by Joe Buff
“Listen to that,” Sessions said.
Far to the north, the convoy battle raged. Dozens of cargo ships and warships of every type—and navy auxiliaries ranging from deep-draft fleet-replenishment oilers to ammunition carriers—churned and throbbed and growled their way through the sea. Active sonars on the hulls of frigates and cruisers pinged from the surface. Dipping sonars lowered from antisubmarine helos probed above and below the thermal layer. Almost countless SSQ-75 active sonobuoys pinged from deep on the ocean floor. Friendly fast-attack subs worked hard too, unheard and unseen. The air battle over the ocean, and inland past the African shore, Jeffrey could only guess at and try to picture in his mind. The shattering fear and stark terror of all the combat, the fury and the agony, he could only project from memories of his own exposure to war.
“The antisubmarine searches are intensifying,” Milgrom said.
Jeffrey tried not to think about the suffering of troops and civilians, trapped in the pocket for almost nine months. Malnourished, wounded, badly short of medical supplies, ravaged by emerging new strains of Lassa fever, O’nyong nyong fever, hemorrhagic fever, cholera, those people needed help soon. The eastern flank of the pocket was protected by natural barriers: the Great Rift Valley was the best antitank trap in the world. The north-south string of Lake Tanganyika, Lake Victoria, Lake Turkana, and lesser lakes, halted any major enemy troop advance.
But the western flank of the pocket, anchored on the lowlands of the South Atlantic shore, was vulnerable and exposed in the face of modern combat bridging equipment and armored vehicles—based on the Russian model—designed for crossing rivers under fire. If the coastline was pinched off, hospital ships would lose friendly harbors in which to moor, and their guaranteed safe passage at sea would be useless.
A distant rumble sounded through the water, rising to a crescendo that died off abruptly—a nuclear blast. Then another crack of thunder pulsed through the sea, and then another.
“I never get used to that sound,” Bell said.
Somewhere out there, ships and aircraft and subs and enemy subs continued their battle of attrition, wearing one another down, inflicting and taking losses. Modern Axis U-boats prowled and risked death to score kills. Equipped with air-independent propulsion, or even with nuclear power, and armed with atomic torpedoes, they posed a deadly threat. Sometimes the port wide-aperture array, aimed toward the battle as Challenger steamed northeast, detected other active pings: U-boats, cornered in end-stage melees, sacrificing themselves to try to sink an Allied ship that cost twenty times as much to build and held a hundred, two hundred times as many people aboard.
Another sharp crack sounded, seeming closer than the others. Jeffrey saw his crewmen flinch, more from sympathy or concern, or out of hate.
Jeffrey felt the pressure of command leadership on his shoulders. It seemed to rival the pressure outside, squeezing Challenger’s hull: two tons for each square inch.
“They need our help,” he told the control room at large in his best, most steely voice, “and I intend to see they get it. A swarm of von Scheer’s missiles coming over the horizon would spoil the rest of their day. I intend to see the von Scheer never lives to launch her missiles.”
There was a murmur of agreement, of readiness among the crew. They began to merge their identities into one collective whole. The enlisted men, in their blue cotton overalls, began to act as what they called themselves with pride: “blue tools,” well-trained cogs in Jeffrey’s machine. Each officer was now an extension of the captain’s own combat mental process, honed to his or her duties by endless drills and indoctrination, tempered in previous battles with Jeffrey acting as their boss. The chiefs, the down-to-earth and salty foremen of the ship, the guys who “had the answers,” supervised their sections and made very sure all orders were translated into concrete and well-executed tasks.
Jeffrey cleared his throat and pointed at the northern part of the large-scale chart, at the ocean south of North Africa. Bell, Milgrom, and Sessions listened carefully.
“This line of seamounts up here slants down from the Bight of Biafra all the way to St. Helena. Most of those peaks are shallow enough for a U-boat to use to hide. The range of subsonic cruise missiles launched from the overhanging North African coast covers the whole Gulf of Guinea and extends way down to here.” Jeffrey traced his index finger along a red arc on the chart, a thousand miles below the enemy-occupied shoreline that ran left to right—west to east—from Liberia past Ghana to Nigeria. “Those cruise missiles happen to cover the Bight of Biafra seamounts and almost reach St. Helena. That gives important air support to the U-boats. It creates a bastion for them, subject to real risk only from our fast-attack submarines.”
