Submerged

Chapter One

His boat was going to die.

And all his men? Yes, they were going to die as well.

He sat in his quarters trying to argue with his terrible conclusions. The death of his crew as well as his boat. The two interconnected facts had been threading through Captain Bruckner’s thoughts for weeks. He railed against such fatalism because it challenged his natural tendency to be an optimist.

His colleagues had always branded him an arrogant, prideful bastard, but they respected him because of his record of successes. Victory came more easily to those who believe they cannot be beaten, and Erich Heinz Bruckner had always been a huge believer in himself and his abilities.

But this war and its maniac-leaders had proved to be larger than anything Captain Bruckner had ever encountered in his twenty-five years — so young to be a U-boat captain, but Admiral Doenitz was quite simply running out of men, especially qualified officers. Sworn to defend the Fatherland, Erich had not wavered when the European campaign called him. He’d been raised in a military family — father and older brother had both been German Navy men. His father had distinguished himself at Jutland; and his brother, Gunther, had gone down with his crew in the U-201 east of Newfoundland almost two years ago to the day.

The Bruckners had always been “regular” Navy officers, which meant their first allegiance had been to their Armed Service rather than to any political party or faction. Military families in Germany had been part of a kind of centuries-old aristocracy, but the National Socialists had changed the nature of that tradition. With the creation of the schutzstaffel, the SS, the face of the German military had been twisted into something more grotesque, less honorable.

But the U-boat Service had managed to escape the direct corruption of any purely political constructs. Erich believed this with all his being. He had to believe it. The young sailors who had served in the submarine war had been the bravest and the most unselfish of any German warriors caught in the web of madness they called the Second World War.

If Erich had not been privy to personal dispatches from the office of Admiral Doenitz himself, he would not believe the hideous statistics which described the obituary of the Submarine Service. At this late hour of the war, more than 700 U-boats had been sunk; of almost 39,000 seamen in the Service, more than 32,000 had been killed. Captains were getting younger and younger — like himself — absurdly so. He purposely didn’t cipher the exact percentage of the dead; it would be such a gut-wrenchingly high number.

Better not to think about it…

But he could not ignore the almost certain odds of not returning from a voyage. The allies had become so proficient at detecting the movements of the U-boats, it was absolutely impossible to not undergo depth charge or air attacks while at sea. Erich and some of his more astute colleagues were convinced the Brits or the Yanks had somehow decrypted the Enigma messages which relayed all critical data on the positions and missions of the remaining underwater flotillas. And although to say this publicly, or in any official communiqué, would be tantamount to heresy, or signing a decree to have one’s own throat cut, Captain Bruckner firmly believed it had happened.

Somehow, the allies had done it. They knew far too much.

That is why Erich had insisted on radio silence and no Enigma messaging during this initial cruise of the U-5001. If Germany’s newest, and possibly last, best, secret weapon would survive the odds, and fulfill its outlandish mission, Erich would do nothing foolish to jeopardize a chance for success.

He had fallen in love with this boat from the first moment he’d seen her on the drawing boards in Koenigsberg. The submarine was a prototype vessel which incorporated the latest technologies and the most visionary functions imaginable. Almost twice the length and tonnage of the workhorse Type VII–C, the U-5001 carried the designation of Type XXX-A. Although it bristled with 8 tubes fore and aft, and carried a standard compliment of 40 torpedoes, its armament was secondary to its real mission — as an underwater aircraft carrier.

The boat looked more like a humpbacked whale than the standard barracuda-silhouette. The reason — a bulbous, second-deck air-tight hangar, located aft of the conning tower and housing an ingeniously compact plane. Built by Messerschmitt, with an official designation of ME-5X, the two-man, pontoon bomber was known under its code name as the Little New Yorker because of its size and intended target.

Erich had heard of the original “New Yorker” bomber, which — in the spring of 1945—still remained in the design-stage. Where it would most likely die. He knew the possibility of the Reich actually launching a squadron of super-bombers capable of making round-trip, transatlantic bombing sorties to America’s East Coast cities was remote indeed. The concept of an undersea armada of boats like the U-5001 was a far more likely scenario for striking deathblows to the cities of the United States.

And this was to be the first.

Inside the U-5001’s hangar-deck, in the bomb bay of the experimental plane, lay a new kind of weapon. He had been told the exact nature of the bomber’s payload and mission, but had been ordered not to share this with his crew — none of them. When the U-5001 secretly launched, rumors throughout High Command circulated wildly. Having been treated to some of the Fuhrer’s more ludicrous pipe-dreams in the past, Erich wondered if he might be the victim of another madman’s scheme.

As far as his crew of 52 was concerned, Erich’s present mission was to ascertain the capabilities and performance limits of the boat. With the help of an outer hull sheathing of black rubber designed to make her less visible to Asdic and other types of sonar scans, Erich should be able to slip out of the waters north of the North Sea, angling past the Shetland and Faero Islands. If his luck and skill held, he could drop below Iceland and the convoy lanes to enter the nominally safer waters of the open Atlantic.

Then on to the Eastern seaboard of the United States.

But the recent history of such great numbers of U-boat sinkings — many before they could escape their homewaters west of Hamburg — had stirred a dark current of pessimism in him. Despite the technological wonders of his new boat, the allies could still stumble upon him and his crew, raining down enough hell to send them to the bottom. The sense of dread, an almost palpable expectation of failure, like the stink of sweat, simply would not leave him.

And so, Erich Bruckner had been reduced to thinking of his life and that of his crew in terms of “ifs.”

If they escaped detection; if they withstood any attacks; if they reached the open seas… If the boat had no fatal flaws… if the equipment was as good as the Admirals claimed, then they would perform a series of test-dives, and execute a complex program of maneuvers and battle tactics with the intention of pushing the new boat to her design limits. With a submerged speed of 25 knots, she was fast, but her increased size might present problems of evasiveness and reaction to aggression. One of the points of this maiden voyage would be to challenge the boat’s handling limits. Under less stressful conditions, Erich would have looked forward to the challenge of proving the U-5001 seaworthy with his usual élan.

If…

The biggest word in the mission. If all the above was successful, he was to bring the boat to a rendezvous point with the cruiser, the Sturm, where they would take on a pilot and bombardier. But that was Phase Two of the mission. And he could not concern himself with—

There was a knock at the door to his quarters, jarring him from his thoughts.

“Yes? Come in.”

The door opened slowly to reveal a young man with sandy-red hair, blue eyes and a lantern jaw. He was tall and broad-shouldered, almost completely filling the threshold. His rank and name were Oberleutnant Manfred Fassbaden, and he served as Erich’s Executive Officer.

“Excuse me, Captain, but you wanted to know when we cleared the pens.”

“Yes, thank you, Manny. Let’s go topside.”

Fassbaden nodded and turned to lead the way down a narrow corridor, made to look even more confining because of his imposing size. The interior of a submarine is by nature claustrophobic and it is no accident that most U-boat seaman are not big men. Fassbaden was an obvious exception.

As they walked toward the center of the boat, Erich noted how fresh and clean everything still smelled. From the new paint to the lubricating oils to the recently-showered crew. He smiled to himself. All that would soon change with the endless confinement and the only new air coming through the “snort.” It was hard to describe what it was like to spend months at a time in a world defined by a narrow tube where everything was eternally damp and dim. The longer U-boatmen were at sea, the more pervasive their use of cheap cologne to mask all the foul odors.

As they worked their way to the control room, Erich took note of how every available space had been used for supplies and foodstores. Despite the U-5001’s larger size, it was actually no more comfortable than its smaller sisters because there was never enough extra storage room. It was a long-accepted part of a U-boat’s routine, and even the greenest recruits never questioned or complained about it. Besides, as stocks were consumed, more space would be freed up.

His crew snapped to attention as he entered the heart of the boat, and Erich wanted it that way. Even though everyone would be seeing so much of one another, he never saw that as a reason to lighten formal military protocols. Some captains believed that in a submarine, everyone became everyone’s brother in a short amount of time, and snappy salutes were out of place.

Erich believed in respect for the traditions of his service.

After shrugging into a parka, he climbed the ladder to the open nest atop the conning tower and Fassbaden followed. When Erich emerged in the open air, he was immediately stricken by the clarity of the night. The air was crisp and cold, the stars piercing the dome of dark sky like the points of lances. The Warrant Officer, Gunther Ostermann, was positioned at the van of the tower, piloting the boat by speaking into a non-electric intercom tube linked to the control room. He saluted, nodded to his Captain and returned to his duty. There was another sailor standing next to him with binoculars masking his face. Pausing to salute his captain, he returned to the watch — ever vigilant for a smokestack on the horizon or a hunter-killer from the skies.

Looking back, Erich could see the dim lights of marker buoys of Trondheim’s harbor and its concrete-hooded sub-pens within. The departure of the U-5001 had been effected at night with none of the old fanfare and ceremony. It had been decided by the High Command the less notice paid to this mission, the better, so the hulking underwater beast of a boat slinked out of its yard like an unwanted pest.

“Beautiful night,” said Fassbaden.

“Yes,” said Erich. “I think we should take a mental picture, store it away for the times ahead, when we might not see the sky for days at a time.”

Neither man spoke for a minute or two, then his Exec exhaled, letting it become a nervous clearing of the throat. “Captain, I know my question may sound unprofessional, but I was wondering — how do you see our chances of success?”

Erich looked at Fassbaden. They’d been friends since their earliest days at the Academy in Flensburg, through their first assignments in Kiel at the Wik Navy Yards. Over the past three years, though, they’d served on different boats, and beaten the odds by surviving the deaths of all of them. When Erich was given the helm of the U-5001, and told to hand-pick his officers, Manfred Fassbaden was the first name he penciled onto his list. Manfred had been on the U-387 when it returned from a mission in the Baltic Sea in late November.

Because of his selection to Captain Bruckner’s crew, Fassbaden did not go out with U-387 when she had her fatal rendezvous with the destroyer, H.M.S. Bamborough Castle. Manfred had tried to make it sound like Erich had saved his life, but Bruckner would not hear of it. Wars were rampant with stories such as theirs — so many as to become meaningless.

Fassbaden was staring at him blankly, and Erich suddenly realized he had not responded to his question. Lost in thought, he’d simply gone away for a moment too long.

“Sorry, Manny,” he said. “I was thinking about something… but to answer you — which part of the mission do you mean? The shakedown phase? Or the one this boat’s been designed for?”

“You mean ‘Phase Two’?”

“Yes,” said Erich.

“Well, since I know nothing of the second phase, I guess I meant the first part. But I will say both.”

Erich shrugged. “Oh, I do not know. If we are smart and a little lucky, I like our odds. We are being told to keep our noses very clean, do not forget. We are to initiate no action with the enemy — even if he hands us a convoy or a flagship on a golden dish.”

“Getting sunk would be bad enough, but to allow the prototype to be captured would be unthinkable,” said Fassbaden.

“And impossible.”

“We scuttle,” said Fassbaden.

“Of course.”

“Comforting thought.”

“The crew knows nothing of that, of course,” said Erich.

“Of course.”

There was brief silence as both of them looked up at the fantastic vault of the night sky. Then Erich spoke: “You know, I cannot help thinking how futile this is…”

Fassbaden sent a careful glance at the other men topside with them, as if ensuring they were not eavesdropping on his conversation. Then he spoke in a guarded voice. “Yes, I have had similar thoughts. But I keep them to myself.”

Erich chuckled as he glanced toward the watch and the pilot. “Do not worry too much about them. If I thought there was any chance of either of them turning on us, they would have never been selected for this cruise.”

Fassbaden nodded as he was reminded of that simple truth.

Erich knew the Exec understood — such treachery was unheard of among the men of a U-boat. Every man depended on every other man to stay alive. Nothing could get in the way of that — not military protocol, not the mandates of the SS, certainly not the twisted philosophies of a strutting martinet.

“Open sea dead ahead, Captain,” said the Warrant Officer.

“Steady as she goes. Maintain current course,” said Erich. “Keep a careful eye, now. We are a big target.”

“Jawol, Captain,” said the seaman of the watch.

Erich tuned back to his Exec: “We stay on the surface as long as possible. When we go down, it may be for a long time.”

Manfred shook his head, wracked his shoulders with a chill. “I do not like the sound of that,” he said.

Chapter Two

“Hey Dex, you down there?” The headset of his Divelink crackled with Don Jordan’s voice.

“Well, I’m sure as hell not still up there with you…” said Dex McCauley as he inched his way down the safeline.

“Hey, c’mon, man, I’m just checking the radio,” said Don.

Dex smiled behind his full-face mask. He liked Don, the Captain and owner of the Sea Dog, which had been the base vessel of the dive club since they started their wreck-diving adventures several years ago. They called themselves “The Deep Six” because that’s how many of them were in the group — and nobody cared if it was a cliché or not (and it certainly was that). They’d been through a lot, and they were a tight bunch of guys. Six of ’em.

Although not an official member of the “Six,” Don was a real nice guy who wouldn’t be caught dead diving himself. He believed he should have fun on the water, never under it. He’d been running a charter boat business out of Annapolis for almost ten years, and still loved it.

“You hear me?” said Don.

“Affirmative… I just can’t help being my terribly sarcastic self.” Dex said into his mask-mic.

“What’s it like down there?”

“Not too cold. We’ll see what it’s like at 60 feet or so…” Dex was currently hanging around 30 feet as he waved his torchlight upward toward the surface, looking for his dive-mate. “Mike, you in yet?”

“Just hit the water, Chief. I’m working my way down the line,” said Mike Bielski, his voice edged by the clipped accent of a true New Jersey native.

“You see my light yet?” Dex undulated the torch slowly.

“Just barely,” said Mike. “But it’s getting brighter all the time.”

