Tidal Rip

by Joe Buff

  “We’re ordered to bring the ship to floating-wire-antenna depth in listen-only mode.”

  “More local news developments?” Stissinger asked. He didn’t look happy. The baron paced about, still enraged. To himself, Beck had to admit that he wasn’t entirely displeased that the nasty scheme had failed.

  Beck issued the piloting orders to come shallower, then had the antenna wire deployed—if the ship was too deep the wire couldn’t properly reach near the surface.

  The radio room copied a much longer message. Again Beck listened on the intercom, then hung up. He was suddenly rather dismayed. The broader situation was distressingly in flux and unstable. No one can predict, from the clean and tidy plans made in advance, how the people who made those plans will behave when things come unglued in the heat of action.

  “Berlin says, pending clarification of events in Argentina, that the delivery of our supply of nuclear warheads is on hold.”

  “On hold, not canceled?” von Loringhoven demanded.

  “We’re to remain well outside Argentina’s Exclusive Economic Zone.” An EEZ was the farthest type of beyond-the-coast jurisdiction recognized by global treaties. This two-hundred-mile limit also happened to coincide with Argentina’s declared war exclusion zone. “Brazil announced that USS Challenger transported the SEALs that disarmed the bomb, and Jeffrey Fuller played a significant part on land in planning that operation.” Beck heard von Loringhoven sputter in disgust, and hesitated. “We’re told to stay on alert regarding certain new contingency plans.”

  This delay increases the danger that Challenger and Jeffrey Fuller might find us—he obviously wants me to know he’s here.

  It also puts off my return to the Central African front to destroy the Allied relief convoy before it makes the shore. At least that battle fits the professed Axis operational doctrine, of clearly limited tactical nuclear war at sea .

  And worst of all, this message raises sinister new possibilities just when I thought our purpose near Buenos Aires had collapsed.

  “So we still might be ordered to deliver the crated warheads,” von Loringhoven stated. “Good. Very good.”

  Beck was angered but not surprised by this reaction.

  “Baron, it’s one thing if we’re seen publicly as the defenders of the downtrodden, once America and Brazil are labeled as dastardly aggressors here. But for us to be exposed as the actual culprits in a premeditated provocation, and then even so we give bombs to local fanatics?…It would negate our new regime’s most fundamental ideology, that we’re resisting America’s single-superpower tyranny and restoring social order in Europe and at the same time saving countless lives in Africa from AIDS and starvation and tribal slaughter. It would escalate the war beyond any means of further control!”

  Von Loringhoven stared coldly at Beck. “It’s the victors who write the history and sculpt future public opinion. Ideological doctrines serve the purposes of empire, not the other way around. A smashing success here forces a rapid armistice, and possible escalation is quenched. These knife-edge calculations have propelled our New Order forward from the start. The outcome now remains to be seen…. You say the message refers to contingency plans?”

  “Yes…”

  “Stop being evasive.”

  “We might be ordered to transfer the crated bombs soon so our local supporters can start an offensive before the elected Argentine government suppresses the pro-Axis coup.” Beck knew he sounded very uncomfortable.

  “Then we yet have a window to regain lost ground and achieve our initial objectives, if we’re told to act decisively. Go on.”

  “I’m reading between the lines, the message is vague. But I do have considerable knowledge of what it means when naval orders are phrased, or not phrased, in a particular way.”

  And I may be projecting my own dreads into the minds of those in charge in Berlin…some of whom, I suspect, are wilder extremists than even the baron.

  “I said, stop being evasive.”

  Beck walked up to von Loringhoven and stood nose to nose with the arrogant man, right there in the Zentrale. “You really want to know what I think, or guess, or conjecture? I think High Command in Berlin is split into factions right now. I think some influential people there aren’t willing to accept defeat in Argentina so readily. I think they might even order us north of the Rio de la Plata estuary ourselves, to give the tottering coup leaders a boost by fait accompli. We cut the locals out of the loop, pretend that we’re one of their submarines, and launch nuclear cruise missiles at Brazil from von Scheer. Fifty million people could be dead before midnight.”

