Submerged

by Thomas F Monteleone

  “Hey, I’m okay. Just checkin’ it out.”

  Another few seconds and Dex was hovering with the other three above the hatch, lighting it up with the combined beams of their torches. The hatch was tilted up maybe 10 degrees, revealing a sliver of access, but it was tough to see much inside because everything was fairly well encrusted with marine growth. Dex noted it appeared to be larger than others he’d seen on other subs. Definitely wide enough to accommodate a diver and his tanks.

  “Let’s see if there’s any give in it, okay?” said Mike. He reached out to grab the edge of the hatch cover, waited until Doc shouldered up next to him. Then Dex pushed in as close as he could while Tommy floated off in front of them getting it all down on the digital recorder.

  When they had decent grips on the rim of the hatch, Dex nodded. “Okay, let’s try to pry it back with steady pressure. Don’t try jerking it back. No sense hurting yourself if it’s frozen. Got it?”

  “Check,” said Doc.

  “Ready,” said Mike.

  “All right,” said Dex, tightening his curled, gloved fingers. “On three—one, two, three!”

  Together, they gradually applied steady, leveraged force to the hatch, and for a few seconds, it resisted them like a slab of granite. But then the hinges, which had not moved in more than half a century, slipped a few millimeters, then broke loose.

  With a soft screech, the hatch hinged up to reveal a dark, circular passage into the sub. As if choreographed, everybody tilted their torches downward filling it with light. Tommy drifted over the top with the videocam.

  “Looks pretty clear,” said Mike.

  “We going in?” said Doc.

  “You guys don’t have enough mix left,” said Dex, referring to the tri-mix in their tanks. In case anybody got snagged on something inside the vessel, he wanted to have enough time to get them free without worrying about running out of air.

  “Yeah,” said Doc. “Guess you’re right. What about you two?”

  Dex continued to stare down to the bottom of the opening, where a second hatch awaited them.

  “Let’s wait till tomorrow. We need to plan this thing out.”

  “Yeah, sounds good,” said Mike. “Let’s just finish taking a good set of notes.”

  Dex nodded, gestured up toward the surface to Doc. “You two should start thinking about heading up. Tommy, give Mike the video…and we’ll shoot the rest of it.”

  “Man, I thought we were goin’ in this thing…” said Tommy as he unwrapped the wrist strap of the camera, passed it across to Mike.

  “We are,” said Dex. “Just not today.”

  Looking at his SPG, Tommy waved his hands to get everybody’s attention. “Aw, c’mon…we still got plenty of time. Let’s take a peek.”

  “Forget it, Tommy.” Dex stared through his faceplate, trying to make eye-contact with him. He could tell from the tone of the kid’s voice, he had no intention of heading toward the surface.

  “We got time to at least try the second hatch,” said Doc. “Don’t we?”

  They were both sounding like a couple of kids, and he couldn’t blame them. They were excited and giddy to explore, and had no idea how quickly things could change down here. To them, fifteen minutes sounded like a lot of time, but if you were 70 feet down and in deep shit, it could flash past you in an instant.

  Dex hesitated, wondering if he was being too much the mother hen. The aft hatch was wider than most in subs this old. It would probably be okay to at least check the inner hatch. If it was stuck, they’d at least know they’d need some tools tomorrow.

  “Aw…c’mon, Dad…puleeeeze?” That was Don Jordan, listening in on the base unit. It was easy to keep things light when you’re topside and you have the wind in your face instead of tons of seawater.

  “All right, let’s take a look,” said Dex. “We have eight minutes, it’s just a look, got that?”

  “I’m the smallest guy,” said Tommy Chipiarelli. “Let me get down there.”

  Before anybody could argue, Tommy had folded himself over and head-firsted into the hatch. Besides, he definitely was a better fit in the enclosure than either gangly Mike or Doc, who at 6’ 3”, was just a proportionately big guy. Dex was closer in size to Tommy, but floating upside down without much leverage to use his strength efficiently, it was a job best left to a young guy in good shape. Watching him closely, Dex could see the kid had plenty of room, even with his tanks and hoses.

