Thunder In The Deep (02)

by Joe Buff

  The Seehechts hit the Button with a double metallic whang. The twin fountains of dirty water were anticlimactic, but that wasn't the point. Some cargo containers were blown into the sea, bobbed briefly, and sank—no one escaped. Button's million-plus gallons of fuel oil poured from the hull and caught fire, and bright red flames reared up. The burning oil spread across the water. The scene was half shrouded by heavy black smoke. The picture rippled from curtains of heat.

  Button's passengers began to stream out of the habitation modules and up from the internal vehicle decks. The soldiers rushed to the sides like thousands of khaki ants. The Harriers and Super Stallions rushed in to do what they could. Coomans had to slow Deutschland, to keep station under the troopship.

  The water was thick now with little black dots. The Aubrey Fitch had stopped, and was lowering climbing nets over her side.

  "Fitch has ceased pinging," Haffner called out.

  "Move closer with the Honeybee," Eberhard said. "It's our duty to record this imagery, and document our success. . . . Pan around to show all the mushroom clouds again." Their pillars were cooling, turning brownish from nitrous oxide smog. A meager handful of merchant ships remained. "Zoom in on those people down there. Be careful to avoid the smoke. I don't want the camera degraded by soot." The little black dots resolved into human heads. Some were black from burns, others from a thick coat of oil. This was my idea, Beck told himself. Every man in the Zentrale could see the main wide-screen display. Beck was very glad the picture didn't have sound.

  "Catch those soldiers floating among the flames," Eberhard said. Now Beck saw human figures literally on fire, lipless mouths gaping in silent torment, arms flailing wildly with their fingers already burned off. Does this foreshadow me in the afterlife?

  Beck glanced around the Zentrale. The crew had smashed their sought-for record of one million enemy shipping tons destroyed, but no one smiled. Whenever Beck made eye contact, the men looked away. I'm their executive officer. They saw me as Eberhard's better half, but now I've become half-Eberhard. Coomans was still 'below. Beck felt completely alone.

  "I think we should make our egress." He was sick to his stomach.

  "We've done this before," Eberhard snapped. "Was it somehow less terrible then because you didn't see it?"

  Beck heard damaged steel creaking and moaning directly above, as the Button began to settle.

  Eberhard sighed. "Very well, we've done our job. Now we see if the Einzvo's clever exit gambit works. . . . Pilot, maintain course. Full speed ahead, make revs for thirty knots."

  "That takes us toward the Truman, sir," Beck said. "They won't expect us to egress in that direction." Beck went back to watching the Honeybee screen. Some Super Stallions sprayed foam on the water near the

  Button, to try to hold back the flames.

  "Interesting," Eberhard said. "I haven't seen that tactic used before." Other helos were busy retrieving burn victims from

  the sea. One aircraft, full with wounded, flew back to the distant carrier. The Fitch's decks were swarming with huddled figures now, and many more still weakly climbed her nets, but there couldn't be more than a hundred or two survivors there, and the Button had carried eight thousand.

  Beck saw other escorts approach the Button to help. He spotted a Viking orbiting overhead, a fixed-wing four-engine sub-hunting plane, acting as local air traffic controller for the rescue. More antisubmarine Seahawk helos, twenty knots slower than Stallions, arrived from Truman, to relieve surviving Seahawks low on fuel. But instead of deploying to threaten Deutschland, they formed a line and used their downwash to drive the burning oil away from the life rafts and the troopship's stern. The perverse armistice between Deutschland and the escorts was holding. Soldiers continued jumping from Button's side in droves. Her main deck was barely ten feet from the water now.

  "New airborne visual contact," a technician said. "Two helicopters approaching from north, range thirty sea miles." "Zoom in more," Eberhard said.

  "Those are Royal Navy sub-hunting aircraft, long-range Merlins." Beck saw each had only one torpedo—their maximum load was four, but that reduced their combat radius.

  "They must have launched from the escort reinforcements," Eberhard said. Beck felt uneasy. "Sir, recalling the Brits' behavior in World War Two, against our Uboats giving aid to Allied seamen, they're quite likely to drop nuclear weapons in spite of the rescue efforts underway."

  "I concur."

