by Scott Cook
“He has done nothing with which you can reproach him,” Imani offered. Although her tone was gentle, I noticed a hardness in her eyes, “And could you do so? I sense there’s something between the two of you. How interesting.”
Audrey scoffed, “It’s not about him but about you, Imani. Your reputation proceeds you.”
“I certainly hope so,” Imani replied levelly, “Because your view of it is grossly mistaken. Let me prove it to you. Dine with us, Audrey. Perhaps then you’ll see that we’re not your grandfather’s adversaries. On the contrary, we could be of great service to each other.”
Audrey leaned back in her chair and seemed to consider the other woman for a long moment, “I’d love to. It gives me a chance to hear how your bosses weren’t the ones who tried to assassinate an old man this morning.”
“I was distressed to hear about that,” Imani said, “but I assure you—“
“Let’s just see what happens,” Audrey said.
Joe and I exchanged a look but said nothing. The evening did promise to be interesting.
Chapter 19
Eastern Gulf of Mexico
October 11th, 1945 – 0535 local time
The Bull Shark had not surfaced. They’d had to go up in order to keep up with the faster U-boat… faster while submerged at any rate. However, the American submarine had another advantage. The ship was equipped with a snorkel that could extend from periscope depth. This allowed the boat to use her more powerful diesel engines while remaining below the surface, at least for the most part. The snorkel made a nice feather line across the surface just as the periscope did, but with the only enemy target almost seven hundred feet below, this wasn’t an issue. Running the diesels submerged also cut down on surface noise, allowing the American boat to more easily maintain their track on their adversary.
“Still got him, Dutch?” Williams asked as he sipped his morning coffee and munched on an egg, bacon and cheese sandwich.
The new XO nodded as he turned away from the sonar readouts, “He’s about two thousand yards ahead and still at seven hundred and fifty feet.”
Williams was leaning over the chart table, “Not for long, he ain’t. We’re coming up on the middle grounds now. Bottom comes up from the current depth of six hundred fathoms to thirty right quick.”
Sparks joined the captain and the XO at the chart, “Maybe we should start active pinging. Keep a good eye on them so he doesn’t try and hide in whatever bottom terrain there might be.”
“Concur,” XO said, patting the new Chief of the Boat on the shoulder.
Williams smiled and then frowned, “Hmm… no, I think that’d be the last thing we’d do.”
Dutch and Sparks exchanged a look and then Dutch nodded, “Right… we’d be helping rather than hurting him.”
Sparks frowned for a moment and then the light seemed to dawn in his eyes too. Williams was glad to see that. Sparks was by no means an unintelligent man. Yet he’d been handling torpedoes for the most part during the war and that’s where his mind went by nature. It was good to see him thinking outside of his professional box, as was necessary for the Cob.
“He’d use our superior acoustics to get a better picture of the bottom,” Sparks said with a sigh, “Goddamn it… should’ve known that up front.”
“No, it was a good suggestion, Cob,” The new skipper said, “But what that Krout doesn’t know is that our passive listening is improved, too. As soon as he starts coming up, we’re gonna start heading down”
“Suppose we lose him?” Dutch asked, “Suppose we can’t distinguish that boat from whatever bottom is down there and we sail right by.”
“Then he shoves a couple of fish up our asses, that’s what,” Sparks grumbled.
“Sure enough,” Williams stated, “So we’ve got to be ready for that. We need to assume that’s what’s going to happen in fact. Hell… I think we need to make sure that’s what happens.”
“Skipper?” Sparks asked in confusion.
“We go right over his head,” Williams laid out his thoughts, “Their captain is looking through his scope. At a hundred and eighty feet, there should be plenty of light as the sun comes up. Enough to see us go by and for him to manually aim his fish.”
“Don’t matter none,” Sparks put in, “They got them new sound homers.”
“Yeah,” Dutch said, “At close range, even at depth… he can’t miss us.”
“Right,” Williams said, “But he also can’t fire at any old range, right? He’s got to have a minimum range so his fish don’t circle back and impact on his ship. What would that be?”
Dutch frowned, “Hmm… maybe… fifteen hundred yards?”
