by Joe Buff
Beck asked Haffner the optimum depth and course for a good passive contact on the enemy carrier group. Haffner conferred with his sonarmen, then responded to Beck. Eberhard issued the piloting orders. Jakob Coomans, the
battle-stations pilot, acknowledged; Coomans sat at the two-man ship control station, on the Zentrale's forward bulkhead. Deutschland went deeper.
"Einzvo, prepare for arming nuclear weapons."
Beck and Eberhard went through the sequence with their special keys. Deutschland had eight wide-body torpedo tubes, and sixteen vertical launch tubes for her cruise missiles. Soon, the Sea Lion deep-capable eels, German Navy slang for torpedo, and the Modified Shipwrecks, supersonic antishipping cruise missiles purchased from Russia, were ready to fire. Each carried an advanced U-235 warhead of Axis design.
Beck eyed Eberhard, standing there in his austere black jumpsuit and beautifully polished sea boots, with the diamonds of the Ritterkreuz glittering at his throat, next to his bloodred arming key. Eberhard looked eager for what was to come. That's the difference between us. I fight to make a better peace, and to protect my family. He fights because he likes it.
ONE HOUR LATER,
ON USS CHALLENGER.
Ilse heard a beep on her headphones: Someone was breaking in on the circuit she and Jeffrey and Clayton and Bell were using during this SEAL mission briefing. The air in the front of the boat was still toxic from the engine room fire, and the foursome wore spare sonar headsets under their respirator masks; this way they could talk more easily, and privately. Bits of duct tape made airtight seals for the lip mikes. At this point people had gotten used to pausing rhythmically to draw breath; Ilse hardly noticed the constant hissing and whooshing all around.
"Captain, this is the Conn," Lieutenant Sessions's voice reported—he was the one who beeped.
Jeffrey turned from the digital navigation plotting table at the rear of Challenger's CACC.
"Your requested ten-minute update, sir," Sessions said from the command workstation. " The ship is at ordered depth, three thousand feet. We have fifteen thousand feet of water beneath the keel. Our course is three one five." Northwest. "Making for the Azores at top quiet speed, twenty-six knots."
"Very well, the Conn," Jeffrey said.
With water so deep, Ilse knew, long-range sonar conditions were perfect. Jeffrey wanted to stay above the deep sound channel now, to hide.
Another beep.
"Captain, Sonar," Kathy Milgrom said. "Your requested ten-minute update. One distant nuclear detonation, range and bearing match Convoy Section Two. No other new sonar contacts, sir."
Ilse, standing next to Jeffrey, saw him face Kathy and give her an appreciative nod, mask and all—Some fences had been mended there. "V'r'well, Sonar." Kathy smiled behind her faceplate, clicked off the circuit, and turned back to her console.
Bell keyed the intercom switch clipped to his belt. "Sounds like Section One is having a quiet day, Captain." Bell leaned against the nav console, right next to Jeffrey, their elbows often touching. The tension between the two men had melted quickly—as had bad feeling in general—once Jeffrey had made public amends for losing his cool. His sincerity had been moving to see, and now, if anything, people felt more tightly knit than ever.
And it's a good thing, Ilse told herself. There was lingering tension enough from those Abombs going off like strings of firecrackers during their dose call with the 212 and 214. There was added tension from Challenger's new destination, their new target. The enormous responsibility placed on their shoulders was almost staggering.
"Play it again," SEAL team leader Shajo Clayton said. He wasn't smiling. The assistant navigator, a senior chief, pressed buttons on his keyboard. Ilse watched the horizontal large screen on the plotting table.
The satellite image looked down at Earth from hundreds of miles in space. Northern Europe was shrouded in rainy overcast. There were gaps where the cloud cover was thinner.
The computer overlaid the northern coast of Germany and occupied Poland on the picture, tracing the edge of the land-locked Baltic.
At first there was nothing to see. Then it started.
There were quick flashes in some of the cloud gaps, unevenly spaced. The flashes occurred from west to east, from Germany toward Russia. They were arrayed in a line that stretched about a hundred fifty nautical miles. A very straight line. The whole thing took under a minute.
