by Glen Cook
The swing continued. Another shudder and heel, longer-lasting and accompanied by scraping, made men stagger. It seemed certain the ship would be caught. But the current worked, forced the bow on over the mudbank. Jager’s centerline was parallel to the flow a few minutes later.
“Whew!” Kurt whistled, mopping his forehead and leaning heavily on the rail. “Close, that.”
“Cast off aft!” Haber ordered, shouting. Softer, “I
50
sweated blood, there. The men who took soundings should’ve found that bank....” A man chopped through the mooring line. It whipped over the stern. Jager jerked, drifted forward on the current. “Make four four turns for five knots!” Haber ordered.
Kurt hurried inside to log it. “Hans,” he said as he wrote, “can you put men on the peloruses? I’ll need bearings soon. And I’ll need a recorder.” He took his makeshift bearing book from the drawer beneath the chart table, surveyed bearings taken coming upriver. Steering by their reciprocals should take Jager safely back to sea.
Hans shouted graphically at several men who were doing nothing, apparently unaware that nothing was what they were supposed to do until needed. He took the recorder’s job himself. “We’ve got the weirdest ship in history,” he said.
“What makes you think that?”
“Our officers. Can you imagine a more uncaptainly Captain?”
“He gets the job done.”
“Can’t argue that. Uh, bearing to ruined silo, one two zero. What about Haber? He looks like a rat. If he’d get rid of that mustache...”
“He’s as loud as you are, anyway.”
“Course, Quartermaster?” Haber demanded from the wing.
“You see?” He calculated quickly. “One eight three, sir. Come left to one seven six about five hundred meters down.”
“Very well.” Haber gave Lindemann the conn, left the bridge.
Hans leaned closer to Kurt, whispered, “Mr. Lindemann’s the only normal officer aboard. Take Mr. Obermeyer...” Just a hint of bitterness could be heard in his tone.
“You take him,” Kurt chuckled. “I’ll grant you, the Council made a mistake with him. Where is he? He should be on the forecastle with the Sea Detail.”
“The ship’s moving. That’s all it takes. Maybe we should feel sorry for him, though. He really does get deathly sick. But, if I have to do his job, why don’t I have his brass?” This was the first time Kurt had actually heard him express displeasure at not having won the First Lieutenant’s appointment.
“Time to make that turn, sir,” he reminded Gregor. “One seven six. You’d think he’d get used to it.”
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“No. What about Ensign Heiden?” Hans asked. “I heard he’s queer....”
“Hans, every man on this ship is queer as a cow with a pegleg. Up here.” He tapped his forehead. “Otherwise, we’d still be home. You’ve read as much history as me. Think of the officers they had in the olden days, especially the English.”
Hans’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Nelson. Maybe it does take madmen.”
Jdger reached the sea without difficulty. The Kristiansand girls were cheered again. Kurt sighed with relief as the town fell behind, as Jager entered deep, reliable waters. He removed his cap and tossed it into an out-of-the-way corner of the chart table. “How come we always get the watch after Sea Detail?”
Hans chuckled and took the hint. Of Lindemann he asked, “Permission to secure Sea Detail, sir?” Then, “Hold it!” directed at several seamen about to leave the bridge. “Come here, Ernst.” Pointing down, he said, “See those rust spots on the forecastle? I want them chipped and painted before dinner.”
Kurt cluck-clucked as Ernst went away grumbling. “You’re a slavedriver.”
Hans laughed. “Take the paint away and there wouldn’t be any ship.” There was a grain of truth in his words. Only the most intense, loving maintenance kept Jager from expiring.
“Quartermaster?”
“Sir?”
“Do you have a track for the Channel?”
“Yes sir. We should come right to two zero zero in a half hour.”
“Inform me when it’s time.”
“Yes sir.” Kurt gathered his weather logs and stepped outside to see which direction the swells were running. Hans followed.
“I was surprised,” the boatswain whispered. “Nobody jumped ship.”
“Surprised me too,” Kurt replied. He winced, still not wanting to remember Beck and Franck.
“I sort of figured you’d go, what with Karen on her way. You know, I’ve been wondering. Why was Beck the only one they shot?”
