Tidal Rip

“Backed up to cover my rear, grabbed a garbage can lid as a shield, picked up a whiskey bottle and broke it, and let them come at me.”

“And you were what, fifteen? Weren’t you scared?”

“Captain, frankly I just did what I had to do. I’m sure you’ve been there.”

“To myself I call that the warrior gene.”

“Anyway, somebody in one of the buildings called the cops, and by the time they got there I’d taken one bad cut to my face, and I put three of my ‘assailants’ — that’s what the policemen called them — in the hospital.”

“With?”

“Lemme see. One badly broken kneecap. One sucking puncture wound to the chest. And one, shall we say, very severe impact to the groinal area.”

“You sound like you enjoyed the whole business.”

“Looking back, sort of, yeah. I guess you could say I found my calling that night. The cops, you know, they tried to convince me to do the Police Academy after high school. I think they liked my moves. They were great guys, don’t get me wrong, Captain. But I was on the swim team, I really liked being around the water. So it was a no- brainer, to join the navy when the time came, then put in for the SEALs. And lo and behold, here I am, Lieutenant Felix Estabo, former master chief, suddenly an officer and a gentleman.”

Someone knocked.

“Come in.”

A young messenger entered. Like many of the crew, he wore a blue, flame-retardant cotton jumpsuit with a zipper up the front and his name embroidered on a patch on one side of his chest. Although the other side lacked the silver dolphins qualified enlisted men wore — he was still fairly new to the ship, and to submarines — his jumpsuit did have the ribbon for the Presidential Unit Citation. That had been Bell’s idea, for everyone to wear theirs, to strengthen group cohesion and morale.

“The XO said you ought to have this immediately, sir.” He gave Jeffrey an envelope. “The Ohio grabbed it for us off the broadcast, the last time they raised their satellite mast.”

“Okay,” Jeffrey said. “Thanks.” The messenger left and shut the door; Jeffrey appreciated help from Ohio — to receive high-baud-rate signals, a sub had to raise a satellite dish on a mast above the surface, breaking stealth.

“What is it?” Felix said.

Jeffrey opened the envelope. He read. Attached to the message text was a download of a photograph.

Jeffrey made eye contact with Felix. “It’s confirmed the von Scheer is loose in the Atlantic.”

“How do you know?”

“The message doesn’t say. They wouldn’t, for security, in case of signals intercept by the enemy. But from this” — he held up the message papers — “it’s quite definite the von Scheer broke through past the UK more than two days ago.”

Felix frowned. “That means they could be almost anywhere.”

“There’s a postscript for me personally with this,” Jeffrey said. “From commander, U.S. Atlantic Fleet.”

“Really? A four-star, huh? What’s the postscript say?”

“Literally, ‘Good luck, and don’t screw it up.’”

“Four-stars talk that way?”

“It’s sort of a private reference, to when he and I spoke one-on-one in Norfolk. And basically yes, Admiral Hodgkiss can talk that way.”

“What’s that picture with it?”

Jeffrey took the hard-copy photograph, and taped it to the wall of his cabin, next to the picture of his folks. “That is the commanding officer of the Admiral von Scheer.”

The picture was obviously cropped and enlarged, from a group portrait probably taken before the war. It showed a man in German naval uniform, of average height, a bit overweight, with the beginnings of a receding hairline. He looked modest, even-tempered, intelligent. His features were undistinguished, not especially handsome or dashing; he even seemed a little shy.

Felix got up and studied the photo. “How do they know he’s the one?”

“Again, it doesn’t say. You and I can guess. Reports from moles, message traffic decrypts, collated with file photos or old news clippings, things like that.”

“In other words, use my imagination.”

“Yeah. But this message says the information is good. Rated A-one, completely reliable and confirmed by multiple sources.”

Jeffrey pursed his lips as he finished the message.

“What’s the matter?” Felix said.

“I know this guy.”

“Well? A NATO combined assignment or something?”

Jeffrey turned and stared at the picture. “No, not like that. I mean I’ve met him in battle before.”

Felix hesitated. “Is he good?”

“He’s still alive. That says a lot.”

“You don’t seem happy, Captain.”

“I’m not. If I know him, that means he knows me. My tactical style, my strengths, weaknesses, how I like to fight.”

“I guess that’s not good news…. You think the Germansknow you’re in command of Challenger?”

“After all the publicity over my Medal?” Jeffrey snapped bitterly. “How couldn’t they?”

“Sorry, sir. Just asking.”

“I’m sorry, Felix.”

Jeffrey stared at the picture again, long and hard. He tried to read the eyes that seemed to be peering back at him. “His name is supposed to be Ernst Beck. He was the first watch officer, last time. Naval intell knows hardly anything about him.”

“The exec?”

Jeffrey nodded. “Just that he’s married, with two kids… Plus whatever I can piece together from when I clashed with his ship before Christmas.”

Jeffrey tapped the face of the von Scheer’s captain and took a very deep breath. “Simply put, Felix-the-ex-master-chief, our job is to kill Ernst Beck before he kills me.”

CHAPTER 13

After sneaking through the teeth of Allied defenses in the G-I-UK Gap, Beck’s ship and the two Russians steamed southwest, submerged, past Ireland. The Republic of Ireland, neutral in World War II, was a staunch friend of the U.S. and UK in the present crisis. Ireland’s flotilla of coastal patrol craft were a constant thorn in Ernst Beck’s side, until he left them behind. The noise signatures of other enemy ships and planes and sonobuoys the von Scheer crept past echoed within his head. The transit beyond the British Isles had been a test of resolve and fortitude for everyone in Beck’s crew.

Then, while running shallow under the Russian fast-attacks, Beck had received an intelligence download, through von Scheer’s on-hull very-low-frequency underwater antenna: HMS Dreadnought was somewhere north of Iceland, and USS Challenger was stuck in dry dock in her Connecticut home port.

The same download told him that the relief convoy from the U.S. to Central Africa had set sail, at about the same time von Scheer and the Russians rounded North Cape. Sooner than I’d