Mark of the Devil (4 page)

Saturday, 13 October 2001
Offshore, Jacksonville Beach, Florida

To Matt, the day couldn’t have been more perfect. Sunlight danced off the water with a dazzling brilliance. A slight onshore breeze lent a linen-touch freshness to the air, and the swell was hypnotic in its gentle roll. To the east spread the wide expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. Less than three miles to the west lay the northeast Florida coast, the whites and pastels of hotels and condominiums stair-stepping their way above the sands of Jacksonville Beach.

With no other boats on the horizon and two orange buoys marking the location of the sunken barge dead ahead at less than 2000 yards,
Native Diver
moved on a southerly course, paralleling the coast. Matt eyeballed the dive boat’s compass, taking continuous bearings on the town’s water tower and the end of the Jacksonville Beach pier, or what was left of it from the earlier storm. At the same time, Park eased the wheel slightly to the left, his attention glued to the small radarscope’s distance indicator.

“Almost there,” Matt called out. “If the distance is right, shut her down right now, and you’ll be set to make the first run.”

Park slipped the throttle into neutral and allowed
Native Diver
to gradually settle in the water. “If you’ll put out the cable, I’ll try to keep her in position.”

Matt nodded and climbed down to the open stern of the dive boat. After checking the coil of black insulated cable to make sure it was laid out properly to unravel without kinking, he examined the magnetometer’s yellow, squash-shaped, fiberglass casing to ensure its water-tight integrity at the cable and antenna connections. He couldn’t afford to allow water into the near-foot-and-a-half-long casing which housed the magnetometer’s sensor. Satisfied that the stability wings protruding from two sides of the casing’s narrow neck were firmly secured, he chuckled to himself when he turned the casing over and saw the name
Tommy Towfish
painted in black.

“Chart shows only forty-five to fifty feet of water in this area, so I’m only putting out thirty-five feet,” Matt called over his shoulder as he dropped the sensor over the side and paid out the cable before clamping it off to prevent more from running out. “If you’ll hold her at three to four knots on the first run, the catenary oughta keep little Tommy Towfish a good twenty feet off the bottom and clear the top of the sunken barge.”

“North-south, east-west?” Park asked. “Understand the accuracy and strength of the signal on those things depend a lot on the magnetic field and what direction you’re going.”

“That’s the old solenoid sensors. Guy over at Aqua Explorers says this is the latest. A toroidal sensor. You can stand on your head, and it’ll still give you a good signal.” Matt punched the
ready
button on the magnetometer’s display unit and said, “Trial run. Do a ten-minute north-south track.”

“Got it,” Park answered as he eased the boat forward.

Hoping to see a steady line indicating a large metal object, Matt watched only small blips appear on the magnetometer’s onboard display screen. “Nothing but beer cans and metal stuff somebody’s tossed overboard. Thought we’d at least pick up part of the barge.”

At the end of ten minutes, Park asked, “What now?”

“Do a slow one-eighty and make another run, but a little farther to the east.”

“On the way.”

With the turn completed, Matt kept his eyes glued to the display unit. “Got something. Strong signal. Probably the barge. Let’s keep running this pattern, back and forth, north-south, a little to the east each time, and see what we get.”

“What’s it look like?” Park asked.

“A line. That’s all. A single line on each run is all we’ll get as long as we’re moving over something made of metal and large enough to show up, but when we put them all together? Patience, my friend. The world of computers will reveal all.”

Matt had lost count of the turns and sweeps Native Diver had made, when suddenly he called, “Nothing that time. Looks like we’ve moved too far east. Why don’t we pull up the fish, tie up to one of the barge’s buoys, and open a can of beer from the cooler? I’ll download what we’ve got into the laptop. If we’re lucky, we’ll find out if there’s really anything down there besides the barge.”

With the “fish” onboard and a data link connected between the magnetometer display unit and an IBM ThinkPad, Matt typed in the download command. Immediately, a graphic display popped onto the ThinkPad screen. A blue bar moved from left to right—15 percent, 45 percent, 75 percent—before being replaced with “DOWNLOAD COMPLETE.”

Sipping on the beer Park placed in his left hand, Matt worked the computer keyboard’s red track point, guided the cursor to the SURVEY 1 icon and double-clicked. A single line made its way across the monitor screen.

“What the hell?” Park huffed, one eyebrow cocked upward in disbelief. “That all we got?”

“Watch, O ye of little faith.” Matt directed the cursor arrow to the command bar and clicked on MERGE. Lines representing each pass of the boat over the bottom began to form across the center of the screen, gradually revealing a definite shape. “That’s gotta be the stern of the barge,” Matt said. He watched the barge’s configuration take shape. “Still the barge…Whoa! There! It’s moving past the barge onto…what?”