  “Okay, got the wheel,” said Tommy. “Not moving…yet.”

  He grunted as he wrestled with it. Cursed it.

  “Take it easy,” said Mike. “We can get a bar and increase the leverage.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Tommy. “Tomorrow. I’m talking about poppin’ this baby now.”

  More grunting, cursing.

  “Forget it, Tommy,” said Doc. “We’ll get it tomorrow.”

  “Fuck that.”

  “You have three minutes, Sonny,” said Dex. Sonny? Where the hell had that come from? He never called anybody that before. Maybe what Don Jordan said was right about the Chipiarelli kid being a surrogate son for old Dexter? He shook his head as if to clear the thought. Even if something like that were true, this was no time to be thinking about it. Letting his mind drift like that wasn’t like Dex, and he didn’t like it in himself even a little bit.

  Stay focused. Pay attention. Stay alive.

  Tommy released an extended, karate-like cry, then: “It moved! The cock-knocker moved!”

  “Is it free?” said Dex. “You turning it?”

  “Yeah…but it’s tough.”

  The scene looked decidedly weird. Three guys floating around the opening in the aft deck, staring at the ass-end of the fourth guy. Like some fraternity stunt or initiation rite. The cloudy water cast everything in a dull finish, revealing just enough to keep you from getting panicky.

  “We’re out of time,” said Dex. “Tommy, you and Doc need to get topside. ASAP.”

  Doc checked his SPG and nodded. He jerked his thumb toward the surface. “Still okay…but we should start now.”

  “I know,” said Dex.

  “It’s loose! Turning free, guys…we’re in!”

  Dex couldn’t stand it any longer. Grabbing Tommy’s ankles, he tried to lift him out of the hatch tube. If he waited any longer, the kid wouldn’t have enough air to make his ascent. “Time’s up kid!” he said. “Forget it.”

  “Hey, wait! I got it open!”

  Dex kept pulling on him, but Tommy must have been holding on to something.

  “Wait a sec!” said Tommy. There was a hitch in his voice, like he couldn’t catch his breath, and Dex figured he was out of air. But it wasn’t that—it was more like surprise or shock. “There’s somethin’ down here…holy shit…! You gotta see this…”

  Chapter Eight

  Bruckner

  Greenland Shelf

  Erich held the decoded message with both hands. Such a stunning interruption of the mission forced him deep into his training—no anger or shock would work well here. Retaining his composure and control for the safety and confidence of his crew was most important. He could not allow them to know how serious the break in radio silence might be—regardless of the urgency of the message.

  Turning to his navigator, he said, “Ostermann, you have the control deck. Prepare for course changes. Manny, come with me…”

  His Exec followed him out of the con to his Captain’s quarters. When they had closed themselves into the private area, Erich handed the message to his friend, who read it without expression:

  BRUCKNER. ATTENTION BRUCKNER. MISSION ALTERATION. PROCEED TO STATION ONE ELEVEN IMMEDIATELY. RESCUE & RECOVERY. URGENT. DOENITZ.

  “What does this mean?” he said. “What is ‘Station One Eleven’?”

  Erich sat behind his small desk, motioned for Manny to sit on t
he adjacent bunk. “It is a top-secret installation under the Greenland Shelf. Filled with some of our most brilliant scientists and engineers. I am told they are working on projects out of science fiction and beyond.”

  “I had no idea such a place existed.”

  Erich shook his head. “Practically no one does. The only reason U-boat captains have the knowledge is a pragmatic one—the base can only be serviced by a submarine.”

  “Do you know what goes on there?” Manny leaned forward, speaking in a half-whisper.

  “No. Not a clue. Although I would imagine the projects are even more far-flung than the fission-bomb or the jet-propelled fighter.”

  “Incredible. And you know its location?”

  Erich unlocked a drawer in his desk, removed a small courier’s folder, sealed with red wax. “I have the information here. Prepared by the office of Doenitz himself. I have never visited the facility. Few people have.”

