Crush Depth

“Watch your trim,” ter Horst snapped at the helmsman and chief of the boat. “Don’t let her broach!”

The satellite was in high earth orbit, passing overhead. It belonged to a neutral Third World country, but had been built in Germany before the war. When the bird was launched its owners had no idea it carried extra circuitry they didn’t pay for, covertly embedded military data-relay links the Allies wouldn’t try to shoot down or jam, because they wouldn’t know to.

But these satellites had no spy cameras, which would have been too obvious. The uplink feed came instead from an unmanned aerial vehicle, a stealthy recon drone launched by a German class 214 modern diesel sub. The sub lurked north of ter Horst’s target, in support of his mission. The drone kept a close eye on Diego Garcia, from a few thousand meters’ altitude, sending pictures up to the satellite by a focused microwave beam. Voortrekker herself was well to the south of the enemy’s island base, hiding from visual detection beneath thin overcast. She was observing radio silence, just receiving the downlink feed.

Van Gelder forced himself to stay outwardly calm, to keep his men calm. It wasn’t easy. Visibility under the overcast was good. With little warning, low-flying aircraft armed with nuclear depth bombs might spot Voortrekker’s masts at any moment.

The Pentagon

Ilse heard voices from inside the meeting room. The voices were muffled, but Ilse knew people were arguing, shouting. She heard an especially deep, booming voice, which sounded accusing and irritated. Others answered harshly, including at least two women, as tough as the men. The marine guards stood there stoically.

Ilse turned to Jeffrey. “Not a good start to the day.”

“Last night was not a good night in New York.”

Ilse rolled her eyes and nodded when it hit her. The taunting humiliation of that Mach 8 cruise-missile raid would preempt anything else on the agenda. She glanced at the double doors. How long have they been in there? Since 5 A.M? Since last night?

The discussion quieted down. A navy captain came out. He was shorter than Ilse, maybe five foot five, balding, aloof, and arrogant. He introduced himself and curtly shook hands with Ilse and Jeffrey. He was the senior aide to the vice chief of naval operations, the four-star admiral who chaired the meeting.

“Exactly what group are we addressing?” Ilse asked.

“That’s classified, who’s on what committee. We don’t publish organization charts these days. They’re ready for you.”

Ilse took a deep breath and stood up as straight as she could. She followed Jeffrey and the captain into the meeting room. In spite of the inconvenience of the trip, she’d been looking forward to this chance to show off what she’d done. Now, still emotionally numb from those few horrible minutes atop the Empire State Building, she saw twenty very senior faces stare at her from around a huge mahogany conference table. There were more generals’ stars on their shoulder boards and admirals’ rings on their jacket cuffs than she could count.

An atmosphere of conflict lingered heavily in the room, and in the body language. Not one person smiled, and their eyes were hard and unreachable.

On Voortrekker

Voortrekker was jarred by thunder that came right through the hull, building to a harsh crescendo, dying off abruptly. Nasty vibrations sent pins and needles up Van Gelder’s arms and legs. “Loud explosion,” the sonar chief shouted, “bearing two seven zero!” West. “Range eighty thousand meters.” Forty nautical miles. “Classify as an Allied nuclear depth charge, twenty-kiloton yield!”

“Ooh, they’re using biggies.” Ter Horst tut-tutted. “They’re clueless where we really are. They’d need a lucky shot to even come close.”

“Sir,” Van Gelder said, “that must be enemy aircraft, searching for us, attacking one of the decoys.” He was doing his job, giving ter Horst a tactical assessment.

“Yes, yes. Carrier planes from the Reagan. Relax, Gunther. We’re not submerging now. We need this imagery.”

Telling Van Gelder to relax only heightened the tension in the control room — younger crewmen squirmed in their seats.

“Aye aye, Captain,” Van Gelder said. “It’s a big ocean they have to search, and our antenna mast is stealthy.” He said that for the men, sounding as cocky as he could, trying to believe it so that they would.

I knew ter Horst was aggressive, but this is cutting things really close.

The Pentagon

By the time Jeffrey’s second briefing slide came on the screen, the generals and admirals started arguing again — it was as if he and Ilse weren’t there. They argued about the missile raid on New York, and the lack of supplies to the dwindling but crucial Central Africa pocket. They argued about the whole course of the war. There were accusations thrown between the army and navy and air force, and counteraccusations. The marines and coast guard argued too. It got so ugly the vice chief of naval operations had to call a fifteen-minute break.

The VCNO’s senior aide came up to Jeffrey and Ilse. “You didn’t hear any of that. After the recess, you two go on like it never happened. Understand me?”

Ilse nodded. Jeffrey said, “Aye aye, sir.” Ilse asked directions to the ladies’ room.

Jeffrey decided to walk some distance from the conference room. He didn’t want to stand at a urinal next to someone from this crazy, trouble-filled meeting.

Jeffrey found a rest room in a hallway that seemed quiet. He entered and got the shock of his life. Standing there in a business suit, taking a leak, was his father.

FOUR

Jeffrey’s dad turned and noticed him, and did a double take. “It is you,” Michael Fuller said to his son. Jeffrey felt his chest tighten. The man began to wash his hands, half ignoring Jeffrey. Testing me. Challenging me. Jeffrey knew too well he and his father both had their egos, especially with each other.

“I, um,” Jeffrey stammered. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “How come you’re here?”

Michael Fuller used his reflection in the mirror to look at Jeffrey. “That’s the best you can manage? ‘How come I’m here?’ Not ‘Good to see you, Pop’? Not ‘How are the nieces and nephews’?” Jeffrey had two older sisters, both married and with kids.

“Sorry. It’s been a rough couple of days.”

“Yeah.” His dad was sour. “For all of us.” He turned to face Jeffrey, and grudgingly made conversation. “You stationed in the Pentagon now?”

“No. Just came from out of town, for a meeting. You?” Conflicting emotions flooded through Jeffrey as his father grabbed some paper towels. Part of Jeffrey wanted to run, in shame. Part of him wanted to talk to his dad here forever, to beg forgiveness, to make up for lost time. Jeffrey realized he was regressing — meeting parents often does this to people. He made himself maintain his dignity.

“I work in the DOE now,” Michael Fuller stated. “That’s the Department of Energy. Well, you’d know what DOE means. You sailor boys do love your acronyms.”

Jeffrey winced.

“Right here in Washington,” his father said. “They made me a deputy assistant secretary. Energy conservation on the home front, that’s my bailiwick. The DOE’s on the cabinet, and needs to be, with this war.”

“That’s great, Dad. Sounds like a real big promotion.”

“I’m one of the top twelve people in the department.”

“It, uh, it must have happened fast.” Like in the last eight weeks.

“Yeah. There’ve been a lot of shakeups since the war’s been going so badly. Peacetime yes-men and timeservers who couldn’t hack it, they’re out on their butts.”

Jeffrey nodded. “That’s happened in the navy too.” Which was why the job as executive officer in Challenger had been vacant back in October, when Jeffrey got his transfer to the ship