The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Read online

  Fernando De la Rosa stared up at the bulk of the RV Ocean Vintage from a distance of a hundred yards or so, the only crewman currently aboard the acoustic sounding barge being towed behind the vessel as it went about its mission. He glanced up toward the command console at the stern railing and waved, grinning as he recognised the distant face of Manny Reyes, a fellow Filipino he’d known for over a year and had worked with prior to landing his current contract.

  Secured to the rear of the ship via a pair of long steel cables lowered by large loading cranes at either side of its broad stern, the barge was little more than a pair of huge, buoyant pontoons fixed beneath a lattice-like steel framework. Atop that framework, a low-set housing of grey-painted aluminium covered most of the machinery mounted there, with just a large, weatherproofed diesel generator left exposed to the open air on the port side along with half a dozen 55-gallon fuel drums.

  Inside that housing lay an industrial compressor and a battery of ‘air guns’ of varying size, the firing of which sent powerful sonic shockwaves straight into the seabed below. Those shockwaves were intended to penetrate deep into the sea floor, providing returned echoes that would hopefully be sufficient to determine its solidity. The actual firing was controlled from the operations console at the stern of the ship, with firing signals transmitted along an insulated copper wire that wound its way down one of the heavy, steel towing cables fixed to either side of the barge itself.

  De la Rosa was only there as a general work hand and dogsbody, tasked mostly with keeping the generator topped up with diesel and otherwise ensuring that the compressor was operating with appropriate pressure in the lines. It could be a long, boring four-hour shift sometimes, but he never complained: it was good money compared to what he could earn back home, if he were lucky enough even to have a job at all.

  The second of five children born to a poor but hardworking Filipino family, Fernando had lived most of his twenty years so far on the backstreets of Manila. He was generally referred to as ‘diko’ by the rest of his family – a traditional honorific meaning ‘second eldest son’ in the common tongue of Tagalog – and usually only heard his actual name when he’d gotten himself into trouble.

  He hadn’t seen his family now for two years. His father had been hurt in an industrial accident at the US Navy Yard at Cavite three years before and hadn’t been able to work since, being mostly confined to a wheelchair that the Americans had been ‘kind’ enough to provide as the only compensation. Fernando had been lucky enough to pick up work on a Shell tanker on a regular run between Manila and the oil refineries of Balikpapan, on the south-eastern coast of Borneo, and from there he’d worked hard enough to land a succession of better, if equally hard-working jobs on other Shell vessels prior to landing his current contract working on Ocean Vintage. Every month, he managed to send home as much of his wages as he could spare.

  They’d been working all morning, however a minor fault with the receiver equipment aboard the ship had caused a momentary halt to the proceedings. All things considered, the actual work required on a barge shift was actually pretty easy, Fernando conceded as he leaned back against part of the metal framework on its starboard side and took in the surrounding, empty ocean. The equipment the ship used was all brand new and of excellent quality, and things rarely broke down or required attention. So long as he made sure he kept the generator chugging happily away on the other side of the barge’s main machinery housing, there wasn’t really much to do.

  It was at that moment Fernando noticed the faint shimmer of movement across the surface of the water, off to the north. At first he thought it might’ve been an illusion; a trick of the light as the cool sea breeze flicked at the gentle waves and produced scattered reflections of the blazing sun above. As he stared a little longer however, he realised it was definitely some kind of real, physical motion. He couldn’t make out any detail, but it seemed that something just below the surface was moving toward Ocean Vintage from the north at high speed; a speed that Fernando, in his limited experience, thought to be far too fast to be any normal sea creature.

  His first thought was to make a grab for the speakerphone mounted in a weatherproof box near where the starboard-side cable was fixed to the barge’s dull, grey frame. Fernando had never seen the wake of a torpedo before, but he was no fool, and despite there having been no confirmed sightings of U-boats east of the Indian Ocean, the Allied and Commonwealth Powers were nevertheless at war with Germany and it paid to be vigilant. Even as he rose to his feet however, he realised he was already far too late. There was no way he could reach the handset in time, and he watched with growing fear and apprehension as the silvery wake bored right into the starboard side of the huge research ship.

