Crush Depth

by Joe Buff

  “Sir, your combat success speaks for itself.”

  “Our combat success, Gunther. Our combat success. It wasn’t lost on me that during our battle with USS Challenger, you made important contributions.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “No, please, let me finish. Once or twice then, you even saw something vital a split second before I did, at times when a split second meant the margin between life and death. You saved the ship, and I’ll never forget that.”

  “I only did my duty, sir.” Yes, it was that plus a healthy, practical desire to not get killed.

  “All true heroes will say they only did their duty, Gunther. All true heroes will say they were only helping their shipmates survive…. That’s why I want you to know, I put you in for a decoration, before we left dry dock.”

  “I—”

  “No, please. You deserve it. I expect it will be approved.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re probably wondering by now why we’re having this little chat?”

  Van Gelder nodded.

  “More schnapps?”

  “A little more, please.”

  Ter Horst poured. He lifted his shot glass dramatically, then quaffed it in one gulp. Van Gelder felt he’d better do the same. The strong liquor felt good going down. It did help lift Van Gelder’s mood.

  “Where we’re heading next, Gunther, and what we have to do there, may well have a decisive effect on the war.”

  Again Van Gelder let ter Horst continue.

  “You and I must work as one, going forward. What we do will be very risky and dangerous. I can’t afford to brook any misunderstandings between us, any frictions, even unconscious ones.”

  Suddenly Van Gelder felt wary. “I didn’t think there was friction, Captain.” Was this the trap ter Horst had set and sprung?

  But ter Horst waved his hand dismissively. “No, no. That’s not what I meant. We naval officers aren’t paid to be poets or philosophers. But I sense there’s more of the philosopher in you than in me. I sense you’re sometimes troubled about the rightness of our cause, I mean the need for the brutality, the mass destruction, the execution of traitors and spies.”

  “Captain, I—”

  “No, no. Please let me finish. This is not a criticism session. I’m not accusing you of any weakness, or—or of backsliding, God forbid.” Backsliding—a euphemism, Van Gelder knew, for cowardice and ideological doubt—was punishable by the noose. “I’m just trying to be a realist, about you and about me and about this war.”

  Van Gelder was surprised now, and concerned. He’d never seen ter Horst this open and confiding, even at times in the past—at parties or dinners ashore—when he’d had plenty to drink. Could this be because ter Horst himself was worried about the difficulty of Voortrekker’s next task? Did he feel the need to talk, to have an audience, so as to reassure himself, because he now faced something overwhelming?

  Ter Horst hiccupped, then said, “Excuse me.

  “I’m not a man to know fear easily,” ter Horst went on. “I sometimes think I have some kind of character disorder. A fear deficit, you know?”

  “Sir, the crew admire your bravery.”

  “Well, some men come alive in battle and forget there’s such a thing as fear. I suppose I’m one of them. Others feel the naked vulnerability in combat all too vividly. Yet they carry on, they do their duty. I think these latter men are the ones with the true courage…. I believe you’re one of these latter type of men, Gunther. A man who feels his fear as a personal enemy from deep inside, and yet who slays that enemy time and again so he can go on and slay the true enemy, the external foe.”

  “Er, thank you, Captain.” How many times have I thanked him now? What’s he trying to get me to do?

  “I try to know myself, Gunther. A captain must. But I think of you as the more self-aware, the more sensitive of the two of us.”

  “I think you’re probably right, sir.”

  “I’ve never lied to you, have I?”

  How am I supposed to answer that? “Not that I know of, Captain.”

  “I pride myself that I’ve never lied to anyone. Oh, I withhold information, for security, but that’s a captain’s privilege.”

  “I understand.”

  “I seek to dupe the enemy, of course, but that’s valid strategy.”

  “Of course.”

  “Those lies aren’t sins. Killing in battle isn’t a sin. I like to think that I’ve never committed a serious sin. I say my prayers each night with a clear conscience.”

  “Er, yes, sir.” Van Gelder knew that ter Horst, like many Boers, was religiously devout—Van Gelder himself believed in God, but wasn’t big on organized worship.

