Crossfire

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  PROLOGUE

  BOOK ONE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  BOOK TWO

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  BOOK THREE

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  BOOK FOUR

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  Also by

  Copyright Page

  This book is for my mother, Katherine Sampson, who has always sung my praises, and for Laurie, who has always been my praise.

  PROLOGUE

  MARCH 6, 1945

  GOLFO SAN MATÍAS, ARGENTINA

  THE SUBMARINE WAS NEARLY SILENT and mostly in darkness because her batteries were low. A short, wiry man, dressed in black leather trousers and a heavy white turtleneck sweater, stepped through an oval hatchway into an after storage compartment between the diesels and rear torpedo room. He stopped and held his breath to listen. He was certain he had heard something. Metal against metal, a scraping noise somewhere below. Between the deck and the tanks.

  For several long seconds he remained where he was, listening, but the sounds did not come again. His imagination? They were all tired, strung out, nervous. It was the end now, and everyone on the crew understood what that meant. It was finally getting to them.

  Captain Ernst Reiker continued through the compartment, his soft-soled boots making no sound on the grillwork of the deck. The torpedo room hatch was partially closed. He pushed it open on its well-oiled hinges and looked inside. The compartment was barely lit by a single dim red bulb over one of the torpedo tubes. The air stank of unwashed bodies and machine oil, laced with the alcohol used as propellant for the torpedoes.

  The four men housed back there were all asleep in their hammocks, suspended over the stored torpedoes. One of them snored softly. They were good men—boys, actually. Several of them, in his shorthanded crew of thirty-nine men and officers, had hardly begun to shave. It was a shame, because none of them would see the fatherland again. The war was over. Germany had lost. Once they ditched the boat and went ashore, they would have to remain on Argentine soil. There wouldn’t be many other places in the world where, as Nazis, they would be accepted.

  More’s the pity, he thought; in the short time they’d been together as a crew, he’d come to admire them for their naive trust in him and for their tenacity under difficult conditions.

  He took one last look, then turned and retraced his steps through the engineering spaces. It was very late, time to get some sleep himself now that his daily inspection tour was completed. Yet he doubted that he would be able to shut down his brain as easily as had his teenaged crewmen.

  Reiker, at forty-four, was old for the German submarine service. Most of his peers had either died in the war or had been promoted to command fleets or battle groups from desks in Berlin or Bremerhaven. But he’d been turned down for such promotions because of something in his past, in his background. It was something he’d always denied, but it was no use. He’d gone as far as he could possibly go. Much farther than he should have.

  All along he had known, of course, that there would be no honor for him at the end, though, ironically, his last orders to bring the submarine across a hostile sea had been loaded with words such as devotion to the fatherland, honor, heroism. But this time there would be no medals to be had. No marching bands. No cheering crowds at the docks. And he’d known it.

  But he was a German officer, bound by his oath to the Führer to continue even though the war was over. There were no more battles on the North Atlantic to be fought, nor was there anywhere for him to take his boat and crew. No home port.

  So many buts, he thought as he stepped through the hatch into the red-lit control room. So many ifs. So many questions … with no answers.

  “Captain on the conn,” his second officer, Lieutenant (jg) Lötti Zigler announced. The sonarman, helmsman, and diving officer all came briefly to attention.

  “At ease,” Reiker said tiredly. “Anything yet?”

  “No, sir,” Zigler said.

  “Where’s Dieter?”

  “At the periscope.”

  Reiker crossed to the ladder and peered up into the attack center. His first officer, Lieutenant Dieter Schey, his cap on backward, was hunched over the handles of the periscope.

  “See anything, Dieter?” Reiker called. He was too tired to climb up and look for himself.

  Schey, who was only a few years younger than Reiker but looked about twenty-five, turned away from the eyepiece and shook his head. The hair on his head was blond, but his beard had come out medium brown. “Nothing. No lights, no movement … in the bay or ashore. We might as well be parked at a desert island.”

  Reiker looked over at the nav station where a stool had been set up for their one passenger, RSHA Major Walther Roebling, who had come aboard with their cargo. He had brought with him a letter signed by the high command, giving him and the Reichssicherheitshauptamt—the Reich Central Security Office —complete authority over the submarine and her crew. The secret service officer had spent nearly all of his waking hours perched on the stool, watching the control room crew at work, and tracking their position across the North Atlantic and then south across the equator. He wasn’t in his customary position now.

  “Where is he?” Reiker asked Zigler.

  “He hasn’t been here all night, Captain. Not since dinner.”

  “Ernst, let’s put up the snorkel and run the diesels,” Schey called from above. “No one will hear us, and we need the electrical power.”

