Submerged

by Thomas F Monteleone

  “That is our man,” said Fassbaden. “Unfortunately, there is no proof—other than the word of the only other survivor from that sinking.”

  Erich felt a sudden urge for a cigarette, but he had forbidden smoking on his ship unless surfaced. He could not allow himself to break one of his own rules. Sheisse…he did not need this kind of trouble. “What else do we know about this man?”

  Reaching into his shirt pocket, Fassbaden pulled out a folded piece of notebook paper. “Not much. Without radio, I cannot get a dossier check confirmed. I…had to rely on whatever scuttlebutt the Chief knew.”

  Erich had to grin just a little. Chief Warrant Officer Helmut Massenburg had been in the Navy for so long, he probably claimed to remember von Tirpitz. He was also a great repository of information on whatever was going on in the U-boat service.

  “All right. And what did he know?”

  “More than I would have thought. Seems that Liebling has been trouble from the beginning.” Fassbaden glanced at his unfolded notepaper. “The man is twenty-six. Family runs a very small dairy farm near the Austrian border. He was conscripted—Regular Army—to work in Food Services.”

  “What is he doing with us?”

  “The Chief says High Command has been pulling men for the U-boats from wherever they can get them. There is, as you know, a great demand for men.”

  Erich nodded. His Exec, being as superstitious as most true sailors, would not outwardly acknowledge the outrageously high mortality rate of the U-boat crews. “And they are becoming less and less discriminating.”

  “So it would seem,” said Fassbaden. “Liebling makes it well known he hates the military. He has been in many fistfights, and has been stockaded twice. He claims to know nothing of U-boats, and according to Kress, has already made several enemies among the torpedo and gunnery mates.”

  “Have your best men keep a close watch on him. I will shoot him myself if he becomes a real problem.”

  Fassbaden nodded, said nothing.

  Erich knew his old friend believed him—even though both of them knew he’d never shot anyone in his entire life. Although Erich liked to think of himself as a very civilized man, he would not hesitate to do whatever necessary to protect his crew.

  Neither spoke for a moment, then Erich added, “The more I think about it, we should get Liebling out of the torpedo room. Assign him to the galley with Hausser. Have the cook watch him and report anything odd to you immediately.”

  “Good idea. If we get called to battle station, I can have Massenburg fill in down there.”

  “That will work,” said Erich. “But let us hope it will not be necessary.”

  Fassbaden nodded, stood up, knowing instinctively their meeting had ended. Erich liked that decisive confidence in his Exec, and trusted him without question. He followed the tall, broad-shouldered man into the corridor leading to the control deck where Ostermann and his charts awaited him.

  “We will be beyond the range of the base within twenty minutes,” said the navigator, who had been carefully plotting their exact position as the U-5001 continued to sneak past the Ammassalik base.

  Erich nodded. Good news, even though there was no way of knowing whether or not the Americans or Canadians might have a small carrier or seaplanes in the area.

  “All quiet on the surface,” said Newton Bischoff as he adjusted a dial on his board.

  “Excellent. Steady as she goes,” said Erich as he paced slowly across the control deck in the space between the chart table and the helm. This was typical service-time in the unterseeboot service—long periods of abject boredom, punctuated by moments of hideous terror.

  Not surprisingly, he had learned to love the dull hours.

  When he could spend some time alone in his quarters, Erich would read history or philosophy and listen to string quartets on a small crank-and-spring driven phonograph. During those moments, he could allow himself to forget he’d climbed into a metal tube which could become his coffin in an instant.

  Unless this present mission was successful, it did not seem like the war would drag on much longer. As much as he loathed to consider it, Erich knew he must begin to think about what his life would be like in a defeated Germany. If the allies repeated the humiliation exacted upon the Kaiser in the previous war, it was not going to be a pleasant place to live—especially for a son of a military family like the Bruckners. He had a feeling there would not be many job opportunities for men like him.

