Tidal Rip

hoped. Now every hour counts. I’ll have to hurry.

At a prearranged point, over the very deep Porcupine Plain — between Europe and the Mid-Atlantic Ridge — von Scheer and the Sierra IIs parted company. The Russians turned toward Halifax and New England on some mission of their own. Spying? Trying to trail real U.S. boomers? Maintaining a forward presence just in case, or for show? Beck had no idea.

He did hope that if — make that when — the Allies saw through the deception, they’d go chasing after the Russians, on the theory that the von Scheer would still be close.

Beck knew the von Scheer was by no means safe from attack, even then. Allied forces hunted for her everywhere. He kept his ship at battle stations, rigged for ultraquiet. The men were released to eat or use the head a few at a time. Far enough from land to have a clear conscience, Beck ordered deep- capable Sea Lion nuclear torpedo warheads armed, ready for anything.

It was time to substitute one source of mind-twisting stress for another. But within her design envelope, going deep meant greater sanctuary for any sub that craved the defensive, wanting to hide. In measured stages, Beck carefully took his ship into the concealing bottom terrain, almost five thousand meters down, close to the von Scheer’s crush depth. All present in the Zentrale gritted their teeth, hoping and praying grimly that nothing in the hull or internal sea pipes would give way.

Once he was sure his command had suffered no engineering problems or flaws on the nerve-racking dive — building to a pressure of five thousand metric tons per square meter of hull — Beck passed the deck and conn to one of his officers. Stissinger could get some rest, but for the sub’s captain it was time to deal with yet another form of stress.

Beck asked von Loringhoven to meet with him in his cabin. Behind closed doors, he and the diplomat had the confrontation Beck now knew had been inevitable. Von Loringhoven tried to evade the real issues and insisted that Beck open the next layer of his sealed orders.

Beck shook his head slowly and firmly. “Herr Baron, my instructions are to provide you with every assistance, but only as appropriate to the safety and combat readiness of my vessel. I can only continue to tolerate your presence on my ship under certain conditions.” He drew on his own anger, and on the prestige of the Knight’s Cross that hung around his neck, to stand up to the aristocrat passenger.

He almost tripped into thin air when von Loringhoven answered with modest submission.

“Forgive my impertinence in your control room, Captain. I think that lack of sleep has caused me to become a rather poor listener.”

Beck recovered quickly, saving face. He suspected the diplomat had just pulled some verbal jujitsu: letting Beck’s own annoyance — meeting no resistance — throw himself off balance.

Now Beck was really annoyed: von Loringhoven showed he had known exactly what misbehavior the captain was going to unload on him about.

“Baron, we are not at some embassy or diplomatic ball. We are at sea on a naval warship, and we are at war! Do not play your word games with me. When I give you instructions, whether to be quiet in the Zentrale or to stand on your head and sing Christmas carols, you will from now on show me instant, unquestioning obedience!”

Von Loringhoven rubbed his eyes. Beck saw his jaw lock subtly, not with aggression, but to stifle a yawn of fatigue. “I apologize, Captain.”

“Do you? I am serving you formal notice right now, Baron, that any further attempts at conversational rugby with me will undermine your credibility completely! I do not have the time or the patience to coddle your ego any further. And I will not permit you to continue to treat this ship as some sort of plaything at your personal disposal. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Captain. Yes. Your message is clear.”

“And I order you to get some proper sleep at once.”

“Soon, yes.”

“Anyone who stays awake for days at a time becomes dys-functional. Anyone. You are turning into a safety hazard, a liability, and this cannot be permitted to go on.”

Von Loringhoven nodded. “I promise to sleep at least six hours each day. I had so much work to catch up on, so much to digest and visualize and rehearse. You will understand better, I think, Captain, as we proceed with our mission.”

“Why do I feel like I’m talking to a recalcitrant child? Don’t tease or mock me, Baron. I may seem a simple sailor to you, but for a landsman to underestimate an undersea battleship’s commander can be a fatal error in judgment. Fatal. I’m warning you for the only time.”

Von Loringhoven looked down at the floor. He seemed contrite and cowed. Beck wondered how sincere any of this was, and how long it would last. Beck was a man of honor, and never gave his word lightly; he would keep a solemn promise made or oath taken, unto death. He wondered if any diplomat or any civilian could understand what such commitment meant.

“Now, it is time to open the next phase of my orders. And I know what you’re thinking, that you already know what they say. Your knowledge does not impress me. To flaunt it is nothing but small-minded disrespect. Understood?”

“Perfectly so, Captain.”

“Very well. Are you ready?”

Von Loringhoven nodded.

Beck went to his safe and removed the envelope. He returned to his desk and sat facing von Loringhoven.

Opening the outer seal of the remaining package of nested envelopes, he began to read. The instructions told him to have the kampfschwimmer team leader present, the battle-swimmer commando who’d embarked with his men and equipment back in Norway before the sabotage fire.

Beck palmed his intercom mike and sent a messenger to get the kampfschwimmer lieutenant from his sleeping-and-working area aft in the missile compartment.

Then he read further, and his jaw dropped.

He looked up at von Loringhoven in amazement, feeling a mix of awe and revulsion. All he could think to say was, “Mein Gott.” My God.

Von Loringhoven smiled. The smile, for once, conveyed no trace of a sneer or smirk.

“But this will delay our attack on the convoy,” Beck said.

“Not by long, Captain. All in good time.”

Someone knocked.

Beck projected his voice. “Come.”

The kampfschwimmer lieutenant entered. He was tall, alert, and very fit. He braced respectfully to attention.

Beck held up the diagram printed in the latest orders. “I don’t believe this. Show me.”

The kampfschwimmer turned around and pulled up his shirt and undershirt.

In the small of the man’s back, implanted into the skin on each side of his spine, were two small white plastic surgical fittings with plugs. Intravenous ports. Gills.

CHAPTER 14

Jeffrey sat in the captain’s place, at the head of the wardroom table. The dinner dishes were cleared, though coffee service remained on the table. Several people, himself included, were enjoying another cup. Felix, as a guest, sat on his right. Bell was on his left. Sessions was in the control room, as officer of the deck.

Lieutenant Milgrom started the formal briefing. She seemed intense, but not overtired as Jeffrey felt: since Ilse Reebeck wasn’t on the ship to share a stateroom with Milgrom, Bell had decided that she should use the VIP rack in the XO’s cabin. Milgrom and Bell arranged their schedules to sleep at different times; no one would look