Tidal Rip

von Loringhoven said.

“Granted,” Beck replied.

“In order to destroy the convoy, and achieve our broader war aims, and utterly defeat the Allied Powers, many things must be delicately coordinated and synchronized. Lieutenant Shedler will help us seize the tactical initiative. We three here, Captain, have a broader duty, to seize the larger, strategic initiative. Destroying the Allied convoy, alone, will not win us the war. It will just bring the enemy closer to losing. The convoy is not the last of your mission tasks on this vessel’s deployment.”

Beck glanced at Stissinger, who shrugged.

“Once you read the orders,” von Loringhoven said, “you will understand. Contingency plans have been carefully made in Berlin. You both, as the von Scheer’s senior officers, must study those plans in detail now. Now, before Shedler’s sudden appearance on the Rocks is noticed by the Allies, and that event in turn begins an unforgiving contest, and starts an inexorable race.”

“And I’m to take these new directives into account, in shaping my further decisions after the von Scheer’s missiles are launched?”

“Precisely. And I assure you, these orders are valid, from the highest levels in Berlin. You can double-check the authenticator codes against your private passwords on your computer if you wish. If you prefer, I’ll leave the wardroom while you do so.”

Beck ripped open the latest envelope. Hastily, he began to read. Before Stissinger even had a chance to move close to look over his shoulder, the captain felt his heart begin to pound.

As he read further, he could feel himself turning livid. He put down the hard-copy orders. He could see Stissinger reading now, staring at the papers in disbelief. Beck turned to face von Loringhoven accusingly.

“What this says is an outrage! It’s a crime against humanity!”

CHAPTER 19

Felix’s minisub was nestled in a sheltered area where the four main chunks of the St. P and P Rocks formed a west-facing U-shaped lagoon. The water here was very shallow, less than thirty feet. The minisub, weighing sixty- five tons and all of fifty-five feet long, was trying, for stealth, to pass for a dead whale. This was believable, Felix knew, because there were two dead whales, real ones, washed up and stranded against the rocks, decomposing.

Felix wore his Draeger rebreather and diving mask, swim fins, and knives. He had his firearms — his MP-5 submachine gun and his backup Beretta pistol and ammo — in a waterproof equipment bag. He also wore a full- body rubberized antiradiation protective suit, colored flat black and with shreds of ragged cloth and plastic for camouflage. This suit included thick gloves and boots, thoroughly sealed to the main part of the outfit. Felix’s Draeger oxygen rebreather — the latest prewar German model enhanced by an American contractor — had a nominal endurance of twelve hours. It would double as his respirator once he reached the land — a compressed air tank, in comparison, would weigh the same but give him only thirty minutes. A regular gas mask might have been most convenient, but it had two big flaws: The filters needed changing now and then, and changing them required a clean environment, and the Rocks were anything but clean. And a gas mask was useless for scuba diving.

The protective suit was hot and sweaty, and would only get more uncomfortable the longer Felix wore it. But he was used to being hot and sweaty. It was one more reason Commander McCollough had chosen him and his new platoon for this task.

On the outside of Felix’s full-body suit was a buoyancy compensator and a weight belt. His knives were worn outside, strapped to his forearm and his thighs so he could reach them. His Draeger was worn underneath so he could breathe through its mouthpiece without risk of toxic contamination. The suit included a soft all-enclosing helmet with a big plastic faceplate. It was under this that Felix wore his dive mask so he could equalize his eyes and nose to the pressure of the sea.

Inside his suit, Felix also wore radiation dosimeters attached to his body.

Felix stuck his head into the mini’s control compartment. The pilot and copilot were ready. Felix shut and dogged the hatch into the central hyperbaric sphere. He stuck his head out of the rear hatch, into the aft transport compartment. Some of his men were there, either manning the Orpheus equipment or resting from a work session out on the Rocks or underwater. Felix nodded to them encouragingly, and gave a quick wave, then dogged the rear hatch. He stood in the lockout sphere, with an enlisted SEAL as his dive buddy. They did a final equipment check on each other’s gear. Felix awkwardly used the intercom to indicate they were ready.

The air pressure in the sphere began to rise. Felix kept swallowing to clear his sinuses. The pressure held steady, at less than two atmospheres — the mini was shallow. When the copilot announced that the lockout sphere was equalized, Felix opened the bottom hatch. It dropped down on its dampers. Beneath him was a pool of dark and dirty water.

Felix gripped his mouthpiece firmly in his teeth. He held his dive mask in place with his left hand, through the soft clear plastic of his protective suit faceplate. He sat on the coaming of the bottom hatch, then slipped into the water.

“Captain,” Werner Haffner reported from the sonar consoles, “the minisub is calling on the acoustic link. Lieutenant Shedler is asking for you.”

A very troubled Ernst Beck got up from his command console and grabbed a microphone from the overhead. He asked Haffner to put the conversation on the sonar speakers. Rudiger von Loringhoven stood in the aisle, smug now, almost gloating about his victory in the latest mental game with Beck.

Damn him. He knew about those orders even before we departed from Norway. But Ernst Beck had a job to do, a duty to follow. And he knew he needed a very clear head to do his job and survive.

The von Scheer was hovering close to the bottom, northeast of a long and narrow undersea rise that was topped at its farthest end by the jutting St. Peter and St. Paul Rocks. The von Scheer hid in the eastern foothills, tucked tight inside a huge L-shaped bend of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge — behind the ship, farther east toward Africa, sprawled the Guinea Plain, five thousand meters deep or more.

“Go ahead,” Beck said into the mike, keeping his voice as even as possible, forcing down his moral revulsion.

“Sir…” Shedler’s voice came over the speakers, scratchy and distorted. “Nearing the Rocks. At periscope depth. I see human activity.”

Von Loringhoven tried to grab the mike, but Beck stepped away from him. “Clarify,” he said to Shedler.

“People on Rocks.”

“Who?” the diplomat demanded. “What are they doing?”

Beck repeated the questions into the mike.

“Not sure,” Shedler said. “Topography on Rocks all up and down. Much of view blocked, far side of steep slopes, from my current position. Heavy shadowing with sun so low in east. People seen wear protective suits.”

“Military? Enemy?”

“Unknown. Not close enough to see weapons or not, or nationality. Risk of them spotting my periscope head.”

“The Rocks do belong to Brazil,” von Loringhoven said. “A weather station, perhaps?”

“Weather outpost, Lieutenant?”

“Possible. Do appear establishing some technical installation. Could be study radiation on Rocks, effect on environment. I’m guessing.”

“We can’t abort the mission,” Beck told Shedler. Duty, always duty. The source of pride has become instead an inescapable prison.

“Understood, sir,” came back over the sonar speakers. Shedler knew Beck required the targeting data.

Von Loringhoven caught Beck’s attention. “How long do they actually need to have their land station up and running for us to get what we want from Berlin?”