Sergeant Dooley and the Submarine Raiders, page 6
Dooley nodded as all three of them lurched slightly forward as the bow of the submarine’s diesels pushed them through another wave. Nodding goodbye to Zeta, he turned to leave them alone. He walked and stooped through the confines of the submarine but paused long enough to stop next to the table where the duchess, with her stocking feet sticking out from under the blanket, still lay. As Dooley said a silent prayer, he thought about her miraculous survival from the machine pistol’s blast to her back, only to die a few moments later by falling off the staircase.
Before walking forward, he looked at the table where Gorki operated on his fellow submarine raider. The table was empty and spotlessly clean.
Dooley continued forward, bending his body to enter the crew’s quarters and torpedo room. It was dark as the sailors and submarine raiders finished their wine, cleaned up as best they could, and crawled onto their stretcher-like canvas bunks, covering themselves with scratchy wool blankets. One man snored, and another man farted. Dooley also saw that Mashka was now lying in his own bunk flat on his back, sound asleep and covered with his blanket. Using the light that came through the bulkhead hatch from the crew’s mess, Dooley did the same to prepare himself for sleep. Stowing his uniform and weapons in his narrow stand-up locker, he pushed aside the canvas-wrapped gun cleaning kit and boxes of rounds for his machine gun and grabbed his beat-up Dopp kit along with his last clean undershirt and placed them on the compartment’s center table. He unbuckled the leather strap of his trench watch while noting the time. It was well past time for him to get some sleep. He ran his tongue across his gritty teeth while placing his watch under the pillow, exchanging it with his comb. The trip from Shanghai to Siberian Russia and back was to last little more than one full week, so he did not bring much in toiletries. With items in hand, he returned through the hatchway to the forward toilet.
Squeezing himself into the water closet, Dooley started to clean himself by squeezing out the last of his toothpaste on his toothbrush. As he started to brush his teeth, he recalled the conversation with Zeta and her questions, including one about what he was doing on this submarine.
Minutes later, as he rinsed soap from his face, he thought about the five hundred and fifty-two dollars he would have in his pocket. Running his wet fingers through his hair, he reached for his almost empty jar of hair oil. Rubbing the few droplets into his black hair, he reminded himself of one thing: To be so young with some money in my pocket, the options of world travel will be limitless.
Chapter 8
Are they asleep?”
Gorki looked at the two officers sitting in folding chairs squeezed into the officer’s stateroom. He held a pair of forceps in one hand and what appeared to be a kielbasa partially wrapped in a piece of gauze in the other hand. “Yes, they are, Major. Although Dooley earned his slumber, the sedatives I put in the wine helped. The wine that he gave the countess along with the wine you gave her most assuredly also put her to sleep.”
“Now we can get to business without being overheard,” Captain Vostok said as he sipped his wine while looking at the tube-like item in Gorki’s hand. He saw the knot at one end. “Do I dare ask where you found it?”
The handsome, black-haired officer looked at the items in his hands before answering. “Let me just say I was curious and decided to look up her chemise.” He leaned over to place the items on the blanket-covered mattress, next to the shoe that the duchess wore. The shoe, with its heel removed, lay next to a small heap of cut diamonds. “How did you know?”
Utkin sipped his wine again before answering. “As I imagined this operation, I found it my responsibility to not only become an expert gemologist, but also to understand every facet of the industry, including smuggling. I found my research quite rewarding as it consisted of well-documented crimes in novels, historical narratives, and legal proceedings. If one is given time, understanding human behavior is easily predictable. Therefore, determining how the duchess was going to finance herself after rescue was also predictable.”
Gorki nodded with a smile. “No wonder you differentiate between poker and gambling. Anyway, I hope the diamonds inside that Ramses are of matching quality. And I hope you do not mind where they came from.”
“As uncomfortable as it must have been for the duchess to have that inserted in her anus, I do not mind the addition to our coffer as the quality of the diamonds from the heel of her one shoe alone is enough to pay for a new submarine.” Utkin sighed while peering into his wine. “It is a shame about the missing shoe, though.”