  “Just a moment,” Reiker said. Something was nagging at him. Something was wrong. He could feel it. Something about the major.

  “Call his quarters,” Reiker told his second officer.

  Zigler picked up the interphone and punched the proper number. After a half minute he looked around and shook his head. “He doesn’t answer. Shall I go check?”

  Reiker reached up and hit the comms button. “Major Roebling to the control center. Major Roebling to the conn, please.”

  He turned again to Zigler. “If he isn’t here within sixty secon
ds, I want the boat searched for him.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Reiker climbed up into the cramped attack center and took Schey’s place at the periscope. At first he couldn’t make out much of anything. But gradually he began to distinguish between the dark shoreline and the even darker water. There was no moon tonight, and the sky was partially covered with clouds. He was able to see an occasional white line of surf breaking on the narrow, rocky beach, but nothing else. His first officer was correct. There were no lights, no signs of any human activity whatsoever, toward land or out to sea.

  “What’s with our little spy?” Schey asked softly at Reiker’s elbow.

  “This is our supposed rendezvous point, Dieter,” Reiker said, making a second 360-degree sweep. “For twenty-four hours we have remained at periscope depth, waiting for someone to show up. Still nothing.”

  “Maybe they were delayed.”

  Reiker looked away from the eyepiece.

  “No one thought it would end so soon,” Schey said. He shrugged. “So badly, for us, that is.”

  “Why isn’t he up here, Dieter? Why hasn’t he ordered a party ashore to find out what has happened?”

  “His orders …”

  “His real plan, perhaps,” Reiker murmured. Most of the mysterious cargo they’d taken on at Bremen was stored beneath the deck plates in the after storage compartments where he thought he’d heard the noise.

  “You think the little bastard is up to something?” Schey asked.

  “I think I would like to ask him that. Tonight.”

  Schey nodded grimly. “In such a fashion that he will not lie to us.”

  “Yes.”

  “What is all the commotion?” Major Roebling called irritably from below.

  Reiker looked down into the control room. “Come up here, Major. I think you’ll want to take a look at this.”

  Roebling, who was a slightly built man with the pasty complexion of one who’d spent too much time underground in bunkers, narrowed his eyes. “What is it, Captain?”

  “I think it may be our contact at last.”

  “Impossible …” Roebling said quickly, then cut himself off.

  “Nevertheless, you should come have a look for yourself, Major.”

  Roebling started up the ladder and Reiker and Schey exchanged glances. Schey lifted his sweater slightly, exposing the butt of his Luger.

  “Now, what is this you are seeing?” Roebling barked angrily. “I am in no mood for your silly little games tonight.”

  Reiker nodded toward the periscope. “See for yourself.”

  Roebling studied the captain’s eyes for a moment, then bent over the periscope and looked through the eyepiece. Schey took out his pistol.

  “I don’t see a thing,” Roebling snapped, then he looked up into the barrel of Schey’s pistol. His eyes widened. “Are you mad, Schey? Put down your pistol. Now. Immediately.”

  “First we would like to have a little talk, Major,” Reiker said.

  “You’re a dead man,” Roebling growled.

  “But you are not the one holding the pistol at this moment,” Reiker said. “Zigler,” he called below.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “From which direction did Major Roebling come just now?”

  “Aft.”

  “Your quarters are forward,” Reiker noted.

  “I was in the crew’s galley. We were out of coffee forward,” Roebling said.

  “Zigler,” Reiker called again.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Send someone forward to check out the major’s compartment. Search it, and let me know what you find.”

  Roebling was glaring at Reiker, the raw energy of his hate strong enough to be a nearly palpable force in the cramped quarters.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And then send a party to the after diesel storage compartments. Break into the cargo we took on at Bremen.”

  Roebling tried to push forward, but Schey jammed the barrel of the gun into the major’s face, and he stopped.

  “Sir?” Zigler called up, evidently confused.

  “Break into the cargo. Open some of the boxes. I want to know what it is. Now. On the double!”

  “Do you understand what you are doing?” Roebling asked through clenched teeth.

  “The war is over, Major,” Reiker said. “Or very nearly so. We all know this. Which means there is nowhere for me to go, nowhere for me to take my crew. I would like to know if there is anything in the cargo you brought aboard that would be useful for us.”

  “It is for the Reich. You have your orders.”

  “There is no longer any Reich. So whatever you brought aboard at Bremen is now for you. I would like to know what it is. I would also like to know what you were doing back there a little while ago. It was you I heard below decks.”

