Polar Shift Page 3

  “You’re Russian?”

  “Yes, of course. We would love to have you come and work for us. Had we been able to intercept you before you boarded the ship, you would be enjoying Soviet hospitality. But now I can’t get you off the ship, and we can’t let you and your work fall into German hands again. No, no. It just wouldn’t do.” The smile vanished.

  Kovacs was too stunned to be afraid, even when the pistol came up and the muzzle pointed at his heart.

  MARINESKO COULD hardly believe his good luck. He had been standing on the S-13’s conning tower, oblivious to the freezing wind and spray that stung his face, when the snow cleared and he saw the enormous silhouette of an ocean liner. The liner appeared to be accompanied by a smaller boat.

  The submarine was riding on the surface in heavy seas. Its crew had been at battle stations since sighting the lights from boats moving against the coast. The captain had ordered the submarine’s buoyancy reduced so that it would ride lower in the water and thus evade radar.

  Reasoning that the ships would never expect an attack from shore, he ordered his crew to bring the sub around the back of the convoy and run a course parallel to the liner and its escort. Two hours later, Marinesko turned the S-13 toward his target. As it closed in on the port side of the liner, he gave the order to fire.

  In quick succession, three torpedoes left their bow tubes and streaked toward the unprotected hull of the liner.

  THE DOOR OPENED, and Karl stepped into the cabin. He had been outside, listening to the murmur of male voices. He was puzzled when he saw the woman standing with her back to him. He glanced at Kovacs, still holding the towel, and he read the fear in the professor’s face.

  The Russian felt the blast of cold air through the open door. He whirled and shot without aiming. Karl was a millisecond ahead of him. He had put his head down and rammed it into the Russian’s midsection.

  The blow should have cracked the assassin’s rib cage, but the heavy fur coat and the stiff corset he wore were like padded armor. The head butt only knocked the wind out of him. He crashed into a bunk, landing on his side. His wig fell off to reveal short black hair. He got off another shot that nicked Karl’s right shoulder muscle at the base of the neck.

  Karl lunged at the assassin, and with his left hand groped for the throat. Blood from his wound spattered them both. The assassin brought his foot up and kicked Karl in the chest. He reeled back, tripped and fell onto his back.

  Kovacs grabbed the soup bowl from the sink and threw it at the assassin’s face. The bowl bounced harmlessly off the man’s cheekbone. He laughed. “I’ll tend to you next.” He aimed the pistol at Karl.

  Va-room!

  A muffled explosion thundered off the walls. The deck slanted at a sharp angle to starboard. Kovacs was flung to his knees. Unused to the high-heeled boots on his feet, the assassin lost his balance. He fell on top of Karl, who grabbed the man’s wrist, pulled it to his mouth and sank his teeth into cartilage and muscle. The pistol clunked to the deck.

  Va-room! Va-room!

  The ship shuddered from two more massive explosions. The assassin tried to rise, but again lost his balance when the ship lurched to port. He teetered on the verge of standing. Karl kicked him in the ankle. The Russian let out an unladylike yell and crashed to the floor. His head came to rest against the metal base of the bunk.

  Karl braced himself against the sink pipes and drove his hobnail boot into the man’s throat, crushing his larynx. The man flailed at Karl’s leg, his eyes bulged, his face went dark red, then purple, and then he died.

  Karl staggered to his feet.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “The ship’s been torpedoed.”

  He muscled Kovacs from the cabin into the passageway, where there was pandemonium. The corridor was filled with panic-stricken passengers. Their screams and shouts echoed off the walls. The ringing of alarm bells contributed to the din. The emergency lights were on, but a pall of smoke produced from the explosions made it difficult to see.

  The main stairway was clogged with an unmoving crush of panicked passengers. Many of them had stopped in their tracks as they gagged from the throat-burning fumes.

  The mob was trying to push against the river of water that spilled down the stairs. Karl opened an unmarked steel door, dragged Kovacs into a dark space and shut the door behind them. The professor felt his hand being guided to the rung of a ladder.

