Clive Cussler; Craig Dirgo Read online

  “Lower the gangplank,” Rostron ordered.

  Three minutes later, the first survivors struggled onto land. Not one of the survivors imagined their savior would meet a similar fate.

  SIX YEARS LATER

  A pair of tugs began pushing Carpathia from the pier in Liverpool. July 15, 1918, was a typical summer day in Great Britain—it was raining. But it was not the type of rain that plagued the island in the North Sea in winter, spring, and fall. This sprinkle was a halfhearted affair, lacking purpose and strength. At first it came from the north, then switched directions from east to west. It ebbed and flowed like a dying tide, at times opening to pockets of sunlight and dry air.

  Captain William Prothero stood on the bridge as the tugs pushed his ship from port.

  The Great War that now enveloped Europe had begun nearly four years before, yet it was only some fifteen months since the United States had entered the conflict. The prowling German submarines had finally wrested the country from neutrality. The Lusitania had been sunk in 1915, scores of other ships since. At first the German submarines were an annoyance, now they were threatening the very concept of open seas. Losses of 100,000 tons a month had now grown to nearly a million, with no end in sight. Cargo ships, passenger carriers, warships—all were fair game for the fleet of German U-boats.

  Captain Prothero was a stout man with a black mustache that perched on his upper lip like a bristle brush. Those who served under him found him to be a consummate professional, firm but fair. While Prothero believed in protocol, he was not without a sense of humor.

  “I hear there’s a chance of rain later,” he said to his second officer, John Smyth.

  “In England?” Smyth said, smiling. “In summer? I find that hard to believe.”

  Prothero thanked a steward who entered the bridge with a silver pot of tea, then poured himself a cup and added milk and sugar. “Would you check with the wireless shack,” he said to Smyth, “and see if they have received the latest warnings?”

  “Very good, sir,” Smyth said.

  Prothero sipped the tea and stared at his chart. The thought of German submarines was never far from his mind. They hid in wait off the ports until the ships had cleared and were in deep enough water to make salvage impossible. To reduce their losses, the Allies had taken to traveling in convoys with gunboat escorts, zigzagging through the water like snakes and running their vessels at the fastest possible speed so they might outrun any torpedoes that were fired. Even so, hardly a day went by when a ship was not sunk or fired at. The battle in the North Atlantic was a watery war of attrition.

  A BEAM OF light pierced the clouds and lit a patch of water directly ahead of U-55. Commander Gerhart Werner stared at the patch of sea through his binoculars. U-Boat 55, like most in the German fleet, spent a great deal of time above water— in fact, as much as was safely possible. Batteries could be recharged while it surfaced, fresh air allowed into the always foul-smelling hull.

  No matter what Werner and his crew tried, there was no way to wash away the smell of diesel fuel, sweaty bodies, and fear that permeated every square inch of the inside of U-55. The smell was part of the duty, and the duty was hazardous at best.

  Werner turned his binoculars from the spot of light and scanned the horizon. Five days before, U-55 had managed to board a small cargo ship at sea off Cork, and he was hoping for another. Before scuttling the vessel, the Germans had raided the stores for fresh food. Ham and bacon, potatoes, and some dairy. The confiscated food was a welcome change for his crew. For the most part, they survived off tins of meat and cans of vegetables from their pantry. At times the cook could make fresh bread, but it was not often—flour soon went bad in the galley, and yeast grew a strange fungus that looked like fur.

  Submarine duty was not for a budding gourmet.

  Swiveling in the conning tower, he turned to the stem. There a seaman was reeling in a perforated barrel they had been dragging behind on a line. The crew’s clothes were inside, along with a measure of powdered soap. After being agitated by the current and rinsed by the seawater, the barrel was being brought back on deck so the clothes could be unloaded and hung from a line running from the conning tower to a stern support.

  Wemer stared to the west, where the sky was clearing. Hopefully, the weather would hold and no ships would approach. Then the clothes would have a chance to dry some before they needed to dive once again. Just then, Second Officer Franz Dieter climbed through the hatch in the conning tower with a folded slip of paper in his hands. Saluting Werner, he handed him the paper.

