Submerged

by Thomas F Monteleone

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “How is it going for the aft torpedo crew?”

  Despite all that had been happening, Erich had not forgotten them.

  Kress paused, then spoke softly. “Well, they are still alive. They have a limited refreshing of the air through the communication tube, but they are still cut off from the rest of the boat. Staying alive is about all they are doing.”

  “Very well, Herr Kress. Stand by.”

  “Awaiting your order,” said Manny.

  “Five hours,” said Erich, after a pause. “That should be enough time.”

  For what?

  Erich smiled as he asked himself the question he knew Manfred was thinking.

  Walking to the viewport, Manny idly glanced into the murky water surrounding them.

  “Captain…”

  Erich joined him at the port without saying a word.

  “I think I see a light out there—above the surface.”

  “Yes,” said Bruckner. “I see it too. Let us take that as a good sign.”

  “You mean there are survivors?”

  Erich nodded.

  “You do not suspect a trap?”

  “I have considered it all along. The urgency of the mission could mean the enemy had invaded the base. But considering our limited maneuverability, I knew there was little we could do about it. Our orders are rescue and recovery. We will do our best.” Erich knew his words had sounded close to a speech, which he abhorred.

  “The light looks quite powerful,” said Manfred. “Not moving. Probably not a searchlight.”

  Neither man spoke for a moment, considering the possibilities.

  “A beacon, perhaps,” said Bruckner. “Regardless, it is time to find out.”

  Manny nodded, said nothing.

  Turning from the viewing port, Bruckner walked to the tube, spoke into it: “Forward Gunnery Crew. Assemble for surface action.”

  Manfred nodded, addressed the helmsman. “Blow all ballast. Rig for surface running.”

  “Well,” said Bruckner. “We go up…at least for the moment.”

  As his crew began to carry out his orders, Erich drew a deep breath. The air on the control deck was probably not as foul as the closer quarters in other parts of the boat, but it was bad enough. The ever-present tang of machine oil and men’s sweat commingled to create a scent equally familiar—fear. Erich could never have described it, but he knew it so well, he would never forget if he lived into the next century. And, as the sound of the ballast tanks venting shuddered through the hull, he could feel the crew’s apprehension in the air like a thick, humid fog.

  Before executing his plan, he turned to address his Warrant Officer, Ostermann.

  “Is the Forward Gunnery Crew ready?”

  “Yes, Captain. Standing by…”

  “Have them ready to break the hatch seal and deploy at my command.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Erich turned back to his Executive Officer, exhaled slowly.

  “Now we find out how bad those diving planes really are,” he said to Manfred, standing at his side, but looking through the thick slab of the viewing port glass. “Ready?”

  “We begin,” said Manfred, who then turned toward the helmsman. “Bubble?”

  “Level, sir,” said the crewman.

  “Bearing one zero seven. Slip speed…steady as she goes.”

  The helmsman complied.

  Slip speed was the term Erich always used to refer to the slowest possible forward motion a U-boat could maintain. He’d heard it from one of his training officers at Flensburg, and it had stuck with him. He had no idea whether it was a universal reference, but he liked it because it was so accurate—you wanted your boat to crawl as slowly as possible when approaching the immovable object of the concrete slip in the sub-pens. And his present situation was even more precarious with the threat of colliding with an unknown object while nursing his ship to the surface.

  His strategy, although simple and straightforward, remained fraught with peril. After a careful study of the briefing map and soundings by Herr Bischoff, Erich located what appeared to be a stretch of beach with a graduated ascent-slope of less than 5 degrees. This suggested the ideal set-up for the maneuver he now attempted as he coaxed the U-5001 toward the section of beach. If the diving plane did not raise the submarine to its waterline before running out of maneuvering room within the cavern, his boat would gently nose up on the shoreline with little chance of any damage.

  In theory.

  Smiling, he rubbed his jaw and felt the beginnings of his beard growing in. Most kriegsmariners stopping shaving while at sea, and he was no exception. He normally hated having hair on his face, especially when he was kissing a woman; however, that particular concern had no meaning in his life for the foreseeable future. Unconsciously he had already decided he would not remove his beard until he was free of this boat and its command—which meant he may never shave again.

  As he turned to join Manfred by the viewing port, he had a brief flash of himself as an older man—his sandy-blonde hair turned gray, his stern jawline covered by drooping flesh, his eyes pale and no longer brooding. He shook his head slowly, as if he knew he had not much chance of living so long.

  “Ballast clear!” said Ostermann. “Maintaining bubble.”

  The resonant thrum of the electric motors at slow revolutions pulsed through the hull at a low frequency. It was an odd and irritating characteristic of the U-5001 that ultra-slow speeds caused so much vibratory noise in the hull. Erich wondered how such low-end sounds affected their detectability signature—it was something the engineers at Trondheim would be interested in knowing about.

  Hmmm.

  That last thought made him smile wistfully. Every now and then he caught himself thinking in terms of a real future…and that was quite foolhardy, if not dangerous.

  “Rising, Captain,” said the Helmsman. “But very slowly.”