The two men watched as line after line formed a picture of what lay below. “It’s buried, whatever it is,” Matt said, “’cause there was nothing down there except the barge and that thing sticking up from the bottom.”

Finally, the lines stopped. “Son of a gun,” Park breathed. “It’s some kind of ship.”

“Yeah,” Matt answered, taking a quick slug of beer before adding, “It’s a goddamn submarine! At least the front half.”

“One of ours?”

Matt shrugged. “Hell if I know. Never heard of one of ours or anybody else’s sunk off Jax Beach. German U-boat put a team of saboteurs ashore south of here in Ponte Vedra Beach back in ‘42, but I’ve never read anything about a sub being sunk. Tankers, banana boats, but no submarines. That barge has to be about fifty feet long. Beyond that, what we’re looking at is shaped like the front end of a submarine. About two hundred feet or so. There.” Matt used an index finger to trace the shapes. “That looks like the sail, or conning tower as it’s normally called. And there. On each side of the bow. Diving planes. Barge must be covering the stern.”

“Subs I’ve seen on visitors’ day up at Kings Bay have their diving planes on each side of the conning tower,” Park said.

“I wasn’t a bubblehead, but I’m fairly sure that’s pretty much the way they’ve designed all the nukes. This is probably a World War Two diesel electric if it really is a submarine. I don’t know what the hell else it could be.”

“So whatta we do?” Park asked. “If we’re within three miles of the coast, which we are: tell the feds or the state?”

Matt thought for a moment. “If we’re inside the three-mile limit, the state State of Florida holds sovereignty over all submerged land within that zone and whatever lies on or beneath those lands. Three to twelve miles, the Federal Government. Unless it’s a warship. If it is, international law says it belongs to the country of origin.”

“But we’re not sure what it is, are we?” Steve pointed out.

“Not one hundred percent, but you can bet your ass it’s not Popeye’s sailboat. And if word gets out, we’ll have every salvager on the east coast camping out here wanting part of the glory.”

“Damned if we’re gonna let that happen,” Park said.

Matt nodded, adding, “I’ve got a friend in Washington who’s a major contributor to
Jane’s Fighting Ships
and several other military publications. If there’s anything on record, he’ll know. He’ll also keep his mouth shut until it’s time to tell either the state or the feds or both what we think we’ve got.”

Staring at the computer, Park suggested, “Maybe run a copy of the magnetometer reading, add date and location coordinates, and let him have it as some kind of insurance. Prove we were here.”

“Not a bad idea,” Matt said, emptying his beer can with one giant gulp. “Not a bad idea at all.”

Monday Morning, 15 October 2001

With the waterlogged carpet removed, all sand and muck finally swept, scrubbed and vacuumed away, only a bare concrete floor was left until a new carpet could be installed. Steve Park stood just inside the entrance and surveyed the dive shop. With the exception of regulators, which he’d brought in from the other store to replace those ruined in the storm, the shop was filled with wet suits, dive masks, fins, buoyancy compensators and a stock of twice-washed Atlantic Pro Divers’ T-shirts, each bearing a tag reading “50% OFF.” Glancing one last time at the cardboard sign taped to the front window announcing “HURRICANE SALE,” Park was finally ready to unlock the front door.

It was the late-model, ice-blue BMW Z8 convertible, top down, which pulled into the parking space directly in front of the door that caught his eye. “One helluva car,” Park mumbled to himself. But it was the youngish-looking man who opened the door, pulled himself up by the windshield frame and stepped out of the car who grabbed his attention. Cigarette in hand and wearing a sport coat and open-collar shirt, the man was deeply tanned, with sand-white hair combed back into a small ponytail. His leading-man face belonged more in Hollywood than in Jacksonville Beach. For a moment, however, the hardness in his eyes, glacier blue, almost the exact color of the BMW, was unsettling. Park felt a shiver of foreboding run through his body, but then he caught himself.
A customer, that’s all,
he told himself. And besides, no damn way was he afraid of any man, fish, fowl, or beast.

At the click of the lock and turn of the CLOSED sign to OPEN, the man pushed away from the car, stomped out the cigarette on the asphalt, and hurried forward. Automatically, Park opened the door for him. “Morning. You’ve got the honor of being our first customer since Hurricane Grace came to town.”

Park held out his hand, which the man accepted, but Park immediately wanted to pull back. There was strength in the man’s handshake, but the same coldness in his eyes radiated from the hand.

