Thunder In The Deep (02) (8 page)

Jeffrey'd seen—too late—how it felt to be on the receiving end of that. After Iraq, during his year of painful rehab, when he'd struggled to learn to walk again and wondered if his Navy career was over forever, his fiancée dumped him.

Jeffrey held his head in his hands, mask and all. Dear God, he had soul-searching to do. His job was to protect his crew.

Finally, Jeffrey put his highly classified orders back in the envelope, and took a deep breath. He unplugged the mask's connector hose; the compressed air made its usual pop. Jeffrey took the envelope to the CACC. He decided to

hold an impromptu mission briefing right there, within the limits of security. First, though, he owed his XO a heartfelt thank-you, and his people a sincere public apology. If they ever got through this new mission, they'd get through it together. SIMULTANEOUSLY,

ABOARD DEUTSCHLAND.

ON ANTICONVOY PATROL, SOUTHWEST OF ENGLAND

"I hate this war," Ernst Beck said. He looked at the pile of papers on the fold-down desk in his cabin and then at the man sitting opposite him.

Oberbootsmann Jakob Coomans was a seasoned noncommissioned officer. He was Deutschland's chief of the boat. At age forty-one the oldest man aboard, he hailed from Hamburg, that great port on the North Sea facing England. Coomans's build was slight, but he ruled the ship's enlisted ranks by the force of his personality and the sharpness of his tongue.

Beck sighed. "I never thought when I signed up that someday I'd sit in a German nuclear submarine, censoring crewmen's letters home, in the middle of tactical nuclear war at sea."

Coomans's eyes sparkled. "A war against our own NATO allies. A war we started."

"You always had a strong sense of the ridiculous, Chief." "Or the grotesque, sir."

"Be careful," Beck said. But he smiled. "Someone might think you disapprove of the new regime."

"Crew morale is good," Coomans said. "The first batch of letters after leave, you expect some homesickness. That's when the men's fears and regrets show most, in their words to wives and lovers."

"Wives and lovers?"

"Very funny, sir."

"But no, I agree. Their spirits seem high. They are high. Good morale is hard to fake, living cheek-by-jowl as we do." Beck had pictured each of the men as he read their letters: a name, a face, a distinct personality, each with his hopes and concerns, his strengths and foibles. Most of the hundred-plus crewmen Beck knew well, from their secret fast-attack sub training in Russia, and Deutschland's notso-secret construction at Emden. Then came the quiet practicing under the ice cap, the ultraquiet snooping off U. S. and British naval bases . . .

"And why wouldn't their spirits be high?" Coomans said. "In the Great War our forefathers took fifty percent losses in-the U-boats. In Hitler's war, it was eighty percent killed in action. Now our little Class two-twelves amount to suicide machines, but there's still no end of volunteers."

"And how will it all end this time?" Beck said. "How many dead? Widows? Orphans?

Grieving parents and girlfriends?"

"You know what Bismarck said."

"Remind me, Chief."

"There are two things you never want to see get made: politics and sausage."

"So?"

"I'll paraphrase our soldier-statesman thusly: There's a third thing you don't want to see being made: empire." "I never knew you were such a philosopher."

"Yes, you did, sir. That's why we're such great friends."

"I thought we were friends 'cause neither of us has anyone else we can talk to on this boat." In public, Beck and Coomans had to mirror their captain's detached interpersonal style.

"Don't be such a cynic, sir. You might hurt my feelings."

"That's bloody unlikely."

Coomans chuckled. "But you do see what I mean. Consider the Brits in their heyday. Killing wars over the centuries on almost every continent. The Boers haven't forgotten."

"But South Africa was on the British side in World War Two."

"Because they didn't like getting swallowed by Hitler's juggernaut. So this time we offer the Boers their own fair share of empire. At the right price every nation's soul is for sale. Empires come and go. Right now we have a Kaiser again, and a half-finished empire." Yes, Beck reflected, a nation's soul is always for sale. But what of man's soul? Why are we here? What about our responsibility to our own morality? Beck stared at a battle map taped to the wall. Yes, a sailor always has his duty, but what if that duty becomes a trap?

"I sometimes wonder if it'll end up finished, Jakob, or finished." While Beck spoke, a far-off nuclear detonation sounded through the hull, drawn out and growing to a crescendo before dying off. The tragedy of his words was heightened by the reality of their tactical situation.