  There was a surprisingly small flash of white-gold light below the waterline, followed by a deafening roar as a mountain of seawater burst upward from the point of impact. Fernando dived for cover behind the machinery housing as a huge wave surged past the barge, threatening to toss him overboard. Clinging to the framework for dear life, he feared for a moment he might be swamped as another underwater blast ripped through the side of the ship, followed by three more in quick succession.

  Explosions erupted across the deck, and with a terrible, unearthly shriek and groan of tortured metal, the RV Ocean Vintage broke in half amidships and began to sink. It all happened remarkably quickly. The succession of underwater explosions had torn the ship to pieces and water was pouring into what was left of the hull through hundreds of holes and rents. Fire began to spread across what remained of her disintegrating hull and across the surrounding ocean as fuel oil spilled out of her shattered bunkers.

  Still clinging tightly to a stanchion attached to one of the towing cables, Fernando watched in horror as the stern of Ocean Vintage rose before his very eyes and then slid beneath the churning water, the railing, lift cranes and control console all disappearing with incredible speed as the shattered hull continued to fill with thousands of tons of water. It seemed like everything was on fire as it went under, and he saw a burning, screaming figure suddenly silenced as they too slipped beneath the waves. He muttered a prayer and hoped it wasn’t Manny.

  It was only at that moment he considered the steel towing cables that were still attached to the barge itself: steel cables that were also still attached to the stern of a ship sinking into several hundred feet of water. In desperation, he looked about himself, searching vainly for anything that might be of use and adding another small prayer of thanks to God that he’d taken heed of the captain’s orders that any crewman working on the barge was to wear a life jacket at all times.

  More out or sheer faith than any real hope of survival, he gripped the rim of the nearest empty fuel drum he could find and rolled it off the rear of the barge. It hit the choppy water with a splash and he went straight in after it, slamming into it with his chest and fracturing three ribs in the impact but somehow managing to otherwise hang onto the empty and therefore quite buoyant drum. He kicked out with both feet, eager to put some distance between himself and the barge.

  The port side towing cable snapped taut a few seconds later, followed almost immediately by the one to starboard. With a groan of straining metal, the barge nosed down and overturned in a huge spray of water, breaking apart even as it too was dragged under by thousands of tons of sinking ship, and the surging wave it left in its wake was enough to push Fernando a few dozen yards further away from the area.

  “Help…! Help me…! Is anybody there?” He cried out with tears in his eyes, clinging awkwardly to the bobbing drum and as spreading fuel oil continued to burn, the deep red and orange flames sending thick, black clouds of smoke high into the sky above. He knew there was little chance of anything surviving within that floating inferno but he continued to call out anyway, unwilling to consider the possibility that he was now alone and adrift at sea in what was now very clearly a hostile environment.

  It would be twenty-three minutes before a scheduled radio transmission was missed a
nd an alert was raised in Darwin, and another three hours before an RAAF Catalina arrived over the area, guided in by a tower of black smoke from wreckage that continued to burn. Sobbing, dehydrated and suffering from exposure to a sun that was now a red, fiery ball hanging low on the western horizon, Fernando De la Rosa would be the only survivor the flying boat’s crew would pull from the water.

  Pier 90, New York Passenger Ship Terminal

  Manhattan Island, New York

  September 22, 1942

  Tuesday

  The fact that he was surrounded by fifteen thousand other soldiers did nothing to improve the bitter cold as PFC Jean-Antoine Esprit huddled against a wall in his army-issue woollen greatcoat and kept his pack and rifle close, working on the vain hope that there might be some chance of avoiding the icy north wind streaming down across the river from Hudson County. Only September, and already it was growing colder: a warning of an impending winter that Jean-Antoine was most definitely not looking forward to.