Bell, Milgrom, and Sessions nodded.
Jeffrey went on. “We know the convoy’s steaming in a broad hook south of this red arc, staying out of range of those missiles as long as they can.” He glanced at the assistant navigator. A broad blue arrow popped onto the map display, aiming at the right side of the chart, to mark the route of the convoy. The arrow lay over the very deep Angola Basin. “As the convoy turns northeast, and rounds the home stretch to the friendly-held shore from Gamba to Luanda, along here, the massed U-boats will come down and try to savage their left flank.” Jeffrey gestured at the chart with his hands. The Angola Basin abutted the middle of the north-south part of the African coast, and ran up to the outlet of the Congo River itself. “Other U-boats are probably lurking southeast of us somewhere, basing out of South Africa, to squeeze the convoy’s right flank.” He gestured again at the bottom part of the map.
As if for emphasis, another nuclear blast went off in the distance. Jeffrey looked at the sonar speakers. Every one of those detonations sours possible Allied success. The ocean ecology and food chain here are hurting. At least prevailing winds and currents carry the fallout away from land.
“Sir,” Sessions asked, “what about the two-hundred-mile limit?”
“Yes, I was coming to that.” Jeffrey pointed at the blue—friendly—chunk of Central Africa. “For better or worse, the Allied pocket’s share of the coast is just about four hundred miles. We can only hope the Axis keep to their own rules of engagement, to not use atomic weapons within two hundred miles of U.S.-held turf.” He spoke to the assistant navigator, and green arcs marked the outer edge of this hoped-for safety zone against Axis nukes.
“Sir,” Bell said, “based on what we just went through in South America, I’m not sure how much we can count on Axis ROEs.”
“Agreed.”
“There’s also the broader matter of the Axis land offensive,” Milgrom said. “The pocket’s coast may get pinched off. The convoy’s landing might have to be an amphibious combat assault. The losses would be heavy, even against conventional arms.”
“I know.”
“The danger,” Sessions said, “is that since the nuclear shooting has started at sea, and the U-boats are in hot pursuit of our surface ships, the atomic combat may run on momentum unbroken, straight through the two-hundred-mile limit and onto the land.”
Jeffrey nodded. “A paramount Axis strategic goal is the German and Boer armies in Africa linking up at all costs. After what just did and didn’t happen in South America, we can’t tell what volatile mood Berlin and Johannesburg are in right now. There are some pretty scary wild cards here. They all emphasize the vital importance of Challenger’s mission. Sink the von Scheer…My concept of operations against the von Scheer is very simple. Before that, are there any questions on what we’ve covered so far?”
There weren’t.
“Assistant Nav, plot the great circle route from the Tristan da Cunha Island group to the Congo River outlet.” Once more the senior chief typed—a great circle route meant the shortest distance between two points on the globe. Another red line came on the screen.
“As you all can see, the von Scheer’s quickest final approach from South America to the convoy and the pocket lies exactly along the Walvis Ridge. The Angola Basi
n on one side and Cape Basin on the other both are deeper in most places than our and the von Scheer’s crush depth. For example, eighteen thousand feet along here, and here.” Jeffrey touched spots on the chart. “The Walvis Ridge itself is an underwater mountain range that rises one to three miles off the surrounding ocean floor. In a few spots seamount peaks almost reach the surface. Questions?”
No one spoke.
“As Sonar told us two days ago, the deep sound channel functions perfectly in either basin. Active and passive detection and counterdetection ranges there would be long. The Angola Basin is heavily bathed in sound. So is the Cape Basin, less so, by SSQ-Seventy-fives presumably dropped on Norfolk’s orders in our support. These sounds give the basin waters good acoustic illumination for ambient and hole-in-ocean sonar search modes. You all know what that means, tactically.”
“Whichever of us sticks our nose out of the Walvis first,” Bell said, “von Scheer or Challenger, can be seen by the other vessel while still in good hiding terrain in the ridge. The guy who’s hiding gets off the first shots, and wins.”
