investigate. Lurking in the blackness, like a monstrous behemoth, the U-boat almost appeared imbued with life itself. Only when they swam in closer did he spot the vessel’s rust-streaked hull and saw for certain that this object was manmade after all.

“We have the target in sight, Chief,” reported Jon.

“It appears to have settled upright on its hull, and looks to be listing a few degrees to its port side.”

“Excellent,” replied the distant voice of Magne.

“See about finding those hatches set into the base of its sail.”

“Will do, Chief,” said Jon, who swam forward almost immediately.

The two Norwegians were strong swimmers, and it took Lawton’s total effort to keep up with them.

He slowed down as he reached the sub’s hull. It appeared to be intact, and he could still make out the dozens of free-Hood holes that allowed such vessels to go from the surface to periscope depth in an unprecedented ten seconds.

It was as he reached the aft end of the sail, that a bright strobe lit the blackness forward. When this blindingly bright light repeated itself, Lawton closed in to see what it was all about. What he found in the waters ahead of him caused goosebumps to form under the black wet suit.

Positioned beside the forward portion of the conning tower, Jon Huslid had a small waterproof camera aimed toward the sail itself. As Lawton reached the photographer’s side, he turned toward the sub to see what the Norwegian found so interesting. What the Texan saw caused him to momentarily gasp, for still visible in white paint on the rust-covered steel plates was the sub’s identification number — U-3312.

“We know the old wolfs name now,” observed the photographer.

“It’s U-3312” “Got it,” replied Magne.

“While you see about getting inside, I’ll get the fellows at the Naval Ministry started on pulling up its history. You’ve got fifty-one minutes to go, gentlemen.”

Immediately below the I.D. number, Jakob could be seen struggling to open the hatch that was set into the sail’s base. While his teammate went to his aid with a crowbar, Lawton decided to give the hatch on the after end of the sail a try. The last time he had explored such a vessel was off the coast of Georgia, this same hatch had provided him an entryway, so he wasn’t really shocked when he gripped its circular iron handle and found it give with the slightest of efforts. The doorway opened in122 ward, and only after Lawton peeked into the flooded sail’s interior and spotted a clear ladder leading downward, did he go to retrieve his fellow divers.

The Norwegians were still gathered around the forward hatchway, stubbornly straining on its jammed handle with a pair of crowbars, when he arrived.

“Put down those crowbars and follow me,” instructed the Texan.

“Excuse me, Sir,” countered Jon Huslid.

“But we’re just starting to make some progress here.”

“Do what you like,” shot back Lawton.

“But if you want me, I’ll most likely be found in the sub’s control room, that I’ll be accessing through the open hatchway positioned ten meters behind you.”

Not waiting to give them a chance to respond to this revelation, Lawton swam off to do just as he said. No sooner did he reach the open hatch, than a pair of lights could be seen rapidly approaching from the sub’s forward end.

“We’ll I’ll be damned, Jon,” observed Jakob as he spotted this entrance.

The photographer swam by David Lawton and skeptically peeked inside.

“It looks clear, alright,” he said.

“Let’s give it a shot. Watch those umbilicals, Jakob. I’m going in.”

The Texan reported their movements to the surface.

“We’re proceeding to enter U-3312 through its sail-mounted aft, starboard hatchway.”

“I read you,” replied Magne.

“Good hunting.

You’ve got forty-seven and a half minutes and counting.”

Lawton signalled Jakob to go on and enter the sail. The Norwegian did so readily. Lawton made certain that their umbilicals were clear before entering the hatchway himself.

It was eerie as he carefully swam down the length of the well and emerged into the vessel’s control room. The curious Norwegians had already begun their inspection of this space, and Lawton did his best to carefully scan the compartment with the limited light available to him.

The cold water had kept most of the fittings in a fairly decent state of preservation. He swam by the diving station, and was able to identify the assortment of large brass wheels that would be turned to adjust the U-boat’s trim. Nearby he found the remnants of a cracked gyro-compass, and a compact, barnacle-laden table that he supposed was reserved for the navigator’s charts. A closed bin lay beneath this table, and curious as to what lay inside, Lawton bent over to have a look.