  The main structures of the New York Passenger Ship Terminal’s huge, 800-foot piers stood at least four storeys above the North River – the southernmost section of the Hudson. Completed just seven years earlier, Piers 88 through to 94 had taken over from the smaller and far less capable Chelsea Piers that lay on the island’s shoreline further south, near the Meatpacking District; the older facility not able to handle some of the larger cruise ships that started visiting New York during the 1930s. Under orders of the US Army Corps of Engineers of the time, new construction had not been permitted to extend further into the river itself, instead requiring the removal of landfill and bedrock from the island itself to accommodate the longer berths. Skirting Manhattan’s western shores between West 72nd Street and the southernmost tip of the island, the passing West Side Highway had as a result been forced into a slight dogleg as it heading north from West 44th, near Pier 86.

  Jean-Antoine stood with the rest of his division, on the top floor of the multi-level terminal, all waiting as patiently as they were able for their turn to board. They’d arrived at Pennsylvania Station late the night before, rolling in on the dozens of army troop trains that had brought the US 1st Cavalry Division up from their garrison at Fort Benning, Georgia. A fleet of 2½-ton trucks on high rotation had subsequently ferried the 15,000-strong unit through two miles of narrow Manhattan streets to the pier, a journey that had included at least twenty blocks along 10th Avenue.

  Even in autumn, Georgia’s climate was mild enough to be tolerable for a young man more accustomed to the heat and humidity of a Louisiana summer. New York in the pre-dawn hours of a chilly September morning however was something entirely different… something Jean-Antoine and most of his fellow infantrymen could do without.

  Born of a dirt-poor Louisiana farming family and the youngest of six children (of whom only three had survived childhood), Jean-Antoine Esprit had lived the first years of his life on a small acreage of barely-arable land in St. Landry Parish off Route 190, west of Opelousas. The moment he’d been old enough, he’d walked away from the crippling poverty and segregation of Louisiana and joined the US Army during one of the mass recruitment drives of late 1940: for a young man of African-American descent living in the Deep South, anything at that point had seemed a better option.

  “Hey, Spooky…! Get a move on… we’re waitin’ here…!”

  He looked up from his moment of silent thought and realised the line had moved on, leaving a small space ahead. The vaguely-annoyed, New York-accented call came from his platoon sergeant, Gianelli, standing three back in the same line, and he gave an apologetic nod of recognition as he hurried forward to fill his space in the queue. Tall and strong-limbed after a young life of hard work on the land, he was wiry rather than actually thin, something that had stood him in good stead against any would-be attacker foolish enough not to make the distinction.

  Jean-Antoine Esprit’s ancestors had arrived as slaves during the early 18th Century, in the then French colony of Louisiana. His surname reflected his Creole background and translated into English as ‘mind’, ‘wit’ or ‘spirit’. That ‘spirit’ was meant in the sense of esprit de corps rather than anything remotely paranormal had counted for little with the others in his unit upon discovery of its meaning: he’d immediately become ‘Spook’ or ‘Spooky’ as a result, the racial connotations of those nicknames an added bonus in the minds of his platoon mates.

  Esprit was the first to admit he’d been rather naïve in assuming that his enlistment might’ve seen the end of his experiences of racism or segregation, but he could at least draw some cold comfort in the fact that abuse was generally handed out in almost equal doses to recruits of just about every other ethnic background as well, and the worst of it had died down since he’d received his promotion to Private First-Class: it was a brave recruit or buck private indeed who’d dare insulting a soldier of higher rank, regardless of the colour of either man’s skin.

  “Hey, Spooky… that ‘tan’ o’ yours any help against this friggin’ cold….? I’m freezin’ my ass off here…!”

  His rank was no defence against sergeants however, and in Jean-Antoine’s considered opinion, Sergeant Paul (‘Paulie’) Gianelli – although he no doubt ‘meant well’– possessed all the class and bearing of an unflushed turd. There’d also been more than a few chuckles over the sergeant’s remark: Gianelli wasn’t the only culprit in the platoon by a long shot.