“Correct,” Jeffrey said. “So we’ll use that. Ernst Beck has to work his way along while hugging the ridge, and he doesn’t have forever. He has to get in position to fire his missiles while the convoy is still out at sea. Once it reaches harbors or good beaches and unloads, him sinking cargo ships and troop transports is a somewhat hollow victory. The carrier groups would be freed to concentrate on self-defense and their own mobility, and they’d be much harder for him to hit as well.”
“So what’s the plan, Skipper?”
Jeffrey touched the own-ship icon on the navigation chart. “At the moment we’re in the foothills approaching the Wust Seamount, on a base course zero four five.” Heading northeast. “Just beyond that seamount is a sort of mountain pass through the Walvis, where the ridge terrain is broken by a flat path leading north-south. That path is very deep, right around fifteen thousand feet, about as much as I want our hull to have to take. But this mountain pass, if we can call it that, has a wide-open view to the north and the south.” The pass was a few miles long, the same way the prominent ridge terrain was a few miles wide from north to south.
“Everyone, back to our stations. Let’s get to work.”
Jeffrey studied the gravimeter. Then he hardened his voice. A jagged, very steep, extinct volcanic pinnacle soared up close by the ship to starboard. “Helm, maintain nap of seafloor cruise mode. Come right and hug the east face of the Wust Seamount.” He touched his console screen with his light pen—the mark repeated on Meltzer’s displays, relayed through Challenger’s data-distribution network. “At this designated way point, Helm, all stop. Then rise on autohover, make your depth three thousand feet.”
Meltzer acknowledged. Challenger banked into a gentle turn to starboard.
Jeffrey called up his weapons-status page. “Fire Control, pull the Mark Eighty-eights from tubes five and six and replace with high-explosive Mark Forty-eight Improved ADCAPs.”
Bell relayed commands. “Sir, why ADCAPs? Their punch is weak and their crush depth is shallow.”
“Two reasons, Fire Control. In this ridge terrain, first-detection and engagement ranges might be very short. We need the option to shoot without a self-kill from our own atomic warheads. Hence the high-explosive fish. And the von Scheer needs to go shallow to launch her missiles.” Jeffrey glanced at the photo of Ernst Beck he still kept windowed on his console. “That’s Beck’s Achilles’ heel. Shallow, we can use ADCAPs.”
“Understood, sir.”
Meltzer reported he’d reached Jeffrey’s designated way point.
Jeffrey eyed a depth gauge and the gravimeter. Challenger began to rise, on a level keel and with no forward speed.
“Fire Control, pull the Mark Eighty-eights from tubes seven and eight. Replace with Long Term Mine Reconnaissance System units.” The LMRSs were unmanned undersea vehicles—remote-controlled off-board probes; they could be fitted with various specialized black boxes. “Missionconfigurable load-out is to be modules for antisubmarine passive sonar. I intend to use them as early-warning detection aids against the von Scheer. For stealth, control both units by fiber-optic tether.” The probes could use an acoustic link instead, but the digital bursts might be heard by a sophisticated enemy.
“Understood, aye aye,” Bell said.
Jeffrey watched his weapons-status screen. The color coding for tubes five through eight changed from green—ready to fire—to red: not ready. Then tubes five through eight had their outer doors closed and the seawater drained. The inner-tube-door icons popped open. The Mark 88s were disarmed by the torpedo-room crew, and pulled from the tubes and placed on the storage racks by the hydraulic autoloader mechanisms. ADCAPs, and off-board probes, were presented to the tube breach doors. The new units slid into the tubes, and the inner breach doors closed.
“Sir,” Meltzer said, “my depth is three thousand feet.”
“Very well, Helm. Fire Control, make tubes seven and eight ready in all respects including opening outer doors.”
Bell acknowledged. He relayed orders to flood and equalize the pressure in the tubes. The outer doors slid open.
Jeffrey used his light pen. “Position the two probes here, and here.” He marked places to the north and south of the seamount peak. “Hold them at a depth of three thousand feet.” That was their crush-depth limit, and also put these listening outposts near the sweet spot of the deep sound channel.
