Thunder In The Deep (02) Read online

  At last, above the sound of cranes and trucks and urgent, shouting dockworkers and marines, Jeffrey sensed a clattering roar. The Navy courier helicopter swung into view, first above the stuccoed homes sprawling along the parched rocky slopes around Mindelo harbor, then over the drab concrete warehouses of the waterfront itself. The helo flared and hovered by the pier, bringing with it the heady perfume of burnt kerosene exhaust. Out of the corner of his eye, as she stood next to him, Jeffrey watched the aircraft's prop wash tousle Ilse Reebeck's hair. The engine noise precluded conversation now, but their conversation had already been cut short, back at the hotel. Ilse looked relieved to be coming with Jeffrey, and he was glad, too—the whole thing was very lastminute—but it only complicated matters between them to have her on Jeffrey's ship again. Lord knew in the last two weeks, with their atomic demolition raid on the South African coast, they'd shared enough experiences, and nightmares, to last a lifetime. He told himself it was worth it, for what they'd achieved for the Allied cause, but the personal price was so high. Now, with no chance to catch their breaths or succor the inner emotional wounds, they were headed right back into the all-consuming maelstrom of tactical nuclear war at sea.

  As a marine guard on the pier helped the helo pilot pick his spot to land, Jeffrey glanced at the water. The last of the liberty party was already crammed into USS Challenger's ASDS minisub, moored against the pier—hiding under a special awning that helped mask the goings-on from Berlin-Boer Axis spy birds. Jeffrey knew some crewmen were forced to stand in-the mini's swimmer lock-in/ lock-out chamber. But the embark was on hold, because of this courier.

  "I wish he'd hurry up," Jeffrey said out loud. For most of his life, Jeffrey had wished people and things would hurry up.

  As the helo settled on the pier, Jeffrey reviewed what little he knew so far: The Texas was down and needed help, and time was of the essence. In this whole big, hot, North Atlantic-wide theater of battle, Challenger was the closest thing—the only thing—

  available. Images flashed through Jeffrey's mind, training videos he'd had to watch—

  ones all U.S. Navy submariners had to watch—of tattered human remains in tortured postures: the men who died on the Russian submarine Kursk. Smashed to pulp, drowned slowly, or cremated alive, then soaked in high-pressure seawater—a living medium full of creatures who sought and ate their flesh.

  Was that what awaited Jeffrey's eyes, when he got to

  kills, two fewer nuclear subs in the enemy arsenal now; at least if his ship and her people all died, they wouldn't have died for nothing. The buoy was launched. Taylor flashed once more on all those faces on the pier; some were widows and fatherless already. The surviving men around Taylor braced for impact with the spur. If they missed it they'

  d keep going until the Texas's hull caved in. They'd know soon enough. the Texas? His ASDS was supposed to double as a deep-submergence rescue vehicle, to try to dock with the disabled sub once Challenger arrived.

  Someone stepped from the helo. Like Jeffrey, the courier wore no rank or insignia, for security, but Jeffrey knew him vaguely. He was a lieutenant commander, in fact a rear admiral's aide, and by Navy regulations he spoke for his admiral with equal force. Jeffrey, Challenger's executive officer, was now the ship's acting captain. Challenger herself was submerged somewhere beyond the breakwater. She was much too high-value a target to bring into port here during this war, and her real captain, Commander Wilson, Jeffrey's boss, was confined at the hotel with a bad concussion.

  "Sign, please," the courier said, handing Jeffrey a thick envelope. Jeffrey eyed the Top Secret markings, the code words RECURVE ARBOR—whatever that meant—along with the notation to open only when north of latitude 30 north. "What is this?"

  "I don't know," the courier said. "I have other stops to make. This Texas thing has everybody stirred up."

  Jeffrey scribbled his initials on the courier's clipboard, and did the arithmetic in his head. At Challenger's top quiet speed, twenty-six knots—the fastest she dared go for long in the war zone—it would take more than a day to cross the thirtieth parallel, almost two full days to reach Texas.

  "Do we know what shape they're in?"

  "A lot are still breathing," the man said, "at least so far. They managed to launch another buoy once they crashed. That's why you're being sent."

