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Authors: Clive Cussler
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and handed it to Remi.
“ Molch ,” she read. “What in God’s name . . .”
Her words trailed off as she kept reading.
Sam said, “ ‘Molch’ means ‘Salamander.’ It was a class of midget torpedo submarine produced by Nazi Germany in 1944.”
Built for the Kriegsmarine by A. G. Weser, a company in Bremen, the Molch was the brainchild of Dr. Heinrich Drager. Measuring thirty-five feet long, three feet from deck to keel, and six feet from beam to beam, the Molch was designed to carry one crew member and two G7e torpedoes on port and starboard racks to depths of 120 feet and distances up to fifty nautical miles at a maximum submerged speed of three knots, a moderate walking pace.
As an offensive weapon the Molch, like most of Germany’s other midget subs, was largely unsuccessful: it was hard to steer, almost impossible to dive, and with a range so limited it was dependent upon auxiliary vessels for support and deployment.
“Are you sure, Sam?” Remi asked.
“I’m sure. Everything fits.”
“How in the world did it end up here?”
“That’s the part that doesn’t fit. According to everything I’ve read, these things only saw action in Holland, Denmark, Norway, and the Mediterranean. There are absolutely no records of Molches being deployed this far west.”
“How many of these things were there?”
“Almost four hundred, and most of those were lost, either sunk or vanished. They were death traps, Remi. Only crazy men volunteered for midget-sub duty.”
“You said a one-man crew. You don’t think . . .”
“Won’t know until I get in there.”
“And that other lovely word you used—torpedo.”
“That’s the dicey part. My hunch is it got pushed this far upriver by six-plus decades of storm surges. Probably both the torpedoes—if it was equipped with any to start with—were knocked off long ago.”
“Well, that’s some small comfort,” Remi replied. “Except for the unlucky fisherman who manages to snag one someday.”
“We’re going to have to tell somebody about this—the coast guard or the navy. How they’ll deal with it, I have no idea.”
“One thing at a time.”
“Right. Step one: Make sure it isn’t sitting atop a pair of sixty-year-old live torpedoes.”
CHAPTER 9
U sing one of the Spair Air pony canisters, Sam inspected the bottom beneath the Molch from stem to stern, lightly tapping on each log with the tip of his dive knife and praying he didn’t get a metallic clank in reply. Their luck held; all he heard was the soft thump of rotten wood.
Given the appearance of the logs near the top of the heap, many of which still showed some remnants of bark, Sam suspected the Molch had been deposited here recently, pushed by the storm out of the main channel and into this inlet. If so, any torpedoes she’d been carrying were likely lost somewhere in the main channel of the Pocomoke, between here and the bay, some twenty miles to the south.
A sound theory, but a theory nonetheless, Sam reminded himself. He finished his survey of the bottom, then moved on to his next task. Though he’d seen no external damage to the Molch’s hull it didn’t mean she wasn’t flooded, and if so they were out of luck. Small as it was compared to its counterparts, the Molch was still no lightweight, weighing in at eleven tons. Add to that the volume of water her interior could hold and this midget submarine might as well be the Titanic for all the good their ropes and ratchet blocks would do them.
Moving from the aft end forward, Sam tapped along the hull every few feet with his knuckle, listening to the echoes. They were hollow. Damn, could they be this lucky . . . ?
He returned to the surface and climbed back onto the bank.
“Good news, bad news,” Sam said. “Which do you want first?”
“Good.”
“I’m ninety percent sure the torpedoes aren’t down there and ninety-nine percent sure she’s not flooded.”
“And the bad?”
“I’m only ninety
“ Molch ,” she read. “What in God’s name . . .”
Her words trailed off as she kept reading.
Sam said, “ ‘Molch’ means ‘Salamander.’ It was a class of midget torpedo submarine produced by Nazi Germany in 1944.”
Built for the Kriegsmarine by A. G. Weser, a company in Bremen, the Molch was the brainchild of Dr. Heinrich Drager. Measuring thirty-five feet long, three feet from deck to keel, and six feet from beam to beam, the Molch was designed to carry one crew member and two G7e torpedoes on port and starboard racks to depths of 120 feet and distances up to fifty nautical miles at a maximum submerged speed of three knots, a moderate walking pace.
As an offensive weapon the Molch, like most of Germany’s other midget subs, was largely unsuccessful: it was hard to steer, almost impossible to dive, and with a range so limited it was dependent upon auxiliary vessels for support and deployment.
“Are you sure, Sam?” Remi asked.
“I’m sure. Everything fits.”
“How in the world did it end up here?”
“That’s the part that doesn’t fit. According to everything I’ve read, these things only saw action in Holland, Denmark, Norway, and the Mediterranean. There are absolutely no records of Molches being deployed this far west.”
“How many of these things were there?”
“Almost four hundred, and most of those were lost, either sunk or vanished. They were death traps, Remi. Only crazy men volunteered for midget-sub duty.”
“You said a one-man crew. You don’t think . . .”
“Won’t know until I get in there.”
“And that other lovely word you used—torpedo.”
“That’s the dicey part. My hunch is it got pushed this far upriver by six-plus decades of storm surges. Probably both the torpedoes—if it was equipped with any to start with—were knocked off long ago.”
“Well, that’s some small comfort,” Remi replied. “Except for the unlucky fisherman who manages to snag one someday.”
“We’re going to have to tell somebody about this—the coast guard or the navy. How they’ll deal with it, I have no idea.”
“One thing at a time.”
“Right. Step one: Make sure it isn’t sitting atop a pair of sixty-year-old live torpedoes.”
CHAPTER 9
U sing one of the Spair Air pony canisters, Sam inspected the bottom beneath the Molch from stem to stern, lightly tapping on each log with the tip of his dive knife and praying he didn’t get a metallic clank in reply. Their luck held; all he heard was the soft thump of rotten wood.
Given the appearance of the logs near the top of the heap, many of which still showed some remnants of bark, Sam suspected the Molch had been deposited here recently, pushed by the storm out of the main channel and into this inlet. If so, any torpedoes she’d been carrying were likely lost somewhere in the main channel of the Pocomoke, between here and the bay, some twenty miles to the south.
A sound theory, but a theory nonetheless, Sam reminded himself. He finished his survey of the bottom, then moved on to his next task. Though he’d seen no external damage to the Molch’s hull it didn’t mean she wasn’t flooded, and if so they were out of luck. Small as it was compared to its counterparts, the Molch was still no lightweight, weighing in at eleven tons. Add to that the volume of water her interior could hold and this midget submarine might as well be the Titanic for all the good their ropes and ratchet blocks would do them.
Moving from the aft end forward, Sam tapped along the hull every few feet with his knuckle, listening to the echoes. They were hollow. Damn, could they be this lucky . . . ?
He returned to the surface and climbed back onto the bank.
“Good news, bad news,” Sam said. “Which do you want first?”
“Good.”
“I’m ninety percent sure the torpedoes aren’t down there and ninety-nine percent sure she’s not flooded.”
“And the bad?”
“I’m only ninety
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