"Initially," Jeffrey said, "the Joint Chiefs thought it was a cruise missile training exercise."
"Missiles ripple-fired from a line of frigates or submarines?" Bell said. "That would explain it." Ilse knew that Bell, as weapons officer, was in his element here.
"No," Jeffrey said. "The coordination of the flashes is too perfect. Computer analysis tracked one for a fraction of a second, and studied the engine's exhaust spectrum. There's no question we're seeing a single missile, liquid hydrogen powered, a ground hugger, doing Mach eight."
"Jesus," Clayton said as he stood next to Ilse.
Bell whistled. "Nothing we own can intercept Mach eight . . . except for a nuclear area burst. We have trouble enough with ballistic missiles, the type that follow a nice parabola up in the sky."
"Our side doesn't have something like this, too?" Clayton said. Jeffrey shook his head. "NASA's work on hypersonic flight was all for high-altitude scramjets. Single-stage-toorbit reusable low-cost spacecraft, or something to replace the Concorde."
Bell nodded ruefully. "And that technology's not much use for cruise missile hardware. These platforms skim the wavetops."
"There's a mole inside the missile lab," Jeffrey said. "Code name ARBOR. She was recruited by the Israeli Mossad long before the war. The Germans have been rolling up Mossad's network, but they haven't found ARBOR yet. . . . She worked her way to the top of human resources at the lab. She's our way in. The nuclear demolition itself is codenamed RECURVE."
"And this satellite data proves ARBOR hasn't been turned," Bell said. "She's not feeding us false information under duress, as a trap."
"I almost wish she were," Clayton said.
"The location of the lab right on the Baltic makes sense," Jeffrey continued. "It was built, supposedly, as a hardened underground communications center, during the war scare in Asia five years back, when Germany started rearming in earnest. It's huge, subdivided, self-contained. Now it's been disguised as a depot-level repair facility for the German Navy"
Jeffrey gestured, and the nav chief brought another picture on the screen. Ilse read the caption. "Greifswald." The old houses and shops had exposed beams, Tudor style. The colorful church steeples were picturesque. Evergreen forests covered undulating hills beyond the town.
"Greifswald is near the Polish border, in what used to be East Germany. It's not far from Peenemunde, where the Nazis perfected the V-2 rockets. Isolated, easy to protect, with the Baltic as secure test range right there."
"If we know where it is," Ilse said, "why not just hit the place with big high explosive bombs?"
Jeffrey sighed. "Won't work. NATO ground-penetrator munitions can't get through the forty-foot composite armor roof, either."
Bell thought for a moment. "A U-235 bomb on the outside would throw up massive fallout. The whole Baltic rim is heavily populated, and the winds are unpredictable."
"We have to go inside with this one," Jeffrey said. "Two man-carried warheads, each yielding a kiloton. Detonators coordinated by atomic clock."
"Okay," Clayton said. "A self-contained tactical nuclear blast. Underground, no fallout . .
. That works for me." As Ilse had seen, very up-close and personal at Durban, Clayton was an expert in atomic demolition.
Jeffrey went on. "This mole ARBOR says they're about
to start mass production of the missiles, inside the lab. . . . But it gets worse." Another picture came up. It showed a schematic of a submarine.
"The Germans are building a boomer?" Ilse said.
"Not an SSBN. An SSGN. A guided missile sub. They got the idea from
us. The U.S. Navy reconditioned some Ohio-class ballistic missile subs a few years back."
"They put collars in the silos," Bell said. "Instead of one large ICBM, each silo can hold six or eight conventionally armed cruise missiles. Tactical Tomahawks or whatever, for power projection on land. Almost two hundred in all, based on the Trident boats' two dozen silos."
"Tomahawks are subsonic," Ilse said.
"Yeah," Jeffrey said. "Imagine instead a ceramic-hulled SSGN, able to dive to ten thousand feet or more and hide there. Armed with two hundred unstoppable Mach eight cruise missiles, each one tipped with a Hiroshima-size A-bomb." Clayton stood there with arms crossed tightly on his chest, staring at the deck, his lips pursed in tense concentration, his eyes very hard.
