Tidal Rip

“Watch real good for threats as we go shallower. Copy the message and see if the authenticators validate. If they do, we see what the message says. If they don’t, we launch noisemakers and fire a decoy and run for our lives.”

There was jubilation in Challenger’s control room. Some crewmen grinned from ear to ear, while others simply managed a smile for the first time in days. The more outgoing chiefs slapped one another on the back. Jumping high fives were exchanged among the enlisted men — one of whom was so carried away he banged himself on the overhead, then laughed. Lieutenant Sessions combed his hair and tucked in his ruffled shirttails as if he wanted to look his best for the special occasion. Bell took the picture of his wife and baby out of his wallet and kissed them. Jeffrey watched all this serenely.

The message from Admiral Hodgkiss was valid; the Axis computer virus assaults had indeed been beaten back — in the heaviest information warfare battle ever known.

“Read it aloud,” Bell said, beaming. “Skipper, let’s hear the whole thing.”

Jeffrey cleared his throat dramatically. “I quote loosely as follows: ‘Anti-Axis truth-based propaganda, founded on Lieutenant Felix Estabo’s success, has foiled the Germans completely. Forestalled by aggressive warnings by President de Gama to his chief-executive counterpart in Argentina, an attempted coup in Buenos Aires has utterly collapsed. Military units that were revolting shortly before have switched back to their elected head of state.’ With cynical rapidity, I might add.” Jeffrey chuckled. “‘The ringleaders have been arrested or they killed themselves, or first were arrested and then killed themselves. More were beaten to death in the streets or lynched from lampposts by angry loyalist mobs. A few of the culprits,’ alas, ‘managed to flee for now into neutral Paraguay.’”

Crewmen mimicked hissing and booing the villains.

“‘Separately,’” Jeffrey continued, “‘reliable up-to-the-minute intelligence sources in-country confirm no German nuclear warheads are on the loose….’ God be praised for that.”

There was a chorus of sober amens.

Jeffrey cleared his throat again, and held up the message at arm’s length as if it were a formal proclamation. “‘The Brazilian Congress, meeting in special session, has unanimously approved President da Gama’s request for a declaration of war against the Berlin-Boer Axis. Brazil is now one of the Allied Powers. The western side of the Atlantic Narrows is solidly in friendly hands…. Argentina remains neutral, at least for now, while taking active steps to fully restore democratic order and good public health. Her troops on the Brazilian border are standing down.’”

“This is just fabulous, Captain,” Bell exulted. “We whupped the Axis decisively in the whole South American theater!”

“Let’s not take too much credit, XO.” Jeffrey glanced around his control room. “You did great, people. But remember, plenty of others played a big part too. And we still have unfinished business. Major unfinished business.”

“Von Scheer.”

“We’ve taken away Beck’s purpose for being near South America. We need to do one more thing here now, XO.”

“Sir?”

“Give him a very compelling reason to go somewhere else.”

“Besides the convoy?”

Jeffrey nodded. “He needs to first make very sure he reaches the convoy undamaged…. Sonar.”

“Captain?” Milgrom said.

“If we ping on maximum power in the deep sound channel, say at a depth of five thousand feet, how far off do you think the von Scheer’s acoustic intercept might hear us?”

“Let me run a calculation, sir.”

“And if we move south at flank speed, could von Scheer’s signal processors know it from the Doppler effects of multipath sound-ray traces and reverb and so on? Could they tell our depth, within a thousand feet or so?”

“I’ll assume their capabilities are similar to ours.” Milgrom worked her keyboard. The senior-chief sonar supervisor looked on. He suggested some tweaks to the modeling. Milgrom glanced up from her console. “Six hundred miles, at least, Captain. And yes, if we’re making fifty-three knots at five thousand feet when we ping they’d know.”

“Good. Then they’ll have no doubt whatsoever we’re really Challenger.” Jeffrey double-checked the nautical chart windowed on his console screen. “That should be more than enough to do it.” And we’ll be safely outside the von Scheer ’s missile range. “Ping once now in normal search mode, just in case there’s a U-boat around, or an Argentine diesel sub that didn’t get the word the Buenos Aires coup is off.”

A high-pitched screech went out through the water. Jeffrey waited for possible target echoes to come back.

“No submerged contacts,” Milgrom stated.

Jeffrey gave helm orders to Meltzer.

“Ahead flank, aye,” Meltzer acknowledged in his thick Bronx accent. “Make my depth five thousand feet, aye.” He turned his engine order dial. “Maneuvering answers, ahead flank, sir.” He pushed his control wheel forward gently. Challenger’s bow nosed down, then leveled off. “My depth is five thousand feet, sir.” Challenger’s speed continued mounting steadily.

“Very well, Helm… Now we let the von Scheer know we’re coming, in no uncertain terms. Sonar, make some noise.”

The sonarmen got their equipment reconfigured. Soon an almost deafening deep rumble, like a foghorn, pierced the hull from the big sonar sphere at the bow. It made the deck and the very air in the control room seem to hum, above the vibrations and shaking Challenger always made at flank speed. Jeffrey’s toes tingled, and his clothing rippled oddly against his skin.

“No new sonar contacts, Captain,” Milgrom reported routinely after a while. “All active surface contacts within our detection range already held on one or more passive arrays.”

“Very well, Sonar. Keep it up.” Low-frequency sound waves had the longest range before the underwater signal died off. Jeffrey’s intent was not to find Beck but shoo him away with finality — before Berlin could do something insane.

Between the powerful blasts, Jeffrey turned to Bell. “XO, back to my stateroom for a minute… Nav, take the conn.”

Sessions acknowledged.

“Chief of the watch,” Jeffrey told COB with immense satisfaction, “secure from battle stations.”

Ernst Beck sat alone in his stateroom with the doors locked, both the one into the passageway and the one into the head he shared with von Loringhoven.

On his desk was the latest ELF message from Berlin. Like all ELF messages, it was short. The alphabetic cipher blocks conveyed, in essence, “Proceed at once Africa. Attack enemy convoy soonest possible.”

Beck was greatly relieved, but his relief went only so far. He was trading one form of Armageddon for another — the battle against Challenger would be violent, high-risk.

But he now had to inform his guest, the baron: Von Scheer was ordered away from South America immediately, leaving that whole continent untouched by nuclear fire.

Before Beck could stand to go talk to von Loringhoven, his intercom light blinked.

“Captain.”

“Sonar, sir,” Werner Haffner said. “Distant acoustic intercept contact bearing north. Extreme detection range, source submerged. Depth and speed of contact confirm positive identification, USS Challenger, heading our way at flank speed.”

Beck rushed into the Zentrale, took the conn, and issued helm orders to turn due east and evade.