Straits of Power

scattering layer should be near six hundred meters.”

The deep scattering layer was a zone thick with biologics — sea life — that blocked passive sonar at many frequencies and made false echoes on active sonar. The biologics, from large to microscopic, migrated downward each dawn, feeding, as traces of sunlight penetrated to almost two thousand feet; at night they moved back upward to more like 500 feet.

In the bright sun expected by the latest weather forecasts Schneider had, this time tomorrow the deep scattering layer would be deeper than a Los Angeles sub could dive without imploding.

“We go below that, Einzvo, and enter the rugged ridge terrain that’s well above our own crush depth, and twist and turn and vary our speed. The American won’t be able to keep guessing our position. Suitably masked by terrain, we’ll go to flank speed. He’ll lose contact and won’t regain it and won’t even understand why. He’ll look really bad to his crew and squadron commander. We can’t sink him, but we can ruin his career.”

An intercom light blinked: the circuit for the radio room. Schneider grabbed the handset. “Captain. Speak.”

“Sir,” the junior lieutenant in the radio room told him, “an ELF message with our address has come in.”

Schneider didn’t like this. “A request to come up to floating wire-antenna depth?” That would allow a much faster data receipt rate than the on-hull ELF antenna, but the depth change and the sounds of unreeling the wire would be noticed by the trailing American boat — which might become suspicious.

“Negative, Captain.” The junior lieutenant read Schneider the decoded text. Schneider snapped, “Jawohl.” He hung up, then cursed under his breath.

“Sir?” Knipp queried him cautiously, seeing his sudden dark mood.

“Challenger already put to sea, more than a day ago. Intelligence indicates their destination is Durban. The von Scheer.”

“That’s what we expected, sir, no? It makes the most sense strategically.”

“Sailing so early is something we didn’t expect.” Schneider felt disgusted. “I don’t see how they do it. Every time that ship goes into dry dock for repairs, Fuller takes her out again weeks ahead of what we predicted.”

“Perhaps our other captains’ damage estimates were too optimistic, sir. Or our spies have been turned, captured, made to feed us misleading information to catch us unawares?”

“Speculation is useless. What matters is confirmed fact.”

Knipp nodded. “Your intentions were—”

“I know what my intentions were.” Arrive at Durban well before Challenger could, and set up an ambush. But Challenger is on the move two weeks too soon, and another American submarine is following me…. I can’t imagine a more adverse scenario.

Despite all the practice and training in Russian waters, and the exhaustive virtual battles in the attack simulator onshore, this was Doenitz’s first combat crisis at sea. Schneider met the command dilemma head-on. He made his decision.

“We continue to act like a Russian. If we show any sudden move, the Los Angeles could get excited enough to report it. If the Allies are reading German ELF codes, and make the connection, we’ll have given ourselves away.”

“Understood, sir. Concur.”

“No, we pretend we don’t know or care a thing about Fuller and Challenger. I’d love to go very deep, quickly, and put a nuclear torpedo up that trailing captain’s ass, but he might release a buoy with a warning before he dies.”

“Maintain our present course and speed, then, and use the deep scattering layer and the ridge as already planned?”

“For now we proceed sedately, as Ivans who are anything but crazy. Then we embarrass that clown behind us who thinks he’s so very smart to have stuck with us this far…. Once we break into ultraquiet at our special flank speed, we’ll turn southeast and just keep going at sixty-plus knots. We’ll still get to Durban and poor Beck’s lair in plenty of time to slow, and reconnoiter and hide, and then blow Fuller’s head off.”

Chapter 18

Before dawn the next morning, Ilse Reebeck settled in at her workstation, in the big and bustling war room of Admiral Hodgkiss’s headquarters in Norfolk, Virginia. Just like last night — at the end of her previous very long day — large display screens on the walls showed the status of friendly and enemy forces in the Atlantic Ocean theater of battle. Other screens provided maps and icons of the Mediterranean and the Red Sea, including parts of Allied Central Command whose naval affairs were put under Hodgkiss’s control. Information was given as well on the Indian Ocean theater.

But what was happening right now wasn’t the troubling issue. It was what wasn’t happening, and why, and the half-hidden buildup to the next major move that most bothered Ilse. The aftermath of recent events, and the unfathomable near future, riveted her attention — and kept everyone in the war room on pins and needles at their desks, or picking at their food in the cafeteria, or tossing and turning sleeplessly in their racks. Though there was much Ilse hadn’t been told, anyone in the war room with eyes and a brain could see that something nasty was heating up in the Mediterranean, and the Axis direction of advance this time would be east.

Her job was to serve as a military oceanographer. She was the liaison between Admiral Hodgkiss and the U.S. Navy’s Meteorology and Oceanography Command — METOC — that supported the navy’s fighting fleets with tactically important science-driven data interpretations, predictions, and recommendations. METOC had their own separate headquarters, with supporting centers around the globe, but a handful of staffers from METOC sat at the workstations to Ilse’s right and left.

Ilse glanced at the two armed marines who stood against the wall, at the end of her aisle of consoles. Hodgkiss’s orders for the constant escort hadn’t been lifted yet.

Ilse shifted in her seat, tried to loosen up her shoulders and neck, and went back to work. Arrayed before her at the console were computer screens, a sophisticated keyboard, and a bank of secure in-house telephones. Hard- copy procedure and specification manuals, scratch pads full of scribbled notes, empty coffee cups, and well- thumbed reference books covered most of her desk, leaving little free space. Her trash bin, marked CLASSIFIED: SHRED AND BURN like all the others in the war room, was half-overflowing with crumpled papers from late into the evening before. Around her, many voices droned, phones rang, announcements came over the speakers, and couriers and messengers moved about in a constant hubbub. Ilse tuned them out.

Her task involved an ongoing analysis of acoustic conditions in the waters from outside Gibraltar through the whole long Med. It was a gigantic undertaking. Information poured in nonstop from remote sensors in the air or in outer space, and from small underwater robotic probes — called ocean rovers — that could snoop and scoot and then upload their precious data by laser or radio to communication-relay satellites. All of this was vital for modern undersea warfare. The Axis did it too. Whoever did it more and better stood to gain a decisive edge.

The people around Ilse assisted, and the building’s supercomputers did the numbers crunching. Ilse checked summary reports, and she’d devil’s-advocate conclusions. She offered helpful hints as needed, to solve technical problems that constantly came up, or to enhance the customized modeling software used. Hodgkiss, through his aide Johansen, had said Ilse’s valuable contributions were being made known to the Free South African legation at their embassy in Washington. She wondered if this amounted to lobbying for the Free South African Navy to promote her to lieutenant commander, or if it had to do with fending off the FBI’s mad mole hunt.

Certainly one or the other, and maybe both. Hodgkiss never does things without good reason. Since being awarded the Legion of Merit by her government-in-exile’s tiny navy a couple of months ago, Ilse hadn’t had direct contact with either her navy or her embassy. Lately, she wondered if maybe she ought to have done more to stay in touch, even shown her face.

Ilse was startled when Captain Johansen appeared, looking over her shoulder.