He laid his torch on the deck and grabbed the bin’s handles. When they didn’t give at first, he put his foot up against the adjoining bulkhead, and using his back for leverage, yanked backward with all his might. The doors parted, and out shot a black creature with a slimy narrow body, bright yellow eyes, and massive, snapping jaws. His pulse pounding in terror, Lawton blindly dove to his left, causing the giant eel’s slithering body to smack up against his side and then dart off into the blackness.

He was still trying hard to regain his composure, when he heard one of the Norwegians cry out in disgust.

“Oh, for the love of God, just look at what’s left of that poor fellow!”

His curiosity now fully satisfied, Lawton backed away from the open bin and swam toward the flickering lights at the center of the compartment. Both of the Norwegians were gathered there, their torches illuminating the skeletoned figure of a man, who was still dressed in a ragged black uniform complete with a white hat, draped over what appeared to be the partially deployed periscope.

“Looks like he died right at his station,” observed one of the Norwegians somberly.

Lawton felt a heavy lump gathering at the back of his throat as he pulled his glance away from this macabre scene.

“Come on, lads. We’d better be moving now,” he managed.

This time he led the way to the forward hatchway.

He found it jammed shut. While Jakob utilized a crowbar to free it, the central portion of the control room flashed with a photographer’s strobe.

Soon after this strobe faded, Jon joined them at the stuck hatch, and with their combined strength, they finally succeeded in wrenching it open.

A long, narrow passageway led to the boat’s forward spaces. With no time left to explore the various spaces that bordered this corridor, they continued on toward the sub’s bow, stopping only when they came to another closed hatch.

“This should be the entrance to the torpedo room,” remarked Lawton.

“Make certain that those umbilicals have plenty of slack in them while I give the hatch a try.”

Using a crowbar, the Texan managed to turn the circular locking mechanism, which opened with a loud, rusty squeal. His pulse quickened as he pulled the hatch toward him and swam into the spacious compartment that lay beyond.

While he circled this cavernous space with his light held up before him, Lawton listened as one of the Norwegians sent a report topside.

“We’ve entered what appears to be the forward torpedo room, Chief. But strange as it may seem, there doesn’t appear to be anything in it. The whole room looks like it’s been stripped bare.”

“Why that’s impossible,” returned Magne.

“Are you certain you’re in the right space?”

“It’s the torpedo room alright,” said Lawton.

“I just passed its six bow caps. But the compartment does appear to be completely empty.”

“Get a load of this, Jon!” interrupted Jakob.

“What in the hell?”

“You’re down to less than a half hour, gentlemen.

It’s time to clear out of there and return to the bell” warned their conscience from above.

Totally ignoring this advice, the three divers gathered on the port side of the compartment, where the Lapp had just made a puzzling discovery. Cut into the side bulkhead was a neatly cut rectangular hole that extended all the way through both hulls and led directly into the open sea.

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Jakob.

“It looks like this cut is recent, and it appears just wide enough to fit a single diver.”

“Did you hear me, gentlemen?” repeated the sharp voice of Magne.

“I said that it’s time to return to the bell! Do you copy that?”

“Magne, this is David. We hear you all right, and we’ll return to the bell in a minute. But in the meantime, just hold onto your horses a second.

We’ll be getting back to you right shortly.”

Without waiting for Magne to respond, the Texan made certain that he had plenty of slack in his umbilical before fitting his head and shoulders up against the mysterious opening. Seeing that he could just clear it with a couple of inches to spare, he kicked himself forward and entered the void that lay between the sub’s inner pressure hull and its outer skin.

“David, I want you out of there right now!” screamed Magne urgently.

“Jon, Jakob, what the hell is going on down there? Either get back to the bell, or I’m going to have to send Arne in to carry you back by force!”

