Crush Depth

saw the frequency spectrum of the contact’s noise. “Captain, it’s nuclear powered.”

Jeffrey nodded. “Must be the fast-attack that dropped off the mini, going back to Norfolk.”

“I can’t be positive, sir.”

Jeffrey waited and waited for more information. Technicians intently worked their gear. Kathy and her senior chief murmured in consultation.

Jeffrey forced himself to be patient. He knew Kathy Milgrom had been in combat on HMS Dreadnought since the very start of the war. He knew firsthand, from Challenger’s mission to Germany, that she was a more than capable officer.

“Got ’em again,” the sonarman exclaimed — with relief, and professional pride.

Jeffrey opened his mouth to offer a compliment.

The young man jolted like he’d gotten an electric shock. His voice rose two octaves. “Master One is hostile! Confirmed! Classify as a definite Amethyste II!”

Jeffrey was wide awake. Everyone sat up much straighter. The Amethyste IIs were German, captured from France. They were state-of-the-art, and deadly.

“Chief of the Watch,” Jeffrey snapped, “sound silent general quarters. Man battle stations antisubmarine.” COB acknowledged.

The word passed quickly, and more men ran to the control room. The compartment became a sea of hurrying figures in blue cotton jumpsuits, squeezing past each other purposefully. Some men grabbed seats and powered up their consoles. Others stood in the aisles. The phone talker took his position, put on his rig, and did a communications check.

“COB,” Jeffrey said, “get me a torpedo tube, fast.”

“I better go down there, Captain.”

“Do it.” A senior chief took over from COB in the left seat at the ship-control station. Harrison still had the right seat as helmsman. Jeffrey saw Harrison shift in his chair. He flexed his fingers as he gripped the control wheel. Sure. He’s nervous.

I’m nervous too.

Jeffrey set his jaw in firm concentration.

Bell dashed in in his boxer shorts, barefoot and rubbing sleep from his eyes, and sat down next to Jeffrey. At battle stations, Bell was fire-control coordinator. Sonar and weapons reported to him.

Commodore Wilson came in, followed by Sessions. Wilson wore a bathrobe and slippers. Sessions stuffed his khaki shirttails into his pants by the navigation console.

“What is it?” Wilson snapped.

Jeffrey told him.

“Evade it.”

“That’s my intent.” Jeffrey turned to Bell. “Fire Control, can you give me the enemy’s course?”

Bell got an update from the fire-controlmen who sat to his right.

“Not yet, Captain. Sparse data. The contact seems to bounce around a lot because of the eddies. We’re in bad water, sir, sound paths get twisted all over the place.”

“Range? Speed? Anything?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Evade it,” Wilson repeated, coldly.

Jeffrey needed to make a decision, with very little to go on. He figured the Amethyste II was waiting for a juicy target — a big, noisy carrier — to come out of the Norfolk, Virginia, naval base, heading for the North Atlantic battle front. Jeffrey would distance himself from Norfolk and hence from the enemy sub.

“Helm, right ten degrees rudder. Make your course one three five.” Southeast.

Harrison acknowledged. He sounded calm enough, but his rudder work was still clumsy under pressure.

The new course should give Kathy better sonar data. It pointed Challenger’s port wide-aperture array directly toward Master One. The wide arrays, attached along both sides of the hull, could do powerful things with advanced signal processing.

“Fire Control,” Jeffrey urged, “get me a firing solution, just in case.”

“Still working, sir,” Bell said. It was strange to see him sitting in his underwear, taller than Jeffrey, fit but not as muscular. Bell might just as well have been wearing a formal dress-mess tuxedo, for all the difference it made to his manner and bearing.

“Fire Control, sir,” Kathy broke in. “We’ve got more detailed tonal data. Advise this Amethyste II is the von Tirpitz.”

Bell raised his eyebrows. “Captain, that’s the one that launched those Mach eight missiles at New York.”

Jeffrey had a flashback, him and Ilse atop the Empire State Building. He frowned. This is personal now.

“But what’s it doing here?” he asked pointedly, disturbed. “Intelligence said it evaded our forces that counterattacked and snuck back to Europe badly damaged.”

“No evidence of damage in the tonals, Captain,” Kathy said. “We’ve a definite match to the New York event’s datum on the von Tirpitz.”

“So much for intelligence,” Wilson said. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Phone talker,” Jeffrey said, “ask COB how they’re doing.” Jeffrey had to have the ability to defend himself.

“Torpedo room reports they need another few minutes.”

That’s not what I wanted to hear. If Master One’s captain was willing to carry liquid-hydrogen- fueled cruise missiles, then what other awful weapons does he have aboard?

Jeffrey could only wait: for his ship to put some distance between him and the Tirpitz, for Bell to figure out the Tirpitz’s depth and course and speed, and for COB to get a tube in order for Jeffrey to fight if forced to. Unfortunately, the acute need for stealth meant that Challenger had to move slowly, and the men in the torpedo room dared not bang against the hull.

Jeffrey made a conscious effort to keep from fidgeting in front of his crew. He was inherently a man of action. He disliked unavoidable idleness, this inevitable part of undersea warfare that required he hold for better data and better position before having something specific to do.

Jeffrey pictured the von Tirpitz lurking out there somewhere near, her hull containing a hundred-plus well-trained German officers and men who’d do their damnedest to sink Challenger if given the slightest chance.

Each second felt like an hour.

A sonarman shattered the edgy silence. “Hydrophone effects!” he screamed.

“Classify,” Kathy ordered, very coolly.

“Underwater missile booster engine firing!”

“Where?” Jeffrey demanded.

“Source is Master One,” Bell said.

Crap. “Put it on speakers.” A rumbling roar filled the air.

“Main missile engine firing!” The roar got deeper and louder.

“It’s a Shkval, Captain,” Kathy reported. “Constant bearing and depth, signal strength increasing. It’s aimed at Challenger!”

The Tirpitz found us. With these quirky sonar conditions, we just weren’t quiet enough.

“Helm, ahead flank.”

“Ahead flank, aye!” Harrison turned the engine order telegraph, a four-inch dial on his console. “Maneuvering answers, ahead flank!” Challenger sped up.

Jeffrey fought to keep himself from cursing aloud. The Shkval undersea missile-torpedoes were Russian, sold to the Axis. They rode through the water in a vacuum bubble caused by their own speed. They could do three