Straits of Power cjf-5

by Joe Buff

  Chapter 4

  At the Severodvinsk shipyard complex, on the White Sea in bleak northwestern Russia, just south of the Arctic Circle, Egon Schneider was very annoyed. He had a stack of papers to sign on behalf of his government, taking official possession as captain of the latest piece of military hardware that Russia was selling to Germany. Schneider paused to rub his palms against his thighs for warmth; the yard office he was borrowing in this awful place was chilly. He flexed his cramping right hand, picked up the pen, and went back to work. Each form had to be done in triplicate, in each of two languages, with Schneider’s original signature or initials in multiple places on every page — but hard copy, delivered by trustworthy couriers, defeated electronic eavesdropping.

  It seems fitting somehow for it all to end like this, with drudgery rather than ceremony. But the entire process was a closely guarded secret, even in a New Russia that was openly aiding the Axis for selfish reasons of its own. One of which is to have someone else cut America down to size.

  The Allies surely knew that the vessel existed. In today’s world such things were impossible to hide. The U.S. and UK were meant to believe that this lead ship in a new class was destined for Russia’s own Northern Fleet. They had no idea she’d been christened Grand Admiral Doenitz, in honor of the leader of Germany’s U-boats in World War II. To the latest coalition of so-called Allies, Doenitz was known only as the first of Russia’s Project 868U Malakhit-B-class fast-attack submarines.

  She was the absolute best of everything that Germany and Russia could produce, enhanced by whatever else worthwhile their spies had stolen from the U.S. and UK: Twin liquid-metal-cooled reactors that provided tremendous power for their size, with all-electric drive to big DC motors that turned the pump-jet propulsor shaft — so Doenitz had no noisy reduction gears. A titanium inner hull, much stronger than steel, was surrounded by a thinner titanium outer hull, with a free-flooding space in between, giving the boat a crush depth of better than 1,200 meters—4,000 feet. The titanium double-hull arrangement aided quieting, was immune to magnetic anomaly detectors, and gave tremendous protection against incoming fire.

  But it didn’t stop there.

  Liquid-metal reactor coolant, unlike the pressurized water used by the Allies, could be circulated by electromagnetic pumps. Since such pumps had no moving parts, they never made a sound, even when running at full power. The reactors were temperamental in other ways, but worth it: The coolant was radioactive, and would solidify if the reactors were ever shut down at sea for too long.

  The outsides of the ship were made of a new composite layered material. One layer held grids of electrodes, and the substance flexed in response to impulses sent through these electrodes; the sonar men could use this to cancel sounds from inside the ship, and suppress any echo from hostile active sonars. The outermost permanent coating was made of artificial proteins and long-chain polymers, which were incredibly slippery, increasing speed through the water for a given power output, and further improving quiet by reducing the hull’s flow noise.

  Schneider smiled to himself. The portion of this outer coating on Doenitz’s upper works was one of the sub’s most intriguing parts. Other electrodes made the special material there responsive optically — it could change color in small patches, and even alter its reflectivity. The ship could thus defeat LIDAR, a form of optical radar that used blue-green lasers to search for suspicious objects in the sea. Doenitz could also beat LASH, which, ironically, the Americans had perfected but not fully classified. LASH — littoral airborne sensor hyperspectral — used the backscatter of illumination from sunlight, caught via special sensors and then processed by computer, to locate anomalous color gradations and shapes, even deep under water that was dirty; the anti-LASH coating let Schneider’s ship blend in perfectly.

  But his favorite thing of all was in the engineering compartments. Another composite material, this one developed first by Hong Kong scientists, but foolishly not exploited by the American military, consisted of a rubber-and-epoxy matrix embedded with tiny lead balls. The size of the balls tuned slabs of this rubber to a specific frequency. The breakthrough by the scientists had been to show how a sheet less than 2.5 centimeters — an inch — thick could completely block sound at that frequency.

  This didn’t seem very practical to the U.S. Navy, because any submarine gives off sounds at a number of different frequencies — called tonals — and some of these varied widely up and down the scale even on a single ship as it altered its speed.

