by Joe Buff
Jeffrey’s greatest quandary was that whatever choice he made, either lingering in one area to do a thorough search for von Scheer or zigzagging to check out more of the open ocean, would most likely just give Beck a better chance to draw irrecoverably ahead.
Challenger was already at her top quiet speed; to go much faster would make her noisy. To change tactics and ping, with no idea of the von Scheer’s location, would also be counterproductive. It would ruin any chance Jeffrey had of surprise: Beck’s acoustic intercept would pick him up going active, at four or five times the range that Challenger could first sniff any faint returning echo off von Scheer. The German captain would then have an easy job to maneuver to avoid.
There seemed nothing to do but keep steaming toward Buenos Aires, remain on high alert, and pray. Jeffrey was glum. He hated playing catch-up ball.
In the worst case, with von Scheer’s advantage of four knots at what appeared to be her top quiet speed compared to Challenger’s, Beck would be drawing ahead of Jeffrey by a hundred nautical miles a day. Three days south of the Rocks now, Challenger was nearing the latitude of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. It was another thousand miles south-southwest to Buenos Aires, where the coastline of Argentina first began.
If Beck is indeed making a steady thirty knots all along, he’ll be at Buenos Aires in another twenty-four hours.
To cut him off, if all of Jeffrey’s estimates and hunches were correct, Challenger needed to increase speed.
He called up a nautical chart. For something this simple he didn’t ask for the navigator’s help—and Jeffrey wanted to keep these thoughts to himself.
Forty knots would just do it. Forty knots for twenty-four hours and we’re right outside Buenos Aires same time as Beck.
But forty knots would make Challenger a much more vulnerable target. It would also reduce her sonar sensitivity, making the von Scheer that much harder to find.
And because forty knots was dangerously noisy, Jeffrey would need to use sprint and drift. That meant slowing down sometimes, to listen for threats. For part of every hour, he’d have to go even faster than forty knots and be even noisier.
I’ve faced nothing but bad trade-offs before. I’ve been in high-stakes stern chases before—both as pursuer and as pursued. But never have I been forced to choose between such unpleasant alternatives as the ones confronting me now.
The worst of it was, Jeffrey couldn’t even savor the stimulant of imminent battle. The facts offered nothing but grinding uncertainty piled onto grinding uncertainty. The von Scheer’s presence as a looming threat somewhere unseen—intact as a force-in-being—made her more frightening than any opponent he’d ever faced in head-to-head combat. The way Ernst Beck played with Jeffrey’s mind and taunted Jeffrey’s ego, simply hiding and doing nothing, felt like torture, a wounding insult to Jeffrey’s pride.
He decided his best approach had to be: forestall the worst possible outcome. He gave his odds of betting right as less than fifty-fifty. To Jeffrey, this was a losing proposition already. But anything else he could do offered even worse odds.
He recognized that he was sinking back into a mental funk as he stared at the photo of Ernst Beck on his console. The German was way too good. He was winning the psychological warfare with Jeffrey hands down, and he hadn’t even fired one shot that was really aimed at Challenger yet.
To Jeffrey this was completely unacceptable. He shook his head so vehemently he startled the young OOD.
At least I can try to turn this fight from Ernst Beck’s call into my type of fight. Make it active, dynamic again…Up the ante and take greater risk. Raise my crew’s lagging morale by substituting fear for mounting passivity.
When my people feel fear, they also feel purpose.
“Helm,” he said in his most decisive voice, “make your depth fourteen thousand feet. Ahead full, make turns for forty knots.”
As the surprised helmsman acknowledged, Jeffrey’s intercom light from the radio room began to blink.
Crap. “Helm, belay the change in depth and speed!”
“Aye aye. My depth is four thousand feet, sir. My speed is twenty-six knots.”
That was too close. If the helmsman had turned the engine order dial to ahead full, the maneuvering room would have cranked the steam throttles wide open. Reactor coolant check valves would have slammed into their recesses inside the pipes with a thunderous boom.
