by Joe Buff
The master’s eyes grew very hard. Slowly, he nodded. He understood what had to be done. The master took one AK-47 in each hand and started up the gantryway. The Kampfschwimmer went to help the master handle the enemy corpses on the catwalk.
“The spent brass!” Van Gelder yelled after them. “This has to look good. It has to look perfect!”
Crewmen on Voortrekker’s deck began to pick up the expended shell casings from the two automatic rifles; some brass had fallen in the water, but the collection off the deck was large enough to be convincing.
The Kampfschwimmer chief returned, dirtied with gore from dragging the dead Australians through the crawl space leading to the real cargo hold. Someone gave him a bucket of water and towels, to clean the blood trails. He put the spent shell casings in his pocket, and went back into the crawl space.
Crewmen, under Van Gelder’s direction, hoisted the damaged, dripping Sea Lion back aboard and positioned it on the loading chute. A chief with a radiometer verified there was no leakage from the fissionable core inside. They sent the weapon down to the torpedo room. It was useless with its nose sensors smashed and its tail fins cracked and twisted, but it had to be put somewhere, somewhere safe and out of the way.
Van Gelder thought he heard distant pops, like pistol fire somewhere above.
Soon the two Kampfschwimmer and the Tiger’s master returned.
“It is done,” the master said. “You must depart at once.”
“But the destroyer’s sonar,” Van Gelder objected. “They’ll hear the hold doors opening.”
“Not with us moving like this. Our engine noise and pounding hull should cover your escape…. It was cold-blooded murder, sacrificing two of my own men to disguise your presence. Allah forgive me, we had no choice.”
NINETEEN
On Challenger
IN PRIVATE, IN THE commodore’s office, Wilson looked at Jeffrey harshly. “That’s exactly what I intended you to do all along. Did you really think I’d let one of your crewmen lose an arm or die?”
“Sorry, Commodore,” Jeffrey said. “It is an obvious thing to do, now that I know that you knew we’d be going through Panama.”
Challenger, inside the Prima Latina, was nearing the entrance to the canal. Challenger was just a huge passenger for now—a strange kind of cargo, as unusual as the sunken Russian Golf-class sub that Howard Hughes’s Glomar Explorer had tried to salvage from the ocean floor back in the 1960s. Jeffrey had ordered Challenger’s reactor be shut down, partly for stealth and partly because there was no supply of cooling water. Challenger was therefore rigged for reduced electrical, and also for a modified form of ultraquiet.
“So talk to your CIA liaison,” Wilson said. “This Rodrigo person. Work up some kind of story, that the injured man was part of the Prima Latina’s crew and was hurt in an accident. Cargo shifted, whatever.”
“We can drop him off in a harbor boat at Cristobal, as we enter the canal. They must have decent hospital facilities there, or maybe even they’ll fly him to Panama City.”
“Yes, yes. You’re going to have a problem with his lack of proper papers. If they find out he’s American, he’ll be interned for the duration of the war.”
“Maybe Rodrigo can say the documents were soaked in blood and destroyed.”
“You don’t have to feed me all the details, Captain. A commodore rarely appreciates his operations officer thinking out loud in front of him when said commodore has more important work to do.” Wilson gestured to all the notes and diagrams and computer disks on his desk, where he was developing battle doctrine for working with the Collins boats in the South Pacific.
Jeffrey excused himself, and left Wilson alone. Jeffrey was grateful they’d be able to get the torpedoman with the mangled arm proper medical attention soon, after all. He went into the control room, to have the officer of the deck talk to the corpsman and then make preparations to transport the injured man. This was dealt with quickly, and word passed, and the mood of the crew lifted visibly.
With Jeffrey’s ship so inert, cocooned inside the Prima Latina, he had relatively little to do to keep himself occupied—except worry about all the things that might go wrong. He decided to stop in the wardroom for a coffee, to try to forget about naval mines and aggressive Russian trawlers for a minute.
Jeffrey shook his head to himself as he walked down the passageway, thinking. He didn’t like Wilson’s constant irritability.
But is it really irritability? He’s always been hard and demanding. Even when he was captain of Challenger and I was executive officer, he wouldn’t hesitate to roast me in front of the crew…. Maybe he thinks he’s building my character.
