by Joe Buff
Eberhard grabbed an intercom mike. "Push the reactor to one hundred twelve percent." Beck waited for something in their Russian-based reactor plant to explode.
"Mark fifties continue to gain on us." Beck saw crewmen shaking their fists toward the stern at the enemy eels, heard them urging Deutschland to go faster. "Torpedoes in lethal radius any moment."
"Rig for nuclear depth charge."
Then Beck shouted, "Fifties are veering away." Several crewmen cheered. Deutschland's Sea Lions didn't veer away.
Around the edges of the convoy, six phalluses of solid water thrust high into the air. Six breathtaking fireballs punched through the surface of the ocean all at once, like dawn on some alien otherworld with multiple suns. The air-and waterborne shock waves bloomed and met and embraced, reinforcing each other strangely, the speed of sound varying in different places with the heat. The older mushroom clouds to the southeast, some topped now by exquisite smoke rings, were lashed by blast winds as new mushroom clouds asserted themselves. Surface and bottom reflections pounded Deutschland endlessly. The noise was utterly deafening.
"Severe injuries among reloading party" the copilot yelled.
"Pilot," Eberhard shouted cold-bloodedly. "Put us directly under the surviving troopship, the Sergeant Button."
Deutschland had decimated Convoy Section One, and she gained a precarious sanctuary under the remnants of the convoy. Beck drew no comfort on either count. Where was the satisfaction in serving a captain who had no conscience?
Deutschland steamed on, much more sedately, almost two kilometers deep beneath the Button. The Honeybees that still functioned showed the troopship was shadowed closely by that pesky American frigate, now identified as the Aubrey Fitch. Other escorts and helos kept watch, too, from several sea miles away. Everyone headed northwest. Now and then Button tried to shake Deutschland by changing course, without success. Now and then the Aubrey Fitch pinged, getting echoes off Deutschland's stern.
"There's just one little problem," Eberhard said. "We're in what the Americans would call a Mexican standoff. If we move away from the Button, they'll all be able to fire at us. We can't possibly sink every warship fast enough to get away"
"No, sir," Beck said reluctantly.
"And we certainly can't keep steaming like this in concert," Eberhard said. "What do we do, follow them right into Liverpool?… Einzvo, this was your idea. What do you suggest now?"
"New visual contact!" a technician shouted. The surviving Honeybees zoomed in. "Airborne visual contact!"
"Type of aircraft?" Eberhard demanded.
"A squadron of jump-jet Sea Harriers," Beck said. "And Super Stallion heavy transport helos."
"From the Truman," Eberhard said. Some of the Harriers dropped big pods where convoy ships had gone down. The pods inflated into giant orange life rafts. The Stallions began to lift men from the sea. "Their cavalry comes over the hill, too late to do much-good."
"Sir," the copilot said, "Chief Coomans reports a Sea Lion manually loaded in tube seven."
"Load another in tube five."
But Beck had an awful idea. "Captain, recommend instead we load two Seehecht units." Eberhard stared at Beck. "They're conventional eels, and slow, and if we launch below a thousand meters they'd implode."
"Understood; Captain." The escorts' torpedoes also had a crush depth of about three thousand feet. "We need to create a distraction." Beck hated himself for what he intended to do — he saw he was forced from minute to minute to imitate Eberhard's heartlessness, of sheer necessity in this fight. Where will it end? War dehumanizes the living.
"Explain yourself," Eberhard said.
"If we hit the Button with high explosive weapons on opposite sides, she'll go down slowly, on an even keel. Then the Allied forces will have something to worry about besides us. An undersea nuclear blast anywhere near here will create such an overpressure, all the men in the water will get fatal internal injuries. The escorts will be forced to come to the aid of the men on the Button, and they'll have to leave Deutschland alone."
"Hmph. It may not work, but we've no choice, time isn't on our side. Prepare to fire two Seehecht units." When they were ready, Eberhard ordered Deutschland just shallow enough. He had the Seehechts fired, to hide in the deep scattering layer as long as possible. Deutschland quickly returned to the seafloor under Button, much too deep to be hurt by an enemy high-explosive eel.
