Tidal Rip cjf-4

by Joe Buff

  “The thin plutonium lining of their suits keeps them nice and warm, no matter how lengthy their toils. It’s quite safe, as long as a suit doesn’t tear and someone actually ingests plutonium. That’s one reason the suits are lined with multiple layers of Kevlar.”

  “I have to insist on a thorough radiological survey before the men come back into my ship.”

  “Of course. It’s standard procedure.”

  “How often has this been done before?”

  “You mean operationally, in a war zone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure. It’s all top secret, need-to-know. The Allies haven’t the slightest idea we possess this capability.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” someone said.

  “Easy,” Stissinger cautioned the man.

  Beck felt repugnance too. The “dialysis divers,” trailing tethers for their cameras and other equipment, had reached the sunk destroyer. The wreck was recent. One of the line-scan cameras showed the corpse of an American sailor, his lower body trapped in mangled wreckage. Things like giant worms crawled on the corpse, feeding. Bone on the skull was already exposed.

  “Do we have to see this?” Beck asked. “Can’t they just get on with it?”

  “Feeling guilty?” von Loringhoven said. “The records show you sank this ship on your last patrol.”

  “I suspected as much.” Beck saw more of the destroyer as the divers worked their way around and over the wreckage.

  “You can understand now why this can’t be done by a robotic sub, using grapnels. We need human judgment, in real time, and practiced manual skills on the spot.”

  The destroyer lay on her starboard side. Beck watched as the divers avoided the ragged stump of her mast. She was an Arleigh Burke—class vessel, and huge — as long as the von Scheer — and had a wide beam for a destroyer; the top of the hulk, her port side, rose almost twenty meters off the ocean floor amidships. The twisted remnants of her four exhaust stacks, in two pairs surrounded by big air intakes for the gasturbine propulsion plant, were aimed at the divers’ cameras. They seemed to be aimed at Beck, as if they were saying, You did this to us. You.

  There was a large debris field in the foreground. Fragments of the ship’s superstructure littered the bottom. Unnamable objects spilled from fractures in her hull and cracks in her decks. As the dialysis divers searched and inspected, and their cameras panned around in the freezing blackness, Beck saw more corpses. They were much too fresh to be fully decomposed, for their bones to have dissolved from the pressure. The sight of seamen burned, mutilated, crushed, with tatters of clothing and pieces of half-eaten flesh waving at him in the bottom current, was profoundly disturbing to the captain. As loose and dangling equipment jangled in the half-knot current, noises came over the sonar speakers, like the sound of ghosts dragging chains.

  Not one man in the control room said a word, except for the two kampfschwimmer at their console behind Beck. They spoke to the diver team, who responded by typing on keypads worn on their chests. Some of the men in Beck’s crew seemed grateful that their job required them to stare at their sonar screens or threat-tracking plots, forcing them to avert their eyes from the tomb, the hallowed ground, that the divers were going to plunder. Sailors were sailors, whatever their nation. Every man in the control room — and Beck assumed this included von Loringhoven — knew how easily the corpses might have been them.

  From the way her mast stump and stacks were bent, and the destruction of the bridge superstructure, Beck judged that the destroyer had taken a near miss from an airburst off her port bow, caused by an atomic cruise missile. She seemed to have burned while sinking, but must have sunk quickly, because the fires were snuffed before her main magazines could explode. The fires topside had been fierce while they lasted: Beck saw aluminum melted and fused. Paint was blistered or totally charred. She probably tumbled underwater before striking the bottom — the hard impact had made a crater in the seafloor muck. It strewed debris in a wide area, splitting her seams along many frames.

  This was fortunate, because the antisubmarine torpedo launchers on her external decks were all smashed. To find what they were looking for, the divers had to go inside the hulk. The pictures on the Zentrale screens seemed to jiggle and jump around; the imagery would spin, then focus on something, then spin or bounce to focus on something else.

