The Voyages of the Swallow

THE VOYAGES OF THE SWALLOW

By Alexander Morriss

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2009 Alexander Morriss

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Preface: Part One

Congo. 1957

Koenig peered to the South, towards and mentally beyond the point where the dirt road passed between the neat prefabricated bungalows of the site offices. Just for a second, he fancied that he caught the faintest suspicion of a protesting engine, on the still, humid air.

Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. For sure, it soon would be.

He could picture the beaten up, ex U.S. Army, trucks of Lumumba’s advance guards, bouncing and swerving along the rutted, dusty tracks. Grinning and shouting black faces would be crowded together in the backs. Knives and guns would be waving.

He had seen it before, just a few weeks earlier, when Lumumba had occupied Brazzaville. He had cut his leave short and hadn’t stopped to see what followed, but he had certainly heard. The massacres, the looting, the inhuman tortures, had become infamous throughout the world, in just a matter of days.

He didn’t intend to let it happen to him.

Koenig could see that his black drivers felt the same way. The Liberation Army had no racial prejudices. They were truly cosmopolitan in outlook. They would slaughter anyone, regardless of race, colour, or creed.

He took one last look at the great yellow excavators. Pity they hadn’t time to take those and all the other big and expensive pieces of mining equipment. There was a fortune tied up here. Still, it wasn’t his money, and the Company was rich and powerful enough to wait out the storm then come back for what was theirs. Such as the black destroyers hadn’t completely ruined in the meantime.

Well, he’d done his bit. The Company couldn’t say otherwise. Last white man out.

Five runs his little convoy had made. And, as fast as they replenished them, the pile of red drums diminished, on the quayside at Borondura, as they were slung into nets and hauled aboard the ship. Now, he had got the last of the drums onto the trucks and there was damned little ore left in the seams either.

He’d done his bit.

There was no doubt now. He could hear the thrashing revs, as racing rear wheels left the ground, over a hump.

He leapt onto the metal half step, on the passenger side of the cab, and shouted into the sweating face of the driver.

Don’t just sit there, Dumkopf! Raus!

Leaning outwards, he clung to the lip of the opened window and looked back at the other four trucks. One by one, they lumbered into motion and followed the big Dodge, up the incline to the Port road.

His eyes remained fixed upon the furthest point to the rear of the tiny convoy until, after about three hundred yards, the road wound gently to the left and the jungle closed across his view of the receding mining encampment.

Koenig swung his weight around behind the cab, leaned over, opened the cab door, and swung inside onto the black Rexene seat.

They would be all right now. By the time that Lumumba’s Scorpions had checked out and ransacked the site, he and the barrels would be safely aboard the ship and bound for home.

He twisted in the seat and regarded the cargo, vibrating and rattling on the trailer behind him. There was six months’ work in those innocuous steel drums. Six months of sweat, sores and dirt. Six months without a white woman. Six months for what?

He pondered briefly on the future of the Uranium Ore, that he was saving for the free world, by personal risk and toil.

What would happen to it now?

What the Hell! That was the Company’s worry.

He settled back in the seat and closed his eyes. His head was aching.

They were just barrels of rocks.

Who the Hell cared about lousy drums of Uranium Ore anyway?

Preface: Part Two

Haifa 1969

So. We are ready?

The old man’s soft voice and the rumpled modesty of his simple light cotton shirt and trousers contrasted with his air of authority, the fierce hook of his nose and the hard gleam of his eyes.

Across the desk, the man with the crowns of an Army General on his shoulders nodded.

Stock is already on his way, he affirmed.

He is the right man? I do not know his family. The bright eyes searched and probed for uncertainties.

They are no longer alive. He is of a different generation. His beliefs are not always as ours. He does not keep the old ways. He is, by the nature of his work, an internationalist. He is at home in several of the world’s great cities. But he is a patriot and a very shrewd operator. He will work discreetly and well.

The old man nodded.

And the Captain? Bunyan? An unlikely name!

The name is real and very useful for this purpose. His grandfather’s family took the name, to ease the way when they moved to South Africa, in the 1900’s. It worked well for them. The grandfather married the daughter of a German settler. A Teuton! Our Captain has the blondest hair in Israel. But, make no mistake. He is one of us. As a boy, with his father and grandfather, he was one of the first to come here, after Partition. He is an able and ambitious Naval officer. In the Army, he would be one of my staff officers. But, for a Naval officer, the opportunities to prove oneself are more limited. Bunyan wants to be Chief of the Naval Staff, one day. He has the ability as a seaman and the will to succeed.

The old man’s piercing eyes detected hesitation.

What are you holding back? he pressed.

Nothing really. Just that we have a small naval force, of small craft. They rarely have great demands put upon them. The pressures that Bunyan will experience on this mission are new to him.

Then why do we use him? The question cracked like gunshot. This is too important for us to take chances.

The General stiffened. He was a proud man and did not like to be criticised, even by association. Yet the old man was in command and the fiery stare was stern and unyielding.