Oblivious to this threat, the two Norwegians followed the American’s lead, with Jakob going into the hole first. Instead of heading right for the outer skin of the vessel, the Lapp plunged down into the black space that separated the two hulls. It was easily wide enough to fit two divers, and Jakob knew that somewhere down here was stored the sub’s ballast tanks. With his mercury-vapor torch held out in front of him, he continued downward toward the keel, as the infuriated voice of his boss rattled forth from his mask mounted speakers.

“Arne, I want you to suit up right now. Then get out there and pull those guys up out of there if you have to.”

It was obvious that Magne was furious, and before Arne was forced to needlessly leave the shelter of the bell, David Lawton responded.

“Hold on, partner. I’ve seen what I had to see, and now we’re headed on back to the ranch. Keep dry, Arne. We’re comin’ home.”

Both David Lawton and Jon Huslid returned through the hole that they had swum through and reentered the empty torpedo room. Yet one umbilical still remained on the other side of the opening, and the photographer was quick to speak out.

“Come on, Jakob! What the hell’s keeping you?”

Mysteriously drawn to the black void that continued beckoning him onward, the Lapp ignored the call of his colleague. Only one thing mattered now, and that was reaching the bottom of this manmade pit, where no diver before him had ever penetrated.

It was just as his torch illuminated the flat keel of the boat, and he prepared to turn upward, a glittering reflection shot up from out of the blackness.

It appeared to have emanated from a portion of the keel only a few meters distant, and Jakob reached out into the void with his torch.

Then he saw it. About the size of a large brick, it looked to be comprised of a golden, metallic substance, and had a pair of familiar eagle-like creatures engraved on its surface. He reached for it and found it to be incredibly heavy. Swiftly he turned to join his companions for the long decompression that would soon follow.

It took Knut Haugen an entire day to locate an inflatable collar large enough to lift the entire rail car from the lake bed. He did so at a deep-sea salvage firm that was based out of nearby Konigberg.

While the collar was being expressed out to him, he got on with the task of finding some trustworthy assistants.

He recruited a cousin that was working part-time on the construction of a new hydroelectric plant outside of Eidsborg, and an old friend, who lived in the village of Heddal.

A major concern was where the heavy water would be stored once it had been extracted. The thirty-three drums promised to take up a lot of space, and Knut finally settled on a partially empty warehouse that was owned by a Hakanes-based lumber company. Though he would have preferred to find a more secure location, the building was close to the salvage site, and since the heavy water wouldn’t be there long, he supposed that it would do.

Ever practical, Knut made certain that the logistical problem of transferring the containers to the warehouse was solved long before the drums reached the lake’s surface, by renting a flatbed truck, a dozen wooden pallets, and a small forklift.

All of this equipment arrived on the same morning that the salvage collar reached him. This unique piece of gear weighed several hundred kilos, and took the combined efforts of both his muscular assistants to get it loaded onto the trawler.

By the time he returned to the site of the wreck, the excellent weather that had prevailed began turning for the worse. A stiff northerly wind was beginning to blow, and the once cloudless sky was gray and overcast. Fearful that the weather would only continue to deteriorate, Knut decided to go on with the attempt regardless.

A previously placed sonar transponder guided the ROV down to the sunken rail car The heavy collar was rolled overboard, and as it sank it was guided down to its proper resting place by the ROV, until it was securely tucked beneath the wreckage. Knut started up the air compressor, and a steady stream of air was pumped via an umbilical down into the icy depths. As the collar began to fill, slowly the rail car began to lift.

To insure that it rose on an even keel, he expertly utilized the ROV to insure that the partially inflated collar was evenly distributed. It took several long, frustrating hours to accomplish this task, and as he was nearly finished, a cold rain had begun to fall topside. Trying his best to ignore the worsening weather, he restarted the compressor and anxiously waited for this novel salvage technique to show the desired results.

