by Joe Buff
The crew realized it—they were jumping over the side. Several of them staggered, then collapsed on deck.
"Asphyxiated," Eberhard said; he was transfixed. The freezing mist continued to spread, forming ice slurry on the sea. The men in the water grew still. "Now all we need is a good ignition source. A static spark from all the charged
atomic particles up there, a bit of burning debris from the sky . . ." Whatever did it, the LNG tanker suddenly vanished in a heaving white-hot plasma jet that shot higher than the clouds in a gigantic V. The resulting quasar flare-up was more powerful than the air-burst that had killed the commodore's flagship. The pressure wave expanded in all directions.
The blast front reached the Honeybee. The Honeybee disintegrated. The detonation's undersea force reached Deutschland. Its impact was unbearably loud. The force knocked the submarine out of control. Light fixtures shattered in their mountings. Crewmen were pounded in their chairs, saved from broken limbs and concussions only by their seat belts. A sonar screen imploded, then caught fire. A hideous roaring reverb went on and on.
The gravimeter display went blank.
"Working to reboot," a nav tech shouted.
"Pilot, decrease depth," Eberhard ordered. "I don't want us hitting terrain. . . . Make your depth two thousand meters."
Coomans and the copilot fought their controls. "Crewman trapped in port-side autoloader mechanism," the copilot said.
"Get him out of there," Eberhard said. "I don't care how! Get that equipment repaired."
"Convoy aspect change," Haffner said.
"Confirmed," Beck said. "They're fleeing toward the carrier group. New course is northwest."
Beck eyed the imagery screen, and gasped. Two dozen mushroom clouds were visible, twisted, distorted, savaged by each other's conflicting blast fronts. The tons of radioactive steam had started to condense, and some of the clouds shed rain like infernal thunderheads. The surface of the ocean was an insane whirlpool of blowing spray and rogue waves, as each rising fireball sucked air toward its base, and each tsunami traced an ever-enlarging circle.
Everywhere were giant splashes, as smoking wreckage plummeted from the sky. The convoy formation was ruined. The ocean itself seemed to burn, as huge pools of oil and gasoline marked where fuel tankers had gone down. The pyre of the LNG carrier loomed over everything else.
Yet still, beneath it all, U.S. and Royal Navy frigates did their work. They were well poised now to wreak a terrible vengeance: Deutschland was almost helpless with her autoloaders damaged and with empty tubes.
"New ASROC torpedoes in the water," Haffner screamed. "Random spread, six or eight weapons . . . One is closing on us fast!"
"New weapons are between us and the convoy," Beck announced. "They're trying to drive us back."
"Status of autoloader?" Eberhard snapped.
"Both sides out of action," the copilot said. "Crewman is badly pinned. . . . Manual loading will take several minutes."
"Pilot, steer due east." Coomans turned the ship hard. "Incoming torpedo has active lock!
" High-pitched dings came over the sonar speakers.
"Pilot, make a knuckle."
Beck was rocked to port and then to starboard. "No effect."
"Captain," the copilot said, "torpedo room man-incharge requests avoid all radical maneuvers, to aid repairs."
If they couldn't make good knuckles, and they couldn't launch any countermeasures, and they had nothing to shoot back with .. .
The dings repeated, louder. Deutschland was making flank speed. "That Mark fifty is gaining on us," a fire control technician yelled.
"Sir," Beck said, "I should go down there."
"Einzvo, get a Sea. Lion loaded, any way you can.), Eberhard eyed Beck meaningfully. The weapons officer stood in for Beck. Coomans returned from aft, waterlogged and breathless, blood oozing from a scrape on the side of his head. He joined Beck; both men dashed below.
When they reached the torpedo room it was a scene of frantic efforts amid the weapons on the holding racks. Crewmembers tried to repair the damaged port and starboard autoloading machinery, while others rushed to rig the chain falls—block and tackle—
needed to load by hand. Still others struggled to free the trapped crewman, whose face twisted in grim agony.