Dex floated in the dim water. Despite the inherent perils, he loved it down there, plain and simple. There was no way to explain the unique perspective diving gave you, the sensation of being in a world that existed solely for yourself.

And it was pretty damned cloudy down there. Not much ambient light once you got below more than about 10 feet. Without a light, depending on what was floating around in the water, it could be as dark as a mineshaft at midnight. Some guys couldn’t handle that kind of darkness when combined with the water pressure and the knowledge that the air and the light was so far above you. Some guys even lost the feel for what was above you. Directional sense shot all to hell. The darkness and the pressure was just a natural force of disorientation, and some people would go crazy if they had to stay down for the length of your average dive.

But it had never bothered Dex. He’d always felt at home down there — a place where you were totally alone with your thoughts. Even though, sometimes, those thoughts could gang up on you. Overwhelm you if you weren’t careful.

Like going to the bottom of the Styx, and being swallowed up by a never-ending night where dreams died with everything else. Held in the pressurized grip of the ocean, you could feel more horribly alone than anywhere else on the planet.

Hey, he thought as he shook his head. Back to the present, pal.

Pay attention to what you’re doing—this current dive would not be anywhere near as deep as some of the other wrecks they’d dove. Stay alive and useful to the rest of the team. Even though it was still early in the season, two weeks before Memorial Day, there’d been a whiplash of warm current surging up the Bay from a temporary coastal sway of the Gulfstream.

Visibility was another story, though. In a word, it was shitty. Even down in the Lower Bay, which got more of the Atlantic waters to keep it clean. Dex had known the waters of the Chesapeake had been getting ever cloudier for twenty years. If you were going to chart it out, it was on an inverse slope with the diminishing oyster population. More oysters; cleaner Bay.

So far, Dex wasn’t able to see much of anything that might be lying beneath him, but he knew he had to be patient. His dive-mate on this first dive of the day was Mike Bielski, and he could just barely see Mike’s torchlight stabbing through the murky water — even though he was barely fifteen feet from the other man. And this was one of the best seasons for visibility in the bay, when most of the floating algae had died off.

But today, Dex wasn’t all that concerned with how well he could see down here because they wouldn’t be just swimming around, looking at random for whatever might be littering the bottom. Using his Navy surplus gear, Kevin Cheever had given them some hard data in the form of LORAN coordinates, and they were going to be trying to home-in, for the first time, on the site of a new wreck.

A wreck so far unknown and unidentified — until Kevin had stumbled on the data that suggested something interesting might be down there.

“I see you,” Mike’s voice filled Dex’s earphone. “I see the safeline.”

“Okay, grab on.” Dex watched his dive-mate grasp the nylon line running from the Sea Dog straight down to the bottom in the center of the LORAN grid. Most divers didn’t bother to hook a sliding piton and tether from the safeline to their toolbelt, which would keep them on course to the target — unless the visibility was practically zero. As long as you could see the line, most divers preferred to be unfettered, and Mike was no exception.

Bielski was a tall stringbean of a guy. At an age when most guys were losing the battle of extra poundage around the middle, Mike seemed to getting leaner. He ate his share of Doritos and burgers and Budweisers along with the rest of them, but never gained the weight. And it wasn’t a life of training and exercise doing it, either. Other than the excursions with the dive club, Mike sat on his ass working math theorems at Johns Hopkins University.

“Ready,” said Mike, pointing downward with his thumb like an emperor giving his opinion on a fallen gladiator.

“Okay, let’s take a look…”

“Donnie, you still on our channel?”

“I got you. Base unit’s loud and clear,” he said. “Good luck, guys.”

“Kevin says we’re not going to need it. Like fish in a barrel,” said Dex.

“Okay, then just be careful,” said Donnie. “I’ll be monitoring everything.”

“Gotcha. Here we go…”

Dex angled his body toward the bottom and flipper-kicked. Keeping the white nylon in his torchlight, it was easy for Dex to head down to the bottom. Every once in a while he would check his Ikelite depth gauge, more out of habit than anything else, although they were getting close to a critical threshold where nitrogen narcosis became a concern. They were in a section of the Chesapeake just south of the Bay Bridge where it was never more than 70 to 90 feet deep.

He had no idea what he was looking for — other than it was some kind of wreck, fairly big at around 400 feet long and pretty much intact. He and his pals had been wreck-diving for years, but they’d never found their “own”—a new ship, one never previously discovered, charted and picked clean of anything worth salvaging.

And that was nothing unusual, Dex knew, because it was nearly impossible to just be swimming around in the murky depths of the Chesapeake and just stumble on a big boat sticking up out of the seabed. It just didn’t happen. Odds were against it — you being so small and the sea bottom being so big.

But new technology trickling down to the consumer markets would be changing all that within the next decade. Dex had seen big changes in dive gear just within the last five years with GPS, underwater communications and wearable decompression computers; and it was going to keep getting more interesting.

“Forty feet,” Bielski’s voice piped through Dex’s headset. “I don’t see a thing yet.”

“Be careful,” said Dex. “If there’s any superstructure, it could be showing up any time now.”

From the images Kevin had given them, there was no way to tell if the sunken ship was lying on its side or had settled to the bottom in a “sitting-up” position with its stacks, bridge, masts (or whatever it had) all pointing up at the surface. An unsuspecting diver could swim right down into a tangle of netting, cables, or other jutting debris that could be deadly.

Of course, it would help to know what kind of wreck they were homing in on. The Chesapeake Bay was littered with the broken hulls of ships from the past two hundred years. Lots of wooden ships went down during the Civil War and years afterward from the capricious storms that whip up the coast from the Carolinas. But the wood eventually rots away and all that’s left are the canons and the metal fittings.

So, from the signature of the sonar scans Dex had seen, they were most likely headed toward a steel ship. Its lines were too well-defined for it to be all that much broken up.

“Hey…” said Mike Bielski. “I think I see something… off to the right. Easy…”

Peering through the dark water, Dex panned his torch back and forth, stirring up all the floating particulate in the water. Even with the algae at its lowest point, it was still hard to see very far. “What’s it look like?”

Mike eased to a stop next to Dex, reached out and held onto the safeline. Even though only ten feet separated them, Dex could only see his black and orange drysuit dimly. Like swimming in pea soup.

“Just saw it for a second,” said Mike. “A mast or an antenna. Seems like it oughta be right below us. Careful we don’t get poked in the ass.”

“Okay, let’s just inch it…”

Hand over hand, Dex began to pull himself toward the bottom. Mike was only slightly above and off his right shoulder. He and Mike played their torchlights slowly through the murk below them. Had to be real careful now in case there was anything that could snag or tangle them. Dex had survived a few incidents like that; every time he’d thought he might die, and every time it was enough to make him wonder — did he really wanted to keep diving?

But that was before Jana walked out on him. For a while after that disaster, he knew he didn’t give a good Goddamn.

Funny, when he was down here like this, the “air world” (as an old Navy diver had referred to it years ago) seemed so far away, so alien, and almost unremembered. It was as if none of what went on up there had ever actually happened. As if the ex-wife had never even been a part of his life.

“Whoa!” said Mike, his voice knifing through the silence. “Watch it!”

Dex blinked, and was stunned to see a large shaft jutting up in front of his mask. Tubular, metallic, encrusted with the bodies and exoskeletons of marine life, it represented the topmost part of whatever ship they’d found.

“Hey, guys… everything okay down there?” Don Jordan’s voice crackled in Dex’s earphones. He hadn’t been keeping the guys back in the boat in the loop, and he couldn’t blame them for getting itchy. “Yeah, we just reached some superstructure — the boat’s obviously sitting upright. Depth: fifty-two feet at the topmast. Tell Kev he couldn’t have been any more on the money unless we were in his bathtub.”

There was a pause from Don, then: “He says there’s no way you’re ever gonna be there!”

“Okay,” said Dex. “We’re going to take it real slow now. Let’s see what we’re looking at. Looks like we’re going to be just below three atmospheres…”

He signaled to Mike and they began working their way past the mast-like extension. Whatever it was attached to, below them, was still mostly invisible beyond the limited wash of their torches in the soupy water. But they hadn’t eased down much farther before they encountered a second heavily encrusted extension, and then several others. There was a grouping of steel tubes and shafts, and one of them looked familiar.

“You see that?” he said to Mike, pointing at the long thick extension.

“I see it — is it what I think it is?”

Holding up his index finger to pause, then touching his Divelink phone, Dex spoke softly. “Kev, you still got us?”

“Oh yeah… what gives?”

“We’re a little farther down, looks like we have a sub…”

Chapter Three

The air temperature felt as if it dropped ten degrees in as many seconds. Despite his desire to be topside as much as possible, it was simply too damned cold. Adjusting his cap, Erich turned toward the ladder and nudged Manny. “Come, my friend, let us get some coffee.”

They descended the ladder to the control deck in the conning tower, which was considerably larger than the Type VII boats with which Erich had been so familiar. He approached the tiny console where funkmeister and Electrical Officer Leutnant Newton Bischoff hunched over a rack of instruments. Bischoff supervised the workings of all communications and detection gear, and would have been simply called a radioman in years past. The U-5001 had been equipped with a new, top-secret device that vastly improved their ability to discover if their position was being swept by radar. A bristling mast taller than the schnorkel and the periscope, it had been nicknamed “the Eye,” and was far more efficient than the old “Biscay Cross” the U-boats had been using in the earlier years of the war. Erich remembered how cumbersome the Cross had been, and how the enemy had soon learned to use the instrument as a reflective homing beacon, which had ironically made the surfaced U-boats even easier targets to find and destroy.

Newton Bischoff stood at the sight of his captain, despite the relaxed protocol undersea. Erich did not care for Bischoff personally because he’d swallowed the National Socialist Party’s philosophies so completely, but he had been the best available electronics man.

“Everything in order, Leutnant?” said Erich.

“Working perfectly. We are entering a very hot part of the grid,” said Bischoff. “I will be ready.”

Erich nodded. “I know you will.”

Turning back to join Fassbaden, Erich reflected on what Bischoff had emphasized. The allies had begun patrolling the mouth of the Skagerrak with impunity, as if daring the U-boat flotillas to attack the korvettes and destroyers. And all along the coast of Norway, it was becoming increasingly difficult to break through the blockades and into the deeper ocean waters. The allies had completely turned the tables on the U-boats over the last three years. Somehow, they had topped every new weapon, tactic, and technological development.

But even the enemy’s finest minds could not have imagined something so formidable as the U-5001.

As Erich moved aft toward the galley, Fassbaden close behind, the sturdy thrum of the big diesels sounded powerful and reassuring to him. It meant his boat was healthy and strong, knifing through the increasingly frigid waters of the northern open sea.

Entering the galley, Erich could not help but note again how everything still looked so new, so unused. The stainless steel, the painted bulkheads and hatches, the stoves and ovens, the floors — all unscratched, unstained or unblemished.

“This place looks too clean,” he said with a smile. “But I have a feeling we will be doing plenty to fix that quite soon.”

Fassbaden poured two mugs of coffee and slid one to Erich. Hot and full of sleep-depriving caffeine, it was just what he needed. How nice it would be to have a sweet linzertort to go along with it, he thought wistfully. It would be a long time before he had a chance to sample the favorite pastry of his youth. Perhaps never again…

And in some ways — some very important ways, Erich did not really care.

His main reason for ardently wishing to return home to his native Frankfurt had been torn from his life in a terror-filled night of Brit bombers. In the autumn of 1944, during one of the clockwork-like raids of Lancasters over the city, a stray 500-pounder had pulverized the home of his in-laws, who had made the fatal mistake of inviting their oldest daughter, Frieda, to dinner. Frieda had been Erich’s wife of only two years. From what he’d been able to learn, the house had taken a direct hit, and no one inside the structure could have felt a thing. Death had been instantaneous, and in that, Erich had grasped for something of comfort. His wife had not suffered, and in war, that kind of death was indeed a gift.

It had been hard to continue at first. He’d been tortured by waves of conflicting emotions for months. Guilt that he and his fellow kriegsmariners had failed to sink enough of the freighters bringing so many bombs and planes and supplies from that bottomless storehouse of America. If only the U-boat war had been more successful, maybe Frieda would still be alive.

How many times had he proposed that argument to himself? The temptation might surface to blame oneself, but he never did. How many times had he actually blamed himself?

Blame was a funny thing.

Erich had spent months contemplating the series of events and connections between them. His education in the Frankfurt Military Academy for Boys had required he be a well-read young man, and he had learned much from the scientists and the philosophers. But all the Kant and Schopenhauer and Bacon could not dull his pain, or his Nietzchian need for a powerful retribution at any cost.

But the question lingered: retribution against whom?

Although he would never admit his conclusion to anyone other than his closet friend, Manny Fassbaden, Erich blamed his own country, or more specifically its psychotic government, for killing his wife.

He knew he was not alone among career military men in feeling like that, just as he knew he must keep silent his opinion or risk hanging for treason.

His country had not given him a reason to live or even fight. When they assigned him the U-5001 mission, he willingly accepted the orders — as much because his fellow officers deemed it a suicide mission as anything else.

“…and I suspect you have not been listening to me, Captain,” said Manfred Fassbaden with a grin.

The words pulled Erich from the depths of his thoughts, and he realized he’d been far, far away from the U-5001. “I am sorry… what were you saying, Manny? I was ‘woolgathering’… thinking about something else…”

His Exec smiled, lowered his gaze. He was a big man trying to look smaller. “What I was saying was just something to pass the time. It was nothing.”

“I was thinking of things past. And how so many of us wish we could live in it,” said Erich. “But, I am beginning to believe it is not even a good idea to visit there.”

Fassbaden clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “War is a time of history. It reeks of the past. It is unavoidable.”