  Schneider smiled again. The answer, like most great ideas, was obvious when you saw it, and German naval architects had seen it. Use a sheet for each tonal that the sub gave off when making flank speed with both reactors pushed to the max. Flank speed meant as fast as a vessel could go. Coat the inside of the machinery spaces and pump-jet cowling with the proper sets of slabs, and the submarine, once she accelerated to flank speed, would suddenly become very quiet. Normally, flank speed made any sub horribly loud. Doenitz, instead, would suddenly vanish from any Allied platform’s sonar screens; Schneider looked forward with predatory relish to exploiting this secret weapon.

  And the new ship was staggeringly fast. Doenitz did sixty-three knots on sea trials, ten knots better than the U.S. or Royal Navy’s speediest submarines. Schneider intended to use his full complement of fifty atomic torpedoes well.

  Someone knocked on the door of the windowless, guarded yard office he was using.

  “Come!”

  Manfred Knipp entered. “Excuse me, Captain.”

  “Yes?”

  Knipp snapped to attention and clicked the heels of his boots. “Ship is ready for sea in all respects, sir.”

  “Jawohl, Einzvo. I’ll be down.” Schneider gestured at the papers piled on the desk. “Tell the tugs I need fifteen more minutes.” Einzvo was German navy slang for 1WO, first watch officer, who was actually Erster Wachoffizier. Knipp was Schneider’s executive officer.

  “Jawohl.” Knipp did a smart about-face and left.

  A corner of Schneider’s mouth curled up in a sneer once Knipp was gone.

  He and Knipp were opposites; both had grown up in East Germany’s stark and badly polluted Dresden, where traumatic memories of the World War II firebombing still lingered. But they’d met only after joining the navy when Germany reunified in 1991, trying to forget their impoverished youth under dreary Soviet domination. Both encountered prejudice because they came from the supposedly backward East, but reacted, compensated, in different ways. Knipp loved spit-and-polish, and took the glamour and glitter of court in this new Imperial Germany much too seriously for Schneider’s tastes. The restored Hohenzollern kaiser was just for show. Anyone with good sense knows that. The real decisions are made by the general staff, guided by an oligarchy of very rich and well-connected business executives. Acting by secret committee, they’re the true heads of state. It was with these oligarchs that Schneider identified, they whom he strove to emulate and intended to someday join. Invisible but lethal power, wealth so immense it need not be measured, privilege taken for granted, these were what drove Schneider’s ruthless ambition.

  Knipp was into meticulous procedures and rigorous checklists. Schneider went much more for the big picture. Knipp was married, with children; Schneider was single. Knipp believed in God, while Schneider was an avowed atheist. Knipp was tall and fit and handsome. Schneider stood at only average height, and was almost fifteen kilos — thirty pounds — overweight. Knipp had good empathy with other people, and a warm, approachable personality. Schneider was a loner in any crowd, distant and aloof by choice and by nature, but a polished mingler whenever it suited his purposes — and he aimed his networking high. Knipp was patient and happy to have this prestigious assignment on Doenitz. Schneider was always in a hurry and never satisfied, least of all now. But Knipp was a very good einzvo, and Schneider intended to take him along when he made his next big move.

  This was the other thing that annoyed Schneider every time it crossed his mind. />
  I’m a full-rank senior to Ernst Beck, and a better submarine commander. I should have gotten the ceramic-hulled von Scheer when her original captain was killed. Instead Berlin gave her to Beck, her einzvo… and then look what happened. He’s holed up ten thousand sea miles south of me, undergoing repairs, and I’m supposed to head down there and bail him out like some sort of nursemaid.

  Schneider knew it was his own bad luck to be stuck in this drab and filthy deep freeze, beating endlessly on the Russians to get Doenitz finished to proper German standards of exacting quality control. It took years of painstaking construction work, hounding the yard supervisors and foremen mercilessly, and he was indescribably glad that at last it was done. He thought the Russians were pigs, slobs, idiots. The food they ate was crap, and for years he’d lived on the same crap. They were all alcoholics and Schneider didn’t drink. They were dreadful company.