  Indeed, he had no guarantee he would even have much family remaining. To exactly what would he be returning? The oddest part of that question was that Erich had not even a hint of an answer. There was this…void…a total absence in his thoughts. Quite simply, his future seemed so uncertain, so unthinkable, he could not even begin to conceive of it.

  In that way, he was living the perfect existential life. The modern philosophers would be so proud of him. He smiled as the notion passed through his thoughts. But there was nothing truly amusing in it. More like a thin joke in which the humor had warped into something ugly.

  His friend, Manfred, had talked about maybe someday running a sheep farm, and had off-handedly asked Erich if he would be interested in being a business partner. The Fassbaden family—now all dead—had once owned land outside of Stuttgart, along the Neckar, and Manfred believed the need for good wool garments would never change. He was probably correct, and to be honest, the prospect of working a sheep farm did not sound all that bad to Erich. It would be in sharp contrast to his wartime existence, and he would be hard-pressed to think of a place with a lower profile or—

  “Captain!”

  Bischoff’s voice pierced his thoughts sharply, and he felt embarrassed to have disconnected so thoroughly from his surroundings. How long had he been daydreaming?

  “Yes…”

  “I am receiving a transmission from Berlin!”

  “What?” Erich knew he sounded as stupid as he was stunned to learn Naval High Command had broken radio silence. He watched Bischoff scribble out the coded message.

  “I’ll get the Enigma,” said Fassbaden, retrieving the 4-rotor decoding device from its locked cabinet.

  Erich watched as Bischoff carefully inscribed the coded message onto the Zuteilungsliste, from which the keys to the decoding process would begin. It was a long message, and that meant more time for his radio signal to be detected and triangulated. Something must be terribly awry for High Command to risk the U-5001’s mission.

  Waiting for the funkmeister to finish, Erich glanced around the control deck, not surprised to see everyone, including Manny, watching Bischoff, wondering what horrible news awaited them.

  “Transmission closed,” said Bischoff, after what had seemed several lifetimes.

  “Very well,” said Erich. “Helm, take her down to avoidance depth. On my mark. Manny, inform Kress of our need to resume electric power.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Almost instantly, his engineer responded—they needed more time to recharge the batteries in case of an emergency. Could he wait a little longer?

  Erich did not like the vise into which he was being placed. But he acceded to Kress’s request and belayed his dive order for now.

  Slowly, Erich regarded the M4 deciphering device with a distinct aversion. He knew he would not like whatever Doenitz needed him to know.

  Chapter Seven

  Dexter McCauley

  Chesapeake Bay, May 8, The Present

  As he peeled off his mask and headgear, Dex sucked in a long pull of Chesapeake Bay air. Tanged with salt, it was invigoratingly different from the tank stuff. He watched Doc and Tommy drop into the water and follow the safeline until they were swallowed up by gray-green water. Then he and Donnie went up to the bridge and the divelink base station.

  Don sat down in front of the Divelink base unit, toggled it on, and signaled. “Team 2, this is your cap
tain speaking. I’m back on the base…you copy that, Kev?”

  “We got you, Donnie,” said Kevin.

  “Okay, Doc and Tommy are on the way down. I’m in here with Dex. Just keep us in the loop, okay?”

  “Gotcha,” said Kevin. “We’re just about done checking out the entire hull along the sand-line. No sign of any damage yet.”

  “Okay, we’ll be listening.”

  “Andy wants to look at the aft section more closely too. We’ll keep you updated.”

  “Copy that…base standing by…”

  Don Jordan nodded, turned back to Dex. Don had a round face, a thick head of hair, and a laid-back disposition. “I’m gettin’ pretty good with that radio, huh?”

  “A real pro,” said Dex.

  “Anyway, what’s with the sub? We sittin’ on somethin’ good? Or no.”

  Running a hand over his buzz-cut hair, Dex shook his head. “No way to tell. I’m pretty sure we’re beyond the three-mile range, so that gives us plenty more latitude.”

