by Paul Byers
“The helm is not answering!” Came a frantic cry from below deck.
“Full ahead port engine, full reverse on starboard engine!” Haufmann commanded.
The three men were sitting in the engine room playing cards. First Class seaman Elmar Hirsch was sitting near the bulkhead trying not to smile. At last he had a decent hand and hoped to win back some of his money, aces over eights. Chief engineer Dieter Schwab was sitting across from him, also smiling on the inside. He wasn’t smiling because he had a winning hand but because he was amused at Hirsch trying to hide his. Mechanics Mate Otto Grün, was sitting with his back toward the forward hatch, ready to fold, it seemed lady luck had left him high and dry.
When the chunks of ice fell off the scaffolding, a huge slab tore a long gash in the port ballast tank, then snagged on a cross beam and swung under the hull with such force that it punched a large hole in the engine room. The force of the impact popped several of the rivets, and one shot out like a bullet, hitting Hirsch in the back of the head. He was dead before his crumpled body hit the deck. Schwab sprang to his feet to help his friend but slipped in the onrush of water and went down hard, jamming his knee on the deck and slamming his head again the side of the metal worktable. He cried out in pain and nearly passed out, but managed to struggle to his feet and grabbed Hirsch. He felt a wave of nausea sweep over him as he pulled his hand from the back of the boy’s head; it was covered with blood. Grün rushed to help his crewmates but had taken only two steps before he was slammed against the bulkhead as the rest of the rivets gave way and the hull collapsed. The deluge of water hurled him against the other bulkhead, crushing him in an instant.
“Why are we still moving?” Kapitan Haufmann shouted down the hatch to the control room. At that same instant, the sub lurched back to the left when the ice bent the rudder and jammed it in the opposite direction.
Thayer was still high on his lookout post, paralyzed with fear, staring at the moving city that wasn’t wavering from its imminent collision course. Within moments, an immense wall of moving steel was literally within arm’s reach and even though he was fifteen feet above the deck of the submarine, he still couldn’t see onto the deck of the liner. Thayer looked at Damien for reassurance but instead of finding comfort, he saw the same wild-eyed look of fear that he had in his own eyes. He was even more terrified now because he had never seen fear in his big brother’s eyes before.
He vaguely heard the Kapitan shouting something and then the submarine lunged to one side with such force that he heard the scaffolding breaking and saw huge chucks of ice falling off the sub. Suddenly the submarine lurched back the other way and Thayer felt his hands being torn from the railing and then he found himself falling through the air. With a bone-jarring thud, Thayer landed painfully hard, face down, onto a floating slab of ice.
With dizzying, agonizing pain, he lifted his head and watched through blurry eyes as his submarine continued on without him. The last thing Thayer Lehmann remembered was how cold the ice was and wondering why they were leaving him behind.
“KAPITAN!” Kappel shouted.
Haufmann no longer needed his binoculars to see that less than one hundred meters away, 882 feet of steel was bearing down on his tiny submarine at twenty-one knots.
“I need right full rudder NOW!” Haufmann barked out, but he already knew it was too late and that only a miracle could save his submarine now. The words had no sooner left his mouth than the submarine shook violently and the sounds of grinding, scraping, ripping metal vibrated throughout the boat as the two vessels collided.
The scaffolding and piping of the U-boat bent, twisted and snapped away like dry twigs crushed underfoot. The left bow diving plane punctured the hull of the immense ship and suddenly the submarine was being pulled along by the ship, hitching a ride like a flea on the back of a Great Dane. For a fleeting moment, the Kapitan was beginning to think that they just might have their miracle, that they just might cheat Death and simply bounce off the great ship. But Death would not be cheated; it would not be denied. For tonight, Death was about to go on a gluttonous rampage.
Haufmann felt the submarine jerk as the dive plane began tearing a great gash in the liner’s side. In an instant, the wound had grown to several dozen meters, and in that moment he knew there would be no miracle.