  "Can't you get us a doctor?" Challenger would act as a stealthy undersea field ambulance, if and when the survivors from Texas were taken aboard. The courier shook his head. "They're all in surgery, overloaded. A hospital ship put in last night, from Central Africa. . . . Your corpsman will have to do."

  "Great." Jeffrey started a mental tally of his ship's medical supplies. His people would be sleeping on the deck, to free their racks for the injured. . . .

  "We're not sure yet if the Axis also knows about Texas. You may hit opposition en route."

  "Terrific." Jeffrey'd transferred on as Challenger's XO well after the start of the fighting six months ago—he'd been more than glad to give up a fast-track planning job at the Naval War College. He'd wanted to get to the front. Now, with no qualified skipper available at this forward base to step in for Commander Wilson, Jeffrey was utterly on his own.

  "Good luck," the man called as he ran back to the helo. Jeffrey turned to Ilse. He saw her read the concern on his face. They were both still so exhausted, her expression seemed to say, and now this. Jeffrey shrugged. Ilse was a civilian, a Boer freedom-fighter, but she'd be killed as dead as the rest of the crew if something went badly wrong.

  "After you," he said, letting her go first, up the aluminum gangway and down the top hatch of the little submarine. The sixty-five-foot-long ASDS was their undersea taxi today, hopefully too small on its own for someone to waste a nuke, and too stealthy for the enemy to track it to Challenger.

  Ilse climbed down the top hatch, into the minisub's central hyperbaric sphere, which doubled as entry vestibule. The packed crewmen, all familiar faces, tried to make room for her. She in turn eased out of the way, so Jeffrey could follow. Ilse smiled to herself, a bit grimly. Stomach sucked in, elbows close at your sides, watch what you bump into, and respect the other person's personal space—this was how submariners moved about their cramped and self-contained world. Ilse was pleased with how quickly she'd learned these habits during her first trip on the Challenger, and how quickly the mindset returned now on this unexpected, hurried second mission. That first time, she'd volunteered; her special skills were badly needed. This time, no one asked; a message from the chain of command had ordered her to go. They were supposed to head for the U.S. East Coast and a needed stint in dry dock—and maybe some leave for Christmas, too—and then this Texas rescue came up. Now, Ilse was being swept along in the rush.

  Ilse watched Jeffrey reach to close the top hatch. Before he could dog it shut, the heavy door from the minisub's forward control compartment swung open. Challenger's chief of the boat looked into the sphere and made quick eye contact with Ilse. Ilse smiled back, and her inner tensions died down a bit; it was good to rejoin these people she knew and trusted. They'd helped her relieve some of her earlier anger, her barely repressed rage. They were a family of sorts, to replace everything and everyone she'd lost after the Johannesburg coup. Was it worth risking death to be with them again?

  What was her choice, to languish as a displaced person, utterly alone? Besides, in this war nowhere was "safe."

  COB winked Ilse a hello, seeming surprised to see her. He was the oldest man in the crew, a salty, somewhat irreverent master chief. He had an amazing charisma, in a tough and blue-collar way, and Ilse had liked him from the moment they first met two weeks ago. Right now COB was acting as pilot of the minisub, with a lieutenant (j.g.) copilot. The last time she'd ridden the mini, it had taken her into combat in her tyranny-ravaged homeland of South Africa. Then, a U.S. Navy SEAL chief had been copilot. He didn't come back.

  COB called out to Jeffrey, "Sir, another delay. More passengers."

  "More?" Jeffrey said. The
men standing around him groaned. The youngest, still teenagers really, looked afraid they'd get left behind.

  The pressure-proof door to the rear transport compartment was closed, and Ilse wondered how many people were

  squashed in there already—the official capacity was eight. One of them, she realized, would have to be newcomer Royal Navy Lieutenant Kathy Milgrom; there was nowhere else Kathy could be.

