by Joe Buff
“Actually, sir,” Bell said, “morale went from somewhat bad to rather good in a hurry, because of the Tirpitz.” Bell smiled. “The men think you’re a lucky captain, Captain. They’re happy to be sailing with you now.”
Jeffrey frowned. “What’s the emphasis on the ‘now’ part?”
Bell took a deep breath. “The guys were troubled to see us ordered to leave dry dock before we were ready, missing qualified men and stuck with two dozen clueless replacements. They thought we were taking too many chances, and we wouldn’t come back.”
Jeffrey grunted. He couldn’t entirely disagree with their reasoning. “But you say morale is up?”
Bell nodded.
Jeffrey didn’t want to come across to Bell as insecure, but he was puzzled. “Explain the mechanics of this to me.”
“Our meeting the Tirpitz at all was a sheer coincidence, one-in-a-million odds. The fact the score came out Challenger one, Tirpitz nothing, when Tirpitz had us dead to rights, was also pure random chance.”
“But that was the enemy’s bad luck, not our good luck. I don’t get it.”
“If you put the whole thing together, Captain, we’ve had our shakedown cruise and our working-up period now, in that battle. Everybody feels much better there. Plus, it’s like it was destiny or something, an act of God, us meeting the Tirpitz—”
Jeffrey held up one hand. “I’m not sure about that last part, XO. I want to talk to you more about that in a minute.”
“Well, the final thing I wanted to say is that we got to score a kill, a big one. We got even for the New York raid. Us, sir, USS Challenger, on our very first day at sea. That makes us a lucky ship, and you a lucky captain.”
Jeffrey worked his jaw pondering this. Then he grinned. “I did think your crack about being too underdressed to die was pretty good.” Both men laughed. Then Jeffrey glanced at his laptop, and felt a sinking feeling again.
Bell read Jeffrey’s face and was confused. He thought Jeffrey was signaling that the meeting was over.
“You wanted to talk to me more about meeting the Tirpitz, sir?”
Jeffrey debated whether to confide in Bell or keep it to himself. My XO is supposed to be my sounding board. But a captain is a superior being, all-knowing and infallible….
Hell, if I try to stay arms-length from my key people all the time, I’ll wind up with ulcers for sure.
“I’m writing my after-action report on the battle with Tirpitz. I’m thinking about my turn away when we first made contact. I think I blew it, and endangered the ship and our crew and our mission.”
“Sir?” Bell looked flabbergasted. “From where I sit, the men worship you now, even more than after the Germany raid. You always stay clearheaded in battle, and kept us fighting until the bitter end. You’ve got the best sort of credibility that any sub skipper could ask for. You produce results in combat, time after time.”
Jeffrey shook his head. “Turning beam-on to the Tirpitz, showing them our full side-profile noise signature, with erratic sound-propagation conditions at the time, was just too risky. Tirpitz got a datum off us, and it let them shoot. If they hadn’t blown up from their own weapon failure, we’d’ve definitely been sunk.”
“Hmmm…You had to evade, Captain. That was in the Commodore’s standing orders from above. We couldn’t get Master One’s course or speed, exactly because of said bad sonar conditions. For all you knew, she was coming right at us fast. You had to turn well away.”
“I’m not sure you’re right.”
“What were you going to do? Put the ship into reverse? We’re unstable enough going backward with a seasoned guy at the helm. It seems to me your turn away, a simple maneuver for Harrison, was the safer decision, given all the circumstances.”
Jeffrey absorbed that. “Thanks, XO. I suppose needing to think about it again, to write out a formal report, it’s got me second-guessing myself.”
Bell smiled. “Nobody said it was easy being CO. That’s what they pay you the big money for.”
Both men laughed again. Jeffrey was glad he’d confided in Bell. The man’s perspective had cheered Jeffrey up.
But then Bell frowned, which was rare for him. “Maybe you’ve got me second-guessing too now, Captain, but something’s starting to not smell right, about meeting the Tirpitz the way we did…. Either it really was just one humongous coincidence, or the Tirpitz knew we were coming.”
