by M L Maki
“Yes, but they wouldn’t dare relieve me.”
“Sir, do you know why you haven’t been relieved? I asked them to give you another chance. You know that Admiral Klindt is NAVSEA-08?”
“Yes.”
“He’s in charge of all things nuclear, which means he’s in charge of you, and he’s in charge of me. Now, sir, are we going to work together to fix the mess you created, or am I going to recommend a transfer to Adak so you can count trees?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I’d do it in a heartbeat. Adak is still better than a gulag in Utah. That’s what you wanted for me.”
“So, this is personal.”
“Sir, if this was peacetime 1990, you wouldn’t last six months. That’s the honest truth. Hell, SUBRON-1 sent you to me because you were, in his words, rough around the edges. The Captain wanted me to keep an eye on you. Are we going to work together, sir?”
Cumberland grits his teeth and looks away, clenching and unclenching his hands, “This is mutiny.”
“No, sir. I’m not trying to replace you. I’m trying to help you. You know this is how the Navy works. Are we going to work together, sir?”
“I have no choice.”
“You always have a choice, sir. Submarine duty is voluntary.”
“Don’t push me.”
“Don’t abuse the crew and we’ll get along fine. Straighten up and all of this might go away.”
“Klindt. Holtz. They’ll never forget.”
“True, but they might forgive. Are we going to work together, sir?”
“Jesus Christ. Yes, you sonofabitch.”
“Are we going to work together, sir?”
Cumberland breathes in, exhaling slowly, “Yes, XO. We’ll work together.”
“Good. Rein in your temper around the crew. No more snide remarks about their ethnicity or family. Understood?”
Breathing heavily, Cumberland lowers his eyes, “Yes.”
“Thank you, sir. May I go?”
“Yes. Go. Go clear out of your stateroom. Commodore Holtz is coming with us.”
Morrison walks straight to his cabin, closes his door, and collapses in his chair. He takes a huge clearing breath and puts his head in his hands, “Dad, you told me a competent officer always does the right thing, no matter the personal cost.” Another deep breath and the trembling in his hands slowly calms. “This is so fucking hard. I hope you would be proud of me today.”
He grabs his bags and packs his stuff, remembering to retrieve his letters.
News of the shouting match between Cumberland and Morrison has already passed through the crew. Guthrie and Brown are doing their pre-underway checks with Gordon and the new guy, ST1(SW) Walter Johnson. Johnson transferred from the Jarrett to replace Thorsen.
Johnson, “I’ve never heard of a CO and XO fighting like that.”
Brown, “You didn’t. It’s like when the guy in the rack above you is beating off. Socially. Officially. You don’t hear a thing. Focus on your job. We got the SEALs again, so we’re about to go out and do something hairy. We’re the eyes and ears, and I need all of you at your best. We’re also going to have a flag officer on board, so you know this mission is important. No matter what happens, stay calm and focus on your jobs.”
Gordon, “Do you think he’s going to be relieved?”
Brown, “Maybe. If, and when, it happens, it will happen right behind us in control. That is why I say you must stay focused on your job. If you start listening to the fight behind you, instead of the world outside, we could all die.”
Gordon, “Okay, Mike. You’re right.”
Brown looks at each man, and they all nod.
FISHERMAN’S QUAY, WARNEMUNDE, GERMANY ON THE BALTIC SEA
1450, 1 June, 1942
Six SS sailors in civilian clothes wait in a large fishing boat. A Mercedes pulls up and SS-Oberfuhrer Von Bergan gets out. He walks up the boarding plank, returning their salutes. “This is the last time you salute. You are common fishermen looking for a catch. Is everything in order?”
Their leader, SS-Hauptsturmfuhrer Seidel, “Yes, Oberfuhrer. We understand what needs to be done. The magnetometer has been tested and functions correctly. It will be a challenge, but we will find the devices you seek.”
“Good. It will take time, and perhaps, several trips. Meanwhile, I must look out for our American guests. They have been most helpful. Heil Hitler.” He goes back to the Mercedes and leaves.
FOREST NORTH OF SWISS-LIECHTENSTEIN BORDER
1614, 2 June, 1942
Sophia Newberg, wearing a heavy winter dress stolen off a wash line, walks into a hen house with a basket. She hates stealing eggs, but they’ve kept her and Jerry fed. For six months they’ve worked their way across Germany trying to get to Switzerland, stealing what they needed to survive. Her husband, U.S. Airforce Sergeant Major Jerry Newberg is hiding in the trees nearby.
She walks into the hen house like she lives there and begins gathering eggs. When she’s got a dozen, she goes to the door. She opens it to see a German officer standing there.
“Frau, why do you steal from me?”
She lowers her eyes and curtsies. In her best German, “I’m sorry, sir. I am hungry.”
He draws his pistol, “Where are you from?”
“Ireland, sir.”
“No. No, you are not. Come. You will share more. I promise you.”