"In one blow," Bell said, "they could smash the entire eastern United States, or wipe out Great Britain. Nuclear antiaircraft fire over the friendly homeland, to shoot down the missiles, would be self-defeating."
Ilse frowned. "But the Axis said they wouldn't be the first to hit cities with atom bombs. After the first two, I mean. Poland and Libya."
"The Axis said a lot of things," Jeffrey responded sourly. He looked at her and Bell and Clayton in turn. "There's concern that if this ceramic SSGN gets underway, armed with those warheads, our side may have to sue for an armistice. The threat is just too great. Deutschland or a squadron of Class two-twelves equipped with a clutch of the things would be devastating. Probably cost us the war at sea. A new iron curtain descends. The Axis wins."
There was stunned silence.
Ilse heard more nuclear explosions. Kathy broke in to say they came from the northeast. Convoy Section Two is taking a beating.
Clayton cleared his throat. "So why don't we go after this fancy sub?"
"We're not sure where it is yet," Jeffrey said. "Maybe Kiel, maybe Gdansk, maybe even Trondheim. The most dangerous thing is the missile. We have a very tight window, from two factors. One, this year is a solar maximum. You all know that. The eleven-year sunspot cycle."
"Some people think that's why the Axis picked 2011 to start the war," Bell said. The nay chief brought up another slide.
Stellar meteorologists had recently identified a new, massive twisting of magnetic field lines on the surface of the sun. In another two or three days they would split asunder and a record-breaking solar flare would erupt, releasing a billion tons of charged particles into space—reaching Earth in forty-eight hours.
"The effects of the flare should persist for a day or two, once it hits," Jeffrey said. "That's our target window: electromagnetic disturbances worldwide. Disruption of enemy comms, good masking of our signature from a lot of enemy sensors."
"That's an awfully compressed schedule, sir," Bell said. "Get to the Texas, do what we have to do there, then get way over to the Baltic and do what we have to do there. . .
"And then extract and egress," Jeffrey said. "I know. We're playing catch-up ball." Ilse had a question. "You said there were two factors. The solar flare, okay. What's the other one?"
"Based on the timing of this flare, and using her position, ARBOR is supposed to plant a delayed-action virus in the lab's security system. She's a talented hacker, unknown to her bosses. Seems as a teenager she once pulled off a harmless but very clever intrusion. German police never
found the culprit, but Mossad managed to track her down. That's why they recruited her."
"This virus'll help us get in?" Clayton said.
Jeffrey nodded. "ARBOR's role is critical. Once we're inside she'll meet us, show us around, then help us get out. . . . That last part is absolutely vital, because we're also tasked to receive from her copies of the missile design and control software, off their supercomputer."
"Right," Bell said, thinking aloud. "With that the Allies could design an interceptor, one that works with high explosive, not a mushroom cloud."
"Or at least build our own missiles, I suppose," Ilse said. "To stay even with theirs." This war is a terrible arms race. What a perversion of the efforts of some of humanity's smartest people.
"Do we have blueprints of the lab?" Clayton said.
"We're clueless on the layout," Jeffrey said. "The place is shielded against groundpenetrating radar. But ARBOR works there."
"If the Germans are busy shutting down the moles," Ilse said, "how safe is ARBOR now?"
"If they grab her before we get there, we're in a heap of trouble . . . and so is she." Ilse nervously rearranged the intercom wire and air hose, leading from her neck to sockets in the overhead. Her own brother and his girlfriend had been hanged on TV in Johannesburg, for standing up to the old-line Boers. The executioners always made it take a while. Since the Durban raid, Ilse kept having dreams she was next. . . . After all, she'd help set off an atom bomb.
"What about a contingency plan?" Clayton said. "You know, in case ARBOR can't deliver?"
"There's nothing in the mission brief," Jeffrey said. "Don't you think we need one, sir?"
"I'll have to think about that."
Two machinist's mates came through the CACC, lugging heavy canvas sacks full of repair tools. Their jumpsuits were soaked with sweat. The nav chief punched a button to blank the briefing screen while they passed by, for security. The men paused to plug their air hoses into unused sockets, drew deep breaths, then continued aft.
