The Courier: A Ryan Kealey Thriller (3 page)

“Captain Rasp?”

Rasp nodded.

“I have been instructed to say nothing,” Dammann said.

“Nothing” was correct. Now it was Rasp’s turn.

“Professor Dammann, I have been instructed to ask for the item Obergruppenführer Holtz gave you when you left his office,” Rasp said.

The scientist seemed puzzled, but only for an instant. He smiled and reached into the pocket of his overcoat. He handed Rasp a silver
Reichsmark
.

“It was for good luck on my journey,” Dammann said. “I agree, though, it is fitting you should have it.”

It wasn’t for that, though Rasp didn’t bother telling him so. It was for identification. Had Dammann been captured and replaced en route, the package stolen, the impersonator would not have known what to give Rasp.

The soldiers brought the heavy crate to the deck, where two of Rasp’s crew took charge of it. With a bit of effort and more hands—two men on top, two on the bottom—the object was lifted to the top of the tower. It had to be turned on its side in order to lower it through the hatch, though Dammann assured the captain that was all right.

“The item is secure,” he said.

Physically
, Rasp thought. On his last leave, right before the Allied Invasion, when he first heard whisperings of this project—without knowing that he would ever be involved in its potential salvation—he read from a book in the library he had purchased from Herr Lang. The object itself was not fragile. The risk, the danger, was what could not be seen.

Once the crate was inside and safely stowed in the captain’s small aft cabin, Dammann nodded, lit a cigarette, uttered a small but heartfelt
“Heil Hitler”
—which Rasp returned—then offered the captain his hand.

“I will await you on the other side,” Dammann said.

Rasp gave him a little smile, then motioned to the Head of Security that it was all right for the convoy to leave. The trucks would head for the airfield at Lannion, a hundred kilometers to the northeast. From there, the scientist would fly to their destination at Bornholm, Denmark. If something happened to the U-boat, the OKW did not want to lose their
wunderkind
physicist along with his creation. If Dammann were lost, there were others in Denmark who could continue his work. Those concerns were the reason the OKW staged the mission outside Germany. The logical port from which to disembark was Kiel, just a short run across the Kiel Bay to Denmark. But military intelligence believed the base had been infiltrated; a similar operation, with an empty chest, was being conducted with the U-70 in case the Allies were watching.

The guards withdrew from the trucks, the men boarded them, and Rasp returned to the conning tower. When the hands ashore had released the two cables on each side that held the U-boat securely in the pen, Rasp picked up the radio handset and gave the order to leave port. Steuermann von Harbou, on the helm, knew the order was twofold: he was to back the U-boat from its berth and immediately submerge, since they would no longer be protected by the concrete roof. By the time they cleared the pen, they would be underwater.

Rasp had entered the hatch immediately after the order was acknowledged. Hooking one arm on the inside ladder, he pulled the iron cover down and secured it with clockwise turns of the wheel. The officer hurried down the seven metal rungs, the thump of his hard-rubber-soled shoes lost in the surrounding rush as the sea closed in around them. He remembered how it had hurt the first time he had heard that sound from in here, the combination of the noise and the immediate change in pressure. That was before he had learned to swallow, hard, right before submerging.

The sounds of both men and machine were heightened underwater. Rasp had expected that when he was assigned to his first U-boat, the Type IIB U-120, with just twenty-five officers and seamen aboard. Using an electric hearing aid that was inserted directly in the ear, he was trained to be aware of the many background sounds he would hear but to ignore the details. Otherwise, the mind would become overstimulated and tire quickly. Wearing padded leather earmuffs, Rasp was also taught to listen very carefully to what was being said by those sharing his station. During periods of “silent running,” when surface vessels or other underwater boats might be listening, orders would be given at a whisper. During training sessions on a mock-up in Kiel, Germany, when pumps and ventilator fans had been shut down, when all movement ceased, the whispers actually seemed louder than normal speech.

