Crush Depth

be interned for the duration of the war.”

“Maybe Rodrigo can say the documents were soaked in blood and destroyed.”

“You don’t have to feed me all the details, Captain. A commodore rarely appreciates his operations officer thinking out loud in front of him when said commodore has more important work to do.” Wilson gestured to all the notes and diagrams and computer disks on his desk, where he was developing battle doctrine for working with the Collins boats in the South Pacific.

Jeffrey excused himself, and left Wilson alone. Jeffrey was grateful they’d be able to get the torpedoman with the mangled arm proper medical attention soon, after all. He went into the control room, to have the officer of the deck talk to the corpsman and then make preparations to transport the injured man. This was dealt with quickly, and word passed, and the mood of the crew lifted visibly.

With Jeffrey’s ship so inert, cocooned inside the Prima Latina, he had relatively little to do to keep himself occupied — except worry about all the things that might go wrong. He decided to stop in the wardroom for a coffee, to try to forget about naval mines and aggressive Russian trawlers for a minute.

Jeffrey shook his head to himself as he walked down the passageway, thinking. He didn’t like Wilson’s constant irritability.

But is it really irritability? He’s always been hard and demanding. Even when he was captain of Challenger and I was executive officer, he wouldn’t hesitate to roast me in front of the crew…. Maybe he thinks he’s building my character.

And maybe he’s right. If I flinch or lose my cool in front of him, what showing am I going to make against Voortrekker?

In the wardroom, Ensign Harrison sat hunched at the table, under the dimmed lighting. He was using some spare time to study for his submarine qualification. Jeffrey complimented Harrison again on his help while they docked with the Prima Latina. Then Jeffrey looked over his shoulder, kibitzing as Harrison memorized charts of Challenger’s hydraulic systems. It brought back memories of Jeffrey’s own early days in subs, cramming to earn his gold dolphins in every free moment.

That’s really what the Silent Service community is all about. Everybody needs to keep on qualifying at a higher and higher professional level. Everyone needs to help their shipmates get better and better at their jobs. The difference between me and Commodore Wilson is in our approach, our personal styles. What he does works for him, and what I do works for me.

Jeffrey poured himself a mug of coffee and took a sip. It was cold, since the coffeemaker was off to help save power. It was nice to drink it cold — the air in the ship was already warm with no air conditioning, given the tropical weather outside. Jeffrey let the caffeine flow through his system. He took a deep breath, to unwind.

Then Jeffrey had second thoughts about the commodore.

Wilson didn’t talk to Lieutenant Sessions at all the way he talked to Jeffrey. Actually, Jeffrey wasn’t sure if Wilson talked to anybody the way he talked to Jeffrey. Jeffrey wondered if it was himself, then, and not Wilson. Something about himself that made Wilson be this rough.

Jeffrey thought of his father, Michael Fuller, and the relationship he had with his dad, the way his father talked to him. Rough.

Jeffrey almost blushed. Was it something Jeffrey was doing in front of both men, something in his own attitude toward authority figures? It certainly was his way to question everything and second-guess, and bristle if he felt he was being pushed around. He’d done it to Wilson already over working with the Australians, over making flank speed through the Gulf Stream, over the secrecy of the Prima Latina, and now about the crewman’s arm. What drives this in me? Pridefulness? Rebelliousness? Resentment, even?

“Is something the matter, Captain?” Harrison asked.

That tore Jeffrey from his preoccupation fast. “I think I just made a useful connection, between two separate problems. They’re not as separate as I thought.”

“Is that good, sir?”

Jeffrey smiled at Harrison’s earnest innocence. “I think it might be.”

Jeffrey finished his coffee in one gulp, and departed the wardroom. He walked down the corridor with a lighter step. He’d gained an important insight about his own personality. He wasn’t sure what to do about it, or where it might lead, but at least his approach to authority figures was something he could try to control. Jeffrey was always biased toward action over inaction. Now he had a clue about where there was room in himself to take positive action.

He decided next to visit the enlisted mess. Between mealtimes, some men off watch would be viewing a movie, or playing checkers or cards. Jeffrey knew he ought to put in another brief appearance, and thank them once more for all their hard work getting Challenger ready for sea and repaired again after battle. It always gave Jeffrey a special pleasure to show his face and mingle with the crew — within proper bounds of hierarchy and discipline, of course.

On his way to the mess he passed outside a packed and narrow enlisted berthing compartment. Jeffrey thought of the men who’d be sleeping in there, or trying to — each man stood watches six hours on, twelve off. With constant maintenance and training duties after standing watch, they were lucky to get four or five hours sleep in a day. Some men in the berthing space would be awake now, Jeffrey knew, studying for their silver dolphins, or writing letters home that might never be delivered, or simply enjoying privacy in the only place they could: their curtained-off, coffin-size racks.

Jeffrey smiled to himself to think what wonderful people his crewmen were, so carefully selected. He smiled again, more soberly, reminding himself with pride that now — as their captain — it was his ultimate, inescapable task to oversee their welfare, ensure their morale, and protect their very lives. This relentless and immense responsibility was, to Jeffrey, deeply gratifying. It was what he had sought for, fought for, craved, for his entire naval career.

His warm inner glow was eclipsed by a troubling realization. Thinking of his crew made Jeffrey think of the man with the injured arm.

A wounded American submariner kicking around in a neutral foreign country, sedated and on painkillers… How well can my torpedoman keep up the act of being someone he’s not, and for how long? What if the Axis gets wind? Dropping him off is like us making a datum, a ticking time bomb, leaving a sign that Challenger was here….

Simultaneously, on Voortrekker

Van Gelder thought Voortrekker must be the luckiest ship in the world. Right after the Trincomalee Tiger opened the submarine hold’s bottom doors — while traveling at a dicey eleven knots — the Australian destroyer ordered her to stop because of the shootings. This gave ter Horst the best of both worlds: undetected access to the sea with the destroyer right there, and a Tiger that was stationary except for rolling and pitching. The bulk of the Tiger’s hull around them masked the noise as ter Horst gently flooded his ballast tanks. Voortrekker dived away carefully, just as another motor launch started from the destroyer to the freighter.

An hour later both launches returned to the destroyer; the destroyer and the freighter got under way; Voortrekker’s sonar showed the two surface ships were on diverging courses. The destroyer was heading back toward Perth, Australia, while the freighter was continuing with her real cargo to South America.

The Aussies must have believed the Tiger’s story, that her master’s two dead crewmen had reverted to piracy — muggers at sea might be a better term. Real pirates were a serious problem up in the South China Sea. Tragic, and senseless, though minor against the ongoing backdrop of tactical nuclear war.

But the more Van Gelder thought about the shooting incident, the less he liked it.

When forensic experts in Perth examined all the corpses and physical evidence carefully — as they surely would — flaws might well be found in the cover story. Ships or aircraft would then be sent to intercept the Trincomalee Tiger. A thorough search would reveal the submarine hold with its loading crane.

Those Australian corpses are like us making a datum, a ticking time bomb, leaving a sign