And hungering.
Thirteen
THE SINGLE-ENGINE PLANE circled a few times above the island’s interior and then dropped smoothly down into the trees. Moore had seen it and, out of curiosity, he drove his pickup truck along a road into jungle, across open flats and through areas black with thicket, trees, and vines shutting off the sunlight. The road came into a wide clearing; there was a narrow, packed-dirt airstrip and a tin-roofed shed. Beyond the strip, at the fringe of the deeper jungle, was a farmhouse. A black man in dungarees stood there watching the thing that had come from the sky. That didn’t happen often on Coquina.
Moore turned onto the airstrip and pulled up alongside the plane. Some sort of symbol was painted on the craft’s side, a white circle with the letters JHF in white at its center. He could see movement in the cockpit; a figure in a tan jumpsuit pulled at a duffel bag wedged between two seats. Moore climbed out of the truck and approached the open cockpit door. “Can I give you a hand?”
“Yes,” the pilot said, working the bag free and hefting it over the side to Moore. “Take this bloody thing. But be careful; there’s expensive camera gear inside.”
Moore caught the heavy bag, but stood braced at the cockpit doorway staring.
The pilot was a young woman, her hair pinned up in a cap but a single curl of gold showing at the neck. He had just caught a glimpse of her profile as she turned to give him the bag. She lifted a suitcase and very carefully laid it outside the cockpit as Moore stepped back to give her room. She glanced up, appraising him with her clear gray eyes, and offered her hand. “Jana Thornton,” she said; Moore shook her hand and started to speak, but she turned away again for a smaller suitcase on the co-pilot’s seat. She put it down on the ground and went on, “I wasn’t expecting a welcoming party. I couldn’t raise a wireless signal, but if I’ve plotted correctly this has to be Coquina.”
“It is.”
“Then I’m where I want to be.” She turned to look down the rutted, pot-holed airstrip. “I don’t expect you have many commercial flights here, do you?”
“No,” Moore agreed. “We’re not exactly a tourist mecca.”
She nodded thoughtfully, returning to the cockpit and emerging again with a few bricks, which she placed as stops against the plane’s tires. Moore carried the bags to his truck and then turned back to her. “What’s the JHF stand for?”
“Jamaica Historic Foundation,” she said, straightening up. She closed the cockpit door and locked it. “Will my plane be safe out here?”
“We haven’t lost any so far.”
“I really didn’t expect anyone to be meeting me,” she laughed as they climbed into the truck’s cab. “But I appreciate the ride, Mr.—?”
“David Moore.” He started the engine and they began to move along the strip. “You would have had a long hike into the village.”
He glanced across at her as they reached the jungle road. It had been a long time since he’d seen a white woman as attractive as she was. She wore very little makeup and didn’t really need any; she was a natural beauty with high cheekbones and forehead and a striking facial structure; she was perhaps in her late twenties. Her hair was tucked underneath the cap, of course, but he envisioned it as falling to just about shoulder length. Her skin was deeply tanned, as if she spent a lot of time outdoors; the sun had deepened laugh-lines around her eyes and mouth. She had the hands of a man, toughened and callused. There was a simple gold chain around her neck, and she wore no rings. Moore had seen a look of energy and intelligence, perhaps also of caution in her eyes. They were calm now, and steady, but Moore thought they could probably cut like a heated scalpel when she was angry.
“Where have you come from?” he asked her. “Kingston?”
“That’s right.”
“Isn’t it dangerous flying alone like that?”
She smiled slightly, as if the question was one she heard often. “Not if you know what you’re doing. And I do. There’s an interesting reef out beyond your harbor. Do you know anything about those two steamer wrecks to the south?”
“I’ve dived them,” he said. “They’re in about sixty feet, but only the stern’s left of one and the keel of the other.” Moore paused for a few seconds. “You’re pretty good to recognize them as steamers from the air.”
“I know that type of wreck,” she said. “And there are objects lying near them that could only be broken steamship funnels.”
“What are you doing on Coquina?” Moore asked, fascinated with his passenger. “And what’s your Foundation do, anyway?”
“I’m here to find the island’s constable. As to the Foundation, we’re a research group in alliance with the British Museum.”
