lieutenant (j.g.) copilot. The last time she'd ridden the mini, it had taken her into combat in her tyranny-ravaged homeland of South Africa. Then, a U.S. Navy SEAL chief had been copilot. He didn't come back.
COB called out to Jeffrey, 'Sir, another delay. More passengers.'
'More?' Jeffrey said. The men standing around him groaned. The youngest, still teenagers really, looked afraid they'd get left behind.
The pressure-proof door to the rear transport compartment was closed, and Ilse wondered how many people were squashed in there already — the official capacity was eight. One of them, she realized, would have to be newcomer Royal Navy Lieutenant Kathy Milgrom; there was nowhere else Kathy could be.
Ilse saw COB glance at his console, as if he were reading a decrypted radio or land-line message. 'They're arriving any minute, Captain,' COB said. Jeffrey sighed, handed the courier envelope to COB, and climbed back up the ladder through the top hatch. Out of curiosity, and because she liked to be where Jeffrey was, Ilse followed. Past the foot of the pier, beyond the big concrete obstacles and heavy machine-gun emplacements, a local taxi pulled up. Like clowns from a circus car, six big men piled out one after another, all in civilian clothing, as if for disguise. Ilse immediately recognized SEAL Lieutenant Shajo Clayton, his two logistics and backup people, and the three surviving operators from Shajo's blooded boat team. Shajo grinned and waved; he'd been with her and Jeffrey on the South Africa raid. The men untied several heavy equipment boxes from the cab's roof rack, and pulled more from the vehicle's trunk. Some boxes were black: SEAL combat gear. Some were white with big red crosses: first- aid supplies, presumably for the Texas. Jeffrey called for crewmen to help, and everyone started carrying the stuff to the minisub. Jeffrey shook hands very warmly with Clayton — they'd been through hell together, all too recently, and the resulting bond was tight. 'Would somebody please tell me what the heck is going on?' Jeffrey said, smiling with pleasure at this unexpected reunion.
'If they do,' Clayton rejoined, 'then maybe you can let me know, sir.' Then he clapped Jeffrey on the shoulder, equally delighted to see his proven comrade-in-arms again.
'What did they say to you?'
'We're supposed to be, you know, some kind of armed guard. Apparently you're in need of extra muscle.'
'I'm liking this less and less,' Jeffrey said, shaking his head.
'I know,' Ilse heard Clayton say as they reached the brow to the ASDS. 'The base admiral didn't like it too much either.'
Under the awning, Clayton gave Ilse a brotherly hug. She'd helped treat one of his mortally wounded men during the raid, and Clayton had brought her back alive; she felt better to know he was coming this time, too. Shajo was in his late twenties, from Atlanta, easy to talk to and even-tempered, with a very hard body. To Ilse his eyes betrayed hints of a persistent sadness that was all too common these days, from the recent loss of friends and teammates in the war, and the loss of innocence.
Jeffrey put down an equipment case and shouted through the mini's top hatch. 'COB, how's your trim?' The little sub rode very low in the water, and didn't have a conning tower. With all the crewmen and now the SEALs' gear, keeping the mini stable would be tough.
Ilse heard COB's voice from inside. 'Too heavy aft, Captain, and there's nothing left I can pump or counter- flood. Any more weight on board and we're gonna have to jettison the anchors.'
'Do it,' Jeffrey yelled, 'right now. And unclip the passenger seats in the back and pass them up to the pier.' This was the Jeffrey whom Ilse had quickly gotten to know, and maybe, sort of, to like; firm but informal, always improvising on the spot, and ruthlessly practical. Jeffrey was driven, coming alive under pressure, though sometimes impetuous or even reckless when in battle. Yet he was oddly hesitant with her — at least when they weren't both being shot at by the enemy. Lonely, too. Ilse had sensed that in Jeffrey quickly. He'd never once mentioned any family.
Clayton's men formed a human chain to pile the seats under the camouflage awning. Ilse couldn't help thinking that all this hubbub, the courier helo and then the taxi with the SEALs, had to get noticed by German or Boer re-con assets.
Finally everyone was aboard with their gear, the shore power and mooring lines were stowed, the top hatch secured. Jeffrey went forward to stand behind COB's seat, in the little control room. Ilse started to follow him — she'd stood behind the copilot as they snuck in toward Durban, on the South African coast, the last time.
But Jeffrey held up one hand. 'No, I need to talk with Shajo and COB about the rescue plan.'
Shajo squeezed past Ilse and into the control compartment. Then Jeffrey closed the door in her face.
A FEW MINUTES LATER. TRANSITING THE BAY OF BISCAY
Korvettenkapitan Ernst Beck paused outside the captain's stateroom door. This would be their first private encounter since leaving port for patrol.
Beck felt the deck tilting to a fifteen-degree down bubble.
Germany's ceramic-hulled nuclear submarine Deutschland had reached the edge of the continental shelf off occupied France — the minefields, friendly and enemy, were mostly behind them now. She was descending to deeper water per the captain's orders. Beck hesitated. Even after three years of working with the man, to intrude made him feel cold. Beck dearly loved his wife and two young sons. He knew by now his Kommandant — commanding officer — loved no one but himself, and never would. Beck knocked.
'Come,' that polished, precise, unreachable voice called from within. Beck slid open the door, entered, and closed it again for security.
Fregattenkapitan Kurt Eberhard sat alone at his fold-down desk. The air was filled with tobacco smoke, swirling in delicate tendrils. On the bulkhead hung the portrait in oils of the new Kaiser, Wilhelm IV, in an expensive gilded frame — Wilhelm II was Kaiser in World War One; Wilhelm III was his son, the Crown Prince, who never took the throne after 1918.
Eberhard looked up. He seemed annoyed, then softened his features; he was polite, at least superficially. `Ja, Einzvo?'
Beck was Deutschland's so-called 'IWO,' the Erster Wachoffizier — executive officer, pronounced phonetically 'einzvo.' His rank equaled lieutenant commander in the U.S. or Royal navies. Eberhard was a full commander, intent on making full captain soon.
'Sir,' Beck said, 'a high-priority radiogram came in.' 'Did you read it?'
'Yes, Captain.'
'Well?'
'It's an assessment from Kaiserliche Marine Intel, sir.' Imperial Naval Intelligence. ' Reliable sources indicate USS Challenger is putting to sea from Cape Verde.' Hard blue eyes confronted Beck.
'So they've localized our ceramic-hulled friend?' 'Yes, Captain. She's heading north.'
'Does the message say why?'
'She might be tasked to assist a crippled American sub near the Azores, but that could be a deception, sir, a feint for some more important mission…. The odd thing is, it says combat swimmers were taken aboard, but not Challenger's captain. Her XO's in command.'
Eberhard stubbed out his cigarette. 'I know Jeffrey Fuller all too well. A peasant.' Beck was careful not to react. The Coronation had done more than restore the glitter of Court, of which Eberhard was so fond: It had strengthened class differences in German society. Beck was the youngest son of a farmer himself, from outside Munich; his family was Catholic in the traditional Bavarian way. He'd joined the peacetime German Navy as a cadet in '91, right after Reunification. He did it to get a broader education than he could at the local technical school, and to help make the nation whole again with respect in the eyes of the world.
Also — as he put it to his trusted friends — by his late teens, Beck was tired of smelling manure and wearing lederhosen.
'Fuller and I once worked together,' Eberhard said. He seemed distant for a moment, even more than usual. 'Combined duty at the Pentagon, before the war.'
'Is he good, sir?' Given the possibility of a contest with Fuller and crew, Beck had to ask. Eberhard waved dismissively.
