The submarines that were savaging the eastern seaboard replenished here, sinking to the bottom during the day, only rising to the surface when darkness hurled its protective cloak over them.
The woods provided more excellent cover, and the base easily accommodated the personnel from the other Soviet mainland base, threatened when a US Army unit moved in dangerously close. Their presence alone forced it to swiftly close, and, as yet, the US had no idea that they had even been there.
What could not be squeezed into the submarines was dragged into the water and sunk, leaving no trace that the base had even existed, save for the deeply buried body of the old man who had so surprised the landing party on the day they arrived.
The disadvantage was clearly the increased travel time to intercept southern state routes, but the undersea wolves found themselves close enough to Boston and New York to ensure that there were rich pickings for everyone.
All was activity once the sun set, the imminent arrival of a supply boat stirring the base into action.
The normal routine was for approaching submarines to surface and use the lighthouse for a bearing, ensuring precise navigation into the small south side harbour.
This evenings visitor was a unique craft, the only one of three sisters to taste the open seas.
Once U-1702, the type XX U-Boat had been a stop-start project for the Kreigsmarine, a project finally brought to completion in a German shipyard under the watchful eyes of Soviet overseers.
She was a ‘Milchcow’, a supply boat, capable of carrying fuel, munitions, fresh foods and any number of the requirements of the clandestine base.
Schnorkel equipped, U-1702, or the Morž as she was now known, had nearly completed her maiden voyage from her Baltic home to the eastern seaboard of the Americas.
Deliberately riding low in the water, her tanks only partially blown, the Morž was being guided into the harbour by her nervous captain, the closeness of the enemy and the vulnerability of his vessel testing his firmness and resolve.
Around the conning tower, the watchers kept watch, eyes glued to binoculars, ears pricked for the sound of an approaching aircraft, all ready to drop into the dark hatch in a moment.
The lighthouse’s constant light drew the Milchcow forward with its promise of safety, the projected Atlantic storm starting to make itself known with the increasing wind and milky grey hue to the moonlit sky.
The Starshina of the watch stiffened, his ears gently suggesting that they had heard something out of the ordinary, such as a buzz of a bee or the hum of an engine, but the suggestion withered as quickly as it arrived, the brain scolding the ears and pointing to the nothingness in the relative silence of the choppy sea.
K-136 was in some difficulty, one of her engines doing nothing but adding dead weight, even though the mechanics were doing their best to get the dormant lump of metal back on line.
The hint of a storm added to the concerns as K-136 struggled to get back to base.
Naval Lieutenant Carlton E. Wetherbridge was nursing his fragile craft steadily northwards to try and make the emergency base at Barrington, accepting that, for tonight, Yarmouth was beyond him and his crippled charge.
That the approaching storm gave him some advantage and started to give him a push was immediately overridden by the failure of the second engine and the total silence which accompanied its loss.
Running on battery power one of the wireless operators continued his running commentary to the Yarmouth Operations room, the K-136 sinking lower and dropping below the cloud cover and into the surreal grey light of the impending storm.
“Errr Skipper, there’s something ahead of us. I caught a look in the sweep of the lighthouse.”
The voice belonged to Royston James, the crew’s youngest officer and co-pilot of K-136.
“Come on Roy, you know better than that. Proper report, you know the drill.”
Lieutenant [jg] Royston James kicked himself for not getting it right on his first combat mission as a second-pilot, and composed himself quickly, mentally rehearsing his sighting report.
Wetherbridge, irked by the delay, was about to press the young man’s buttons when the silence was broken by a properly composed report.
“Yeah, sorry skipper. Possible submarine spotted at one o’clock. Range one thousand yards. Low in the water, moving at slow speed.”
As the first words hit the intercom system, the crew started into instant action, the radar operator unable to find the tell-tale blip of the submarine, its partially blown tanks keeping its radar profile out of the detectable range.
Wetherbridge rapped out his commands, preparing the attack.
“C’mon boys, give me those engines, or even just one. I need some manoeuvring here!”
The mechanics understood that all rested on them, and worked quickly to get at least one of the Pratt & Whitney’s turning in time.
“Skipper, Hernandez here. That looks like a U-Boat to me, boss.”
“Roger. Chief, check the reports pronto.”
Senior Chief Petty Officer Sveinsvold swiftly double-checked the movement reports and came up blank.
“Sir, nothing in movement, nothing on submarines, and, this is in a prohibited area, Sir.”
Sveinsvold was unequivocal, and Wetherbridge concurred.
“Captain to crew, standby to attack. Radio Op, message, attacking submarine, confirmed U-Boat, give our position and timings, ok?”
As if to honour the decision, the port engine slowly growled into life, and Wetherbridge felt the response in his control’s immediately.
The noise, sudden and terrifyingly near, was heard by ears other those of the Starshina of the watch, and a number of frightened eyes swivelled to scan for the source of what was clearly an engine coming up to full revs.
The rear observer punched out a report.
“Unknown object approaching at eight hundred metres, due south, height one thousand.”
“Job tvoyu mat!”
The captain had joined the watchers and overheard the Starshina’s expletive as his eyes sought to discover what was unknown about whatever it was that was approaching.
“No time to dive, Kapitan! He’s on top of us already!”
His lens filled with something soft and circular, his memory banks stimulated by the sight of a USN Dirigible moving into the attack.
‘Blyad! He’s right! No time to dive!’
“Gun crews close up! General alarm!”
The klaxon sounded and the orders started to fly, men transformed by the imminence of danger.
“Fire!”
The Quad 20mm started to hammer out at the airship, a K-Class Blimp, the slowness of its approach confusing the gunners, whose first shots missed badly.
Machine-guns deployed to the bridge joined in, also without success.
The Blimp approached steadily and the flak gunners adjusted carefully, walking their fire into the attacking craft and being rewarded with obvious damage, closely followed by telltale smoke and flame in the pod slung underneath the gas envelope.
A machine-gun from the Blimp replied, making similar hits on the easier target below.
K-136 was dying, as was Wetherbridge, his stomach punctured by shrapnel from exploding cannon shells, and robbed of his sight by the impact of small pieces of Perspex and metal from his destroyed instrument panel.
James struggled across to help his commander, inhibited by pieces of his former comrades and the slippery nature of their present condition.