And maybe he’s right. If I flinch or lose my cool in front of him, what showing am I going to make against Voortrekker?
In the wardroom, Ensign Harrison sat hunched at the table, under the dimmed lighting. He was using some spare time to study for his submarine qualification. Jeffrey complimented Harrison again on his help while they docked with the Prima Latina. Then Jeffrey looked over his shoulder, kibitzing as Harrison memorized charts of Challenger’s hydraulic systems. It brought back memories of Jeffrey’s own early days in subs, cramming to earn his gold dolphins in every free moment.
That’s really what the Silent Service community is all about. Everybody needs to keep on qualifying at a higher and higher professional level. Everyone needs to help their shipmates get better and better at their jobs. The difference between me and Commodore Wilson is in our approach, our personal styles. What he does works for him, and what I do works for me.
Jeffrey poured himself a mug of coffee and took a sip. It was cold, since the coffeemaker was off to help save power. It was nice to drink it cold—the air in the ship was already warm with no air conditioning, given the tropical weather outside. Jeffrey let the caffeine flow through his system. He took a deep breath, to unwind.
Then Jeffrey had second thoughts about the commodore.
Wilson didn’t talk to Lieutenant Sessions at all the way he talked to Jeffrey. Actually, Jeffrey wasn’t sure if Wilson talked to anybody the way he talked to Jeffrey. Jeffrey wondered if it was himself, then, and not Wilson. Something about himself that made Wilson be this rough.
Jeffrey thought of his father, Michael Fuller, and the relationship he had with his dad, the way his father talked to him. Rough.
Jeffrey almost blushed. Was it something Jeffrey was doing in front of both men, something in his own attitude toward authority figures? It certainly was his way to question everything and second-guess, and bristle if he felt he was being pushed around. He’d done it to Wilson already over working with the Australians, over making flank speed through the Gulf Stream, over the secrecy of the Prima Latina, and now about the crewman’s arm. What drives this in me? Pridefulness? Rebelliousness? Resentment, even?
“Is something the matter, Captain?” Harrison asked.
That tore Jeffrey from his preoccupation fast. “I think I just made a useful connection, between two separate problems. They’re not as separate as I thought.”
“Is that good, sir?”
Jeffrey smiled at Harrison’s earnest innocence. “I think it might be.”
Jeffrey finished his coffee in one gulp, and departed the wardroom. He walked down the corridor with a lighter step. He’d gained an important insight about his own personality. He wasn’t sure what to do about it, or where it might lead, but at least his approach to authority figures was something he could try to control. Jeffrey was always biased toward action over inaction. Now he had a clue about where there was room in himself to take positive action.
He decided next to visit the enlisted mess. Between mealtimes, some men off watch would be viewing a movie, or playing checkers or cards. Jeffrey knew he ought to put in another brief appearance, and thank them once more for all their hard work getting Challenger ready for sea and repaired again after battle. It always gave Jeffrey a special pleasure to show his face and mingle with the crew—within proper boun
ds of hierarchy and discipline, of course.
On his way to the mess he passed outside a packed and narrow enlisted berthing compartment. Jeffrey thought of the men who’d be sleeping in there, or trying to—each man stood watches six hours on, twelve off. With constant maintenance and training duties after standing watch, they were lucky to get four or five hours sleep in a day. Some men in the berthing space would be awake now, Jeffrey knew, studying for their silver dolphins, or writing letters home that might never be delivered, or simply enjoying privacy in the only place they could: their curtained-off, coffin-size racks.
Jeffrey smiled to himself to think what wonderful people his crewmen were, so carefully selected. He smiled again, more soberly, reminding himself with pride that now—as their captain—it was his ultimate, inescapable task to oversee their welfare, ensure their morale, and protect their very lives. This relentless and immense responsibility was, to Jeffrey, deeply gratifying. It was what he had sought for, fought for, craved, for his entire naval career.
His warm inner glow was eclipsed by a troubling realization. Thinking of his crew made Jeffrey think of the man with the injured arm.