“I see. Then you’re here because of the U-boat.”
She glanced over at him and nodded. “Let’s say I’m here to investigate something the Foundation doesn’t understand. There was a story in the Jamaica Daily Gleaner about a submarine hulk surfacing. We contacted the man who reported it—a mail-boat captain—who turned out to be sixty-eight years old and somewhat less than an expert. I’m reserving judgment as to whether what’s surfaced off your island actually is an authentic World War II relic.”
Moore looked at her and noticed her eyes were suspicious and questing, like a cat’s. “You can see for yourself.”
“I plan to.”
They came off the jungle road, turned on Back Street, and drove toward the center of the village. The Square was now completely deserted, and Moore saw that Kip’s jeep was still gone from its usual place in front of his office.
“I don’t think the constable’s in right now,” he said. He motioned toward the grocery store. “There’s a cafe over there if you’d like something to eat while you wait.”
“I can do with some lunch,” she acknowledged, and Moore pulled the truck to the curb.
Everybody’s Grocers and Cafe was a small stucco building painted a bright mustard yellow; the store was at the front; the cafe was a scattering of tables near a kitchen at the rear. When they sat down, the rotund cook protested that she was leaving soon to go home, but Moore talked her into making lunch for them. He asked for two orders of seafood bouillabaisse and coffee.
“Is it Miss or Mrs. Thornton?” he asked her casually after they’d seated themselves.
She extracted a cigarette from a pack of Players and lit it without waiting for him to find a match. “It’s Dr. Thornton,” she said coolly.
“Oh? A doctor of what?”
“A professor,” she corrected. “I’m a marine archaeologist, specializing in the study of sunken wrecks.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“It is.” She tapped ash off her cigarette. She looked up, examining his eyes for a few seconds. She could see intensity in this man’s tanned, weather-lined face. The eyes were strange, very blue, warm and yet distant at the same time. There was curiosity and strength; but something dark and disturbing as well, lying deep inside. Then she saw it vanish like the briefest of passing shadows.
“What about you?” she asked, at last. “What are you doing here?”
“I own the Indigo Inn. The hotel at the top of the hill.”
“Ah, yes. I saw it from the air.” She tilted her chin and exhaled smoke. “I wouldn’t think you would attract many guests.”
“Not during hurricane season, no. But when the good breezes are blowing we get a few yachtsmen passing through. And I enjoy the life. It’s not a bad way to pass the time.”
“I want to know about this submarine,” she said quietly, after their coffee had been served. “Where is it now?”
“Locked away in an old naval shelter down in the island boatyards. All two hundred feet of the damned thing.”
“Two hundred twenty feet,” Jana corrected him. “Width twenty feet, displacing approximately 749 tons of water. And, if it is. a German boat, most probably a vessel from the VII-C series, if that means anything to you.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Moore admitted.
“The workhorse of the Nazi submarine fleet. They operated by the dozens both in the North Atlantic and in the Caribbean during the war. I’ve dived on the wrecks of several just off Jamaica, but of course there’s not much left to comb through. That’s what the Foundation fails to understand, Mr. Moore: The word we received is that this U-boat surfaced unaided…and in almost perfect condition. Now, since you’re a diver yourself, you tell me how that’s possible.”
“Okay,” he said. “First of all, I guess I should let you know that I’m the one who found the thing. It was buried in sand at a hundred and fifty feet, and an unexploded depth charge blew it free. Both the constable and myself have been inside it. Yes, that’s right. It’s authentic. The hull’s holding tight, all the equipment’s still in place, and…” He paused. Bodies? Tell her about his vision in that dank tomb? No. “It’s still seaworthy,” he said. “And I have a theory.”
“Fine. I’m listening.”
“The U-boat was buried in one hell of a lot of sand. I believe a ledge just above it had given way and covered it over, and it remained there until the last big blow whipped the sea around and slid some of the sand back. If the submarine were completely buried there’d be no way the usual marine organisms could attach themselves to the iron. The sand was a natural buffer against corrosion.”
“That would be a great deal of weight crushing the superstructure, wouldn’t it?” she reminded him.
“I didn’t say the superstructure was unscratched. How much pressure could those boats withstand?”