  “Acknowledged.” Erich turned fully to the viewing port and peered upward toward a rippling ceiling of water, beyond which a cool luminosity appeared to be awaiting their appearance.

  “Sixty…” said Bischoff. There was, for the first time in many hours, an inflection of hope in his voice. “Fifty-five…range to shoreline twelve hundred…vertical now fifty!”

  “You did it,” said Manfred. “The bow is up just enough.”

  “Until we break the surface, I am not counting on anything.”

  “We are not running out of bottom either,” said Manfred, squinting as if to penetrate the murky panorama beyond the thick glass of the port.

  Erich nodded as he watched the glimmering panel of the surface grow ever closer. Until his boat finally broke free of the ferryman’s watery grip, and he knew an ambush did not await them on the surface, he could not relax. The air grew thick, fouled by the collective anticipation of the entire control deck crew, encased in a silence that may as well have been a prison of amber.

  “Periscope depth.” Bischoff’s voice cut through the colloidal atmosphere. Briefly entertaining a look through the ’scope for a quick preview, Erich dismissed the idea. It would not be fitting of the Captain to show such impulsive behavior—behavior that could be interpreted as a sign of impatience, or worse, a lack of conviction in what he was doing. And yet, Erich could not shake his anxiety they might be gliding into an American trap. Not knowing the cause of his rescue mission was not good. If the enemy was up there waiting for him, he was a cooked goose.

  “Con breaking the surface,” said Bischoff.

  “Forward Gunnery, on your mark,” said Ostermann into the tube.

  “Water line!” said Bischoff.

  “Engines full stop.” Erich was thankful it had not been necessary to slide the bottom of his boat up the beach. “Have Kress commence re-charge procedures as soon as feasible.”


  “Aye, Captain.”

  “Gun Crew—breach the hatch,” said Erich, and Ostermann repeated the order into the tube.

  A soft clanging reverberated through the hull as Erich turned away from his crew to gaze through the viewing port.

  “God in heaven.” said his Exec. “What…is that?”

  Erich knew instantly to what Manfred referred. Something very bright—burning beyond a wall of thick mist. Even though it was far from their position in the underground cove, the intensity of the light had become evident, but unrecognizable. The images, at such considerable distance, however, were not terribly clear through the thick viewing port glass.

  Turning, Erich knew he must get above decks.

  There followed a muffled response from the tubes, then Ostermann: “Forward Gun Crew reports all clear, Captain.”

  “No sign of our people?”

  A pause as his question was passed along, more as a reply came through.

  “They see nothing,” said Ostermann.

  “Control deck stand by,” said Erich. “Come with me, Herr Fassbaden.”

  Moving quickly, but not wanting to appear anxious or panicked, Erich covered the distance from the conning tower, down the main corridor, pausing at the lockers where he and Manfred donned heavy parkas. They reached the gangladder to the forward hatch in a series of long strides. His Exec remained a measured pace behind him, and although Manfred had said nothing, Erich could feel the tension ready to burst free of the man at any moment.

  For a moment, the U-boat dropped into a deeper silence as even the hum of the electric motors ceased. Then Kress kicked the diesels into action, and the hull rumbled under the new, louder sound.

  Good, at least we will get a full charge on those batteries. Erich grabbed the lower rungs of the ladder, and clambered up quickly. As he cleared the hatch, the first thing he noticed was the sharp, ozone-like tinge to the air. The second was the ring of men who surrounded the hatch, watching the emergence of their captain with faces that could be colored by confusion or perhaps a profound sense of dread.

  “Give the captain room!” said the chief gunnery officer, and the circle peeled back, allowing Erich to get his footing and stand among them in the open air. He stepped to the side to allow Manfred the leverage he needed to scissor his tall frame out of the hatch. Looking beyond the faces of the gun crew, Erich peered upward at the vaulted ceiling hundreds of meters above them.

  No, it might be much higher than that. What was this place?

  Directing his gaze downward, he assessed their position. As if placed upon a pane of dark, green glass, the U-5001 floated upon an inland, underground sea.

  Utterly calm.

  Silent.

  Vast.

  And warm…instead of the frigid temperatures of the North Atlantic, the air inside this space felt almost tropical in contrast. Erich shed his heavy coat and a crewman reached out to fetch it from him.

  “Incredible,” was all he could say.

  “And look at the size of it!” Manfred spoke in a whisper as though he’d stumbled into a church during a service.

  Erich nodded in silence. The cavern’s true dimensions were not immediately calculable because he had nothing familiar to use in comparison. There was also a curious mist suspended over the water, which coalesced into a distant, pearlescent fog clinging to the most extreme boundaries of the place. It was like seeing a mountain range on the horizon, which never seems to grow closer—even though you are careening straight for it. The roof of the enclosure arched so far above their heads, and Erich knew now it could have easily been hundreds of feet above them.

  And he noticed an odd aspect of the cavern’s ceiling—it appeared to be featureless, almost smooth, instead of the usual geologic grooves and stalactitic formations. As if the whole chamber had been hollowed out by a great scoop.