  “So as I was saying, Gunther, I want to address—allay—any concerns you may have, before the next steps in our journey together.”

  “How so?” Van Gelder felt intoxication coming on from the schnapps, and he tried to be very careful now.

  “Discipline and training are your job. What I want you to do is meet with the officers and men in small groups, over the next day. But first, get some rest, a good eight hours’ rest. The schnapps will help.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” It would be nice to get a decent night’s sleep for once.

  “Keep each gathering brief. Speak no more than fifteen minutes, say, and allow time for questions and open discussion.”

  “On what subject, sir?”

  “On why we’re fighting, on why our cause is just, on how well the war is going, and on where we’re voyaging next.”

  “Where are we going next, Captain?”

  “In due time. Let me take these points in order. You’ll remember what I say? You don’t want to take some notes?”

  “I have a good memory, Captain.” A first officer needed one. “I’ll write things down if it becomes necessary….”

  Ter Horst drew a deep breath. “We and the Germans are together fighting a police action, Gunther, against American imperialism, against outside interference in our proud national destinies, and against Anglo-American military-political atrocities of the last century or more.”

  “You mean the forced end to apartheid,” Van Gelder stated. “The abuses of the Versailles Treaty after World War I.”

  Ter Horst nodded. “Stripping Germany bare. Destroying her economy, and her self-esteem. Doing it again after World War II, especially in the East, under Soviet occupation for fifty years…. The Boer War, putting our forefathers’ wives and children in concentration camps, where thousands died of typhus.”

  “But we fired the first shots, this time, in this war, sir.”

  Ter Horst shook his head vehemently. “It’s all one long connected war, Gunther, going back decades and decades. Don’t you see? This is just the latest battle. The Americans, the British, they fired the first shots, long ago. Militarily, politically, they’re culpable for all that followed, and for all that follows now. They’re culpable morally too.”

  “But the Germans nuked Warsaw and Tripoli.”

  “And the U.S. nuked Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Don’t you see the duality, the justice of it, the revenge here on a global scale? Many readings of international law say all nuclear weapons are illegal. Who invented them? Who used them first?”

  “I see your point, Captain.”

  “And take the collapse of apartheid. That system worked for us, for all South Africa. The Bantus, the coloreds, they had a proper place in our society, and a proper, safe place in which to work and live. The communist so-called Front Line States to our north made trouble along the border, sure, but we fought them back. We held the line against the Reds as much as America ever did, with their botch-up in Vietnam. We held it better, until the Berlin Wall came down! Then the Americans hit us with trade embargoes, sanctions. They claim we’re violating human rights. So apartheid falls, and starting in 1994 our country becomes a democracy. And what do we get, from this democracy?” Ter Horst said the word like it was obscene. “Open borders, and an i
nrush of AIDS decimating our black population. An open economy, freedom for all, and violent crime skyrockets. Internal terrorism, tribal strife, they explode all out of control! Look at the statistics, Gunther. Years and years of statistics. The statistics don’t lie.”

  “No, sir, they don’t.” Van Gelder felt himself being won over. He felt himself relaxing, his inner concerns being salved.

  Watch out, my friend. Is this burgeoning peace of mind because of ter Horst’s hard logic, or because of your own fatigue and the schnapps? Is ter Horst an inspiring leader, or is he just a manipulative, seducing bastard?

  “It’s the enemy who lies, Number One. It’s the enemy who practices hypocrisy on a monumental scale. What the Brits have done to the Irish. What the U.S. did to their Native Americans, what the North did to the South in their bloody War Between the States…The joint NATO task force we and the Germans attacked at the outset of this latest conflict was a legitimate military target, Gunther. Diego Garcia was a legitimate military target. The Americans and British and the others we killed are the fools, for not thinking of the risks when they joined up, when they donned the uniform in what they thought was peacetime. There has been no peacetime, Gunther, not in a hundred, two hundred years! Only lulls between battles, and the Anglo-Americans choose to call each battle a separate war. Now do you see?”

  “I think so, sir.” Ter Horst had made some very telling points.