“Data preset.”
“Very well, Fire Control. Firing point procedures, LMRS units in tubes seven and eight.”
“Ready.”
“Tube seven, shoot.”
“Tube seven fired electrically.”
“Unit is running normally,” Milgrom reported.
“Tube eight, shoot.”
“Tube eight fired electrically.”
“Unit is running normally.”
“Very well, Sonar, Fire Control…Helm, on autohover, make your depth five thousand feet.”
Meltzer acknowledged. Jeffrey watched his screens as Challenger descended beside the stark and jagged basalt face of the seamount. Meanwhile, on the tactical plot, the icons for the probes moved toward their designated places. COB took control of both probes from his console.
“Helm,” Jeffrey ordered, “on auxiliary maneuvering units, rotate the ship onto heading two two five.” Southwest.
Meltzer acknowledged. The auxiliary thrusters were mounted at bow and stern, and helped the ship navigate in tight quarters. Safely below the two probes, Challenger gently pivoted while the fiber-optic tethers to the probes continued playing out. Jeffrey did not want to break the tethers to those probes.
“Helm, back one-third, make turns for four knots.”
Challenger eased away from the seamount face and the probes, keeping her bow—and her torpedo tubes—aimed in their direction.
“Helm, all stop. On autohover, take us to the bottom.”
The tension in the control room rose as Challenger went much deeper. Jeffrey watched as a gauge showed the outside pressure increase more with every foot.
“Hull popping,” Milgrom reported at nine thousand feet.
It couldn’t be helped. The ridge terrain should help mask the ship from von Scheer—Jeffrey hoped. “Very well, Sonar.”
“Hull popping,” Milgrom said again at eleven thousand feet.
“Very well.” The rote of standard reports and acknowledgments always went on, especially entering combat. Crisp and clear two-way dialogue, with no chance for awful mistakes or missed information, was indispensable.
Nearing fifteen thousand feet, Jeffrey felt the deck under his feet begin to buckle slightly as Challenger’s ceramic-composite hull was compressed. COB worked his console to maintain the ship’s neutral buoyancy because as she was squashed in from all sides, she displaced less water and acted heavier. COB expelled water from the variable ballast tanks to lighten the ship. At such great depth, the hardworking pumps made noise. This too c
an’t be helped.
Dust and crumbling heat insulation fell from the squeezed-in overhead as Challenger descended more. Extra damage-control parties were already waiting in key places throughout the ship, since Challenger had been at battle stations and rigged for deep submergence for some time. Even so, crewmen squirmed. People brushed the dust and insulation off their consoles and their clothes. Jeffrey did this too, as casually as he could, to set an example. But he knew that, three miles down, the slightest leak could be catastrophic. He saw some people sweating despite the cold air used to cool all the ship’s electronics. Everyone grew very hushed, speaking in whispers if they spoke at all, and moving as little as possible: the hull compression so deep forced deck sound-isolation rafts and machine-vibration damping mounts to make hard contact, spoiling much of Challenger’s normal quieting.
Jeffrey realized his own hands felt ice-cold. He ordered the air circulation fans turned off—his excuse to himself was to quiet the ship even more. Quickly the compartment grew stuffy and humid, from so many overexcited bodies in close proximity.
“Sir,” Meltzer reported, “my depth is fifteen thousand feet.”
“Very well, Helm…Fire Control, Sonar, now we wait.”
CHAPTER 39
E rnst Beck’s ship was at battle stations and the Zentrale was rigged for red. Karl Stissinger, the einzvo, sat beside the captain at the command console. Baron von Loringhoven stood in the aisle, observing.
“My intention,” Beck stated, “is to let the tactical situation itself reduce uncertainties. Since it must be clear to Fuller that we’re approaching along the Walvis Ridge, we can expect to meet him there. His best strategy is to sit in ambush at ultraquiet and force us to remain on the move, giving him the sonar advantage. He has to be somewhere ahead of us, to stay between us and our missile launch point against the target convoy.” Beck used his light pen on the nautical chart and gravimeter display on his console. His markings were reproduced on Stissinger’s screens, and on the digital displays on the forward bulkhead used by the pilot and copilot.