Suddenly the dive plane caught on a main bulkhead of the ship and instead of sheering off, the fine German engineering and craftsmanship proved their undoing as the dive plane held and it twisted the submarine, pulling her onto her side. The remnants of the scaffolding and ice shattered against the hull of the ship like a snowball thrown against the side of a house.
The submarine continued to roll and the conning tower was dragged under and smashed against the hull of the great passenger liner, like a tin can placed on a railroad track for a passing freight train to crush. The piercing screams of metal scraping metal alerted no one. They were lost, drowned out by the steady, throbbing heartbeat of the giant liner’s engines. The cries of help from the men trapped inside the submarine, once their home, now their coffin, would never reach the living. Their muffled screams were softened into melody as they mixed and mingled with the sounds of music and laughter, floating down from those strolling casually on the decks of the ship six stories above them.
Few, if any of the passengers of the R.M.S. Titanic felt the slight vibration as 53,000 tons of swiftly moving ocean liner brushed aside the 600 ton gnat that was unfortunate enough to get in its way.
Chapter Two
“It’s bloody cold out here. I can’t wait to get back to the ship; I’m freezing me bum off out here.”
“Stow your complaining Mr. Sanders.”
“Beggin your pardon, Sir, but no one could be alive out here now. Everyone knows that a man can only last a few minutes in these waters before he freezes to death, and the ship went down hours ago.”
“Thank you for your assessment Mr. Sanders, but I think we’ll keep looking just the same.”
“It would be a bloody miracle to find anyone alive out here,” Sanders said under his breath.
“It’s a bloody miracle they let you in the merchant marine at all.” His friend Tully smiled.
“Oh shut up.”
Petty Officer Norton turned around from his position in the bow of the longboat and gave both men a less than satisfactory look.
The sun had been up for several hours, finally revealing the true extent of the tragedy that had happened only a short time before. The surface of the sea was scattered and strewn with debris, looking like the room of a spoiled child who had taken everything out of his drawers and thrown them everywhere. Furniture that had once graced the elegant first class lounge now bobbed up and down gently like giant bathtub toys.
Slowly, the longboat made its way along, the only sound coming from the slapping of the oars as they rowed. Earlier that morning, the precious few found in the water still alive had been picked up. Now, to those in the boats scouring the seas, it was not a mission of finding the living, but of gathering the dead.
“Mr. Norton, what’s that? Just there, off our port quarter?” Tully said, pointing on the left side of the boat.
“What? That there?” Sanders replied “It looks like a fat seal sunning himself on that slab of ice.”
“Hold oars, let’s have a look.” Norton said as he took out his binoculars.
As they sat there, a woman’s hat lazily drifted by. It was adorned with colorful bird feathers, bright reds, yellows and greens, sticking out in all directions, looking as new as the day it had been bought. It was a stark contrast of color to the dull gloom that enshrouded the area.
“Pull lads, pull hard.” Norton shouted. “That’s not a fat seal out there, it’s a man.” A jolt of electricity shot through the boat at the prospect of finding a survivor. The six men rowing responded with a surge of power and enthusiasm as they began churning the water with their oars. Within a few short minutes the rescue boat had sliced through the icy waters and was appr
oaching the ice slab.
“Stow oars.” Norton ordered as they drifted the last several feet to the slab. The bow of the boat made a crunching sound as it nudged its way into the ice. The petty officer reached for the leg of the man sprawled on the ice but his fingers fell several inches short of the man’s motionless foot. Unable to reach the body, he grabbed the gaff and placed the hook on the man’s belt to drag the body toward the boat. Just as the body started to slide, they heard a low moan.
“Sanders, get up here and help me.” The Petty officer yelled, “You too Tully.”
“Aye sir.” They replied in unison. Quickly both men stowed their oars and scrambled to the bow of the boat. In their rush they nearly knocked Norton overboard.
