IGMS Issue 27

by IGMS

  My voice rose above that clamor to order emergency submergence, and trembling hands which yearned for that order set in motion a series of buttons which opened the ballast tanks at once, provoking a sound similar to manifold bells pealing beneath the sea. The salty water filled the compartments, and we sank at full velocity until reaching the muddy bottom, where we halted with a muffled thud. During one or two minutes there were no sounds beyond the confused screams of the crew, either motivated by panic or simply exchanged commands in the attempt to stabilize our precarious situation. But soon the explosions resumed, and they seemed to occur very close to our position.

  "Depth charges!" shouted Le Beau. "Turn out the electric lights and nonessential equipment!"

  "Silence the motors!" I added.

  "The order was obeyed exactly and even the screams ceased, although perhaps more from absolute dread than from obedience. The vessel's belly became completely dark, until feeble points of gas lamps began to light up one at a time through the corridors and decks, launching ghostly shadows all around. We remained within the penumbra in total silence, listening to the explosions outside. The first ones still made the submersible rock, but little by little the booms became weaker, like a storm withdrawing from our position, until they ceased completely. For the first time I breathed, relieved. We were still alive, and from what I knew of my enemy, that was no small thing.

  Looking at it one way, a submersible without energy isn't much more than a coffin decorated with technological equipment. The air would already be precious in normal circumstances. Buried under inexorable tons of saltwater, haunted by the impossibility of getting out, and feeling the burning of an atmosphere defiled by clouds of smoke in your lungs, a poor mortal needs a lot of courage to not give in to the tentacles of claustrophobia and panic. Walking through the corridors, I could feel the crew's desperation as something palpable; I ignored the uncontrolled moans and quivers here and there. Inwardly, I gave heartfelt thanks for their heroic efforts to maintain calm and discipline in the face of disaster.

  It didn't take long for Le Beau to approach me, and he whispered a summary report of the accounted damages. The situation was not good.

  "We received reports of five crewmen with minor wounds, and two more who require greater care. Three outbreaks of fire have already been completely controlled. Part of the bombardment armament has been rendered useless, as have the rear surface-to-air missile exits. The rudder is stuck, the stern helices won't respond. We lost two-thirds of the electric batteries and a large part of our air supply, not just from the tanks that were hit, but also from hull leaks. Three decks are completely flooded, but have been properly isolated. Luckily, the pyroxylin tank was not affected by the attack."

  "I don't see much we can do down here at the bottom."

  "An external inspection could give us a more precise idea of the true extent of the damage, principally in the rear, which has greatly compromised our maneuverability."

  "Obviously, we would need to emerge to do that."

  "I was thinking of launching a diving bell with two or three divers on board."

  "For that we would need to operate motors to pump air into the bell. Air, by the way, that we can't waste at this moment. And since it's already dark, we would need to turn on lights for the inspection, which would be a fatal oversight. With the lights on, I don't believe the sea is deep enough at this point to keep us from being spotted by the enemy."

  "Perhaps at daybreak we'll have enough external luminosity to . . ."

  "The more light out there, the more easily the flying fortress will spot us from above. We don't know if they still have any depth charges at their disposal. Therefore, I believe we have to think of something different, and quickly, Le Beau."

  The lieutenant snarled an unflattering curse.

  "I hate feeling like a rat stuck in a submarine rat-trap. I'd like to have enough time to wrap my fingers around the throat of every Englishman alive, and a sharp blade to test the leather of their Aztec friends."

  "May you find some relief in your dreams, at least. Well, I don't see any better option than taking advantage of the darkness to keep quiet and rest a little. I believe I'll go to my cabin."

  "If you don't mind, I'll stay here for the time being, Admiral. I don't see how the hatred I feel will allow me to enjoy any rest."

  "I want you to inform me of any news, and one way or another call me to relieve you in four hours."

  With the aid of a gas lamp, I retired to my quarters, unable to withhold a sad smile before the impetuosity and rage manifested by Le Beau. It wasn't the moment to confess, but I was once exactly like him. Who could condemn me for that? What man on this planet, no matter what the colors of the flag he defends, could say that he managed to live his life immune to the direct or indirect effects of this insane conflict that had persisted for generations? It was precisely the hate and the desire for vengeance that drove my intelligence and my creative hand into the storm. This prevailed for an eternity, until the precise moment in which something changed, as if the muddy waters suddenly became a little clearer, allowing me to see unexpected contours and details.

  It happened a short time ago, one or two years before Le Beau joined my crew. My second-in-command was Lieutenant Rochelle, a good sailor, who after his promotion received command of the submersible Calamar.