Erich understood what his friend was trying to say, but right now, it was not working. “I am uncertain how to put my feelings into words sometimes,” he said. “But… but I have this conviction… that this is my last cruise.”

“That sounds dire,” said Fassbaden.

“Not really. This war is nearing its end. If we win or lose, it will be decided in this year, I am certain. But regardless, the mission of this boat will end it — for me. Either we will succeed, or we won’t. And I don’t mind telling you how weary I am of all this mess. So tired of all the long, dead hours under the sea, all the inventing of ways to pass those hours. I am tired of the heroic speeches to my crews and the required reminders of what a great nation we’ve always been. All the inspiring history lessons I have delivered — I feel like I should have a professorship!”

Fassbaden grinned. He understood perfectly. Morale on the U-boats was a fragile, ephemeral thing. Without it, Erich knew, your crew consigned everyone to the bottom.

He drank deeply from his mug, placed it on the table, looked at his Executive Officer. “Sometimes I wonder if such thoughts will impair my duties.”

Fassbaden gave a suggestion of standing at attention by straightening his spine for an instant. A subtle display of respect. “You have always been the finest leader I have ever served under. That is the simple truth. It is an honor to trust my life to your decisions.”

“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

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.

But (came a thought from another part of his mind) staying calm was exactly the way he had to be if he wanted to stay alive down here. As the unofficial “chief” of the dive club, it had become his unspoken responsibility to watch out for the other guys, to make sure they never forgot how to keep themselves alive under the water.

Especially Andy Mellow and Kevin Cheever.

They both moved through the day-to-day with an unconscious sense of invincibility — Andy because he was a big, tall guy; Kev because he was smart and perceptive. Neither were arrogant in an aggressive way, but they both gave off unspoken “attitude”—they were big enough or smart enough to withstand whatever the world threw at them.

He sensed something moving above them before he actually saw the other two men’s lamps. After so many years of diving, he’d developed a primitive proximity sense — a kind of early-warning system that something or someone was drifting near to him in the silent water. It was hard to describe, although Dex had tried on many occasions, and divers either knew instantly what he was talking about or they didn’t. Not exactly a “psychic” experience, but more than likely an ability that fell into the “ESP-lite” category.

Waving his own lamp, Dex gave them as much of a beacon as he could in the ultra-dim surroundings.

“Gotcha,” said Andy Mellow. “We see you guys…”

Dex watched Andy, then Kevin, as they drifted away from the safeline and floated mask-to-mask with him. “Ready to have a closer look?”

“Let’s do it,” said Kev.

They’d done this sort of diving before on known wrecks — sites where all the obvious dangers had been documented and plenty of warnings existed. Dex had made them practice the most cautious procedures just in case they ever did come across a previously unknown derelict.

And now he hoped all the practice and the drilling on safety would pay off.

Dividing up into two buddy-teams was the usual tactic, and everyone did this without being reminded. Since Mike and Dex were on tanks with the shortest air remaining, they stayed together and would make the ascent together. The final team of Tommy Chipiarelli and Doc Schissel would eventually spell them.

As they eased past the conning tower, Dex fanned his lamp-beam back and forth, watching for anything that could mean trouble. Fouled cables, anchor chains, spilled ammunition, netting… there was simply no way to know what they might find.

So Dex tried to expect the unexpected…

“Okay,” he said. “Everybody stay in contact. Keep giving your position and anything you see.”

“Moving down past the bridge and the con,” said Mike. “Looks clear.”

“I’m on the foredeck. It’s a long-assed way to the bow,” said Kevin. “What’s going on here? The Nazis didn’t have anything this big.”

“Or so we thought,” said Donnie, who’d been monitoring their progress through the conversation.

“In case anybody’s interested, I just reached the bow tubes — I count eight torpedo ports. This thing was nasty.” That was Kevin.

“Just reached the aft deck,” said Andy; his voice was lower, but not calm. “Something funny here…”

Dex felt a tightening in his gut like something was grabbing and twisting — a sensation he hated because it made him feel helpless and scared, and there was no place for that kind of thinking when this deep.

“What do you mean?” he said quickly. “Andy, you okay?”

“Fine. No problem. It’s just that—”

“What’s up, man?” said Kevin, who was floating some 200 feet away from the conning tower.

“The aft deck,” said Andy. “It’s like… different. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Hang on, Andy. Wave your lamp so we can see you,” said Dex. “Mike, come on. We’re coming down, okay?”

“Hey what’s going on down there?” said Don. He sounded distant and helpless way up there in the bridge. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know,” said Andy. “Wait till you see this. There’s no deck gun. Christ, there’s no deck, really…”

Dex was going to ask him what the hell he was talking about when he caught Andy’s torchlight beam oscillating back and forth. A few flipper-kicks and he was drifting over to his position.

That’s when he could see for himself.

Floating just beyond the trailing edge of the bridge and the con, Dex saw the deck of the U-boat beneath him. As he looked aft, the deck seemed to be swelling up, expanding into the general shape of a Quonset hut.

“See what I mean?” said Andy.

“Looks like a hump-backed whale,” said Mike.

“What does?” said Don. “What’re you guys talking about?”

“I’m coming back there.” That was Kevin, who sounded bored of hanging off the bow tubes and probably feeling isolated and more than a little useless.

Dex and the others began to drift back over the swollen hull of the sub, looking for anything that might give them a clue as to what they were actually looking at. It was definitely the oddest-looking WWII-vintage sub he’d ever seen. There didn’t appear to be any outward breaches. No sign of any kind of damage. If the sub had taken a hit, it had to have been in the section settled into the sand and mud of the Bay’s bottom. As they worked their way toward the boat’s tail fins, the large hump on its back gradually tapered down, following the lines of the hull.

“What’s it look like to you?” said Andy. “Is it a tanker?”

Dex exhaled, drew a breath. “I have no idea. If it is, it’s more than twice the size of the regular ‘milk-cows’ they used. The shape looks like it’s definitely part of the hull. Not just some weird add-on.”

“Strangest-looking sub I’ve ever seen,” said Mike. “Not that I’ve seen a lot of them — especially this close-up…”

“Hey Donnie, you there?”

“Yeah, I’m up here twisting in the wind. Would you guys mind telling me what’s going on? What’s so freaking weird?”

“In a minute,” said Dex. “But before I forget, make sure either Doc or Tommy brings down the videocam. Even though it’s murky, we’ll try to get a record of this, okay?”

“Gotcha,” said Don. “I’ll tell ’em. Now will somebody please—”

Mike started giving him details of what they were all looking at as Kevin joined them. Dex had just checked his SPG, his submersible pressure gauge; he was running low on air. He and Mike only had a few more minutes of safe time, and he tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at the gauge.

Nodding, Mike held up his index finger. “Yeah, I just checked mine too. Hate to leave just when it’s getting good.”

“We’ll be back,” said Dex, sensing something drawing close to him from behind.

Turning slowly, he saw Kevin Cheever in his lime green dry-suit slowly gliding toward them, the beam of his lamp probing the dim water between them.

“Hey, guys, make room for Papa. It was lonely down at the other end…” He paused as he drifted up to Dex’s right shoulder, close enough at last to see what they’d found. “Holy shit… what the hell is this thing?”

“You know what I think it is,” said Andy. “I think it’s some kind of secret weapon… something we never knew about.”

“Sounds possible,” said Kevin. “The German’s had jet fighters near the end of the war.”

“Well,” said Mike, speaking in his slow, thoughtful-math-professor tones. “If they didn’t want anybody to know about it, I’d say they succeeded…”

“Okay, Mike and I’ve gotta get topside,” said Dex. “Remember the safety regs, okay guys? We don’t want any trouble down here. Don’t do anything risky. It’s going to take a little time to get familiar with what we’re dealing with, right?”

Kevin gave him a thumbs-up.

“And nobody gets any crazy ideas about going inside this thing — not yet, anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Andy, sounding impatient as ever.

Dex waved as he headed back to the safeline with Mike. After Dex pulled the right numbers from his Cochran, a tiny decompression computer, they began their slow ascent. Since they were just below the depths where excess nitrogen could build up in their bloodstreams, their ascent was not all that slow. As they did this, Dex considered the possibilities implied in their discovery.

If nothing else, they were in for a bit of adventure. But there could also be some notoriety, maybe a few minutes on the Discovery Channel, and maybe even a little money…

But one thing was bugging him.

He couldn’t stop wondering why there was no record of any subs this big, or with this shape. Could it be a fake? Not very likely. Who would go to all that trouble? What was that huge aft-section all about? It almost looked like a modern-day “boomer,” which was the Navy’s nickname for the big Triton-class missile subs.

Could the Nazis have been that slick?

Dex intended to find out…

Chapter Five

Don Jordan loved being a dive boat captain, and he owed his happiness and self-employed status to Dex McCauley, who’d urged him to take the risk in the first place.

Don knew Dex’s story from lot’s of nights and lots of beers in the local bars. At forty-two, Dex had already done a whole lot of living. After joining the Navy at eighteen, he’d pulled a twenty-year hitch in Naval Underwater Rescue and Recovery. He retired with a Master Sergeant’s pay and an expert-rating in every kind of diving you could imagine. While he’d been with plenty of women, he’d ended up marrying one that hated him pretty quick and took off with a slob who had a normal job selling car insurance. Thankfully there’d been no kids. Not much family — that he ever talked about anyway. He’d been an independent sort most of his life, and with his Navy pension in place, he didn’t really care if he did any business or not. Which is probably why he’d prospered with his little dive shop called Barnacle Bill’s — where he met Don.

And it didn’t take him long to make friends with a lot of his customers because most people were attracted to his easy smiles and his totally relaxed manner. He was tall and rangy, with deeply set eyes and a face that was all angles and planes. Going gray a little early didn’t show much in his buzz-cut, and it made him look as tough as he was. Dex was the kind of guy who spoke softly, but with a confident authority in his voice. When he talked to you about a subject — whether it was history, politics, travelling, or even something dopey like the history of art — you knew he was going to give you the straight scoop.

In fact, when Don thought about it, Dex was one of those guys who knew a little bit about just about everything.

And, it wasn’t long before his customers started bugging him to offer diving classes. Dex liked the idea, and when he set up a whole slate of classes for every level of experience, he asked Don to be his captain.

Don jumped at the opportunity. Adding diving classes and expeditions to his charter business would jack the profits to another level, and it promised to be more interesting than trolling lines around the Bay for six hours at a clip. He dumped the Maine Coaster for a real “crew boat,” which he and Dex found during a trip to the Gulf Coast to find the ideal craft.

The Sea Dog had been built to take crews out to offshore oil rigs and had sported a steel 54-foot hull, reinforced superstructures, and two big, 872 Detroit diesels. She had a bold bridge and flying bridge in the foredeck and a long, open aft section that could be outfitted with a dive salon, machine shop, winches, or anything else they might need.

When he took the Dog out for dive work, the guys from the Deep Six would all take up the slack and share any Mate’s duties. They all loved the boat, and they all felt at home on her.

And he trusted them to do her up right.

Funny thing about the dive club, though — as tight as they were, there couldn’t be a more different bunch of guys. As he sat by the Divelink base station, vicariously inspecting the wreckage just by listening in, he wondered how each of them would handle the discovery.

Other than Dex, Don figured Kevin Cheever would be the coolest with it. Kevin had spent all his post-college days with electronics companies who fed regularly at the government contract troughs, packing the latest cyberware into fighter planes and warships. That was how he picked up cheap, obsolete surplus gear.

Kevin was one of those smart guys with a real quiet, confident manner. He always reminded everybody there was only one thing that can go right when you’re diving — staying alive — and a hundred things that can go wrong.

And as much as Kevin was always hammering that thought home, that’s as often as Andy Mellow seemed to ignore it — or at least chose not to think about. In his mid-forties, Andy was the principal at the high school in Newport, Maryland — a smallish Eastern Shore town where everybody knew him and he knew all of them. He was big, happy-go-lucky kind of guy looking for something pick up the pace from his auto-pilot job in public education.

“What’s the latest down there?” said a voice from behind him. No need to turn around, Don recognized Larry “Doc” Schissel, who’d come from the other cabin in the bridge where he’d been tapping out queries on the laptop computer’s wireless satellite modem. He was wearing the top of a bright orange drysuit and a Speedo. Larry was tall and gangly, going gray but avoiding the middle age paunch that was rapidly pushing Don from a size 36 to 38 and beyond.

“Dex’s on his way up with Mike,” said Don. “Should be on deck any minute now.”

“Guess I better finish suiting up,” said Doc.

“Yeah, I bet you wanna get down there and take a look.”

Doc smiled. “You just wouldn’t understand, Donnie, but you’re right.”

Don shook his head. “No, no, this time I’m not kidding around. I get what you guys’re talkin’. I can feel it. This time it’s… different.”

“Yeah,” said Doc. “I think you’re right. I feel it too.”

“How’s Tommy? He ready?” said Don, referring to Doc’s dive-buddy for the day.

Doc had this way of smiling, and chuckling through his teeth kind of at the same time. He did it as he shook his head slowly. “Yeah, he’s twisted up tighter than an old clockspring. He’s been down there pacing the deck in full gear.”

“I know. I saw him.” Don paused. Then: “Doesn’t it bother you a little bit that Tommy’s not exactly… oh, I don’t know… the, ah… safest guy you want to be down there with?”

Doc looked thoughtfully at him, stopped grinning. “Just between you and me — sure it bothers me, but I figure I’m never going down depending on the other guy anyway — even if it’s Dex. I gotta make sure I take care of myself.”

“Yeah, I think you got that one right.”

