Tidal Rip

“A direct order, Sonar.” Beck pointed at the open hatch; Haffner climbed down. Beck envied Haffner his energy, the resilience of youth, but he knew that with Haffner’s wiry, birdlike build delayed shock could set in soon.

Beck followed the senior chief wearily, and warily. The chief’s whole manner told Beck it would be bad news. They walked toward the dockyard’s refueling station.

The station equipment was charred, though the main liquid-hydrogen containment hadn’t been breached — Beck knew they’d all be dead now if it had. The ceiling everywhere was blackened, and twisted aluminum ducting and broken wiring conduits hung down. These swayed weirdly in the artificial and icy wind from the forced- ventilation ducts.

Overhead lightbulbs were shattered, and Beck felt bits of broken glass as they crunched beneath his boots. Emergency floodlights bathed the scene. Paint was burned and peeled from structural beams; the naked steel was oxidized to rust. The concrete floor was slippery from firefighting foam. Mounds of debris from once-neat stacks of spare parts and supplies and food still smoldered or dripped; firefighters methodically hosed down stubborn sources of smoke. Two forklifts and an overhead traveling crane were total losses.

Despite the ventilators going all out, the smell was terrible. Beck saw men using digital cameras to record everything they could. He saw other men fill body bags, or lay white rubber sheets over smaller pieces of flesh.

“Here, sir,” the senior chief said. He had to raise his voice above the continuing roar of the ventilators. The chief led Beck to a body bag. Rescue workers stepped respectfully aside. The chief unzipped the bag.

The thing inside looked barely human. Blood oozed where there once had been skin. The clothing was either dark ash or was soaked with the bright red blood. The stench close up, to Beck, was much too familiar.

The body was burned beyond recognition. The chief reached down and lifted the corpse’s identity tags, on a chain around what was left of the neck. Ernst Beck knelt and read the metal tags; someone else had already scraped off the ashes and clotted blood. This was the corpse of Beck’s captain, caught on his way from the base admiral’s office, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Before the dismay and grief had a chance to sink in, the base admiral himself strode up.

“Sabotage,” the admiral snapped. Almost two meters tall, he towered over Beck. His eyes were hard and his lips were mean and his whole manner said he was not used to being questioned by subordinates.

Even so, Beck asked how he knew.

“The valves for the foam were all chained in the off position. They were chained on, like they should be, when inspected half an hour before the refueling started…. And the water deluge system, it’s fed by gravity alone, it’s supposed to be foolproof. But something, someone, put obstructions in the holding tanks. Waterlogged wooden plugs dragged into the distribution pipes the moment the teams yanked the emergency downpour.”

“But somebody still had to start a fire, Admiral,” Beck said. “Didn’t all the equipment get checked?” For incendiaries, or time bombs, he meant.

“A suicide arsonist. That was the easiest part for them to arrange…. We were infiltrated. Norwegian freedom fighters.” The admiral surveyed the scene, which Beck now realized was being treated like a crime scene. “One or two of these bodies… The saboteurs were probably the first to die. If my firemen had been one jot less aggressive attacking the flames with what little they had until we could fix the main problems… We averted a total disaster by seconds.”

Beck felt stunned and violated that this secure base had been so brazenly, easily penetrated. But he also had to admire the skill and self-sacrifice of the partisans.

“Did they know the von Scheer was here?”

“We have to assume so. It can’t be just chance, that all this happens right as you’re fueling your missiles.”

Beck nodded grimly. “That means the resistance knows all about us.” The von Scheer’s location in northernmost Norway was one of Germany’s most closely guarded secrets.

The admiral’s face hardened even more. “Yes. Which means the Allies might know already, or they’ll find out very soon. You must get under way at once.”

“But what about the captain?”

“You assume command. Get the von Scheer out of here. She’ll be much safer at sea.”

“Are those my formal orders, sir?”

“Yes. Verbal, but formal. You’re by far the best qualified. I’ll send you a messenger with spare keys and the combinations for the commanding officer’s safe. Meantime finish inspecting your ship for damage, then begin reactor start-up. You can study your deceased captain’s mission orders once you’re under way.” He nodded to an aide, who handed Beck a thick sealed packet marked in red MOST SECRET.

Beck took it. “Er, yes, Admiral.”

“Manage as best you can. This is not your first patrol.”

No. Just my first patrol as a captain.

“Yes, Admiral. Of course.”

The admiral shook Beck’s hand gruffly, then glanced around again at the death and the wreckage. “Such a waste of good men. I’ll never hear the end of this from Berlin.” Members of the admiral’s staff, and shore-support logistics officers, were already gathering, seeking the admiral’s attention on urgent details. Standing around, they gaped at the gore and destruction. But Beck had seen more than enough.

He turned to walk back to his ship.

“Wait,” the admiral called. “One other thing. You wouldn’t have known.”

“Sir?”

“Berlin has a passenger for you. That’s him now.” The admiral pointed to a figure walking down the ramp from the upper, administration level, now that the automatic fire-containment doors had all been raised. Beck saw a civilian, carrying a small suitcase.

The civilian came closer. He wore an expensive business suit and a fine silk tie. He glanced at the blood and burned flesh all around with a look more of disgust than of horror.

“Are you the von Scheer’s captain?” the man asked Beck. His voice was very refined. There was a certain aristocratic hauteur to his expression. His posture, his movements, were polished and smooth. And also subtly condescending.

“No. The captain is dead. I’m first officer.”

The admiral overheard. Admirals always do have eyes and ears in the back of their heads.

“I said you’re commanding officer now,” the admiral snapped. His tone conveyed, So act the part and get on with it.

“Indeed,” the civilian commented, taking this interplay in. He held out his hand and Beck shook it as firmly as he could. “Rudiger von Loringhoven,” the civilian said, by way of introducing himself.

Von Loringhoven began to walk toward the von Scheer’s gangway, forcing Beck to follow him.

“Who are you, exactly?” Beck asked.

“Diplomatic Corps. Are the kampfschwimmer aboard yet?” Kampfschwimmer, battle swimmers, were the German Navy equivalent of U.S. Navy SEALs or the Royal Navy’s Special Boat Squadron.

“Yes,” Beck said. “Before the fire, with all their equipment… If you don’t mind my asking, why are you here?” Beck realized that von Loringhoven spoke with a hint of a Spanish accent. There were much easier ways to get from Norway to Spain than by submarine.

Von Loringhoven handed his leather suitcase to a crewman and started down the ladder inside the forward hatch. He didn’t request permission to come aboard, or show any other courtesy. Halfway down, von Loringhoven glanced back up at Beck.

“It’s all in your secret orders, Captain. I should know, I helped write them.”

CHAPTER 1