by P D Singer
They had everything up and running, including the coffeepot, before the divers arrived. No sooner had Chuck, Kent, Darrell, and a couple of their vouched-for pals stowed their gear than the Bottom Hunter was under way, headed toward the lightening horizon.
Bobby would regale their passengers with the details they’d gleaned in Germany while Lee steered. With a cautious eye for the Tech Tach, of course. Didn’t matter that Rafe had loudly announced his intention to land the chronometer from the Carolina, or that Bert bragged of his full-up boat, twelve paying passengers to Lee’s six. Time enough next spring to open the site to a bigger clientele—Lee had turned down six requests to come along this weekend, site unknown, and he’d need to offer bunks on a lottery system once word got out. His charter group were decent guys who’d started this adventure and deserved to have first crack at the discovery.
Tip came to join him about thirty miles out. “Think we’ll get out there without company?”
“Hope so.” Lee cut the AIS, which announced to the world where they were. “I don’t need Bert Guldbrandsen all up in my business.”
“Time enough to share the coordinates, I suppose.” Tip scanned the horizon, currently free of unwanted dive boats, but it was a big ocean. The Bottom Hunter crested a wave, and while they were in the trough, an entire fleet could have sneaked up on them. “Think they’ll find the answers?”
“Could.” After their quest for information, Lee figured the only thing keeping Bobby from finding the boat’s name was time. And some luck. Lee would bring Bobby out here as often as they needed. Not just curiosity, even though the need to know burned brightly in them both. Not just as a duty to the men who were sacrificed to the sea when the boat went down, though that duty blazed into a bonfire after reading their names in Möltenort.
He owed this U-boat and its men in a personal way: this wreck had brought his lover back to him.
The sky lightened into clear aqua shading to gray, sheeted with high clouds that wouldn’t drop water on them. Perfect day to be at sea. Lee sent Tip down to check the capstans twenty minutes before they needed to drop anchor at the wreck. He needed to hug this location to his chest just a little longer.
Bobby’s last glance before he adjusted his goggles and toppled off the dive platform promised he’d be seeking those answers. An okay from everyone and the surface lost even the ripples of their passage.
Now to wait, with caffeinated battery acid sloshing in his gut.
“Wish you were headed below, Captain?”
Hadn’t Harley been cautioned about opening a can of worms on deck? Lee forced a calm answer. “Next season. The wreck will still be there.”
Next season. Lee knew what he needed to do, the steps he needed to take. Work on the twelve he still wasn’t comfortable with and ramp up his diving. Might be a long winter, kept inshore by the weather, their commercial jobs limited by wind and waves. He planned on January off anyway, buffered by the steep fees paid to the men who could fix things underwater in the dark. They could take the Bottom Hunter all the way down the coast and meet up with John for that wreck-diving course, once he’d cut his teeth on dives that only needed a shorty wetsuit and a single tank. He and Bobby could have one hell of a vacation: sun, coral, fish, and nights under the stars.
Followed by a kickass season after that—they could take jobs that needed four hands underwater. They would be a team again. And they’d visit the unknown boat to pay respects.
Him and Bobby—a team. First he had to get Bobby back out of the water today. Fire licked Lee behind his breastbone from belly to throat. Total dive time divided by antacids consumed….
Right on time, thank God. Heads bobbed in the water: one, two three…. Yes. All seven of them, back to the surface and handing over equipment.
Their surface time between dives was filled with amazed chatter, not just from the new divers, but from the returning crew. Everyone had something to add.
“One of the bow torpedo tubes was open,” Darrell exulted. “Could be a straight shot in.”
Bobby choked on his soup. Lee had to turn away or spew tea all over the paying passengers.
“It’s also twenty-two inches across, if it’s intact,” Bobby pointed out. “We don’t know if the inner hatch is open. Don’t you want a little more information before trying what could be a one-way trip? That tube is twenty-five feet long.”
“Easy. I can send the camera in first—I just need the world’s longest selfie stick. There ought to be something.” Darrell wasn’t kidding either. He left to prowl the Bottom Hunter for the equipment he wanted.