  But now it’s time to get out of this place, forever.

  Schneider took another quick break to rest his writing hand and try to get warmer.

  For now, Beck is like flypaper. The Allies would have to keep him bottled up, blockaded. They knew that, some week soon, von Scheer would come out. By then USS Challenger was expected by Axis naval intelligence to be on the scene, waiting near Durban. She was the fly that Schneider intended to catch. She was the only submarine that could take on von Scheer head-to-head and have a chance to win.

  Except for one thing. In water less that 1,200 meters deep, Challenger’s crush depth of four times that was irrelevant. Doenitz held every advantage.

  And more 868Us were coming. A second one was almost ready for commissioning and then her shakedown cruise.

  By the time the Allies realized these warships were owned and operated by the Imperial German Navy, it would be too late. In the meantime, acting as if they were Russian was Schneider’s ideal disguise. He could hide in plain sight, and as a neutral the British and Americans had to leave him alone.

  Until I surprise and sink Challenger, and help Beck break out, and then apply my achievements in battle and my contacts in Berlin to have Beck relieved so I can take over Admiral von Scheer. The things I could do with her! A ceramic-composite hull’s crush depth, dozens of advanced torpedoes, a hundred-plus Mach 2.5 antiship cruise missiles, and her two Mach 8 anti-carrier-battle-group unstoppable scram-jet missiles — all armed with tactical nuclear warheads.

  Schneider finished signing the forms. He got up from the desk. The yardmaster had left him a bottle of excellent vodka, as a parting gift. It sat on the desk unopened, and Schneider left it there. Fuck the yardmaster.

  Schneider pulled on his parka and gloves, raised his fur-lined hood, and went outside.

  It was almost midnight, yet the sun was barely below the horizon. It’s unnatural. The yard complex was brightly lit. No blackout precautions needed here in neutral Russia. The sky above was overcast and had a yellow tinge; the air held the bite of coal smoke. As Schneider trudged down to the pier, through slush and scattered trash, the din of the giant shipyard surrounded him. Welding torches sparkled, cranes turned while their hydraulics whined, flatbed trucks rumbled by. He heard a locomotive whistle somewhere in the distance, high pitched and plaintive.

  By the time he reached the pier where Doenitz sat low in the water, tied up, it had begun to snow. He cursed. It’s May already, and this close to the Arctic Circle it snows. He went through the motions of saluting the Russian flag that flew from a gaff by the cockpit atop Doenitz’s broad, squat, streamlined sail. A handful of Russian submariners were already in position there. Have to keep up appearances, in case of prying eyes. Behind those men, the sail’s roof bristled with raised photonics masts — the modern version of periscopes — and radio and radar antennas, and passive electronic countermeasures masts.

  The Russians would remain aboard once under way, to help in the further training of Schneider’s well-practiced crew, and to assist in fixing anything that broke. They’d also be there to play-act if human interface was needed with the outside world. Schneider intended to hold them at arm’s length and let Knipp be his liaison.

  Two weather-beaten tugs were already coming alongside, to help the 868U maneuver away from the pier. Then they’d escort her out to deep water, common Russian practice. Black diesel soot belched from their funnels, and white water gushed at their sterns as the tug captains put their screw props into reverse.

  Hit my ship too hard, you lousy Russian sorry excuses for sailors, and I’ll personally have you shot.

  Schneider used the removable metal walkway — the brow — from the pier onto his ship. The narrow strip of broken ice and seawater in between was oily, and it stank. He climbed through an open forward hatch, down into his submarine. Waiting there were two crewmen, as he expected, ready to thoroughly inspect the hatch and dog it shut for a very long time.

  Schneider thought ahead as he walked a narrow, red-lit passageway. The overhead was low. Bundles of pipes and cables made the headroom even tighter, but Schneider wasn’t tall enough to care.

