North Reich (23 page)

Chapter Eight

The
Beaufort
was a ten thousand ton freighter that usually steamed between Quebec, Montreal, Toronto, and, occasionally across the Atlantic to France with whatever cargo she could find. She was old and there was significant rust on her hull, but her bones were solid, as was her engine.
 
She could do fifteen knots and that was fine for an old lady like the
Beaufort
.
 
The ship had survived convoy duty and submarine attacks before the end of hostilities between England and Germany.
 
Now, with peace more or less broken out, she stayed on the Canadian side of the Atlantic.

      
Jean Charest was her owner and was as sturdy as his ship.
 
Fifty years old, he was weathered and looked much older.
 
He was proud of his French heritage, even though he knew that the people of France looked down on the people of Quebec.
 
They were not quite French, he’d been told - second class Frenchmen, not even provincials.
 
Well, he’d frequently thought, at least my country isn’t ruled by the damned Nazis.
 
Of course, he’d had to change his tune when the Germans suddenly showed up on Canadian soil.

      
Charest had been devastated by the German conquest of what he considered his beloved Gallic homeland, and stunned by the presence of German soldiers in Canada.
 
An intelligent man, he understood that nowhere was safe from the likes of Hitler.
 
He also saw no reason to believe that the world would change anytime soon.
 
The Nazis were here to stay, so it was best to come to some kind of an accommodation with them.
 
Of course, it would have to be one that let him maintain both his pride and his beloved ship.
 
A single man, the
Beaufort
was Charest’s life.

      
When the Gestapo in Toronto offered to hire his ship to transport a cargo to France, he was both reluctant and suspicious.
 
His reluctance disappeared when he was informed by a German named Neumann that he’d be shot if he didn’t cooperate.
 
His suspicions did not diminish.
 
If anything, he was even more worried.

      
Then, when his cargo was loaded at night a few miles east of Toronto, he was horrified and sickened.
 
He was told to be ready to sail immediately.
 
After a few discreet inquiries, a man named Lambert met him at a Toronto bar.
 
Lambert was appalled and said he’d see what he could do.

      
The Gestapo might have wanted the
Beaufort
to depart immediately, but a sudden and fierce storm blanketed the area and delayed her departure.
 
Instead, there was concern that there was enough ice in the St. Lawrence to be a hazard to shipping, so an icebreaker had to be brought down, which further delayed matters. Neumann seethed, but there was nothing he could do.
 
Nor was he convinced that the ice situation was as dangerous to shipping as Charest and the others insisted.
 
Yes, shipping was delayed, but vessels got through.

      
Finally, she departed.
 
The
Beaufort
was the last of six ships following the icebreaker as she slowly plowed through the ice and moved towards the ocean.
 
Many eyes followed the ad hoc convoy and most of them were not German.
 
Neumann had sent the ship on its way and he thought he was well rid of her and her grumpy bastard French skipper.
 
He was also glad to be rid of her bastard cargo.

Alicia’s golden hair flowed long and lovely down her back.
 
The violin was tucked under her chin and she played with exquisite skill and enormous passion.
 
Grant recognized it as something by Tchaikovsky, but couldn’t name the exact piece.
 
There was a glow of sweat on her face as she poured her soul into the music.

      
Alicia was naked.
 
Her proud breasts swayed to the music and her flat belly contracted with the effort.
 
He was fascinated by the tuft of light colored hair at the base of her abdomen and her legs were as lithe and athletic as he’d dreamed.

      
He wanted to walk behind her, press her to him, and cup her breasts in his hands, but that would spoil the spell, ending the music.

      
Something was wrong.
 
The vision was fading.
 
Someone shook his shoulder.
 
“Major, you’re wanted on the bridge.”

      
Shit.
 
He blinked his eyes and looked around.
 
He was on a bunk in a small cabin on the
USS Boston
, a Baltimore class heavy cruiser that had recently returned from duty in the Pacific.
 
He’d also been dreaming and he checked himself to see that nothing worse than an erection had occurred.
 
To his immense relief, it hadn’t.
 
Somewhere on the
Boston
, an unknown sailor was probably laughing his ass off telling his buddies about a dumb army major sleeping with a hard-on.
 
At least he hadn’t gotten seasick - at least not yet.
 

Someday he might get Alicia to play for him in the nude, but, so far, nothing even remotely close had occurred.
 
He did wonder how accurate his dreamy imaginings of her body were.
 
Maybe someday he’d find out.

      
He and Commander Westover had flown by seaplane to the
Boston
two days earlier and were looking for a Canadian freighter, the
Beaufort
.
 
Planes in the air and eyes on the ground had tracked her as she made her way with agonizing slowness towards the open sea.
 
The
Beaufort
’s crew had aided by sending out a number of messages inquiring about the weather and other factors.

      
Grant was gasping by the time he made it up to the bridge, a reminder that desk duty was getting him out of shape.
 
He’d never be able to swim any river in his current condition, much less the St. Lawrence.