"Unit outbound legs complete," Beck reported. "Units turning to attack…. Button aspect change! She's trying to comb the torpedo tracks."
"Keep us under her. Course-correct each Seehecht through the wires."
"Impacts in ten seconds." Beck watched the image from the one surviving Honeybee. The Sgt. Button tried to launch her antitorpedo snares, but the now-damaged launchers exploded on deck. The Aubrey Fitch fired her antitorpedo mortars, but the mortar shells all missed.
The Seehechts hit the Button with a double metallic whang. The twin fountains of dirty water were anticlimactic, but that wasn't the point. Some cargo containers were blown into the sea, bobbed briefly, and sank — no one escaped. Button's million-plus gallons of fuel oil poured from the hull and caught fire, and bright red flames reared up. The burning oil spread across the water. The scene was half shrouded by heavy black smoke. The picture rippled from curtains of heat.
Button's passengers began to stream out of the habitation modules and up from the internal vehicle decks. The soldiers rushed to the sides like thousands of khaki ants. The Harriers and Super Stallions rushed in to do what they could. Coomans had to slow Deutschland, to keep station under the troopship.
The water was thick now with little black dots. The Aubrey Fitch had stopped, and was lowering climbing nets over her side.
"Fitch has ceased pinging," Haffner called out.
"Move closer with the Honeybee," Eberhard said. "It's our duty to record this imagery, and document our success…. Pan around to show all the mushroom clouds again." Their pillars were cooling, turning brownish from nitrous oxide smog. A meager handful of merchant ships remained. "Zoom in on those people down there. Be careful to avoid the smoke. I don't want the camera degraded by soot." The little black dots resolved into human heads. Some were black from burns, others from a thick coat of oil. This was my idea, Beck told himself. Every man in the Zentrale could see the main wide-screen display. Beck was very glad the picture didn't have sound.
"Catch those soldiers floating among the flames," Eberhard said. Now Beck saw human figures literally on fire, lipless mouths gaping in silent torment, arms flailing wildly with their fingers already burned off. Does this foreshadow me in the afterlife?
Beck glanced around the Zentrale. The crew had smashed their sought-for record of one million enemy shipping tons destroyed, but no one smiled. Whenever Beck made eye contact, the men looked away. I'm their executive officer. They saw me as Eberhard's better half, but now I've become half-Eberhard. Coomans was still 'below. Beck felt completely alone.
"I think we should make our egress." He was sick to his stomach.
"We've done this before," Eberhard snapped. "Was it somehow less terrible then because you didn't see it?"
Beck heard damaged steel creaking and moaning directly above, as the Button began to settle.
Eberhard sighed. "Very well, we've done our job. Now we see if the Einzvo's clever exit gambit works…. Pilot, maintain course. Full speed ahead, make revs for thirty knots."
"That takes us toward the Truman, sir," Beck said.
"They won't expect us to egress in that direction."
Beck went back to watching the Honeybee screen. Some Super Stallions sprayed foam on the water near the Button, to try to hold back the flames.
"Interesting," Eberhard said. "I haven't seen that tactic used before."
Other helos were busy retrieving burn victims from the sea. One aircraft, full with wounded, flew back to the distant carrier. The Fitch's decks were swarming with huddled figures now, and many more still weakly climbed her nets, b
ut there couldn't be more than a hundred or two survivors there, and the Button had carried eight thousand.
Beck saw other escorts approach the Button to help. He spotted a Viking orbiting overhead, a fixed-wing four-engine sub-hunting plane, acting as local air traffic controller for the rescue. More antisubmarine Seahawk helos, twenty knots slower than Stallions, arrived from Truman, to relieve surviving Seahawks low on fuel. But instead of deploying to threaten Deutschland, they formed a line and used their downwash to drive the burning oil away from the life rafts and the troopship's stern. The perverse armistice between Deutschland and the escorts was holding. Soldiers continued jumping from Button's side in droves. Her main deck was barely ten feet from the water now.
"New airborne visual contact," a technician said. "Two helicopters approaching from north, range thirty sea miles."
"Zoom in more," Eberhard said.
"Those are Royal Navy sub-hunting aircraft, long-range Merlins." Beck saw each had only one torpedo — their maximum load was four, but that reduced their combat radius.