Beck was almost thrown off his feet when Deutschland made another knuckle. He felt the ship begin to fishtail, just as she did on trials when Eberhard pushed the reactor to one hundred ten percent. "Sir," the local phone talker shouted, "the captain indicates incoming torpedo will be in range in ninety seconds tops! You must reload a countershot or we'll be destroyed!" Beck assessed the situation quickly. The culprits were two big Sea Lions themselves, sitting on the jammed reloading guides. They'd been right on the weakest parts of the guides when Deutschland suffered those blast shocks. The eels became harmful dead loads, twisting the guides out of alignment, snapping the bearing pins.
"The captain orders you fire when ready on local control. He has entered his warhead arming code."
The starboard gear was hopeless. The chain falls would never be ready soon enough. The port-side gear had just a chance. But the crewman's arm was trapped amid the robotic cams and actuators, and it would take forever to dismantle the equipment enough to pull him free. Beck looked at Coomans, then at the Sea Lion looming over the crewman. They had to get it into the tube, had to launch it at the inbound nuclear Mark 50. But there was no way.
How? In the name of God, in the name of an end to the war, how?
"Less than sixty seconds," the phone talker shrieked. Beck could tell the youth was panicking. He eyed the worried faces all around the cramped compartment, and he saw the panic spread.
Coomans grabbed a sledgehammer and began to drive the autoloader guide back into alignment. With each blow the trapped crewman grunted like a Neanderthal, as Coomans's pounding tortured his mangled arm. Pain didn't matter, ultraquiet didn't matter, nothing mattered but getting that long, thick, oh-so-heavy bastard eel into the gaping hole, the tube. But Coomans couldn't get past the crewman's body to replace the broken bearing pin, and they couldn't run the equipment this way, even assuming it still worked.
Beck spotted the big red fire ax. He knew he had no choice. God forgive me. He grabbed the ax. The injured crewman saw what was coming. Through clenched teeth he urged Beck to get on with it. But Beck hesitated, appalled at what he meant to do. Again Deutschland fishtailed. Both errant two-metricton Sea Lions shifted more, and metal creaked. Hydraulic fluid oozed to mix with dripping blood. There was so little time.
Beck remembered what Eberhard said. Any way you can.
Beck swung the ax with all his strength. The crewman bellowed in animal rage. Beck tried to leave a stump—for a tourniquet—but he missed. The arm came off at the shoulder, the man fell away, and now the smell of blood was very thick. Beck reached into the workings, right past the severed arm, and held a replacement bearing pin in position. Again Coomans worked with his hammer, driving the bearing pin home. More precious seconds ticked away; men shouted for Coomans to hurry. At last Coomans grabbed for the power switch and then the port-side activating lever. With a sickening crunch the equipment ran past the jamming sinew and bone. The Sea Lion entered the tube, but the equipment refused to retract—it was broken now beyond repair.
Coomans leaned in headfirst to connect the arming wires, then slammed the breach door shut. Beck hurled himself at the weapons panel. He pulled his arming key off his neck so hard the lanyard snapped. He shoved it into the slot and turned and typed his password as fast as he could. But there was no time. Beck felt everyone's terror mounting; he fought hard not to wet himself in front of the crew. He flooded and equalized and opened the outer door, shouting at each step to give himself courage. He lunged at the tube and worked the emergency firing lever. The eel roared from the tube and into the sea. Beck grabbed the phone talker's mike. "Tube six fired on local control." Beck despaired he was too late; he dared not look at his watch. He and Coomans stared a
t the inner tube door, hearing the shrill hum as the fiber-optic wire played out. There was nothing more they could do. Beck wondered, if he somehow survived and was rescued by the Allies, whether he'd be shot for war crimes.
Beck saw the status indicator on the weapons panel change. The unit from tube four had detonated, but was it far enough away? Would it stop the much bigger warhead of the 50, or would the next eruption send Deutschland to her grave?
The concussion, when it came, was smashing . . . but they were alive. Men laughed and congratulated each other, but Beck knew their little victory was fleeting. Deutschland had been localized, pinned down by the enemy. More torpedoes would be coming at her very soon. "Sir," the phone talker said. "Captain requires you in the Zentrale at once." Beck nodded wearily. Eberhard, this battle, this war—they were relentless. Beck wiped the injured torpedoman's drying blood off his hands with a piece of cotton rag. The corpsman reported the man was dead, of shock and cardiac arrest. In a real way, Beck had killed him. How many others have I killed today, so far? How much blood is on my hands? What do I do, deny they were human beings?