That unmistakable mechanical transient would’ve carried for miles.
His nerves badly strained by the stop and go, Jeffrey answered the intercom. Now a senior chief was the communications supervisor.
“Sir, we’re ordered to two-way floating-wire-antenna depth.”
“Two-way?”
“Affirmative, sir. Message includes code block for radiate on voice, imperative, no recourse.”
“From who?”
“Atlantic Fleet again.”
“Very well. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Will this be valuable info, or more bad news, or useless meddling?
Jeffrey thought it over very carefully. To listen to a radio message on his floating wire antenna was one thing. The wire was trailed underwater, and Challenger didn’t transmit, so the whole process was pretty stealthy. But to radiate, to transmit, would give his position away to any halfway decent eavesdropper on the sea or up in the air or out in space. The risk involved was severe.
And what else is new? Last I heard the whole world was coming apart at the seams.
Jeffrey studied the tactical plot.
Most merchant shipping had headed closer toward the Brazilian coast to gain protection inside the newly announced military exclusion zone. But some ships continued on course.
Their masters may think this exclusion zone could backfire. They might feel safer far out at sea.
Which suits my purposes nicely.
Jeffrey picked the closest big merchant ship outside the zone. It was designated Master 153 on his plot. Master 153 was over thirty miles away to the south, but heading northward.
“Navigator.”
“Captain?” Lieutenant Sessions sounded tired, but eager for something nonroutine to do.
“Give me an intercept course on Master one five three.”
“Own ship’s speed, sir?”
“Use our present speed, twenty-six knots.”
“Aye aye.”
And now, just in case…
“Chief of the watch.”
“Sir?” a senior chief answered. He sounded as if, at this point, nothing Jeffrey said would surprise him.
“Sound silent battle-stations torpedo.”
People in the control room played musical chairs, while others rushed smoothly hither and yon throughout the ship. The quiet of it all was the eeriest part.
Jeffrey listened on the sonar speakers as Master 153 churned steadily northward overhead. Challenger had met her and then changed course to keep station underneath. The cargo vessel, identified by Kathy Milgrom’s people as an Iranian-owned container ship of Panamanian registry, might intend to put in farther up the Brazilian coast—at Salvador, for example—until the Atlantic Narrows were safer for a neutral flag to cross.
The vessel’s diesel-electric engines growled and whined, and her screw props churned and burbled with a syncopated beat. There were also thrums and whirrs from auxiliary machinery, and a rhythmic hissing as her hull cut through the gentle swells.
Now and then Jeffrey could also hear a different, intermittent whine and sigh. He knew this was the ship’s hydraulic steering gear, shifting the rudder slightly as her helmsman made small course corrections.
“Considering how mild the sea state is topside, Captain,” Bell said, “this helmsman seems rather ham-fisted.”
“He’ll do,” Jeffrey said dryly.
“My depth is one hundred twenty feet, sir,” Meltzer called from the ship-control station. “My course and speed match Master one five three’s. We are directly under Master one five three, sir.”
“Very
well, Helm…Chief of the watch.”
“Sir?” COB responded.
“Trail the two-way floating wire antenna.”
“Trail the two-way wire, aye.”
COB flipped switches on his panel next to Meltzer’s. The antenna began to reel out.
“The noise should be well masked by that container ship,” Jeffrey said.
“Concur, Skipper,” Bell said.
“My intention, as if you haven’t guessed, is to make our transmissions appear to come from the merchant ship.”
Bell nodded. “Understood. But I feel compelled to point out, sir, that a hostile signals intercept would recognize our broadcast as some sort of Allied military code.”
Jeffrey shrugged. “Precisely. And they’ll mark the merchie down as a spy trawler.”
“What if the Axis take a shot at her later?”
“I hate to sound callous, XO, but would you rather the enemy drew a bead and took a shot at us?”
Bell kept his thoughts to himself.