Bunyan is the most able seagoing officer we have. He has performed well in all of his duties so far. We have no man more qualified than him that we can trust. We are, after all, not a nation with a great seafaring tradition to draw upon.

Does he have a good crew?

We have collected together seamen from our Navy and have also drawn upon several good Jews, with the right knowledge and commitment to Israel’s future, even though one or two still have their homes in other countries. Yes. He has a good crew.

The General flicked a fly from the back of his hand and continued.

"The ore is contained in drums, stacked on a neglected back lot, in Hamburg docks.

We have procured a vessel, sufficiently decrepit to avoid attention. We plan for it to make two runs. The first, which will enable a nucleus of our men to learn the running of the ship from its present crew, will take place while Stock sets up the purchase of the ore. He will need to get clearance from the necessary authorities to move the ore from Hamburg on the understanding that it will be going to Naples, for processing. Stock’s arrangements will be done through third parties, of course, with utmost secrecy. No one must suspect our involvement, or that its destination is outside Europe. Such a movement would be subject to the closest scrutiny and controls and would be disastrous for us. On the second run, the remaining members of the old crew will be released, and the rest of our men will join the ship. Their cargo will include the ore. Euratom should release it from Hamburg, as long as they accept the front that Stock will set up and believe that it will re-enter Europe at Naples. It will not, of course. We will transfer it to another ship, either at sea or in a North African port. Suitable cover will be provided at Naples, so that no-one will know that the ore did not arrive."

He leaned back and sighed.

That, in essence, is all there is to it. The trick lies in making sure that a number of people, some of whom do not know what it is that they are doing, perform as we wish, when we wish. That is Stock’s job.

The old man stabbed out a bony finger.

There are many risks in this enterprise, General. If we make a mistake, it will be very costly. You know that, if we can secure this ore, without the knowledge of our enemies – or indeed of our friends – we have the opportunity to begin the process, which will make Israel a nuclear power. If we can achieve that goal, the enemies that surround our borders will at last be forced to respect us. For the first time in two thousand years, Israel will be able to stand in the world, as a secure sovereign nation. This is the prize, if we succeed.

He paused but held up a hand as the General began to reply. He continued.

If we fail to bring the ore to Israel, we lose a golden opportunity to grasp this prize. But worse could result. If we get the ore and our friends learn that we have it, or even if we fail and our friends learn that we tried, then we lose our friends. And then, we may lose Israel.

The General drew himself up. His tone was icy.

The risks are high. The rewards are high. It is for you and the Council to decide, whether we go ahead. I can only provide the best available men, the best available resources and a workable plan. That, I have done. I repeat. The decision is yours.

The old man smiled, a thin, humourless smile.

We go ahead, he said simply.

The Voyages of the Swallow

Chapter One.

Hamburg 1969.

Mueller took another pull at his glass of thin beer and sighed with exasperation.

The sun shone invitingly through the window glass, upon the blue-green twinkle of the small indoor pool. The flowers, set into tubs on the concrete slabs of the terrace outside, were bright and varied and at their best during this short summer season. The double glass doors were open and two white slatted loungers were positioned between them, to allow Irma and him to make the most of the sun’s rays. The beer was cold and refreshing.

It was altogether too annoying.

He stood up.

Do you have to go, Konrad?

His wife, although no longer young, retained a strong sensual attraction for him. He sucked his teeth and cursed inwardly, as he looked down at her. The one- piece bathing suit flattered her mature figure and her breasts still pushed at their restraint, as she slipped the straps from her shoulders.

The thought of his dingy office seemed even less appealing.

It is unfortunately necessary, yes. Without this client, our small business would struggle to survive.

But, on a Sunday, Konrad! Her voice was petulant.

With such important business, I cannot argue the time or place, my dear. These are busy men. They fly in. We do business. They fly out. It pays well.

His wife closed her eyes again, settled back onto her lounger, and said no more. There was no point in arguing. She had lost interest in the matter.

Mueller tried to retrieve a crumb of consolation, as he turned to go.

I shall hurry, my dear. Then, when I return, we shall be together here in the sun. Just you and I. His tone was, he thought, seductive, low and appealing.

She reached out for the Ambre Solaire and began to smooth it slowly over her shoulders and arms. She did not reply.

He breathed a heavy sigh. There would be no welcome on his return. She would not even notice him. The promise, that he thought he had detected as she slipped loose the shoulder straps, had gone. It might be days before the right moment would occur again. Maybe longer, until he could recapture the languorous intimacy of these hours in the sun that he had hoped would lead to so much more.

For a second, he hesitated. But there, it was too late. The moment had gone, and he was late for his appointment.

The Audi whispered smoothly along the wide straight road, through the forest and down toward the sprawl of the city. Even under stress, Mueller prided himself upon being a smooth, methodical driver.

He thought of the coming meeting and promised himself that, this time, it would be different.

These people were arrogant. They expected him to jump to their bidding, just whenever it suited them.