Sparks shook his head, “My guess is more like a thousand. I’d have to think they got some safeties on them fish. At a thousand, that’s sixty seconds of run time before the torpedoes’ sonar starts pinging.”
“Okay,” Williams said, “So he fires when we’re a thousand yards ahead. We’re moving at ten knots, let’s say, so that cuts his fish’s close rate down to twenty knots. A minute twenty before it hits us.”
“Eighty seconds to do what, though?” Sparks asked.
“To launch a counter shot,” Dutch said, snapping his fingers, “We set one of those after fish with a fuse so it explodes right in the path of theirs. It either kills them or screws up their homing signal!”
“Yeah…” Sparks said hesitantly, “But that ain’t enough time for us to set a fuse, slap the cone on and get that fish loaded again…”
“We’ve got more time than that,” Williams stated, “We’re gonna assume that he fires as soon as possible. But we’ve still got to pass overhead and get far enough away that he feels comfortable shooting.”
“I see what you’re getting at,” Dutch said, “Our speed dictates his firing time. The slower we go, the longer he’s got to wait before he can safely fire his torpedoes.”
Sparks grinned, “So we can control that. Assumin’ he shoots at the soonest possible time.”
“Which would be what?” Williams asked.
Dutch and Sparks were quiet for a moment as each did some rough calculations in their head. Sparks’ eyes lit up but he waited for Dutch out of respect.
The new XO nodded, “We’ve got to be at least a thousand yards away, if Sparky is right and I think he is… so the Jerry fires when we’re six… no seven hundred yards away. So that by the time the fish runs out to a grand, we’re past the safety margin and it hits.”
“Concur,” Sparks remarked with a smile, “So we slow down to say three knots and that gives us a couple of minutes. The Nazis won’t suspect anything because they’d expect us to be going slow to look for them.”
“That’s some good work, gents,” Williams commented.
“And our fish is all set,” Dutch concluded, “As soon as he shoots, we shoot our first counter shot.”
“Both fish,” Williams corrected, “one as you say, XO. And the other we fire a few seconds later and send it right up his nose. We should get a good transient when they fire and we’ll know the differential of depth, which won’t be much this shallow.”
“I got ya, skipper,” Sparks said, “We shoot, kill their fish and they don’t even hear number two coming until it’s too late!”
“Then we step on the gas, evade and maybe go topside,” Williams said.
“And if our fish doesn’t kill him,” Dutch said, “He might come up too.”
“Then we hit him with our forward tubes, right?” Sparks asked, a predatory gleam in his eye.
“Give that man a cigar,” Williams said with a grin, “We pay those fuckers back for what they did.”
Yohan Verschmidt had the con. He stood in the zentral near the chart table tapping it absent mindedly with a pencil. The frown he wore on his boyish face spoke volumes.
“Where is the captain?” Chief Kumanz suddenly spoke almost in Yohan’s ear.
The new XO flinched slightly, so lost was he in his own thoughts that he hadn’t heard the chief
of the boat approaching.
“He’s taking a much needed rest,” Yohan almost managed to say without scorn. He didn’t really care that much.
Kumanz treated him to a crooked smile, “Better watch that, XO. Our new captain has a temper.”
Verschmidt scoffed, “Fuck his temper. What can I do for you, Oberbootsman?”
“I wanted to report that the torpedo room is ready,” Kumanz said, as if this wasn’t already known and hadn’t been the case for hours now, “Tubes 1 and 2 loaded. Two more eels ready to load on the word.”
Verschmidt eyed the other man for a long moment. This was not news nor was it required. There was something else. He waited.
Finally Kumanz sighed, “Sir… it’s the boys. They’re getting anxious. I’m especially worried about Schumer.”
Verschmidt was taken aback by this very human admission. He had always seen the beefy Kumanz as just another hard-assed Nazi enlisted man. He’d never done anything but tow the party line, on those rare occasions that he spoke of anything but torpedoes. Usually, though, he was just another roughneck assigned to do a hard job and determined to do it well.
“You think the pressure is getting to him?” Yohan asked, aware of his pun.