Beck forced himself to stay focused. Eberhard worked Deutschland deftly through the latest whiteouts at top quiet speed, to recover lost ground against the convoy. He offered no thank you to Beck for helping save the ship, and no condolences to Beck for his latest crewman who had died.
Fresh Honeybees showed barely twenty merchant ships still floating—from the original fifty—all steaming northwest, slowly gaining distance from the burgeoning forest of mushroom clouds. The half-dozen surviving frigates still hunted the Axis sub, pinging and launching ASROCs.
"Sir," the copilot reported several minutes later, "torpedo room reports tubes one through seven reloaded manually by chain falls."
"Finally," Eberhard said. He and Beck armed the weapons. Beck reminded himself he'd volunteered for submarines—but never dreamed it would lead him to such tormenting madness as this.
"Copilot," Eberhard said, "deploy a short length of the starboard towed array. I want to hear up and behind us." Eberhard seemed unaffected by everything around him, the slaughter, and the crew's fatigue or grief or fear—after all, some of his men were close friends of the four aboard who'd died.
Coomans returned to the Zentrale, looking disheveled. He snuck Beck a halfhearted wink, and resumed as pilot.
"Achtung," Eberhard said. "Nuclear Sea Lion salvo, tubes one through six, maximum yield. Target as perimeter bursts against surviving convoy formation." Beck, beyond exhaustion, relayed the orders.
"Tube one, los!" Eberhard ordered. "Tube two, los!" One by one all six weapons were fired. "We'll save the unit in tube seven as insurance."
"New sonar contact," Haffner said. "Enemy frigate, constant bearing, signal strength increasing."
"It heard us," Eberhard said.
"Weapon transients. ASROC motors igniting!"
That frigate's captain is a brave man, Beck told himself. If we had our normal rate of fire his ship would die for sure.
"Torpedo in the water!" Haffner screamed. "Second torpedo in the water! Third! Fourth!
Four ASROClaunched Mark fifties, inbound, overtaking."
"Flank speed ahead."
"All inbound torpedoes on constant bearings, signal strength increasing fast."
"We can't possibly hit them all with just one nuclear eel. Einzvo! Reload more Sea Lions, now."
Beck, stung, issued commands. "Sea Lions aimed at the convoy have gone to full attack speed. . . . They're too far ahead to double them back to intercept the inbound fifties." The frigate pinged on maximum power. One good echo would give Deutschland's depth, too deep to be any German sub but Deutschland.
Eberhard cursed. "We're losing our stealth." Once the enemy had Deutschland identified, they'd stop at nothing to destroy her. "Achtung, snap shot, tube seven, at the incoming frigate. Los!"
The frigate launched an antitorpedo ASROC. Beck saw its aim was perfect. . . . "Unit from tube seven is destroyed." The blast shocked Deutschland hard. Her tubes were empty again, with four enemy nuclear torpedoes closing rapidly. Eberhard ordered Coomans back to the torpedo room, and Coomans reported from there—the reloads would never be ready in time for effective countershots against the inbound 50's. The nearest frigate pinged again. Beck spotted yet more rocket plumes, from the frigate's stern this time, launched in a fan to port and starboard, over-the-shoulder shots. If he didn't know what they meant, they'd be beautiful. "Six more Mark fifties in the water aimed at Deutschland!" Other frigates joined the chase, closing in as well.
"They've got us in a vise," Eberhard said.
Beck thought fast and hard. "Sir, recommend we shelter under the convoy. Conjecture Americans preprogrammed their weapons to not harm friendly forces." ASROC
launched Mark 50's weren't wire-guided. Using the convoy for refuge was a gamble, but Deutschland had no choice.
The frigate pinged again.
"It's highly likely they know exactly who we are." Eberhard sounded disgusted.
"I doubt the United States would risk nuking their own ships, sir, even to sink Deutschland." Or would they? Beck watched his screens as the 50's gained on Deutschland, and she gained on the convoy. It was touch and go who'd win. The 50's went to active search.
Eberhard grabbed an intercom mike. "Push the reactor to one hundred twelve percent." Beck waited for something in their Russian-based reactor plant to explode.
"Mark fifties continue to gain on us." Beck saw crewmen shaking their fists toward the stern at the enemy eels, heard them urging Deutschland to go faster. "Torpedoes in lethal radius any moment."
