Atlantis Found (49 page)

Again, Hozafel nodded. “After leaving Bergen, Captain Harger and the U-2015, followed by my crew in the U-699, sailed across the Atlantic without surfacing, to a deserted port in Patagonia.”

“Where you off-loaded your passengers and treasures,” added Sandecker.

“You’re familiar with the operation?”

“Only the basics, not the details.”

“Then you couldn’t know that only the passengers and medical specimens went ashore. The art treasures, hoards of gold and other valuables, as well as the sacred Nazi relics, remained on board the U-2015 and U-699. Captain Harger and I then cast off for the base in Antarctica. After rendezvousing with a supply ship and refueling, we continued the voyage, arriving at our destination in early June of 1945. The product of German engineering was a marvel to behold. A pilot came out and took the helm of the U-2015. We followed in her wake and were led into a large cavern that was invisible from a quarter of a mile at sea. A large dock facility carved out of ice, capable of handling several submarines and large cargo vessels, greeted our amazed eyes. Captain Harger and I were ordered to moor behind a military transport that was unloading disassembled aircraft—”

“They flew aircraft from the base?” Little interrupted.

“The very latest in German aviation technology. Junkers 287 jet bombers converted to transports, fitted with skis, and specially modified for subarctic conditions. The slave labor had cut a large hangar in the ice, while heavy construction equipment had smoothed a mile-long runway. Over five years, an entire mountain of ice was hollowed out to form a small city supporting five thousand construction workers and slaves.”

“Wouldn’t the ice inside the caverns and tunnels begin to melt from the heat generated by that many men and their equipment?” asked Little.

“German scientists had developed a chemical coating that could be sprayed on the ice walls that insulated and prevented them from melting. The heat inside the complex was maintained at a constant sixty degrees Fahrenheit.”

“If the war was over,” Sandecker put to Hozafel, “what useful purpose could the base serve?”

“The plan, as I understood it, was for the remaining elite Nazis of the old regime to operate secretly from the base, infiltrate into South America, and buy great tracts of land and many technical and manufacturing corporations. They also invested heavily in the new Germany and in the Asian countries, using the gold from their old national treasury, some of the looted treasures that were sold in America, and counterfeit American currency printed with genuine U.S. Treasury printing plates that were obtained by the Russians and captured by the Germans. Finances were not a problem to launch the Fourth Reich.”

“How long did you remain at the base?” asked Little.

“Two months. Then I took my U-boat and crew and sailed to the Río de Plata River and surrendered to the local authorities. An officer of the Argentine Navy came on board and directed me to continue toward the Mar de Plata naval base. I gave the order, my last one as an officer in the Kriegsmarine before turning over a completely empty U-boat.”

“How long after the war ended did this take place?”

“A week short of four months.”

“Then what happened?”

“My crew and I were detained until British and American intelligence agents arrived and interrogated us. We were questioned for six solid weeks before we were finally released and allowed to return home.”

“You and the crew, I assume, told Allied intelligence nothing.”

Hozafel smiled. “We had three weeks during the voyage from Antarctica to Argentina to rehearse our stories. They were a bit melodramatic perhaps, but none of us broke and the interrogation teams learned nothing. They were highly skeptical. But who could blame them? A German naval vessel vanishes for four months and then turns up, its commander claiming that he believed that any radio contact stating that Germany had surrendered was an Allied scheme to make him reveal his position? Not a plausible story, but one they could not break.” He paused and stared at the dying fire. “The U-699 was then turned over to the United States Navy and towed to their base at Norfolk, Virginia, where it was dismantled down to the last bolt and then scrapped.”

“And the U-2015?” Sandecker probed.

“I don’t know. I never heard what happened to her and never saw Harger again.”

“You might be interested in knowing,” said Sandecker, pleased, “that the U-2015 was sunk only a few days ago by a U.S. nuclear sub in the Antarctic.”