"They must have launched from the escort reinforcements," Eberhard said. Beck felt uneasy. "Sir, recalling the Brits' behavior in World War Two, against our Uboats giving aid to Allied seamen, they're quite likely to drop nuclear weapons in spite of the rescue efforts underway."
"I concur."
"Surface-tension impacts!" Haffner said. "Contacts on acoustic intercept, bearing north. Royal Navy active sonobuoys."
"Use Polyphems, Captain?" Beck said. Polyphems were anti-aircraft missiles, launched from a torpedo tube. "No, I want to send the Americans a message…. Achtung, Sea Lion in tube seven, preset maximum yield, maximum attack speed. Snap shot, due north. Los!"
The weapon was fired. Beck watched the visual imagery, and monitored the data from the Sea Lion through its wire. "Local escorts not reacting to our weapon."
"They don't want to break our little truce."
Beck waited while the unit ran, under the Merlins and past them. The helos heard it and tried to escape. "Teach them a lesson, Einzvo."
Beck ordered the weapons officer to detonate. Another mountainous geyser blasted into the sky, well beyond the horizon. The fireball rose a moment later; the shock wave caught the Royal Navy helos from behind. They shattered, and flaming aviation gas rained to the sea.
Eberhard smiled. "Now Fitch knows we haven't exhausted Deutschland's atomic arsenal." The image from the Honeybee wobbled, then steadied. "Last Honeybee's fuel is running low," Beck said. "Give control to me."
Beck watched as Eberhard used his joystick to focus near the Button, on two rescue swimmers putting a soldier into a litter in the water, under a hovering Stallion. The litter started to rise on its winch cable, toward the door of the big helo. The rotor downdraft punished the surface of the sea. Eberhard followed the litter, moving the Honeybee closer.
Beck saw the soldier was badly burned from head to foot. Beck realized the soldier had breasts. He realized she was alive. I did this, he told himself. He knew he'd be haunted by the memory for the rest of his natural life.
The litter arrived at the door of the helo. The crew chief steadied the winch cable, and two other Marines shifted the litter into the aircraft.
The crew chief, in flight helmet and rubberized protective anti-radiation suit, suddenly noticed the Honeybee. The man's dark autopolarizing visor was up, so he could see what he was doing. He stared at Beck through the camera, as if to accuse him personally. Through the gas mask, Beck watched the marine sergeant's features harden with rage. He disappeared into the passenger compartment, and came back to the door with an M16. He knelt and aimed at Beck. The rifle's muzzle flashed. The picture went blank.
CHAPTER 9
LATER THAT DAY, ON USS CHALLENGER
The air was breathable now, though to Ilse it smelled like bus exhaust and burnt plastic. She rubbed again at the deep marks on her neck, from hours in a breather mask. Ilse stood up as straight as she could and knocked on Jeffrey's stateroom door. She knew he was alone right now. She felt butterflies in her stomach.
"Enter," she heard him call.
She slid open the door and went in and closed it behind her.
Jeffrey nodded. "Miss Reebeck."
This isn't going well, she thought right away. Even in private, we're back to a last-name basis.
Jeffrey sat at his fold-down desk, littered with maps and briefing papers. His laptop was open and on. She ed to peer at the screen. He shook his head and closed the computer.
"How's your leg feeling?" Ilse tried to bring up something from their shared experience two weeks ago. "What?" Jeffrey seemed puzzled. "Oh. Yeah. It's funny, it stopped hurting before we got to Cape Verde. It must've been stress, not decompression sickness after all."
Ilse sat down in the only guest chair. Jeffrey frowned.
"You mean, like psychosomatic or something?"
"I don't like big words like that," Jeffrey said, a bit sternly. "How can I help you?"
Ilse tried to recover. "I, Um, I wanted to mention. I took a first look at the data you gave me."
"And…?"
"It isn't quite as bad as I thought. There's this thing called the Navy Meteorological and Oceanographic Command."
"Yes. METOC."
"They, they have an assessment of basic tactics, for infiltration and stealth. You know, into the Baltic? It needs some work, and it does lack recent cyclical trends, but it seems pretty good for a start."