  “There is a convoy assembling off Liverpool,” Werner said.

  “Yes, sir,” Dieter said.

  “That means they are still several hours away,” Werner noted. “Have the men check the torpedoes and the batteries, and mop the inner deck. Then allow them to rotate topside four at a time. Provided no ships pass by, each group will be allowed to spend ten minutes in the fresh air.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dieter said, climbing below.

  CARPATHIA STEAMED THROUGH the Irish Sea approaching Carmel Head. In the next few hours, she would enter St. George’s Channel, then follow the curve of Ireland along her southern shore. Once past Fastnet Rock on the southeast tip, the convoy would set a course west for Boston.

  Captain Prothero stepped from the bridge and glanced back at the stern. Now that they had reached cruising speed, the powerful twin-screws of his command whipped the water into a foamy froth that trailed behind the vessel for nearly a mile. Far to the rear, past six other ships of the convoy, was a trailing British destroyer. Far to the front, nearly a half-mile distant, was the leading destroyer. The destroyers would stay with them through St. George’s before turning back.

  After that, the convoy of seven needed to rely on themselves. Carpathia had been selected as commodore ship for the trip across the Atlantic Ocean, and with good reason—Prothero was a skilled captain who had made the crossing many times before. Last year, while captain of Carpathia, he’d had the honor of transporting the first American troops to Great Britain to join the Great War. After safely dropping off the soldiers, Carpathia had been on her way to London to replenish her stores when a torpedo had fired off Star Point. Prothero had ordered an evasive action and the torpedo had run past Carpathia, instead striking a U.S. oil tanker running nearby.

  Another incident bears noting. Not long after the near miss by the torpedo, Prothero saw what he thought was a lifeboat on the water. Watching through his glasses, he was surprised to see a German U-boat surface nearby to retrieve the object. Prothero reported that the Germans were using decoys, thus saving a few more ships.

  In short, there were few captains with the breadth of experience possessed by Prothero.

  COMMANDER WERNER HAD yet to leave the conning tower. His people were farmers, and his ancestral genes were used to open spaces. The cramped inner hull of a U-boat was as foreign to him as Chinese fireworks, so he spent as much time abovedecks as possible. Even with his dislike of confined spaces, Werner was a competent leader.

  He and the crew of U-55 had more than a handful of kills under their belt.

  “That’s the last of the rotation,” Dieter said. “The men are now being fed in shifts.”

  “What’s our location?” Werner inquired. “Still approximately a hundred miles off Fastnet Rock,” Dieter noted.

  “It will be night soon,” Werner said, “so we might as well remain above water. Why don’t you take the first watch?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dieter said.

  “Unless we see something that makes me change my mind,” Werner said, “we’ll just wait for the next convoy to happen along.”

  Werner began climbing down the ladder in the center of the conning tower.

  “Sir?” Dieter said.

  “Yes, Dieter,” Werner said, pausing.

  “We’re down to four torpedoes.”

  “Duly noted,” Werner said.

  WHEN CARPATHIA PASSED Fastnet Rock, it was 11 P.M. and pitch black.


  Already, there had been trouble. One of the ships in the convoy was having problems maintaining speed. She could make the prescribed ten knots, but when she did, the huge volumes of smoke from her funnels could be seen nearly twenty miles away.

  Prothero knew that at sunrise they would be sixty miles into the Atlantic Ocean, and if the skies were clear, the plume of smoke would be a beacon to any nearby U-boats. The captain of the vessel reported that his engineers were working on the problem with little result, and Prothero knew it was a lost cause. Most likely the ship’s bunkers were filled with bad coal. There was no way to change that while at sea.

  Prothero walked Carpathia’s passageways toward his cabin.

  He would deal with the problem in the morning.

  IT SMELLED LIKE feet. Werner’s pillow smelled like feet. Rolling over on his back, he stared at the deck above his hammock bunk. As soon as these last four torpedoes were expended, U-55 could make her way back to the submarine base at Bremerhaven for a long-needed cleaning and refit. Hopefully, he would receive enough liberty time to go home and see his wife. His wife was a fine cook and housekeeper—her house never smelled of feet—and she had yet to serve Werner meat from a can.