  Ilse saw COB glance at his console, as if he were reading a decrypted radio or land-line message. "They're arriving any minute, Captain," COB said. Jeffrey sighed, handed the courier envelope to COB, and climbed back up the ladder through the top hatch. Out of curiosity, and because she liked to be where Jeffrey was, Ilse followed. Past the foot of the pier, beyond the big concrete obstacles and heavy machine-gun emplacements, a local taxi pulled up. Like clowns from a circus car, six big men piled out one after another, all in civilian clothing, as if for disguise. Ilse immediately recognized SEAL Lieutenant Shajo Clayton, his two logistics and backup people, and the three surviving operators from Shajo's blooded boat team. Shajo grinned and waved; he'd been with her and Jeffrey on the South Africa raid. The men untied several heavy equipment boxes from the cab's roof rack, and pulled more from the vehicle's trunk. Some boxes were black: SEAL combat gear. Some were white with big red crosses: first-aid supplies, presumably for the Texas. Jeffrey called for crewmen to help, and everyone started carrying the stuff to the minisub. Jeffrey shook hands very warmly with Clayton—they'd been through hell together, all too recently, and the resulting bond was tight. "Would somebody please tell me what the heck is going on?" Jeffrey said, smiling with pleasure at this unexpected reunion.

  "If they do," Clayton rejoined, "then maybe you can let me know, sir." Then he clapped Jeffrey on the shoulder, equally delighted to see his proven comrade-in-arms again.

  "What did they say to you?"

  "We're supposed to be, you know, some kind of armed guard. Apparently you're in need of extra muscle."

  "I'm liking this less and less," Jeffrey said, shaking his head.

  "I know," Ilse heard Clayton say as they reached the brow to the ASDS. "The base admiral didn't like it too much either."

  Under the awning, Clayton gave Ilse a brotherly hug. She'd helped treat one of his mortally wounded men during the raid, and Clayton had brought her back alive; she felt better to know he was coming this time, too. Shajo was in his late twenties, from Atlanta, easy to talk to and even-tempered, with a very hard body. To Ilse his eyes betrayed hints of a persistent sadness that was all too common these days, from the recent loss of friends and teammates in the war, and the loss of innocence.

  Jeffrey put down an equipment case and shouted through the mini's top hatch. "COB, how's your trim?" The little sub rode very low in the water, and didn't have a conning tower. With all the crewmen and now the SEALs' gear, keeping the mini stable would be tough.

  Ilse heard COB's voice from inside. "Too heavy aft, Captain, and there's nothing left I can pump or counter-flood. Any more weight on board and we're gonna have to jettison the anchors."

  "Do it," Jeffrey yelled, "right now. And unclip the passenger seats in the back and pass them up to the pier." This was the Jeffrey whom Ilse had quickly gotten to know, and maybe, sort of, to like; firm but informal, always improvising on the spot, and ruthlessly practical. Jeffrey was driven, coming alive under pressure, though sometimes impetuous or even reckless when in battle. Yet he was oddly hesitant with her—at least when they weren't both being shot at by the enemy. Lonely, too. Ilse had sensed that in Jeffrey quickly. He'd never once mentioned any family.

  Clayton's men formed a human chain to pile the seats under the camouflage awning. Ilse couldn't help thinking that all this hubbub, the courier helo and then the taxi with the SEALs, had to get noticed by German or Boer re-con assets.

  Finally everyone was aboard with their gear, the shore

  power and mooring lines were stowed, the top hatch secured. Jeffrey went forward to stand behind COB's seat, in the little control room. Ilse started to follow him—she'd stood behind the copilot as they snuck in toward Durban, on the South African coast, the last time.

  But Jeffrey held up one hand. "No, I need to talk with Shajo and COB about the rescue plan."

  Shajo squeezed past Ilse and into the control compartment. Then Jeffrey closed the door in her face.

  A FEW MINUTES LATER.

  TRANSITING THE BAY OF BISCAY

  Korvettenkapitan Ernst Beck paused outside the captain's stateroom door. This would be their first private encounter since leaving port for patrol.

  Beck felt the deck tilting to a fifteen-degree down bubble.

  Germany's ceramic-hulled nuclear submarine Deutschland had reached the edge of the continental shelf off occupied France—the minefields, friendly and enemy, were mostly behind them now. She was descending to deeper water per the captain's orders. Beck hesitated. Even after three years of working with the man, to intrude made him feel cold. Beck dearly loved his wife and two young sons. He knew by now his Kommandant—commanding officer—loved no one but himself, and never would. Beck knocked.