Hozafel’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard stories of German U-BOAT activity in the southern polar seas long after the war, but found no substance to them.”

“Because many of the highly advanced XXI and XXII class of U-boats are still listed as missing,” said Little. “We strongly suspect that a fleet of them was preserved by Nazi leadership for smuggling purposes during the years since the war.”

“I would have to admit you’re probably correct.”

Sandecker was about to speak when the phone rang again. He engaged the speaker, almost afraid of what he might hear. “Yes?”

“Just to confirm,” came Pitt’s voice. “The pizza is on your doorstep and the delivery boy is on his way back to the store through heavy rush-hour traffic.”

“Thank you for calling,” said Sandecker. There was no sense of relief in his voice.

“I hope you call again when you get the urge for pizza.”

“I prefer calzone.” Sandecker closed the connection. “Well,” he said wearily, “they reached the aircraft and are in the air.”

“Then they’re home free,” said Little, suddenly buoyant.

Sandecker shook his head dejectedly. “When Dirk mentioned rush-hour traffic, he meant they were under attack by security force aircraft. I fear they have escaped the sharks only to encounter the barracuda.”

 
UNDER its automatic guidance system, the Moller Skycar ascended into the night and skimmed across the black waters of the fjord, slowly increasing its altitude as it swept over the glacier flowing down from the mountains. If anyone on board thought that once they reached the Skycar, they had lifted off for a peaceful flight back to the NUMA ship waiting off Punta Entrada, they were sadly mistaken.

Not one but four helicopter gunships rose from the deck of the
Ulrich Wolf
and set a course to intercept the Skycar. One should have been enough, but the Wolfs sent out their entire fleet of security aircraft to stop the fleeing fugitives. There were no fancy formations, no tentative skirmishing; they came on abreast in a well-calculated deployment to cut off the Skycar before it could reach the sanctuary of the mountains.

Purchased by Destiny Enterprises from the Messerschmitt-Bolkow Corporation, the Bo 105LS-7 helicopter was designed and built for the Federal German Army primarily for ground support and paramilitary use. The aircraft chasing the Skycar carried a crew of two, and mounted twin engines that gave it a maximum speed of two hundred and eighty miles an hour. For firepower, it relied on a ventral-mounted, swiveling twenty-millimeter cannon.

Giordino sat in the pilot’s seat this trip, with Pitt monitoring the instruments, while the women huddled in the cramped rear passenger seat. In a repeat performance of the incoming flight, there was little for Giordino to do but alter the throttle settings to maximum speed. Every other manipulation was computer-controlled and operated. Next to him, Pitt was studying the pursuing helicopters on the radar screen.

“Why, oh why, can’t those big bullies leave us alone?” Giordino moaned.

“Looks like they sent the entire gang,” said Pitt, eyeing the blips on the outer edge of the screen, which were closing in on the outline of the Skycar in the center as if it were a magnetic bull’s-eye.

“If they have heat-seeking missiles that fly in and through canyons,” said Giordino, “they may prove a nuisance.”

“I don’t think so. Civilian aircraft are rarely capable of carrying military missiles.”

“Can we lose them in the mountains?”

“It will be a near thing,” Pitt answered. “Their only hope is to take their best shot from half a mile before we’re out of range. After that, we can outrun them. Their speed looks to be about thirty miles slower than ours.”

Giordino peered through the canopy. “We’re coming off the glacier and entering the mountains. Twisting through the canyons should make it awkward for them to get off a clean shot.”

“Shouldn’t you be concentrating on flying this thing?” said Pat, staring uneasily at the mountains silhouetted in the faint moonlight that were beginning to rise up on both sides of the Skycar. “Rather than chatting among yourselves?”

“How are you two getting on back there?” Pitt asked solicitously.

“This is like riding a roller coaster,” said Megan excitedly.

Pat was more aware of the danger and not as enthusiastic as her daughter. “I think I’ll keep my eyes closed, thank you.”