It seemed to take forever for the collar to fully inflate, but when it finally did, the results were quick in coming. Rushing from the ROV’s control board in the trawler’s cramped, forward cabin, Knut reached the boat’s stern just as an agitated circle of white bubbles in the water beyond signalled the treasure’s imminent arrival. He looked on in wonder as the rail car shot onto the surface at a slight angle, its bent, rust-streaked frame completely surrounded by the fully inflated collar. Knut barely had time to count the thirty-two sealed drums that lay securely strapped to the car’s interior as he slipped into a wet suit and dove overboard to secure the collar with a winch-borne tow line.

The darkening sky didn’t really open up until the trawler was well on its way back to shore, but by this time, Knut really didn’t care. Ignoring the icy gale, he pulled up to the small wooden dock and screamed out in triumph. Yet his celebration was. brief, for he still had to get the heavy water unloaded onto solid land.

Though he had planned to immediately transfer the drums to the warehouse, the rotten weather and advancing dusk kept him from accomplishing this goal. It was all they could do to get the containers out of their bobbing raft and onto the dock before darkness was upon them.

Knut and his exhausted assistants decided to spend the night on the trawler. His original intention was that they would sleep in shifts, so that one of them would always remain awake to watch their treasure. Yet this was not to be, for Knut fell soundly asleep on the very first watch.

He awoke with a start several hours later, shocked to find the shiny barrel of a pistol pointed at his head.

“Don’t try anything brave, Viking,” warned a strangely accented voice from the darkness.

“What in the hell is going on here?” quizzed Knut as he started to sit up.

The cold, hard side of the pistol smacked into his jaw, sending him crashing onto his cot.

“Now, not another move out of you. Viking!” shouted his mysterious attacker.

“Or I’ll use this weapon like it was intended.”

Certain that he meant it, Knut dared not flinch.

As a stream of blood poured from a broken blood vessel in his nose, Knut summoned the nerve to question.

“Where are my crew mates?”

With his face and figure still hidden in the cabin’s dark shadows, the intruder answered.

“The lads are merely giving us a hand completing the job that you did not finish earlier today.”

Only then did Knut hear the characteristic whine of a forklift truck in the background, beyond the pattering sound off the constantly falling rain.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” blurted Knut.

“You don’t really think that you can get away with stealing that heavy water, do you?”

“Who said anything about stealing it?” returned the icy voice.

“We’re only taking back what was rightfully ours in the first place.”

Out of sheer desperation, Knut violently kicked up his foot in an effort to dislodge the pistol, but the stranger had been expecting just such a move and parried this blow with his forearm. Again Knut tried to sit up, and this time the solid butt of the pistol smacked into his temple. As the diver tumbled backward, unconscious, his attacker cursed in perfect German.

“You stupid swine! May your dreams last an eternity, Viking!”

From the thick wood of Norwegian pine that bordered the dock area, Mikhail Kuznetsov watched the tall blond stranger leave the trawler. Even through the sheets of pouring rain, the scarred veteran could see the chrome Luger that this figure carried in his right hand.

“The other one is taken care of,” said the stranger in German to his coworkers.

“But hurry all the same. I want to be on our way long before dawn.”

His colleagues were hard at work loading the recently salvaged drums onto a flatbed truck. There were five of them, together with the two unnerved Norwegians, who had been pulled from the trawler and forced at gunpoint to do the majority of the heavy labor.

Mikhail recognized four of the thieves as being from the local chapter of the Nordic Reichs Party.

They readily took orders from the two blond-haired figures that accompanied them. These were the ones in which Mikhail had the greatest interest, for they would unknowingly lead him to the lair of his arch-nemesis. Only then would Mikhail move in, to wipe from the face of the earth the Neo-Nazi organization known as Werewolf.

A gust of rain and wind hit him full in the face, and as Mikhail wiped his eyes dry, he briefly massaged his throbbing scar. One step closer to finally bringing to justice the demon responsible for this wound, Mikhail anxiously readied himself for the next stage of his lifelong quest. For the place these thirty-three drums of heavy water were ultimately destined would be the place where he’d find Otto Koch, and destroy forever his twisted dreams of a reborn Reich.