“Hey, I better get going…”

Doc checked his watch, waved before he turned and left the bridge, heading down to the main deck where all their gear was stowed. Don liked Doc Schissel a lot. He was one of those very smart guys who was so shy, it took a while to realize what he was thinking and how much he knew about things. Sometimes, when Dex and the math-genius Bielski and Doc would start talking about something weird like cryptozoology or the Big Bang theory, Don wouldn’t have any idea what they were talking about, but it was still fun just listening to them.

Larry Schissel had become one of the most popular family doctors in the town of Newport where Andy’s high school was situated. They’d gotten paired up at a charity golf event, started talking as they carted around the course and became friends. Andy started talking about scuba offhandedly, and the more he talked, the more intrigued Larry had become. By the time the golf-round was over, Andy had convinced him to stop in at Barnacle Bill’s Dive Shop and check things out, maybe even show up at one of the club meetings and meet the guys. Larry took him up on it, and it didn’t take long for him to realize he liked the chance to inject a little adventure into his life.

“You can only diagnose so many cases of the flu before it starts to lose its challenge,” Larry had said with a wry smile.

And Don remembered how Dex had been so excited to enlist a real doctor into the dive team. He never tried to soft-pedal the dangers of diving, and the need for every advantage you could chisel out of what he called “the Fates.” Life was like the ultimate casino, where you played your chips, taking chances every day. And Dex always said we all needed every extra chip in our stack we could grab. When you were underwater, that just gave you that much more of a chance to be coming back up for air.

New equipment and always-improving technology was great stuff, but none of it could replace a trained physician in an emergency. So it was no surprise Dex fell all over himself to personally train Doc Schissel — who proved to be a quick study. Within a few months, he was the sixth guy on the team, and that’s when they started calling themselves The Deep Six.

Sure, it was dopey. But they liked it that way.

Don wondered what they’d call themselves if anybody else joined the club. Not that it mattered. They were a good bunch of guys and Don liked them all — except maybe for Tommy Chipiarelli.

Well, that wasn’t exactly right.

It wasn’t that Don didn’t like Tommy, it was more like he’d never been able to understand why he was so… so wired all the time. Transplanted from New York to the Baltimore City Fire Department, he was only thirty-two and like most guys just out of their twenties, believed he was going to live forever.

Which was his biggest problem — he acted like it too. He drove a retro muscle car with big wide tires, and he was well-known throughout the BCFD. Tommy wore a silver ID bracelet from the Department which said: To Thomas A. Chipiarelli — For Heroic Service Beyond the Call of Duty. He’d racked up a ton of commendations in his ten years of service, but also had a pretty fair collection of reprimands for recklessness and a tendency to bend orders from his captain.

Yeah, Tommy could be kind of a jerk.

Couple years back, when Tommy signed up for diving lessons, Dex really took him under his wing, and invested tons of time in him. Don figured it was the old story of a guy looking for the son he never had.

Yeah, Dex — with no wife, no kids. Nobody to worry about. To care about. And then, along comes Tommy Chipiarelli — single, hard-drinking, and way too fearless. Dex said one night, when they were all drinking at The Cat’s Eye, that he needed to save the kid from himself.

If the rest of the team shared Don’s opinion, they kept it to themselves. Probably because they all loved and respected Dex so much. With him treating Tommy like his prodigal son, none of the rest of the guys wanted to say anything that would upset him.

That had to be it.

Don shook his head slowly as he mulled that one over… but was interrupted by the sudden burst from the Divelink unit.

“We’re just about up, Sea Dog.” The speaker on the base station approximated Dex’s voice.

“Got you,” said Don. “Doc and Tommy’re ready to go. Base unit’s on stand-by for a couple minutes, guys.”

Pushing back his chair, Don got up and headed down to the main deck to help Mike and Dex off with their tanks. Since they’d found their target, they’d be wanting to charge the tanks and get back down there for a couple more dives. Which meant Don would be cranking up the compressors for refills the rest of the day.

Doc in orange, holding UW videocam, and Tommy in (what else?) firetruck red. They stood on the little retractable gangway, waiting to tumble in as soon as they saw Dex and Mike break the surface. Don stood next to them, scanning the chop, until he saw their masks catch a little reflection of skylight.

“Take care, guys!” He saluted them as they fell backwards into the Bay, then reached out to help Mike up the gangway. Dex floated until it was clear for him to pull himself aboard.

“Thanks,” said Mike, removing his mask and Divelink headgear carefully. Sunlight danced off his prematurely balding head as he flipper-waddled out of Dex’s way.

“Looks like we fell into something this time, huh?” said Don.

“I don’t want to jump to any conclusions,” said Dex. “But it sure looks like we found something pretty weird. That’s a hell of a big sub. Bigger than anything we ever knew they had.”

They all nodded as they slipped out of the tanks so Don could start recharging them. As he watched Dex head up to the bridge to spell him, Don wondered where all this was going to take them.

Nazis.

Funny thing about those guys. All this time and they still had a way of making you feel kind of weird…

Chapter Six

Ostermann had navigated with his usual precision.

The U-5001 had cleared the northern face of Iceland without incident and was tracking south toward Cape Farewell. Erich Bruckner stood in the con, checking his chronometer against his Warrant Officer’s plots on the chart. Traveling at a cruising depth most of the past thirty-three hours, they had maintained a speed of more than 24 knots per hour. They had only chanced near the surface for schnorkelling — a chance to draw air into the diesels and recharge the batteries.

A close estimate had them at more than 800 miles since evading the air attack. During all that time and distance, Erich had maintained a strict radio silence, and had ventured above the surface only once in the deepest, darkest part of the night. His boat had skimmed the Arctic Circle at perhaps its coldest moments of the year, and even though the pipes and radiators were searing hot to the touch, every inch of the sub was as cold as the grave. Only the thickness of his parka kept him anywhere close to comfortable.

“Excuse me, Captain,” said a voice behind him.

Erich recognized the graveled tones before turning around to face his Chief Warrant Officer, Helmut Massenburg. “Yes, what is it?”

“Hausser has fixed you something special, sir. I took the liberty of telling him you have been awake for twenty hours and have not eaten a thing.”

Erich looked at his Chief and could not hide a small smile of appreciation. Massenburg was short and stocky and fancied a thick beard, which was streaked with gray like his thinning hair. At forty-six, Massenburg was surely one of Germany’s oldest kriegsmariners.

“Why, thank you, Helmut… I am hungry.”

Massenburg nodded, smiled. “Why not head down to the officer’s mess while it is still hot, Captain. I will take the control deck.”

Old enough to be many of the crew’s father, the Chief took on the role of such a surrogate with warm affection. Along with his general duties on the con, he acted like he should be watching out for the needs of everyone else. Erich liked him very much — not just for his kindness and thoughtfulness, but because he was a loyal and dedicated military man. Not like a lot of the youngsters who dreamed of being SS.

“Thank you, Chief. I will go now.”

“Very good, sir.”

Pausing at the hatch and ladder to the main deck, Erich paused to add a cautionary thought. “Let me know if you notice anything out of the ordinary.”

“Jawol, Captain.”

Erich touched the brim of his hat in a gentle salute and eased down the ladder, then along the central corridor to the officer’s galley, which was chock-a-block to the crew’s mess.

It would be dawn soon, and the day-shift crew would be filling the larger room jammed with economically-designed benches and tables. Unlike the whisper quiet of the officer’s galley, the other dining facility would thrum with chatter and the clank of tableware. But for the moment, the space was empty as Erich walked past it to the smaller officer’s space, took a seat near the bulkhead door.

“Captain!” said Frederich Hausser, the U-5001’s cook, who appeared in the doorway holding a dinner plate in two hands in front of him. He sounded surprised as he quickly set down the plate to issue a proper salute.

“The Chief told me to come see you,” said Erich.

“Yes sir! Here you are, sir. My best sauerbraten. And dumplings.” He was thin and sandy-haired with bright hazel eyes. He couldn’t be more than twenty-two, and looked like he’d only recently started to shave. But he had a reputation back at Trondheim for being a fantastic cook, so Erich had hand-picked him.

Ten minutes later, Erich was very pleased with that decision. His meal had been extraordinary, and had easily been the best thing he had ever tasted on a U-boat. Hausser had a talent for his work, no doubt. When he appeared to clear the plates, he looked at Erich expectantly.

“Seaman, that was simply fantastic.” Erich said, then sipped from his coffee mug.

“Thank you, sir.” Hausser dared a small smile.

“Where did you learn to cook like that?”

“It is in my family, sir. Back in Bavaria, my father and his brother used to work in their father’s inn. Later on, my father opened his own restaurant in Augsburg,” Hausser paused, as if uncertain whether he should continue, then added: “After the Armistice, my father’s brother took his family to America.”

Erich carefully placed the mug on the stainless steel table, looked at the cook. “You have relatives there?”

“Yes. In Baltimore. My uncle and my cousins, they run a restaurant there.”

“That is amazing, Hausser. How do you feel about that… and this war? Do you stay in touch with them?”

Hausser looked fearful, unsure how to answer, what to say. Erich gestured with a slight wave of his hand, smiled. “Relax, sailor. I am not SS. You are not the only German with relatives across the Atlantic.”

The cook tried to smile, and did a bad job of it. He shrugged. “Well, I have not spoken to them in years. But we used to be close. I have a cousin my age — Richard, who wants to be a chef. I used to like him a lot.”

“Hmmm,” said Erich. “And… you speak some English?”

“Yessir. Not bad at it, actually.”

“It is not on your papers…”

“No one asked me,” said Hausser.

Erich smiled. “Spoken like a true German. Very well, Hausser. I would like to thank you for the wonderful meal and the enlightening conversation.”

Hausser stiffened a bit, nodded ever so slightly in the fashion of the boat’s officers. “Well, sir, I should be getting ready for the day-crew. They will be hungry.”

“Yes, of course,” said Erich. He rose from the table and headed back to the control deck.

After relieving Massenburg, he waited until Gunther Ostermann reported for duty so he could consult the charts and discuss their position. The U-5001 was running smooth and quiet. So far, she was shaking out to be a fine boat. If the rest of this milk-run went as well, there was perhaps a chance of a successful mission when they picked up the Messerschmitt crew.

“Tell me where we should be, Gunther,” he said without looking up from the charts.

“We are nine miles off the south-east coast of Greenland. We are also experiencing the effects of a strong underwater current, which has been pushing against our intended navigation. Within ten minutes, we shall be in range of a very small enemy base here.” Ostermann tapped his finger over a point on the map. A Godforsaken stretch of ice and mud called Ammassalik where it was rumored the Americans had installed a radar installation.

“Hmm,” said Erich. “Bad timing.”

“Yes, Captain.” His Warrant Officer looked at him with concern. “The batteries…”

Erich nodded. They were both very much aware of the demands of the Siemens electric motors and fresh-water distillers. Drawing down 15,000 amps required a careful schedule of recharging which could not be compromised.

“We have no choice,” said Erich. “Helmsman, schnorkel depth!”

The declination of the deck changed beneath his feet as he felt his boat gently angle toward the surface. Normally, Erich appreciated the feeling of a submarine rising, but he knew he would be coming close to the surface in alien territory, with no guarantee it was any safer than the cold darkness of undersea canyons.

“Seventy meters… Sixty…” said the helmsman. “Stand-by… Forty… Twenty… Fifteen… Schnorkel depth… now.”

“Steady as she goes,” said Erich. “Gunther, inform the Chief Engineer the snort’s operational.”

“Yes sir,” said Ostermann, exiting the con.

Soon the diesels would kick in, which in turn would run the generators to rejuvenate the batteries. This part of a sub’s routine was always fraught with danger because of how much noise the diesels made. Erich could imagine the rumbling clatter through the headset of a sonar operator, and how it would scramble the crew of a destroyer into deadly action.

“Bearing 88 degrees,” he said to the helmsman just as Ostermann returned to the con. “Gunther, we will be passing within range of that American base. Since we have to stay close to the surface anyway, I am going to look about.”

“Yes sir, shall I raise ship-status to stand-by alert?”

“Affirmative,” said Erich. “Up periscope…”

As the helmsman raised the scope, Fassbaden and Bischoff entered the control deck. The communications leutnant relieved the man on the Telefunken equipment, and Manfred assumed duties as Exec. “Reporting in, Captain,” he said.

“Good morning, Manny. Sleep well?”

“A better question for you, sir.”

Erich rotated the brim of his hat around, leaned close to the ocular hood of the scope. “On and off. There will be time enough for sleep.”

Manfred nodded grimly.

“Kress reports recharging initiated and is routine, sir,” said Ostermann.

“Good… good,” said Erich absently as he turned his attention to his only connection to the surface. Despite the best Zeiss optics, the U-5001’s scope afforded a very constrained view of things. The American base lay somewhere northwest of their position, and it was in that direction’s horizon he now scanned.

“Looks quiet,” he said. “Herr Bischoff…? What about you?”

“Nothing, Captain. I hear nothing.”

Erich nodded, continued to concentrate on the periscope view. Even though the cruel waters above them looked calm, non-threatening, he felt a need to be vigilant. His few years of staying alive in submarines had been the result of an almost unending paranoia, and a belief that things were eventually going to go wrong.

The U-5001 was a big boat, almost twice the size of a normal submarine. Her conning tower, radio mast, scope, and schnorkel were all proportionately larger as well. When recharging her batteries, Erich knew he was exposing a larger than normal metallic target to the allies and their radar. If the rumors out of Naval High Command were true — that the Americans had developed equipment many times more sensitive than they had even six months ago — then it was a good possibility he could be detected.

An acceptable risk in the open sea, perhaps, but foolhardy when passing within range of an enemy installation. Erich became angry with himself — although he had taken the time to re-calculate each position where recharging would be required before embarking on his course change, he had allowed his boat to be affected by underwater current. A good captain always counts on the capriciousness of the sea, and he had not.

He collapsed the scope, nodded to his helmsman to retract it. As he turned around, Erich saw his Exec looking at him from nearby.

