Tidal Rip

the Walvis Ridge.

“Fuller has the same information we do. He can read the same maps. His natural impulse and best strategy is to set up another ambush for us, here.” He tapped that spot on the chart. “The same confusing sonar and oceanographic conditions we used to our advantage as we crossed the South Atlantic from the Rocks to Mar del Plata apply at this point equally well.” In the hemisphere-girdling zone where frigid currents from Antarctica clashed and merged with warm ones from the equator.

“If he hides inside the convergence,” Stissinger said, “we might be able to sneak past him.”

“So he’ll either wait for us in front of the convergence, or behind it,” von Loringhoven said.

“The question is which,” Beck said, “in front or behind? Fuller needs to slow us down as much as possible. He knows, so far, that each of our direct encounters has been indecisive, a draw. The Rocks, and then this Walvis pass. Therefore, he’ll wait in the ridge terrain for us behind the convergence.”

“Why behind?” the baron asked.

“May I?” Stissinger said.

Beck smiled and nodded. He noticed that Stissinger had been following his lead for the past few days, accepting the baron’s presence without rancor — and allowing their passenger-guest to join in some command discussions as a useful third voice.

Stissinger really is the perfect einzvo: loyal and very capable, yet also keenly adaptable to changing conditions on the ship — responsive without being prodded as my own political thinking and the social dynamic evolve.

“If Challenger waits for us on the closer side of the Subtropical Convergence, Baron,” Stissinger explained, “Jeffrey Fuller runs a serious risk. If we break contact for just a short while, say using the extreme acoustic sea state of torpedo blasts, the convergence gives us sanctuary. It’s an ideal place for confusing sound-propagation qualities to offer us excellent cloaking, even from active pinging by a desperate Challenger. We’ll have gotten between Fuller and the convoy. But, if Fuller seeks to engage us next on the far side of the convergence, that sanctuary becomes irrelevant. If we try to use it then, we run the wrong way, farther from our priority target, the Allied convoy. And we still have to come back and fight our way past Fuller all over again.”

“Your logic seems inescapable,” von Loringhoven said.

Beck patted Stissinger on the shoulder. He had a selfish motive here, besides giving his XO well-deserved praise. He was showing the baron he ran a skilled and talented crew — and again, it was best for them all to close ranks in front of their seniors in Berlin about the South American mess. Von Loringhoven seemed to get the point: his aloofness and his arrogance appeared to be finally gone for good.

Stissinger continued. “So long as Challenger is believed to have survived, Allied antisubmarine forces are hobbled. In the difficult terrain conditions within the ridge, they dare not attack any very deep contact, lest it be Fuller and not us.”

“You mean,” von Loringhoven said, “so long as Fuller is alive, that keeps us safe from Allied bombardment?”

“Precisely,” Beck said. “We use Fuller’s mere existence for our own purposes, for now.”

“And then what’s your intention?”

“Move quickly to the convergence. Turn Fuller’s ambush plans against him yet again, from there.”

It was ten hours later. Jeffrey released the crew from battle stations a few at a time so they could use the head, drink coffee, and eat. He had black coffee and a ham sandwich brought to him at the command console. He thanked the messenger, gulped everything down while the youngster stood there, and handed back the empty mug and plate.

Jeffrey returned to his harrowing vigil, waiting for the von Scheer to pierce the Subtropical Convergence as Beck moved his way along the Walvis Ridge.

He glanced at the picture of Ernst Beck on his screen.

Well, buddy. Soon one of us is gonna die. I intend for it to be you.

The crew around Jeffrey were tired and tense. But they all knew well from training drills, and from at-sea full-scale tactical exercises fought against U.S. or Royal Navy subs before the war, that waiting at battle stations — doing nothing yet not relaxing for hour after endless hour — was sometimes a vital part of a submariner’s job — even if the submarine he was on was called a fast-attack.

Jeffrey flipped through his menu screens. His last two off-board probes were positioned to the southwest, one on each flank of the Walvis Ridge, to listen for von Scheer to emerge from the sonar forest formed by the Subtropical Convergence. Jeffrey had Challenger hovering, with her bow also aimed southwest, to launch his fish in Ernst Beck’s face with the least possible delay.

Bell cleared his throat to get Jeffrey’s attention.

“Yes, XO?”

“Why don’t we send a few fish out in front, to loiter and get a better first crack at him?”

“Not a bad idea, but their fuel only lasts so long. And even loitering their engines make noise. We’d just waste ammo, or give ourselves away.”

“Understood.”

“A good question to ask, though,” Jeffrey said. He stretched. “Overall, I do like this setup. As you said, XO, I need to do the unexpected, be unpredictable for me.”

“How does this accomplish that, sir?”

“I’m using the exact same tactic as before. Ambushing Beck from behind a major hydrographic feature. Before it was that mountain pass. This time it’s the convergence. Doing the same thing twice, especially when the first time failed, is what Beck will least expect.”

Jeffrey and Bell returned to their waiting game. More hours passed.

“Torpedoes in the water!” Milgrom screamed. “Four inbound torpedoes held by passive sonars on each off-board probe!”

“Range? Bearing? Speed?”

“Range ten thousand yards from Challenger.” Five nautical miles. “Bearing two zero five.” South-southwest. “Closing speed seventy-five knots! Sea Lions, Captain!”

“They came right out of the convergence, sir,” Bell said. “Von Scheer guessed where we were all over again.” He sounded dismayed.

All over again is right. Jeffrey was really angry with himself.

Jeffrey ordered nuclear snap shots launched in self-defense from six tubes. He had the tubes reloaded, with more Mark 88s armed. He ordered more nuclear snap shots — some against the inbound torpedoes, some into the convergence to find the von Scheer.

He knew that scoring a hit against the von Scheer — inside the convergence eddies and conflicting currents and chaotic temperature and salinity horizontal layers and vertical cells — was unlikely.

More Sea Lions could come tearing at him any moment.

“Beck suckered me good,” he said under his breath.

“Captain?”

Jeffrey needed to make a rushed decision. For his ship to take much more punishment, and suffer serious damage, would leave the convoy wide open to devastation by the von Scheer.

Supplies of crucial spare parts, and layers of systems redundancy, were severely depleted in the previous skirmish. More of this abuse, and something Challenger can’t do without will break beyond repair — and then we’ve had it.

Jeffrey ordered Bell to retarget his latest salvo entirely for self-defense, and set them to blow by timer in case he lost the wires to those fish. He wrote off the last of his off-board probes. In the edgy silence before all his fish would blow, Jeffrey ordered Meltzer to turn Challenger onto course zero three zero: north-northeast. He called for top quiet speed.

Once more Challenger retreated, farther up the ridge.