  “For what?”

  “Laws of salvage and stuff like that. There’s something called The Abandoned Shipwreck Act. If we found her within the three-mile range, the adjacent state can put in a claim with the maritime court.”

  Don grabbed a fresh can of Mountain Dew from the cooler, popped the top. “Claim for what?”

  “A claim to keep anybody else from salvaging the wreck. But I think we’re clear of that, so regular admiralty law applies,” said Dex. “So, as long as we don’t find any bodies down there, I don’t think we’ll catch any shit from the German government, either.”

  “I take it they don’t like people disturbing the graves of fallen warriors, eh?” Don sipped his soft drink thoughtfully.

  Dex shrugged. “Who would?”

  “Okay, so let’s figure no bodies…then what? Is it ours?” Don was smiling that silly smile again.

  Dex chuckled. “If we want the damned thing. Couple years back I remember a Tunisian crew found a scuttled U-boat in the Med…perfect condition…and they couldn’t get anybody to buy it. Nobody wanted it.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “There’s a lot of U-boats on the bottom, Donnie. It’s not that big a deal in the greater scheme of things.”

  Don’s features sagged visibly. “Man, I can’t believe this…”

  Dex paused, looked out over the graying skies. “Of course, this one might be different.”

  “Don’t forget, we’ve got the size of this boat—almost twice as big as anything else the Nazis built.”

  “Yeah, that’s plenty weird.”

  “And there’s the configuration—something funny about that too. When we get some good video, we can have a better look, get some ideas. I already have a few, but I’m going to wait and see what we get off the camera first.”

  “Tommy’s got the videocam. He’ll get us something,” Don said, tilted back the final swallow of his Mountain Dew. “C’mon, though, what’re you thinking, Dex?”

  Dex was actually fairly sure of what they were looking at down there, but as long as there was a chance he might be wrong, he didn’t want to get everybody’s hopes up. And Don Jordan was a naturally talkative guy. “I’d rather not say just yet.”

  “Aw, c’mon! I won’t say anything.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  “Well, maybe…but just to these guys. I thought we were all in this together?”

  “We are,” said Dex. “I just don’t want anybody getting too jacked up until we really know what we’ve got.”

  “You want to try the computer? Maybe Doc was searching the wrong keywords?”

  Checking his watch, Dex saw he had about forty minutes before he and Mike were scheduled for a second dive. Maybe he’d check out some databases. He stood up, tapped Don lightly on the shoulder. “Maybe I will. Hold down the fort. Let me know if anything changes, okay?”

  “You got it,” said Don.

  Exiting the bridge, Dex climbed down to the main deck and scanned the bay. The occasional sailboat lazed across its wide expanse, and to the north, he could see the sweeping double ribbons of the Bay Bridge. He stood there for a minute or two, closing his eyes and trying to imagine what it was like around here when that big sub was prowling these waters. Sixty-plus years can bring on a lot of changes. This part of the Bay near the end of the war was probably pretty desolate. Certainly nothing close to the sport and rec activity it supported now.

  So what was that sub doing around here? Did it accomplish its mission? What happened to its crew? Would they be finding their bones piled into the corners of dark, flooded compartments? He’d dived plenty of wrecks, and he’d never gotten used to that moment when you floated head-first into a crammed space and saw some poor fucker’s skull suddenly glow in your torchlight. Those empty sockets staring forever into the black sea that had washed them clean. It was one of those reminders you could just as easily be looking at your own watery future.

  Diving at any depth was nothing to take lightly. It was one of those thoughts you had to keep top of mind. As in: all the time.

  Turning from the rail, he entered the deckhouse and took the stairs belowdecks to the galley. Mike was sitting at the small stainless steel table finishing up a sandwich and a soda.

  “Anything new?” he said. Bite. Chew. Swallow. Drink.

  “No problems. Tommy has the video. That might help.”