  Beck watched in morbid fascination as the divers began to search the ordnance-handling areas, ammunition hoists, and magazines. Much was twisted beyond recognition, and space to work in was tight. Shapeless tangles of multicolrored pipes and wires and ladders, and sheet steel crumpled like cardboard, formed jagged obstructions. Some voids were filled with viscous pockets of buoyant, sticky engine fuel, caught there after the hull tanks ruptured apart. Some watertight doors were jammed hopelessly shut; others stood gaping, burst wide open, with dogging bars sheared from their bracket mounts by brutally destructive forces. Everywhere mud and silt drifted, along with flecks of insulation and plastic, and the divers’ helmet lights cast haunting shadows. To enter this terrible place, Beck thought, took great courage.

  Clearly the divers had reviewed the plans of this destroyer class very thoroughly. They showed an impressive ability to make sense of the mess that seemed to Beck incomprehensible. He wondered if the divers had practiced by studying video of the damage to the USS Cole, a sister ship of this destroyer. Maybe their training had also included a briefing by the Russians on how to work around and inside the carcass of the Kursk — and her severed torpedo room.

  At last the divers found what they were looking for: intact, or mostly intact, American-made atomic torpedo warheads. The cameras showed the team of divers working far inside the hull, within what was left of one of the magazines. Two divers stayed outside the wreck with one camera, as safety monitors, and to make sure the cable feeds running into the hulk weren’t snagged. Using special tools, working slowly and carefully, the four inside divers dismantled the American torpedoes, removing the warheads and placing them in special, shielded carrying cases.

  “They’re looking for the ones in the best condition,” von Loringhoven said. “They’re taking three, just in case.”

  “Just in case what?” Beck knew the wrecked ship’s magazine was full of self-oxidizing weapon propellants, and damaged high explosives too. The divers could potentially set something off, causing a massive detonation that would damage the von Scheer.

  “We need samples, for intelligence purposes.”

  “Why aren’t the divers going after crypto gear?”

  “It’s doubtful any survived in usable form.”

  “Our side hasn’t salvaged Allied atomic warheads before?”

  “We have, but I’m not privy to details. And I assume the Allies have salvaged some of ours.”

  Beck grunted. He hadn’t thought of that. “So why are we grabbing more, with a relief convoy to Africa on the move? We seem to be taking considerable, and unnecessary, risks, at a most inappropriate moment. And we’re wasting precious time by doing so.”

  “We need at least one warhead, of specifically American manufacture. It has to come from an antisubmarine torpedo so it’s pressure-proof enough.”

  “Enough for what?”

  “Enough to use the physics package… Ah, I see the divers are finished. They’re starting back to the von Scheer’s air lock.” One special air lock opened downward, through the bottom of the SSGN’s hull, and had a winch for lifting personnel and cargo.

  Beck didn’t like the way von Loringhoven had just changed the subject. “To use the physics package for what?”

  “Like I said, intelligence. Research. Berlin doesn’t tell me everything.”

  Beck decided to play along, for now. The one thing he did know was that von Loringhoven was lying.

  The kampfschwimmer dialysis divers were back inside the von Scheer, safely ensconced in their decompression capsules. Their plutonium-lined diving suits hadn’t sprung any leaks. The three atomic torpedo warheads were now in
the radiological containment area, within the kampfschwimmer working space in the missile compartment.

  Beck sat in his cabin, feeling utterly exhausted. Von Loringhoven knocked from inside the bathroom they shared.

  Beck rolled his eyes. “Come.”

  Von Loringhoven entered.

  “I really wish you’d stop doing that,” Beck said.

  “I apologize again, Captain. I’m just beginning to grasp how many unwritten rules there are to proper etiquette aboard a submarine. You were right, of course, to tell me that I am not now in an embassy or at a diplomatic reception.”

  “Speaking of which, Baron, I am formally inviting you to dine with me and my officers in the wardroom tonight…. I’m sure security won’t be compromised. If anything, by hiding from everyone and eating alone, you’re only drawing the wrong sort of attention to yourself.”

  “Thank you, Captain. I would be honored to join you and your officers for dinner.”

  “Good. Now. I’ve been told by the kampfschwimmer chief that one of the warheads retrieved is in usable-enough condition that we can continue on our way.”