“Mr. Berkeley? Are you Matthew Berkeley?” The words were spoken with an accent, barely distinguishable, but there it was just the same.
European,
Park thought. A slight roll to the r’s, yet distinct, cut short at the end.

“No. Matt’s not here, but how’d you know to look for him here?” Park studied the man, not sure how much to reveal, but the eyes made him hesitate. “You from the company that’s gonna repair the roof on his aunt’s house?”

A laugh, soft and dark, grunted its way up the man’s throat.

“No. I’m the state’s chief underwater archeologist. Was in Jacksonville inspecting some artifacts recently brought up from a Civil War vessel over on the St. Johns River. Thought I’d stop by. See if Berkeley’s completed the forms Dr. Mason faxed to him. Dr. Mason said Berkeley and a man named Park found something off Jacksonville Beach. Are you Park?”

“Yeah, Steve Park, but I don’t know whether he got the form or not. I’ll check in the office. He was doing some work back there before he left this morning. What’s it look like?”

“Much like any other official form,” the man said dryly. “Application for Historic Shipwreck Exploration or Salvage in Florida Waters.”

“I’ll check,” Park said, edging backwards toward the office, not wanting to take his eyes off the man. “By the way, what’s your name?”

“Bruder. Eric Bruder.”

Park nodded, adding, “Be right back.” Once in the office, Park hurriedly folded a copy of the printout of the magnetometer’s findings and shoved it in a side drawer. Suddenly, he felt a presence, quickly followed by the same shiver he’d experienced earlier. Turning, he saw Bruder standing in the doorway, ice-blue eyes devouring everything in sight. Had he seen the printout?

“Find it?” Bruder asked.

“The form? No. Must’ve taken it with him, but here’s a Mail Boxes Etc. receipt for UPS.” Park held up the paper. “Looks like he sent the completed forms to you yesterday afternoon. Should be in your office when you get back to Tallahassee.”

Bruder ran his upper teeth over his lower lip before asking, “Any idea what’s out there?”

Park eased past Bruder, leading him away from the office and back into the store. “All we know right now is it’s something metallic with a kind of rubber covering sticking out of the sand. Couple of yards in front of a barge that sunk during the hurricane, but we’re pretty sure it’s not part of the barge.”

“Ship?”

“Could be. That’s why Matt completed the form—so you people could approve us getting down there to find out.”

“Ever think of using a magnetometer to go over the area? From what I understand of Mr. Berkeley’s extensive background in archeology, it would seem he would have thought of that.”

Trying to hide the increased wariness he felt at hearing the word
magnetometer,
Park quickly answered, “Think Matt’s more into the security end of things than actually digging up stuff, but magnetometer? That’s an idea,” Park said, shrugging his shoulders as though it were the first time he’d heard the word. “Oughta be somebody around with one we could use. Maybe do that when Matt gets back. Anyway, that form shows date and time we found whatever it is and location coordinates, so that pretty well establishes we found it, doesn’t it?”

Bruder held up one of the T-shirts, bringing it to his chest for sizing as he answered, “Most likely. You say Mr. Berkeley left this morning? Do you know where he went? I really wanted to speak with him before returning to Tallahassee.”

“Washington, but whether it has anything to do with this, I don’t know. He’s got a lot of things going on in his own job right now. Stopping off in Charleston on the way back. That’s where he lives. See his wife and mother. Back here sometime tomorrow.”

“And since you mentioned security,” Bruder said, a finger to his lower lip as if deep in thought, “I do remember Dr. Mason saying Mr. Berkeley’s head of security for that North American Archeological group of his. She seems to think very highly of him.”

“According to Matt, they go back a ways. I’ll pass that on when he gets back.”

Bruder held up the T-shirt. “How much?”

“Still a little stained from the storm. Half price, six dollars, but since Matt and I might be working with you over the coming months, why don’t you take it, no charge.”

“Thank you,” Bruder said. “Appreciate if you’d have Berkeley call me when he gets back from Washington. He has my number in Tallahassee.” Holding out his hand, he continued, “By the way, Dr. Mason has turned everything over to me, so no need bothering her. I’m your contact. Also, until we’ve had an opportunity to process the application, neither you nor Mr. Berkeley are allowed on the site. Certainly no excavation of any kind.”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Park answered, accepting Bruder’s outstretched hand. Again, a powerful hand, but cold like the man’s eyes. That same involuntary shudder ran the length of Steve Park’s spine, continuing until Bruder was out the door and settled into the driver’s side of the ice-blue BMW convertible.