  “Well, hell, Sarge,” Esprit shot back at speed, playing the game and giving a toothy, self-deprecating grin, “…ain’t got nuthin’ else but my long johns coverin’ this scrawny black ass o’ mine, and I got me the frissons too, sure ‘nuff…” He knew he was adding an exaggerated, ‘Uncle Tom’ tone to his usual Creole accent, as he often did when dealing with idiotic remarks from people of Gianelli’s ilk, yet no one ever seemed to notice. “I reckon I’d be right toasty though, if I had all that sergeant’s paddin’ keepin’ me warm…”

  He got a bigger laugh for that, which always constituted a minor victory in the scheme of things, although he knew he might pay for such a transparent insult at some later date. He was probably safe for the time being however: Gianelli wasn’t generally known for his forgiving nature, but Jean-Antoine had one-upped him fair and square, and the sergeant couldn’t afford to look like a poor sport in front the rest of the guys.

  “You got him good, Jean… real good…!”

  That whispered compliment came from Private Sam Farmer, a fellow African-American from Virginia, whose ancestral origins also lay in 18th Century slavery. Farmer was a huge bear of a man standing a half-head taller than Esprit and at least twice as broad across the chest. The strongest man in their platoon by far, by default he therefore carried the unit’s light machine gun slung across his back.

  “Gonna pay for it later, fo’ sure,” Jean-Antoine grinned back with a faint nod, “but it felt gooooood…!”

  “You think they gonna let us get some chow when we get on board?” Farmer asked suddenly, his attention span questionable at the best of times.

  “Sam, they ain’t gonna open the pantry for our sorry asses at this time o’ mornin’,” Esprit answered with a snort of derision. He gave a shrug as he lifted his gaze and stared at the vessel before them. “Gonna be nice travellin’ in style though… real nice…!”

  Towering above them was all eighty thousand tons of the RMS Queen Mary. Launched in 1934 for the Cunard White Star Line, she’d been commissioned for a weekly transatlantic service between Southampton, Cherbourg and New York, and to that end had been joined four years later by her sister-ship, Queen Elizabeth. Following the outbreak of war in Europe, the pair had sought safe harbour in New York and lain idle for many months, joining the already-interned French liner, Normandie while decisions were made regarding the fate of all three vessels.

  It had ultimately been decided to use them as troopships, and Queen Elizabeth had shipped out for Singapore at the end of 1940 to have her conversion done. Queen Mary had travelled as far as Sydney, Australia
for her reconstruction work, and had spent most of 1941 plying her trade between South-East Asia, Australia and the Middle East prior to her secondment to the United States Navy early in ‘42 as part of a reciprocal Lend-Lease agreement with the Provisional British Government-in-Exile.

  As Esprit dragged his eyes away from the huge ship, he turned and instead looked out to his left toward the nearby Pier 88. There in the afterglow of the lighting from the neighbouring piers lay the otherwise dark and lifeless silhouette of SS Normandie. Almost a thousand feet long and displacing 70,000 tons, the huge liner lay abandoned and listing at 80 degrees, little more than a ruined, burned-out hulk.

  Her conversion as a troopship had commenced right where she now lay, however an accidental fire started by sparks from a welding torch had swept through the vessel on the afternoon of February 9th, 1942. With the ship’s own excellent fire suppression systems disconnected due to the refurbishment, and the New York Fire Department unable to connect their hoses to her dissimilar, French-made inlets, the damage she suffered ultimately resulted in her capsizing in place, in the early hours of the next morning. The hulk lay there still as Esprit felt a faint shudder ripple through him. Salvage plans were currently being drawn up, but no action had been taken as yet and it was a sobering sight indeed that gave the clustered infantrymen an all too real indication of how vulnerable even a great liner of Normandie’s size might be.

  “Where you think they gonna be sendin’ us, Jean-Antoine…?” Farmer wondered aloud. A city boy who’d barely finished third grade, working as a general hand and unskilled labourer since his early teens, he was nevertheless the only man in Esprit’s platoon who ever bothered to pronounce his name correctly. The rest of them generally got by with ‘Gene’ (which was preferable to the insinuation that it was actually spelt like a girl’s name), but Farmer tried his hardest and generally managed a good job of Jean-Antoine. It was true that he exaggeratedly drew it out into three distinct syllables as ‘Zharn-Anne-Twarn’, but it was closer to the original French than anything else Esprit had encountered in his two years of army service so far. Sam Farmer might have missed a formal education, and sounded it, but Esprit was certain that in terms of decency and common sense, there was much more to his friend than met the eye.