“Be careful you oaf, you nearly sent me into the water Tully.”
“Sorry sir.”
“Grab his leg there Sanders,” he directed. “Tully, pull him back after Sanders relays him to you.”
“Aye sir.”
They struggled to haul the waterlogged man off the ice and into the boat.
“Quick, grab some blankets there.” Norton ordered. “Let’s get this jacket off him. He’s soaked to the bone.”
“What have we here?” Sanders said as he tugged and pulled the waterlogged jacket off the man. “That’s not something you see every day. It looks like a German Navy uniform.”
“So, he’s a German sailor,” Tully answered.
“Just think it’s a bit odd, that’s all.”
“Well, he’ll be a bit dead if you don’t hurry up and wrap him in those blankets. Tully, grab some of that hot brandy there too.” Norton said.
“Aye sir.”
Propped between the two men, Norton gave the German sailor a sip of brandy. He coughed a little and slowly opened his eyes. They were dazed and confused but they were filled with life.
“There’s your miracle Mr. Sanders.” Norton said.
With shaking hands the sailor grabbed the brandy flask. “Danke.” He drank slowly at first, but soon, the few small sips quickly turned into swigs.
“Easy there lad.” Norton said. “We don’t want to have a drunkard on our hands.” The German sailor smiled weakly. Norton reached into his pocket and took out a piece of hardtack and gave it to the sailor. “You’re very lucky, if you hadn’t of had on that dark colored jacket, we might never have seen you.
Chapter Three
Present day
The hot desert sun beat down mercilessly through the Plexiglas canopy of his F-15 Eagle, turning the cockpit in to an easy-bake oven, a stark contrast to the -30 degrees below zero on the outside. His crew chief had warned him that the a/c unit was not working properly but he wasn’t going to stand down because of that. Melting now from the heat, he felt a trickle of sweat roll down the side of his face; now he knew what the ants felt like when he had held a magnifying glass over them when he was a kid.
His breathing was practiced, slow, and steady and the air had a slight rubber taste as he breathed. He could hear each breath as he inhaled and exhaled through his oxygen mask, the sound reminding him of Darth Vader. Today, he wouldn’t be using The Force; instead he would be relying on his Raytheon APG-63(V)3 radar and targeting system.
A warning chirp and blip on his radar erased all thoughts of The Force or the heat in his cockpit as he focused on the screen as the one dot turned into two, then three, then four.
“Blackjack Two to Blackjack One. Picking up four bogies, forty miles out.”
“Roger Two, I’ve got’em. Maintain speed and heading.”
“Copy.”
Colonel Douglas Madison glanced out of the cockpit of his fighter. The dry desert sands and barren, craggy rocks below painted a very bleak picture of what he would have to parachute into if he were shot down… that is to say, if he survived.
Suddenly, alarms started sounding and his wingman, Lieutenant Pat Packard, burst in over the radio.
“We’ve been painted sir, confirmed bandits, they’ve got a missile lock… they’ve fired at extreme range. Tracking missiles.”
Madison could hear the alarm in Packard’s voice, but to his credit, he maintained control. Four missiles from extreme range, yeah, with two-to-one odds, they could afford to spray and pray missiles away, he couldn’t.
“Afterburners now.” Madison commanded. “When you get a lock, hold fire until you’re at fifteen miles then volley one sparrow then toggle to sidewinders. Break hard on my command.” Tongues of fire shot out of the Eagle’s twin engines and a loud boom rolled over the desert floor as the two planes burst through the sound barrier, rushing headlong into the face of the enemy.
Madison’s plan was simple: close the gap between themselves and the bandits, turn hard at the last possible moment to defeat the incoming missiles, split the aggressors up and through superior tactics and airmanship, neutralize the threat and return home safely. Yeah, simple. Maybe he could use The Force about now.
