Tidal Rip

see his men as they went by, toward the control room and the torpedo room forward, or aft to the wardroom or enlisted mess and the berthing spaces. Farther aft was the big missile compartment with its vertical cruise-missile launch tubes, and then came the shielded reactors, with the engineering spaces toward the stern.

Some chiefs nodded politely to Beck; the enlisted men mostly avoided meeting his eyes; the few officers he saw mouthed a polite guten morgen. Good morning.

Overall, Beck liked what he saw. Although this was the von Scheer’s maiden combat patrol, covert shakedown cruises and training exercises had melded these men into a sharp team. Now, by their facial expressions, their postures, their crisp appearances, they showed they were eager and ready for battle. There was a collective excitement to put more Allied ships where they belonged: at the bottom of the sea, in fragments.

Beck nodded to himself. You could tell a lot from body language, when over one hundred men lived in such close quarters inside a submarine’s pressure hull, with no windows and no mental or physical privacy at all. He’d known most of these men for about eight weeks, the intense time since he joined the von Scheer from recuperation and leave, after his previous mission. There was much yet to be done, to test the men and test himself, but they seemed prepared to begin the ultimate testing. They’d accepted his role as new captain seamlessly. Beck’s reputation as a strong tactician preceded him, spread by those few among the crew who’d been with him before and survived. The Knight’s Cross around his neck — which he wore even with his workaday black at-sea submarine coveralls — empowered him with much credibility. Its sparkling inlaid diamonds were a visible reminder to each man aboard that Beck had gone places, done things, made decisions, scored kills that most of them could only dream about.

This aura and mystique is something that, as their commanding officer now, I fully intend to maintain and exploit.

Satisfied with the engineer’s report and everything else, Beck dismissed the messenger. Then, on second thought, he told the youth to have someone bring him a fresh cup of hot tea.

The empty tea mug sat on the deck off to one side of Ernst Beck’s desk. On his desk now was the large envelope with the secret-mission orders given him by the rear admiral, the orders that Rudiger von Loringhoven had helped to write. The envelope was open.

Beck was not at all pleased. The envelope contained a brief letter of instructions, and another thick envelope within it. The letter stated that von Loringhoven was to serve as a special adviser to the von Scheer’s captain, on matters pertaining to the ship’s broad patrol routing and target priorities. Von Loringhoven, though a civilian diplomat, was seasoned at working with naval attaches of Germany and several foreign powers. He’d been thoroughly briefed on the overall war situation by the Foreign Ministry. He’d conducted background discussions with the grand admiral, commanding, Imperial German U-boat Fleet, to prepare him for this cruise. He was well versed on the latest Axis stratagems and war aims.

Fine. But none of this says why von Loringhoven is here.

The letter told von Scheer’s captain to open the second envelope, the one under the cover letter, only in von Loringhoven’s presence. While exercising final discretion as commanding officer — to assure the ship’s successful completion of her mission and to preserve her safety as much as the rigors of war would allow — von Scheer’s captain was nevertheless to render von Loringhoven every assistance that tactical circumstance permitted.

Wheels began to turn in Ernst Beck’s head.

This letter is addressed to a dead man, who outranked me, and who knew things I don’t know. It would have been irksome enough for a full commander to have a civilian breathing down his neck. My deceased former superior owned the jovial personality, and the proven leadership skills, to make such an arrangement work. I’m less senior, and not feeling nearly so jovial.

Beck decided to begin by standing on ceremony. Von Loringhoven, as a diplomat, should appreciate this. He picked up the intercom headset for the Zentrale — the control room.

A response came immediately. “Acting first watch officer speaking, Captain.” This was the weapons officer, Lieutenant Karl Stissinger. Beck had given him the job as acting executive officer and moved the assistant weapons officer, a junior-grade lieutenant, into the weapons officer’s position. Then a senior chief became acting assistant weapons officer, and everyone else in that department moved up a slot. Though the men were saddened to lose their captain, and some still seemed a bit stunned or disturbed by the death and its cause, overall they were pleased. Everyone had in essence been promoted, and if this patrol was successful these promotions were sure to be made permanent.

“Einzvo,” Beck said, “please send a messenger to my cabin.”

“Jawohl.”

“And you don’t need to call yourself ‘acting.’ You’re the einzvo, period. It’s better that way both for you and the crew.”

“Jawohl.” Stissinger sounded confident, and pleased.

It felt strange for Beck to be calling someone else einzvo. I’ll just have to get used to that, myself.

The messenger arrived. This one also was young, fit and trim, intelligent but obviously not a deep thinker.

Is he old enough, in years and life experience, to understand the true meaning of mortality? Is he wise enough to grasp how absolutely final his own death would be?… Does he think at all of the Hereafter, or is he preoccupied as I am with the constant living purgatory of this godforsaken war?

“Ask our official passenger to join me here.”

In a few moments Beck heard a knock, not at his cabin door but at the door to the small shower and toilet he shared with the executive officer’s cabin.

Von Loringhoven was using the executive officer’s cabin. He’d been quite insistent on this. For mission security, he said. If the acting einzvo was a mere lieutenant, used to sharing a cabin with two junior officers aboard the crowded von Scheer, let him continue doing so.

Now von Loringhoven seemed to want to sneak around, and not even walk the two meters through the corridor and mingle with the crew.

“Come.” Beck projected his voice toward the stainless-steel door to the head and tried to hide his annoyance. He felt the deck nose down a few degrees as the von Scheer — with Stissinger’s new weapons officer at the conn — followed a dip in the seafloor, still hugging the bottom for stealth. With a quick dart of practiced eyes, Beck checked the readouts on his cabin console: latitude 71 degrees 58.37 minutes north, longitude 31 degrees 24.08 minutes east. Course 041 true, depth 324 meters, speed 15.0 knots. Course 041 was roughly northeast, farther into the Barents Sea, into Russian home waters.

Only ship’s course and speed on the console were steady. The little red digital figures showing the von Scheer’s position and depth changed rapidly.

All this ran through Beck’s head with no effort, in a fraction of a second. He realized he was avoiding the main issue: his first private discussion with Rudiger von Loringhoven.

Von Loringhoven came into Beck’s cabin. He showed none of the respect or awe one would anticipate from a nonmilitary guest in a nuclear submarine commander’s inner sanctum. In fact, von Loringhoven was too blase about the whole experience of being on the von Scheer, as far as Beck was concerned. He thought there was something quietly amoral about the set of the man’s eyes.

“Ach,” von Loringhoven said. “I see you’ve begun to open your orders.”

Beck tried to be pleasant. “Are you ready for me to unseal the inner envelope?”

“Yes.”

“Please sit. Is there anything you need in your cabin, to be more comfortable? Can I have something brought from the wardroom for you?” Beck hoped the diplomat would say yes to the last point so he could get some solid food himself.

Von Loringhoven used the guest chair. “No. The relief convoy from America to Central Africa will be moving very soon. Our land offensive in Africa, to crush the enemy pocket and link with the Boers, should begin any day. Other things must be carefully coordinated. Time is of the essence. Let’s proceed.”

Beck opened the envelope. Inside were several typed pages, a high-density data disk, and another sealed