What did surprise Rasp on his first run in 1936—a weeklong patrol in the Baltic Sea—was how, once undersea, the crew and the boat became a single organism. He was part of the fish he had so long ago imagined. And the fish was part of a school of brothers, the school part of a larger system. It was there, packed inside forty meters of metal and equipment, that he understood what his mother had meant: Man was made great by a unity of purpose.

Rasp stood by the communications console on the port side of the vessel, Oberleutnant Kuehle to his left. Except for their stature, a broad-shouldered 5’8”, the men were opposites in almost every way. The two even stood differently, the commander standing at ease with his arms at his side, his second poised more rigidly, clasping his hands behind his back. Kuehle was a fun-loving womanizer, raised in Berlin, a competitive boxer and weightlifter. He was blond, square-jawed, clean-shaven. Rasp’s hair was black, and on the days when he shaved he had a stubble by noon. He preferred to read—science and history, mostly—and when he had leave he went to see his mother. He did not drink and found no comfort in 48-hour liaisons. When Rasp was younger, there was a career to prepare for. Now that he was older, there was a war to salvage. Those thoughts had never been far from his mind.

However, the two shared a passionate love of country. If Kuehle shared Rasp’s concerns about the dangerous cargo they carried, it was not evident in his manner. Neither man had admitted anything other than the fiercest desire to see this mission to a successful conclusion. At present, life held no other purpose.

Rasp did not go to the periscope. The Brest harbor was closely protected by around-the-clock sea and air patrols. There was no chance they would be approached by sea until they were at least ten kilometers out. With luck, with the Allies focused on Paris and beginning to shift other assets to the assault on Germany, this journey would go unnoticed.

The voyage to bring the core of an experimental thermonuclear device, an “atom bomb,” to an area where it could be completed, mounted on a V-2 rocket, and used to utterly destroy London today, then Moscow, and then Washington, D.C.

 

 

Captain Kealey had watched as the truck approached the submarine pens, then watched as it had departed. No fanfare, no excessive guard, as befitted a valuable cargo. He watched as the U-boat disembarked. He saw it go under at once, signaling the importance of its mission: it would strain its resources rather than risk being seen with its tower above water. They would surface only when they were certain Brest itself had not been targeted for a twilight raid.

That was the most important of the circumstantial evidence.

Kealey waited a few minutes more, then cranked his radio, and sent the one-word message: “Doughboy.”

There would be no audio response because he didn’t carry earphones. He had to wait for the red light on top to pulse twice.

He dropped low behind the bunker to make sure he had not been heard. From inside his black leather jacket he wore his single-shot .45. The so-called “Lighter” was a palm-sized handgun, millions of which were made by a small U.S. weapons firm from sheet metal stampings. Extra shells were stored in the grip. They were dropped by air for use by the Resistance, whose members would approach a soldier and produce papers or ask for directions or a light for a cigarette—hence, the nickname—and fire. If the Germans happened to find the weapons after airdropping, they were of little practical use

Kealey heard distant sounds from the harbor, barely audible over the thump of his heart. The wind picked up a little and he bowed his head to keep it from rushing into his ears. He couldn’t turn away entirely because he had to keep one ear trained on the dirt road to his left. He wished he could hear
something
from inside the bunker, anything. But the walls were too damn thick.

He thought of his wife, May. He gave her soft cheek a mental kiss. He smelled her in his mind, thought about their brief leave-time honeymoon in New Orleans a year before, on Columbus Day—

A year? He’d forgotten his anniversary. Not that he could have sent her a letter or a cable. He was not permitted contact with the world beyond Brest, except by radio to London—and those were typically one-word messages. May was living with his parents in Key Largo. He hoped they would have remembered and made a fuss. His mother would have. She wrote everything on that little desk calendar of hers. As a boy, that was how Kealey knew when she and his father were going to visit his teacher at the one-room schoolhouse he attended. Young Largo knew to be away from the house on those days.

He thought one last time of his smiling bride.
I’ll make it up to you
, he promised.
If I survive the next ten minutes
.

The light on top of the radio winked twice. The message had been received—blink one—and understood—blink two.