  "Come," that polished, precise, unreachable voice called from within. Beck slid open the door, entered, and closed it again for security.

  Fregattenkapitan Kurt Eberhard sat alone at his fold-down desk. The air was filled with tobacco smoke, swirling in delicate tendrils. On the bulkhead hung the portrait in oils of the new Kaiser, Wilhelm IV, in an expensive gilded frame—Wilhelm II was Kaiser in World War One; Wilhelm III was his son, the Crown Prince, who never took the throne after 1918.

  Eberhard looked up. He seemed annoyed, then softened his features; he was polite, at least superficially. `Ja, Einzvo?"

  Beck was Deutschland's so-called "IWO," the Erster Wachoffizier—executive officer, pronounced phonetically "einzvo." His rank equaled lieutenant commander in the U.S. or Royal navies. Eberhard was a full commander, intent on making full captain soon.

  "Sir," Beck said, "a high-priority radiogram came in." "Did you read it?"

  "Yes, Captain."

  "Well?"

  "It's an assessment from Kaiserliche Marine Intel, sir." Imperial Naval Intelligence. " Reliable sources indicate USS Challenger is putting to sea from Cape Verde." Hard blue eyes confronted Beck.

  "So they've localized our ceramic-hulled friend?" "Yes, Captain. She's heading north."

  "Does the message say why?"

  "She might be tasked to assist a crippled American sub near the Azores, but that could be a deception, sir, a feint for some more important mission. . . . The odd thing is, it says combat swimmers were taken aboard, but not Challenger's captain. Her XO's in command."

  Eberhard stubbed out his cigarette. "I know Jeffrey Fuller all too well. A peasant." Beck was careful not to react. The Coronation had done more than restore the glitter of Court, of which Eberhard was so fond: It had strengthened class differences in German society. Beck was the youngest son of a farmer himself, from outside Munich; his family was Catholic in the traditional Bavarian way. He'd joined the peacetime German Navy as a cadet in '91, right after Reunification. He did it to get a broader education than he could at the local

  technical school, and to help make the nation whole again with respect in the eyes of the world.

  Also—as he put it to his trusted friends—by his late teens, Beck was tired of smelling manure and wearing lederhosen.

  "Fuller and I once worked together," Eberhard said. He seemed distant for a moment, even more than usual. "Combined duty at the Pentagon, before the war."

  "Is he good, sir?" Given the possibility of a contest with Fuller and crew, Beck had to ask. Eberhard waved dismissively.

  "He displeased me with 'his rebellious ways and casual style. I outranked him, of course, then as now, but the Americans put up with his antics."

  Beck wondered what he was supposed to say to that. His job as executive officer was to meld himself to Eberhard's will, regardless of what he thought of the man.

>   "We're ordered to be on alert, sir. In case Challenger enters our operational area."

  "Good. Let me see."

  Beck gave him the message slip.

  Beck glanced at Eberhard's desk. He recognized a file copy of Deutschland's last war patrol report—he'd drafted it himself for Eberhard's signature three weeks ago. It was open to the final page, showing the vessel's cumulative totals since the start of the fighting.

  Eberhard noticed him reading.

  "Nine hundred fifty thousand tons of Allied shipping sunk," Eberhard said. "Already twice the previous world record, set by one of our submarine captains in World War One. Four times as good as Hitler's top-scoring U-boat ace." He went back to the message slip.

  This damage wrought by Deutschland had earned Eberhard the Ritterkreuz, the Knight's Cross, one of Germany's highest military honors. It was deserved; Beck had no question of Eberhard's tactical skill. Beck himself got the Iron Cross First Class, prestigious enough, though he cared nothing for medals.

  But he did want his own command someday. Beck did want his own command. Eberhard put the message in his safe.

  "How are the crew?"

  "Getting back their sea legs quickly, Captain." They'd all been on leave in Bordeaux. Submariner skills were perishable—the ,men grew rusty away from the ship—but Beck was taking care of that with drills and refresher training.

  "And the new hands?"

  "I think they'll be ready."

  "You think or you know?"

  "They'll be ready, Captain."

  "Good. I look forward to dueling with Fuller again."

  "Captain, some of the seasoned men have been holding up an index finger to one another, when they think I'm not looking."