  Once they submerged he’d get some sleep. He wanted to be wide awake when Doenitz transited the Greenland-Iceland-UK Gap. He’d sound his active sonar as he approached, just like the Allied notice to mariners said to do, to show himself as neutral. Then he’d pause, submerged at thirty meters, while antisubmarine forces looked Doenitz over to verify that she was Russian, not Axis. Schneider was sure they’d pay close attention to the first 868U they’d have a chance to see and listen to from so nearby. He wouldn’t turn on his anti-LIDAR and anti-LASH capabilities. They were top secret and there’d be no reason to use them…. But the joke would be on the Allies.

  He’d probably pick up a tail right away, a conventional fast-attack sub. Schneider was sure he would lose it easily. If he was doubly lucky, he’d be able to draw a bead on the Royal Navy’s HMS Dreadnought, their only ceramic-hulled sub, and put her on the bottom without the Allies ever knowing he was involved.

  Schneider strode into his control room. Crewmen sat, intent on their instruments and console screens. None looked up, but he easily noticed how the men became more alert with him present, and he sensed their thinly suppressed camaraderie and pride.

  They’re following in their forefathers’ footsteps, and they know it and they’re glad. For the third war in a century, another German submarine puts to sea and steers into battle.

  Manfred Knipp approached, respectfully awaiting orders.

  “Einzvo, take the conn. Call up to the bridge and tell the Ivans to start moving. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Chapter 5

  After the meeting broke up late that day, Wilson and Hodgkiss told Jeffrey he’d be briefed on his mission soon — at least on those specifics that anyone could possibly plan in advance, under the circumstances. Wilson returned to New London; Hodgkiss and Jeffrey took separate shuttle helos back to Norfolk that evening. Jeffrey grabbed some fitful sleep in the transient bachelor-officer quarters on the base. He mostly lay awake in the dark, behind the blackout curtains of his room, his mind racing.

  Long before dawn Jeffrey caught a courier helo across the James River to the Newport News shipyard. Beneath an infrared-proof cover the size of a gigantic hangar, the dry-dock slip was flooded, allegedly for engineering tests. Challenger floated beautifully in a surfaced condition, riding on the buoyancy from her air-filled ballast tanks. She was freed now from the rows of blocks that supported her weight when the caisson at the river end of the slip had been positioned and the water inside the dock pumped out. Instead, yellow nylon ropes — called lines — and portable rubber bumpers — called fenders — held her 8,000 tons of streamlined bulk in place.

  Aluminum brows provided access onto the curving black hull. Cables and piping for shore electrical power, fresh water, and other needs connected Challenger to housings on the indoor pier, which stretched farther than the length of a football field. Scaffolding surrounded the top of her sail, and Jeffrey saw sparks from a noisy grinding wheel where someone
wearing a face shield smoothed the seam of a newly made weld. That scaffolding goes pretty soon.

  Jeffrey went aboard and climbed down inside without formalities. Each time he met one of his ten officers or sixteen chiefs, he said a quick hello but told them not to let him distract them. Some of them looked like they hadn’t slept in two days — and they probably hadn’t. Jeffrey did a painstaking walk-through of his ship, wriggling deftly past crewmen and contractors who were hastily wrapping up whatever tasks they could finish before the end of the day. The excuse they’d been given yesterday was a fact-finding visit from someone rather senior at the Pentagon, the VIP’s identity not disclosed yet for security reasons.

  The reality, as only Jeffrey knew, was that his ship would put to sea tonight, and whatever wasn’t finished would stay unfinished for some time. The inspectors from Naval Reactors had already been by while he was in Washington the day before. Challenger had passed, which was never guaranteed, and reflected credit on Jeffrey’s crew. The nuclear-reactor safety inspectors always worked at arm’s length, caring nothing for the careers — or operational schedules — of whom and what they examined.

  Jeffrey spent hours going over the status of things on his ship, to make sure that all vital systems would be available when needed. Jeffrey’s crew had been rotating through the various ultrarealistic team-training simulators available at the Norfolk base, to keep up their submariner skills. Otherwise they would have grown stale from weeks immobilized in dry dock, doing nothing but nonstop maintenance and repairs. On a laptop, alone in his stateroom, Jeffrey read through summaries of these simulator drills — everything from fighting fires to solving firing solutions and launching weapons — to double-check that there were no deficiencies since his last look.