Jeffrey looked right at her. "Did you think you were the first oceanographer to ever think about undersea war-fighting?"
Ilse decided to get to the point, before Jeffrey threw her out of his office. It dawned on her, all at once, that he was a very busy, very important man. The shy, stammering guy who'd tried to ask her out at Cape Verde was gone from her reach, maybe gone forever.
"I wanted to ask you, Jeffrey. What exactly is my status now?"
"First of all, it's Captain, or Commander Fuller."
Ilse looked for something in Jeffrey's eyes, some hint of personal feeling behind the mask of authority. She didn't find it.
"I mean, sir, where do I fit in on the ship? Am I part of the crew? What am I supposed to be?"
This was the first time she'd called him sir in private, too.
"So far as I know, a formal status hasn't been specified. I suggest you concentrate on the immediate task."
Ilse took a deep breath, and exhaled, and felt like half her spirit left her body with the exhalation.
"Do you know what will happen to me, after this mission?" This was her last attempt to hold open a bridge to Jeffrey Fuller. Maybe they'd have time later, after the mission, when he could unwind.
"Frankly, I hadn't thought that far ahead."
"I mean, do I—"
"Look. Miss Reebeck. Does Lieutenant Bell even know you're here?" Oh, God, Ilse told herself. What the hell was going on?
"Er, no, Captain."
Jeffrey went back to his desk and picked up a map. Ilse could see it was a topographic chart for Greifswald. Without even looking at her, he cleared his throat. Ilse stood. On different levels she felt humiliated, badly embarrassed, and angry. She left without saying another word.
Since Ilse wasn't a watchstander, her schedule was fluid. She decided to go to the enlisted mess for coffee — less chance of running into one of the officers. But then she heard Shajo Clayton's voice from in the mess, busy practicing with his SEAL team. She turned around.
There in the passageway she bumped into COB. "You look so serious," COB teased her.
"Thanks for noticing," Ilse said. Maybe COB would be the right person to talk to. He was mature, and a great people manager, dealing with all kind of issues with the enlisted men and their families.
Ilse forced a smile. "I guess I'm trying to figure out, what do I want to be when I grow up?"
"Having one of those days, are we?" COB smiled back, a warm and reassuring smile. Ilse figured he'd taken a whole bunch of training courses on interpersonal leaders
hip. For all she knew, he had two dozen kinds of smiles, for different occasions, and 'could turn them on or off at will.
But, not COB. He was just too genuine.
"Is there somewhere we can talk in private?"
COB laughed. "On a nuclear submarine? Are you kidding?" He seemed to step back from her, internally. His face hardened subtly, and he began to rock slightly on the balls of his feet. As if he were saying, Whatever it is, don't cling or whine. Ilse blushed again, and felt very lonely. She knew COB could see it.
"Actually," COB said, "right here is good. People come and go in the corridor, but nobody'll linger. It's an unwritten rule on Challenger, my rule, that if you see people whispering here, you make a point not to listen."
Ilse frowned.
COB shrugged. "Best I can do." He looked at his wristwatch.
"You don't use the chiefs' quarters for one-on-one meetings?"
COB laughed again. "If we aren't at battle stations, Ilse, there'll be lots of guys working or sleeping in there. So, what's up?"
"I'm not sure I should say this."
"Say it," COB said. "I'm half the crew's father confessor and surrogate mommy as it is."
"I guess you could say I'm having anidentity crisis."
Ilse saw a junior enlisted man coming down the passageway. The man nodded and quickly wriggled-by.
When he was out of earshot, COB said, "Welcome to the U.S. Navy, Ilse. Last mission was an adventure, right? This time, the novelty's worn off, you realize it's hard work and dangerous, and you feel you've lost control of your life. Right?" Ilse nodded reluctantly. "I keep trying to figure out how I fit in."
"You mean, the gender thing?"
"It's not that. Everyone's been perfectly nice…. No problems at all in that respect." Except for Jeffrey now, Ilse told herself, and whose fault is that?
"Good," COB said. "I put the word out, you and Lieutenant Milgrom are part of the family"
"Thanks." Ilse said.
"I told the guys to think of you as their sisters…. That makes hanky-panky incest."
