“Thank you, Manny. You are a good friend.”
The last words of Erich’s sentence were masked in the blare of the klaxon calling them to battle stations.
“Mein Gott!” said Fassbaden. “Already?”
Dropping the coffee mug, Erich turned toward the corridor leading back to the control deck. “Let us go,” he said in an even voice.
Tension flooded the narrow enclosure of the boat, and Erich listened to the restrained panic of men running to their stations. A rhythmic chaos embraced them all, set to meter by the ugly klaxon-cry.
As they entered the control deck, everyone turned and saluted them, an odd formality suddenly gripping everyone. Erich could feel the difference in the air, a willingness among the men to die in a clean fight. It was like walking into the fetid odor of a locker room, and Erich felt a tightening in his gut.
Boot leather slapped at ladder rungs as the pilot and the watch reentered the conning tower. The hatch to the bridge clanged shut, and the two crewmen dropped to the deck and scattered to their stations.
“Status,” said Erich to anyone who had information for him.
“We have been swept by radar!” said Newton Bischoff. “Aircraft, most likely.”
“Distance?”
“Hard to say,” said Bischoff. “Ten miles at least.”
“Maintaining original course,” said the helmsman.
“Dive!” said Erich. “Twenty meters…”
His men leaned into their tasks as the main vents were opened and the cold seawater rushed in. The U-5001 tilted down at a beautiful angle, accepting her command to slip into the depths with precision and power. It was a big boat, but handled like a minnow in a pond. A slippery “ease” was the way the helmsman had described her, and Erich understood what he meant. As captain, he’d long ago learned how to sense the responsiveness of a U-boat; and some of them were silky and some were like cement wagons. You never knew until you put it under weigh, but he liked what he felt of his first impressions of the U-5001. This boat had been so well-designed, that if need arose, it could be maneuvered by only a handful of men.
“Eighteen…” said Fassbaden. “…and descending…steady as she goes.”
“Bischoff,” said Erich. “How good is that new ‘Eye’ of yours?”
Erich understood the experimental equipment was supposed to be able to detect enemy radio transmissions from a depth of twenty-five meters, but he would believe it when he witnessed it himself.
“Two Sunderlands,” said Bischoff, indicating the British “flying boats” whose radar had found them. “We got pinged and they started talking. Probably locked on us and getting their cans ready…”
The thought of suffering through a depth charge attack so early into the mission was more than depressing. A brief impulse to simply surrender and let the war pass him by streaked through his thoughts. It would be so easy…
That the Brits could catch them so quickly was frustrating, but worse—debilitating to the crew’s belief they would be successful. The net of detection maintained by the Royal Navy had been too damned good! How were they doing it?
“Rig for silence,” said Erich.
“They are almost right over top of us!” said Bischoff.
“Take her down, Manny. Avoidance depth.”
In the old Type VII boats, that would be 125 meters, or a push to 150 in a desperate situation. But the U-5001, with her bigger, stronger hull, was rated for at least 200 meters, which should be more than enough to stay beneath the detonation depths the enemy usually set on their charges. As the angle of their descent increased, so did Erich’s confidence they would escape with relative ease.
“Lost contact…” said Bischoff. “Though I think I heard the first cans hitting the water.”
“Still descending,” said Fassbaden, hunched over his gauges. “150…”
There was a curious groaning of the bulkheads as the steel ribs of the hull absorbed their first encounter with ocean pressure. It was normal on a new boat to hear such sounds, but they never failed to get everyone’s attention. As if the deck could grow any more quiet…
Then the silence was pierced by an abrupt series of concussions. The shockwaves rattled the boat, but far less severely than Erich had ever experienced.
“Not so bad,” he said, making sure to smile broadly and let his men see him being so defiantly cheerful.
Either the hull was a lot thicker and stronger than he’d figured, or the charges were going off at a great distance…maybe both. Whatever the reason, the attack appeared feeble.
“170…185 meters…” said Fassbaden. “ Approaching avoidance depth.”
“Steady as she goes,” said Erich.
Another series of underwater explosions rumbled above them. This time even weaker, more distant.
No one spoke as the floor beneath them gradually leveled out. Everyone exhaled at the same time. No U-boat crewman would ever lie so poorly to swear he felt comfortable when the bubble-indicator told you the nose of your boat was pointed at the bottom.
“Keel even,” said Fassbaden. “Maintaining course at 18 knots.”
Erich held their current station status for another 15 minutes. There was one final flurry of depth charges, but so faint and far away, he knew they were out of danger.
As he and his crew had all stood rock-solid and silent, waiting for whatever the Sunderlands and fate might be sending their way, Erich had a brief image pass through him of Frieda smiling for a photograph he’d taken the last day he’d seen her. It was odd how it came out of nowhere and vanished just as quickly.
It was like a surreal message—something to remind him he no longer had a normal life ahead of him.
In that sense, he never wanted the war to end.
And what an odd irony was that? To be so weary of the war and yet desperately yearn for its continuance.
He shook his head slowly, refocusing on the moment.
“Resume normal running, Herr Fassbaden,” said Erich. “Take her up to schnorkel depth.”
