CHAPTER 22
On June 28, 1914, Archduke Francis Ferdinand and his wife were assassinated in the Bosnian capital of Sarajevo. The gunman was a young Serbian nationalist and a member of the Black Hand terrorist organization.
Archduke Ferdinand had been heir to the throne of Austria. A month after his murder, Austria declared war on Serbia and, over the next several months, the conflict spread to every major country in Europe. World War I had begun.
Germany, a relative latecomer to submarine technology, put its
Situated safely on the far side of the Atlantic Ocean, the United States adopted a policy of strict isolationism. America turned a blind eye as the death toll in Europe skyrocketed. It was a European war, after all, and Americans were overwhelmingly in favor of letting the Europeans handle it themselves.
On May 7, 1915, a single event shifted public opinion in America: a German submarine,
Two perfectly aimed torpedoes blasted through the hull of the ocean liner, sending the ship to the bottom of the ocean, along with 1,195 civilian passengers. Unfortunately for the Germans, 123 of those passengers were American citizens.
Horrified by what they saw as a barbaric attack on an unarmed ship, the American people began to scream for revenge. The United States was drawn into the war that it had struggled to avoid, shifting the balance of power to the Allies.
It is, perhaps, a supreme stroke of irony that the torpedo — the very weapon that had almost brought victory — would sow the seeds of Germany’s defeat.
CHAPTER 23
Someone was shaking him …
Some distantly conscious fragment of Chief Lowery’s brain detected the pressure of someone’s hand on his shoulder. A million miles away, someone with a tin bucket over his head was speaking gibberish in slow motion. The voice was tinny, echoey, and totally incomprehensible. The lump of unconscious meat that sometimes called itself Chief Lowery grunted and rolled over, burrowing farther under the blankets, away from the intruder, whoever — or whatever — it was.
The hand grabbed his shoulder again, tighter this time, and shook harder. “Heep! May-buff!”
Chief Lowery flailed one arm in a half-hearted attempt to drive the intruder away. The sudden motion ratcheted his brain a couple of notches closer to consciousness. “Keef! Hay-gupp!” It was the voice again.
Closer this time, and more word-like. The shaking continued.
A switch in the deep recesses of his brain clicked reluctantly to the
The hand on his shoulder continued to shake him toward awareness.
“Chief! Way-gupp!” The voice was an urgent whisper, close to his ear.
A whiff of his dream still floated at the edge of his memory, an indistinct sweetness, like the subtlest perfume smelled at a distance. It was a wonderful dream, part of him knew. A glorious re-imagining of life, in which Charlotte was still in love with him, and he could somehow dance and sing like Fred Astaire.
He groaned again and felt his hand come up of its own accord to scratch an itch near his right ear. The movement drove the last of the dream from his mind. “What?”
The hand stopped shaking his shoulder. “Chief, wake up!”
Chief Lowery grunted and opened one eye. He didn’t bother to point it toward his tormenter. “What time is it?”
“What?” The voice sounded confused. “It’s, um … just a second … it’s, uh … oh-seven-thirty-three, Chief.”
Lowery opened the other eye and began blinking heavily to get things moving. “It’s seven thirty in the morning?”
“Uh … yes, Chief. Seven thirty-three.”
“Oh God …” Chief Lowery said. “Forty minutes … I got a whole forty minutes of sleep this time.” He yawned. “Go away right now, and I
“I need to talk to you about the radar, Chief. SPY radar.”
The words brought Lowery to full consciousness. No, not the words.
The voice. His uninvited guest was not one of his techs. It sounded like…
Lowery grabbed his privacy curtains and slid them back, opening his coffin-sized bunk area up to the rest of the berthing compartment. He recognized his mistake immediately. It was after reveille, so the lights in Aft Chief Petty Officer’s Berthing were on. He flinched away from the unexpected brightness and tried to squint out of the corners of his eyes.
Into the bleary circle of his vision swam the face of CS3 Charles Zeigler, better known to the enlisted crew as
Chief Lowery blinked. “Zeigler? Do you have any idea how much sleep I’ve had? Or, I should say, how
Zeigler shook his head. “No, Chief, I don’t. But this is real important.
I know who’s been … I mean I know what’s wrong with your SPY radar.”
Chief Lowery sighed. “Petty Officer Zeigler, you are a CS. A
“Yeah, Chief. I’m the night baker this month. I’ve got sweet rolls in the oven right now. As soon as they’re done, I’m going off shift.”
“Sweet rolls in the oven,” Chief Lowery said. “That makes you an expert on the most sophisticated combat radar system in the world?”
Zeigler grinned. “I’m not an expert on radar. I’m a cook. Which means I’m an expert on potatoes. That’s what’s wrong with your radar, Chief. It’s the potatoes.”
Chief Lowery grimaced. The potatoes? The
Could you back up a little? I’m getting up. This is either going to be the coolest story I’ve ever heard, or I’m going to strangle you right where you fucking stand.” He reached for his pants. “Chicken bones … potatoes … thank God there’s not a problem with the
Forty minutes later, Lowery and his three technicians stood gathered around a SPY console in Combat