  “And now we will be among the few…”

  Erich removed his pocket-knife, sliced through the wax seal, and opened the small red-brown folder. “These are the coordinates and instructions to gain access to the station.”

  Manny looked at the pages briefly. “Far from our current position?”

  Erich allowed himself a small, ironic grin. “Oddly…no. Which makes me wonder if there is any such thing as coincidence.”

  “You think we have been misled?” Manny looked uncomfortable with such a prospect.

  “That may not be the correct word. It is quite possible they had intended us for a two-pronged mission all along, but feared a greater chance of a security breach with more people involved.”

  Manny shook his head. “That sounds like you are rationalizing, my old friend. We are being used. Face it. Breaking radio silence is an acceptable risk when you are not the one staring down an enemy destroyer.”

  Standing up, Erich gestured toward the door. “No argument there. But there is no percentage in discussing it now. We have a job to do.”

  * * *

  Ostermann again reinforced Erich’s decision to make him 5001’s navigator. He accepted the coordinates and orders for course changes without hesitation or comment. Within minutes he had the boat under the corrected heading. Erich was equally pleased with the conduct of the rest of control deck crew—business as usual, even for the party lapdog Bischoff.

  Despite warnings from Kress, his engineer, Erich had no choice. He must get his ship away from the surface as soon as possible.

  “Avoidance depth,” he said. “Then assume new heading as per Herr Ostermann.”

  The crew leaned into their tasks as the soft sound of the ballast tanks filling resonated through the hull. Erich released a breath he had been unconsciously holding. Despite his efforts to display a calm demeanor, even to Manny, his instincts were telling him the deviation from the original mission was ill-advised.

  And then, as if on cue, his worst fear had been confirmed.

  “Captain,” said Bischoff “We have been swept by radar!”

  “Inform engineering,” said Erich to his Exec. “Dive!”

  “Yessir,” said Manfred, already moving.

  “Bischoff! Break radio silence. Try to get off a message to Command—Under attack. Taking evasive action.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  As the klaxon bleated throughout the boat, everyone on the bridge assumed their battle stations duties. Throughout the vessel, their rigorous training would be taking over.

  “Ballast tanks engaged. Commencing dive,” said the helmsman.

  “I have two contacts,” said Bischoff. “Aircraft. Bearing 102 degrees. ETA: four minutes.”

  The enemy was practically right above them. Probably regular patrol seaplanes. Four minutes. That was clearly not enough time to reach a safe depth, thought Erich. He inwardly cringed as he resorted to his next command.

  “Commence crash-dive,” he said sternly.

  The deck leaned forward abruptly as the helmsman cranked the diving planes to their maximum descent angles. The new steel of the hull creaked and groaned as it was subjected to a new maneuver. Everyone grabbed on for the nearest handhold as the big boat’s screws churned violently, forcing the sub down with maximum force.

  “Cans in the water!” yelled Bischoff, both hands cupping his earphones tightly to his head. His eyes looked like boiled eggs bulging from his face.

  “Sixty meters…eighty…” The helmsman’s voice sounded so young to Erich, like a secondary school footballer. Odd he’d never noticed it before.

  A rolling thunder vibrated through the water as the first depth charges exploded. Angled down toward the coldest depths, the U-5001 shuddered from shock waves concussing it. Four detonations from the first pass of the American PBYs rocked them.

  Then, the absence of sound which followed was so eerie, it didn’t seem possible the boat could be so silent. Erich could hear the ragged breaths of each man on the bridge, and the smell of their collective sweat had thickened the air in an instant.

  “One twenty…” whispered the helmsman. It sounded like a line from a prayer.

  “One—”

  The rest of the number was blocked out by the second wave of detonations, each sounding louder, closer, advancing on the boat like footfalls across a hard surface. Each one grabbing the hull in a fist of iron and shaking it like a toy, until the final blast burst valves and seams. Water began spraying wildly from a corner of the conning tower. Someone moved to shut it down as Bischoff yelled out something above the din.