“What about the ‘Eye,’?” said Leutnant Bischoff.
Erich grinned. “Keep it closed for now. It works, but maybe too well. I am not yet convinced we have not just devised a more efficient Biscay Cross for the Tommies.”
Everyone snickered on the control deck. Everyone except Newton Bischoff, that is…Erich knew the young Nazi was proud of his new toy, and hoped it was not the colossal failure of its predecessors.
“150 meters and rising…” said the Exec as the bow of the boat tilted ever-upward. “140…”
Erich moved close to Fassbaden, spoke in a low voice. “Thoughts on those Sunderlands?”
“It was almost like they were waiting for us.”
“They were, but they wait for any boat leaving Trondheim.”
“True enough.” Fassbaden rubbed his chin thoughtfully, watched his gauges.
“All the more reason I like our current route,” said Erich.
Manny nodded. “The northern path.”
“Authorized by Admiral Doenitz himself. But in case we need assistance, there will be no milchkows or surface ships close at hand.”
“He knew it was a risk.”
Erich nodded. “A risk he was willing to take.”
“Yes.” Manny grinned. “For us!”
“That is an Admiral’s job.” Erich did not envy Doenitz, especially since he was stuck so close under the Fuhrer’s nose.
His Exec moved over to a small, but functional map table where Warrant Officer Ostermann’s navigational charts and tools lay in wait. “It will take longer. Use more fuel.”
“But it will be unexpected. No convoys or even fighting ships up there.” Erich regarded the path on the map.
“True enough.”
“Make yourself familiar with the chart. We parallel the east coast of
Greenland, make a run past Cape Farewell and south to St. John’s. From there, we move on to our rendezvous points undetected.”
“I see it clearly,” said Manny.
“Once clear of St. John’s, we can maneuver in the open seas, conduct all the requested tests and drills, and then south to the Jersey coast.”
Fassbaden looked thoughtfully at the map for another moment. “Unexpected and unconventional—just like the rest of this mission.”
Erich nodded, tapped a point on the map northeast of Greenland where there was nothing but the massive shelf of ice over the great island’s coastal escarpment. “Not much up there along these coordinates. We should be safe enough.”
Ostermann, the navigator, approached the table. He was a short, prototypical Aryan. Bright blue eyes and strong, angular jaw. No more than twenty-five years old, and full of hope and idealism. Erich knew it would not take long to wring both qualities from him like bilge from a dirty sponge.
“Within two miles of the ice shelf, Captain?”
“That will be sufficient. Less if necessary.”
“Schnorkel depth. Snort operational!” said one of the others on the control deck. The sound of the diesels thumping accompanied his notice.
Erich allowed himself a small smile. The batteries would soon be back up to full capacity, and once they cleared the northern point of Iceland, he would chance another surface-run. His sense of impending disaster had left him, perhaps in part due to their successful dodge of the sub-hunting aircraft, and he was beginning to feel as if they might make it.
After all, they were under the strictest of orders to not engage the enemy in any fashion. They were, in fact, to do everything in their power to keep the enemy from any inkling of suspicion that the U-5001 even existed.
Earlier in the war, Captain Erich Bruckner knew he would have found such orders demeaning and unworthy of a true warrior, but things have a way of changing, do they not?
Chapter Four
Dexter McCauley
Chesapeake Bay, May 8, The Present
There was a long pause in Dex’s headset after he told them what he was looking at.
Finally Don Jordan spoke: “Tell me you’re kidding!”
“We’re looking at the periscope right now,” said Dex. “Not much doubt. Hang on, we’re going to move down to the conning tower.”
Moving in unison, Dex and Mike descended on each side of the array of antennae and the scope. He could feel his pulse start to jack up a few notches—to create a faint hammering behind his ears. The pressure and the excitement combined together to get everything surging inside. It wasn’t unusual to get a little psyched when you reached a wreck—even one that had already been charted and checked out. Although, when you knew ahead of time what ship you were touching, that made it somehow safer, less mysterious or threatening.
The Six had dived on a sub before. The U-1105, which had been dubbed the “black panther” because of its outer skin of vulcanized rubber. It was a well-known wreck marked with a buoy about a mile west of Piney Point. It was a popular site for divers, and Dex had been down on it enough to realize they’d just found another one.
But this one was way different.
They were crossing into that weird zone where anything might happen, and Dex couldn’t help getting caught up in the anxiety coloring that realization.
A submarine.
The idea they were diving on a previously unknown sub made Dex feel like a kid who’d just found a bunch of his uncle’s old army stuff in the attic. He couldn’t help imagining what it might be. The most likely possibility—an old pre-World War II American ship that had been used for target practice or training destroyer crews to use depth charges. Problem was those old subs were nowhere near the size of this one. Same went for the German U-boats. Nothing this big.
Hell, thought Dex. This thing was ringing up bigger than the hunter-killer Navy jobs—the 688s were around 350 feet, and the hull looming just below was even bigger than that.
So what was going on here?
Russian? Chinese?
Considering that possibility made Dex reach out and grab the safeline, and put the brakes on his descent. “Hey,” he said softly into the mask-mic. “Hold up a sec.”
Mike Bielski reached out, braked himself on the nylon rope. He looked at Dex.