This was someplace Jeffrey didn’t want to go. “How could they know we were coming?”
“Compromised our sound surveillance system data, maybe?”
“The good commodore insists that’s not the case.”
“You believe him?”
“I think I believe him. The Tirpitz is—was—a lot slower than us. How could she have been vectored into position so soon? She was right there in front of us, a perfect setup.”
“Maybe they didn’t tap our hydrophone grids. Maybe they’ve planted their own along our coast, or have some new secret weapon we don’t know about.”
“I think you’ve been watching too many old Cold War movies, XO.”
Bell pursed his lips. “They might still have known in advance that we were coming, from a spy.”
“The commodore told me he didn’t decide which way to go, north or south, until we submerged. So it’s not like anyone off the ship knew…. We’re probably okay, about there being a leak.”
Bell didn’t relax. “The Germans didn’t need to know we were heading south, Captain. All they needed to know was that we were sailing. Anybody can look at a map of the globe…. Maybe they sent Tirpitz south, and they sent another submarine north, to hit us near Newfoundland, say, in case we took the Arctic route. Tirpitz was the one that got lucky, or unlucky.”
Jeffrey nodded slowly, reluctantly. “Don’t tell anyone else about this, XO. If we’ve been compromised, I want the crew to stay in blissful ignorance…. I’m going to talk to Commodore Wilson.”
Jeffrey knocked on Wilson’s stateroom door. Lieutenant Sessions’s voice called from inside, “Who’s there?”
Jeffrey was annoyed. “Captain Fuller.”
Sessions unlocked the door, and Jeffrey went in.
Wilson glanced up at Jeffrey. Wilson’s eyes were sunken and red. He didn’t look good. Wilson waited for Jeffrey to speak. On top of the filing cabinet, a computer printer was running.
“Commodore, I have some matters we need to discuss.”
“Lieutenant,” Wilson said, “stay, but close and lock the door.”
Sessions and Jeffrey sat in the two guest chairs. Again Wilson waited for Jeffrey to speak.
“Sir, you’re aware one of the men has a serious injury.”
Wilson nodded. “His arm.”
“We need to get him to a hospital.”
“How do you propose to accomplish that?”
“Drop him off in the ASDS.”
“And just where would you drop him off in the ASDS?”
“When we pass through the Yucatán Strait, sir, we’ll have Cuba to port and Mexico to starboard.” Mexico was one of the Allies, and Cuba was rabidly anti-Axis.
“And what will you do? Leave him at somebody’s beach cottage, or a fishing village pier in the dead of night? With a note in Spanish, ‘Please get me to a hospital’?”
Jeffrey was taken aback. “Sessions and I could work out the details, but yes, something like that.”
Sessions’s face brightened, but Wilson’s did not.
“I need you to think more as my operations officer, Commander Fuller, not just as captain of your ship. You have to put the mission of my battle group above the fate of one man’s arm.”
Jeffrey, thunderstruck, shook his head. “Sir, that’s much too harsh.”
“No, it’s not…. What else? Sessions and I are busy.”
“I’ve just had a discussion with my XO. We believe that, after all, the Axis may know that we’ve sailed.”
“From circumstantial evidence, like meeting Tirpitz? From making a nuclear datum
off Cape Fear that surely carried through the deep sound channel clear across to Europe?”
Wilson was obviously ahead of Jeffrey on this, and not pleased. He’d told Jeffrey to keep Challenger’s signature out of the deep sound channel.
“Exactly, sir. What also concerns me, both as ops officer and as captain, is that we can’t be sure either way. It’s a key parameter of our strategy and tactics, Commodore, knowing whether or not we’ll really catch Voortrekker by surprise.”
“One always seeks the element of surprise,” Wilson said pedantically. “But one must never assume that one retains it.”
“Yes, Commodore.” Jeffrey’s mind was racing now, about Wilson’s mood and attitude and intent.
“Have you eaten?”
The sudden change of tack surprised Jeffrey. “No, sir. Not yet.”
“Go grab some fruit or something in the wardroom, and make it snappy. My flag lieutenant and I need several hours of your time. I was about to send Sessions to get you when you came in.”