A wounded American submariner kicking around in a neutral foreign country, sedated and on painkillers…How well can my torpedoman keep up the act of being someone he’s not, and for how long? What if the Axis gets wind? Dropping him off is like us making a datum, a ticking time bomb, leaving a sign that Challenger was here….
Simultaneously, on Voortrekker
Van Gelder thought Voortrekker must be the luckiest ship in the world. Right after the Trincomalee Tiger opened the submarine hold’s bottom doors—while traveling at a dicey eleven knots—the Australian destroyer ordered her to stop because of the shootings. This gave ter Horst the best of both worlds: undetected access to the sea with the destroyer right there, and a Tiger that was stationary except for rolling and pitching. The bulk of the Tiger’s hull around them masked the noise as ter Horst gently flooded his ballast tanks. Voortrekker dived away carefully, just as another motor launch started from the destroyer to the freighter.
An hour later both launches returned to the destroyer; the destroyer and the freighter got under way; Voortrekker’s sonar showed the two surface ships were on diverging courses. The destroyer was heading back toward Perth, Australia, while the freighter was continuing with her real cargo to South America.
The Aussies must have believed the Tiger’s story, that her master’s two dead crewmen had reverted to piracy—muggers at sea might be a better term. Real pirates were a serious problem up in the South China Sea. Tragic, and senseless, though minor against the ongoing backdrop of tactical nuclear war.
But the more Van Gelder thought about the shooting incident, the less he liked it.
When forensic experts in Perth examined all the corpses and physical evidence carefully—as they surely would—flaws might well be found in the cover story. Ships or aircraft would then be sent to intercept the Trincomalee Tiger. A thorough search would reveal the submarine hold with its loading crane.
Those Australian corpses are like us making a datum, a ticking time bomb, leaving a sign that Voortrekker was here.
TWENTY
On Challenger
JEFFREY’S INJURED TORPEDOMAN was gone to a hospital. The Prima Latina was slowly being towed through the entry locks, at the beginning of the Panama Canal, by electric locomotives running on tracks along the bank. Sitting at his console in the control room, Jeffrey had to take this mostly on faith. He couldn’t exactly go up on the freighter’s bridge to greet the canal pilot and customs officials at Cristobal. All Challenger’s periscope showed him was the inside of the submarine hold. He had to take Rodrigo’s word for what was going on.
The feeling in the control room was stuffy and tense. There was nowhere to go, trapped inside the tramp steamer, herself imprisoned inside the shallow canal locks. Jeffrey had set Challenger at battle stations hours ago, as a precaution, but the crew had no real way to defend themselves—except for last-ditch small arms.
Silence was their best, their only protection. Even though the decks all rode on sound-isolation gear, Jeffrey’s crew walked gingerly on tiptoe. They spoke in whispers and sign language, if they spoke at all. Now and then someone would grab a wad of toilet paper, kept handy to clean the console touch screens. Instead they’d mop their brow. With the fans stopped the air was warm, and getting warmer all the time.
Doubts and worries kept running through Jeffrey’s mind. From the looks on the faces around him, he wasn’t alone. Jeffrey hated this feeling of loss of control. The helpless wait was excruciating—and the trip of half a day through the canal had barely begun.
What if the Prima Latina had engine failure? What if she collided with another ship crossing big Gatun Lake in the middle of the canal? What if one of the locks got jammed, or the submarine-hold doors malfunctioned and dropped wide open and snagged the canal bottom? What if there was an earthquake here, or a landslide in the narrow Gaillard Cut through the high southern mountains? A dozen things could go horribly wrong.
COB and Meltzer manned the ship controls gamely, though there was nothing at all for them to do. COB, exhausted from days of nonstop repair work, began to nod off. He started to snore, and Meltzer immediately nudged him. COB roused, and Harrison offered a cup of stale coffee. COB gulped it gratefully.
Jeffrey himself had to stifle a yawn. He’d already had so much coffee he was getting acid stomach, so he resisted asking for another cup. He was sure he wouldn’t sleep until his command was through the canal, and out of the freighter and out of this waking nightmare, safely submerged and free in the Pacific Ocean at last.
