by Joe Buff
Captain Fuller knew that all through history, naval battles and even entire wars sometimes hinged on which ships or squadrons were in the right or wrong place at a single, unforgiving moment in time.
The SEAL team leader, newly arrived on Challenger, came to Jeffrey’s cabin to report aboard and introduce himself. The two men hit it off in a big way on sight. Something about the dark-skinned Brazilian American, with his lively eyes, ready smile, and confident, bone-crushing handshake, made Jeffrey feel less worried about the future.
“I’ll show you yours if you show me mine,” Felix Estabo joked.
Jeffrey laughed. In private, they were comparing war stories from their time in the SEALs, and talking about their wounds.
“Forget it,” Jeffrey said, and started to crack up completely; Felix had exactly the sick sense of humor that he himself enjoyed. “An AK-forty-seven round through the bone of my left thigh. You’ll just have to take my word for it.” Jeffrey gestured at the door into the head he shared with the XO’s stateroom. “Privilege of rank, Lieutenant, so you won’t be catching glimpses in my shower, either… Even if you were a master chief this morning, and even if master chiefs do secretly outrank captains.”
And this was another reason Jeffrey liked Felix a lot: the SEAL was a very down-to-earth and practical man, who knew how to work the system and get things done. He was career navy, just like Jeffrey. At different times, they’d been through the same SEAL training and testing: they shared a lot of common ground. Plus, Felix was outside the strict chain of command of Jeffrey’s vessel, so they both could afford to be a bit informal while alone.
Felix stroked the scar down his own face. “You’re just jealous, Skipper. This thing” — he pointed to the scar — “was one heck of a chick magnet back in high school.”
Jeffrey was surprised. “That one’s not from a German bayonet?”
“Nope. Miami gang thugs jumped me when I was fifteen. I wandered into the wrong neighborhood after dark.”
“You’re lucky you lived to talk about it.”
“Well, let’s say they were drunk or stoned or both, and I was neither, and they kept falling over each other to draw first blood. Besides, I was very motivated. They just thought it was cool to mug or cut up a Latino kid. I was fighting to survive.”
“How many of them were there?”
“Five. Fortunately they only had knives.”
“So what did you do? Run?”
“Nope. Before I really saw them they got me cornered in this alley.”
“Then what?”
“Backed up to cover my rear, grabbed a garbage can lid as a shield, picked up a whiskey bottle and broke it, and let them come at me.”
“And you were what, fifteen? Weren’t you scared?”
“Captain, frankly I just did what I had to do. I’m sure you’ve been there.”
“To myself I call that the warrior gene.”
“Anyway, somebody in one of the buildings called the cops, and by the time they got there I’d taken one bad cut to my face, and I put three of my ‘assailants’ — that’s what the policemen called them — in the hospital.”
“With?”
“Lemme see. One badly broken kneecap. One sucking puncture wound to the chest. And one, shall we say, very severe impact to the groinal area.”
“You sound like you enjoyed the whole business.”
“Looking back, sort of, yeah. I guess you could say I found my calling that night. The cops, you know, they tried to convince me to do the Police Academy after high school. I think they liked my moves. They were great guys, don’t get me wrong, Captain. But I was on the swim team, I really liked being around the water. So it was a no-brainer, to join the navy when the time came, then put in for the SEALs. And lo and behold, here I am, Lieutenant Felix Estabo, former master chief, suddenly an officer and a gentleman.”
Someone knocked.
“Come in.”
A young messenger entered. Like many of the crew, he wore a blue, flame-retardant cotton jumpsuit with a zipper up the front and his name embroidered on a patch on one side of his chest. Although the other side lacked the silver dolphins qualified enlisted men wore — he was still fairly new to the ship, and to submarines — his jumpsuit did have the ribbon for the Presidential Unit Citation. That had been Bell’s idea, for everyone to wear theirs, to strengthen group cohesion and morale.
“The XO said you ought to have this immediately, sir.” He gave Jeffrey an envelope. “The Ohio grabbed it for us off the broadcast, the last time they raised their satellite mast.”
“Okay,” Jeffrey said. “Thanks.” The messenger left and shut the door; Jeffrey appreciated help from Ohio — to receive high-baud-rate signals, a sub had to raise a satellite dish on a mast above the surface, breaking stealth.
“What is it?” Felix said.
Jeffrey opened the envelope. He read. Attached to the message text was a download of a photograph.
Jeffrey made eye contact with Felix. “It’s confirmed the von Scheer is loose in the Atlantic.”
“How do you know?”
“The message doesn’t say. They wouldn’t, for security, in case of signals intercept by the enemy. But from this” — he held up the message papers — “it’s quite definite the von Scheer broke through past the UK more than two days ago.”
Felix frowned. “That means they could be almost anywhere.”
“There’s a postscript for me personally with this,” Jeffrey said. “From commander, U.S. Atlantic Fleet.”
“Really? A four-star, huh? What’s the postscript say?”
“Literally, ‘Good luck, and don’t screw it up.’”
“Four-stars talk that way?”
“It’s sort of a private reference, to when he and I spoke one-on-one in Norfolk. And basically yes, Admiral Hodgkiss can talk that way.”