  “You son of a bitch, you have your orders—”

  Schey roughly shoved the major up against the escape trunk hatch, and jammed the pistol barrel so hard into his forehead that the front sight broke skin and a thin trickle of blood ran down between the man’s eyes.

  “It is my captain you are talking to, Major. With respect now, please, or I will splatter your brains all over the bulkhead behind you.” Schey was grinning. He’d been waiting for such a moment ever since they’d left Bremen.

  For the first time Roebling appeared to doubt his own safety. He looked from Schey and Reiker to the open hatch leading down to the control room.

  “What has happened to your rendezvous?” Reiker asked.

  “I don’t know. He was delayed. Maybe he is dead. I don’t know.”

  “What are your orders in such an event?”

  “I am to hold the boat here for a full forty-eight hours.”

  “And then?”

  Roebling said nothing.

  “We’re waiting,” Schey warned.

  “Captain,” Zigler called from below.

  Reiker looked down into the control room. Zigler was holding a small rucksack open.

  “He has an Argentine passport under a different name,” Zigler said. He sounded excited. “There is money here, American dollars, I think, and some civilian clothes. A notebook.”

  “Going someplace?” Schey asked casually.

  Roebling’s eyes had grown wide, and he was swallowing repeatedly, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  “Captain, his bag was stuffed in a message buoy.”

  “Waterproof,” Reiker said. “You were planning on abandoning the boat. Here? Tonight?”

  Roebling held his silence.

  “Answer the captain,” Schey demanded.

  Roebling seemed almost to be holding his breath now, as if he were waiting for something. Reiker tried to see into the man’s eyes, tried to probe what was in his brain. Something was happening, or was about to. He had been getting ready to abandon ship. And he had been in the cargo spaces … .

  Reiker’s gut suddenly tightened. He hit the comms button and screamed into the microphone. “Get out of the cargo spaces! Now! This is the captain! Get out of there!”

  Three explosions, one after the other, rocked the boat, sending Reiker sprawling off balance and nearly through the open hatch.

  Schey was stunned for just a moment, but it was enough for Roebling to snatch the pistol out of his hand and shove him back.

  Sirens were sounding all over the boat.

  “Emergency stations, emergency stations!” Reiker was shouting into the comms.

  “Have Zigler toss my bag up here,” Roebling ordered. “Now!”

  “Flooding aft of the main battery compartments,” a crewman radioed desperately. “We can’t handle it back here!”

  “Seal the boat!” Reiker shouted. “Blow all tanks and prepare for emergency surface procedures!”

  “My bag!” Roebling demanded, keeping the pistol trained on Schey.

  Zigler tossed it through the hatch, and Roebling snatched it. He opened the escape trunk hatch, grinned as he stepped inside, and then slammed it s
hut, dogging it down. Immediately the hiss of water filling the trunk became audible.

  “Captain, all after tanks have lost integrity. The explosions must have damaged them,” Zigler shouted.

  There was pandemonium below in the control room. Everyone knew that the boat was going to the bottom, that there was no saving her. But at least the crew forward of the battery compartments would be safe in watertight spaces. Some of them would have access to escape trunks once they reached the bottom, some two hundred fifty feet below the surface.

  Schey stepped across to the escape trunk hatch and dogged it down so that Roebling would not be able to get back into the submarine. Then he reached up and shut off the master valves, cutting off the escape trunk’s water supply. With the trunk only half filled, the major would be stuck inside until they let him out, or until he suffocated for lack of oxygen.

  Someone was screaming something on the ship’s comms, and water was pouring into the control room as Reiker and Schey scrambled down from the attack center. Already the boat was listing nearly twenty degrees to starboard, and she was definitely down at the stern.

  “Shut that hatch!” Reiker screamed.

  Zigler, shaking his head in fear and disbelief, was bracing himself against the list. “We can’t!” he cried. “All the hatches have been sabotaged! We’re going down for sure!”

  Reiker and Schey immediately slogged their way to the after hatch and put their shoulders to it, but it wouldn’t budge. The hinges were frozen.

  The water in the lower half of the control room was already chest deep, and as the boat continued to roll to starboard, sparks flew from a control panel and the lights suddenly went out, plunging them into darkness.

  All through the forward compartments of the boat Reiker could hear his men screaming, crying out in blind panic. But it was over. In a few short moments they would be dead.

  He looked up toward where the attack center hatch would be, though he could not see it in the total darkness, and felt at least a small measure of satisfaction. Roebling would die too, the precious Reich’s cargo, the cargo that was to have saved the war effort, the cargo he’d been honor bound by his oath to deliver to this shore, going down with him.