  "Surface-tension impacts!" Haffner said. "Contacts on acoustic intercept, bearing north. Royal Navy active sonobuoys."

  "Use Polyphems, Captain?" Beck said. Polyphems were anti-aircraft missiles, launched from a torpedo tube. "No, I want to send the Americans a message. . . . Achtung, Sea Lion in tube seven, preset maximum yield, maximum attack speed. Snap shot, due north. Los!"

  The weapon was fired. Beck watched the visual imagery, and monitored the data from the Sea Lion through its wire. "Local escorts not reacting to our weapon."

  "They don't want to break our little truce."

  Beck waited while the unit ran, under the Merlins and past them. The helos heard it and tried to escape. "Teach them a lesson, Einzvo."

  Beck ordered the weapons officer to detonate. Another mountainous geyser blasted into the sky, well beyond the horizon. The fireball rose a moment later; the shock wave caught the Royal Navy helos from behind. They shattered, and flaming aviation gas rained to the sea.

  Eberhard smiled. "Now Fitch knows we haven't exhausted Deutschland's atomic arsenal." The image from the Honeybee wobbled, then steadied. "Last Honeybee's fuel is running low," Beck said. "Give control to me."

  Beck watched as Eberhard used his joystick to focus near the Button, on two rescue swimmers putting a soldier into a litter in the water, under a hovering Stallion. The litter started to rise on its winch cable, toward the door of the big helo. The rotor downdraft punished the surface of the sea. Eberhard followed the litter, moving the Honeybee closer.

  Beck saw the soldier was badly burned from head to foot. Beck realized the soldier had breasts. He realized she was alive. I did this, he told himself. He knew he'd be haunted by the memory for the rest of his natural life.

  The litter arrived at the door of the helo. The crew chief steadied the winch cable, and two other Marines shifted the litter into the aircraft.

  The crew chief, in flight helmet and rubberized protective anti-radiation suit, suddenly noticed the Honeybee. The man's dark autopolarizing visor was up, so he could see what he was doing. He stared at Beck through the camera, as if to accuse him personally. Through the gas

  mask, Beck watched the marine sergeant's features harden with rage. He disappeared into the passenger compartment, and came back to the door with an M16. He knelt and aimed at Beck. The rifle's muzzle flashed. The picture went blank. LATER THAT DAY,

  ON USS CHALLENGER.

  The air was breathable now, though to Ilse it smelled like bus exhaust and burnt plastic. She rubbed again at the deep marks on her neck, from hours in a breather mask. Ilse stood up as straight as she could and knocked on Jeffrey's stateroom door. She knew he was alone right now. She felt butterflies in her stomach.

  "Enter," she heard him call.

  She slid open the door and went in and closed it behind her.

  Jeffrey nodded. "Miss Reebeck."

  This isn't going well, she thought right away. Even in private, we're back to a last-name basis.

  Jeffrey sat at his fold-down desk, littered with maps and briefing papers. His laptop Was open and on. She ed to peer at the screen. He shook his head and close, the computer.

  "How's your leg feeling?" Ilse tried to bring up something from their shared experience two weeks ago. "What?" Jeffrey seemed puzzled. "Oh. Yeah. It's funny, it stopped hurting before we got to Cape Verde. It must've been stress, not decompression sickness after all."

  Ilse sat down in the only guest chair. Jeffrey frowned.

  "You mean, like psychosomatic or something?"

  "I don't like big wo
rds like that," Jeffrey said, a bit sternly. "How can I help you?" Ilse tried to recover. "I, urn, I wanted to mention. I took a first look at the data you gave me."

  "And . . . ?"

  "It isn't quite as bad as I thought. There's this thing called the Navy Meteorological and Oceanographic Command."

  "Yes. METOC."

  "They, they have an assessment of basic tactics, for infiltration and stealth. You know, into the Baltic? It needs some work, and it does lack recent cyclical trends, but it seems pretty good for a start."

  Jeffrey looked right at her. "Did you think you were the first oceanographer to ever think about undersea war-fighting?"

  Ilse decided to get to the point, before Jeffrey threw her out of his office. It dawned on her, all at once, that he was a very busy, very important man. The shy, stammering guy who'd tried to ask her out at Cape Verde was gone from her reach, maybe gone forever.