“We’ll be thrown around by turbulence, and the sudden shifts of direction through the mountains, because we’ll be running at maximum speed,” explained Pitt. “But not to worry. The computer is flying the aircraft.”

“How comforting,” Pat muttered uneasily.

“The bad guys are coming over the summit at nine o’clock,” announced Giordino, warily staring at the glaring lights beamed by the helicopters that lit up the jagged mountain slopes.

The pilots of the assault helicopters played a smart game. They made no attempt to chase the faster Skycar through the hooks and crooks among the ravines that split the mountains. They realized they had one opportunity, and only one, to shoot down the strange-looking aircraft. They gained altitude as one and fired down into the ravine, their twenty-millimeter shells blasting through the dark in trajectories ahead of the Skycar.

Pitt instantly realized the tactic and elbowed Giordino’s arm. “Take manual control!” he snapped. “Stop us in midair and back up!”

Giordino obeyed and completed the maneuver almost before the words were out of Pitt’s mouth. He switched off the computer control and took command, bringing the Skycar to a gut-wrenching halt that threw them against their safety harnesses, then sending the aircraft back down the ravine in reverse.

“If we attempt to fly through that barrage,” said Pitt, “we’ll be shot to shreds.”

“It’s only a matter of seconds before they reposition and aim this way.”

“That’s the idea. I’m banking on them turning and deflecting their fire behind our path, expecting us to fly into it. But we shoot forward again, forcing them to realign—the same trick we pulled on the patrol boat. If things fall our way, we’ll gain enough time to put a mountain between us before they can reconcentrate their fire again.”

As they spoke, the gunships broke out of formation to converge their fire. In a few seconds, they had realigned and zeroed in, firing directly at the Skycar. It was the signal for Giordino to send the craft charging up the ravine again. The plan came within a hair of out-and-out success, but the seconds spent in reverse allowed the helicopters to move in closer. There was no concentrated barrage this time. The pilots reacted swiftly and began firing wildly at the rapidly fleeing Skycar.

Shells ripped into the vertical fins of the tail assembly. The landing wheels were shot off and the upper part of the canopy suddenly shattered and flew off into the darkness, allowing a rush of cold air to flood into the cockpit. The murderous but inaccurate fire sprayed all around the craft, but mercifully the engines remained unscathed. Unable to evade the salvo by twisting the Skycar obliquely—since the sides of the ravine were no more than fifty feet from the widest part of the aircraft—Giordino jerked it up and down instead.

The twenty-millimeter shells that missed chewed into the steep cliffs and threw up geysers of rocky fragments. Like a cat chased by a pack of dogs, Giordino hurled the Skycar up the canyon in a frenzied series of undulating maneuvers. Another two hundred yards, then a hundred, and suddenly, Giordino threw the aircraft into a sharp ninety-degree bank, skirting around a protruding rock-bound slope that blocked off the storm of shell fire.

By the time the Destiny Enterprises’ gunships had reached the promontory and rounded it, the Skycar had vanished deep into the blackness of the mountains.

CITY UNDER THE ICE

32

 
LIMOUSINES FORMED A LONG arc on the circular drive of the British Embassy in Buenos Aires. Ladies in ballgowns and men in tuxedos exited the long black cars and entered through high bronze doors into the foyer, where they were met by the British ambassador to Argentina, Charles Lexington, and his wife, Martha, a tall, serene woman with white hair cut in a pageboy. The social event of the year was a celebration in honor of Prince Charles’s elevation to the throne, finally abdicated by his mother, Queen Elizabeth.

The elite of Argentina had been invited, and all attended. The President, the National Congress leaders, the mayor of the city, financiers and industrialists, and the nation’s most admired celebrities. Those who entered the ballroom to the music of an orchestra in eighteenth-century costume were enthralled with the sumptuous buffet prepared by the finest chefs imported from England especially for the event.