CHAPTER 35
USS SAN FRANCISCO, 600 FEET, 200 MILES EAST OF THE FAROE ISLANDS
0517, 3 June, 1942
ST1 Johnson, “Conn, Sonar. New contact. Bearing 344. Designate Sierra 1.”
Miller, “Thank you.” He pushes the CO’s button, “Captain, submerged contact, north and east of us.”
Cumberland, in the XO’s stateroom, “Very well. Start a track.”
Holtz wakes to the report. At first, he’s disoriented. It takes a few seconds to remember he is in a submarine. There is no wave motion this deep. He rises and dresses.
Cumberland walks straight in to the chart table. “Is it lying in wait for the convoy?”
Miller, “Yes, sir.” Morrison and Holtz come in to control.
Cumberland, Load tube 3.”
Morrison, “Sir?”
Holtz, “Belay that, Captain. Do not forget your orders. No attacks. No contacts.”
Cumberland, “People in that convoy will die.”
“Maybe. We have a mission more important than a single sub or a single convoy. Carry on.” Holtz leaves.
Cumberland, “What an ice-cold mother fucker. The right thing is to take the shot.”
Morrison, quietly, “Sir, the right thing to do is to follow orders.”
Cumberland, in a fierce whisper, “Shut the fuck up, XO, and get the fuck out of my face.”
HILL NEAR ARGELES-SUR-MER, SOUTHWEST FRANCE
2020, 3 June, 1942
SFC Henry Holmes uses the telescopic sight of his rifle to study the terrain below them. Near the coast is a concentration camp. There are guards and patrols everywhere. He looks over his five remaining charges. The lieutenant was gutted by a boar and died of his wounds. One of the techs fell down the side of a ravine to his death. “Van Zandt, you know where Andorra is?”
Tech Sgt. Tiffany Van Zandt looks up, “Yes, Sergeant. It’s about sixty miles through the mountains.”
Holmes, “I like mountains. Cover and concealment.”
Van Zandt, “I know.”
“You’ve held up well.”
“My dad was in the Navy. Well, will be. He was a pilot and a bit of a survival nut.”
“He’d be proud of you.”
“Probably. God, I miss him. If I’d followed him into the Navy, I’d have a comfy rack in 1990.”
“What does he fly?”
“He doesn’t anymore. He was banged up ejecting from an A-4. He’s assigned as chief of staff for Admiral Ren on the Carl Vinson.”
“The captain’s daughter.”
“Yep. Let’s get moving.”
&nb
sp; USS SAN FRANCISCO, 500 FEET, NEARING THE STRAIGHT OF STJERNSUNDET, NORTHERN NORWAY
1720, 4 June, 1942
“Conn, Sonar. New contact. Bearing 075. Designate Sierra 2.”
Cumberland straightens up in his chair, gets up, and goes to the table, “What is it, Brown?”
“It’s almost identical to the last one we sank outside Brest. Definitely German.”
Cumberland looks at Holtz, who’s watching him. “Carry on. Morrison, get us inside.”
“Yes, sir.”
INTERROGATION ROOM, SWISS BORDER
1845, 4 June, 1942
The two sergeants button their flies and leave. In passable English, SS-Oberfuhrer Victor von Bergan says, “Now, wasn’t that fun. If you tell me what I want to know, it will all stop.”
Sophia Newberg’s eyes sting with sweat. Every part of her body hurts. She lifts her head, pushing against the chains holding her to the table, “I’m a librarian. I know nothing of use to you.”
“That, my dear, is not true. Your name is Sophia Newberg. You are forty-eight years old. You burned your library so we could not have your very valuable books. It is important, because your past is our future.”
She lays back, silent.
“Enough for today. I want you to look forward to a visit from your new friends tomorrow.”
She is unshackled and carried back to her cell. When the door opens, she sees another woman sitting against the wall. They shove Sophia in and lock the door. She tries to walk, but her legs give way, and she sinks to her knees. She manages a drink of water from a bucket. Then she turns her head, “Who are you?”
The other woman is wearing torn, filthy jeans and a sweater set. Through the filth it is obvious the clothes are from the 1980’s. “I’m Lina. The…um…who are you?”
“Where did you get your clothes?”
“Los Angeles.” Her accent sounds mid-west American.
“When did you buy them?”
The woman starts crying, “With my husband. His family. They live there.”
Sophia goes to her and puts an arm around her, “What happened to your husband?”
“I don’t know. He worked on the planes. The jets.”
Sophia is quiet, “I don’t know where my husband is either.”
“What did he do?”
“He was the base command sergeant major. We had five months before we retired.”
Lina, “Oh. Mine was junior. He was a sergeant.”
“Where are you from?”
“Um, Cleveland, Ohio. Why are you asking me these questions? I think I want to die. They raped me.”
“Yes. They raped me, too. What you need to do is protect your mind.”
Lina, “What?”