Kumanz smiled thinly, “In a matter of speaking. He’s always talked of his vengeance… but after seeing what happened to the captain… he seems troubled.”
“What do you suggest?” Yohan asked.
“Perhaps move him to a different duty station,” Kumanz said, “he’s had training in the engine and sonar rooms… I think the stress of the torpedo room is getting to him.”
“Send him up here,” Yohan said, “I’ll find something for him to do.”
“Sir!” The man at the sound gear reported, “Bottom is beginning to rise. Eleven hundred meters now and coming up steeply.”
Yohan nodded at Kumanz who turned and headed forward again. The XO made a mark on his chart and noted the depth, “Where is the American?”
“Seventeen hundred meters astern and on the surface,” The man replied, “I am hearing screw noise and his diesels. He is closing on us, though.”
“Very well,” Yohan said.
“It would appear that the game is about to begin,” Came the arrogant voice of Bausch as he entered the control room, “how long until the bottom levels out?”
“According to the chart,” Yohan said flatly, “Which as we know is not highly accurate… perhaps ten or fifteen minutes at present speed.”
Bausch nodded and rubbed his hands together in barely contained excitement, “This shall be a thing of beauty, Einsvo. We’ll show this American what happens when you tangle with the Kriegsmarine… and then we’ll show his countrymen what happens when you defy the Reich!”
Yohan had to school his expression and only responded with, “Yes, kapitan.”
“Pilot, increase speed to seventeen knots,” Bausch ordered, “Einsvo, recalculate.”
“Eight minutes,” Yohan said immediately.
“Are you sure?” Bausch asked with a sparkle of bemusement in his piggy eyes.
The new XO nodded curtly. Bausch knew he was right. The man was simply enjoying tweaking his executive officer. He was, as Yohan had always known, a first rate prick.
“American is increasing speed to match,” The sound man reported.
“Excellent,” Bausch said, “Let him. Is he pinging?”
“No, sir,” The sonar man stated, “No hydrophone effects at all.”
Bausch frowned, “Strange… you’d think he’d be banging away so as to be sure he doesn’t lose us. Opinion, Einsvo?”
Verschmidt’s guts twisted. He knew why the American wasn’t using active sonar and he loathed to tell this bastard anything that could help him. Bausch was a murderer and a traitor and he deserved to die. Unfortunately, that also meant the entire crew of Ariovistus would die with him. And Yohan Verschmidt was too good and conscientious an officer to allow that.
“He has superior sonar capability,” The XO stated, “His passive listening gear is better than ours, I think. Further, if he goes active, then he enhances our passive listening ability as well. He is playing this very carefully… sir.”
“That so, Yohan?” Bausch asked, “That so…? I concur. No matter, then. We can certainly track him easily enough and his passive sonar makes it that much easier for us to hide. Depth?”
“One thousand meters and rising,” The sonarman reported.
“Phone talker,” Bausch said, “Tell torpedo to stand by to shoot. I’ll be ordering two eels very shortly. Have them set their depth at twenty feet.”
As the zentral phone talker began to speak, young Ernst Schumer appeared in the forward hatchway looking nervous. He quickly and quietly made his way over to Verschmidt, trying to ignore the look of disapproval Bausch tossed his way.
“Sir,” Schumer said quietly, “Reporting as ordered.”
“You have had training in sound equipment, yes?” Verschmidt asked the boy.
“Yes, Einsvo,” Schumer said.
“Then get up into the conning tower and assist,” Yohan ordered not unkindly, “We must both carefully track the American as well as determine the topography of the bottom we’ll be trying to blend into.”
“Aye, aye,” Schumer said and scampered up the ladder.
The minutes seemed to crawl past. Slowly, at least it seemed slow, the sea floor rose to meet them. Just as predicted, in less than eight minutes, the bottom was nearly as shallow as the submarine.
“Pilot, put all planes on a rise of…” Bausch said and turned to his XO.
“Twenty degrees,” Yohan reported, “That should maintain a fifty foot gap as both we and the bottom rise. Suggest we reduce speed to one-third also. Less noise will help us blend.”
“You heard the man, pilot,” Bausch said. He came to stand next to Yohan and spoke softly, “I wish to get much closer than that, Yohan.”