True, they spent quite a bit of money with his company, but they were not the only fishes in the sea. The surging demand for agricultural chemicals was opening many markets to companies like his. Then, there was the new contract with the grocery chain, for washing up liquids. That was quite a nice little sweetener. True, he could not live on that alone and the margin of profit was pitifully narrow, but it was an indicator of other product lines that he could look into. There was business to be had. He would go out and get it, as soon as he had the funds to invest in new plant and equipment.

Just a little more time, cashing in on these people, and then he would have the capital that he needed, to set him up for life. Then, the boot would be on the other foot, when it came to who needed whom.

In the meantime, he would make a gesture. Show them that he was no lapdog, to be summoned to heel. He would take them to task today. Show them his mettle.

The open country gave way to residential districts, neat well-ordered estates with the houses more closely spaced as he penetrated further into the city. Then, the houses gave way to factories and warehouses.

The Audi purred past the glass and concrete of thriving new enterprises in lawned settings, before moving on into the older industrial district. Here, the glass was more limited and often cracked or dingy. Instead of newly poured concrete, grimy bricks supported corrugated roofs. The wide, tree and shrub lined, roads narrowed, until they were little more than alleyways between run-down buildings.

Halfway down one such alley, Mueller stopped before a particularly rickety looking building, of black painted corrugated metal construction. To the right and left of the building, the corrugated metal continued into a fence, which was, maybe, one hundred metres long. Above the fence, the tops of silver metallic pipes and tanks were visible beyond.

Hardly wider than the triple garage at Mueller’s home, the building he faced had two storeys. The upper had two windows let into it. The lower was almost covered by a pair of red painted sliding doors. Above them was a red plastic signboard, with white lettering. It read ‘Mueller Chemical Company.’

Set into one of the big doors was a small, locked personnel door, which swung inward, as Mueller’s key freed the brass mortise lock. He stepped inside and left the door open behind him.

The interior was rather larger than the exterior suggested.

Storage vessels, of varying sizes, from 20 litre drums to vats of three metres diameter each, were strung in tidy formation along the long left-hand wall. To Mueller’s right, a short flight of varnished wooden stairs, with a single balustrade, led up to two offices set upon a mezzanine floor over the entrance doors. The offices had large inner windows, to enable Mueller to watch his employees at work on the floor of this, the bottling plant.

Mueller walked the length of the floor, to another set of doors in the back wall. He crossed to a box on the wall beside these doors, opened it and withdrew a key from its hook within. Using the key, he unlocked the big doors, rolled one slightly to one side and viewed the works beyond.

The large yard outside was concrete covered and was flanked by bulk storage tanks, pipes and, at the further end, five large, dusty hoppers, with open four-wheeled trucks stationed under each. A conveyor track led to another building, the agro-chemical plant. The whole area looked well worn, but tidy in the sunlight.

He grunted acceptance to himself and turned back into the relative gloom behind him.

The main production area of the bottling plant was not likely to have impressed a Krupps or a Benz, but Mueller was proud of it. Three mixing vats, set on low metal cradles, reflected the poor light from their lovingly polished copper surfaces. From each, flexible hoses led away from small wheel-operated valves to a multi-valve manifold. Only one outlet of the manifold was connected up. The pipe leading from it terminated at a huge carousel bottling machine, Mueller’s pride and joy. The bottler fed its output onto a short metal roller track, which led to a tall pile of flattened cardboard boxes. Standing scales, two hand trucks and an assortment of carefully arranged minor sundries completed the scene.

The whole area was neat and clean, down to the swept and washed plastic-sealed surface of the concrete floor.

There was no one at work on the Sunday.

Mueller crossed the floor and examined the gauges on the storage vats. Each showed a satisfactory level of contents. There would be more than adequate stock for Monday’s production of the new washing-up liquid.

He bent his knees slightly and looked upward at the bottom of the second vat. Just where the outlet valve met the tank, there was a smear of damp on the metal. Mueller sucked his teeth and touched the spot with the tip of his index finger. The valve connection was seeping slightly.

That fool, Meyer, should have seen it, before he left yesterday. Seen it and tightened the connection. But that was labour today. No pride. Well he would teach him to have some pride, tomorrow.

Just as he would teach these people something, today.

He ducked his head to one side, away from the valve, and stood upright facing the entrance.

A man was standing in the open doorway.

The newcomer was not very tall, maybe one point seven metres or so, slightly chubby, neatly dressed in a three-piece suit. His dark hair, brushed flat and oiled, receded at the forehead. He wore heavy, tortoiseshell-framed, spectacles. Laugh lines spread out from under the edges of the frames and a confident smile split the rotund face.

Mueller did not know him. He said nothing, waiting for the other to speak.

My name is Stock. I am a colleague of Kuhn.

Despite the economy of the words, their tone conveyed an easy, almost conspiratorial, warmth. As he spoke, the man turned, pushed the personnel street door closed behind him and began to walk towards the stairs to the offices. His movements were assured and authoritative.

Instinctively, Mueller made to follow. Then he flushed, halted and called after the retreating back. He intended his voice to be commanding, but somehow it emerged a little querulously.

Just a moment. Where is Kuhn?

The man continued for a few more paces, to the foot of the stairs. Then