  Beck saw Stissinger blanch; his own guts were twisting; most of the crewmen around him seemed truly horrified for the first time. Beck’s grim statement of the stark outcome they might together bring to pass by their own hands stripped away any last chance for detachment with harsh rapidity.

  The captain turned back to von Loringhoven and jabbed a finger angrily in his chest. “Does that thought make you happy, Baron? It scares the hell out of me.”

  Alone in the captain’s stateroom, Jeffrey and Bell discussed the latest situation, what little they knew of it. The lack of further information was wearing. Since da Gama—at Jeffrey’s urging—had agreed in advance to make a big announcement if Felix succeeded, accusations and counteraccusations would be flying thick and heavy between Brazil and Argentina, and inside Argentina too. Bell speculated—accurately, Jeffrey thought—that dozens of other nations must be looking on in amazement or shock. The opinions of many neutrals, and the decisions of some to choose sides, hung in the balance these next few hours.

  What was going on in Berlin now was anybody’s guess, and half of that was Jeffrey’s fault by design, because he really wanted to get Beck’s goat.

  Privately Jeffrey dearly hoped he’d sink the von Scheer very soon. Some of what I did in Rio, I went over about sixteen admirals’ and joint chiefs’ and service secretaries’ heads. It could all backfire, if any German A-bombs still get sent ashore. If so, given the ways of the navy, everything will be on my head—and I can kiss a promising career good-bye. Retribution from above will be swift and cruel…. I might even be court-martialed, assuming there’s enough of civilization left to care.

  Jeffrey had another surge of guilt. If he’d sunk the von Scheer at the Rocks as he was supposed to, none of this would be happening. He’d be busy protecting the convoy, with the Imperial German Navy minus its new ceramic-hulled submarine. I might even be court-martialed for that failure, if we somehow get through this crisis and there’s enough of a stink about it on Capitol Hill that the navy feels they need a fall guy—me. The convoy is suffering added losses because I’m heading for Argentina and not near Africa now—and I’m not near Africa because I didn’t sink Beck earlier.

  Jeffrey could see that Bell was confused by his odd silence, and by the play of emotions across his face. He apologized, then returned to business. “You see what I’m trying to do here, XO?”

  “Captain?”

  “Remember what Admiral Mahan said a hundred years ago. ‘The purpose of seapower is to influence events on land.’”

  Bell nodded. Mahan’s writings were classic, revered, though sometimes misunderstood. He’d taught at the Naval War College late in his life, and tried to make sense of the lessons of previous centuries of naval history.

  “I’m playing it backward,” Jeffrey said. “Trying to use events on land to influence seapower.”

  “Captain?”

  “Turn poor old Mahan on his head…By heightening the disarray on land in Argentina, we helped pin down our seapower opponent, von Scheer, near Mar del Plata, to increase our own ship’s safety from her as a threat.”

  Bell got it. “And then by taking away the von Scheer’s reason for being here, by wrecking their stolen-atom-bomb charade, and helping unmask the Argentine fascists and hopefully getting them all put in prison or shot, you completely remove Beck’s reason for being near SouthAmerica.”

  “We force
him back toward Africa under time pressure.”

  Bell hesitated. “You don’t think he’ll go for the Falklands? Nuke them while he’s over here? The Royal Navy base, Berlin might see that as a legitimate target.”

  Jeffrey shook his head. “It wouldn’t be a decisive stroke, and would take him much too far out of his way. He needs to get back to Africa while our relief convoy is still at sea and vulnerable.”

  “I wish I knew how they’re doing.”

  “So do I, XO. Believe me.”

  Bell thought. “Okay. Captain, so you turn Mahan bass-ackwards, if all goes well.”

  “If all goes well. For the moment what happens is beyond our control. I feel like we’re caught in a giant tidal rip. You know, that dangerous place where the ocean meets the coast? Where the undertow can grab you and people drown?”