“I am sorry,” Gorki apologized as he reached for a wine glass next to the decanter sitting on the stateroom’s desktop. Grabbing a glass, he continued. “I can only assume that the shoe must have popped off when she landed, and we were quite busy at the time.”
Utkin smiled as he twisted the stem of his wine glass. “No matter. As the special action operators that we are, we will always find means to collect and repurpose assets along the way.”
“Like charging forward into the teeth of fire while picking up the weapons from those who had fallen before us?” Vostok said as he peered into his glass of wine.
Utkin countered with a wry smile. “Or from those who fell under the weight of our onslaught. Either way, the fact that we did not recover that shoe is not as irritating as what will happen to it. Knocked about by time until the heel separates and spreading the diamonds like grains of sand. Or to be picked up by an oaf walking the beach and discarded as trash.”
“Yes,” Vostok continued, “but look at what other items we have at our disposal.”
The men looked at the toilet seat that the duchess wore around her neck. It crushed the pillow under it. Some of the white paint had been scraped away.
“No wonder the Revolution occurred,” Gorki commented. “While millions starved to death, the Tsar had the luxury of shitting while perched on a solid gold seat.”
“I agree,” Utkin joined in. “While it once supported somebody’s arse, it will now support the next step of Operation Crossfire.”
The men paused to sip their wine. While appreciating their bounty, Gorki reached into his pocket, pulling out something pinched between his thumb and index finger. He held it up to the stateroom’s overhead light for all to see.
“I found out why she survived that pistol fire into her back,” Gorki said as he rotated his hand. “Sewn into her dress are layers of diamonds. I left a few strewn about the beach.”
Gorki dropped the fingernail-sized diamond in Utkin’s open palm.
“I must say that the workmanship is beyond reproach,” Utkin said as he hefted it in his palm. “They will be able to provide enough hard currency to fund the placement of our teams into the American public including you, Lieutenant Gorki. A residency at a prestigious New York City hospital awaits you. And you, Captain Vostok, you should be quite settled in your new future.”
Vostok answered with a wry smile of his own. “Running a multi-million-dollar alcohol smuggling operation will become quite an enjoyable occupation since I will be operating from the comforts of my hacienda perched on the bluffs of the Baja Peninsula outside of Ensenada, and with vineyards and orchards stretching behind it as far as the eye can see.”
“And while being a recently displaced Bavarian by the name of Wilhelm Hanover. An ex-patriot who is a landed gentleman with stature within the Mexican government,” Utkin added.
“Thank God for the bombardment of Vera Cruz by the US Navy,” Gorki said, chiming into the conversation. “And followed with Pershing’s Punitive Expedition into Mexico in 1916 and 1917. The Mexicans have only ill feelings toward the American government, including Wilson and his moral diplomacy. Sentiments that will stand us in good stead.”
“Do not forget about the feelings of the Cubans and Puerto Ricans and thank God for the Americans passing the Prohibition Amendment,” Captain Vostok said with a grin. “With the funds that I will raise while smuggling Mexican liquors into ports along the California coast, we will have enough to create clean money. With crime comes opportunity.”
Gorki raised his wine glass in salute and took a large swallow, almost emptying the glass. As he pulled the glass from his lips, the submarine surged as the bow drove itself through another wave. Gorki reached up to grab a pipe. “That said, what about the hatboxes?”
Utkin replied, “So much unrest has been fomenting for decades, and if one reads the tea leaves exactly, or makes sure the tea leaves fall into the right alignment at the bottom of the cup, the opportunities will be limitless. Prohibition, and the subsequent lawlessness; the Jazz Age and Negroes being appreciated by white people for their music, which will result in the open rise of the KKK and the competing rise of the NAACP; Wilson’s Espionage Act and Sedition Act and his violations of constitutional rights; shifting diets to processed food; women getting the right to vote and smoke in public; and the battle between workers’ unions and capitalism. Imagine the depthless chasms that await our exploitation.”