  “Excellent.”

  “It is thus time to open the next envelope with my orders.”

  Von Loringhoven nodded. “At your convenience, Captain.”

  Hmm. The guy does seem to be showing a little respect and humility now. Maybe there’s hope for him after all.

  Beck opened his safe and retrieved the latest envelope. Each time, the package grew thinner and lighter, but he could tell there were several more layers of sealed orders within orders.

  Ernst Beck read. “Ach.” He had to grin. “This is all nicely thought out. There’s some risk, especially for the kampfschwimmer, but less than I expected for von Scheer.”

  “You see now why the Russians turned toward Nova Scotia. We want the Americans to think you’re aiming to catch the convoy from behind, from the north.”

  Beck nodded. “And the strongest convoy defenses will be protecting their eastern flank, standing between the cargo ships and the hostile Euro-African coast as they head for the Congo pocket.”

  “Precisely. And to throw ourselves against the Americans’ strongest defenses is foolish.”

  “And thus we cut ahead and attack from where they least expect and they’re least prepared. From their front, from south of the convoy, and with accurate firing solutions from very long range… I want to check a nautical chart.” Beck switched on his laptop, connected to the von Scheer’s onboard fiber-optic local area network. “Look with me, Baron.”

  Von Loringhoven came around to Beck’s side of the little fold-down desk.

  “Right here is the place.” Beck tapped a spot on the map with his light pen. “Of course, we still have details to work out, but we have several days to get there…. I suggest, Baron, that you and I both make up for our sleep deficit. I’ll have a messenger fetch us a good meal now, then wake us both in time for dinner.”

  “Delightful.”

  Beck used his intercom to dial the wardroom pantry chief. They spoke briefly. Beck hung up.

  “Fresh ham, hot carrots, also fresh, and freshly baked bread, for two, is on the way. Eat with me here, Baron.”

  “With pleasure.”

  “Excuse me for a moment while I speak to the einzvo.” Beck stepped out of his cabin and walked the few paces to the Zentrale. The acting weapons officer had the deck, while Stissinger kept an eye on things. Beck approached Stissinger.

  “Our guest has accepted the invitation to dine in the wardroom tonight.” He touched the side of his nose, knowingly, and saw an answering sparkle in Stissinger’s eyes.

  “We’ll make a good shipmate out of him yet, Captain.”

  Beck gave the weapons officer and navigator orders to get the von Scheer under way, toward the craggy, broken bottom terrain of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge: “Nap of seafloor cruising mode. Mean speed of advance twenty-five knots. Base course southwest until we reach the east side of the main ridge flank, then base course south. Maintain rig for ultraquiet.”

  Both men acknowledged; Stissinger calmly monitored their performance. Beck returned to his cabin. Von Loringhoven sat there patiently.

  Beck started to clear the papers and computer from his desk. But first, he took one more look at the nautical chart on the laptop screen. “A clever stratagem,” he said expansively, “and a good choice. A useless menace to navigation, hundreds of miles from land. A perfect place to set up a land-based satellite downlink station, and an undersea acoustic link to talk to us while we can hide…. My only trouble isthe real estate belongs to a neutral country.”

  “Don’t concern yourself,” von Loringhoven said. “Efforts are under way that ought to remove that worry from your mind.”

  “Specifics?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Funny, I somehow knew you’d say that.” Both men chuckled, sharing a good laugh for the first time since they’d met.

  Beck looked at the map a final time, examining their destination. “Desolate, unoccupied, a radioactive wasteland now. It’s the last place I’d ever think to choose… which is probably exactly why Berlin chose it. And it is so centrally located.” He turned off his computer just as two messmen arrived with the meal trays.

  On both trays were two shot glasses filled with schnapps.

  Beck raised the first glass. “To a successful voyage, and now to a nice long well-earned nap.”

  Von Loringhoven raised his glass. “To a successful voyage, and to more good work by our kampfschwimmer.” He downed his schnapps in one gulp.

  For a moment, Beck thought there was a soulless predatory look in the other man’s eyes. It sent a chill up his spine, enough to ruin the feeling of warmth brought on by the schnapps.