Lee could breathe deeply again. He’d rather lose a camera than a diver.
All the chatter was “How to get in, how to get in.” Followed by “What’s in there, what’s in there?”
“If you see anything that looks like a gauge in the electric machine room, which is farthest aft, or the diesel machine room, check for labels. Some of them have the boat numbers.”
“That’s low-hanging fruit, isn’t it?” Lee whispered.
“Considering what kind of pot metal the Germans were using for nonstructural pieces that late in the war, they might be kind of angry with me if it goes to powder. Oh well.” Bobby shrugged. “And then again, if it works, they’ll all have to say ‘Bobby told me to.’ Even if I don’t find it myself, I win.”
Lee had to smile as the old hands directed the conversation. He also noticed Bobby wasn’t volunteering a few of the juicier tidbits. Well, the old dog might have taught the pups everything they knew, but he didn’t have to teach them everything he knew.
Bobby had some interested observers and a few offers of help when he pulled out his welded contraptions. He’d jiggered a hull opener: C-clamps welded to both ends of heavy duty car jacks. The jacks didn’t stand upright, but they wouldn’t have to below. Chuck and Kent were all “Hell, yeah!” and the new divers got the idea fast.
“Do you think we’re all gonna get in there?” one asked. “At the same time?”
“Not a chance in hell. We don’t know what shape the interior is in. Those metal bunks could be flung all over the cabin, and there wasn’t a lot of room to start with. We’ll need to video a lot more with lamps before we go in.”
“Let’s look at your U-boat pictures again” was the general consensus.
Darrell marched back into the lounge. “Lee, I can’t find anything long enough. Do you have three more gaffs? I could splice them together.”
“Mmm, nope. One more gaff, one fishing net, maybe nine feet total after you splice them.” What else long and thin did Lee have on board?
“How about the radio antenna? It’s whippy, but it’s long enough.” Darrell sounded perfectly serious.
“Hell no.” What kind of dumb-fuck request was that? “If it’s attached to the boat, don’t even think about it.”
“The PVC pipe’s not attached yet,” Bobby said. “And we haven’t had time to cut it up.”
First time a boat maintenance issue counted as a plus. Lee went to fetch the raw materials for Darrell’s selfie stick.
Everyone had a plan of attack when their top time expired: Darrell was ready to explore the torpedo tube, and the others decided to work on the aft end of the boat, while Chuck and Kent opted to help Bobby with his jacks. All too soon, seven figures in dry suits had adjusted their masks and were ready to descend.
“Dive safe,” Lee murmured to Bobby as he hoisted the tanks to his lover’s shoulders. Much as he trusted Bobby’s welding for jack rigs and bridges, he didn’t for this clamp/jack thing.
“See you in an hour.” Bobby smiled, a poor substitute for a kiss. Stepping off the dive platform, he splashed in, surfacing farther away than Lee expected and having to swim back to collect his jack. “Got some current.”
“Don’t you dare end up in Bermuda without me,” Lee grumbled. Not that Bobby would, especially when he had hold of the anchor line and was headed below to get answers he wanted almost as badly as air.
Now to wai
t. His internal volcano rumbled and spat fire behind his breastbone. Maybe he should look into replacing his esophagus with PVC pipe, because he couldn’t douse the fire with alcohol. Trying sounded good, though.
Going to the wheelhouse to see if he could follow Bobby’s progress on the bottom finder was a better idea. And there might be another bottle hidden away. Even though he’d checked four times.
BOBBY LET the weight of his jack pull him down to the submarine. The water closed over him in a chilly embrace, his own breathing the loudest sound. Clear viz went to blue went to indigo before he reached the hull, barely visible at forty feet. A bluefin flashed by in pursuit of a school of silver torpedo shapes, passing between the anchor lines. Bobby wished the fish a hearty meal, and many more, before Johnny Ray Slidell pulled it out of the ocean.
He and his companions headed for the gash in the sub’s hull. His measurements had been careful—his jacks should be set, or nearly so, to the width of the damage. They were rated for twelve tons, should be more than enough. His welds might not rate that high, but the C-clamps were for stabilization, not for lifting. Should work fine.