In his mind’s eye, Madison could visualize the approaching missiles, probably Russian AA-9 Amos, with their blood-red tips closing on him at nearly mach 2.5. Two miles a second.
“Fox one, Break now!” Madison shouted. Madison broke right and his wingman broke left as they criss-crossed. Madison felt his straps digging into his shoulders as they held him in place as he set the plane on its side in a knife edge turn. He gritted his teeth from the strain as he entered the high-g turn and began to feel a little lightheaded. His pressure suit inflated, pushing the blood back to his brain, keeping him from blacking out.
“All missiles defeated… radar shows one bandit splashed.” Packard reported.
Madison didn’t acknowledge as he concentrated, watching two of the enemy fighters streaking high above his canopy with the third one going low, disappearing under his wing. He was breathing heavier now, drawing in deeper breaths, keeping the oxygen flowing to his tense body, he now sounded like Darth Vader on steroids. He snapped his head around and saw that Packard was swinging in behind him; Madison now switched his mindset from prey to predator.
Madison was below and behind the pair of enemy fighters and watched as they continued to climb, then curiously they began to turn to the right to reengage. Having lost speed in the turn, he could now easily turn on their inside and track for a missile lock. Within moments his computer “sang” to him with a perfect lock-on tone.
“Fox two!” Madison calmly called out. “Missile tracking …tracking…contact hit, splash two.” Madison put his head back on a swivel and started searching for the single aircraft. “Where is the low bandit?”
A moment later, Packard called out. “Got him. Four o’clock low, he’s trying to get an angle on us sir.”
With one eye on the remaining high fighter and the other on the low bandit, Madison calculated that he would be in firing position on the high bandit about the same time the low bandit would be in position to get a shot off at Packard. He wanted that third plane badly but no kill was worth the life of his wingman.
“I don’t like this set up. Break to two-seven-zero degrees and egress west. We’ll see if they want to reengage or call it a day.”
“Two.” Packard replied automatically.
Several minutes went by as they watched the two remaining planes leave their radarscopes. After another five minutes of making sure they didn’t double back, Packard let out a huge sigh.
“Man that was intense. I almost forgot this was an exercise. I was sweating bullets back there when that aggressor was crawling up our six.” Packard said.
“This is your first Red Flag isn’t it?” Madison asked.
“Yes it is sir, I’ve been looking forward to it for months. They told me in the briefings that it would be realistic but I had no idea.”
Madison smiled under his mask. “It doesn’t get any more real than this.”
During the Vietnam War it was discovered that if a pilot could complete his first ten combat missions, then his chances of surviving and finishing his tour increased dramatically. Red Flag was designed
to give pilots that edge by providing realistic training for those first ten missions.
“One hop down, nine more to go.” Packard said, a slight cockiness floating in his voice.
“Blackjack Flight, this is tower, we have an unidentified fast mover at your two o’clock, thirty miles out on the edge of restricted airspace. Please put eyes on the target.”
“Tower, Blackjack, roger your request.” Madison replied, then thought for a moment. “Tower is this part of the exercise?”
“Negative Blackjack, bogie is unknown at this time.”
“Roger, we’re on our way.”
“Begging the Colonel’s pardon sir,” Packard said, “but it’s probably just a corporate jet flying some bigwigs into Vegas for the weekend. Or who knows, it could even be a UFO up from Area 51. Anyway sir, I’ve got the weekend off and have plans, if you know what I mean sir? Besides, my fuel is getting a little low, couldn’t we just abort the mission because of fuel status?”
Unlike his wingman; Madison didn’t have a hot date waiting for him at the end of the flight, instead, he had a desk full of paperwork. Even though he knew Packard was probably right about the corporate jet, anything to delay the inevitable was worth it, even if it meant chasing a UFO.
“What’s the matter Lieutenant, don’t you want to see a UFO? Turning right to a heading of one-two-zero.”
“Roger sir.” Packard replied, trying, but not very hard, to hide his disappointment.