      
Captain C. H. Carson skippered the
Boston
and had been in command since she was commissioned in June, 1943.
 
He was perplexed that his ship had been brought back from the Pacific where she had been pounding the Japanese to well-deserved oblivion.
 
He understood that war with Germany was very possible and that his warship needed to be well prepared for both the German surface fleet as well as their damned U-boats.
 
He was, however, further perplexed at his current assignment which seemed like an enormous case of overkill.
 
The sleek and deadly
Boston
displaced more than thirteen thousand tons, had a crew of over eleven-hundred, and carried nine-eight inch guns and a dozen five-inch guns, along with a host of anti-aircraft weapons.
 
The
Boston
could do an almost incredible thirty-three knots, which meant that her target was not going to outrun her.

      
Nor was the
Boston
alone.
 
Three new twenty-five hundred ton Fletcher Class destroyers that were even faster than the
Boston
accompanied her as an ad hoc task force.
 
Over the horizon was the light carrier
Cowpens
, also recently returned from the Pacific and carrying forty plus planes.

      
Westover informed Tom that a scout plane from the carrier had positively identified the freighter and that they were steaming directly towards her.

      
Radar soon picked up the
Beaufort
, and shortly after, she appeared as a speck on the horizon that grew and took on shape.
 
A platoon of heavily armed marines had been brought on board to augment the
Boston’s
own marine detachment.
 
Launches were ready and the marines would be loaded and on their way once the order was given.

On the
Beaufort
, Charest watched as the American force closed on them.

      
“What the hell are they doing?” demanded young SS Lieutenant Emil Stolper.
 
The lieutenant was young, blond-haired, and full of himself.
 
A perfect little Nazi and an equally perfect little shit, Charest thought.
 

Charest fervently hoped that the little bastard got seasick and puked his guts out for the entire voyage.
 
At least he spoke English.
 
Charest spoke some German but flatly refused to acknowledge that fact.

      
Charest sighed.
 
“Since they did not inform me of their intentions, I have absolutely no idea what they are doing.
 
More than likely, they are practicing their maneuvers and have decided to make us part of their little games.”

      
“I don’t suppose we can tell them to stop?”
 
      
“They will do what they wish,” Charest said as he masked a quiet smile.

      
Soon, the
Beaufort
was bracketed by the four American ships.
 
A giant warship with enormous guns was close along her bow while the other ships took up station to her front, side, and rear.
 
They slowed, causing the
Beaufort
to slow, and moved in dangerously close.

      
“Heave to,” came an amplified voice from the ship.
 
They could see her name on her hull, the
Boston
, and Charest knew it was a heavy cruiser.

      
“Ignore it,” snapped Stolper.

      
Charest shrugged and did as he was told.
 
A moment later the order was repeated and ignored.
 
Another moment, and an anti-aircraft gun fired a stream of shells into the water just yards in front of the
Beaufort
.

      
“What do we do now?” asked the lieutenant, clearly shaken by the American response.

 
“We stop,” said Charest as he gave the orders, “unless, of course, you want this ship and yourself riddled with shells larger than a house.”

      
Stolper paled, “Of course not.”

      
Charest signaled that he would comply and the
Beaufort
slowed to where she barely maintained control.
 
The American cruiser ordered Charest to lower cargo netting over the side.
 
Again, he complied and was impressed by swift efficiency of the launches moving toward his ship.
 
Equally impressive was the fact that they were filled with heavily armed soldiers.

      
Again Stolper was upset, almost shaking with impotent fury.
 
“They outnumber my small force.”

      
“I have been stopped by the Americans before,” Charest said. “In order to avoid any accident, I would strongly suggest that you have your men lined up on the deck and unarmed.”

      
“Agreed,” Stolper said angrily, “but not all of them.
 
We need to guard our cargo.”

Grant was stuffed into a motorized launch with a squad of marines led by a hard faced sergeant.
 
Westover was in another.
 
Altogether, they had forty men headed to the Beaufort with more to come.
 
Grant was nervous, but tried to conceal it.
 
He clutched his M2 carbine, a brand new model that would fire full automatic, much like the venerable Thompson sub-machine gun.
 
Sergeant Farnum had told him it was more accurate and had less of a kick than the Tommy gun.
 
He hoped he wouldn’t have to find out.

      
The sailor driving the launch through the gently rolling sea skillfully brought her alongside the
Beaufort
.
 
Grant’s was the second launch.
 
Westover’s was first since he was the ranking naval officer and this was a navy operation.

      
The first squad was well up the side of the ship when Grant began his climb.
 
Once again his shoulder roared with pain, but he willed himself to go up and over the railing.
 
If he fell into the frigid water, he would likely drown before anyone could get to him.
 
Finally, chest heaving, he stood on the deck and was confronted by a handful of German soldiers in bulky winter jackets who glared angrily at him and the marines.
 
With the exception of an NCO and a young lieutenant who had pistols in holsters, the Germans were unarmed.
 
Grant decided not to take chances and shifted his weapon to a more comfortable and accessible position.