“Their shipyard guarantee was a little over three hundred feet,” Jana said, sipping at her coffee. “Some of them made it to six hundred and back with only minor structural damages. Others may have gone even deeper before they imploded.”
“So it depended on the boat?”
“There may have been a difference of degree in the elasticity of the iron from shipyard to shipyard, or even from year to year. But tell me this: Even if your theory is correct, it doesn’t explain why the boat surfaced.”
“No,” Moore agreed, “you’re right. But couldn’t the explosion have jarred a mechanism or something?”
She gave him a patient smile. “That’s rather remote. There is, however, the possibility of a gas buildup within the boat. You see, a submarine rises and falls by means of compressed air; filling the buoyancy cells with air to force the water out lifts it up, and letting the sea flood the cells again will make it descend. It’s rather like the action of the human lungs, if you can envision a U-boat breathing. The captain can control the speed of an ascent or descent by regulating the amount of air or water in the cells. Leonardo da Vinci came up with the idea of an underwater boat used for warfare centuries ago, but the concept so frightened him that he never executed a model. Anyway, I can’t see that the machinery to pump compressed air into the tanks would still be operable. Of course…” She paused for a moment, tapping her finger on the table. “There might already have been compressed air in the tanks, though not enough to displace the weight that lay over it. When the weight shifted the hulk began to rise. One of the crewmen may have bled air into the tanks at the same time your suspected ledge collapsed. But then it was too late.”
The cook, still muttering about the lateness of the hour, brought a pot of bouillabaisse filled with chunks of snapper, crabmeat, and scallops simmered with tomatoes and peppers. Moore began eating at once, but Jana tested it cautiously with a spoon before trusting her stomach to the exotic fare.
“Of course,” Jana said after she’d taken a bite, “all of the systems were duplicated in each boat. One mechanized, one manual. But I doubt very seriously if there would have been any hands left aboard to operate the levers. I presume the crew got out by means of an escape hatch, or perhaps through the torpedo tubes.”
Moore sat motionless. He held a spoonful of food near his mouth, then slowly put it back down onto his plate. The tension in his stomach was palpable. “No,” he said huskily.
“What?” Jana asked, looking up, seeing his face cloud over, the look of it put her on edge.
“No,” Moore repeated. “That’s not what happened at all.”
Jana didn’t know what he was talking about at first, and then it dawned on her. Of course. Skeletons. “How many are left?” she asked.
“I…I’m not sure. I don’t think…I saw all of them.”
“You went from bow to stern?”
He shook his head. “Just from the bow to the control room.”
“I’ll want to go all the way aft,” Jana said. “I’ve seen skeletons in a sunken ship before.”
“Not skeletons,” Moore said quietly. “Not skeletons.” He blinked and gazed deep into her face. “What do you want to see the thing for?”
“If it’s towable and in reasonably good condition the British Museum might be interested in the hulk as a war relic,” she said, puzzled by his behavior. “Which would mean a large grant to the Foundation, incidentally.”
“I see.” Moore pushed his food away. “Then you’ll want to go down inside the U-boat?”
“That’s right. I’ll be checking for damage, taking photographs and tape-recording notes. I’ve been sent here to determine whether or not a salvage team is merited.”
Moore saw the woman’s eyes narrow a fraction, and he knew she was seeing beyond the mask of his face, getting a glimpse of the fear he felt. He could virtually sense the iron crypt lying a little more than a mile from where they sat. She looked away from him abruptly, preoccupied with her food. Tell her, he told himself. Tell her what you’ve seen. YES! SEEN! It wasn’t a hallucination, wasn’t the product of an oxygen-starved brain! You saw them there! YOU SAW THEM THERE!
At that instant he realized he was clinging frantically to the edge of reason. What would he say? That he had seen long-dead things moving, reaching, swinging wrenches and hammers? That somehow Death itself had stood still, or had claimed those crewmen but had released an evil rage that made their bodies move in strange mockery of life? No. God in Heaven, no.
“How many…” Moore began. “How many men did a boat of that size crew?”
“Between forty-four and fifty,” Jana said, and thought he seemed to pale slightly. The man knew something important, something she should know as well. She must find out what it was.