  “Climb,” Karl ordered.

  Kovacs dumbly obeyed, ascending until his head hit a hatch. Karl shouted from below to open the hatch cover, and to keep climbing. They went up a second ladder. Kovacs pushed another cover open. Cold air and wind-driven snowflakes lashed his face. He climbed through the hatch, and helped Karl into the open.

  Kovacs looked around in bewilderment. “Where are we?”

  “On the boat deck. This way.”

  The icy, sloping deck was eerily quiet, compared to the horror in the third-class section. The few people they saw were the privileged passengers whose cabins were on the boat deck. Some were clustered around a motorized pinnace, a sturdy boat built to cruise in the Norwegian fjords. Crew members had been chipping away with hammers and axes at the ice on the davits.

  With the davit fastenings finally freed, the crewmen surged aboard, pushing aside women, some of them pregnant. Children and wounded soldiers didn’t have a chance. Karl drew his pistol and fired a warning shot in the air. The crewmen hesitated, but only for a second, before they continued to fight their way onto the lifeboat. Karl fired another shot, killing the first crewman who had climbed into the boat. The others ran for their lives.

  Karl lifted a woman and her baby into the boat, then gave the professor a hand before climbing in himself. He allowed some crewmen aboard, so they could throw the dead man out and lower the boat to the water. The hooks attached to the lowering lines were unfastened and the motor started.

  The heavily burdened boat wallowed as it moved slowly across the sea toward distant lights from a freighter that was headed their way. Karl ordered the lifeboat stopped to pick up people floating in the water. Soon it became even more dangerously overloaded. One of the crewmen protested.

  “There’s no room in the boat,” he yelled.

  Karl shot him between the eyes. “There’s room now,” he said, and ordered the other crewmen to toss the body overboard. Satisfied that the short-lived mutiny was under control, he squeezed next to Kovacs.

  “You’re well, Professor?”

  “I’m fine.” He stared at Karl. “You’re a surprising man.”

  “I try to be. Never let your enemies know what to expect.”

  “I’m not talking about that. I saw you help the wounded and women. You cradled that baby as if it were your own.”

  “Things are not always what they seem, my friend.” He reached into his coat and brought out a packet wrapped in a waterproof rubber pouch. “Take these papers. You are no longer Lazlo Kovacs but a German national who has lived in Hungary. You have only a slight accent and will easily pass. I want you to disappear into the crowd. Become another refugee. Make your way toward the British and American lines.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend.”

  “Why should I believe that?”

  “As I said, things are not always what they seem. I am part of a circle that has been fighting the Nazi animals long before the Russians.”

  Light dawned in the professor’s eyes. “The Kreisau Circle?” He had heard rumors of the secretive opposition group.

  Karl brought his finger to his lips. “We are still in enemy territory,” he said with a lowered voice.

  Kovacs clutched Karl’s arm. “Can you get my family to safety as well?”

  “I am afraid it is too late for that. Your family is no more.”

  “But the letters—”

  “They were clever forgeries, so you would not lose heart and give up your work.”

  Kovacs stared into the night with a stunned expression on his face.
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  Karl grabbed the professor by the lapel and whispered in his ear. “You must forget your work for your own good and the welfare of mankind. We cannot risk that it will fall into the wrong hands.”

  The professor nodded dumbly. The boat banged up against the freighter’s hull. A ladder was lowered. Karl ordered the reluctant crewmen to take the boat out again to pick up more survivors. From the freighter’s deck, Kovacs watched the boat push off. Karl gave one last wave and the boat disappeared behind a veil of falling snow.

  In the distance, Kovacs saw the lights of the liner, which had turned onto its port side, so that the funnel was parallel to the sea. The boiler exploded as the ship slipped below the surface about an hour after being torpedoed. In that short time, five times more lives were lost on the Gustloff than on the Titanic.

