Tidal Rip

The liquid hydrogen would be pumped into the cryogenic storage tanks inside the von Scheer’s hull through a special fitting in the side of the hull near the stern. Beck saw the thick insulated transfer hose was already in place. Several of Beck’s crewmen, supervised by the senior chief, stood on the after hull or on the pier. They worked ropes that helped support the weight of the hose as it bridged the gap from the edge of the pier, over the frigid dirty water in the dock, and up to the hull’s refueling port.

All is in order….

And except for the type of fuel, and what weapons that fuel is meant for, this could be a scene off one of our diesel U-boats in World War II.

Beck watched idly from a distance as technicians in protective suits worked controls at the base’s fueling station, beyond the far end of the pier. Quickly, exposed pipes and valves began to cake with frost: moisture from the air in the pens, instantly freezing on contact with the chilled fittings. One man went to turn a large main valve wheel, to admit the super-cold liquid hydrogen into the hose to the von Scheer.

Beck saw a sudden blur of frantic motion. Someone shouted, but the words were lost in a roar of glaring, angry, bright red flames.

Beck flinched involuntarily against the radiant heat as men rushed to douse a fire by the refueling station. Other men dashed for more hoses. A special team in silver reflective flame entry suits moved in with their foam applicators.

Beck knew immediately that something was terribly wrong. The fire grew hotter and brighter, and as he watched, the visible front of the flames engulfed a wider and wider area. Beck’s heart pounded hard — the men were being driven back, and their firefighting hoses were burning through. Beck heard more garbled shouting and screaming. He bellowed orders of his own, but the von Scheer’s crew were already racing to disconnect the fueling hose.

The heat in the enclosed space of the pens began to mount frighteningly. Burning rubber, lubricants, paint, even clothing gave off sooty, choking clouds of thick black smoke. The smoke mixed surreally with the fluffy billowing white of searing live steam from fast-combusting hydrogen. Beck watched in disbelief as someone in the distance collapsed, his whole body on fire.

Beck desperately wanted to help, but the scene was almost the length of two soccer fields away and there was nothing he could do. The von Scheer’s hatches stayed sealed up — Beck dared not try to have one opened lest he endanger his ship catastrophically. Beck turned to Werner Haffner, standing there mesmerized. He shouted, “Come on!”

Both men ran to the far end of the pier, beyond the von Scheer’s bow — away from the fire. They were confronted by the huge steel interlocking blast doors leading out to the fjord; the way was barred completely.

Beck glanced back in abject terror. Hungry flames like living things were leaping to more and more cartons and crates of provisions, feeding hungrily on hydraulic fluid in cranes, or licking seductively at oiled machinery.

Steam lashed Beck’s skin and throat. Smoke hurt his lungs. His eyes stung blindingly. Roaring and crackling punished his ears. He felt unbearable heat on his face, felt heat right through his uniform. The fire was out of control.

Beck tore off his sword belt and urged Haffner to do so as well. There’s only one thing left.

Beck shoved Haffner into the water in the dock and jumped in after him. Both men went far down before they could fight their way upward for air — from below, Beck saw eerie red and orange glows flicker and glint off the water. At last his drenched head broke the surface.

The water was salty and bitterly cold. Beck coughed as it went up his nose. His eyes burned even more, from the salt, but at least he and Haffner were protected from some of the heat. The air this low was more breathable. Beck felt his woolen uniform begin to soak through, chilling him — in the wintry fjord, just outside, floated many big chunks of ice. Then the cold hit with full force. Through his sodden white dress gloves Beck’s fingers ached with a throbbing pain. His breathing came in uncontrollable, overrapid gasps. His clothing grew heavy from the weight of added water, and he knew his attempts to swim were getting clumsier. He began to fear hypothermia as much as he feared the fire.

Beck saw Haffner also struggling to keep afloat. Neither man wore a life jacket. Beck summoned the last of his strength. He grabbed the lieutenant and together they worked their way to the first of the big rubber fenders that cushioned the von Scheer against the pier. There were no steps or handholds for them to climb onto the fender. Its top was much too high for Beck to reach. Beck floated like an insignificant speck next to his ship. He looked longingly up at her massive hull: immense and round and smooth, inhuman, uncaring, and slimy from immersion in seawater during the latest shakedown cruise. It was impossible to get up that way without help.

Beck’s fingers were completely numb from the cold, and he’d lost most of the feeling in his groin and in his neck. His eardrums hurt as he heard a dull thud, then a sharp bang, from the direction of the fire. Above him a layer of smoke and steam grew thicker, reaching lower and lower each second. Beck wondered if he’d drown first, or asphyxiate. He and Haffner huddled their freezing bodies together for warmth, their arms hooked through fittings in the fender to keep their heads from going under. At the same time, in mind-twisting contradiction, the exposed top of Beck’s head and the tips of his ears suffered more and more heat. In the distance men continued to shout or scream unintelligibly.

Beck waited for the end, for a final blast of liquid hydrogen flash-boiling into gas and detonating inside the U-boat pens like a hyperbaric bomb.

But the pitch of the fire sounds altered, becoming more defensive and subdued. The loudest roaring now was the blasting of water from firefighting nozzles. The shouting Beck heard was much more confident, not panicky… even triumphant.

The noise and heat began to diminish.

The roaring changed pitch yet again. Ventilators on full power drew fresh air in from outside and the smoke was expelled. At last crewmen appeared on the forward part of von Scheer’s hull. They lowered a rescue team on ropes, and these men pulled Beck and Haffner out of the oily, stinking water.

Someone put a thick wool blanket around Beck’s shoulders and gave him a glass of medicinal brandy. He gulped it gratefully, but shook off any offers of further help. Now he was very angry, angry that something had gone wrong that might have harmed his beautiful ship. Angry at himself, for being caught so useless. Then he saw dead bodies on the pier, some of them charred, and wounded men, some with serious burns. Now Beck was even angrier, because in the crisis he’d run for his life while others bravely battled the fire. The fact that there was nothing he could have done did little to ease his mind.

The ship’s medical corpsman came out of a hatch, with spare sets of winter coveralls and seaboots and towels.

“Get out of those wet things immediately, sir,” the corpsman told Beck. Beck and Haffner stripped and dried themselves, putting on fresh clothes right there atop the hull. An assistant corpsman climbed out of the hatch and helped Beck don a thick orange parka for added warmth. Beck felt better physically, and the brandy and the anger he was feeling restored his mental strength. He had a thousand things to look into.

“How many of the crew are hurt?” Beck demanded.

“No one below, sir,” the corpsman said. “Topside, I don’t know yet.”

The chief of the boat stuck his head out of the forward hatch. He was the highest-ranking noncommissioned officer aboard, and overseeing the day-to-day well-being of the ship and her crew were significant parts of his job. “Negligible damage below, Einzvo. Engineer reports he’s inspecting the outside stern right now, but so far just a few nicks in the anechoic coatings.”

Beck breathed a sigh of relief.

“Sir!” called the senior chief whom Beck had talked to before, the leader of the refueling party. The man walked up the aluminum gangway from the pier. “You better come and see this.” The chief’s jumpsuit was covered in soot; his eyes were red and his nose dripped black snot. He sounded hoarse, and Beck could see the marks from a firefighting respirator mask against his face. But at least the chief was all right, which seemed to suggest the other crewmen at the back of the hull might be safe.

Beck eyed Haffner. “Sonar, go below and get some rest.”

“But, sir—”