“You look preoccupied,” said Manfred Fassbaden.

Erich shrugged, then shared his concerns.

“It would be different if we hadn’t been spotted right out of the yards,” said Manfred. “You could not risk being trailed or passed along to a pack of destroyers.”

Erich nodded. That was true enough — the habits of U-boat captains and the rigid orders from Berlin had made it easier for the allies to predict where a submarine might be once it had been spotted and its position charted. Admiral Doenitz understood this — the reason he had decided to deviate from the usual pattern, opting for a more circuitous route.

“True enough,” he said. “When we have fresh batteries, we will resume at cruise depth.”

Aboard his previous boats, Erich had stayed on the surface as much as possible during the night hours. He believed it was still relatively safe, as it had been — at least until the last six months of the war when allied detection techniques had significantly improved. But this mission was so important, he could not dare risk being spotted on the surface. The secrecy in constructing this giant submarine had been the most stringent of the war, and Erich had been sworn to preserve it.

For now, that meant sweating through the minutes and hours until they could slip beneath surface once more.

Manfred moved closer and looked him squarely in the eye. Erich could read concern and urgency in his friend’s expression. His Exec spoke softly. “I require a word with you, sir. In your cabin.”

Not wanting to leave the con under the potentially troubling circumstances, Erich considered putting things off, but he also knew Manfred would not ask such a thing lightly.

“Very well,” said Erich, leading the way toward the hatch leading down to the main deck corridor. Just before descending he gave the con to Ostermann.

The commander’s cabin was only several strides from the ladder. When both men had entered it, Erich closed the door, and indicated they both sit at a small table which did double service as his desk.

“I will assume there is a problem,” said Erich.

“Potentially, yes.” He paused as if unsure how to continue. He looked embarrassed, as if trying to make himself smaller. The Exec was about as big as a man could be and still function in the close quarters of U-boat.

“Come on, Manny. Out with it.”

“I finally had time to do a routine check of the crew roster, and there is a… discrepancy.”

“What does that mean?” Erich leaned forward, listening intently.

“One of our men in the forward torpedo room is listed as Seaman Oscar Kliner… but Kliner is not onboard.”

“What? And how did this happen?”

“Apparently Kliner suffered an attack of acute appendicitis only moments before the crew was to begin boarding. He was taken to the infirmary, and in order to maintain the schedule, the Officer of the Watch assigned a replacement.”

Erich absorbed this, and fought his immediate reaction, which was to become furious. There was simply no excuse for not informing him of any problem. He had been ordered, by Doenitz, no less, to personally hand-pick his crew. If any one of them were unavailable, he should have been told at the moment it was known. The U-5001 should not have been allowed to sail until its Captain had been given a chance to deal with the problem.

The German military was getting sloppy, he thought. This is why we are going to lose this war. The truth of that sank through him like an anchor plumbing the coldest depths.

“Manfred, what you are telling me… it is frankly unbelievable.”

“I am aware of that. If we had not been attacked so quickly into our mission, I would have learned of it much sooner.” Fassbaden’s fists tightened as he revealed his own anger and helplessness. “To be honest, Warrant Officer Kress was terrified to tell me.”

“Some officious numb-skull at Trondheim took it upon himself to find me a new crewman?” Erich pounded the small table with his open palms. “How dare that fool!”

“There may be more to it,” said the Exec.

“Why?” said Erich understanding instantly what Fassbaden was intimating. “Who is our replacement?”

“His name is Roland Liebling.”

The name resonated with him; he knew this seaman. “He is the man rumored to have attempted to start a mutiny on the U-479. A few days before it hit a mine in the Eastern Baltic Sea.”

“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

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 captain 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 wreck. 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.”

“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

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:

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

Erich sat behind his small desk, motioned for Manny to sit on the 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.

Fassbaden entered the con, his expression as unreadable as ever.

“Well?” said Erich, looking at him. He could sense the attention of the rest of the crew on the control deck. They would all be riveted to their duties, but their ears would be attuned to any words now spoken.

“Escape hatch chamber is flooded. We will need to surface to pump it clear and inspect the damage. In addition, the Number Three valve on the starboard ballast tank is stopped down. Kress can fix it, but it will take at least several hours. In the meantime, our ascent control is impaired although not certain how drastically.”

Erich considered what their status meant in the simplest terms. Their boat was in trouble. It could go deeper, but it could not reach the surface with much certainty. It could maneuver, but like a clumsy drunkard… in slow-motion. The ability to always go deeper was, unfortunately, an ability submarines never lost.

“What about the men in the aft torpedo room?” he said in a low voice.

“No injuries or problems so far. They have enough oxygen for at least several hours and Kress says he could force fresh air into them through the speaking tubes if necessary.”

Erich nodded. “How much charge did we incur on the batteries?”

“Enough remaining for about ten hours.”

Erich weighed all the information against possible variables. He was certainly within ten hours of Station One Eleven. Could he coax a level bubble out of the big boat? His crew was expecting him to have the clearest view of their situation, and that meant no self-doubts, no feeling sorry for himself.

“Get Kress all the help he needs on the valve problem,” he told Manfred. “Then let’s see just how much vertical we can manage. If we can get anything at all…”

“I’ll go see him now.” Before turning to exit the con, his Exec nodded and grinned. “I am not sure I approve of your use of the word ‘if,’ Captain.”

Erich smiled, turned to his helmsman. “Take her up, seaman.”

For the next several minutes, the crew learned the limitations imposed by the attack-damage. The U-5001 blew what ballast it could, and the helmsman corrected for the faulty control plane as much as possible. The result was an ascent angle of 6 degrees above the bubble. Slight, but more than Erich had anticipated. At least they were going up.

He and Ostermann were charting their current position as opposed to their objective coordinates, when Bischoff’s head turreted around to glare at them. He was pressing his bulky headphones close to his head, and his eyes were so round, they appeared too big for his face, like a cartoon character. “Asdic!” he said. “Screws! They’ve got us!”

Feeling the bottom of his stomach abruptly drop, Erich forced himself to stand as upright as possible. “Dive! Avoidance depth.”

The atmosphere in the con altered instantly, the air suddenly thick with tension, tinged with the earliest scents of true fear. Erich could feel it. His men knew what this could mean if the enemy scored a hit.

As the ballast tanks blew, the angle beneath their feet changed as the prow of the boat seemed to leap downward like a diver jumping from dock. The propellers strained as the helmsman pushed the handle to full power, and everyone could hear the whine of the electric motors trying to deliver.

“Splashes…!” said Bischoff. “A big spread!”

The destroyer had deployed a wide blanket of charges, which, in one sense, was a good sign — it meant their sonar operator had not pinpointed Erich’s position. The Americans knew their target was in the area and were hoping for a lucky strike until they could get a firm echo.

“One hundred twenty… One fifty… One seventy…”

“Level her off,” said Erich.

A series of explosions laced the waters in rapid succession. Far enough to inflict no damage but still close enough to savagely rattle the hull. Six concussions like the staccato beat of a drum. Bischoff was thrown from his chair and Ostermann’s instruments slid from the table as if on a sheet of ice.

Noticing the angle of the deck, Erich called to the helmsman. “Level her off… now!”

“One ninety… She is slow to respond, Captain. I am having trouble!”

Two other crewmen assisted in wrestling with the wheel. Erich watched, feeling a very slight change in the angle. Slight was not enough. A shuddering groan twisted through the hull as the boat slipped deeper into the pressure grip of the arctic waters. There was a limit to how far they could go and the U-5001 was approaching it.

“Bring her level,” said Erich, as he watched his men battling the controls. His order sounded hollow and ineffectual. Of course his men were doing their damnedest to neutralize the dive. But the damage to his boat, while not crippling, had caused her to respond with a terrible slowness. If they didn’t stop the gradual descent soon, it would not matter what the destroyer did above their heads.

Gripping a ceiling pipe to remain steady, Erich was suddenly aware of his teeth pressing together, and consciously unlocked the muscles in his jaws. Damn it… this is no way to die. Not like this… without a fight… sinking into the darkness like an anchor.

Even though the water outside the vessel was almost black, Erich stared out of the viewing port at the convex of the conning tower. Two powerful searchlights had been mounted on each side of the port, and he felt tempted to click them on, to see what was out there as his boat skirted the icy shelf of Greenland.

The next series of depth charges detonated above them. Another second or two and he would know if any had been close enough…

Chapter Nine

“Wait, wait!” Tommy said. He was trying to yell around the mouthpiece and the Divelink mic was distorting like crazy. “There’s gold in here! Silver! Or somethin’!”

“We’re out of time, Tommy… let’s go,” said Dex. His view of Chipiarelli was mainly of his legs and flippers filling the hatch tube.

“You hear me?” the kid said, but weaker this time. Then: “Hey, wait a minute — I’m not gettin’ any more air outta this thing!”

Hearing that, Dex hesitated for only an instant, then braced himself against the outer collar of the hatch so he could pull Tommy out of there. The cloudy water swirled around them and seemed to somehow be getting denser, closer. It was getting harder to see details.

“I got nothin’,” said Doc, gesturing first to his mouthpiece, then toward the surface as he flippered himself into upward motion.

“Get outta here. We’ll get this guy,” said Mike Bielski, reaching for Tommy’s nearest leg.

“Tommy! Let’s go…” said Dex. “C’mon.”

The kid didn’t kick or try to hold on. He didn’t say anything either, and that made Dex try to move even faster. When they had him free of the hatch, Dex could see Tommy’s eyes behind his faceplate bulging out of his head. The dumb ass was trying to hold his last gulp of air when he felt the regulator shut down.

“Hey, relax, man. Here…” Mike released his mouthpiece and passed it to Tommy, who grabbed for it just a little too frantically, then sucked in the sweet air mixture.

He’d been unbelievably stupid, and Dex was pissed.

But this was not the time to let his emotions screw things up.

“I’ve got him, Boss,” said Mike.

Dex nodded. “Can you stay with him all the way up?”

“Just like you taught us…” said Bielski.

Dex watched as Mike slowly headed to the surface with Tommy in tow. Sharing a single tank, they worked their way topside, but paused every ten feet or so to make sure Tommy was okay and not panicking after-the-fact. They hadn’t been deep enough for the bends to be much of an issue but a freak-out could occur at any depth and be just as deadly.

Just as Dex was ready to follow them, he noticed a glow coming from the hatch’s interior. Tommy’s dive light, where he must have dropped it. Floating over to the circular opening, Dex lowered himself toward the beam of the Princeton Tec. It lay on a flange above the inner hatch, and as Dex retrieved it, he saw the beam swipe across the concavity of the open hatch.

Four numbers had been stenciled across it: 5001.

Staring at it for a second, he wondered what the designation meant, then spun around to orient himself toward the surface.

He caught up with Mike and Tommy five feet from the top. Breaking the water, he saw Don and Kevin Cheever waiting on the step-deck to haul Tommy’s sorry ass aboard. His fire-engine red dry-suit looked even brighter in the afternoon light, but nowhere near as brilliant as his expression. He certainly didn’t look like a guy who’d been a minute or so away from a pretty bad way to check off the planet.

Ripping off his mask, in between gulps of air, he started talking. “You guys’re not gonna believe—!”

“Shut the fuck up,” said Dex. “You goddamned dummy! You pull another play like that and you’re never diving with us again, you hear me?”

It got so quiet on the deck, even the slap of the waves against the hull and the screechy seabirds seemed to stop for a second. Feeling the collective stares of everybody burning him, Dex stepped forward and stood over Tommy, who sat cross-legged on the deck like a little kid.

Nobody wanted to be the first guy to say anything. It was like they were all waiting for Tommy to offer up an answer, or an explanation that might get them past this ugly point. In all the time they’d been diving as a team, nothing like this had ever happened. Dex knew they’d never seen him lash out like that (because they hadn’t known him during his days as a Navy Chief).

Time seemed to be stretching out, sagging in the middle, slowing them all down. Even Tommy sensed it, as his dark eyes flashed from one guy to another, looking for an ally who simply wasn’t there.

“Hey, guys, sorry… I just got caught up in the moment,” said Tommy. “I won’t let it happen again.”

No way he’s getting off that easy, thought Dex. “You might get away with that daredevil shit in the Fire Department, but not out here. No way I spend the rest of my life feeling guilty because I lost somebody on my watch — because I let them act like an asshole. You got that?”

“Yeah, I got it. Dex, I mean it. I’m sorry — I just saw that thing, shining down there. It looked like gold and I kinda lost it.”

“I thought that’s what you said on the link,” said Don. “You said you saw gold… and silver.” He pushed back his baseball cap, trying to look casual as he scratched his head, but there was no suppressing his obvious interest.

“What gold?” said Andy Mellow.

“You heard me. As soon as I got through the second hatch, I could see it — Like in the movies, you know, those things that look like bricks…”

“Bullion,” said Doc. “Is that what you mean?”

“Like the soup?” said Tommy. “Is that what they call it?”

“You sure what you saw?” said Don.

“No shit. I’m pretty sure…”

“Doesn’t sound like it,” said Mike, sounding the least interested of all of them.

“You think I’d bullshit you guys at a time like this? I saw this slab… the bullion thing. Not a bunch all piled up… like the way they always show you the gold… you know, like in that Fort Knox place.”

“That’s only in the movies,” said Mike. He had that grin on his face that usually meant he thought you were sounding like an idiot.

“So what’re you sayin’?” said Don. “Now it sounds like it looked like gold… which to me means you’re not so sure now.”

Tommy moved to his knees, grabbed a rail to steady himself, and sat down on a storage bin. “I’m sure. I’m pretty sure.”

“And you only saw one brick,” said Doc.

“If there’s one, hey, there could be more…” Tommy grinned.

