Crush Depth

“Good,” Wilson said. “Meet her.”

“Navigator,” Jeffrey said, “give me an intercept course at eleven knots.”

If Wilson had told Lieutenant Sessions in private what this was about, Sessions showed no sign of it.

Jeffrey studied the gravimeter display and the digital nautical charts. There were shallow areas — banks and shoals — in almost every direction. Jeffrey would have to be careful, conning Challenger in such restricted waters. At least — thanks to the rendezvous off Cape Fear with the minisub — Jeffrey’s battle- seasoned helmsman, Lieutenant (j.g.) David Meltzer, was back aboard. Meltzer was a tough kid from the Bronx, and a Naval Academy graduate, and Jeffrey liked him.

“Captain,” Wilson said, “before you move, secure all active sonars. Listen on passive systems only.”

“Commodore, we need the mine-avoidance sonars.” There was always the chance another U-boat had snuck into the Caribbean and planted more naval mines.

“Overruled. Mines are a lesser risk for now than breaking stealth with sonar noise.”

Jeffrey opened his mouth to object, but Wilson gave him a dirty look. Jeffrey closed his mouth so fast his teeth clicked.

Sessions relayed the rendezvous information to Jeffrey’s console. Jeffrey issued helm orders. Meltzer acknowledged; Meltzer’s enjoyment of having something unusual to do vanished at the thought of hitting a mine. Ensign Harrison, sitting near Meltzer, leaned closer, watching carefully — Bell had chosen Harrison as the battle- stations relief pilot. Harrison was more nervous, too, since Wilson mentioned mines.

COB kept a keen eye on the buoyancy and trim. Sometimes he made adjustments, using the pumps and valves he controlled. One hand stayed near the emergency blow handles, just in case.

Meltzer sang out when Challenger was directly under the proper spot, which was a moving target since the Prima Latina was moving too. Jeffrey ordered Meltzer to reduce speed from eleven knots to nine, to keep station with the merchant ship.

“Captain,” Wilson said, “bring the ship to periscope depth. Be careful. The waters are crystal clear here, and it’s almost always sunny this time of year.”

What next?

“Helm, five degrees up bubble. Make your depth one five zero feet.” Jeffrey would do this in stages, for caution. Meltzer pulled his control wheel back, and Challenger’s nose came up. Her depth decreased gradually, as she and the Prima Latina steamed south. The merchant ship’s noises could be heard right through the hull: throbbing and humming and swishing, plus the odd clank or rattle.

“Chief of the Watch,” Jeffrey said, “raise the search periscope mast.” COB flipped a switch.

A picture appeared on several screens — the digital feed from the periscope. Jeffrey looked around outside the ship with a small joystick, which controlled the sensor head on the periscope mast. With Challenger’s depth at 150 feet, the periscope head was still tens of feet underwater.

“Master Seventy-seven in sight,” Jeffrey announced, even though the others, including Wilson, could easily see it on the screens. Wilson was right — it was very sunny topside.

The merchant steamer’s hull was a long dark shape above Challenger. It plowed through the water steadily. Jeffrey, looking up from below, could see Prima Latina’s creaming white bow wave, and her wake. Her twin propeller shafts, and big screws and rudder, were hard to make out. Though Jeffrey could hear the screws well enough, he wanted to avoid them at all costs.

The surface of the sea was a rippling, sparkling, endless translucent curtain. The sun cast green-blue streaks down through the water. Sometimes Jeffrey saw schools of fish, clouds of them swimming and darting. Jeffrey looked for bobbing mines, but so far there were none.

“Come to periscope depth,” Wilson repeated. “I need to take a good look at her. There will be subtle signs, like ropes on lifeboats coiled a particular way, to indicate if she’s still in friendly hands.”

“Sir, if you’re so concerned over stealth, we can’t afford to make a periscope feather on the surface.”

“Do it for a split second, to snap a picture. I must know if she’s still in friendly hands.”

On his screen, as the periscope head broke the surface, Jeffrey caught a glimpse of a scruffy bearded seaman leaning on one of Prima Latina’s railings, smoking a fat cigar. The seaman noticed the periscope at once, tossed his cigar in the water, and started for a ladder to the Prima Latina’s bridge. The freighter was flying a Cuban flag. Jeffrey cursed and ordered Meltzer deep.

Simultaneously, aboard Voortrekker, southwest of Perth, Australia

The sheer audacity of what they were doing was what impressed Van Gelder the most. Far above them on the surface bobbed an old Sri Lankan freighter, the Trincomalee Tiger.

Everything that could go wrong for the freighter had gone wrong. First her rudder jammed, then her engines failed. At fifty degrees south latitude, the furious fifties, she rose and plunged sickeningly. The Trincomalee Tiger was already well inside the extreme limit of Antarctic icebergs for this time of year: February, high summer in the Southern Hemisphere.

The wind, from the north at twenty-five knots, was forcing the now-crippled freighter ever further into the iceberg zone, and the southeast-running surface current wasn’t helping either. To make things even worse, a severe tropical storm was brewing off the west coast of Australia — in the hours to come the winds and seas around the freighter would strengthen. With no engines or steering control, the worn, tired Trincomalee Tiger might hit an iceberg and sink. Or she could simply crack her seams and founder, overstressed by gale-force winds and massive, breaking waves.

The freighter, a neutral, wallowed several hundred miles southwest of Perth, Australia. She’d already radioed a mayday on the international distress frequency. A Royal Australian Navy destroyer was kindly rushing to her aid, but with the distances involved it would be hours before the Aussies could reach the scene. An Australian long- range maritime patrol aircraft was orbiting overhead, but that was mostly for moral support; the plane was designed for antisubmarine work, not search and rescue.

It was dark, and the sun wouldn’t rise for some time, but floodlights on the freighter’s decks shone brightly. Crewmen from the freighter kept waving and gesturing for the plane to somehow land and help them, or lower a rope and lift them off, before it was too late — this was a sure sign of panic. On top of everything else, the freighter’s radar failed. In the night they wouldn’t even see an iceberg bearing down upon them in time to man the lifeboats, and the crew knew that in this rising weather the ancient lifeboats were a death trap.

It was one more part of Jan ter Horst’s master plan.

SIXTEEN

Wilson, satisfied by the periscope photo, ordered Jeffrey to continue with the rendezvous. As shown by live periscope imagery, Challenger was directly under the Prima Latina now.

Jeffrey watched in amazement and then horror as the merchant ship split apart at the keel. A mine? Kathy reported new sonar transients — machinery noise, not breaking-up sounds. Jeffrey saw that this was supposed to happen: the ship’s bottom was a giant double door.

“Here’s your ride through the canal, Captain,” Wilson said. “This wasn’t my idea. It goes way above a mere commodore’s pay grade, I assure you. I’m just following orders, as well as giving them.”

“Understood.”

“Surface your ship into the covert hold.”

I was afraid he was going to say that.

“Can’t we have her go any slower?”

“No. If she slows or stops it’ll look suspicious. She’s being painted by dozens of radars we know about, and watched by God knows how many spy satellites we don’t know about.”