Jeffrey turned to the door.
“Wait, Captain. This is for you. Give them to your assistant navigator.” Wilson handed Jeffrey a piece of paper. They were coordinates in the Caribbean Sea.
Jeffrey glanced at Sessions.
“Southwest of Jamaica, Captain.”
“Another way point, Commodore?”
“No. Another rendezvous.”
FIFTEEN
The next day, midafternoon, in the Caribbean Sea
CHALLENGER HOVERED NEAR the bottom in four thousand feet of water. The ship was at battle stations, rigged for ultraquiet. Around Jeffrey in the control room, his people talked in hushed tones, conveying information on shipping and aircraft contacts overhead or in the distance. The general feeling was tense, with Commodore Wilson grimly leaning over crewmen’s shoulders, peering at various console screens.
Wilson stood up straight and turned to Jeffrey. “They’re late.”
“I thought we were running late,” Jeffrey said.
“We are. Hold your position, and hope they catch up. If they don’t appear we’re in a lot of trouble.”
“Sir, with respect, would you please inform me whom they are?”
“I’ll know it when they get here.”
Jeffrey was exasperated. How was his crew supposed to watch for something with which to rendezvous, when none of them knew what that something was?
“Is this secrecy really needed, Commodore?”
“We can’t afford to ruin their cover.”
“But—”
“You’ll understand when we meet them…. Challenger left dry dock too soon, and too large a part of her crew is inexperienced.”
“I—”
“That wasn’t meant as a criticism of you or your people. We’ve been lucky so far, Captain. The ship could still suffer a bad equipment casualty at any time. At any moment we might need to do an emergency blow. Bobbing like a cork to the surface, in distress, would be bad enough for us. We can’t risk them too.”
“Then—”
“We don’t know who might come to our ‘aid’ if we’re stricken. Whatever you and your crew don’t know, you can’t reveal by mistake or under torture. Russian spy trawlers work these waters, and most of Central America is riddled with German espionage operatives.”
“But Commodore…”
Wilson shook his head vehemently. “I simply can’t take the chance. Far too much is at stake here. Too much, in dollars and years, was invested getting ready for an emergency like this.”
Two hours later
“Our friend is here,” Wilson said.
“Which friend?”
Wilson tapped Jeffrey’s screen. “This one. Master Seventy-seven. The Prima Latina, out of Havana, bound for Lima, Peru.”
“Through the Panama Canal?” Jeffrey knew that according to international neutrality law, the canal would be banned to all warships of belligerents—and Panama was neutral.
“Affirmative,” Wilson said sharply. “Through the canal.”
Using it would shorten Challenger’s trip by thousands of miles. The Joint Chiefs of Staff must feel under awful pressure, to have us take this risky, illegal shortcut to save a few days…. But wait a minute.
“Sir, we can’t hide under a merchant ship through the canal. It’s much too shallow for that sort of gimmick.”
“Who said we’re going under her?”
Jeffrey read the database summary on his screen. Prima Latina was just the latest of many names she’d worn over the years. She was almost five hundred feet long, big for a coastal steamer, and had deep draft. But her engine plant was so old, and her hull so worn by metal fatigue, that the company which ran her now dared not send her on the high seas.
“Her speed is nine knots, course due south,” Bell reported. “Advise her closest point of approach will be four miles from our location.”
“Good,” Wilson said. “Meet her.”
“Navigator,” Jeffrey said, “give me an intercept course at eleven knots.”
If Wilson had told Lieutenant Sessions in private what this was about, Sessions showed no sign of it.
Jeffrey studied the gravimeter display and the digital nautical charts. There were shallow areas—banks and shoals—in almost every direction. Jeffrey would have to be careful, conning Challenger in such restricted waters. At least—thanks to the rendezvous off Cape Fear with the minisub—Jeffrey’s battle-seasoned helmsman, Lieutenant (j.g.) David Meltzer, was back aboard. Meltzer was a tough kid from the Bronx, and a Naval Academy graduate, and Jeffrey liked him.
“Captain,” Wilson said, “before you move, secure all active sonars. Listen on passive systems only.”