“Just like crime, with confusion comes opportunity,” Vostok said while sipping his wine.
“Yes,” Utkin continued. “The Twenties are projected to become a decade that will allow our movement prospects we cannot afford to waste. Through this wealth, along with the procurement of more, our commandos will be sitting pretty when America’s economy collapses leaving millionaires destitute as orphaned street urchins. I, myself though, would prefer to enjoy golf and female companionship while watching our movement grow during that time of sorrow. And relishing the best of wines while doing so.”
The two men sipped their wine and reflected on Utkin’s prophesizing.
“The task of this vessel,” Utkin continued, “or any single member of our special action commandos, is to place an implied threat where there is none. Even something as simple as a well-placed snippet of an overly loud conversation in a crowded bar. We have before us the opportunity to create such a witches’ brew. One where the recipe calls for the most hallucinogenic of toadstools. What greater pleasure to enjoy, through guile, misdeed, and misinformation, watching the resulting mayhem? To have the means to watch the American public, and politicians, behave as ship captains, deranged from distrust, anger and madness, to dash their vessels repeatedly against nonexistent rocks. The means to create such a matrix not only rests with what is on this bunk, but other means as well.” A smile overtook Utkin’s face as he paused to look at Gorki. “Did you inspect the nicely tied-up bun of her hair?”
Gorki smiled as he reached into his pocket again. Pulling out his hand, he dropped a brilliant dark blue gemstone in Utkin’s palm.
The major held it up with a pleased smile. “Gentlemen, behold the Romanov Sapphire. Six hundred carats of royal greed.”
The shape and size of an egg, they appreciated the world’s largest cut sapphire. Even under the yellowish light just over their heads, the beauty of the stone was not missed.
“Too bad it will not see the light of day. Or at least for the next four decades,” Utkin appraised, “but at least it will never grace the neckline of a royal.”
The other men nodded silently before sipping their wine.
After a long minute, Vostok spoke up, “Shall I dispose of the duchess now?”
“Yes,” Utkin answered, “but allow Gorki to inspect the body one more time and bring me the dress. Captain Vostok, have your radioman send a message to our asset in Shanghai. Tell him to go ahead with the cell meeting. Also, radio Buyan to let them know of our arrival.”
Both Vostok and Gorki straightened their shoulders and sipped the last of their wine. As Gorki leaned forward to place his glass on the small desk, his eyebrows furrowed slightly.
Utkin finished his wine as well and noticed Gorki’s expression, “Question?”
Gorki responded as he pursed his lips. “What of our passengers? I know you explained your reasoning for recruiting the American, and the presence of Countess Tolstoy was necessary for our mission, but what future use would both still be to us? Or would they be a detriment?”
Before Utkin answered, he reached for the decanter. “Let me refill your glasses.”
The men held out their glasses.
“Gentlemen,” Utkin continued as he tilted the bottle, “we have entered a new century, and along with it, the requirement to think in new ways when it comes to warfare and subjugation. The days of dreadnoughts slugging it out with each other at sea while artillery barrages bang away at regiments hiding in trenches, followed with thousands of men storming into rows of barbed wire only to be mowed down by Maxims. All ordered by generals and admirals ensconced in villas and lavish staterooms, are over. Our mission exemplifies such a new way of warfare. Combat where squads, even individual men, facilitated with intelligence, thought, intellect, purpose, focus, and pluck can navigate barbed wire as if it were an invisible gate in a picket fence. An innocuous statement overheard in a café over morning coffee can affect the outcome so an entire campaign, trump the designs of a general staff, or cause the collapse of a sovereign government. This submarine is an example of such action. With the advent of undersea warfare, the historical strategies that have directed maritime campaigns for centuries changed overnight as Captain Vostok can attest.”
Utkin paused to sip his wine before continuing.
