The submariner looked at him with almost total disinterest as if he were staring at something far more distant and more meaningful. After a pause he spoke softly in German, “Was immer Sie wünschen.”
“What’s that?”
“Whatever you wish,” said Bruckner. “I am weary of this.”
Scoop by scoop, Sinclair watched as the men unearthed the device, which now protruded from the mud and sand like a piece of ugly, post-modern sculpture. All the while, he wondered if the Americans would be good to their word.
Down on his mud-caked knees, Hawthorne cleared a final handful from the edge of a rotten slat. They cleared enough debris to reveal the warhead and casing of a very menacing looking piece of ordnance — a 105 mm shell — which remained aligned with the bomb laying in a makeshift cradle. Attached to the flat end of the shell was a rectangular object.
“That ordnance looks good,” said Hawthorne pointing to a cradle, which held a very lethal looking artillery round.
Erich remembered Kress at his machine bench in the engine room, sleeves rolled, black grease tattooing his thick forearms. Relying on his uncanny knack for anything mechanical, Herr Kress had bolted together a gun detonator for the atomic device. Crude, but efficient.
Erich nodded. He was impressed with how clean and unsullied by time and elements the casing and ammo appeared. “We should assume we have a live round,” he said.
“You think so?” said Hawthorne.
“I leave it up to you. But I am very familiar with the reliability of Krupp’s arms factories.”
Hawthorne wiped his sweaty hands on his shirt. He looked up at Sinclair with an unreadable expression. “We need to take a break. Then I think I might be ready…”
The last thing he wanted right now was to suggest any move that would prove a fatal mistake. Sinclair nodded, and the four men moved away from the excavation, stretched their legs, arched their backs, and tried to forget they were playing in the sand with a fissionable device.
Turning again to the old Nazi, he waited until the man looked up, engaging his gaze.
“Captain Bruckner, I know we’ve been over this, but one more time, please?”
“All right.”
“We can see the 105 shell and the demolition pack. Does it look… as you left it?”
Bruckner moved closer, but made no effort to touch anything. As he inched forward, lowering himself for a better view, Sinclair kneeled with him to give him support. They regarded a frame of steel bands, bolted together to hold a cube, twelve inches on a side, wrapped tightly in what looked liked canvas impregnated with a waxy substance.
“That is what we called a Kohlenkübelbeutel—a scuttle pack,” he said. “The dynamite was waterproofed, of course.”
Sinclair studied the pack without touching it. “Looks tight. I think we have to assume that charge is dry and live.”
“Oh yes,” said Hawthorne from several steps behind them. “Dynamite is very stable. And this is probably a high grade — if it was intended to blow off a hatch or a hole in the hull.”
Sinclair looked at Bruckner, as if awaiting his confirmation. The old man looked wobbly, even on his knees, despite the soft sand that held him, and he forced himself to speak. “You are correct. I have seen it in action.”
“Anything else?” said Sinclair.
Bruckner paused as if considering a random thought. He stood, looked at Sinclair with a calm, seemingly disinterested expression. “There is something missing.”
“What?” said Hawthorne, wheeling quickly. He adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses over his wide eyes.
Bruckner gestured toward the collection of objects which looked both silly and terrifying. “See those wires? They were connected to the timer for the scuttle charges. But I don’t see it. The timer.”
“Jesus Christ…” said Hawthorne. “Is it still in that fucking mud?”
“I would think so. Yes.”
Sinclair gestured Hawthorne closer. “Dig it out. Now.”
Hawthorne nodded almost imperceptably and moved with a total absence of enthusiasm.
Glancing at Bruckner, who remained standing, his arms hung straight down from his shoulders like a marionette whose strings had been cut, Sinclair had an odd sensation pass through him like a burst of cold air. The old man did not move, nor did his gaze waver from the bomb.
“Captain Bruckner, you okay?”
He looked at Sinclair as if he were transparent. “Okay? Yes. I suppose I am.”
But there was something bothersome about the way Bruckner had spoken. Either he was getting terribly fatigued, or he was surrendering to the fearful grip of this place.
Several minutes passed as Hawthorne began to use his fingertips to follow the thin wires into the mud and sand. The man moved with a painful slowness, making it obvious he didn’t want to touch the wires or disturb them in any way as he cleared the debris away almost grain by grain.
Too slow, thought Sinclair. This is much too slow.
At one point, Hawthorne looked up at him, removed his glasses to wipe them on sleeve of his flannel shirt, then spoke. “If anything looks critical, if anything doesn’t feel right, we get out of here, right?”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” said Sinclair, who managed a smile that felt embarrassingly phony from the inside-out.
At the same moment, Bruckner moved forward with an awkward robotic effort. He was close behind the nuclear technician.
“Captain,” said Sinclair. “Is there something wrong?”
Bruckner turned his head slowly without moving his shoulders, like a gun turret. He said a single word: “Yes.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Dex said nothing as Admiral Whitehurst considered his options with Harry Olmstead and Captain Danvers.
“How long to get a CH-53 and Dragonfish to the target coordinates?” said Whitehurst.
Danvers didn’t hesitate. “We’re closing the gap with every minute. Less than twenty, I’m sure.”
Whitehurst looked at Olmstead. “What’re you thinking, Harry?”
The Counter Terror Group Director tilted his head and grinned. “I’m thinking we’re wasting time. We take out the rogue vessel. ASAP.”
“What about the hostages?” said Danvers.
Olmstead waved off the question. “They’re not on board.”
“He’s right,” said Whitehurst. “They’re already under the ice shelf. They’re using Bruckner — to disarm the device.”
Danvers nodded. “So we neutralize the freighter, which forces the team inside the station to deal with us.”
Whitehurst nodded. “It’s risky, but it’s all we’ve got. Time isn’t with us on this one. If the enemy has a warship or a submarine on the way, it won’t matter if we take out the freighter.”
Olmstead crossed him arms as if suddenly chilled. “What’s the ETA on our Virginia Class?”
Danvers shrugged. “Almost four hours. Best case.”
“We can’t fuck around that long,” said Whitehurst. “Get Drabek up here. On the double.”
As Dex waited for the next phase of the mission to kick in, he tried to construct a way to get himself included in the action. He knew he had to just keep his silence and wait for the right moment. His instincts for protocol and military leverage had always been pretty good.
When Commander Drabek arrived on the bridge, they briefed him in lightning-round mode. “Just get us there, Admiral. We’ll do the rest.”
Whitehurst nodded. Then to Danvers: “Now about that rogue, Captain — take the bastards out.”
Danvers looked at the Admiral with a smile he made no effort to hide. It emphasized his strong jawline and high cheekbones. He had that classic Annapolis-look that hadn’t deserted him as he slid into his forties. Dex had known plenty of officers like Danvers over the years, and in general they were a decent bunch.