When they went past the laboratory again the major was not in sight. The two Russians froze at the door.
But when they listened they heard his chest rumble on the floor where he had collapsed, fast asleep.
Good, Borodin thought.
On the one hand, the disease had its advantages.
They went down the spiral steps, gusts of cool air rose and blew their hair. The U-boat sat like an alien ship. Ancient and yet not nearly antiquated.
Taking care not to make too much noise, they opened the hatch they found close to the bow and went down a dark tunnel. The engine room smelled like old oil left in somebody’s garage. Nicolai had never been in a U-boat before. The closest he’d been was in a Russian submarine during his physicals in the Navy Academy.
Borodin asked him where they were going to begin.
“I don’t know how to drive a U-boat,” Nicolai said.
“Well, how about looking for the steering wheel or something?”
“Submarines don’t have steering wheels.”
Borodin shrugged. “Since this is not a submarine, maybe a U-boat has a steering wheel.”
And it did have one.
The documents were shared in two places.
Olivia took a bunch, Anabia Nassif and Liam Murphy piled the rest before them and searched. Peter Williams assisted with translation.
Surprisingly, some of the documents were written in English. But the most significant ones were scribbled in German.
Frank Miller watched Ted Cooper.
In most of the notes they found the chemical combination for a particular virus. They surmised then that this virus was what was making the soldiers sick.
“See here,” Peter said, translating from German, “partial combination with the immune system, virus caused death, superhuman strength and aggression, headaches, seizures.”
“The vial,” Miller said, “the broken vial, that’s how the soldier got it—”
“Yes, primary exposure often causes pronounced reactions in subjects,” Nassif agreed. “Subsequent infected persons are only carriers, they degenerate slowly. And that’s what we see in the major, and the others now infected.”
“Are you saying we could all be infected as well?” asked Olivia.
Nassif nodded.
An ominous silence descended on them.
Major Juan Santiago was probably dead now, the admiral reasoned. And his men too. If that was so then it would be best to keep the scientists further on the facility. Better still, not to let them out again.
What would happen if they were to be allowed to go back to the city?
No, he had to make sure they never get out. This serves his revenge still.
Huebner’s ship was boarded minutes later. Two ships floated beside his ship. The Lea ship was commanded by Admiral Tomas Benjamin, a veteran from the cold war years and a contemporary with Huebner in war college.
It was past midnight already. A starry heaven looked beautiful. The admiral was, however, occupied with wriggling his way out of a much more complicated situation.
He received Admiral Tomas Benjamin in the small board room attached to his quarters.
“Hello, Tomas.”
“Hello, Anton.”
Pleasantries were quickly dispensed. They sat to cups of coffee. Tomas sipped and gave Huebner a look that said, what foolery are you up to now?
Tomas sat on the committee that demoted Huebner when his son John Huebner was implicated in drug-related offenses in the US. And he also signed the petition against him. That petition took away Huebner’s chance at the office of Defense Minister.
Huebner begrudged Tomas.
“What’s this you are doing out here? I hear you have trouble with something on Antarctica?”
“And who told you…of this trouble?” Huebner sipped his coffee.
“I want to hear your side of this new story.”
“I have business on the ice, but it is my business,” Huebner growled. The bridge of his hook nose wrinkled in irritation.
“Yes, Huebner. But this is the armada’s ship. Not yours to take, nor use at will,” Tomas countered.
The two men stared at each other over their cups of coffee. A match of authority, of emotions, and of grudges. What Tomas had against Huebner was simply a matter of who was the better commander. But Huebner would shoot Tomas right there in his boardroom and hide his body in the engine room.
He contemplated the act. He smiled at the public reaction.
A long time ago, Huebner decided he had nothing to live for, nothing to lose.
If Tomas went on the ice continent to investigate what he was about to tell him, then good riddance.
“An American expedition team found a secret Nazi lab in the Antarctic,” he said. “I have secured the lab. The Americans are there now, scientists. If you want to confirm, be my guest.”
Tomas Benjamin started laughing. It began with a chuckle. Then his lips exposed uneven, yellow teeth. He was shaking with amusement. Tomas was a relatively small man. But a strong small man. His frame shook in the chair.
“Huebner, please,” he begged. “Make some sense this time, it will do you real good.”
Many in the Navy believed Huebner perjured in court in the case of his son. He had tried to explain away the boy's involvement in the weapons trafficking allegations. Huebner had told the Navy court that his son was studying in economics at Harvard.
Huebner shrugged. He twisted his lips. “If you want, I can provide transportation for you. Go on and see for yourself. You’ll see a certain American billionaire leading the crew.”
“A billionaire…” Tomas said, with an incredulous stare.
“Oh yes.”
Tomas waited for a name. Huebner baited him with suspense.
Tomas Benjamin rose. His coffee was unfinished and he was a perceived winner in the game of authority.
“The fleet is worried about you, Huebner,” he said. “You have to let go of the past. What’s done is done. Nothing you do now will bring John back.”
Tomas walked out of the room.
Huebner swept his cup of coffee off the table, sending it crashing against the wall, and wept.
Olivia and Peter further shared the search load.
She took a portion of the documents out that were mostly done in English. Some of them were logs for purchase of compounds, experiments, logs for experiments, and letters requesting permission for human tests and for “healthy soldiers.”
One letter contained a terse request for injured men from the front, especially men of Spanish descent. The letter was addressed to Reinhardt Himmler.
Piqued, Olivia jumped the rest of the ramble to the bottom where the name of the writer was signed.
Under the sprawl, the name said, Dr. Fritz Huebner.
She turned the document over but it was blank on the other side. She searched through the pile and found another. This one was addressed to Goebbels. Same request, same signature.
“Odd.”
“What’s odd?” Peter Williams asked.
Olivia showed him the name. “Looks familiar.”
She took her notebook and wrote the name in it.
9
The scientists of Hitler’s secret labs didn’t have the time to create an antidote. It was wartime. Countries were in the business of slaughtering, not saving. The biggest killer won the war, the most benevolent.
Dawn crept outside the facility. Body clocks sparked off wakefulness. The scientist Anabia Nassif worked all night, mixing compounds, examining them under the microscope, and then placing the tubes of fluids in racks. And that was where it all ended.
There were no animal tests, no certainties of efficacies.