  Von Loringhoven raised his second glass. “To our destination, our ear to Berlin’s sea-surveillance satellites, the St. Peter and St. Paul Rocks.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Four days later, near the St. Peter and St. Paul Rocks, Jeffrey stood in the aisle in Challenger’s control room. A main display screen on the forward bulkhead, above COB’s and Meltzer’s ship-control stations, showed him and everyone else the big picture. Challenger lurked deep in the western foothills of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, eleven thousand feet down. Farther west was the flat and open Ceara Plain, four thousand feet even deeper than that, off the northeast coast of Brazil. Challenger’s minisub lingered shallow, near the St. Peter and St. Paul Rocks. The mini was careful to keep a direct acoustic line of sight to Jeffrey’s ship, southwest of the Rocks.

  The two vessels communicated by covert undersea acoustic link, which transmitted voice or data by a series of digitized pulses. The pulses were incredibly short, at frequencies extremely high and changing thousands of times each second — so the likelihood of intercept by an enemy was very low. The range of the link was up to thirty nautical miles, depending on local oceanographic conditions.

  Most of the Orpheus setup work was complete. Robotic undersea vehicles, launched from Challenger and controlled by the ship’s technicians or by specialist SEALs in the mini-sub, had tapped into the undersea telephone cables. Thin wires from those taps were strung to a place by the Rocks, in sheltered water one hundred feet deep. SEAL divers had rigged those wires into an anchor and relay station, ready for use by men at Orpheus consoles in the minisub, and ready for linkage by fiber-optic to a satellite transceiver site that the SEALs would create on the Rocks.

  “Captain,” Lieutenant Milgrom reported, “Lieutenant Estabo is calling from the minisub. He indicates he’s ready to transfer to the Rocks.”

  “Ask him how Orpheus is performing so far.”

  “Wait one, sir.” She spoke into her microphone and listened on her headset. Classified signal-processing software encoded and decoded the two-way conversation and generated the sonar pulses Challenger sent to the minisub; the mini had identical software, though her sonar arrays were simpler and less powerful.

  “Sir, his men are just now calibrating the consol
es. Lieutenant Estabo prefers to establish the satellite link with Norfolk first, to double-check each other using raw incoming Orpheus data.”

  “Very well. Tell him to proceed.”

  Milgrom spoke into her mike, then signed off. To deliver Felix to the Rocks, the mini would have to move in closer, and the line of sight, the acoustic link, to Challenger would be blocked.

  Jeffrey looked at the main display once more. Bell had the conn, and Jeffrey glanced over the man’s shoulder at the tactical situation plot. Something just didn’t add up.

  “XO, Sonar, I want you both in my stateroom.”

  Officers traded places as Bell passed the conn to Lieutenant Sessions. One senior chief, the assistant navigator, took over for Sessions. Another senior chief, the sonar supervisor, sat in for Milgrom. Bell and Milgrom followed Jeffrey to his stateroom.

  “What’s the matter, Skipper?” Bell asked. He stood, because Jeffrey was standing. Milgrom stood too, and frowned, because Jeffrey was frowning.

  “Sonar, when was the last time you heard a nuclear detonation in the North Atlantic?”

  “Days, sir. We’ve heard hardly any since departing New London.”

  “And how long has the relief convoy been under way?”

  “About a week,” Bell said. “Pretty much the same as us.”

  “And where is the convoy right now?”

  “Right now? Streaming down toward the Atlantic Narrows.”

  “We’re just picking up traces of their signature, sir, on our wide-aperture arrays,” Milgrom said.

  “A week. Why haven’t the U-boats attacked?”

  Milgrom and Bell looked at each other. Bell spoke for both of them. “I guess we’ve all been wondering, Captain.”

  “And our latest intelligence download from Norfolk confirmed what our sonars have heard. Or haven’t heard.”

  Milgrom and Bell nodded; when Challenger went shallow to launch the minisub with Felix and his men, Jeffrey had used his floating wire antenna to grab short text messages from headquarters. Jeffrey summarized what he’d been told then.