  “Understood. And tides can flow in either direction, and so can tidal rips…. But if all does go well, and peace prevails in South America, and von Scheer turns back toward Africa, how do we ever find her before it’s too late and she launches at the convoy? There’s a symbolic tidal rip on the other side of the South Atlantic too, Captain. We struck out completely on the way over here. After the Rocks we never once made contact on Beck’s ship…. How do we keep the same thing from happening twice, going back east?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

  “What if Berlin loses it, goes completely nuts, and orders von Scheer to attack Brazil directly? They’re mentally committed, and politically badly embarrassed, and to maintain power at home the German High Command might go that far. Your Mahan twist is a kick in their teeth too.”

  “I know it, XO. You’re giving voice to my worst fears.”

  “What then, Skipper?”

  “If they accept what amounts to my brinkmanship double dare, and order Beck to push the button, then God help us all.” It’s not like I had any choice, or could only go halfway. To drive Beck off I needed to test every last inch of the risk envelope. I also had to try to badly rattle the German captain’s nerves.

  “God helps those who help themselves,” Bell pressed.

  “That’s why we’re heading toward Argentina.”

  “Minutes count. We’re hundreds of miles away from the von Scheer’s probable location, sir. Other fast-attacks as reinforcements couldn’t get here for hours or days.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So how do we find Beck and stop him in time? Play out the worst-case scenario, sir. Play it out. If he’s told to nuke Brazil it’ll come very soon. On their own, Brazil would be wide open. They’ve got no serious air defense, not to track and knock down supersonic cruise missiles. How do we stop Beck then?”

  “XO, I honestly wish I knew.”

  Ernst Beck sat alone in his cabin, brooding and waiting for further word from Berlin.

  To him the original plot had made some sense. He knew from reading his earlier set of orders that the number of atom bombs to be supplied to the Argentines would be limited. To use a bomb required complex arming codes that applied only to that particular bomb—and the Axis would parcel these codes out to the Argentines in small doses. The purpose was to shock America into suing for peace, not start World War III, by using a decisively harsh and brutal act the Axis wouldn’t be blamed for: a full-scale demonstration of tactical nuclear warfare waged on land. The fault would appear to lie with America; even U.S. civilians might not believe their own government’s denials. Such a modern credibility gap was one major Axis goal.

  But now, because he knew the plot had failed, the sheer hypocrisy of it all was the most appalling of many things that bothered Beck. He saw too late the naked truth: He’d been a willing player in this hypocrisy from the start. To sail around with kampfschwimmer and send them off for this or that was glamorous. To provoke some banana republic into open revolution was enjoyable in a voyeuristic way. To have these people killing one another unbidden by him, so eagerly, yielded a brief but almost sexual thrill. Beck began to understand von Loringhoven better. He now saw parts of von Loringhoven beginning to grow, or fester, inside himself.

  Still he waited for word from Berlin. Should he deliver the crated atom bombs? Would he be told to fire the missiles from von Scheer?

  Beck knew that if he was ordered to pretend to be an Argentine sub and launch a handful of missiles at Brazil, then, duty-bound, he’d obey. If he was imaginative enough of a naval officer to conceive the possibility, there could be people in High Command who would at least consider it too.

  Step-by-step the moral stakes had risen, as the moral standards fell. At each step Beck resisted, then gave in. Every time, he went from horror at his orders—or possible orders—to keenly and cleverly planning how he and his crew would help carry them out.

  The ugly truths of the larger situation began to manifest themselves more clearly in his mind. He knew his own complicity, and duplicity, could no longer be repressed or denied.

  To sneakily set off a stolen American bomb as an outrageous lie, and then give more bombs to Argentina for them to use against Brazil, was supposed to be okay. But to shoot such bombs at Brazil directly from von Scheer is for me somehow less okay?

  Beck shook his head. How could he have been so self-deluded as to believe that he held some special sort of ethical high ground? He waited and waited for a messenger to knock, or for his intercom light to blink, with news from headquarters.

  Beck felt himself sinking deeper into gloom.