“I never seriously considered jumping ship,” Kurt said truthfully, and asked himself why he had not. Karen was precious to him. “As for Beck, I think someone wanted to get rid of him.” He was about to tell Hans of his discovery in the after fireroom, but thought better of it. “I wouldn’t much miss the man.”
“Who would? But he refuses to die.” For a moment Kurt was afraid he would bring up their brief conflict over Beck’s life, but Hans let it drop. He and Kurt looked forward, silently watched Jager’s bow rise and fall as she met the swells of the North Sea.
V
JAGER wallowed through moderate seas at an unchanging eight knots, all she could comfortably manage on one screw, though she was capable of twelve in a panic. There was ample time to reach Gibraltar. The Gathering would not sail eastward until mid-July.
The ruins of a city lay three kilometers off the port beam. Kurt studied an old map, guessed it to be Cherbourg. He felt a sadness. This was even more depressing than Kiel, because it was dead. He suspected the ruins would glow by night. Calais and Dover had been horrifying, like the impossible, wicked cities of the evil beings of old folk tales.
The crossing of the North Sea had been unmarked by significant event. High points had been a fog, a squall, and a few fishing boats seen in the Dogger Banks, all of which had run when they spotted Jager’s gray wolf silhouette on their horizons. Kurt did not blame them for their reactions. The warship was a ghost from a bloody past, a death-specter, a haunt.
The passage through the English Channel, thus far, had been equally uneventful. There were dangers, but these they evaded by careful sailing. The old mudbanks, which had once plagued Romans, Norse raiders, and the Spanish Armada in its time, had returned. But someone, probably fishermen, had kindly marked the banks with lighted buoys. All in all, Kurt decided, Norway to Cherbourg was a dull four days’ voyage.
He glanced at the map again, frowned. Like most Jager carried, it was English-language. For the thousandth time, he wished he could leam the tongue. His work would be so much easier.
He wondered what had become of the Americans, who had built Jager so long ago. Word-of-mouth history, rapidly becoming legend, had that whole nation burned in the nuclear exchange following the Battle of the Volga. Kurt tried to picture millions of square kilometers of radioactive wasteland, and could not. He had been to the border of the vast dead plain south of Hamburg, but that could not be believed either. It was too big. The entire concept of the War was too big to comprehend. He took binoculars from a locker, leaned on the rail. His eyes watered when he examined the magnified ruins. He wondered why. Was it because of his father’s stories? Old Kurt had been fond of things French and fairy-tale adventures based on the deeds of real people:
Napoleon, Richelieu, Jeanne d’Arc, the Black Prince, Roland, and a hundred others, some not French at all. Old Kurt had not been concerned with accuracy. In his stories, pre-War times became a Hyperborean paradise where temporal realities meant nothing. Kurt chuckled, remembering a tale in which Wellington defeated Charlemagne at Avignon during the War of the Spanish Succession.
Twelve years had passed since U-793’s departure. Young Kurt had stopped missing his father long ago. He remembered the stories best, his father’s tears the day the submarine sailed, and how, afterward, his mother had been seized by an endless grief. Life had become her personal Hell. He felt little
sorrow at her passing, for death had been a blessing finally freeing her from sorrow.
“See anything?”
“What?” Startled, Kurt hastily glanced over has shoulder. Hans.
“See anything out there?”
“The hoofprints of Death.”
“Poetry I get. Pale Rider home? Let me see.”
Kurt gave him the glasses. Wiedermann stared at the ruin briefly, then swept the entire coast. “You’re right. Nothing. Hard to believe so many people used to live there.”
“Efficient killers, the old-timers. Imagine Jager new, and she almost a toy to them.”
“She’s still an iron cobra,” Hans replied. “Now who’s poetic?”
“It’s true. If nothing else, her fangs are functional. She’ll be a tiger when we find the enemy — if we keep her afloat.”
“The enemy. We’ve heard that all our lives. What enemy? I wonder if there’d be an enemy if we just stayed home.”