“Visibility isn’t all that great,” said Dex. “We’ll need to check it out.”

“No time like the present,” said Andy.

“Uh-uh. It’s getting too late,” said Dex. There was no way he wanted them even thinking about going back down there at this hour.

“Yeah,” said Don. “The wind’s coming up too. Smart to just start heading in.”

“Storm?” said Mike.

Don shrugged. “Hard to tell.”

“That’s okay,” said Dex. “That’s why they invented tomorrow. Everybody still on?”

A chorus of grunted assents rose up around him, but he could feel their collective resentment. Gold. The word sank through his thoughts like an anchor. Something about gold that got guys spinning out of their usual orbits.

Buried treasure. Getting rich. All that sort of thing. He was reminded of the old Bogart movie, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. The ultimate statement on “gold fever.”

Funny thing was — it didn’t take much to get a real good case of it spreading through a group. Fast. Like a virulent plague. These guys were all so close to letting it take them over, it was scary.

“You sure it’s safe to leave everything?” said Don.

Dex grinned. “That tub’s been down there for sixty years and nobody’s been the wiser. Now all of a sudden, what? You think everybody’s going to be lining up to get our gold?”

Mike and Doc chuckled softly, but nobody else seemed to see much humor in it.

“You’re probably right,” said Andy. “But it doesn’t hurt to be careful, does it?”

It was time to get these guys refocused. “The best thing we can do is keep things quiet until we can get a better look at what Tommy thinks he saw down there. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”

“What do you mean?” said Tommy. His longish hair was still wet and he looked like a front man who’d just come offstage from a performance.

“We’re beyond the territorial limits of any states,” said Dex. “I was telling Don — we need to put in a salvage claim under maritime law.”

“And then we’re okay?” said Andy, who seemed to be as intrigued by the possibility of gold as even Don or Tommy.

“Okay as we’ll ever be.” said Dex.

“And then we can split it up?” said Tommy.

Dex paused, looked at all of them slowly. He paused to look each guy in the eye. He could feel them all worrying about what Tommy might have seen, and some of them were already dreaming of the ways they were going to spend the money.

“Okay, listen,” Dex said finally. “We all have to cool it a little bit here, okay?”

“What do you mean?” said Don.

“A couple things you should realize. One, nobody much cares about sunken U-boats anymore, so when we notify the Coast Guard, we can pretty much rely on regular admiralty law to protect us. Two, there’s a good chance Tommy saw something through that hatch, but there’s no way to tell if it’s gold or anything similar until we can get a closer look at it. And three, if it is gold, we might be in for an interesting couple of years.”

“Yeah? Like how?” said Tommy.

“Any of you guys ever hear of the S. S. Central America?”

“Is that the one in the book?” said Mike. “Bestseller a good ways back? I didn’t read it, but I remember seeing a bunch of reviews about it.”

“Ship of Gold in the Deep Blue Sea,” said Dex. “That’s the one.”

“I remember that one,” said Kevin. “They did it on The History Channel, I think too. About the guy who invented all this stuff to get to the wreck, right?”

“Yeah, that’s part of the story,” said Dex. “The Central America was full of gold from the California gold rush. It went down in a hurricane off the Carolina coast. When the salvage team brought up all the gold, they had to face claims by insurance companies that had paid out money on the losses almost a hundred and fifty years ago.”

“What?” said Andy, his usually loud voice booming even louder with incredulity.

“That’s bullshit!” said Tommy.

“Some of the companies were still in business, and had a right to recover their losses,” said Dex. “Or so they claimed.”

“Let me guess,” said Doc. “Tied up in court. A lot of lawyers making money. Nobody else.”

Dex smiled. “Now you’ve got it.”

“Welcome to the modern world,” said Kevin.

“So what do we do?” said Don.

“We all go home, spend a nice night with our families, and plan to get some answers tomorrow.”

Nobody said anything. They knew he was right… so Dex figured he’d put a little finer point on what had happened.

“One more thing,” he said. “We keep our cakeholes shut about this, okay?”

Everybody grunted in the positive.

“At least until we get things sorted out. We don’t need any salvage vultures stirring things up yet.”

Dex started gathering up his gear and stowing it in the storage bins. He was done talking about this, and he hoped they all got the message.

Everybody apparently did — they all started putting up their own stuff, and Don headed back up to the bridge to get the Sea Dog headed back to Annapolis. Mike went up to join their skipper. Andy and Doc walked aft to hang on the rail and watch the boat’s progress back to the harbor. They would probably be rehashing the conversation and what they’d seen today. Kevin leaned back on the bench, closed his eyes as if meditating. It was part of a ritual he always did to relax after a dive. He’d been distracted this time, but habits and superstitions died hard.

Tommy slowly peeled out of his drysuit, taking his sweet-assed time.

“Man,” he said. “Why’s everything have to be so complicated?”

“Because the world would get very boring if it wasn’t,” said Dex. “But listen, if you wanna know the truth, I don’t feel much like talking to you right now.”

“Man… okay, I hear you.”

“Let’s deal with it tomorrow, okay?”

Tommy nodded, hung up his suit in the salon locker, pulled on a sweatshirt. The sun westered across the bay, and the temperatures were dropping pretty fast. Belowdecks, the big Detroit diesels kicked in, and Don leaned on the forward levers as the big crew boat surged through the bay water chop.

“Hey, c’mon, Dex,” said Tommy. “I deserved what I got from you. No hard feelings, okay?”

“There better not be… you acted like a complete and total jackass.” Dex reached for a thick turtleneck sweater, pulled it down over his head.

“Yeah, I gotta agree with him on that one,” said Kevin, not bothering to open his eyes or look up. He said it with a wry grin, which was his usual demeanor, no matter what he was talking about.

“Okay, okay. Gang up on me, why don’t yas.”

“Just remember it, okay?” said Dex. “Nobody has any idea how easy it is to die down there. Till it happens.”

Nobody had anything to add, and to be honest, the silence was just fine with Dex. He needed the break to get himself calmed down. There was a moment back there, if Tommy had pushed him, when it could’ve gotten ugly. He watched the kid break a Bud out of the cooler and go back to the stern rail to drink it by himself.

Then it was just him and Kevin sitting there.

“This is the first time he’s ever been on a real wreck dive, right?” said Kevin. “Not the ones that’ve been staked out and marked on maps”

“Yeah, so what? He’s been on plenty of training dives. He oughta know by now.”

“I mean, he’s never done the whole drill, with teams and all that. He’s a rook in that regard.”

“No excuse for his antics,” said Dex. “I’m not sure he should be part of the group after that stunt. “He’s a wildcard.”

“Okay, just checking…”

Dex nodded, then changed the subject. He nudged him with his elbow. “I saw a number down there — on the inside of the hatch. 5-0-0-1. You think it might be the designator?”

“You mean the name? As in U-5001?” Kevin continued to lean back, looking straight ahead as if studying the horizon.

“Yeah.”

Kevin sighed. “I don’t know. When Don and I did a quick look on the internet, we didn’t see any numbers that high. Could be a new class or something, right?”

“Well, it’s obvious it’s different from anything else the Germans ever had.”

Kevin nodded. “Yeah, that’s true. How about I run it through the network at the lab and I check with some Navy people in DC?”

“Yeah, definitely. Call me if you get wind of anything on U-5001.”

“You got it. I’ll check Monday morning.”

As Kevin moved off to get a beer from the cooler, Dex looked past him to where Tommy was leaning against the rail by himself. Kevin walked right by him, saying nothing.

It was times like this when Dex could see why people didn’t warm up to Tommy Chipiarelli, why so many people thought he was a loose cannon.

Which made Dex wonder why he put up with the kid himself. Well, it was no secret Dex saw a lot of himself in Tommy. Certain guys had a streak of weirdness in them that most people could never understand. Weird because it made you look for a challenge, if not trouble, at every turn in the road. Guys like that ended up doing a lot of the jobs nobody else wanted to do — cops, firemen, boomers, and soldiers. Stuff like that. Most of them Dex had known over the years liked their women plenty, but never enough to marry any of them, and they had a knack for doing something that sooner or later kept them from enjoying a nice, restful retirement and reflective, elderly years.

Death wish?

Nah. Dex wasn’t big on pop psychology. Nobody wanted to die. But some guys just didn’t seem to be afraid of it. Regular life bored the hell out of them, that’s all. Traditional women, jobs, kids, families, and most of the stuff the rest of society broke their ass to obtain. None of it was all that appealing to guys like Tommy, who was: Get drunk. Get laid. Get your ass in trouble, then get your ass out of it.

A great life, but Dex was smart enough to realize nothing lasted forever. Too many guys had told him how things start changing real fast once you get past a certain point in your forties. It was funny how it happened — you grew up out of your teens and your body and your mind just kind of slipped into this rhythm, this high-energy routine, and everything seemed to run like a finely-tuned engine. An engine that ran for a quarter of a century without so much as a warranty check. For twenty-five years, you look in the mirror every morning and everything looks the same. Everything feels the same; everything works the same. Nobody can tell if you’re twenty-two or forty-two. And it is simply. Fucking. Great.

Then one morning, you see some lines around the corners of your eyes. No big deal. But they don’t go away, and they get matched up with a few gray hairs in your sideburns or your mustache or even an errant strand on your chest. That’s your first step onto the slippery slope. At first you don’t realize the lack of friction is so severe, or the angle of descent so steep. You ignore it because you can still drink ten pints of strong ale, pee it out like Secretariat, and top off the night with a couple shots of Jack D. You can still pound your date like a tent peg, wait an hour and do it all over again. You can still fall out of a boat and drop like a sack of cement into a hundred sixty feet of water so dark it could be the ninth circle of hell. You can do it like most guys step into the shower, but then the time comes when your pulse jumps around like it never did, and your breaths don’t seem to come as even. And when you get back to the surface, and you start bending and twisting and contorting your way out of your gear, you start to notice a twinge in a muscle you never knew you had, or a sharp little needle of pain in a joint that goes away faster than you can think to describe it or remember it.

But it will eventually come back, and it will bring friends.

Dex smiled. Yeah, that’s the way it started, and some guys did everything they could to fight it, stall it, delay it. Some guys ignored it. Nobody stopped it. And although it hadn’t happened to Dex yet, there came a point when you looked in the mirror and you knew you were no longer going to be confused with being a young guy.

That’s when you needed to ask yourself what you’re going to do with your new, less efficient and less functional you.

As for Dex, he had no real clue.

Chapter Ten

A giant hand grabbing the boat by its nose, and giving it a few snaps of the wrist.

That’s what it felt like when the cans detonated on each side and directly above the U-5001. Erich’s knees buckled as the deck heaved upward, flipping him and the rest of the crew into the air toward the bulkheads above them. The steel fittings of the hull had stopped groaning — now they literally screamed as every rivet and weld was being pushed beyond their structural tolerances. Any second, Erich expected the hull to crinkle inward and the cold sea crush them like a sardine tin.

“Damage?” he said as he struggled to his feet. The deck beneath him, surprisingly, felt more level than before.

“Not here, Captain,” said the helmsman.

“Bischoff!”

The communications man fought to keep his bulky earphones in place as he climbed back into his chair. Reaching for a series of toggles and rheostats on his board, he squinted as if that might force his equipment into a higher level of performance.

“Nothing, sir.”

“That was so close,” someone said.

No one had the nerve to agree or add their feelings. Everyone knew how true it was, and how helpless they all were to do much about it.

Returning his attention to the dive attitude, Erich joined the men at the helm, now looking less terrified and more resolute. “Can you maintain bubble?” he said to the nearest crewman.

“I think so, Captain. But I must tell you — it is difficult.”

Erich nodded. His boat and his crew were in trouble. She was not in condition to make the kind of quick maneuvers needed to avoid the enemy during an attack. Until he reached Station One Eleven he could not even attempt any repairs. If he could not make the secret installation, the weather, treacherous coastline, and threat of further detection or attack could combine to make the idea of their survival ever more remote.

And who knew if the secret Station was intact? Doenitz ordered him to affect “rescue and recovery.” That suggested there was trouble at the secret base.

“Screws waning, Captain,” said Bischoff. “The destroyer is heading off to starboard. We may have lost him.”

“Continue to level off,” said Erich. “Hold course. Engines ahead ten percent.”

Still too early, he thought. The American captain might be playing cat-and-mouse. By breaking off pursuit, north toward the shoreline, the enemy may be trying to set him up, to set a trap into which an unwitting and inexperienced U-boat commander might stumble. Erich was aware of this tactic because he’d been lucky enough to survive it in the past. Many fledgling submariners had not been so fortunate.

But he had other problems as well. The damage to the diving planes might prove fatal. Despite the claims of the helmsman, Erich’s instincts and highly tuned senses told him the submarine was still experiencing a “down bubble” which meant it continued to angle, no matter how slight, toward the bottom. If he were not able to correct for this descent, the U-5001 was doomed.

There was also the flooded hatch compartment, which would need addressing.

In order to maneuver the 5001 through the undersea cavern entrance to Station One Eleven, he would need his boat responding smoothly. Considering his options, he worked through the most obvious ploy first — reduce the weight in the bow.

“Herr Fassbaden,” he said to his friend, who had been standing at the ready. He was enough of a veteran seaman to know to remain silent until addressed when conditions were so critical. They now spoke in hushed tones.

“Yes, Captain…”

“If we had clear passage to aft torpedo room, we could move the bow fish to the rear of the boat — reducing our weight.”

“No way to do that now.”

“So,” said Erich. “I think we must fire off some bow torpedoes, then move the bow crew to amidships, do you think…?”

“It might work,” said the Exec. “They cannot, of course, be allowed to detonate. They will need to be disarmed. The action is severe.”

“In addition, if we survive this current situation, we will have less firepower out in front.”