  On the conning tower above, it was as dark as a madman’s moods. Franz Dieter stared skyward, waiting for the stars to appear. Tonight they were hiding behind the clouds. Some nights the air was playful and fresh, but tonight it had all the comfort of a lead blanket. Dieter reached into the tin pail by his side and removed a slab of slightly moldy cheese and a hunk of blood sausage. Taking his pocketknife out of his uniform pants, he sliced the food, then nibbled it slowly.

  It was going to be a long night.

  As THOUGH IN a maze with no barriers, the convoy zigged and zagged as it made its way west. So many minutes at this heading, then a change. So many minutes at that heading, then a turn. To a plane passing overhead, the wakes of the convoy looked like the jagged steps from lightning flashes. To those on board, however, the constant changes meant safety.

  Carpathia carried a total of 215 passengers and crew. At this instant, half of the crew and most of the passengers were asleep in their berths.

  “CAPTAIN,” DIETER WHISPERED.

  Werner bolted upright, rubbing his eyes. Dieter’s breath smelled of sausage.

  “Yes, Dieter.”

  “Destroyers in the distance.”

  Wemer stared at his watch; it was just past 1:30 in the morning.

  “Have you ordered a dive?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” Dieter said. “They’re still far in the distance.”

  “What’s our position?” Werner asked.

  “Approximately a hundred and ten miles from Fastnet,” Dieter said.

  “The destroyers will be turning back soon,” Werner said. “Stay above water and maintain a safe distance. Stalk the prey until the time is right.”

  Then Werner rolled over and went back to sleep. The hunt would take hours.

  BREAKFAST WAS SERVED on Carpathia at 8 A.M. Oatmeal porridge and milk, fried fish and onions, bread and butter and marmalade. Tea or coffee to drink. The passengers and crew ate their meal in leisure, never knowing a wraith from below was slowly stalking them.

  Captain Prothero stared back at the smoking vessel. The repairs had made little difference in the emissions from the stacks. A black rope trailed in the sky far behind the ship.

  “Mark,” he said.

  The helmsman changed course and began a zag to the north.

  ON U-55, BREAKFAST was powdered eggs and coffee that tasted like diesel fuel.

  “The lead vessel has a single stack and ample beam,” Werner said. “If I was to hazard a guess, I’d say she might be Carpathia.”

  “The Cunarder?” Dieter asked.

  “Yes,” Werner said.

  “Is she your intended target?” Dieter asked.

  “She’s the lead vessel,” Werner said, “and the largest. We might as well try for the best.”

  A crewman handed Dieter a slip of paper.

  “The latest position, as you requested, Captain,” he said.

  “What is it?” Werner asked.

  “Forty-nine degrees, 41 minutes north,” Dieter said. “10 degrees, 45 minutes west.”

  “Good. Sound the alarm and have the torpedoes readied,” Werner said. “It’ll be a twin shot from the surface.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dieter said.

  Wemer scanned the ship in the distance with binoculars.

  “Fire two,” he shouted into the speaking tube a few seconds later.

  NINE-FIFTEEN IN THE morning. Captain Prothero was scanning the water with a pair of binoculars, but he didn’t see the wake of the first torpedo until it was almost upon them. He sounded the alarm only seconds before the first torpedo struck Carpathia just below the bridge. This was followed a minute later by a second explosion directly in the engine room. The second torpedo would be the one that claimed five lives.

  “Sound the alert,” Captain Prothero said loudly, “and get me a damage report.”

  “Yes, sir,” Second Officer Smyth said.

  Five minutes passed before the voice of Smyth called from the engine room.

  “Sir,” Smyth said into the speaking tube, “we have five dead—three firemen and two trimmers.”

  “Damage?”

  “It’s bad,” Smyth said, “but it might be contained. The engineer has the pumps operating, and he’s attempting to fill the hole below the waterline so we might have a chance at port.”

