“You got the GPS numbers, but remember I’m Greek, we’ve been in boats for two-thousand years. But even if that news lady rode naked on my bowsprit, I wouldn’t take her out to the devil’s graveyard.”
Dave said, “I imagine finding a human skeleton underwater is quite sobering.”
“Sobering,” said Nick, entering Dave’s galley with Max at his heels. “It’s frightening. That’s where Hitler … Lucifer himself … that’s where his lost sailors are doin’ the dance with the devil in the dark currents of the ocean. Dave, I know where your good iron skillet is, and I know where your beer is, too.”
“Help yourself to both,” Dave said. Nick started humming and sauteing the grouper, tossing a piece of bread to Max. Dave sat at a fold-out table near the lower station and began keying information into his computer. “Sean, you said that you and Nick found two canisters labeled U-235. How large was each canister?”
“Maybe three feet long, probably a foot wide.”
“If both canisters were holding weapons-grade uranium, that is at least ninety percent pure, it would mean that Germany was as far along as the Allies, or more specifically, the United States in the race to create a nuclear bomb. If I recall, it takes about five-hundred kilos or a thousand pounds to produce an atomic bomb the size of the one that destroyed Hiroshima. Two canisters the size you found would do some severe devastation. I’m wondering why those canisters are on that part of the sub. What were the Germans going to do with the stuff? Was it connected to those jets in boxes? Fascinating scenarios at play here.”
“Wish I knew the answers to that,” O’Brien said.
Dave opened a file cabinet under the console and began leafing through dozens of folders. He grunted as he read through a file. Then he keyed numbers and letters into his laptop. “I’ll find more information in the morning. However, right now, I can scan through some files remotely. I know it’s rude of me, but could you turn your head for a moment.”
“I can always go help Nick in the galley.”
“No you can’t,” said Nick, lifting up a knife in a mock swordfight stance. “I teach you all I know about fishing, look what happened, you catch a submarine.” Nick grinned and tossed Max a piece of cheese.
“Okay,” said Dave. “I can’t pull up the original manifest of U-boat 236, but I might be able to find it. I do have some stats on the vessel. It was commissioned in March 1945, the largest sub in Germany’s fleet, one of the few XB subs. This one was 340 feet in length. U-boat 236 carried a crew of forty-seven men. Highest ranking officer was Otto Heinz. The sub left Kiel, Germany, on April 13, 1945, to join six other U-boats in what was to be the final battle of the Atlantic. It evaded and crippled a Royal Navy sub in the North Atlantic. Those last seven submarines, known as Hitler’s Sea Wolf pack, were Admiral Karl Donitz’s, collectively, and Heinz’s last effort to strike a fatal blow to the U.S. as Germany was gasping for breath. U-boat 236 was believed to have been one of the subs that carried a more compact version of Germany’s deadly V2 rockets, which were the V3s. More powerful and more stealth-like than the infamous ‘buzz bombs’ that Hitler used against London. One or more of the subs was thought to be carrying disassembled Me2-Fighter Jets. If they had weapons-grade uranium for creating atomic bombs and V3 rocket launching capabilities, any one of these seven German U-boats could have sat a few miles off the coast and heavily damaged New York City or another target area.”
“Man,” Nick said. “A possible nine-eleven-type catastrophe almost six decades before nine-eleven.”
“The potential would have been much worse if they had about three times the amount of uranium that you two found, assuming that is indeed what you found.”
“Does it say what happened to U-boat 236?” O’Brien asked.
Dave scanned the data. “No.”
“Does it say what happened to the other six U-boats in the Sea Wolf pack?”
“Navy sent five of them to the ocean floor north of the Azores. One surrendered.”
“Anything about weapons-grade, HEU?”
“Hold on a second … umm … shortly after Germany surrendered in early May 1945, Admiral Donitz instructed the commander of U-boat 234 to give up and report to whichever Allied port it was nearest to at the time. That U- boat was escorted in by two U.S. Navy destroyers, taken to Portsmouth, New Hampshire. And, gentlemen, it did have more than seven hundred kilos or almost two-thousand pounds of U-235, highly enriched uranium on board.”
“What happened to the stuff, the uranium?” Nick asked.
Dave nodded. “This report doesn’t say. I do know that three months later we dropped the same stuff, as you say, over Japan and closed the curtain on the whole damn war. If you two found HEU, the only way to know for sure is to dive back down and bring it up.”
“No freakin’ way!” Nick said. “Only one man can ever find what’s been lost out there. And that man killed the GPS numbers before Jason and I could look at them.”
“It was the best thing to do,” O’Brien said.
“Nick,” said Dave, his voice barely audible, “if that’s what you found, Sean may have done you the greatest favor in your life.”
Nick grinned. “See no evil, hear no evil, and tell no evil. Let’s eat.”
Dave opened three bottles of Corona and they sat at the bar to eat. Dave said, “Nick, the combination of sauteed grouper, melted cheese, diced tomatoes, and the Vidalia onions in your recipe is as treasured as Plato’s Republic.”
“Same old recipe,” Nick said, chewing a mouthful of food. “I just gave it a new name, sixteen fathoms sub sandwich.” He tossed a bite to Max as O’Brien’s cell rang.
“Jupiter Charters,” O’Brien said.
“Are you Captain O’Brien?” a woman asked.
“Yes, who’s calling?”
“I saw the news tonight. Did you find a lost German submarine out there?”
“Who’s this?”
“May I meet and talk with you, please. It’s very important.”
“What’s your name?”
“Abby Lawson. Sixty-seven years ago, my grandfather saw something on the beach that got him killed. If you found a German sub, that discovery could help my family bring closure to his murder.”
“Murder?” O’Brien thought he heard the voice of someone else in the background. “What murder?” he asked.
The call disconnected.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Nicole Bradley slowly raked her long blond hair across Jason Canfield’s bare chest. He sat in his swimsuit on the second floor of her parent’s beachfront condominium balcony, the setting sun breaking through coconut palm trees, the scent of grilled fish coming from a courtyard. Nicole stood, leaning over him, hair trailing to his chest. She had full lips, the lower lip with a slight pout, dimples, thick hair backlit from the sun. At that moment, Jason thought her hair was spun from pure gold.
In a toast, she said, “Happy birthday!” They touched glasses, sipped wine and she kissed him. Nicole, a college senior studying journalism at the University of Florida, was home for the summer. Her parents were gone for the weekend, and she and Jason had the run of the beachfront condo. She sipped chardonnay from a crystal glass. “Have some more wine, Jason.”
“I really shouldn’t. I sort of made a promise to my mom and Sean-”
“Come on, it’s your birthday!”
“Yeah, but wine makes my head hurt.”
“Wine’s healthy.” She sipped. “Good for your heart.” She touched his chest.
“Lemme taste.” He passionately kissed her.
She broke the kiss and said, “I’m just trying to like broaden your tastes, that’s all. C’mon, birthday boy!”
He grinned. They touched glasses again and both emptied their wine. It was Jason’s fourth glass, and his head was beginning to feel numb.
“Aren’t you the charmer?” Nicole asked, straddling Jason’s lap. She ran her fingers through his blond locks. “If