“Something my husband taught me. He did two tours instructing SERE.”
“What is SERE?”
“Lina, your husband must have put you in a hole. Do you know the rule of three?”
“No. Um, why do they keep asking me about a special bunker?”
Sophia, “Apparently, they assume the Air Force can’t keep a secret. Just forget it. That’s the last thing you want to help them with.”
“But, why? What’s in there that is so secret?”
“You don’t want to know, and neither do I.”
“Do you know?”
“No, Lina. There are some things you just don’t get curious about.”
USS SAN FRANCISCO, 250 FEET, STRAIT OF STJERNSUNDET, NORWAY
2115, 4 June, 1942
Backes, “We have 200 feet under us.”
“Conn, Sonar. New contact. Bearing 105. Designate Tango 21. Twin screws.”
Backes, “Very well.” Cumberland paces. Morrison stands stationary, calm and quiet. Commodore Holtz is in torpedo briefing the SEALs. Backes, “It’s shelving. 150 feet under our keel.”
Cumberland, “Bring us up 200 feet.”
“Aye, sir.”
Cumberland, under his breath, “I hate this shit.”
“Conn, Sonar. Tango 21 is approaching our position.”
Backes, “Very well.”
In fifteen minutes, they hear the rhythmic beats of screws overhead. “200 feet, sir.”
Backes, “Very well.”
“Conn, Sonar. New contact. Bearing 110. Designate Tango 22. Two screws turning at minimum steerage. We’re picking up reflected machinery noises from ahead.”
Backes, “Very well.”
Cumberland, “They’re all leaving. We’re going to drop the fish boys off into an empty harbor. If we just waited outside, we could kill them all.”
“Sir, it’s getting deeper. We have 600 feet under our keel.”
TIRPITZ
Kapitan zur See Karl Topp is writing a letter home when there is a knock, “Enter.”
A radioman enters, “Message from Berlin, Kapitan.”
TO: TIRPITZ
FRM: KRIEGSMARINE
REG: Operations in support of Sea Lion.
Due to operation Sea Lion being reconsidered, it is important for you to stay in port and prepare your vessel for a major engagement with the British navy. As long as your current harbor remains viable, you are to remain in port. Supplies are being sent and should arrive early morning 4 June.
GAdm Raeder
“Thank you.” He hands it back to be filed.
USS SAN FRANCISCO, 200 FEET, ALTAFJORDEN, 10 MILES FROM TIRPITZ
The San Francisco works its way into the fjord. Backes, “Sir, it’s shallowing up again. We’ve 200 feet under us.”
Cumberland, “Very well. Right standard rudder. Make our course 168.”
Holtz and Issa walk into control. Holtz, “How much longer?”
Cumberland, “We’re taking it slow, sir. Twenty minutes.”
Morrison, “Commodore, local time is 0142. This far north the sun won’t set.”
“I’m counting on that, Commander. The low sun makes it difficult to see into the water and most people are tired. That, and a daylight raid is unthinkable.” He looks at Issa, “Get your boys to the hatch.”
“Yes, sir.”
The top of the sail is twenty feet from the surface of the water. The SEALs exit the sub into the garage. They open it and push out two submersible craft. Issa, using touch and hand signals, direct the two teams, and they silently motor to the Tirpitz. They’re spaced so they can see each other. It’s an eight-mile trip.
When they’re clear, the sub sinks deeper into the black void.
Lt. JG Russell ‘Triage’ Jeremy sits behind BM1 Paul ‘Grunt’ Bruce, who’s operating the submersible. He scans the water and watches the lowering sun turn the water above them into flowing diamonds. Navigation is easy in the dim waters.
They reach the torpedo netting, which is hanging all the way to the bottom and made of ten-inch squares of steel mesh. Issa’s boat turns left, and Triage’s turns right. They work along the net listening to it creak and groan in the wake of small craft and the light chop.
They reach the end where the net is fastened to the rocks of the fjord. The net is a tumbled mess at the bottom. Where the net is fastened at the surface, two Germans are standing guard. The clear space is too close, and too shallow. Grunt tugs at Triage, pulling him along. One of the guys finds a place where two rocks hold the net out of the way. It’s a big enough hole for them to get through.
TIRPITZ
Oberleutnant zur See Helmut Schmitt walks the deck. Just off watch, he can’t sleep. It’s a secret, but word of Sea Lion has spread through the crew. Invading Britain. He paces. Can it be done? He looks out over the fjord, thinking.
SEALS, AT TURN OF THE PORT BILGE, TIRPITZ
Triage and Grunt work quickly. Triage hands his partner shaped charges and det wire. They gently place the magnetic charges against the hull, install the detonation wires, then, string the wires to connect with the next charge. As they are setting the fourth charge, Triage feels something bump his shoulder. He turns his head and the large liquid brown eyes of a harbor seal are looking at him. The seal look
s him over, than swims away. Triage forces himself to breath calmly.