“That is correct, Captain. But I also know it is a choice of damned if we do not, and slightly less damned if we do.”

Erich grinned. “Well said. I say we do it. Now.”

“You want me to take care of it?”

“Yes, I do. After I inform the crew personally.”

Snapping off a salute, Fassbaden turned to head forward, when Erich stopped him with a slight touch of his sleeve. “I almost forgot, with all the other things happening — what about that troublemaker, Liebling? Did you get him out of that aft torpedo room?”

Fassbaden shook his head. “There was not enough time. We came under attack, and—”

“I understand. However, the longer those men remain cut off, the more of a potential problem that man becomes. That is not a good situation for someone who may be unstable in a crisis.”

“I agree, Captain.”

“Have Massenburg stay in touch with the aft gunnery officer by tube.”

“Kuykendahl, from the U-387. A good man.”

Nodding, Erich remembered the man as soon as Manny mentioned his name. “I will want to know if things worsen down there. I want Kuykendahl to know he has my permission to take whatever measure is necessary to maintain order.”

“I understand,” said Fassbaden. “I will inform the Chief Warrant Officer.”

“Very well,” said Erich. “Then meet me in the bow. We have some fish to unload.”

After Manny left the control deck, Erich briefed his men on the plan. No one replied, nor hardly looked at him or one another. They all knew the gravity of the situation. You did not dump your torpedoes unless things were desperate, and they all knew this. Erich saluted them, and turned to leave the deck.

“Herr Ostermann, you have the con,” he said.

As he walked forward, he passed the galley where Hausser, the cook, was peering out into the central corridor.

“Everything all right, Captain?”

“Of course, seaman. Return to your station.”

“Yes, Captain.” Hausser looked young, but there was an air of confidence about him. Still leaning past the threshold to the kitchen, he stared at his commanding officer. Then he spoke in a direct manner Erich both noticed and admired. “But, could I have a word with you first?”

“Quickly.”

“Herr Fassbaden informed me I would be getting an ‘assistant,’ and I should be watchful of him.”

“That is correct.”

“I know this fellow, Liebling. He is trouble, Captain. But I am here to tell you — he will not be trouble for me. I would gladly do… whatever might be necessary… to keep this boat safe from the likes of him.”

As he said this, the young cook let his index finger and thumb gently touch the handle of the large knife tucked into the belt of his apron.

Erich nodded. “I understand, seaman. Thank you for your concern.”

“Aye, Captain.” Hausser snapped off a crisp salute, stepped back into the galley.

Returning the salute, Erich headed forward along the corridor. Despite his grave concerns, he felt good knowing he had crewmen like Hausser. As he walked along, he imagined the young cook burying his knife in the chest of the hothead Liebling. Such horrific thoughts did not please him. He knew plenty of men who not only welcomed the gruesome demands of warfare, but actually hoped for it. Erich had always suspected his own father had succumbed to a touch of such madness. While not craven, the elder Bruckner had always recounted his personal wartime experiences with just a little too much relish for Erich’s sensibilities.

He would do whatever necessary to retain the honor of his military office, but he did not have to like it. There was much men needed to do in their lives that proved distasteful. The real heroes were the ones who recognized the horror and who never surrendered to its call.

Reaching the bulkhead door to the bow torpedo room, he opened it with a series of practiced moves he could have done in his sleep. In addition to the heavy, combined scents of sweat and burned tobacco, he was greeted by expressions of shock on the faces of the nearest two crewmen, and they appeared almost comical as they tried to stand at attention. The four remaining men, including Gunnery Officer Neil Schlag, quickly turned and saluted Erich as soon as they realized the identity of their unannounced visitor.

“Captain,” said Schlag, trying to appear calm and in control. “Is there something wrong?”

“At ease,” said Erich. He directed his gaze at Schlag, a thick-chested man with a heavy blue-black stubble of beard.

“Aye, Captain,” said Schlag.

“We have some work to do.”

As the men gathered around, Erich detailed the procedure to be followed to dump as many torpedoes as needed to bring up the bow. He was especially careful to emphasize the need for caution. Before any of the fish could be fired, they would need to be disarmed and their targeting mechanisms disabled. The history of the submarine contained far too many chronicles of vessels being hit and sunk by their own torpedoes. Such things could happen — ranging from human error, to a mechanical malfunction, to dumb, bad luck — and there were definite precautions to perform to prevent them.

“Our main objective is to get as much weight out of the bow as possible… as quickly as possible,” he said. “You must work fast, but you cannot sacrifice safety for speed.”

“You can rely on us,” said Schlag. He was a tough-looking character who’d worked as a bouncer in a Munchen cabaret before the war. An ugly scar on the left side of his neck snaked down across his collarbone, and it was so striking, no one ever dared ask how he’d gotten it.

At that moment, Manfred Fassbaden appeared at the open hatchway. “Herr Schlag,” he said. “I suggest you and I disable the fish personally.”

“Yes sir,” said the Gunnery Officer. Turning, he began organizing his crew to handle the torpedoes as efficiently and rapidly as possible. Erich stood by long enough to see Manny and Schlag open the first torpedo with pliers and drivers, then carefully remove the magnetic detonator. After they resealed the compartment, two other gunnery mates placed the undersea missile on the conveyor, which fed it into the bow tube. Another crewman clanged the chamber shut and opened the outer hatch to fill the chamber with seawater.

“Ready,” he said.

“Launch as soon as possible,” said Fassbaden.

Schlag nodded, then pulled the fire-control lever. There was a subtle shudder as the torpedo slipped from the tube. The entire operation had taken no more than four minutes.

No way to know how many torpedoes would do the trick. Erich did not wish to do the calculations on how much time must pass before he would know if his gamble would pay off.

Chapter Eleven

After the confrontation with Tommy and the cool-down over a few beers, Dex felt a little better. His advice had been for everybody to go home to their families and relax. Good advice for just about the whole bunch of them — except maybe Tommy and himself. Dex hadn’t had a “family” in so long, he hardly remembered what the word meant. Both his parents had died while he was in the Navy, and both times while he was on duty in some faraway port. He had an older sister, but she was off living her own life, raising her own family, none of whom had much time for “weird Uncle Dex.”

He grinned as he thought about that and keyed the ignition of his Ford 150 to back away from the wharf parking lot. Don was still onboard the Sea Dog, and he waved once then went back to checking all the tie-lines in case a storm came up out of nowhere. They had a way of doing that in the middle of the night. Waving back, Dex threw the pick-up into first gear, and patched out like he was in a hurry to get somewhere.

He wasn’t.

And his list of options ranged from totally avoidable (going back to the Dive Shop and doing the QuickBooks statements) to mildly objectionable (going home and doing all the piles of laundry) to eventually necessary (stopping at the B&O Diner for the meatloaf special).

Being hungrier than he’d first figured, he refueled first at the diner, then headed home, which was a townhouse condo in a little satellite of Annapolis called Crofton. He’d been there years now, and it was finally beginning to feel like it really was home. Although he’d always tell people he didn’t need much space, Dex had done a pretty decent job of filling it up with plenty of stuff — power tools, woodworking gear for his handmade furniture projects, and spare diving equipment. It made the basement look acceptably junky; plus, the second bedroom was shelved high with old records, magazines, paperback books and outdated rack-mounted stereo components. His old Technics turntable had given up the ghost years ago, and he kept saying he was either going to fix it or finally chuck all those “LPs.” (Did anybody still call them that? Did anybody even know what an LP was?)

The thought made him smile as he closed the front door behind him and stepped into the living room. His years in the Navy had taught him how to be neat when he had to be, and it was reflected in the clean lines and uncluttered look of the place. Plenty of shelves and books, some modern lighting and the requisite flat-screen TV, but not much else that couldn’t have been in the room fifty years ago.

Flopping down on the couch, Dex remoted on the cable news, fighting the room’s silence, more as background noise rather than the focus of his thoughts. He was tired, but he knew he couldn’t sleep yet. As much as he’d been trying to be cool, he kept thinking about that sub they’d found.

Not Tommy and his gold.

That was most likely crap. Dex hardly gave it a thought. He was far more interested in finding out why it ended up in the Bay. And its crew? What happened to those guys? Even though he’d told his men there was nothing special about sunken U-boats, he had a good hunch this one might be different. Its size for one. Almost twice as long as any ever built for the German fleet.

And maybe that number—5001. So maybe what Dex saw on the inside hatch was the answer. Getting an ID on the boat would be the first thing they’d need to start unwinding the mystery of the big sub.

Getting up from the sofa, Dex bounded upstairs to the second bedroom, which served as office and library. Filled with shelves and bookcases and a big desk, it was a dark, comfortable place where Dex spent most of his time at home.

After checking a few of the more obvious websites and databases, he found absolutely nothing on U-boats of the huge size they’d found, but that didn’t surprise him. Near the end of the war, the Nazis (despite their penchant for detailed record-keeping) started to run out of time, and there was a good chance they didn’t keep up their registries as well as they normally would. And Kevin’s memory had been correct; there were no numbers in the five thousands. The highest number he could find was the U-4718—a boat that had never been commissioned, probably never finished. Then there was—

The phone bleated electronically and after checking the ID on the little screen, he grabbed it. It was Kevin Cheever.

“Hey, Kev… what’s up?”

“Well, cutting to the chase,” said Cheever. “I was just wondering about what you made of today’s adventure?”

Dex exhaled. “Not a lot, so far. I have a few ideas, but nothing concrete.”

“Me too,” said Kevin. “I figured it might be easier to talk now than doing it tomorrow. With the rest of them there. Especially with everybody thinking we’re going to be rich. That’s all Mike’s ex needs to hear. I can smell her lawyers salivating already.”

“I know. Can you believe Tommy? What a goof.”

Kevin cleared his throat. “Hey, boss, it wasn’t me that brought him to our little party.”

Dex smiled. “Mea culpa. I guess I feel sorry for him.”

“The same way you feel towards dumb animals?”

“You really don’t like him, do you, Kev.”

“I don’t know. Just kidding, I guess.”

Dex exhaled slowly. He hated when conversation devolved into bullshit chatter.

“C’mon, your point — you did have one, right?”

“Yeah,” said Kevin. “I’ve been checking all the usual websites and sources…”

“Yeah, me too,” said Dex.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but according to the official records I’ve been able to track down, that boat we found today never existed. I couldn’t find any reference to the Nazis ever building anything that big.”

“We’ve got to get coordinated so we’re not duplicating the same work,” said Dex. “You check the number too?”

“Yeah. Nothing.” Kevin paused. Then: “You still have some friends in the Navy?”

“A few. And some of them have some friends. We’re a long way from being shut-out at this point of the game.”

“I have a guy at work, Sal Robustelli,” said Kevin. “Good guy. World War II nut. You know the type.”

“Sure.”

“Anyway, I’ll ask him if he has any ideas.”

“Sounds good. What about your own thoughts?”

“I’m thinking prototype,” said Kevin.

“Me too. And it looks pretty obvious to me — that superstructure on the aft deck was a hangar.”

“For a plane.” Kevin spoke definitively. It was not a question.

“You bet…”

“Now that would be cool — we get into that hangar and find a plane. That would make it pretty interesting. Maybe we found one of their secret weapons.”

“We’ll know soon enough,” said Dex.

“You know, I remember reading about a Japanese boat like this one. But I don’t think it got off the drawing boards. An underwater aircraft carrier. To knock out the Panama Canal. Can you imagine?”

“Man, that would’ve been something…” said Dex as he imagined the Japs pulling it off.

“So it wouldn’t be all that crazy for the Nazis to be thinking of something like that.”

Dex nodded. He liked solving a good mystery. “So listen, keep me up to date on your guy at work and make sure you copy me on it, so I don’t re-invent the wheel — and I’ll give some of my old Navy buds a call and see what’s what.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Kevin.

“The other option might be a little trickier — depending on how clean it is in there.”

“What’s that?”

“The Germans usually put a small, metal ID tag on one of the torpedo tube hatches in the forward compartment. A little plate with boat’s designator, the date completed, and the yard where it was built. I just read that somewhere.”

“If we can find that, it’s going to make all this work a waste of time.” Kevin chuckled. “Yeah. So, I guess I’ll see you at the dock.”

“Seven a.m., pal.”

He killed the call, and reached for his address book. It was old and beat-up and filled with scratch-outs, changes, margin notes, and outdated info. He really needed to re-do his address book — get rid of the guys who were dead, married, missing, whatever. Another one of those projects he just never got around to doing. Like replacing that low-pressure showerhead, which was starting to drive him crazy. Save water, my ass…

Not now, he told himself. Stay focused, on course. Up until now, he knew, his little dive club and chowder society had been just dicking around, but now it was serious business.

Dex finally faced what was lurking just beneath his thoughts — that damned boat kind of scared him.

He hoped the rest of the guys realized what they might be up against.

Chapter Twelve

The air in the close quarters of the aft torpedo room grew heavy with the smell of men at work. Manfred knew it all too well — not just the dank scent of labor, but of subtle terror as well. In the submariner’s world, the rank odor of fear had become as much a part of a U-boat’s atmosphere as the pungent tang of diesel fuel.

As he worked with Gunnery Officer Schlag, he allowed his movements to become mechanical and repetitive. The torpedoes slipped past them as if they were factory workers, and gradually their pace and skill grew quicker. Every few minutes another underwater missile leapt from the forward tubes, lightening the bow by another appreciable fraction.

With each firing, he tried to sense a change in the bubble of the deck, but noticed nothing. Manfred tried to not worry about whether this desperate move was going to work or not. It was all they had. The control deck would let him know how they were doing.

“That’s twelve,” yelled Neil Schlag to one of his men. “Good work — keep them moving!”