A nervous fire-controlman began to cough—he’d choked on his own saliva, his throat was so tight. He desperately covered his mouth with both hands to suppress the hacking noises. A friend pounded his back, firmly but quietly. The fire-controlman eventually stopped choking.
For the moment, it was so quiet Jeffrey could hear the sound of his own circulating blood, an unnerving rush in his ears. Jeffrey drew a deep breath. The ship’s chronometer seemed to move so slowly, he thought it must be broken. But the chronometer and his wristwatch agreed, as did Bell’s.
The same awful thoughts plagued Jeffrey again and again. Trapped within the Prima Latina, cornered in the canal, Challenger was a clay pigeon. Panama’s armed forces, bitter since America’s anti-Noriega sanctions wrecked the local economy years ago, would act violently. Challenger’s too-thin cloak, this secret hold, could easily become a secret execution chamber.
Worst thing of all, if found out—USS Challenger, a belligerent’s nuclear submarine bearing many nuclear arms—she’d provoke a diplomatic incident of monumental proportions. The scandal and outrage as word spread fast might well push teetering Latin American countries to spurn the U.S. altogether and join the Axis cause. The impact on the outcome of the war would be disastrous.
Jeffrey felt this burden every second of the way, more suffocating than the stale air in the control room.
A messenger came from aft, so silent Jeffrey didn’t notice until he felt a tap on his arm. The messenger mumbled in Jeffrey’s ear. Wilson wanted to see him.
Transiting the canal, Jeffrey spent several hours with Commodore Wilson and Lieutenant Sessions in private, working further on their tactics for when they reached the South Pacific.
Then, back in the control room, Jeffrey saw on the periscope screens that Rodrigo was coming down the gangway to Challenger’s hull. Rodrigo’s posture was casual, and he didn’t look concerned, so Jeffrey tried to relax.
Rodrigo waved at the periscope head for Jeffrey to come up. Glad for any change of scenery, Jeffrey climbed the forward escape trunk.
“Greetings, Capitán.”
“How are we doing?” Jeffrey asked.
“All is well so far. Your crewman is at a good hospital. My employer has agents in-country, who will keep an eye and make sure he is not bothered by enemy operatives.”
“Good, terrific. Thank you, Rodrigo…. Was that everything?”
“By no means. I thought you might enjoy fresh air. How would you like to come on deck for a moment?”
“Is that wise?”
“You will have to be disguised, of course, lest the wrong person see you. But the crew of the Prima Latina are all picked men. They are very trustworthy.”
“Okay.”
Jeffrey followed Rodrigo through the crawl space. In the cargo hold, Jeffrey heard scurrying and pattering sounds. He was glad he didn’t meet the local wildlife. Rodrigo pointed to a pile of clothes: dirty rubber boots, worn dungarees, and an oil-stained tank-top shirt.
Jeffrey gingerly inspected the outfit for spiders or rats. He changed. The clothes were baggy. Rodrigo led him out of the hold and along a passageway. Jeffrey clumped in the rubber boots. They came to a storeroom. Rodrigo gave Jeffrey dark sunglasses, a large straw hat, and a paste-on beard.
“We must avoid the bridge. The canal pilot is there.”
Rodrigo and Jeffrey went out on deck.
The change from down inside the hold was stunning.
The bright sun, low in the east, was a beautiful extra-yellow. The early morning sky was cloudless, a brilliant cobalt blue. It was hot, but not too hot if Jeffrey didn’t stand in the direct sun. The air was humid, but pleasantly so.
The Prima Latina was going around a broad curve, between steep hills that towered hundreds of feet on either side.
“This is the Gaillard Cut,” Rodrigo said.
“I’ve heard of it.”
“It was the most difficult part of building the canal. Thousands died, you know, of many nationalities and races, from malaria and yellow fever and worse.”
“I know,” Jeffrey said.
“Yet now it is so beautiful here.”
Rodrigo was right. The jungle growth on the mountainsides was exuberantly dense and vibrantly green. The different colors of tropical flowers and bushes and vines were breathtakingly rich. Stands of bamboo seemed to shimmer dazzlingly in the sunlight. Strange trees with smooth gray trunks towered a hundred feet in the air.