Cautious is as cautious does—Kent dislodged a coral and affixed a loose C-clamp to the hull, his mesh gloves clinking against the twist bar. Now they had something to anchor the jacks. If one got loose, it would dangle from a bungee cord and not escape completely. They grunted the jacks into position, about six feet apart. Bobby reached under the higher, aft surface, finding nothing but space. Great—the clamp had a gripping surface. With synchronized movements, Bobby and Chuck pumped.
The sections of hull spread with each crank, silently at first, and then with a groan. Two groans scared Bobby into calling a halt—he measured the gap. Twenty-seven inches. Just barely enough. One, he signaled with a single finger. Chuck followed his lead. One more and he’d have the safety margin—Bobby was the burliest of this contingent. If he fit, everyone else would fit.
The wreck groaned again and was silent. The minutes spent peering through the gap by the light of a lamp were time well spent—something inside fell with a metallic clang. Whatever fell might not be all that would fall now they’d destabilized the hull. Damn good thing everyone was outside.
They’d stay outside for now, filming through the gap by the light of two bright lanterns. Silt billowed out in an evil cloud. Whatever they’d disturbed was taking its revenge by shooting the viz all to hell. Kent tapped his dive computer and drew a circuit around the boat.
Might as well spend the rest of their bottom time doing something useful. There’d be nothing to see here until the silt settled back to its resting place. Could he make an assault on the torpedo hatch? He and Lee had finally figured out how the U-boat resupplied: the hatch in the crew’s quarters opened wide enough to accept a twenty-five-foot cylinder twenty-one inches across, and the fit wasn’t nearly as tight as the tubes. If he got that open….
At the edge of the hull, he stopped to estimate the location of the hatch. The bottom currents made him work to stay in position. Where was the opening? All the damned anemones were conspiring to hide the handles. He finned, fumed, and figured it out. There!
But—
If he went down to look, he violated his dive plan, screwed up his deco times, and would be out of the water later than he’d planned. He could recover the dive, but he wouldn’t recover the trust. He and Lee built the exertion into the planned bottom time, but not an excursion ten feet farther down—he didn’t have the margin.
Plan the dive, dive the plan, don’t fuck with your captain’s sobriety.
He’d check the hatch tomorrow, if he could evade the siren call of the crew cabin. Or just send his buddies to look with a dive plan meant for the depth.
Damn it all! He could have that hatch open in three minutes, he just knew it.
But—Lee. Lee needed to know Bobby was diving the plan way more than Bobby needed to change the plan.
Maybe Darrell had accomplished something at the torpedo tube. Bobby headed aft to check.
THE POSTDIVE celebrations were muted by not having discovered anything definitive at the back end of the boat, although they had plenty of new video to watch. Lee helped the others admire the inside of the torpedo tube, encrusted with marine life, and a vertigo-inducing glimpse of the electric motor room at the far end of the tube.
The forward group’s video incited a lot of oohing and aahing. “We couldn’t see what fell, but I’m betting a bedframe.” Bobby threw up a shot he’d taken on the U-995. “The bunks were metal rails and rows of S-curve mattress supports, so tangling with one of those could be messy.”
“The fallen bunk can’t be too far forward, or we wouldn’t have that much silt,” Kent noted.
“Unless something else dropped out of a wood cabinet,” Bobby argued. “That’s how I found the razor.”
All this talk about things falling inside the wreck turned Lee queasy. If something big fell on Bobby…. It didn’t even have to be big; it only needed to be awkward or catch him where he couldn’t reach.
The chatter continued through dinner, with more video, dive plans, and a couple of arguments. Picking the movie wasn’t that big of a deal; of course the new divers wanted Das Boot, but rank hath its privileges, and someone was disputing the divemaster’s.
“You’re going to have the silt well and truly stirred by the time the rest of us get in there, Bobby,” Kent complained during the opening scene.
“Have a little faith.” Bobby threw a kernel of popcorn at him. “If I make a big mess, it won’t be on purpose.”