  If God truly existed, and He really respected my trust in Him, then why has He allowed me to be caught in this situation? It’s certainly not to test my faith. That’s cruel theological nonsense. And it’s not to challenge my moral commitment, because cowardice and treason, mutiny or suicide, are the only exits now and these are the ultimate immoral acts.

  For a warrior to kill in war is not immoral….

  Hell is just a fantasy, a story to scare little children. I am a grown man, a blooded soldier fighting for my country, as other German soldiers have fought for generations past. They never questioned their duty or their destiny…and neither will I. They sought only to do their duty well and face their destiny with clear and confident eyes…and so shall I.

  Beck opened his laptop and turned it on. He brought up a map of Brazil. To pass the time constructively, he began to pick what he thought would be high-value targets in the country, just in case the order came to launch his nuclear cruise missiles. Growing bored with that, he studied a chart of the South Atlantic, and planned his campaign against Challenger and the convoy.

  Jeffrey let the Brazilian hovercraft rush on ahead alone, as a diversion, while Challenger changed course to leave the continental shelf. Challenger continued moving south at top quiet speed out in deep water, off southern Brazil. The local time was three A.M. in Buenos Aires and Rio. Jeffrey knew this was late, even for urban middle-to upper-class South Americans, who tended to stay up well past midnight every day of the week.

  He and Bell sat in the captain’s stateroom again, struggling over tactics for their fight against the von Scheer. Nautical charts and diagrams were windowed on his laptop screen. The display looked impressive enough, but Jeffrey knew that in reality he and the XO were going in circles and getting nowhere. They decided to take a break and went to the wardroom for coffee—Jeffrey locked his door, for security. In a short while they returned.

  Jeffrey’s laptop sat there, with the same busy mess on the screen.

  “Let’s get back to work,” Jeffrey told Bell. “This is what they pay us the big money for.” He sat down heavily.

  Bell joined him, and many minutes passed. The two men still got nowhere. Jeffrey felt himself becoming irritable. That strong black coffee, instead of perking him up, had left him with acid reflux and a bitter metallic aftertaste in his mouth. The caffeine, the adrenaline, the long day of hard work and harder travel, the late hour and all the tension, were giving him a weird sensation—as though his head were stuffed with wool or wasn’t quite attached to his body.

/>   Someone knocked on the door. Jeffrey, startled, jumped in his seat.

  Much more of this pulverizing wait for news and I’ll really lose it.

  A messenger informed him that Sonar was picking up Brazilian airdropped signal sonobuoys in the acoustic-tone code Jeffrey prearranged with Rio.

  “We’ll be right there,” he told the young man tiredly, then slid his door closed again for a moment and fought to regain some composure.

  Bell, still sitting, looked up at him, obviously torn between hope and dread.

  Lieutenant Willey, the engineer, had the conn; Sessions was acting as fire control; the ship had been at battle stations now for seven hours. This was grueling, draining, extreme, but Jeffrey deemed it necessary—von Scheer might appear from nowhere at very short range, and then every second would count.

  Sessions had already decoded the sonobuoy signal relayed by Sonar. “Captain, message says, ‘Come up to on-hull ELF antenna depth.’”

  “ELF depth?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s what it says in the codebook from that diskette you brought from Brazil.”

  “But Brazil doesn’t have an ELF transmitter.” Such installations were miles across and hugely expensive. “Sonar, are you sure about what you got from the sonobuoys?”

  “Yes, Captain. Quite certain this is the tone sequence they sent us.”

  “Somebody there made a clerical error?” Bell suggested.

  Jeffrey frowned. “We’d better find out.” He took the conn and Bell took fire control. Jeffrey ordered Challenger shallower.

  Soon the radio room called on the intercom.

  “ELF message with our address says to come to floating-wire-antenna depth and trail the wire, Captain. Imperative, and do not radiate. Commander, Atlantic Fleet sends.”

  “Hey,” Bell exclaimed. “Our comms are working again!”

  Jeffrey, very exhausted, was more cautious. “Either our information warriors defeated the Axis viruses for now, or this is all a fake and we’ll be led into a trap.”