Before the war, and even during the early years of it when the enemy to the south pretended to respect its neighbor’s neutrality, Eric Hansen had been captain of a Danish destroyer — the Hval, the Whale, and it was a bitter day for Captain Hansen when, together with other naval commanders, he was ordered to scuttle his ship to prevent it from falling into the hands of the Germans. But Hansen was a man who believed in obeying orders, and he did not hesitate. Opening the sea cocks of his beloved vessel and watching it slowly sink did nothing to further endear the hated Germans to him, nor did the years he spent in internment as a result of the sinking. Only his escape when the building in which he was held was bombed by the British air force in March of 1945 made the outraged mariner feel there was any justice in the world at all.
Now, a mere two months later, the war was over and Captain Eric Hansen was once again the master of a ship. It was not a very large ship, and while it was supposedly a naval vessel of sorts, it was merely a coast-guard cutter, and the only weaponry it carried was an old 40-mm Bofors cannon mounted forward at the narrow prow, plus the rifles issued to the crew when the necessity for them arose.
The mission of the cutter was a simple one, to attempt to prevent any smuggling, or — and more important to Captain Hansen — to prevent the illegal entry of the hated tyskerne wishing to escape a country devastated through their own insanity, to the far more stable and prosperous Denmark. It was not the same as commanding a destroyer, of course, but far more satisfying. In the one month Captain Hansen had commanded the Elritse he had seen more action than in the eight years he had had the bridge of the Hval.
The area patrolled by the Elritse — the Minnow, named by Captain Hansen in a rare moment of black humor, for he was basically a humorless man — was along the eastern shore of Sjaelland Island, leaving Copenhagen from its base on the Öresund, then around Amager to skirt the shores of the Køge Bugt, past Mø and Falster to the lighthouse at Gedser, and then to return. When not stopping and searching suspicious-looking ships, Captain Hansen was proud of maintaining a rigid schedule of patrol. But tonight it was certain that no schedule was going to be maintained. A bit of flotsam off Øbylyng in the Køge Bugt had caught the ship’s propeller, twisting it badly. The inspection and attempted repair by the ship’s engineer, sent below with scuba gear and a light, took an hour from the schedule, and the slow speed required to avoid damage to the propeller-shaft bearings, brought the Elritse around Falster a good two hours late. Captain Hansen had just about decided to abort his patrol and return to the base for definitive repairs, when there was a whistle from the speaking tube on the bridge. Hansen moved over, picking it up.
“The captain here.”
“Lookout here, sir. A small boat, two points off the starboard bow, distance between three and four miles. Running without lights, sir...”
Hansen picked up his night glasses and trained them in the indicated direction. The small boat that came into his sights seemed to be the perfect example of a smuggler’s vessel, undoubtedly expecting the patrol would have already been well on its way on its return trip. Hansen had always known holding a rigid schedule was foolish, but orders were orders. And now when he was sure he had a smuggler in his sights, he had to be with a crippled ship! Still, the smuggler couldn’t know that. He picked up the speaking tube.
“Lookout—”
“Sir?”
“Signal that ship to lay to and await our boarding party.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The flasher on the lookout platform went into action. The captain turned to his mate.
“Have a gunner stand by the Bofors.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The mate hurried out. Captain Hansen trained his glasses on the ship running at a slight angle to his own course. Was it possible it was not a smuggler, even though running without lights? Certainly there seemed to be no fear of the cutter, well-illuminated though it was. Nor did the other ship make any effort to take any evading action. On the other hand, there was no reply to the order to lay to nor any effort to do so. The small ship was clearly visible now in the brilliant arc of the Gedser lighthouse as it swept around on its steady path. Captain Hansen frowned and swung the wheel a bit, setting a course to intersect the other’s path, reaching with one hand for the speaking tube.
“This is the captain. Fire a shot across his bow!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
On board the Linderndsee Schurz had been dozing. The steady drone of the engines, the even vibrations of the ship, the soothing hypnotic rising and falling of the ship as it easily breasted the slight waves of the calm sea, together with the fact that he had not had any decent rest for several days, all combined to induce a lethargy beyond his ability to control. His head rested between two spokes of the wheel, unconsciously holding the ship on course. He had been dreaming of his days as a lieutenant in barracks, trying to sleep, when suddenly some schlaumeier started to play a flashlight across his eyes to try to wake him up. He turned his head a bit to avoid the irritating clown, and bumped his forehead on one of the spokes. He started to come awake and then sat erect, frightened by the loud boom of a cannon. Ahead of him a spout of water incredulously rose in the air.
Schurz stared, trying to get his confused senses to explain to him what was happening. There, approaching him all lit up like a Christmas tree, with a flasher working like crazy from somewhere above the bridge, was what had to be a coast-guard cutter! He glanced quickly at the chronometer, awake at last. He was less than an hour from Warnemünde! How did the damned patrol boat happen to be here when it should have been halfway back to its base by now? Damn himself for falling asleep at the wheel, but double damn that lying traitor Sneller! Schurz promised himself that if he came out of this alive he would personally see to it that information went to the Russians telling them exactly where they could put their bloody hands on Captain Ernst Sneller of the Unterseedienst!
He thrust the throttle to the maximum, turning the ship away from the cutter, and then knew he was wasting time. He forced himself to think clearly. The cutter was no more than two miles away, fifteen or twenty minutes between them at the most. If he turned and ran they could easily send him to the bottom with a well-placed shot from their cannon. As if to prove the point another waterspout rose even closer to him, the echo of the boom reverberating over the water. He pulled back the throttle and reached for the switch controlling the deck lights. What happened to him was unimportant. What was vitally important was that the treasure not fall into the hands of the enemy. He hastily lashed the wheel to keep the ship from swinging and presenting a broader target if they decided to sink it despite his surrender, and ran down the companionway. He paused at the chest containing the treasure, looking about him wildly, seeking some sort of orientation. There! The lighthouse itself gave one direction! He swung about, frantically searching for some other marker to give location to his instant triangulation. There were a few lights from the village, strung along what seemed to be a dock of sorts. It would have to do. Someday, somehow, he would recover this chest, but the most important thing was that the treasure must not fall into enemy hands! Not now, not after all the work and risk and fears and triumphs — or at least near-triumphs! No, not now!