“That’s one way to have all the glory” was snark that one of the latecomers should have kept to himself. Did Eddy have a secret twin?
“Hey, the captain and I did the legwork in Germany so you could see plans and pictures all laid out like a banquet,” Bobby shot back. “I figured out a route in, I built the jacks, and yeah, I am going to be first in. So quit your bitching. If I leave the crew quarters a silty mess, as verified by video, then I buy you guys’ next dive.”
“Silt it up, silt it up!” Darrell whooped. The rest of the divers joined him in chanting, even the complainer.
“You can’t ask for better than that.” The Bottom Hunter wasn’t a democracy, and the captain laid down the law. “I’ve seen this one about eighty times, so I’m headed below.”
Lee made good on his suggestion, silently tallying the amount of time before Bobby joined him in the captain’s cabin. Unless he needed another look at sub interiors as filtered through the movie industry.
Lee didn’t have long to wait.
“Funny how this bunch doesn’t like me pausing for interior shots either. I only did it twice in the first five minutes.” Bobby dropped flat on the bed, his face the picture of perfect innocence. Wide eyes and a “who, me?” mouth sat goofily on his rugged features.
“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” Lee laughed.
“Sure did. I was betting it would take three pauses before they threw me out.” Bobby held out his arms to a man only too glad to sink into his hug.
“You’re incorrigible.”
Bobby squeezed tight, and opened his mouth for kisses that were part chuckle. “You should incorridge me.”
So Lee did, with lots of lube.
LEE HAD time for a nap afterward, the best sleep of the night he was likely to get, there in Bobby’s arms. He’d drawn lots with his crew over taking watch. Tip was above now and would rise early, the price of having an uninterrupted stretch of sleep. Harley would rise for the wee hours. How did the captain draw midwatch? Oh yeah. By trying to be fair. Any fairness that meant leaving Bobby alone in the bed was severely overrated.
The party in the lounge was still going. Lee tucked the covers around his sleeping lover. Bobby had definitely earned his rest today; two cold-water dives and coping with the rowdies on deck. Lee would quiet them down.
Someone had started another submarine movie, and the guys were passing around a flask. Guess that would put a lid on consumpti
on, sharing between six guys. If he put his hand out now, he could intercept the flask, grab a swig, and pass it on. Just a swallow. Just one. Maybe two, if he didn’t pass it on. Might be three in there, if Chuck wasn’t drinking his share….
Fuck, there went the way to screwing things up. He hadn’t had a drink in almost six weeks. There were big stretches of time he didn’t think about a drink. Half an hour here, twenty minutes there, anytime he was in bed with Bobby…. He’d say “when he was sleeping,” but that wasn’t entirely true—he’d wakened once or twice with the feel of a highball glass in his hand and the burn in his throat.
“Coffee? Now?” Kent raised a brow when Lee started a pot in the galley.
“Have to stay awake. I’m on watch later.” He wouldn’t wreck his passengers’ confidence by describing what he was watching for: the sea was vast, the boat small and subject to Murphy’s Law.
He joined the group at the dining table—they’d turned the chairs to prop up their feet. “What are we watching?”
“U-571. Wes brought it,” Chuck said. “Trying to capture the Enigma machine. Apparently the film screwed up the history, but it’s still a pretty good story.”
“Imagine finding one of those tomorrow.” Wes had come along on Chuck’s say-so, this time, though he’d been out on the Bottom Hunter about a year earlier. “Think we will?”
“Do we even know what it looks like?” The pictures they’d taken in Germany hadn’t included anything that shouted “I’m a code machine!” at them. Bobby had probably looked it up, but Lee was drawing a blank.
“Some weird typewriter thing?” Chuck suggested. “I’m not sure they’ve shown it yet.”
Wes headed to the galley. The coffeepot beeped. “Want any cream or sugar?”
“A splash of that hazelnut creamer.” A little bit of Bobby’s decadence in the cup would make up for a wakeful night.
Wes returned with a mug. “Thanks.” Lee took a deep draft, letting the heat and the flavors roll through his mouth and down the hatch. “Good stuff.” No wonder Bobby liked the creamer.