"Anyway," Jeffrey said, "assuming all goes well, this raid should set the Axis missile project back at least a year, and give us a chance to catch up." Lieutenant Willey, the engineer, hobbled into the CACC, cane and broken leg and all. He and Jeffrey huddled, speaking through their masks. Ilse caught snatches about material condition and damage control. Satisfied, Willey went back aft.
"Have Allied submarines gone into the Baltic like this before?" she said.
"During hostilities with Germany? Last time was at the start of World War One. Three Royal Navy coastal subs snuck through."
"But that was a one-way mission," Bell cautioned. "When Russia fell to the Bolsheviks in 1917, they couldn't get out. They were scuttled near Finland."
"That's right," Jeffrey said, a bit too abruptly.
"Are you going on the mission this time?" Ilse said.
"Yeah. I need to be there in person. The same reason as last time, Ilse." Verification of the rules of engagement for using atomic munitions in populated areas, independent of the SEAL team leader—who might be a little too biased toward blowing up something once they got there. "The lab is barely five miles from Greifswald town itself." Clayton nodded. He knew how important these burdensome ROEs were, both to human decency and to world opinion. Ilse knew they had to look to the future, too, when today's current events would become part of history, and would be judged.
"Sir," Bell said, "as acting XO I should go."
"It isn't our decision," Jeffrey said. "It's in my orders. You'll take the conn on Challenger, while we're off in the minisub."
"Er, yes, sir."
"Do I have to go this time?" Ilse said. "I don't know a thing about missile technology."
"No," Jeffrey said. "You're here to help us pick the best approach route, and choose stealth tactics to get in and out of the Baltic."
"But I don't know those waters at all. I'm South African, remember? Durban was near deep water, right on the Indian Ocean. Greisfwald is two hundred miles inside a shallow Axis choke point tighter than a hangman's noose!"
"And you were very helpful at Durban. You had the best data available. That area didn't matter much to NATO, when the big threat was the Sovs. But don't worry. Everything's provided." Jeffrey handed her a packet of laser disks.
"What is this?"
"Remember the MEDEA project?"
"Sure. A committee of civilian scientists got special clearances to look at all the classified oceanographic data the U.S. Navy collected during the Cold War. They recommended releasing it, for research purposes." Pure science, resource planning, environmental protection, oil and mineral exploration. "I'm not sure what actually happened."
"Some of it
was declassified," Jeffrey said. "But none of the best stuff. Now you have everything. You should feel privileged."
"I'm supposed to digest this in three days? Do you know what you're asking?" Ilse made eye contact with Jeffrey through their respirator masks.
"Join the club."
Ilse felt angry at Jeffrey again. He'd barely made up for his temper in the control room before, and now he was Mister Imperious again.
"This is Cold War era data?" Ilse said.
"Yeah. Is that a problem?"
"It sure is! All the salinity and currents and temperatures in that whole area, they're cyclical. There are broad directional trends, too. That only became clear in the late nineties! Twenty-year-old data could be all wrong!"
"Miss Reebeck, I want to see a more positive attitude." "I—" Ilse was interrupted by a beep.
"Conn and Captain, Sonar!" Kathy said. "New passive sonar contact on the starboard wide-aperture array! Submerged contact bearing zero three four! Designate the contact Sierra Seven!"
"What is it?" Jeffrey said.
"Amethyste II Axis SSN! Range twenty thousand yards and closing! Conjecture tasked to intercept this ship based on our recent surface datum!"
Ilse unplugged herself and dashed to her console and plugged in again. The steel-hulled Amethyste H's were war prizes from France, state-of-the-art and very dangerous. Jeffrey took the conn.
"Helm, slow to ahead one third. Chief of the Watch on the sound-powered phones, repeat rig for ultraquiet. . . . Sonar, Oceanographer, give me optimum depth to evade Sierra Seven!"
THIRTY MINUTES LATER,
ON DEUTSCHLAND.
Above Deutschland Allied aircraft and frigates searched, but she was lost deep amid the countless rugged transform faults of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. Beck watched the forbidding undersea volcanic terrain go by on the gravimeter display. He saw the jagged talus slope, the pileup of huge unweathered boulders, at the base of the latest canyon Deutschland followed. Soon it would be time to open fire.