  “Good,” Prothero said, “keep me posted.”

  Scanning the water with his binoculars, he caught a glimpse of the German U-boat in the distance. One of the new types, five hundred feet in length.

  Prothero considered firing the deck guns, but the U-boat was too far away to hit.

  “THEY CAN SEE us,” Werner said. “Dive.”

  U-55 slipped beneath the waves and moved closer to Carpathia.

  Raising the periscope, Werner studied his prey.

  The torpedoes had run true. One had struck below the bridge, the other where Werner felt the engine room was located. Even with the fine shooting, the steamer was still afloat. Through the periscope, he could see the pumps below dispelling water over the sides in ever-increasing amounts. If this continued and they could get another ship alongside Carpathia for a tow, they might be able to pull her back to port.

  “Prepare to fire another,” Werner ordered.

  “That will leave us only one for the trip home,” Dieter noted.

  “Then you’d better hope that puts her down,” Werner said, “or I’ll fire that one, too, and we’ll have none.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dieter said.

  “Loose it as soon as ready,” Werner shouted.

  “I THINK WE’RE gaining,” Smyth shouted through the speaking tube.

  “A ship will be alongside in minutes,” Prothero said. “We’ll try to make Ireland.”

  “I could use a few more seamen down here,” Smyth said.

  “They’ll be down directly,” Prothero said.

  Then he scanned the sea again.

  To see it coming is sometimes worse. A bulge on the top of the water as the torpedo raced toward them just below the surface. Lines like a bullwhip, with a sting that went far deeper. A visible death with nowhere to hide.

  “STRAIGHT AND TRUE,” Werner said. “That should finish the job.”

  He held his breath as the torpedo drew closer to Carpathia. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. The twin propellers of the torpedo bit at the seawater and moved the weapon forward. Her nose cone was packed with explosives, and her fuselage was filled with fuel that would burn. Yards, then feet, then inches. Slamming into the hull at the gunner’s room, the charge exploded and shredded the iron like a paper bag blown full of air and ruptured.

  The explosion ignited the powder and shells in the hold. It made the hole in the hull larger, and much more water than the pumps could ever handle flooded into the hull. Carpathia settled lower in the
water.

  No ONE NEEDED to tell Captain Prothero the seriousness of the situation, but they did.

  The order was given to abandon ship.

  Those still alive aboard Carpathia were rescued, and at just past 11 A.M., she slipped below the waves for the final time.

  II

  It’s Never Easy 2000

  I’VE ALWAYS BEEN AMAZED AT HOW THE OBITUARIES of ships of historic significance end up lost and forgotten. No curiosity seems to exist over what happened to them after their moment of tragedy or triumph. Mary Celeste was like that, and the ship that performed what is perhaps the greatest rescue in the annals of the sea, Carpathia, was another. Few of the marine enthusiasts whom I contacted knew what had happened to Carpathia after her intrepid dash to save Titanic’s survivors. Most simply thought she had outlived her time and was sent to the scrappers like so many of her ocean liner sisters.

  Intrigued by a ship whose story has never been fully told, I decided to delve into her epilogue, along with that of the Californian, the cargo ship that has come down through legend as the ship that stood by, silent and unresponsive in the ice floes, as more than fifteen hundred souls perished in the icy Atlantic water a few miles away. Her failure to come to Titanic’s rescue has all the makings of a classic mystery.

  Both ships are irrevocably linked with the most famous ocean liner in history. No story of Tetanic is complete without Carpathia and Californian. Unlike Captain Smith of Titanic, Captain Stanley Lord of Californian was more cautious. Rather than navigate through the huge ice floes at night, he prudently stopped and drifted among the bergs until daylight. After midnight, members of his crew saw flares rising across the ice pack to the south. Tragically, the ship’s radio operator had gone to bed and did not receive Titantic’s frantic SOS. Alerted by his crew, Captain Lord ignored the flares and chose to believe they were simply fireworks fired during festivities on the passenger liner and lamentably failed to see a calamity in the making.