Hans gave him a strange look, shrugged, said, “You’ve got me, Kurt,” and returned the glasses. “Did you hear? Beck came out of coma this morning.” He stepped inside the bridge. Kurt heard him growl at Otto for wandering off course.
Then he shuddered. He had spoken dangerous words. Sure as death, if Beck were healthy he would have heard. Such talk could have a man hanging from a yardarm, though Kurt could not understand why, logically. Emotionally, he knew, anything could have strong meaning.
His mind went howling off after the mystery of the Political Office. What Was its purpose? Why were its people so strange? He believed men served and defended things, ideals, and rules, in which they had a vested interest. Given that assumption. Political Officers seemed still more mysterious — they appeared to react only when the War was questioned or damned. Why should they want it continued? How did they profit? There were just six Political Officers on lifetime assignment to the Littoral, and not a one got anything out of his job except a small local power. The pay was minimal. Hans’s father, for instance, earned more making furniture.
Once he had asked Hans why his father was a Political Officer. Wiedermann had simply twirled a forefinger at his temple. He did not know either.
Crazy? Might be, although, officially, the Political Office was that arm of the High Command charged with ensuring that member states made maximum contributions to the War.
Which again led him to question the purpose of the War. Was it a vast plot to destroy? That seemed where everything was bound. Kurt found he liked the theory. Deliciously insane. Everything was.
Or was there really some foundation to the shadow-threat of Australia? Was it true that, ten thousand miles away, madmen were gathering hordes to enslave the world? He glanced aft, at the ruins of Cherbourg. Destroy the world? Someone had done a first-rate job already.
Then he considered his thoughts. He was thinking in terms of conspiracies, a High Command conspiracy. He grew nervous. His thinking was as crazy as that of the old-timers, who had seen threats and enemies everywhere. The first step to madness... He laughed at himself. His tenseness eased.
“What?” Hans was back.
“Nothing. Just wondering what strange things might be hiding under cabbage leaves.”
“Babies. But I like the home-brewing method better.” Kurt thought this was too near bringing up Karen’s pregnancy. He and Hans were getting on remarkably well. No point in chafing old wounds.
Guilt knifed across his thoughts. Karen had been out of mind for several days. Bad. A husband should think of his wife often. Briefly, he wondered if she had begun her trip to Norway yet. Probably. It was easy enough. She could walk north through Jutland, take a fishing boat across the Skagerrak. It was done all the time.... He hurt. Homesickness was worse than seasickness, took longer to heal.
“Almost time for our reliefs,” he said. “Think I’ll work on my track for the Bay of Biscay.”
“What’s the hurry? You’ve got till tomorrow night.”
“Maybe. But I want to be ready.” The charts were the only excuse he could think of for going away.
Kurt’s timing played him false. As he approached the chart table, Gregor whispered, “Beck wants to see you after watch.” Intense bitterness momentarily marred his features.
Heart in throat when the watch was done, Kurt went down to officers’ country. His hands were clammy and shook as if he suffered Haber’s disorder. Why would Beck call for him? He had nothing to do with anything....
Beck’s “Come” when Kurt knocked was a ghost of the ghost his voice had always been. “Sir, you shouldn’t be sitting up....” Nor should he have been talking — though his speech was confined to a whisper — through such a savaged throat.
“You found me.” It was an almost inaudible statement. “You kept me alive. I thank you. But why? I’d’ve thought you partial to those who prefer me dead.”
“Sir?” As pretended disbelief Kurt’s gasp rang entirely false. Certainly, Beck sensed it.
“I know more than you think. I knew Franck, or someone like him, would appear wherever we refueled. There were just three stopping places under consideration when we left Kiel, and they were sure to know them all.” He coughed lightly. “I have my own sources, who predicted the attack. But Franck had done his homework too.” Beck’s face turned sour. “He knew just the way to goad me.... There’s a man in Personnel at Gibraltar who’ll be sorry.”
Silently, Kurt wondered where Beck was leading. “Why did you save me, Ranke?”
“Sir?” He was still uncertain himself. “I don’t know. You were hurt. It didn’t matter who you were....” He shut up.
