“One for the rescue team. And the other to stay here and take care of my boat.”
“Where do you want me?” said Fassbaden.
“I want someone on board I can trust, and that would be you. But I also want you with me.”
“Sounds like you have a problem.”
“I think Massenburg can keep things under control here,” said Erich, who valued the Warrant Officer’s age, experience, and loyalty.
“Agreed.”
“All right, get the lifeboat ready for launch. Crew of six, not counting us. Make sure Bischoff is one of them — it’s not that I do not trust him alone, but I feel better having such a party loyalist close at hand. And get me that troublemaker, Liebling. I want him in my sights as well.”
“Armament?”
“MP40’s and sidearms for everyone but Liebling. Give him the toolbox and the radio — he can be Bischoff’s mule.”
Standing, Fassbaden smiled as he adjusted his officer’s cap, then moved to the door. “We will be ready in five minutes. I will inform the Chief.”
Erich walked to his wardrobe, opened a drawer in its footlocker, and retrieved his holstered Walther P38. As he snapped it over his belt, Chief Warrant Officer Massenburg reported for duty, and Erich briefed him quickly.
The old salt was such a professional sailor, he never asked for a clarification, never hesitated as he reviewed his orders and expectations. While the U-5001 was under Helmut’s watch, he would tolerate no abuses or derelictions; punishment would be swift and uncompromising.
Leaving his Chief on the control deck, Erich felt confident all would be well when he returned. He climbed the ladder to the open bridge to find Fassbaden and his handpicked crew loading the last of their gear into the lifeboat, which was an inflatable large enough to carry twelve men in a pinch. The U-5001 was equipped with enough of them to evacuate an entire crew if necessary — an event he did not want to contemplate.
As he reached the main deck, Erich could not help but notice how utterly calm the water was in this subterranean place. The U-boat lay so steady and immobile, it could have been set in concrete. While not contained by a palpable fog, there was a humidity in the air, thick enough to cloud the landscape that enclosed them. Features and details in the distance were shrouded in a thin, but concealing mist — including the source of light and heat Erich wanted to discover.
Fassbaden awaited him on the relatively small section of deck between the conning tower and the swell of the hangar, which defined the hump-backed shape of much of the aft section. Behind him, a short, heavyset man with reddish-brown hair stood glaring at him.
“Ready to shove off?” said Erich.
“Yes, Captain.” Manny gestured with his eyes to indicate the man at his back. “But first, Seaman Liebling requests a word with you.”
Normally, Erich would not have appreciated one of his men doing such a thing, but in this instance, he welcomed it.
“What is it, sailor?”
Liebling stepped out from behind Manny’s tall presence. “Captain, I only wish to make my case clear — I am not a submariner.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, captain.”
“How is it, then, that I just saw you emerge from a submarine?”
The man’s voice was a bit high-pitched, and his tone was one of careful indignation. “I was dragooned onto this boat only hours before it pushed off, and—”
“I am well aware of your situation,” said Erich, cutting him off. “Do you think for an instant I would not know everything there is to know about everyone on this boat?”
Liebling looked suitably surprised, but marshaled himself to push on. “Yes, Captain, I am sure you do, and I do not wish to suggest otherwise. I only mention it because I feel I am unfit for this… this present mission.”
Erich remained silent for a moment, letting this jackass twist in the wind a bit. Then: “Do you recall me asking you how you ‘feel’ about this mission?”
“No, sir, I do not.”
“Do you believe you might be a better judge of the fitness of this boat’s personnel than its captain?”
Liebling’s lower lip quivered, either from anger or anxiety. “No, sir, I do not.”
“Then why do you address me on the subject?”
“Quite simply, Captain, since you have asked — I do not wish to go.”
Erich looked at Liebling with the dispassion of a lion eyeing its next meal. A hush had settled over the men in the lifeboat as they collectively looked up to watch the small drama playing out. After perhaps a minute of silence, Erich slowly unholstered his Walther.
Liebling’s eyes widened. Several men drew in tight breaths, held them. “I am within my command to simply shoot you on a charge of mutiny,” said Erich. “But for now, this will suffice…”
Holding his sidearm by its barrel, he backhanded Liebling across his face, driving the heavy handle across his upper jaw and nose. The blow was administered with stunning quickness and Liebling’s knees folded him into a limp heap, which toppled off the deck and into the water between the sloping hull and the rubber boat.
“Yank him out of there,” said Erich as several of the men moved quickly to haul Liebling over the gunwale like a gaffed fish. Blood streamed over his face from the calculated glancing blow; his eyes had rolled back toward his forehead. He was conscious, but just barely.
When Erich looked back at Manny, his exec was trying to stifle a smile. “Quite a memorable statement, Captain.”
“Glad you appreciated it,” said Erich. “Let us push off.”
They both climbed into the boat, and the crew eased it away from the huge bulk of the U-5001. As they slipped oars into the green glass surface, the sound of their splashing sounded like a violation of the sacred silence of the place. Erich directed them toward the far shore, above which hovered the strange source of light.
As they glided away from their boat, Manny looked back and attempted to get a visual fix on its position in case they might lose it in the mist. A precaution in the event the batteries of Bischoff’s funkmaat failed. Liebling huddled alone in the stern, holding a kerchief to the side of his face. He averted his gaze from Erich, and that was exactly the posture he wanted from garbage scow material such as him.
“Take her ninety degrees of starboard,” said Erich to the men on the oars. “Use the light source as your target.”
“I brought this along,” said Manny, lifting a Leica rangefinder camera from the outer pocket of his field vest. “So we will have a record.”
“Good thinking.” Erich stared ahead into the gossamer mist, which hung close to the water’s surface, possibly because of well-defined layers of differing air temperatures. “Bischoff. Try to raise the Station again.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Erich looked into the mist and the curious light source.
“Whether they reply or not,” he said. “Soon we will have some real answers.”
Chapter Seventeen
It was dusk by the time Dex reached his neighborhood. All the townhouses on his street had windows aglow with television light; everybody doing the same silly thing. Funny how most people ran their lives — like they were all following the identical, dull script; all cast in the same vapid play. Even though he’d always been glad to have escaped that fate, right now he almost longed for a little more of the purely mundane existence.
Pulling into the garage, Dex killed the engine, hit the Genie door-closer, and reached for the backpack on the passenger seat. He was hungry, thirsty, and dog-tired, but he knew he had a long night ahead of him, and he wanted to be out on the water at first light. He grabbed the pack — which held the Nazi captain’s little box and Tommy’s bar of weird metal from the sub — and headed inside. Just in case he might need his laptop, he was stopping in to grab it before leaving for Tommy’s place. As he was loading it into its case, he glanced at the thin, lightweight Canon scanner on the corner of his desk. A notion struck him — another one of his hunches. Just to be sure, he stuffed the scanner and cable into his backpack.