  We were six days patrolling waters close to the entrance of the Mediterranean, hunting an English destroyer that terrorized the unified Iberian fleet, attacking solitary patrol boats along the Atlantic coast with speed and precision. It was a very foggy night when we detected the ship flying the British flag, using reduced illumination to try and pass through the fog undetected, toward the African coast. We were all tired and irritated by the lingering mission, since during those tedious days we hadn't come across a single hint of the enemy, although the reports of attacks kept arriving. I gladly gave the order, and a discharge of torpedoes downed the ship. We celebrated briefly with rum, before heading back to Le Havre. Halfway through the next day we received a transmission: we had sunk the wrong ship. The ship was indeed English, and the furtive attitude probably owed itself to the crew's dread of crossing the Ocean along the coast of countries known to be hostile. Instead of a destroyer, I had ordered the destruction of a passenger ship, the Prince of Wales, headed for an English colony in Africa. There were reports of survivors, but the deaths of more than eighty civilians had been confirmed.

  In wartime, mistakes of this kind are relatively common. In practical terms, politicians and commanders of the Armed Forces condemn them officially, but in reality they are treated as "acceptable losses." An unfortunate accident. A fatality.

  It pained me immensely to find myself the protagonist of an "accident" like that. More than ever, my few hours of sleep began to be ravaged by nightmares, which reproduced in vivid colors the massacre of my native village by the English colonial army. As I already said, I wasn't present on the fateful day, but my spirit took upon itself, through dreams, to torture me with images that, I was painfully sure, were as terrible as those that actually occurred there. But now the nightmares came with an added touch of cruelty: I saw my family on the deck of a passenger ship at the moment in which, coming up from the depths, a submersible ship surged from the sea. My submersible! My father pointed, frightened, to the white lines of foam which marked the deadly trail of approaching torpedoes. I would awake bathed in sweat at the moment of the explosion, when the fireball enveloped my mother and siblings.

  For me, the label of "unfortunate incident" wasn't enough. I was sure that the few survivors didn't define the episode in those terms, and certainly didn't refer to me with such condescendence. On the other hand, I knew my heart wasn't one of a bloodthirsty monster. By analogy, despite the atrocities committed against my people and relatives, it would be fair to consider that, in the ranks of the immense British army spread around the world, there were good and righteous people, as I regarded myself, that for some tragic fatality I found myse
lf obliged to label as "enemies", but who could possibly be of agreeable conviviality and even friends, in a hypothetical world better than this one.

  After that, I dismissed hate from its rank of general in my life, and I put it in the background under strict watch. I began to strive so that balanced reason and sensibility, even in the most critical moments, always participated in my command decisions. All I could hope for was to one day have the opportunity to make my dear second-in-command share that vision. But aground on the sea bottom, wrapped by impenetrable darkness, I admit that, at that exact moment, the enemies we faced weren't collaborating well with my new concept of war.

  My reflections are interrupted by a timid knock on the cabin door. I relight the lamp and open the door. Even under the dim light, I can perceive Le Beau's disheartened look.

  "Excuse me, Admiral. You asked me to inform you at the end of the four-hour shift . . ."

  "Perfect, Lieutenant. Any news about our situation?"

  "Nothing regarding the enemy. There is no way of knowing if they still wait for us at the surface."

  "Oh, he's there, you can be sure."

  Le Beau contemplates me with an enigmatic gaze. He wants to know from where comes such conviction. I explain:

  "While I was up top, on the external tower, I got a good look at the flying fortress that surprised us. It was the Albatross."

  "The Albatross!" My second-in-command's exclamation shows legitimate surprise, mixed with a touch of veneration.

  "That's right, Le Beau: it is the flagship of the United States aerial fleet, facing the flagship of the French submarine fleet. Ironic, isn't it?"

  "So their commander must be . . ."

  "One and the same. The newspapers say he and I are 'twins', did you know that? In case that's true, I believe I can anticipate his behavior based on my own. If I were up there, above the waters, I would be sure that I had managed to seriously damage this submersible. I would know that it's just a question of time until it must return to the surface, if it is even still capable. Therefore be certain, Le Beau: he's going to wait. At least for the time being, he'll be out there waiting."

  My second-in-command sighs, dejected.

  "In that case, I fear he won't have to wait long, Sir."

  "What news is this, that you bring me in the darkness of my own cabin?"

  "The electrical failure is worse than we first imagined. The entire surface-to-air missile launch system is compromised. The cannons that still function, in case of necessity, will have to be reloaded and aimed by hand. However, the most serious is our oxygen reserve."

  "That doesn't surprise me. Right here, as we speak, I already feel difficulty breathing."

  "Exactly. In a few hours, we'll have no alternative except surfacing to renew the air reserves. Well, unless . . ."

  Le Beau's hesitation doesn't pass unnoticed, even before the pause in his speech.

  "Continue, Lieutenant."

  "As you know, sir, an emergency oxygenation system exists. That should resolve the oxygen problem for essential bridge crew for twenty-four hours."

  The insinuation behind that simple phrase has the force of a treacherous, invisible underwater current, and nothing else needs to be said. The "emergency oxygenation system" was a Naval Command requirement to increase the chances of submersible recovery after a tragedy. It is secret technology and legitimately French. Through a simple process, the heating of eight kilos of potassium chlorate can liberate three kilos of oxygen, converting it into potassium chloride. As Le Beau said, it would resolve the oxygen problem for essential bridge crew for twenty-four hours, but only the essential bridge crew.

  "The bridge crew consists of six seamen, Le Beau."