  But that was impossible, he told himself. What he was seeing was probably an optical illusion, induced by the distance between the surface and the uppermost reaches of the cavern. His more immediate concern was the absence of the station’s personnel. Where was everybody? Being in such an enclosed area precluded any radio transmissions being picked up by the enemy, but Erich held off trying any hailing frequencies just yet.

  Better to be cautious when you do not know what you are facing.

  Quite simply, he could not shake the impression of something wrong here, a feeling that had suddenly overtaken him and would not soon leave him.

  His intuition ran deeper than any mere fear of stumbling into the enemy. He knew now—there were no English or Americans here, waiting within the folds of fog to surprise them. Doenitz would have warned him of such a thing and he had believed this all along.

  No, this was something altogether different…but he had no idea what it, as yet, might be.

  Dropping his gaze again, he returned his attention to the sea of glass.

  It stretched out beyond the boat’s stern for an indiscernible distance. As flat and dead as a shark’s eye. Erich had the impression that before his ship had penetrated its depths, fracturing the waveless surface, it had lain undisturbed for uncountable years.

  There was no weather here. Not in terms of the sea and how the weather defines the sea. There was a timeless quality to this immense enclosure. A sense of something all-encompassing, unchanging. But there was more as well.

  “Do you feel it?” he said softly.

  “Feel what?” said Manfred. “I feel a lot of things right now.”

  “Even though it is warm…the coldness of this place.”

  “Oh…yes. Yes, that I do.” His First Officer paused, chuckled self-consciously as one might do to dispel unease. “I wondered if I was the only one.”

  “No.” Erich nodded as he continued to scan their surroundings. “I sense death here, as well.”

  He paused, trying to make sense of this secret base. Although totally enclosed beneath the earth, in a place that could have never known the heat or the light of the sun, there was heat…and light.

  But from where?

  To the starboard side, a full sixty degrees in elevation, he had fixed on the apparent source of the light, although it remained completely wrapped in the white mist, lacking even the most remote definition—a diffuse area of light, like the sun obscured by clouds.

  But that was impossible, and he knew it.

  There was no sun down here.

  “Get me some glasses,” he said to no one in particular. Instantly several of the crew went scurrying back down the hatch in search of a pair.

  In his haste, Erich had not thought to bring his binoculars, which were a constant fixture around his neck when he normally emerged from the conning tower.

  But this situation had proved anything but normal.

  “Here you are, Captain!” A crewman appeared in the hatch, thrusting a pair of Zeiss field glasses upward ahead of him.

  Manfred grabbed them and handed them to Erich, who raised them to his face and adjusted the focus. Scanning the closest shoreline, he could see through the low-lying mist—at least partially. Scraps of clarity teased his senses and his imagination. Beyond a short swath of graveled beach, a series of jagged rocks punctuated a landscape as bleak as the path to Valhalla. Looking up to the roof of the great cavern, he was not cheered to discover a closer inspection confirmed what he’d earlier surmised—the curved surface of the interior did not look much like a natural formation. The smooth surface of the ceiling appeared to have been cauterized as if some kind of searing heat had carved out this space like lava sluicing through soft earth. He could not imagine what kind of energy would be needed to clear out such a limitless space.

  “What do you see?” said Manfred.

  “I…I do not know. Nothing I recognize. Nothing I have ever seen before.”

  Then he directed the glasses toward the veiled source of light. B
ut even pushed to their finest resolution, the binoculars failed to give Erich even the smallest clue as to what could be creating such a powerful illumination.

  “Whatever it is, lies beyond that fog…if it is…fog,” he said.

  Manfred whistled. “What else could it be?”

  “We need to find the base, the men who were here. We need to know what happened here,” said Erich. “Get a few men together to go ashore.”

  “Right away.”

  “And get a damage report. And a work detail started.”

  “I’ve already alerted Massenburg. And Kress.”

  “Good.”

  “What about our radio?” said Manny. “Can we use it in here to contact the base?”

  “Radio silence should not be a concern in this kind of enclosure.” Erich again scanned the space. “I think it is time for Bischoff to ring them up.”

  He turned to address the gun crew, dispatching everyone to regular belowdecks duties other than a single sentry whose orders were to start shooting at anything that looked hostile.

  “Tell Massenburg I want our diving planes fixed and the entire hull inspected.”

  Manny nodded, started to work his long legs into the hatch, then paused.

  “You coming down?”

  Erich had directed his attention beyond the dark, rubber-coated hull of the 5001. He was still trying to make sense of the strange installation they’d entered. The silence and absence of the Station’s staff was very troubling. He barely noticed Manny halfway through the hatch when he had spoken.

  “What? No. Not for the moment. I want to…take this place in…I want to absorb it, to never forget how it is making me feel.”

  His friend looked up at him “And how is that?”

  “Small,” said Erich. “Very small.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dex

  Chesapeake Bay

  Leading the way, Dex led Tommy out of the Captain’s quarters, down the corridor and back into the deserted control deck. They ascended the ladder to the open bridge, carefully kicking clear of the conning tower array, and began their controlled ascent. Even though they’d been right around the 66-foot threshold for decompression, they paused as they watched through their bubbles for the approach of the Doc’s silver gray suit and Mike’s pale yellow.