  1

  THE ATLANTIC OCEAN,

  THE PRESENT

  THOSE WHO LAID EYES on the Southern Belle for the first time could be forgiven for wondering whether the person who had named the huge cargo ship possessed a warped sense of humor or simply bad eyesight. Despite a genteel name that suggested eyelash-fluttering, antebellum femininity, the Belle was, simply put, a metal monstrosity with nothing that hinted at female pulchritude.

  The Southern Belle was one of a new generation of fast, seaworthy vessels being built in American shipyards after years of the United States taking a backseat to other shipbuilding countries. It was designed in San Diego and built in Biloxi. At seven hundred feet, she was longer than two football fields put together, with room enough to carry fifteen hundred containers.

  The massive vessel was controlled from a towering superstructure on its aft deck. The hundred-foot-wide deckhouse, which resembled an apartment building, contained crew and officer quarters and mess halls, a hospital and treatment rooms, cargo offices and conference rooms.

  With its glowing ranks of twenty-six-inch touch display screens, the Belle’s bridge, on the top level of the six-deck superstructure, resembled a Las Vegas casino. The spacious center of operations reflected the new era in ship design. Computers were used to control every aspect of the integrated systems and functions.

  But old habits die hard. The ship’s captain, Pierre “Pete” Beaumont, was peering through a pair of binoculars, still trusting his eyes despite the sophisticated electronic gadgetry at his command.

  From his vantage point on the bridge, Beaumont had a panoramic view of the Atlantic storm that raged around his ship. Fierce, gale-force winds were kicking up waves as big as houses. The waves crashed over the bow and washed halfway across the stacks of containers tied down on the deck.

  The extreme level of violence surrounding the ship would have sent lesser vessels scurrying for cover and given their captains sweaty palms. But Beaumont was as calm as if he were gliding in a gondola along the Grand Canal.

  The soft-spoken Cajun loved storms. He reveled in the give-and-take between his ship and the elements. Watching the way the Belle blasted her way through the seas in an awesome display of power gave him an almost sensual thrill.

  Beaumont was the vessel’s first and only captain. He had watched the Belle being built and knew every nut and bolt on the ship. The ship had been designed for the regular run between Europe and America, a route that took it across some of the most cantankerous ocean on the face of the earth. He was confident that the tempest was well within the forces that the ship had been built to withstand.

  The ship had loaded its cargo of synthetic rubber, fiber filaments, plastics and machinery in New Orleans, then sailed around Florida to a point halfway up the Atlantic Coast, where it began on a straight-line course to Rotterdam.

  The weather service had been right on the nose with its forecast. Gale-force winds had been predicted, developing into an Atlantic storm. The storm caught the ship about two hundred miles from land. Beaumont was unperturbed, even when the winds intensified. The ship had easily survived worse weather.

  He was scanning the ocean when he stiffened suddenly and seemed to lean into the lenses. He lowered the binoculars, raised them again and muttered under his breath. Turning to his first officer, he said:

  “Look at that section of ocean. Around two o’clock. Tell me if you see anything unusual.”

  The officer was Bobby Joe Butler, a talented young seaman who hailed from Natchez. Butler had made no secret of his wish someday to command a ship like the Belle. Maybe even the Belle itself. Following the captain’s lead, Butler surveyed the ocean around thirty degrees off starboard.

  He saw only the gray, mottled water stretching toward the misted horizon. Then, about a mile from the ship, he sighted a white line of foam at least twice as high as the sea in the background. Even as he watched, the mounding water grew rapidly in height as if it were drawing power from the surrounding waves.

  “Looks like a real big sea coming our way,” Butler said in his Mississippi drawl.

  “How big do you estimate it to be?”

  The younger man squinted through the lenses. “Average seas have been running around thirty feet. This looks to be double that. Wow! Have you ever seen anything this big?”

  “Never,” the captain said. “Not in my whole life.”

  The captain knew his ship could handle the wave if the Belle faced into it bow first to cut down the area of impact. The captain ordered the helmsman to program the auto-steer to face the oncoming wave and keep it steady. Then he grabbed the mike and flipped a switch on the console that would connect the bridge with speakers all over the ship.