  “Good. Good. It’s all very simple, really, when you look at it the right way. The world has a new policeman, fighting against corruption, decadence, social chaos, and pandemic disease. Fighting for national self-determination, order, truth. That new policeman is us, Gunther, the Berlin-Boer Axis.”

  Ter Horst offered Van Gelder more schnapps. This time Van Gelder declined, and ter Horst put away the bottle. It was from Germany, and tasted very good. Van Gelder decided to see if the schnapps had made ter Horst loosen up at all.

  “The last part of the briefings I’m to conduct, Captain? Our next destination?”

  “We’re going to deal the Americans the knockout blow…. The Axis doesn’t intend to occupy them. You know that’s never been our goal. Containment, diminishment, reduction to a second-rate vassal nation, those are our plans for America…. At the rate they’re going, German forces in the North Atlantic should have the British starved out soon. And Russia remains firm in her thinly disguised support for us, providing conventional arms, and raw materials and fuels, in exchange for gold and diamonds.”

  “Just where do we come in?”

  Ter Horst cleared his throat. “Voortrekker is tasked to open up a whole new front. We’re going to expose the United States as completely naked and vulnerable, to undermine their will and ability to continue the fight, and, especially, win Asia over to the Axis side. Secret diplomatic efforts, ones I cannot disclose a thing to you about, are under way on several continents, timed to mesh with our next strike.”

  Van Gelder hesitated, very impressed. “But sir. We’re almost out of ammo.”

  Ter Horst waved dismissively again. “All that will be taken care of soon.”

  “How, Captain?…Excuse me, I know I must be patient.”

  Van Gelder was surprised at himself for saying that. He realized ter Horst had had his desired effect. Van Gelder couldn’t help but let ter Horst continue his seduction, finish casting his spell. And by the time I run through all this five or six times with the men—each time making sure I sound as if I believe every word—he’ll have me totally brainwashed.

  Ter Horst looked Van Gelder right in the eyes, very hard.

  “You and I, Gunther. Together, and our crew. We’re the fulcrum, the pivot point. A supercapable nuclear-powered fast-attack submarine, fully armed with tactical atomic weapons you and I are eager to use…We’re going to run the Australia–New Zealand–Antarctic Gap, break out into the Pacific Ocean, and open a whole new front against America.”

  EIGHT

  Simultaneously, at Dulles International Airport, Washington, D.C.

  STRAPPED INTO THE rear of the cockpit, Ilse heard the purring of the fighter jet’s twin engines rise to a steady, insistent whine. The crew chief and Rachel Barrows saluted. Ilse waved, and the crew chief waved back. Barrows must know she can trust the crew chief. I’d hate it if he were a spy, and sabotaged us.

  Barrows closed and sealed the cockpit canopy. Ilse breathed deeply, slightly frightened yet almost giddy in anticipation of what was to come. Her oxygen mask smelled rubbery. The oxygen tasted metallic and felt cool and dry. It helped Ilse feel more alert.

  Barrows’s voice came over Ilse’s headphones. “I’ll leave the intercom mikes on so we can talk. We’ll maintain strict radio and radar silence, for obvious reasons.”

  The plane taxied some distance in the pitch-dark. The plane’s suspension was stiff; Ilse felt every bump and crack and seam in the taxiway.

  “How can you see? I thought the Axis was distorting the global positioning system signals.”

  “I have infrared and low-light-level TV pictures, with cues on my head-up display. The cameras are in the nose.”

  Barrows put on the brakes. “We’re waiting for takeoff clearance.”

  Ilse glanced around and was surprised to find she had a small rearview mirror mounted inside the canopy. She saw another, identical jet waiting behind her and Barrows.

  “What type of airplane is this?”

  “Two-seat version of the F-22 Raptor. Best air-dominance and strike fighter in the world, in my not-so-humble opinion.”

  “How come my instruments are all blacked out?”

  “So you don’t see aircraft performance. Maximum speed, altitude ceiling, stuff like that’s top secret.”

  Ilse, held firmly by her ejection seat harness, squirmed to try to relax in the seat—the bottom and back were firm and hard.

  “These chairs aren’t very comfortable.”

  “When you’re in a dogfight with the kaiser’s Luftwaffe, the last thing you want is comfortable.”

