Tidal Rip

Jeffrey used his light pen. “Position the two probes here, and here.” He marked places to the north and south of the seamount peak. “Hold them at a depth of three thousand feet.” That was their crush-depth limit, and also put these listening outposts near the sweet spot of the deep sound channel.

“Data preset.”

“Very well, Fire Control. Firing point procedures, LMRS units in tubes seven and eight.”

“Ready.”

“Tube seven, shoot.”

“Tube seven fired electrically.”

“Unit is running normally,” Milgrom reported.

“Tube eight, shoot.”

“Tube eight fired electrically.”

“Unit is running normally.”

“Very well, Sonar, Fire Control… Helm, on autohover, make your depth five thousand feet.”

Meltzer acknowledged. Jeffrey watched his screens as Challenger descended beside the stark and jagged basalt face of the seamount. Meanwhile, on the tactical plot, the icons for the probes moved toward their designated places. COB took control of both probes from his console.

“Helm,” Jeffrey ordered, “on auxiliary maneuvering units, rotate the ship onto heading two two five.” Southwest.

Meltzer acknowledged. The auxiliary thrusters were mounted at bow and stern, and helped the ship navigate in tight quarters. Safely below the two probes, Challenger gently pivoted while the fiber- optic tethers to the probes continued playing out. Jeffrey did not want to break the tethers to those probes.

“Helm, back one-third, make turns for four knots.”

Challenger eased away from the seamount face and the probes, keeping her bow — and her torpedo tubes — aimed in their direction.

“Helm, all stop. On autohover, take us to the bottom.”

The tension in the control room rose as Challenger went much deeper. Jeffrey watched as a gauge showed the outside pressure increase more with every foot.

“Hull popping,” Milgrom reported at nine thousand feet.

It couldn’t be helped. The ridge terrain should help mask the ship from von Scheer — Jeffrey hoped. “Very well, Sonar.”

“Hull popping,” Milgrom said again at eleven thousand feet.

“Very well.” The rote of standard reports and acknowledgments always went on, especially entering combat. Crisp and clear two-way dialogue, with no chance for awful mistakes or missed information, was indispensable.

Nearing fifteen thousand feet, Jeffrey felt the deck under his feet begin to buckle slightly as Challenger’s ceramic-composite hull was compressed. COB worked his console to maintain the ship’s neutral buoyancy because as she was squashed in from all sides, she displaced less water and acted heavier. COB expelled water from the variable ballast tanks to lighten the ship. At such great depth, the hardworking pumps made noise. This too can’t be helped.

Dust and crumbling heat insulation fell from the squeezed-in overhead as Challenger descended more. Extra damage-control parties were already waiting in key places throughout the ship, since Challenger had been at battle stations and rigged for deep submergence for some time. Even so, crewmen squirmed. People brushed the dust and insulation off their consoles and their clothes. Jeffrey did this too, as casually as he could, to set an example. But he knew that, three miles down, the slightest leak could be catastrophic. He saw some people sweating despite the cold air used to cool all the ship’s electronics. Everyone grew very hushed, speaking in whispers if they spoke at all, and moving as little as possible: the hull compression so deep forced deck sound-isolation rafts and machine-vibration damping mounts to make hard contact, spoiling much of Challenger’s normal quieting.

Jeffrey realized his own hands felt ice-cold. He ordered the air circulation fans turned off — his excuse to himself was to quiet the ship even more. Quickly the compartment grew stuffy and humid, from so many overexcited bodies in close proximity.

“Sir,” Meltzer reported, “my depth is fifteen thousand feet.”

“Very well, Helm… Fire Control, Sonar, now we wait.”

CHAPTER 39

Ernst Beck’s ship was at battle stations and the Zentrale was rigged for red. Karl Stissinger, the einzvo, sat beside the captain at the command console. Baron von Loringhoven stood in the aisle, observing.

“My intention,” Beck stated, “is to let the tactical situation itself reduce uncertainties. Since it must be clear to Fuller that we’re approaching along the Walvis Ridge, we can expect to meet him there. His best strategy is to sit in ambush at ultraquiet and force us to remain on the move, giving him the sonar advantage. He has to be somewhere ahead of us, to stay between us and our missile launch point against the target convoy.” Beck used his light pen on the nautical chart and gravimeter display on his console. His markings were reproduced on Stissinger’s screens, and on the digital displays on the forward bulkhead used by the pilot and copilot.

“Challenger will almost certainly wait at this prominent terrain feature here. A deep pass leading north-south through the ridge just east of the Wust Seamount. He’ll expect us to come past, and then he’ll pounce.”

“Understood,” Stissinger said.

“What are you going to do about that?” von Loringhoven asked.

Beck turned to von Loringhoven. He tolerated the baron’s presence out of self-interest: it was better to have him as a political friend than a political enemy. Since their defeat in South America, the baron’s presence aboard had become superfluous. But Beck was wise enough to know that both he and von Loringhoven would have to close ranks and work very hard to save their reputations and careers when they returned to Germany.

Sinking Challenger and devastating the Allied relief convoy will be my route to professional salvation. Having von Loringhoven here as a high-ranking objective witness will corroborate my claims when I draft my after-action report.

Beck’s newfound value system, the pseudotheology of the classic Germanic warrior ethic, inspired him and infused him with eagerness for the hunt.

I’m conscious of this transformation within me. I’m grateful for the moral load it took off my mind.

Beck smiled a predatory smile. “Baron, we’re going to send Captain Fuller a little surprise.”

“Torpedoes in the water,” Milgrom shouted. “Two, three, four torpedoes in the water at our depth, passing below our northern off-board probe! Four more torpedoes in the water under our southern probe!”

“Torpedo headings?” Jeffrey snapped. “Weapon types?”

“Torpedoes now rounding north and south faces of Wust Seamount at seventy-five knots. Torpedoes inbound at Challenger. Torpedoes are Axis nuclear Sea Lion units!”

Hostile inbound weapon icons popped onto the tactical plot.

Shit. Beck knew I was here. He’s smarter, more aggressive than I thought.

He’d supposed to act like a boomer captain, hiding and protecting his ship till it’s time for him to launch.

But he’s fighting like a fast-attack commander, a good one — sneaky, hard-hitting, outpsyching me from the start.

The gravimeter told Jeffrey he was badly boxed in: Immediately behind Challenger, a cluster of seamount peaks rose straight up almost three miles high.