Whether it was some kind of sixth sense or simply his imagination playing tricks, Park had the feeling there was more to Eric Bruder than what lay on the surface. He felt it—a burning awareness of impending trouble, like a squall line on the horizon. Working with Eric Bruder was something neither he nor Matt would enjoy.

With the exception of a few touch-ups here and there, Dulles International still looked much like it did when Matt was stationed at the Pentagon and flying to and from Europe on Navy business. The same crowds, the same odors, the same never-ending noise of a thousand languages chattering their way along the various concourses.

Of more immediate concern was whether he would recognize the man he’d come to see. How long ago had it been? Fifteen years? The last time had been when he’d served as the Navy’s representative to the annual international review board in London for
Jane’s Fighting Ships.
That’s where he’d met the man.

Then he saw him, several gates ahead, tall and thin as ever. What little hair he’d had when they’d last met, gone. That head, as bald as a watermelon, hid a mind that could and often did put half of Washington’s so-called brain trust to shame.

“Sam…Samuel Gravely,” Matt called.

Gravely, a head taller than the rest of the crowd, waved and pointed to a small bar located midway along the concourse. This was followed by the hand motion for taking a drink. Laughing, Matt nodded and, moving like a salmon swimming upriver, threaded his way through the stream of passengers rushing frantically to make their next flights.

With a quick handshake, Gravely bellowed at the bartender, “Martini, shaken not stirred.” Then, winking in Matt’s direction, he said, “And a Scotch and water.” To Matt, he asked, “That’s what you’re still drinking, isn’t it?”

“Right as always,” Matt answered, adding to the bartender, “Make it Glenlivet, and if you don’t have a single malt, Cutty Sark.” Back to Gravely, he said, “Other than losing all your hair, or what little you had left, how the hell are you?”

“Except for a worn-out kidney, a liver that shrinks a little more each time I say the word
martini,
and a prostate so goddamn big it won’t let me take a normal piss, fucking great!”

Shaking his head and laughing at the same time, Matt said, “You don’t know how much I appreciate you meeting me here. Only got less than an hour before a flight down to Charleston, then back to Jacksonville, so fun and games aside…” Matt opened a small leather briefcase, pulled out the magnetometer’s printout and spread it on the bar, just as the bartender returned with their drinks.

Gravely raised his martini in a toast. “Skoal.”

“Whatever,” Matt returned, taking a quick sip of his drink before running an index finger along the outer lines on the paper. “A little less than three miles off Jacksonville Beach, Florida. What is it?”

Gravely studied the printout for a moment. “Submarine. World War Two. Only the sail and front end showing. What’s this?” He pointed to the blob of lines aft of the submarine’s sail structure.

“Barge, sunk during Hurricane Grace a couple of weeks back. That’s why Steve Park, old dive buddy of mine, and I were out there. Buoying off the barge as a hazard to navigation for the Coast Guard until it can be lifted and towed. Found something strange, metal, box-like, sticking up out of the sand several yards in front of the barge.” Pointing at the printout, he said, “About there, where the conning tower would be.”

“Looks like the stern of the sub is buried beneath the barge,” Gravely said, “unless what we’re seeing is all there is; the rest destroyed.”

“Don’t know for sure, but I’d say the stern’s still down there. Once the barge is moved, we’ll be able to tell. But what kind of sub do you think it is?”

“Hard to say,” Gravely answered. “I’m certain it’s not one of ours or British. They’re all accounted for. German? Could be, but records would indicate otherwise.

“As well as I remember, somewhere between fifteen and twenty U-boats were sunk off the United States East and Gulf Coasts. That includes the U-Eight sixty-nine, not located until nineteen ninety-one and finally identified in ninety-seven. Taking a sip of his martini, Sam continued, “Off New Jersey, but nothing off the east coast of Florida.”

“You’re sure?” Matt asked.

“Unless we missed one of the last built. From the scale on this thing,” he said, again pointing to the printout, “it’s big. Could be a type Twenty-one U-boat. Biggest and fastest the Germans had at the end of the war. German’s dubbed it
das Wunderboot,
the wonder or miracle boat. Fact, it was bigger and faster than the subs we or anybody else had at the time.

“Unfortunately for the Germans, only one or two ever went on patrol. The rest were sunk in the North Sea, surrendered by their crews, then scuttled, or were only partially completed when the war ended. Most of those were destroyed where they sat in dry dock.”

Gravely thought for a moment and continued, “We brought one, maybe two, back to the U.S. after the war. The U-Twenty-five thirteen is the one I remember. We operated it for a few years in conjunction with development of submarine and antisubmarine tactics. During its time, had the most modern snorkel system ever developed.”