"If we lose this time," Coomans said half to himself, "it will be very bad." Beck nodded somberly. There could be no quitting halfway now.

The two men, lost in their own interior journeys, were startled from their reverie by a knock on the door: a messenger.

"Sir, the captain's compliments. Enemy Convoy Section One is approaching. We're almost in attack position, and he requires your presence in the Zentrale." Beck forced a smile; it was his job to help put this convoy on the bottom of the sea today. . . . He thought of his twin sons, now ten. He thought of having grandchildren someday, of playing with them when he retired, long after this war. Germany's place in the sun. He was doing it for them.

He followed Coomans wordlessly, down the short corridor, past the Christmas decorations.

Deutschland's crowded Zentrale, her control room, was rigged for red. The men were up, excited, and Beck took an inner pride in their readiness. He'd taught them, drilled them, made them the eager tools they were for Kurt Eberhard. "Attack stations manned and ready, Captain." Convoy Section One was the target.

"Very well, First Watch Officer. I don't like surprises." Beck winced. Intel on the rendezvous of relief warships from England with the convoy had proven inaccurate. The enemy reinforcements were coming hours ahead of expected. Beck saw Eberhard study the tactical plot and frown.

"Now we're caught between the convoy's frigates driving from the south, and fresh destroyers converging from the north. And the escorting carrier battle group has us boxed in from the west."

Beck nodded ruefully: The carrier was the nuclear-powered Harry S. Truman, one of America's latest and best, probably escorted herself by four Allied fast-attack subs. Eberhard gave Beck a withering look. "If this first con voy section does get through, in spite of the beating it took off the Azores yesterday, and the second section suffers acceptable losses, Allied morale and logistics will get such a boost this war could drag on for years!"

Beck shuddered to think of the consequences if Deutschland failed today. Whole continents were waiting to choose sides, or to pick through the cooling ashes when the First World immolated itself: all of Asia, half of the Middle East, and most of South America were holding back from the fight. Everything hinged on starving out the U.K. quickly, exposing America's impotence, and scaring U.S. voters to sue for peace. Beck told himself there was no choice but to press on.

Luck and timing, good or bad, were always crucial factors in armed conflict. Merchant ship tonnage sunk was what mattered.

"I will not settle for sniping at the convoy from the flanks," Eberhard said. "To hit the priority targets with confidence, we need to get in very close, and damn the escorts." Beck eyed the large-scale digital tactical plot on his console. Deutschland steamed due west, on an interception course with Section One. She made top quiet speed, thirty knots. Her depth was fifteen hundred meters, exploiting a temperature/salinity layer caused by conflicting currents deep in the ocean—excellent concealment from searching Allied planes and surface ships.

"Sir," Beck said, "recommend update target motion analysis on the carrier group. They may cease steaming semi-independently and close up with the convoy for the rendezvous."

Beck knew his ship had a clear playing field here today, which meant she'd get no interference from Axis forces, but no help: The German Class 212's, and captured French SSNs, were striking Convoy Section Two way off to the south. This made sense, to avoid friendly fire, but Beck suspected Eberhard had had a hand in it: no friendly forces present, no credit shared.

"Concur, Einzvo, update the data. A more concentrated target for us if they do close up, but better all-around protection for them . . . which only adds to the time pressure." Beck turned to the sonar officer, who sat at the head of a line of consoles on the Zentrale'

s starboard side. He was a likable young man, Werner Haffner, an Oberleutnant zur See—lieutenant junior grade—from Kiel, a major base and port on the Baltic. Haffner was earnest and talented, though high-strung.

Beck asked Haffner the optimum depth and course for a good passive contact on the enemy carrier group. Haffner conferred with his sonarmen, then responded to Beck. Eberhard issued the piloting orders. Jakob Coomans, the

battle-stations pilot, acknowledged; Coomans sat at the two-man ship control station, on the Zentrale's forward bulkhead. Deutschland went deeper.

"Einzvo, prepare for arming nuclear weapons."