Kealey felt his chest deflate as he hurriedly closed the flap over the radio, slipped his arms through the straps and heaved it onto his shoulders, and squatted low to make sure his retreat was clear. He made sure he had his balance, that his breathing was steady so that he wouldn’t feel dizzy when he rose, then got up slowly—

The bunker door opened. Kealey heard the hinges squeak faintly and he crouched back down. He hunkered as low to the ground as he could go and still remain on the balls of his feet. The “Lighter” grew hot and damp in his sweaty palm. He flexed his fingers to redouble his grip and held tight to keep it from slipping. A moment later he heard the gentle crumbling of boots on dirt, heard paper crinkle, saw the glow from a flaring match. Then he heard a long inhale. Kealey guessed that this was the corporal allowing himself a short break after what had been a tense departure. The noncom wouldn’t have known what was onboard the U-boat, only that its timely departure was imperative. That had been accomplished; protocol now allowed him to open the door and stand down from
Höch-stealarmstufe—
high alert.

Kealey was no longer thinking of home. He had been in this kind of situation before, living moment to moment. Each instant was extended, each sense heightened, each stimulus magnified. Every move of the man’s boot was like a beacon: was it an idle motion, a step away, or a step toward him?

The dirt crunched. It was nearer than the last step. A second step, the glow of the lighted cigarette was nearer, the smoke wafted around the wall—and then the man stopped. Another pair of steps and he would be at the edge of the wall. He would see Kealey.

The American agent breathed slowly through his nose, his breath softer than the wind. It would not be heard. He didn’t swallow, however, and saliva pooled in his throat. He considered his options if the gun misfired, which was a possibility.

The footsteps moved—toward Kealey.

Suddenly, a voice came from inside. “
Unteroffizier Lang, hast du eine Zigarette für mich
?”

“
Ja,
” the corporal replied.

“
Ich habe keine.”

“
Warten sie eine Minute.
”

“
Wurden sie mögen Kaffee
?”

“
Ja, ja,
” the corporal said.

The kid was out of smokes
, Kealey thought,
but he didn’t need to tell his superior that
.
He was probably green. Really green. That was why he asked about the coffee, too. He just needed to talk.

Kealey knew that if he took one he’d have to take them both, but that wasn’t what concerned him. When the team didn’t check in—probably on the quarter-hour, which they must have just done, hence the break—the infantry would descend on the spot like sharks on an injured porpoise. They would know the U-boat’s departure had been observed. They would radio the sub to wait or divert. The course that the British Admiralty had carefully left them—through battleships and openly mined waters—might not be used.

If he stayed there, the noncom might see him. If he moved, the man might hear him. If he were found with the radio, Kealey would
have
to shoot—which would bring reinforcements.

Don’t take another step
, Kealey thought—

Unteroffizier Lang came around the edge of the building. The glow of the cigarette was like the headlight of a jeep. Kealey acted instantly—but not with the gun. He dropped it, at the same time grabbing the man’s left arm with his right hand. He pulled him around to the back of the bunker and pushed his left forearm against the man’s throat, hard. He could literally feel the contours of the man’s windpipe against his own bone. The cigarette clung absurdly to the German’s lower lip as his mouth went wide and his hands became claws that tore at Kealey’s sleeve. The loudest sound the man made was a croaking one that sounded like a cough. Kealey dug his feet into the ground and put his body into the choke and felt the man’s body go from tense to floppy to inert. The American didn’t release his victim until his tongue rolled forward and knocked the smoke to the ground.

Kealey crushed it, then lowered the man to the base of the structure.

He had about ten minutes before the next check-in. He had to kill the enlisted man but he couldn’t do it with the gun or dagger the corporal was carrying. There must be no wounds when the body was found.

Kealey took off the radio, laid it on the ground, then removed his own leather belt. He took the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and went around to the front of the reinforced structure. He ducked under the open slit of window, then peeked inside through the “letter slot” in the door—the opening by which visitors were identified before being admitted. The enlisted man was sitting at the radio set. There was a small hot plate to his right, as Kealey had surmised. Coffee was percolating in a pot on top.