  Ilse hesitated, chilled. It sank in, all at once, that these jets were personal killing machines, and sometimes the pilots who flew them died. “If it isn’t too secret, where did you score your five victories?”

  “Over Denmark and the North Sea. All in one night too, right before Christmas. There was a huge air battle, you might have heard about it.”

  Ilse had heard about it. She’d been right under it, in Challenger, the whole time. This woman helped save my life.

  “Who is that behind us?”

  “My wingman.” Ilse, her vision dark-adapted now, looked again in the rearview mirror. The other pilot was a woman.

  “Who’s in the other passenger seat?”

  “Someone who looks like you…And that’s the weapon systems officer’s seat, officially.”

  “You don’t need one tonight?”

  “Not where we’re going. We’ll be vectored to the rendezvous by an AWACS plane.”

  “So what’s this all about? Can’t you tell me anything?”

  “We need to get you somewhere special really quick, far away. A fighter jet’s the fastest method. We also need to keep the Axis from knowing where you’re going, on the assumption they’re trying to monitor you. The air force has a few tricks up our sleeve tonight.”

  Red lights came on, in two long rows along the ground, marking the edges of a concrete runway that stretched in front of the jet for more than two miles.

  “We are clear for takeoff.” Barrows kept the brakes on while she pushed the throttles to full power. The engine noise built from a whine to a roar. The whole plane shook and bucked like it was alive. Barrows released the brakes and hit the afterburners. The noise redoubled. Ilse was kicked back hard against her seat. The F-22 rolled down the runway faster and faster. The red runway lights streaked past in a blur.

  The aircraft leaped into the sky. Barrows made a tight left turn, and kept climbing fast.

  Ilse glanced around to spot the wingman. She noticed tiny, dim lights trailing h
er, not far away. Barrows waggled her wings. The dim lights waggled back. Both planes rushed into the overcast, a foggy murk that made the dark seem darker.

  In seconds the murk was pierced and fell behind: the F-22s broke through the cloud cover. The view above and all around took Ilse’s breath away. The sky was perfectly clear and vast and black. A sliver of moon rose in the east. The stars were sharper and more brilliant than Ilse had ever seen. Mars glowed a solid red, and Jupiter pale yellow. The Milky Way stretched over her head across the entire sky. Using the moon and stars, Ilse could tell the Raptors were flying west.

  It’s hard to believe the last time I looked at the Milky Way was on top of the Empire State Building, barely twenty-four hours ago. It feels like so much longer…. I wonder what Jeffrey Fuller is doing now. Maybe I’ll try to find him, after the war.

  Ilse heard a man’s voice over the radio. She thought he must be in the airborne warning-and-control plane Barrows mentioned. He was guiding other Raptors to meet with Barrows and her wingman.

  After a while, Ilse spotted the Raptors. Two came in from the right, and two from the left. They closed up on Barrows and her wingman. They all tucked into a tight arrowhead formation, with Barrows and Ilse in the lead.

  I wonder if all the pilots and passengers are women.

  “Now for some high-speed aerobatics,” Barrows said with obvious relish. “If it makes your head spin, imagine how the Axis satellites will feel. And yes, they’re definitely watching us now.”

  Ilse’s heart began to pound, in anticipation and dread. Already this was like no airplane ride she’d ever had in her life.

  The F-22 went into a steep dive. Ilse seemed to float against her harness, weightless, with her stomach in her throat. The formation of six F-22s drove back into the overcast together, then down under the clouds. When they broke through, Ilse could see lights of towns and roads below. They were well in from the Atlantic, beyond the official Coast Defense Zone; here the blackout didn’t apply so strictly.

  The F-22s began to break and zigzag right and left, crossing over and under each other in a giant high-speed shell game. Raptors came so close to Ilse’s wings and tail and canopy that she was terrified. Sometimes Barrows and the other pilots all flew upside down, and Ilse hung from her shoulder straps. Her F-22 buffeted viciously, from hitting the other fighters’ vortex wakes. The lights on the ground were Ilse’s only solid point of reference, and they barely prevented her from getting completely disoriented.