Beck coughed again, said, “No need for fear. I want frank talk. Anyway, I’ve grown accustomed to dislike. So, you would’ve done it for anyone? It wasn’t a matter of loyalty?” He seemed disappointed by Kurt’s nod.
“Ranke, I’ve been watching you. Nothing personal, understand, but Leading Quartermaster’s an important position. Your knowledge makes you essential to ship’s operations. I’ve come to think you’re a very well-educated, ignorant young man.”
Kurt frowned.
“No insult intended. What I mean is, you’ve plenty of book learning, but aren’t very world-wise. Will you keep confidential what’s said here?”
Kurt nodded, though he could conceive of no secrets Beck would willingly impart.
“Good. Have you heard of an organization fighting High Command?”
Kurt honestly had not. He said as much.
“That’s why I say you’re not world-wise. There’ve been a lot of rumors about it lately. And the organization exists. It’s very small, very secret, with an excellent espionage system in Gibraltar, the Littoral, and elsewhere. Rumor and subtle sabotage are its weapons. It’s based in Norway, somewhere in Telemark...” Kurt’s startlement must have shown. Beck asked, “Ring a bell?”
“Just surprised me, sir. I know people who went to Telemark.”
“Yes, don’t you?” Beck’s gaze was piercing. He coughed again, grimaced. “This organization’s too small to hamper High Command, yet its very existence has created a policy crisis at Gibraltar. The Political Office in particular has split over what action to take. One party demands swift suppression. The other, for political reasons, wants to let it grow. The factions were near blows, last I heard. A power struggle was shaping up....”
Kurt felt lost. He had never thought of the High Command in these lights, nor had he ever dreamed of an anti-War underground. Some odd events clicked into place, made sense.
“Well,” said Beck, “your loyalty to your friends is stronger than to High Command, so it’d be futile for me to ask you to poke around after underground activity. Oh, yes, there’s a small cell aboard. I’m even fairly certain of several identities....”
Cold fear washed Kurt’s soul like the sudden shock of thrown icewater. He, too, was sure of one man. Gregor. There could be no other explanation for the curiosity he had found in that blower room. Gregor, Gregor, he thought, what are you doing? He was hurt, hurt de
eply because a man as close as his cousin, and a woman as close as Karen, had never had the trust to confide in him.
Sea waves washed the hull, which formed one wall of Beck’s stateroom, with mesmeric regularity. How like this ship I am, Kurt thought. The waves of the world splash against me repeatedly, and all the waters of awareness that enter do so accidentally.
Beck! The Political Officer was suffering a coughing fit. Blood spume colored his lips. Kurt ran out, found Commander Haber. Before the night was done. Beck once again owed Kurt his life.
Jager rounded Brittany next evening, following a track from De d’Ouessant to Cabo Ortegal. A bit over fifty hours’ steaming if there was no trouble.
But trouble there was, a small storm which cost an hour, and a man overboard — perhaps with help.
It may have begun at supper, when Jdger was halfway across the bay. Kurt, Hans, Otto, and several others were sitting at a table in the mess decks, grumbling about the food, and about the rolling of the ship in the last breaths of the storm. Somehow, Beck’s name arose.
“Me,” Kapp growled, “I wish he’d bought it. Got no use for Political Officers.” His eyes were angry as he glanced at Hans. “Nor the War, nor High Command. Maybe Jdger ought to blast High Command. Makes more sense than sailing around the world for nothing. At least there’d be no more War.”
Kurt was startled. He had suspected Otto’s feelings, but not that they were this strong. The others seemed equally surprised, and uncertain if Kapp were joking.
Kurt worried. Frieda would never forgive him if anything happened to Otto. Frowning, he leaned closer, and, as he had thought several times during the meal, caught a whiff of alcohol. There had been a rumor about homemade vodka brewing in an unused fresh-water evaporator.
“Ott, take it easy,” he whispered.
Kapp was drunker than Kurt thought. ‘Take it easy?” He staggered up, spilled his tray in the process. “Take it easy? How can I take it easy when you’re hauling me off to get killed like a slaughter lamb? And for nothing. If there’s an almighty War to fight, why doesn’t High Command do the dying?”