  “Attention all hands. This is the captain. A giant rogue wave is about to hit the ship. Get to a secure location away from flying objects and hold on. The impact will be severe. Repeat. The impact will be severe.”

  As a precaution, he ordered the radioman to broadcast an SOS. The ship could always send out a recall, if needed.

  The green, white-veined wave was about a half mile from the ship. “Look at that,” Butler was saying. The sky was lit up by a series of brilliant flashes. “Lightning?”

  “Maybe,” the captain said. “I’m more concerned about that damned sea!”

  The wave’s profile was unlike anything the captain had ever seen. Unlike most waves, which slope down at an angle from the crest, this one was almost straight up and down, like a moving wall.

  The captain had a peculiar out-of-body sensation. Part of him watched the advancing wave in a disinterested, scientific fashion, fascinated by the size and power, while another part stood in helpless wonder at the immense, menacing power.

  “It’s still growing,” Butler said with unabashed awe.

  The captain nodded. He guessed the wave had grown to a height of ninety feet, nearly three times as high as it was when it was first sighted. His face was ashen. Cracks were starting to appear in his rock-hard confidence. A ship the size of the Belle couldn’t turn on a dime, and it was still facing the oncoming sea at an angle when the gigantic wave reared up like a living thing.

  He was expecting the shock from the wave but was unprepared when a trough big enough to swallow his ship opened up in the ocean in front of him.

  The captain looked into the abyss that had appeared before his eyes. “It’s like the end of the world,” he thought.

  The ship tilted into the trough, slid down the side and buried its bow in the ocean. The captain fell against the forward bulkheads.

  Rather than strike head-on, the wave collapsed on top of the ship, burying it under thousands of tons of water.

  The pilothouse windows imploded under the pressure, and the entire Atlantic Ocean seemed to pour into the bridge. The blast of water hit the captain and the others on the bridge with the force of a hundred fire hoses. The bridge became a tangle of arms and legs. Books, pencils and seat cushions were thrown about.

  Some of the water drained out through the windows, and the captain fought his way back to the controls. All the control screens were dead. The ship had lost its radar, gyro compasses and radio communication, but, most seriously, its pow
er. All the instrumentation had become short-circuited. The steering gear was useless.

  The captain went to a window and surveyed the physical damage. The bow had been destroyed, and the ship was listing. He suspected that the hull plating may have been penetrated. The lifeboats on the foredeck had been swept from their davits. The ship wallowed like a drunken hippopotamus.

  The big wave seemed to have stirred up the seas around it like a demagogue rousing a mob. Waves rolled across the foredeck. Worse, with its engines having failed, the ship was lying transversely to the seas, drifting in the worst possible position.

  Having survived the wave, the ship lay with its side exposed, in danger of being “holed,” in the colorful jargon of the sea.

  The captain tried to remain optimistic. The Southern Belle could survive even with some compartments flooded. Someone would have heard the SOS. The ship could float for days, if necessary, until help arrived.

  “Captain.” The first officer interrupted the captain’s thoughts.

  Butler was staring through the broken window. His eyes were locked in an unbelieving stare on a distant point. The captain’s gaze followed Butler’s pointing finger, and he began to tremble as the thrill of fear went through him.

  Another horizontal line of foam was forming less than a quarter of a mile away.

  THE FIRST AIRPLANE arrived two hours later. It circled over the sea and was soon joined by other planes. Then the rescue ships began to arrive, diverted from the shipping routes. The ships lined up three miles apart and combed the sea like a search party looking for a lost child in the woods. After days of searching, they found nothing.

  The Southern Belle, one of the most advanced cargo ships ever designed and built, had simply vanished without a trace.

  2

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  THE ARROW-SLIM KAYAK flew across the sapphire surface of Puget Sound as if it had been shot from a bow. The broad-shouldered man in the snug cockpit seemed at one with the wooden craft. He dipped his paddles in the water with an easy, fluid motion, concentrating the power of his brawny arms into precise strokes that kept the kayak moving at a steady speed.