“What’s up, guys?” said Don through the base unit. Whenever he piped in, it was like he was the voice of their conscience.
“I was just thinking…” said Dex. Then he briefly brought everybody up to speed on his extrapolations. The notion they might be diving into the hot zone of a nuclear reactor cracked open like a bad egg chilled him. He paused to let it sink in, then: “Is Kev around?”
“He’s already got his suit on,” said Don. “Can’t wait to spell you guys. He’s right here.”
“Put him on the horn, would you?” said Dex, as he absently checked his Princeton Tec—the timer which told him how much time he had left in his double tanks. So far, so good. Plenty of air and time left.
There was a pause and a brief sound of movement and rustling about, then the lazy Baltimore drawl of Kevin Cheever oozed through the earphones. “Okay, boss, whatcha wanna know?”
“You sure about the size of this thing?”
“Chirp side-scan sonar don’t lie,” said Kevin. “418 feet long’s gonna be the number. Right on the money.”
“C’mon, Don,” said Dex. “You heard what I was saying—so what’s the chance we’re over a Russian or a Chinese sub?”
“It’s a chance, but pretty damned slim. I think our spy-guys would know about anything like that just about the minute it happened. A bogey sub would attract a whole lot of attention.”
“You sure?” said Mike.
“As sure as my faith in the natural superiority of our Navy and NSA and the rest of the ‘alphabets.’ Listen, guys,” said Kevin. “There ain’t no way the Bad Guys lose a nuke-sub and we don’t know about it. No fucking way…it just doesn’t happen. We knew about the Kursk before Moscow, for Christ’s sake.”
“Okay,” Dex said, breaking the silence. “So we can take your word for it…we’re not gonna be glowing in the dark anytime soon…”
“Hey, I’m coming down right behind you. That proof enough it’s safe?” Kevin chuckled into the mic. “I’m signing off so I can finish up with my tanks, okay?”
“Roger that,” said Dex. “Mike and I’re heading down.”
“I’m staying on the line,” said Don. “Watch yourselves…”
Dex looked at Mike through the murky water, pointed downward.
Nodding, Mike tilted toward the wreck below, started kicking his legs, and descended.
Dex followed him down, hand-over-hand on the safeline. The beam of his lamp traced out the widening contours of the sub’s conning tower. The amount of accumulated undersea crud attested to its age—pretty much a safe bet it had been down here a long time. Which allayed his fears about any stricken nuke sub. That said, it was still considerably wider than most of the old Word War II boats, and it even had a thick, glass viewing port on the control deck. That was ultra-sophisticated for something that could be more than seventy years old. He could see Mike Bielski just below him, in the dim, ambient light, his mask facing the side of the wreck. And even though it was encrusted with layers of solidified silt and micro-organic marine life, Mike and Dex could not miss the partially obscured insignia on the side of the tower. He rubbed away more of the collected algae and other barnacle-like stuff.
“Oh shit,” said Mike. “Is that what I think it is…?”
“What?” said Don Jordan through their earphones. “Is that what?”
“I see it,” said Dex. He felt himself suck in a little more air than his regulator wanted to let him have.
“Is that an Iron Cross?” said Mike.
“Sure looks like it,”
said Dex.
“Son-of-a-bitch…”
“What’d you say?” said Don from topside.
“Looks like an Iron Cross,” said Dex.
“As in Germany, I’d say,” said Mike.
“Tell Kevin and the rest of the guys,” said Dex. “This thing looks like a Nazi job.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Uh-uh. Serious as cancer.” Dex inched his way across the surface of the conning tower. “Give us a minute or so to get deeper and closer, okay?”
“Hard to see for sure,” said Mike. “Don’t see any numbers…”
“You won’t,” said Dex. “They didn’t put their U-numbers on the boats.”
“Hang on…” said Don. “Kevin’s jumping in. So’s Andy. They’ll be coming down the line, so keep an eye out…”
“What?”
“Wait a sec!” said Dex quickly. “Tell those guys to hold off! They’re too early!”
“Too late, Dex…” said Don. “They’re already in the water.”
“C’mon, boss,” said Kevin Cheever, cutting into the link. “You think we’re going to let you and Mike get all the glory?”
“Yeah,” said Andy, doing his best to chuckle in his mask. “We know the laws of salvage, don’t we, Kev?”
“Okay, okay,” said Dex. “It’s just that we wanted to get maximum time on this thing by stretching out our tank-times as far as possible, remember?”
“Yeah, but this is something special, I’d figure,” said Kevin.
“Roger that,” said Dex, giving up. There was no arguing with those two. “Take your time and watch for my lamp.”
“Hey, Dex…?” Don’s voice seeped through earphones.
“Yo…”
“Without a number, I guess there’s no way I can check some databases on the ’net, huh? How do we ID this scow?”
“There’re ways, but it might be tougher than you think.” Dex checked his Tec timer out of habit, and was pleased to see he still had enough time to stay down for awhile. He also noticed, in a flash of rare self-objectivity, how utterly calm he was. Here he was floating over what could be a possibly historic discovery, and he was acting like it was business as usual.
Submerged Page 3