  "I'm aware of that, Admiral."

  "Then you must also be aware that the complete crew of this ship numbers thirty men, correct?"

  Le Beau holds his head down in silence. I can't blame him; he is obliged to keep me informed of every possible alternative.

  "Thank you for the reminder, but you know well my way of thinking; either we save all, or we save none. Understood?"

  "Perfectly, sir."

  "In that case, what other options do we have?"

  He glances at the cabin hatch, behind which the ocean water has already assumed a visibly blue tone.

  "In order to not die asphyxiated, we should return to the surface in no more than three hours. And even so, by what you assume, Sir, surviving will be no small task."

  I get up from bed and take two steps toward the hatch. I hadn't realized that, for many years already, the ocean is my home. It is here that I live, and it is here that I wish to die. But not now. Not yet.

  "Are you aware of the news of the technological advances of the American aerial fleet, Lieutenant?"

  "I'm not sure, Admiral."

  "Our intelligence verified that they're trying to transform the flying fortresses into amphibious vehicles, capable of moving in the air as well as under the water. Did you know that?"

  Le Beau's disdainful smile is clearly visible in the shadow. His voice distills contempt when he says:

  "Without any success, I imagine."

  "Correct. Still without success." I'm careful to emphasize the word "still". "If I were in command of that flying fortress up there, do you know what would be going through my mind?"

  He remains silent, waiting.

  "I would see this incident as an invaluable opportunity to put my hands on an authentic French submersible."

  "That's never happened, Admiral!"

  "And it wouldn't be right to happen to the flagship of the entire fleet, don't you agree? I'd rather die than put our technology at the disposal of the British Empire."

  "I'm sure that's the opinion of the entire crew."

  "Me too. But nothing stops us from defending what is ours to the last instant. We don't have any surface-to-air missiles, and maneuvers with the lateral cannons are compromised. But while those English attempt to close in and grab their prize, I believe we can do some nice damage with the prow machine guns, don't you think?"

  "Most definitely. It will be a pleasure to try, even though I don't think it's enough to stop a flying fortress."

  "How is our pyroxylin reserve?"

  "Full almost to the top."

  "Then please arrange the installation of explosive charges in the repository. When there is nothing left to do except capitulate, I believe we can still provide a beautiful pyrotechnic spectacle for our enemies, and who knows, depending on their proximity, make them join the party."

  Le Beau gives an impeccable salute and asks permission to withdraw. I had practically declared a death sentence for him and the entire crew, but I could clearly see the pride with which he undertook the preparations. He is a good soldier. They all are, I had chosen them carefully. None of them deserved an end like this, so young. It was one of the brutal insanities of war.

  Pyroxylin was a French invention, but already available to the British side, thanks to the efficiency of espionage. More potent than gunpowder in its explosive potential, it also occupies less space, which was essential in submersible vehicles where physical space is precious. It is what supplies our missiles and cannons. In the worst case, I wouldn't hesitate in blowing my ship to pieces, before the enemy could make it a trophy.

  The next two hours, which I spend on the bridge, seem like weeks. By the end of it, the simple act of breathing requires heroic effort. Through the hatches, I can see the ocean inexorably clearing. We are in waters even shallower than I had imagined. Soon the risk of being detected from the sky by the enemy will be too great. In that case, if they still have depth charges, we'll lose our only chance of fighting for survival. There is no way to delay the confrontation any longer. I give the order:

  "Crew, combat posts. Lieutenant, drain the ballast tanks. Let's rise up and see what these Americans are made of."

  The igniting of the motors makes the submersible shake, but the sound is sadly more feeble than normal. My dear ship is on its last leg
s. I hear the creak of the lower hatches, and the entire belly rocks. The pumps which drain the water contained in the ballast tanks initiate a lazy buzz. Slowly, we begin to rise.

  "Permission to operate one of the prow machine guns, Sir."

  "It will be a pleasure to have you by my side, Le Beau. But first, please, assign one of your most trustworthy men to remain with the pyroxylin detonator."

  The Nautilus, pride of the French submarine fleet, although mortally wounded, breaks the surface, displaying the full glory of her metallic profile to the rising sun. Immediately, I open the upper hatch and leap to the prow, aided by a sailor who carries the ammunition belts. Le Beau jumps right after me with his own helper, and immediately gives the alert:

  "Enemy fortress at ten o'clock!"

  I curl my calloused hands around the metal handles of the machinegun and spin it in the indicated direction. What I see is shocking.

  The Albatross is thirty meters away, very close to the water line. If a storm hit, the highest waves would lick the bottom of its rectangular cabin, which hangs from the central point of a gigantic dirigible balloon. That cabin, to my surprise, finds itself in an oblique position, curved starboard over its horizontal axis. Taking a better look, the entire balloon is curved. Instead of its traditional cigar format, the balloon exhibits a grotesque banana shape, with the central part lower than the extremities. I notice that, on top, almost half its formidable set of helices, which enable its floatation and movement at high velocity, are immobile. That image gives the impression that the Albatross can barely stay in the air, fighting with all its force not to succumb to the ocean.