  “Too bad we don’t have it rigged up to a remote system. We could keep an eye on it from up here.”

  Dex smiled. “Too bad we all don’t have a million bucks…”

  “There is that…” Mike said, then knocked off the last of the canned soft drink. He paused before adding: “What do you want to do on our second dive?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. I’d like to see what it looks like on the inside. Maybe find something that will ID the boat. If there’s no breaks in the hull, we’ve got to find a hatch that still works.”

  “Never been in a sub,” said Mike. “I have to figure that’s some pretty tight maneuvering with tanks on, isn’t it?”

  “Sure it is,” said Dex. “It’s not for everybody. And don’t forget, even though this one looks pretty clean—it’s still a wreck. Anything could go wrong anytime.”

  “What do you think it’s doing here?”

  “No idea. We need to do some more snooping. Want to do a quick search on the internet too?”

  “I already did,” said Mike. “While you were up on the bridge with Donnie, I went into the deckhouse. Doc was right—without the name, we don’t have much chance. I tried to see if there was any record of a wreck at these coordinates, but that’s a long shot. Nothing. If the Navy or the Coast Guard sank it, well, we’d have to get into their records. It’s not going to be on the internet.”

  “Which means a couple things: we need to check some of the usual and not-so-usual places in the sub to find an ID tag, and we’d better be damned careful doing it…plus call in some favors.”

  Mike grinned and Dex could almost hear the math professor’s mind clicking through a variety of possibilities. “Favor from who?”

  Dex shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. We might have to poke around and ask a few questions. Kev might know somebody down at NavTronics, who has a connection with somebody at the Pentagon…you never know. Plus, I have some old Navy pals I can call. We might need to figure out how to get into the old Third Reich records.”

  Mike nodded. “Yeah, it’s funny, but I have this feeling the Nazis were really good record-keepers.”

  Dex checked his watch. “’Bout that time. You ready for another look around?”

  “You bet.”

  After waiting to see Kevin Cheever and Andy Mellow break the surface, Dex and Mike tipped into the bay, and began to work their way down the safeline that ran from the buoy to the anchor right alongside the wrec
k. Dex led the way, sweeping the area directly below with his torch. Stay vigilant.

  “Okay, Doc, we’re on our way down. How’s it going?”

  “Hey, Dex…hull looks good,” said Doc Schissel. “No holes we could see…unless it’s dead-on though the bottom, under the sand.”

  “Probably not. It would look more twisted up, don’t you think?” Dex had angled himself for a rapid descent now that he knew what was beneath him. Despite the cloudy conditions, he should be able to see their lamps any second.

  “Who knows? You’re supposed to be the freakin’ expert,” said Tommy Chipiarelli, trying to be funny.

  “Okay, I see your torch,” said Doc. “I can see both of you.”

  Slowing his descent, Dex let go of the safeline, letting Mike catch up. They were both floating off to the side of the U-boat. The visibility wasn’t great, but they all knew it was about as good as it gets. Not like spring, when the algae got a lot worse.

  “How much air you guys have left?” he said.

  “Couple of minutes,” said Doc.

  “Enough to get into some trouble,” Tommy added. “What’ve you got in mind?”

  Dex pointed at the aft section of the boat. “You guys find any way into that part?”

  “There’s a hatch near the stern,” said Doc. “Looks like it’s open…a little.”

  Gesturing with his torch to Mike, Dex started propelling himself past the conning tower toward the stern. He could see the other team waiting for him, and he suddenly realized how utterly at ease he felt with these guys. All the training and practicing had paid off. “Hang on, we’re working our way over to you right now.”

  “No problem,” said Doc.

  “Hey!” said Tommy, his voice almost cracking in the headphones. There was no volume control on Dex’s Divelink, and it was a little painful. “This thing’s definitely open!”

  “Stay away from it, Tommy…” said Dex in as soft a tone as he allowed. He could see his red suit even through the dull veil of the bay. “Wait till we can all get a good look.”