“What’s that picture with it?”
Jeffrey took the hard-copy photograph, and taped it to the wall of his cabin, next to the picture of his folks. “That is the commanding officer of the Admiral von Scheer.”
The picture was obviously cropped and enlarged, from a group portrait probably taken before the war. It showed a man in German naval uniform, of average height, a bit overweight, with the beginnings of a receding hairline. He looked modest, even-tempered, intelligent. His features were undistinguished, not especially handsome or dashing; he even seemed a little shy.
Felix got up and studied the photo. “How do they know he’s the one?”
“Again, it doesn’t say. You and I can guess. Reports from moles, message traffic decrypts, collated with file photos or old news clippings, things like that.”
“In other words, use my imagination.”
“Yeah. But this message says the information is good. Rated A-one, completely reliable and confirmed by multiple sources.”
Jeffrey pursed his lips as he finished the message.
“What’s the matter?” Felix said.
“I know this guy.”
“Well? A NATO combined assignment or something?”
Jeffrey turned and stared at the picture. “No, not like that. I mean I’ve met him in battle before.”
Felix hesitated. “Is he good?”
“He’s still alive. That says a lot.”
“You don’t seem happy, Captain.”
“I’m not. If I know him, that means he knows me. My tactical style, my strengths, weaknesses, how I like to fight.”
“I guess that’s not good news…. You think the Germansknow you’re in command of Challenger?”
“After all the publicity over my Medal?” Jeffrey snapped bitterly. “How couldn’t they?”
“Sorry, sir. Just asking.”
“I’m sorry, Felix.”
Jeffrey stared at the picture again, long and hard. He tried to read the eyes that seemed to be peering back at him. “His name is supposed to be Ernst Beck. He was the first watch officer, last time. Naval intell knows hardly anything about him.”
“The exec?”
Jeffrey nodded. “Just that he’s married, with two kids… Plus whatever I can piece together from when I clashed with his ship before Christmas.”
Jeffrey tapped the face of the von Scheer’s captain and took a very deep breath. “Simply put, Felix-the-ex-master-chief, our job is to kill Ernst Beck before he kills me.”
CHAPTER 13
After sneaking through the teeth of Allied defenses in the G-I-UK Gap, Beck’s ship and the two Russians steamed southwest, submerged, past Ireland. The Republic of Ireland, neutral in World War II, was a staunch friend of the U.S. and UK in the present crisis. Ireland’s flotilla of coastal patrol craft were a constant thorn in Ernst Beck’s side, until he left them behind. The noise signatures of other enemy ships and planes and sonobuoys the von Scheer crept past echoed within his head. The transit beyond the British Isles had been a test of resolve and fortitude for everyone in Beck’s crew.
Then, while running shallow under the Russian fast-attacks, Beck had received an intelligence download, through von Scheer’s on-hull very-low-frequency underwater antenna: HMS Dreadnought was somewhere north of Iceland, and USS Challenger was stuck in dry dock in her Connecticut home port.
The same download told him that the relief convoy from the U.S. to Central Africa had set sail, at about the same time von Scheer and the Russians rounded North Cape. Sooner than I’d hoped. Now every hour counts. I’ll have to hurry.
At a prearranged point, over the very deep Porcupine Plain — between Europe and the Mid-Atlantic Ridge — von Scheer and the Sierra IIs parted company. The Russians turned toward Halifax and New England on some mission of their own. Spying? Trying to trail real U.S. boomers? Maintaining a forward presence just in case, or for show? Beck had no idea.
He did hope that if — make that when — the Allies saw through the deception, they’d go chasing after the Russians, on the theory that the von Scheer would still be close.
Beck knew the von Scheer was by no means safe from attack, even then. Allied forces hunted for her everywhere. He kept his ship at battle stations, rigged for ultraquiet. The men were released to eat or use the head a few at a time. Far enough from land to have a clear conscience, Beck ordered deep-capable Sea Lion nuclear torpedo warheads armed, ready for anything.
It was time to substitute one source of mind-twisting stress for another. But within her design envelope, going deep meant greater sanctuary for any sub that craved the defensive, wanting to hide. In measured stages, Beck carefully took his ship into the concealing bottom terrain, almost five thousand meters down, close to the von Scheer’s crush depth. All present in the Zentrale gritted their teeth, hoping and praying grimly that nothing in the hull or internal sea pipes would give way.
Once he was sure his command had suffered no engineering problems or flaws on the nerve-racking dive — building to a pressure of five thousand metric tons per square meter of hull — Beck passed the deck and conn to one of his officers. Stissinger could get some rest, but for the sub’s captain it was time to deal with yet another form of stress.
Beck asked von Loringhoven to meet with him in his cabin. Behind closed doors, he and the diplomat had the confrontation Beck now knew had been inevitable. Von Loringhoven tried to evade the real issues and insisted that Beck open the next layer of his sealed orders.
Beck shook his head slowly and firmly. “Herr Baron, my instructions are to provide you with every assistance, but only as appropriate to the safety and combat readiness of my vessel. I can only continue to tolerate your presence on my ship under certain conditions.” He drew on his own anger, and on the prestige of the Knight’s Cross that hung around his neck, to stand up to the aristocrat passenger.