Beck and Eberhard went through the sequence with their special keys. Deutschland had eight wide-body torpedo tubes, and sixteen vertical launch tubes for her cruise missiles. Soon, the Sea Lion deep-capable eels, German Navy slang for torpedo, and the Modified Shipwrecks, supersonic antishipping cruise missiles purchased from Russia, were ready to fire. Each carried an advanced U-235 warhead of Axis design.

Beck eyed Eberhard, standing there in his austere black jumpsuit and beautifully polished sea boots, with the diamonds of the Ritterkreuz glittering at his throat, next to his bloodred arming key. Eberhard looked eager for what was to come. That's the difference between us. I fight to make a better peace, and to protect my family. He fights because he likes it.

ONE HOUR LATER,

ON USS CHALLENGER.

Ilse heard a beep on her headphones: Someone was breaking in on the circuit she and Jeffrey and Clayton and Bell were using during this SEAL mission briefing. The air in the front of the boat was still toxic from the engine room fire, and the foursome wore spare sonar headsets under their respirator masks; this way they could talk more easily, and privately. Bits of duct tape made airtight seals for the lip mikes. At this point people had gotten used to pausing rhythmically to draw breath; Ilse hardly noticed the constant hissing and whooshing all around.

"Captain, this is the Conn," Lieutenant Sessions's voice reported—he was the one who beeped.

Jeffrey turned from the digital navigation plotting table at the rear of Challenger's CACC.

"Your requested ten-minute update, sir," Sessions said from the command workstation. " The ship is at ordered depth, three thousand feet. We have fifteen thousand feet of water beneath the keel. Our course is three one five." Northwest. "Making for the Azores at top quiet speed, twenty-six knots."

"Very well, the Conn," Jeffrey said.

With water so deep, Ilse knew, long-range sonar conditions were perfect. Jeffrey wanted to stay above the deep sound channel now, to hide.

Another beep.

"Captain, Sonar," Kathy Milgrom said. "Your requested ten-minute update. One distant nuclear detonation, range and bearing match Convoy Section Two. No other new sonar contacts, sir."

Ilse, standing next to Jeffrey, saw him face Kathy and give her an appreciative nod, mask and all—Some fences had been mended there. "V'r'well, Sonar." Kathy smiled behind her faceplate, clicked off the circuit, and turned back to her console.

Bell keyed the intercom switch clipped to his belt. "Sounds like Section One is having a quiet day, Captain." Bell leaned against the nav console, right next to Jeffrey, their elbows often touching. The tension between the two men had melted quickly—as had bad feeling in general—once Jeffrey had made public amends for losing his cool. His sincerity had been moving to see, and now, if anything, people felt more tightly knit than ever.

And it's a good thing, Ilse told herself. There was lingering tension enough from those Abombs going off like strings of firecrackers during their dose call with the 212 and 214. There was added tension from Challenger's new destination, their new target. The enormous responsibility placed on their shoulders was almost staggering.

"Play it again," SEAL team leader Shajo Clayton said. He wasn't smiling. The assistant navigator, a senior chief, pressed buttons on his keyboard. Ilse watched the horizontal large screen on the plotting table.

The satellite image looked down at Earth from hundreds of miles in space. Northern Europe was shrouded in rainy overcast. There were gaps where the cloud cover was thinner.

The computer overlaid the northern coast of Germany and occupied Poland on the picture, tracing the edge of the land-locked Baltic.

At first there was nothing to see. Then it started.

There were quick flashes in some of the cloud gaps, unevenly spaced. The flashes occurred from west to east, from Germany toward Russia. They were arrayed in a line that stretched about a hundred fifty nautical miles. A very straight line. The whole thing took under a minute.

"Initially," Jeffrey said, "the Joint Chiefs thought it was a cruise missile training exercise."

"Missiles ripple-fired from a line of frigates or submarines?" Bell said. "That would explain it." Ilse knew that Bell, as weapons officer, was in his element here.

"No," Jeffrey said. "The coordination of the flashes is too perfect. Computer analysis tracked one for a fraction of a second, and studied the engine's exhaust spectrum. There's no question we're seeing a single missile, liquid hydrogen powered, a ground hugger, doing Mach eight."

"Jesus," Clayton said as he stood next to Ilse.

Bell whistled. "Nothing we own can intercept Mach eight . . . except for a nuclear area burst. We have trouble enough with ballistic missiles, the type that follow a nice parabola up in the sky."