"Rig for nuclear depth charge."
Then Beck shouted, "Fifties are veering away." Several crewmen cheered. Deutschland's Sea Lions didn't veer away.
Around the edges of the convoy, six phalluses of solid water thrust high into the air. Six breathtaking fireballs punched through the surface of the ocean all at once, like dawn on some alien otherworld with multiple suns. The air-and waterborne shock waves bloomed and met and embraced, reinforcing each other strangely, the speed of sound varying in different places with the heat. The older mushroom clouds to the southeast, some topped now by
exquisite smoke rings, were lashed by blast winds as new mushroom clouds asserted themselves. Surface and bottom reflections pounded Deutschland endlessly. The noise was utterly deafening.
"Severe injuries among reloading party" the copilot yelled.
"Pilot," Eberhard shouted cold-bloodedly. "Put us directly under the surviving troopship, the Sergeant Button."
Deutschland had decimated Convoy Section One, and she gained a precarious sanctuary under the remnants of the convoy. Beck drew no comfort on either count. Where was the satisfaction in serving a captain who had no conscience?
Deutschland steamed on, much more sedately, almost two kilometers deep beneath the Button. The Honeybees that still functioned showed the troopship was shadowed closely by that pesky American frigate, now identified as the Aubrey Fitch. Other escorts and helos kept watch, too, from several sea miles away. Everyone headed northwest. Now and then Button tried to shake Deutschland by changing course, without success. Now and then the Aubrey Fitch pinged, getting echoes off Deutschland's stern.
"There's just one little problem," Eberhard said. "We're in what the Americans would call a Mexican standoff. If we move away from the Button, they'll all be able to fire at us. We can't possibly sink every warship fast enough to get away"
"No, sir," Beck said reluctantly.
"And we certainly can't keep steaming like this in concert," Eberhard said. "What do we do, follow them right into Liverpool? . . . Einzvo, this was your idea. What do you suggest now?"
"New visual contact!" a technician shouted. The surviving Honeybees zoomed in. " Airborne visual contact!"
"Type of aircraft?" Eberhard demanded.
"A squadron of jump-jet Sea Harriers," Beck said. "And Super Stallion heavy transport helos."
"From the Truman," E
berhard said. Some of the Harriers dropped big pods where convoy ships had gone down. The pods inflated into giant orange life rafts. The Stallions began to lift men from the sea. "Their cavalry comes over the hill, too late to do much-good."
"Sir," the copilot said, "Chief Coomans reports a Sea Lion manually loaded in tube seven."
"Load another in tube five."
But Beck had an awful idea. "Captain, recommend instead we load two Seehecht units." Eberhard stared at Beck. "They're conventional eels, and slow, and if we launch below a thousand meters they'd implode."
"Understood; Captain." The escorts' torpedoes also had a crush depth of about three thousand feet. "We need to create a distraction." Beck hated himself for what he intended to do—he saw he was forced from minute to minute to imitate Eberhard's heartlessness, of sheer necessity in this fight. Where will it end? War dehumanizes the living.
"Explain yourself," Eberhard said.
"If we hit the Button with high explosive weapons on opposite sides, she'll go down slowly, on an even keel. Then the Allied forces will have something to worry about besides us. An undersea nuclear blast anywhere near here will create such an overpressure, all the men in the water will get fatal internal injuries. The escorts will be forced to come to the aid of the men on the Button, and they'll have to leave Deutschland alone."
"Hmph. It may not work, but we've no choice, time isn't on our side. Prepare to fire two Seehecht units." When they were ready, Eberhard ordered Deutschland just shallow enough. He had the Seehechts fired, to hide in the deep scattering layer as long as possible. Deutschland
quickly returned to the seafloor under Button, much too deep to be hurt by an enemy high-explosive eel.
"Unit outbound legs complete," Beck reported. "Units turning to attack. . . . Button aspect change! She's trying to comb the torpedo tracks."
"Keep us under her. Course-correct each Seehecht through the wires."
"Impacts in ten seconds." Beck watched the image from the one surviving Honeybee. The Sgt. Button tried to launch her antitorpedo snares, but the now-damaged launchers exploded on deck. The Aubrey Fitch fired her antitorpedo mortars, but the mortar shells all missed.