“Antenna deployed,” COB announced. The two-way floating wire antenna was equipped with distinct transmitter segments. Special software cut through signal distortion as the antenna whipped around and bobbed beneath the waves—or twisted under a surface ship’s wake.
“I’ll be in the radio room,” Jeffrey said. “XO, take the conn. Nav, you take fire control.”
Jeffrey donned a headphone set and moved the lip mike in place. He stayed standing.
The first thing Admiral Hodgkiss did when he came on the line was tell him that the conversation was totally private. Jeffrey ordered everyone else in the radio room to leave. The second thing Hodgkiss did was yell at him for waiting so long to answer the ELF message.
“Sorry, sir. The tactical situation demanded I take precautions first.”
Hodgkiss hesitated, just long enough to make Jeffrey sweat. “Explanation accepted.” Then Hodgkiss hit him hard. “So where is the Admiral von Scheer?”
That made Jeffrey angry. For Jeffrey anger overrode self-doubt. “Sir, I do not know, and we need to keep this short.” Challenger had slowed to the surface ship’s speed—which was only twelve knots—and was steaming in the wrong direction, north.
“I have more news for you, and new orders.”
“Admiral?”
“Some of this comes from the top. The very top.”
“The Joint Chiefs?”
“Higher…The White House.”
“I’m prepared to receive news and orders, sir. I still don’t see why you need me to transmit.”
“You will…. There’ve been bombings and attacks in Brazil.”
“Sir?”
“The American ambassador to Brazil and many of his staff are dead or badly wounded. At the same time, our military attachés have been kidnapped or assassinated.”
“By whom? Didn’t we have security?”
“We suspect by Axis operatives. We suspect our security measures were penetrated in advance, or overwhelmed by sheer force.”
“What does Brazil have to say?”
“That’s just it. We, the American government, were trying to offer advice and aid to Brasilia. President da Gama kept refusing outside help. In a nutshell, he was suspicious of our motives. Said we just wanted free real estate to base troops and planes and ships on sovereign Brazilian soil. Said we’d do nothing good for Brazil except bring in social diseases and useless invasion scrip instead of hard dollars. Not to mention drag his peace-loving country into the war…Face it, Captain, our record of winning neutrals over to our side has not been good.”
Jeffrey winced. “You’re referring to Turkey?” In this war, not Gulf War II.
Hodgkiss sighed. “Look, you did your best.”
“Didn’t anyone try to warn da Gama about the von Scheer?”
“That’s when he threw our ambassador out of his office. Da Gama went ballistic, said it was the stupidest thing he ever heard, an insult, expecting him to swallow a tall tale like that. Virtually accused us of inventing the von Scheer, said she didn’t really exist, and even if she did she’d be over by Africa fighting the Allies there. Remember, he’s a former Brazilian Army general, got a Ph.D. in foreign policy from Princeton University, thinks he knows all about America and war—and maybe he does, too well.”
“Oh boy.” Jeffrey could half picture the scene. He’d met da Gama during a long seminar at the Naval War College, when Jeffrey was stationed there in Newport, Rhode Island, months before the war. Da Gama had grown up in poverty, a genuine self-made man. He’d be a tough nut to crack if he disagreed with you.
“Our ambassador went back to our embassy to call the State Department for guidance. A car bomb got him before his vehicle could make it into the compound.”
Jeffrey paused. “My condolences to his family, Admiral. And the other victims.”
“Later. The point is, we need da Gama on our side, and everyone of consequence on our embassy staff or other advisers in-country are suddenly dead or wounded or missing. One thing da Gama did say, in an earlier meeting, is that his country does not, repeat not, have nuclear weapons…. Which is, by the way, undoubtedly why he sees Germany giving A-bombs to Argentina as so preposterous.”
“The State Department, the CIA, they believe him?”
“Da Gama’s a forthright man. Honor and integrity mean a great deal to him personally.”
“No rogue faction behind his back?”
“Not in his administration. Or outside it.” Hodgkiss sounded quite positive.