“Once we reach the mean depth,” Yohan replied, bristling internally at Bausch’s familiarity, “We can use fathometer readings to get a better understanding of the bottom topography. We can do a visual search using the periscope as well. Then we can find an appropriate place to bottom the boat. I assume that’s your plan, sir?”
“Exactly,” Bausch said.
“Bottom leveling,” Schumer called down, “Sixty-two meters.”
“Excellent,” Bausch said, “Pilot, level the planes. Make your depth… fifty-seven meters. Make revolutions for two knots. Status on the American?”
“His diesel noises have stopped…” The leading sonarman replied, “I’m getting a faint screw signature and hull popping… he’s five hundred meters astern and coming down. Depth… twenty meters… still descending.”
“Raise the periscope,” Bausch stated, “and inform me when the Yankee has levelled off.”
The scope hummed as it rose through the hull. Bausch flipped the handles down and ordered the scope stopped when the eyepiece was where he wanted it. He peered into it and slowly began to rotate.
“Activate search lights,” Bausch said, “the light is still low… but I can see a bit… ah, that’s better…”
“Sir, American has levelled off at thirty meters,” The sonarman reported.
“Very well,” Bausch said distractedly.
After one full rotation, Bausch seemed to settle on something just to starboard of the centerline, “Pilot, come right fifteen degrees, ahead slow… yes, that’s it. All stop!”
“Sir?” Yohan asked.
“There is a defile of sorts ahead now,” Bausch said, “Take a look, Einsvo.”
Yohan peered through the scope at the uneven landscape turned gray from the watery silver light of the rising sun and the search lights of the ship. He saw a flattish plain interrupted here and there by loose rock formations. Ahead of them, there was a divot in the sandy bottom that appeared to be a shallow granite canyon perhaps a quarter mile long and twice as wide as the ship. It cut at least ten feet into the sea floor. He thought he saw
a school of some kind of fish flitter past his view.
“Phone talker,” Bausch said a little more quietly than he’d been speaking, as if now that he was planning to hide he had to keep his voice down, “Order torpedo room to reset depth on both eels to twenty-six meters.”
Bausch took the scope back from Verschmidt, “We’re going to lower ourselves into this canyon. Pilot, flood after ballast tanks by twenty percent, forward by ten… yes… yes… give me a short burst of reverse thrust.”
“Answering reverse,” The pilot commented. After two seconds he reported, “Answering all stop.”
There was a remarkably soft shudder as first the stern then the bow of the U-boat settled onto the sandy bottom. Bausch turned to Yohan with a smug grin on his face.
“And that is how that is done, Einsvo,” he crowed, “Standby to fire eels! Sonar, where is our target?”
“Holding at thirty meters,” Schumer reported, “he has reduced speed to three knots… now passing overhead.”
“Excellent,” Bausch said, “When he is six hundred and fifty meters away… we shoot!”
Without warning, the deck slid sideways and everyone standing in the zentral was nearly pitched off their feet. As if slammed by a giant hand, the stern of the U-boat slewed sideways and a tremendous booming clang reverberated through the ship from stern to bow.
“My God…” Yohan breathed, already knowing what had happened, “Phone talker, all compartments! Make damage report to the zentral!”
Bausch hadn’t taken the time to study the currents and an eddy, perhaps created as the bulk of the ship settled into the narrow space, had pushed the stern several meters to starboard. Part of the boat had struck the solid granite to their right.
And had most certainly given their position away.
“Got him sir!” Dutch shouted and dropped down from the conning tower, “The bastard tried to hide on the bottom. We damned near lost him, too. Then we just picked up a hot transient in the water! He’s about two hundred yards astern.”
“Okay,” Williams replied, “He’s on the bottom then. Probably got shoved by a current or something. Set depth for the fish in tube ten for one hundred and eighty feet. Set tube nine to neutral depth, zero gyro. I want that one to go straight aft. Phone talker, tell after torpedo to start loading both tubes. Activate the two minute pencil fuse on the fish for tube nine, slap that cone on and get that fish loaded, flooded and launched, ASAP!”
