Tidal Rip

fifty percent we’re dead already anyway.”

“Trade the remaining half, the odds we survive, for a hundred percent odds that Ernst Beck dies? Mutual suicide?”

“I hate to use that word. But basically, yes. A knowing self-sacrifice in the line of duty, for greater good… Sometimes the calculus of war is very cruel.”

“There’s just one thing. Your combat tactics in the past. They’ve been extremely risk oriented, sir. They sometimes bordered on suicide, or you intentionally mimicked suicide, to defeat an enemy captain emotionally and then tactically.”

“Right. And we know Beck knows that firsthand.”

“The danger is you’re becoming predictable again.”

“There’s one important difference, XO. This time I mean it. This time I’m not bluffing. This time I think we really need to make the one-for-one exchange.”

Bell went ashen. “Sacrifice the ship to save the convoy?”

“Those were my orders if I deemed it necessary in the last extreme. The Axis land offensive along the coast is a ticking time bomb. It’s a whole other issue besides the von Scheer. We eliminate von Scheer, at least we halve the problems for our seniors in command. It’d be a damn shame to lose Challenger, but the consequences if we put our own survival first… If we lose the pocket, then the Germans and Boers own all of two continents, and they grab a quarter-million U.S. and coalition POWs. With nukes in play and escalating, we’d never dislodge the Axis then. America would have to sue for an armistice, a dishonorable peace on enemy terms. We can’t let that happen, XO.”

Jeffrey glanced at the picture of his parents on the wall. I wish there was some way I could at least say good-bye.

Jeffrey thought of that photo of Bell’s wife and kids he’d seen him take from his wallet. Bell must be horribly torn inside. Never had the burden of command been so heavy. Jeffrey blinked and fought off the wetness that tried to gather in his eyes. Bell stared at the deck, lost in contemplation, regret etched on his face. At last he looked up and met Jeffrey’s gaze heroically.

“Sir, if you offer a one-for-one exchange with Beck and act suicidal, he’ll assume it’s one of your tricks. You’ll gain the ultimate advantage, because we know it isn’t a trick. It’s just, well, it’s just an ironic way to choose to become unpredictable.”

“Tragic, you mean.” Jeffrey had trouble talking; there was tightness in his throat. He thought of the 120 people in his crew he’d condemn to die. He thought of the widows and orphans they’d all leave behind.

Then he remembered the tens of thousands of people he’d be protecting, and the tens of millions he’d bring closer to release from under the boot of Axis tyranny. One side of the balance scale vastly outweighs the other: the unforgiving calculus of war…. I know what I must do.

“I’m — I’m with you all the way, sir…. What about our people?”

“They’ll do what we tell them to do. This is private.”

“We better get back to the control room, Captain.”

“One more thing. I’ll skip the corny crap; you know what I’d say and I don’t need to say it. Just make sure, for everyone’s morale, we don’t go in there like we’re on death row.”

Jeffrey was surprised how, once he’d made the decision, his mind cleared and he felt much less morose.

Sure, now I know I have no worries beyond my next encounter with von Scheer. No growing old and prostate trouble or arthritis, no more doing my income taxes, no endless hard work and competition as I try to climb the navy ladder. No more regrets I never married and never had kids. No on-and- off strange and strained relationship with Ilse Reebeck.

No more dentist appointments squeezed in between long months at sea. No more weekly haircuts in spit-and-polish assignments in the Pentagon. No more anything at all.

Jeffrey’s intercom light blinked.

“Captain.”

“Radio room, sir. ELF message with our address.” Each entire sentence was conveyed by a very short letter- group cipher. “Come to two-way floating-wire-antenna depth. Imperative, no recourse. It says that last thing twice.”

Jeffrey acknowledged and hung up, then turned to Bell. “We’re ordered to two-way floating-wire-antenna depth.”

“Last-minute change of orders?” Bell asked.

Jeffrey could see the needfulness in Bell’s eyes.

“We have to find out,” he said noncommittally. His own emotions were swinging wildly too.

Jeffrey studied his charts. He gave Meltzer helm orders to bring Challenger shallow enough. Since he intended to remain acoustically stealthy, and also stay masked by the bulk of the seamounts around him, he told Meltzer to rise on autohover and pivot the ship to face south-southeast. This would aim Challenger into the Benguela Current, which ran up from South Africa.

Jeffrey told Meltzer to order just enough turns on the main pump-jet propulsor to hold the ship steady against the one-knot current. He told COB to play out the two-way floating wire antenna and let it stream behind the ship, into the current.

Jeffrey gave Bell the conn. He went into the crowded and dimly lit radio room.

The communications officer — the lieutenant (j.g.) — and the senior chief were in charge, as usual at battle stations.

“We have a message relayed from Norfolk, sir,” the senior chief said. “Authenticators check out. Commander, Atlantic Fleet, wants to talk to you.”

The lieutenant and senior chief seemed worried, and confused. Challenger was being ordered to break radio silence in the middle of a major battle. Jeffrey didn’t like it either.

Have the people in Washington or Norfolk lost their minds?

Has some unified commander or carrier-battle-group admiral with no grasp whatsoever of the realities of undersea warfare made an insistent but stupid request? Jeffrey felt disgusted, betrayed — but orders were orders, to the last.

He put on a communications headset and positioned the lip mike. There was a switch on the wire, past the alligator clip meant to attach the wire to his belt. If he pressed that switch, he’d be live on the air, transmitting.

Jeffrey heard Admiral Hodgkiss’s voice in his earphones. The voice was flat and scratchy from the encryption processes, and there was heavy background noise — hissing, sirens, buzz-saw sounds — because of attempted enemy jamming.

“Challenger, respond,” Hodgkiss ordered impatiently.

Jeffrey pressed the switch. “This is Challenger, over.”

“I’ll make this fast and you aren’t going to like it. The Axis land offensive to pinch off the pocket shoreline has begun. The Boers are making a strong drive up the coastal strip, with armor. Our exhausted troops will soon be overrun.”

“Why do I need to know this, Admiral?”

“The situation is desperate. The convoy is taking a beating. The escorts and the air force are running very low on high-explosive land-attack cruise missiles, and from their current positions the transit times to launch and impact would be too late. I think the Boers know this too; that’s why they’re doing what they’re doing where and when they’re doing it…. With Lieutenant Reebeck’s help, we’ve been following your tactics and actions, and watching the string of mushroom clouds between you and the von Scheer. We knew you’d be in the Valdivias now. Your location is ideal, you’re much closer to the crisis area than our forces guarding the convoy from farther north. Your conventional-warhead ammo load-out is perfect. You are hereby ordered to conduct an immediate Tactical Tomahawk strike against the advancing Boer forces…. You’re our best hope.”

“Sir, this will completely compromise my stealth.”

“The survival of the pocket has to come first. Warships exist to inflict loss on the enemy by taking risks. The Valdivias put these emergency coastal targets well within your Tomahawks’ fifteen-hundred-mile maximum range.”