  "I wanted to ask you, Jeffrey. What exactly is my status now?"

  "First of all, it's Captain, or Commander Fuller."

  Ilse looked for something in Jeffrey's eyes, some hint of personal feeling behind the mask of authority. She didn't find it.

  "I mean, sir, where do I fit in on the ship? Am I part of the crew? What am I supposed to be?"

  This was the first time she'd called him sir in private, too. "So far as I know, a formal status hasn't been specified.

  I suggest you concentrate on the immediate task."

  Ilse took a deep breath, and exhaled, and felt like half

  her spirit left her body with the exhalation.

  "Do you know what will happen to me, after this mission?" This was her last attempt to hold open a bridge to Jeffrey Fuller. Maybe they'd have time later, after the mission, when he could unwind.

  "Frankly, I hadn't thought that far ahead."

  "I mean, do I—"

  "Look. Miss Reebeck. Does Lieutenant Bell even know you're here?" Oh, God, Ilse told herself. What the hell was going on?

  "Er, no, Captain."

  Jeffrey went back to his desk and picked up a map. Ilse could see it was a topographic chart for Greifswald. Without even looking at her, he cleared his throat. Ilse stood. On different levels she felt humiliated, badly embarrassed, and angry. She left without saying another word.

  Since Ilse wasn't a watchstander, her schedule was fluid. She decided to go to the enlisted mess for coffee—less chance of running into one of the officers. But then she heard Shajo Clayton's voice from in the mess, busy practicing with his SEAL team. She turned around.

  There in the passageway she bumped into COB. "You look so serious," COB teased her.

  "Thanks for noticing," Ilse said. Maybe COB would be the right person to talk to. He was mature, and a great people manager, dealing with all kind of issues with the enlisted men and their families.

  Ilse forced a smile. "1 guess I'm trying to figure out, what do I want to be when I grow up?"

  "Having one of those days, are we?" COB smiled back, a warm and reassuring smile. Ilse figured he'd taken a whole bunch of training courses on interpersonal leadership. For all she knew, he had two dozen kinds of smiles,

  for different occasions, and 'could turn them on or off at will.

  But, not COB. He was just too genuine.

  "Is there somewhere we can talk in private?"

  COB laughed. "On a nuclear submarine? Are you kidding?" He seemed to step back from her, internally. His face hardened subtly, and he began to rock slightly on the balls of his feet. As if he were saying, Whatever it is, don't cling or whine. Ilse blushed again, and felt very lonely. She knew COB could see it.

  "Actually," COB said, "right here is good. People come and go in the corridor, but nobody'll linger. It's an unwritten rule on Challenger, my rule, that if you see people whispering here, you make a point not to listen."

  Ilse frowned.

  COB shrugged. "Best I can do." He looked at his wristwatch.

  "You don't use the chiefs' quarters for one-on-one meetings?" COB laughed again. "If we aren't at battle stations, Ilse, there'll be lots of guys working or sleeping in there. So, what's up?"

  "I'm not sure I should say this."

  "Say it," COB said. "I'm half the crew's father confessor and surrogate mommy as it is."

  "I guess you could say I'm having anidentity crisis."

  Ilse saw a junior enlisted man coming down the passageway. The man nodded and quickly wriggled-by.

  When he was out of earshot, COB said, "Welcome to the U.S. Navy, Ilse. Last mission was an adventure, right? This time, the novelty's worn off, you realize it's hard work and dangerous, and you feel you've lost control of your life. Right?" Ilse nodded reluctantly. "I keep trying to figure out how I fit in."

  "You mean, the gender thing?"

  "It's not that. Everyone's been perfectly nice. . . . No problems at all in that respect." Except for Jeffrey now, Ilse told herself, and whose fault is that?

  "Good," COB said. "I put the word out, you and Lieutenant Milgrom are part of the family"

  "Thanks." Ilse said.

  "I told the guys to think of you as their sisters. . . . That makes hanky-panky incest."

  "You don't pull punches, do you?"

  "I leave it to officers to speak in tongues," COB said. "If that's their style. It isn't mine. It was never Captain Wilson's."

  "Which is your clever way of getting right to the point, isn't it? About Captain Fuller."