He almost tripped into thin air when von Loringhoven answered with modest submission.
“Forgive my impertinence in your control room, Captain. I think that lack of sleep has caused me to become a rather poor listener.”
Beck recovered quickly, saving face. He suspected the diplomat had just pulled some verbal jujitsu: letting Beck’s own annoyance — meeting no resistance — throw himself off balance.
Now Beck was really annoyed: von Loringhoven showed he had known exactly what misbehavior the captain was going to unload on him about.
“Baron, we are not at some embassy or diplomatic ball. We are at sea on a naval warship, and we are at war! Do not play your word games with me. When I give you instructions, whether to be quiet in the Zentrale or to stand on your head and sing Christmas carols, you will from now on show me instant, unquestioning obedience!”
Von Loringhoven rubbed his eyes. Beck saw his jaw lock subtly, not with aggression, but to stifle a yawn of fatigue. “I apologize, Captain.”
“Do you? I am serving you formal notice right now, Baron, that any further attempts at conversational rugby with me will undermine your credibility completely! I do not have the time or the patience to coddle your ego any further. And I will not permit you to continue to treat this ship as some sort of plaything at your personal disposal. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Captain. Yes. Your message is clear.”
“And I order you to get some proper sleep at once.”
“Soon, yes.”
“Anyone who stays awake for days at a time becomes dys-functional. Anyone. You are turning into a safety hazard, a liability, and this cannot be permitted to go on.”
Von Loringhoven nodded. “I promise to sleep at least six hours each day. I had so much work to catch up on, so much to digest and visualize and rehearse. You will understand better, I think, Captain, as we proceed with our mission.”
“Why do I feel like I’m talking to a recalcitrant child? Don’t tease or mock me, Baron. I may seem a simple sailor to you, but for a landsman to underestimate an undersea battleship’s commander can be a fatal error in judgment. Fatal. I’m warning you for the only time.”
Von Loringhoven looked down at the floor. He seemed contrite and cowed. Beck wondered how sincere any of this was, and how long it would last. Beck was a man of honor, and never gave his word lightly; he would keep a solemn promise made or oath taken, unto death. He wondered if any diplomat or any civilian could understand what such commitment meant.
“Now, it is time to open the next phase of my orders. And I know what you’re thinking, that you already know what they say. Your knowledge does not impress me. To flaunt it is nothing but small-minded disrespect. Understood?”
“Perfectly so, Captain.”
“Very well. Are you ready?”
Von Loringhoven nodded.
Beck went to his safe and removed the envelope. He returned to his desk and sat facing von Loringhoven.
Opening the outer seal of the remaining package of nested envelopes, he began to read. The instructions told him to have the kampfschwimmer team leader present, the battle-swimmer commando who’d embarked with his men and equipment back in Norway before the sabotage fire.
Beck palmed his intercom mike and sent a messenger to get the kampfschwimmer lieutenant from his sleeping-and-working area aft in the missile compartment.
Then he read further, and his jaw dropped.
He looked up at von Loringhoven in amazement, feeling a mix of awe and revulsion. All he could think to say was, “Mein Gott.” My God.
Von Loringhoven smiled. The smile, for once, conveyed no trace of a sneer or smirk.
“But this will delay our attack on the convoy,” Beck said.
“Not by long, Captain. All in good time.”
Someone knocked.
Beck projected his voice. “Come.”
The kampfschwimmer lieutenant entered. He was tall, alert, and very fit. He braced respectfully to attention.
Beck held up the diagram printed in the latest orders. “I don’t believe this. Show me.”
The kampfschwimmer turned around and pulled up his shirt and undershirt.
In the small of the man’s back, implanted into the skin on each side of his spine, were two small white plastic
surgical fittings with plugs. Intravenous ports. Gills.
CHAPTER 14
Jeffrey sat in the captain’s place, at the head of the wardroom table. The dinner dishes were cleared, though coffee service remained on the table. Several people, himself included, were enjoying another cup. Felix, as a guest, sat on his right. Bell was on his left. Sessions was in the control room, as officer of the deck.
Lieutenant Milgrom started the formal briefing. She seemed intense, but not overtired as Jeffrey felt: since Ilse Reebeck wasn’t on the ship to share a stateroom with Milgrom, Bell had decided that she should use the VIP rack in the XO’s cabin. Milgrom and Bell arranged their schedules to sleep at different times; no one would look askance, and freeing up the three-man officers’ stateroom that Ilse and Kathy had been using allowed three male officers to get their regular quarters back. Bell’s next administrative nightmare would be finding places for sixteen SEALs to sleep, with the torpedo room already completely crammed with weapons and part of Challenger’s junior enlisted crew hot-racking — sharing bunks — as it was.
Milgrom’s laptop was wired to the big flat-screen TV on the wall of the wardroom, on the opposite bulkhead from Jeffrey’s chair. She touched her keyboard, and a briefing slide came up on the screen.
“Lord,” Jeffrey said, “it looks like all the veins on someone’s retina.” A retina the size of the Atlantic Ocean.