“Then isn’t that good, sir? That Brazil doesn’t have any A-bombs?”
“Use your head. It’s terrible.”
Jeffrey tried to grasp Hodgkiss’s point. “Does the Axis know? Do the Argentines know?”
“We have to assume they do.”
“Then the prowar faction in Argentina can make a first strike and be sure they’re immune to atomic retaliation.”
“Affirmative. But if given the chance, they might have made a first strike anyway, out of recklessness or grandiose ego. Think, Captain.”
Jeffrey blanched. He saw it. “If the Germans know Brazil doesn’t have the bomb, they must have some other way or excuse to justify giving the bomb to Argentina.”
“You’re catching on…. Now, it gets even worse.”
“Sir?”
“The following is highly classified, but you need to know. Tell no one else on your ship unless they need to know, understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Our Deep Submergence specialists for a while have been using robotically operated vehicles to inspect hulks after nuclear battles. To monitor contamination and apply sealant foam when needed if there’s leakage from reactors or warheads.”
“And for salvage?”
“Got it in one. To remove or neutralize cryptogear or other sensitive equipment, and recover atomic warheads whenever possible. Ours or enemy, as the case may be.”
“Makes plenty of sense, Admiral.” So where is he going with this?
“An Arleigh Burke wreck has been plundered by the Axis.”
“Before our team could get there?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the problem, sir? They got the codes?”
“No. They didn’t get the codes. Those parts of the ship were vaporized, or left untouched.”
“Left untouched by what?”
“The destroyer hulk was three miles down.”
“That’s deep, sir, even for our Deep Submergence people.”
“Affirmative. But the vehicle they used to sniff around saw footprints in the bottom muck.”
“What?”
“Most of them were wiped off, or disguised as the divers withdrew. But the clincher, the real clincher, is that with all the waterlogged soot, the vehicle’s cameras saw fresh handprints on and inside the wreck.”
“That’s impossible!”
“Nevertheless, it’s a fact. Our scientists have suspicions how they did it, but that’s irrelevant right now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Needless to say, our people on the scene gave high priority to determining what had been taken. The vehicle lost both its miniprobes trying to peer far enough in the hulk. All they could tell was that an intact internal magazine, which held atomic warheads, had been entered. We have to assume they went in there to steal one or more of the warheads…. It’s the only way they could have gotten those warheads. Gone inside and done it by hand using tools.”
“And the isotope mix when they detonate would tell any competent nuclear physicist which country made those bombs.”
“Got it in one. There’s the provocation, the casus belli.” The reason for war. “We suspect the von Scheer intends to somehow use those warheads to make it look like the U.S. gave atom bombs to Brazil and Brazil attacked Argentina with them. Then…Well…You get the picture. The von Scheer herself would have equipment to make the isotope analysis as a matter of course.”
Jeffrey had to sit down. “That justifies the so-called foreign aid. That makes it tit for tat. That makes it look like Germany only reacted, and fairly, to an atrocity we pulled off.” He thought about this hard. “But, Admiral, if the Axis frames us for a major crime, what’s supposed to be our motive?”
Hodgkiss’s voice grew sarcastic, bitter. “Snatch South America as Allied turf before the neutrals there can go with the winning side, the Axis. Grab a bastion on the west coast of the South Atlantic because we know we’ll lose Africa soon. Do it on the cheap, use Brazilian troops and a handful of nukes, to not divert our own overstretched forces.”
Jeffrey hesitated. “Sir, it is the myth of the ugly American pushed to the hilt…. But the people down there are conditioned by their politics and culture to believe it, aren’t they? And the Allies occupied Iceland in World War Two, uninvited, to get there before the Nazis did. The Icelanders were really pissed, but we went in anyway….”
“Given the status of our usable senior personnel inside Brazil—i.e., virtually none—and given da Gama’s skeptical attitude, which may in part be due to Axis supporters there working against us—without da Gama knowing their true colors, I mean—our commander in chief sees only one recourse.”