  "Look," COB said. "I know the two of you kind of, well, noticed each other, a while ago."

  "Definitely make that past tense."

  COB sighed. "That was then, this is now." He got formal. "Commander Fuller first and foremost must comport himself as the captain of this ship. He can't show favoritism, or allow any personal feelings whatsoever between him and someone in the crew. It's regulations, and tradition. And it's essential in combat. It has nothing to do with you."

  "But that's just it. I'm not part of the crew. Refugee, partisan, mercenary. What am I, COB?"

  "You're on this ship. We're going in harm's way together. That's good enough in my book for you to be part of this extended family."

  "Thanks. . . ." Ilse felt tears coming. She blinked hard. Good, no tears.

  "Look," COB said, "I know it's tough. If it's any comfort, none of us here in uniform, of any rank or rate, turn off our feelings just because we're here. Everybody wants to be liked and wants to fit in. . . . I think you're doing just fine."

  "You do?"

  "You did a terrific job at Durban, and everybody knows that. People know you haven't had their kind of training in teamwork and self-assessment." Ilse stiffened. That last bit.

  She saw COB read her face again. He hesitated. "What is it?" she said.

  "You just need to beware of the celebrity syndrome." "Excuse me?"

  "Sometimes when we have riders, they get kind of overwhelmed. By the bigness of it all. You know, the United States Navy, an SSN at sea, and now with this war."

  "What are you getting at, COB?"

  "It can get a bit depersonalizing, I know. Sometimes. well, people, they react, sort of overcompensate, by acting like a prima donna."

  "A what?"

  "Look, Ilse. Everyone here has self-esteem, self-confidence, an ego. They're the best, or they wouldn't be here." "COB?"

  He made hard eye contact. "Look deep inside yourself, and ask if you haven't been thinking and acting like this whole show was being put on for you. That you were the most important and special person here. That the whole mission to South Africa was set up just so you could get even with some people."

  "Where the hell did that come from?"

  COB didn't say anything.

  "I've been discussed, haven't I? There's some kind of personnel file on me, isn't there?"

  "See, Ilse? There you go again. There's a file on everybody."

  "So you and Jeffrey talked about me. You two think I'm a prima donna."

  "You said it, not me."

  "But you did say it, before. I
n private."

  COB paused. "Yes."

  "Now I feel really awful. . . . I'm such an idiot."

  "Ilse, do a little soul-searching. You're still new. People know you're an outsider. They'll cut you slack, up to a point."

  "Thanks a lot."

  "Watch it." Now COB wasn't smiling. "That sort of attitude, there's no room for here at all."

  Two hours later, Ilse was bent over the laptop they'd given her. She was grateful for the privacy of her cabin. She really didn't feel like seeing anyone right now. Kathy Milgrom came in without knocking, and shut the door.

  "Working hard?" Kathy said.

  Ilse nodded. She felt herself perk up. "This stuff is neat. Saltwater transport processes, from the North Sea into the Baltic and back."

  Kathy started getting undressed.

  "All quite relevant," Kathy said. "Buoyancy, sound propagation, biologics." Ilse yawned. As Kathy stripped to her underwear, Ilse turned away to be polite. In a minute Kathy said, dramatically, "You can look now." She was wearing flannel pajamas, navy blue with little red and white submarines all over.

  "Is that official issue?" Ilse said.

  "No, no. I found these once in Harrods. They had them in different patterns, sailboats, dolphins, whales. . . . I wanted to be a submariner since I was a little girl."

  "You come from a naval family?"

  "Eighth generation, and proud of it."

  Kathy put her eyeglasses and wristwatch in the little storage space beneath her mattress. Ilse watched as Kathy reached up, and with both hands grabbed the heavy rod that supported the curtain in front of the top sleeping rack.

  Kathy's face grimaced. She scrunched her stomach

  muscles, took as much weight as she could on her arms, and literally walked up the bulkhead. She rolled into the top rack in one smooth motion.

  "I didn't know people could do that." Ilse used the middle rack—easy to get in or out. The bottom one held stationery supplies.

  "I need all the exercise I can get," Kathy said, "which is why I didn't buy the pajamas with the whales." Both of them giggled. Ilse yawned.