“The ability to be force multipliers is our focus as special action operatives. With audacity and the skill to use the ignorance of others, we shall be successful. I argue that both the countess and Sergeant Dooley are such assets that must be utilized as force multipliers. Our young lady is a simple girl, cloistered under sheltered circumstances her entire life, who will, I believe, prove to be quite a flexible foil at our disposal when needed. Unthinking in its own form, but a valuable weapon when manipulated by the right hands. The American, on the other hand, is quite conscious and aware, but still an asset when deployed properly. He’s a romantic who ran away from home to chase the adventure he read about in his childhood. He still holds that wanderlust. I can tell. I can also tell he is a man of character, and men of character can be unbelievable assets, especially if romantics like him do not know that they are assets. Just moments ago, we listened to them, and at no time did Dooley tell the young, vulnerable countess of his exploits to bed her.”
“Is that why you selected him from the foreigners clogging the bars of Shanghai?” Gorki asked as he looked at his glass. “Because of his bravery in battle?”
Utkin answered. “Although a seaport home to millions, Shanghai is still a community where everybody knows everybody else’s business, especially when it comes to foreigners, mercenaries, and interlopers lounging about its bars, lobbies, and brothels. Dooley arrived in Russia in the fall of 1918, a private soldier but earned his corporal stripes, along with a wound badge during his first engagement. A fight where he charged a fortified machine-gun nest and took it out with two hand grenades and his Thompson. His second engagement, where he used that hunting knife and shingle axe against dismounted Cossacks while saving the lives of his fellow soldiers, earned him his sergeant stripes, a second wound badge, and the Silver Star. Even after his arrival in China this spring, at the Battle of Wuhan, his bravery was noted by the White Russians fighting there. I understand your concern, Gorki,” Utkin continued, “but let us see how we can use the American. He can be processed at any time.”
Gorki and Vostok nodded to Major Utkin’s sage advice. Vostok raised his glass in salute. “Who dares wins.”
Chapter 9
The bow of the USS Decatur plowed through a wave, then dropped into the trough on the other side. The drop jarred the men sitting around a wooden table bolted to the steel deck of Lieutenant Hillary’s stateroom. Two open portholes, each guarded by a pair of blue curtains which fluffed with the incoming morning breeze, bathed them, and the sparsely furnished cabin, with early morning sunlight.
The cabin was furnished mostly with what the government deemed necessary to keep the captain of a torpedo boat destroyer in relative comfort. While a door pierced the forward bulkhead, a desk with the corrugated top rolled up was fixed against the aft bulkhead. Above the desk was a shelf with a row of books mostly filled with technical manuals. Above that row of books was a framed chart of Far East Asia. A chronometer accompanied the chart on one side while a barometer evened out the setting on the other side. Working to offset the room’s austerity, several framed photos of families, lady friends, and previous and current shipmates were mounted to available bulkhead space.
The three officers, Hillary, Kermit, and their guest, who now wore khaki uniforms like the other officers, sat at the table. However, the uniform worn by the ship’s guest was so heavily starched it crinkled when he moved. Chief Boatswain’s Mate Fowler, wearing clean, but faded, dungarees sat with the officers, and all waited for the fifth person in the room to complete his duties. Wearing a white serving jacket, the slightly built Filipino poured sweet tea from a sweating steel pitcher into glasses. When he filled the last glass, he placed it on the table. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
Lieutenant Hillary reached for his tea. “No, Fabio, that will do. But I hope you don’t mind me asking I hear that you and Demby finally found a location for your restaurant.”
“Yes, sir. Just outside the Intramuros. We signed the lease last week and will start on our building when we get back from this patrol.”
As Lieutenant Hillary brought the glass to his lips, he replied, “All I can say is that I can’t wait to be your first patron. Now, go ahead and help Demby with lunch.”
“Yes, sir,” the Filipino replied as he nodded his head and turned for the door.
The men reached for their glasses as they watched the door close behind the steward.