  The hull protested as if twisting in the grip of a monster.

  A shrill piping emitted from the intercom tube, and Erich turned, leaned down toward it.

  “Engineering here!” yelled the voice of Kress. “I don’t have enough battery! We can’t keep this much power to both screws, Captain!”

  “Shut down Number Two!” said Erich without thinking about it. Despite the need for a power-dive, if the boat survived the current attack, he would need to conserve power. No telling how long he may have to run on the batteries…and they were not fully charged.

  “Herr Kress!” said Erich loudly into the tubes. “Damage reports—immediately.”

  “We have a breach in the aft escape hatch. Sealing access doors on both sides!”

  Erich nodded to himself. He didn’t like Kress’s stopgap solution—which effectively isolated the men in the aft torpedo room from the rest of the boat—but there was no choice at this point.

  “One eighty…avoidance depth…” said the helmsman.

  As he waited for more information, Erich could feel the deck leveling out. The big boat was responding well. If she was hurt, it was not enough to change the way she was handling. They might make it after all. He exhaled, suddenly aware he’d been holding his breath.

  “Starboard planes slow to respond, Captain,” said the helmsman.

  “Can you correct?”

  “Yes sir, but they are definitely stiff.”

  The starboard side had been the one which absorbed the brunt of the shock waves. It would not be surprising to see such powerful force bend a mount or two. His crew would need some time on the surface to better assess damage and affect repairs, no matter how minor they might eventually be.

  “Herr Fassbaden, I need—”

  “Here they come again!” said Bischoff. “Cans hitting the water…but not so close this time.”

  No one spoke.

  The silence curled through the room like a thick fog. Erich swore he could hear the ticking of wristwatches.

  Then, an eternity later, the muffled rumble of charges going off rippled through the frigid water, but reaching the U-5001 only as minor vibrations. They were far enough away to indicate the American flying boats had lost them.

  Everyone released his breath in unison. Heels scraped on the deck as the crew dared to move
. Someone cleared his throat.

  “Maintain present depth, speed to eight knots.” Erich released his grip on the strand of pipes above his head, just then realizing he’d been holding them so tightly his knuckles had blanched.

  “No more splashes…” said Bischoff, his voice just above a whisper.

  “Steady as she goes. Hold course. There is a chance the Americans can call in a surface ship if it is close enough at hand. I will want you listening for screws, Herr Bischoff.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Erich nodded. The chance of a surface ship in the neighborhood was not high, but he wanted everyone on highest alert. No room for any lax attitudes now.

  “Herr Fassbaden, I need that damage report. Immediately, if not sooner.”

  “I will see to it personally,” said the Exec.

  Watching the gangly Manfred exit the control deck, Erich began to worry about that hatch breach. If it was leaking in a major way, that would indicate a serious problem with the structural integrity of the hull. That it was located just aft of the aircraft hangar deck suggested some kind of flaw in the new design. To be totally honest with himself, Erich had to admit to always wondering how well the hangar doors would hold up to the pressures of a deep dive.

  Even though the U-5001’s designers had built in a double, interlocking seal, and had kept the space in the hangar separate from the rest of the hull, it was a totally new concept. Untested until now. It was not inconceivable the pressure of avoidance depths could collapse the hangar, flood the chamber, and create ballast problems. Not good. That is why Command had required a brief shakedown exercise before launching the Messerschmitt.

  But, thought Erich, if you were part of the U-boat crew, you would not think it was a very good way to find out an engineer made a mistake.

  Could the escape hatch be affected by larger problems?

  “Starboard planes still sticky, Captain,” said the helmsman.

  “How bad?”

  The man exhaled slowly. “Not getting any better. Worse if anything.”

  Erich considered what this might mean if they were to undergo another attack and would require any exotic maneuvering. He smiled grimly. It would mean they would all die. There would be little chance of getting a boat as big as the U-5001 to execute any of the textbook tactics if she was slow to respond.