“Commodore, we need the mine-avoidance sonars.” There was always the chance another U-boat had snuck into the Caribbean and planted more naval mines.
“Overruled. Mines are a lesser risk for now than breaking stealth with sonar noise.”
Jeffrey opened his mouth to object, but Wilson gave him a dirty look. Jeffrey closed his mouth so fast his teeth clicked.
Sessions relayed the rendezvous information to Jeffrey’s console. Jeffrey issued helm orders. Meltzer acknowledged; Meltzer’s enjoyment of having something unusual to do vanished at the thought of hitting a mine. Ensign Harrison, sitting near Meltzer, leaned closer, watching carefully—Bell had chosen Harrison as the battle-stations relief pilot. Harrison was more nervous, too, since Wilson mentioned mines.
COB kept a keen eye on the buoyancy and trim. Sometimes he made adjustments, using the pumps and valves he controlled. One hand stayed near the emergency blow handles, just in case.
Meltzer sang out when Challenger was directly under the proper spot, which was a moving target since the Prima Latina was moving too. Jeffrey ordered Meltzer to reduce speed from eleven knots to nine, to keep station with the merchant ship.
“Captain,” Wilson said, “bring the ship to periscope depth. Be careful. The waters are crystal clear here, and it’s almost always sunny this time of year.”
What next?
“Helm, five degrees up bubble. Make your depth one five zero feet.” Jeffrey would do this in stages, for caution. Meltzer pulled his control wheel back, and Challenger’s nose came up. Her depth decreased gradually, as she and the Prima Latina steamed south. The merchant ship’s noises could be heard right through the hull: throbbing and humming and swishing, plus the odd clank or rattle.
“Chief of the Watch,” Jeffrey said, “raise the search periscope mast.” COB flipped a switch.
A picture appeared on several screens—the digital feed from the periscope. Jeffrey looked around outside the ship with a small joystick, which controlled the sensor head on the periscope mast. With Challenger’s depth at 150 feet, the periscope head was still tens of feet underwater.
“Master Seventy-seven in sight,” Jeffrey announced, even though the others, including Wilson, could easily see it on the screens. Wilson was right—it was very sunny topside.
The merchant s
teamer’s hull was a long dark shape above Challenger. It plowed through the water steadily. Jeffrey, looking up from below, could see Prima Latina’s creaming white bow wave, and her wake. Her twin propeller shafts, and big screws and rudder, were hard to make out. Though Jeffrey could hear the screws well enough, he wanted to avoid them at all costs.
The surface of the sea was a rippling, sparkling, endless translucent curtain. The sun cast green-blue streaks down through the water. Sometimes Jeffrey saw schools of fish, clouds of them swimming and darting. Jeffrey looked for bobbing mines, but so far there were none.
“Come to periscope depth,” Wilson repeated. “I need to take a good look at her. There will be subtle signs, like ropes on lifeboats coiled a particular way, to indicate if she’s still in friendly hands.”
“Sir, if you’re so concerned over stealth, we can’t afford to make a periscope feather on the surface.”
“Do it for a split second, to snap a picture. I must know if she’s still in friendly hands.”
On his screen, as the periscope head broke the surface, Jeffrey caught a glimpse of a scruffy bearded seaman leaning on one of Prima Latina’s railings, smoking a fat cigar. The seaman noticed the periscope at once, tossed his cigar in the water, and started for a ladder to the Prima Latina’s bridge. The freighter was flying a Cuban flag. Jeffrey cursed and ordered Meltzer deep.
Simultaneously, aboard Voortrekker, southwest of Perth, Australia
The sheer audacity of what they were doing was what impressed Van Gelder the most. Far above them on the surface bobbed an old Sri Lankan freighter, the Trincomalee Tiger.
Everything that could go wrong for the freighter had gone wrong. First her rudder jammed, then her engines failed. At fifty degrees south latitude, the furious fifties, she rose and plunged sickeningly. The Trincomalee Tiger was already well inside the extreme limit of Antarctic icebergs for this time of year: February, high summer in the Southern Hemisphere.