My God, Moore almost said aloud. He picked up his coffee, realized he’d finished it, and placed the cup back in its saucer. Fifty. Fifty. Fifty. The number thudded in his brain. Stay away from the boat, Boniface had said. The Night Boat. A thing of darkness, hiding darkness. A periscope shaft, beckoning him into the depths where he was to carry out the task they had wanted done. Lock your shutters, your windows, your doors. Fifty of them, hidden in shadows away from the alien sun. Waiting. Waiting.
Waiting.
Jana said, “I’d like to see the boat now.”
Fourteen
ONCE FEAR TAKES HOLD there is no escape. It surfaces to haunt the brain, to lead the eyes down corridors of terror, to taunt the senses with the presence of something unknown, just beyond reach. As Moore drove the girl toward the boatyard he saw that the fear had spread rapidly in the village, a fire fueled by Boniface’s eyes and cryptic words. There were bolted doors and shuttered windows everywhere; on some of the walls were hastily drawn voodoo symbols, painted there as talismans of protection. A few people were still moving about the streets, as dusk still was several hours off, and in the harbor men worked on their nets for Monday’s fishing, but the air was different. The bar district was almost deserted, and there were no children running along the beaches or playing ball among the fishermen’s shanties.
The boatyard gates were unrepaired and Moore drove through. In another few moments he steered the truck around the piles of debris and oil barrels and passed the supply shed. He put on the brakes and slowed. The shed doors were open; one of the large wooden doors had been ripped off its hinges and lay in the sand, and there was a jumble of barrels, splintered crates, and cans around the entrance. Moore k
new it should have been securely locked. He continued on across the yard for the naval shelter.
When they reached it he immediately saw that the doorway was wide open, a dark entry leading toward the twisted iron hulk. He stopped the truck and pointed at the shelter. “It’s in there,” he told her.
Jana went around to the truck bed and began unzipping the duffel bag. “Any electricity in there? Arc lights?”
“No,” he said, his gaze fixed on that square of blackness, knowing what lay beyond. “All the juice is cut off.”
She opened the bag and took out a camera case and a flash attachment. Zipping the bag up again, she took the Nikon from its case and fit the flash to it, then let it fall around her neck. “Now,” she said, “we’ll see your precious relic.”
They stood together for a long time in the foul-smelling darkness as their eyes slowly made out the sharp lines of the huge craft. A prehistoric monster, Moore thought. Jana coughed into her hand. “Chlorine gas,” she said quietly, her voice echoing against metal. “Battery seepage.” When she was finally able to see it, from bow to stern, she caught her breath and took a step forward.
Jana blinked, put out a hand as if to touch it. “My God,” she said, awed. “My God.” She moved forward again and Moore moved with her, stepping over an empty crate marked LUBRICANT, TWENTY CANS.
Jana had dived in murky green water twelve miles to the north of Jamaica about six months ago, finding at a depth of ninety-four feet a submarine that had been in its days of glory similar to this one; she had first seen it as a long dark cigar shape, then as she hovered above it, as a mass of coral with twisted iron ribs protruding. The hatches had been open, circular holes all clogged with growth, nothing left of the conning tower but a dark flower of iron where a bomb or shell had struck. And in the center of the veins of tubing were crisscrossed pipes that now served as home to starfish and spotted eels. That boat had been dead, devoid of power and menace. But this one, here only a few feet away…was very different. It’s a hoax, she thought suddenly. A joke. No boat could be underwater that length of time and not be a rusted, broken hulk. But no; it was real, the iron hull secure. She had seen boats down only a few months in worse shape than this one, and she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She picked up her camera and switched on the flash to let it charge up, then began to take her pictures carefully and unhurriedly, moving along the port side and then back again. When she called out to Moore he could hear the excitement in her voice. “It’s a VII-C, all right. Minor damage to the superstructure, snapped sky periscope…Jesus! The eighty-eight millimeter cannon’s still intact, so is the twenty-millimeter gun! Deck looks to be broken through in places, but my God, the corrosion hasn’t even begun on most of the hull!” As she talked she took picture after picture, the flash outlining a jagged shadow on the opposite wall. “There’s water inside?” she asked.