Continuing to perform his part of the task, Manfred slipped into a semi-trance. Ever since the first depth charge attack, he’d felt a kind of strange sense of completeness, of finality. He knew their mission was doomed to failure, and he could feel an increasingly powerful grip of fear crushing his spirit. He knew he was going to die, and he could no longer face the inevitability with the stoic acceptance that had carried him through more than five years of battles and uncounted hours of dread.

Whoosh…!

Another fish away, and Manfred hoped the plan would have an effect. The boat continued to almost hover, its forward motion all but stopped, but if its bow continued to point just enough off the level, it would be sufficient to take it on an inexorable, if terribly slow, trip to the bottom.

Gunnery Officer Schlag moved another torpedo along the ball-bearing track, stopping it in front of Manfred. As they began to loosen the screws of the plate concealing its arming device, they heard the Captain’s voice bark from the tube.

“Achieving bubble. Cease fire. Fassbaden to the control deck.”

When Manny reached the con, Ostermann stood hunched over his chart and the Captain’s expression hinted at a level of relief. Looking up at Manny, he afforded him a small grin. “Good work, Herr Fassbaden. We are leveling off and have ascent capapbility.”

Ostermann finished a calculation, handed a slip of paper to Bruckner, who read it aloud: “New heading One-Six-Zero. ETA in three hours twelve minutes.”

The helmsman adjusted the course as Bruckner moved to peer through the glass of the forward port. “Schnorkel depth. All ahead full,” he said.

Manny relayed the command to Engineering, then joined his captain at the glass, beyond which a dark, cold sea waited to devour them — if they made even the slightest miscue.

Chapter Thirteen

The harbor area of Annapolis had grown over the years to accommodate an ever-increasing number of pleasure boaters, struggling to retain its centuries-old charm. As Dex entered the narrow cobblestoned streets leading to the wharfs, he could smell the water in the air, and he felt at home. Funny how the sea became such a part of you.

As he parked at the dock he recognized some of the other guys’ vehicles already. Nobody wanted to be late for this one. The Sea Dog, with its long aft deck, bobbed and nudged at its moorings, waiting for its call to duty. When he climbed on board, he found Kevin Cheever and Doc Schissel giving their gear a once-over. They both waved when they saw him.

“Hey, Boss,” said Kevin with his characteristic big smile.

“Where’s Don?”

“Below,” said Doc. “He said he wanted to take a look at the engines before we headed out.”

Dex nodded, moved to his own locker and started his own equipment-check. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he was feeling very anxious about going back down to the wreck. Although he’d conducted more than a hundred dives to sunken vessels over the years, intuitive forces tugged at him like the unseen gravities of worlds, whispering a message of urgency, and perhaps danger.

And that was a strange thing — part of him wanted this dive to be just like all the others (which meant routine and ultimately unremarkable), and another wanted it to be the one that would be a milestone, the signal event in his life that would make the difference, would make Dexter McCauley know it had all been worth it.

That all the crap he’d endured actually meant something.

He smiled as he thought about that. No way he’d ever want any of these guys to know such notions of fame and posterity ever crossed the brow of good, old, pragmatic Dex…

He spread out his pale green dry suit, and began checking his array of electronic gadgets. He liked the modern stuff, but he never forgot the most important fact about them: they might make diving easier, but not safer. There was no gear that could make you cautious.

Sensing movement in the periphery, Dex turned to see Don Jordan’s watchcap-clad head appear above the stairs to the main deck. His big Irish face was flush and grinning.

“Hey, Dex!.Ready for a big day?”

“We’ll see. Everything look good down there?”

Don rubbed his two-day stubble with the back of his hand. “Oh yeah. Those engines’ll still be running a hundred years from now. I’m going up to the bridge and warm up the radio gear.”

“Weather going to hold?”

“If you wanna believe the Weather Channel.” Don smiled, then headed up to the bridge.

Dex checked his watch. Almost seven. Where were the other guys?

His cell chirped as if in answer, and he fished it from his outer vest pocket.

“Dex here,” he said.

“It’s Mike. Just checking in. I’ll be there in about five minutes.”

“No problem. We’re still waiting on Tommy and Andy too. Relax.”

“I’ll try to do that. See-ya.”

As he flipped the little phone shut, he spotted Andy’s dark green Cherokee pulling into the parking area. And as Andy was opening his door, Tommy’s Mustang almost clipped him as it swung into the slot next to him.

Andy just stood there, hands on his hips, glaring at Tommy, who climbed out of the car with a big smile on his face.

Dex shook his head. He’d been trying to figure out how he’d set up the teams this morning, and his choices just got narrower. Even though Andy’s temper was by nature as brief as it was volatile, Dex would not be pairing him up with Tommy Chipiarelli. The smartest move would be to keep Tommy on a short leash, and that meant buddying up with him all day. One thing for sure — he knew he wouldn’t be hearing any complaints from any of the other guys.

True to his word, Mike Bielski showed up five minutes later. Watching him walk from his car and down the dock, Dex caught a weird feeling. The guy was walking so slow it was a little scary. Like he was headed to his own gallows.

When he came aboard, everybody greeted him with the usual round of chatter, and Dex’s odd feeling passed. He didn’t believe in premonitions or any of that kind of stuff. Nobody noticed his silence as they tugged into their suits and gear, trading bullshit chatter. Maybe he was just being his usual overly cautious self, but he was aware of a couple things: everyone had become partially infected with the gold bug, and Tommy had pissed everybody off yesterday. If he acted as impulsively today, there could be worse trouble. But at least with Tommy, Dex and the other guys knew what they were dealing with.

As he undressed in the cool morning air, layering into his dry suit, Tommy was already in high motor.

“And I gotta tell ya,” he said. “This chick had legs up to her ass.”

Andy Mellow rolled his eyes. “How many times I have to tell you, you dumb fuck? Everybody has legs up to their ass! That’s where they connect, you dope!”

The other guys laughed, and so did Tommy. “Oh yeah, that’s right. I meant her shoulders. Yeah, she had legs up to her shoulders!”

“We get the picture,” said Doc.

“Actually I got some great pictures with my phone,” said Tommy.

“God bless Apple,” said Kevin Cheever and smiled. “Just her, right?”

Suddenly the entire hull shuddered as Don kicked in the big 872 diesels. Their power surged through the deck steel and you could feel the boat just itching to yank them out of the harbor.

“Okay, ya swabs!” yelled Don, grinning. “Let’s break us loose!”

Doc and Tommy jumped up and ran fore and aft to unslip the lines holding them to the dock. Mike Bielski barely looked up from the fiddling he was doing with the adjustments to his Divelink, and Andy was testing his respirator.

Dex felt the comforting rock of the deck as the Sea Dog eased out into the channel and headed for the open Bay.

“I’ll go check on the GPS,” said Kevin. “Make sure we’re headed back to the same spot.”

Nodding, Dex snugged up his suit. If it hadn’t been for Kevin’s surplus gear from NavTronics, they would’ve never found that sub. He wondered how much easier all this new gear would’ve made some of the crazy operations his Navy unit had attempted during his long hitch.

Checking his watch, Dex figured they’d be over the target in about a half hour.

And they were.

He’d divided them up into three teams — Tommy and him, Kevin and Andy, and Doc and Mike. And they would dive in that order with each team overlapping the one in front by ten minutes. That way, there would always be a window of at least four divers on the wreck at any one time — in case there was trouble. Upon hearing his plans, none of them had complained about not going down with Tommy. No kidding…

Looking off the starboard side, Dex watched the marker buoy with Kevin’s radio beacon bobbing in the light chop. The sky was high and clear which made the Chesapeake look more blue than a muddy green. In the distance, made clear by the lack of haze, the double-spanned Bay Bridge ribboned toward Maryland’s Eastern Shore, and a flotilla of sailboats speckled the seascape with brushstrokes of color.

“We’re just about on top of her,” said Don. “First team ready, Dex?”

“Just give us the word.”

Leaning over the rail outside the entrance to the bridge, Don looked down and gave a thumbs up. “Get your headgear on and we’ll go on link.”

Tommy was already twisting his mask and mic into the most comfortable position as Dex tugged his own into place.

“Mic check — one two three,” he said.

“Copy, Dex.” Don’s unmistakable drawl filled his earpiece. “Ready anytime you are.”

With a nod of his head, Tommy acknowledged he could hear everything, then both of them flipper-waddled to the aft end of the crewboat’s long flat rear deck. When they reached the gunwale, they leg-slung themselves over the side and down to the custom-built grated platform that was almost at sea level. Dex grabbed a mesh samples collection bag off the rack, and nodded to Tommy. From there, they tilted back and entered another world.

Dex watched Tommy’s red suit come clear of the impact bubbles as he drifted beyond the black hull of the Sea Dog toward the safeline. Shoulder to shoulder, Dex moved with him and grabbed the thick nylon cord — one end attached to the buoy, the other running down past the wreck’s conning tower.

“Let’s go, boss,” said Tommy.

Without a word, Dex angled down, pointing his head toward the bottom. Despite the water warming up from a high, clear sun, the Bay appeared to be almost totally algae-free. He couldn’t remember ever seeing the usually brackish water so clear, but that wasn’t saying visibility was actually good — just better than usual.

“Okay,” said Dex. “Twenty feet…”

“Pretty clean down here,” said Tommy. “You can really see today.”

“Good copy,” said Don. “Sea Dog standing by…”

Descending the rest of the safeline’s length, they reached the topmost masts of the sub within several minutes. Dex was feeling good about the increased water-clarity — that meant higher margins of safety. You were always better off when you could see more of what was going on around you.

“Clearing the con,” he said into his Divelink. “We’re ready to move clear of the safeline and check out the aft hatch.”

Dex had decided against bringing the videocam down on the first dive. When you didn’t have the diving environment down cold, it was a bad idea to be distracted with the bullshit of running a camera. The light, the focus, worrying about the width or the tightness of the shot… all the little things that can keep your attention from the primary one of staying alive.

No way.

After he and Tommy had the next phase of their exploration checked out, then he’d start recording things. Maybe Kevin and Andy could bring the cam down on their dive, but Dex would just have to see how things were going. He floated slightly ahead of Tommy who was, at least till this point, playing by the rules.

Checking his Ikelite, Dex watched the depth numbers click past sixty-six feet, and was once again reminded of how fate had a way of making things as tricky as possible. Sixty-six feet was one of those magic numbers for divers. Under water, for every thirty-three you descend, the pressure on your body increases by one atmosphere. Which meant once you passed the sixty-six foot threshold, you were subjecting yourself to three atmospheres. And that’s when things got very interesting for all those nitrogen molecules in your bloodstream, which dissolved under the pressure and worked their way into every little space in your brain, muscle, organs, joints, and everywhere you never thought of.

Two things can happen after that. One is all that nitrogen makes divers get a little less cautious or observant. If you go to four or five atmospheres pressure, divers can get absolutely loopy and start hallucinating. Second thing is you can’t head to the surface too fast, before all that nitrogen can be passed out of the system in the form of microscopic bubbles. To make this happen, divers have to pause in their ascents, and give the process time to occur naturally.

At the depths where they found the sub, nitrogen narcosis, or “the bends” remained an issue of concern, but it was not as life-threatening as deeper dives could be.

At seventy feet, Dex felt almost totally weightless and the smallest kick or arm pull changed his position in the water. He’d spent so much time under the sea, he didn’t need to consciously be aware of the endless adjustment a diver made to maintain a depth, angle, attitude. There was a serenity, a sense of powerful isolation, that made him feel so… so complete, so in control of everything necessary to stay alive. If for no other reason, Dex loved diving for that sense of being so sharply attuned to your thoughts and the sealed-off hull that defines you as an individual, a singularity in the universe.

A universe largely out to get you.

They hovered over the conning tower and the small observation bridge in front of the superstructure. “Hold on,” said Dex, as he probed the deck of the bridge with his torch beam. The hatch leading below appeared to be breached, which made sense if the boat had been sent to bottom in a controlled scuttle.

He would have liked to have tried to inspect the sub at midship, but he knew — even though nobody was saying — they all wanted to find out what Tommy thought he saw through the rear hatch.

Motioning with his torch, Dex led his dive-mate toward the aft section. “Hey,” said Tommy. “Somebody left the door open…”

His partner’s attempt to be clever pulled Dex from his concentration, and he looked ahead of them to see the aft hatch peeled back like the lid of a garbage pail. They cleared the swollen hump of the boat’s rear deck and homed in on the opening to the hull.

“Okay,” said Dex. “Let’s take a look down there. Get out your torch.”

He and Tommy unhitched their watertight flashlights from their utility belts, and switched them on. Despite their compact size, the devices put out a tight, sharp beam. Dex hovered over the dark circle of the open lower hatch, then pierced it with a burst of light, revealing a ladder leading down to a grated deck.

“Tommy, listen up. I’ll go in first. You stay topside till I see what kind of room we have down there.”

“Gotcha.”

“Donnie, you copy that? We’re going in.”

“Gotcha,” said Don, his voice modulated by the little earpiece headphone. “Standing by…”

Following the path cut by his torch beam, Dex angled head first into the hatch. Experience from previous dives into openings of similar dimensions alerted him to how much clearance his tanks allowed him. He had to move with deliberate caution in case there was something sticking out that might foul his hoses or snag his suit.

Dex tilted over, headfirst, and slid through the hatch, keeping his chest close enough to the ladder to clear his double tank. Halfway down, he craned his neck around to see what might present possible problems. The passageway directly beneath him appeared to be clear of obstacles or debris.

As he righted himself, his torch played across the grated deck, touching steel and brass fittings, and Dex had a brief moment in which he felt like an intruder to a place better left untouched. Like a grave robber or a cat burglar. To the left, in the direction of the aft torpedo room, he saw what looked like a single brick laying up close to the bulkhead.

Tommy’s “gold bullion,” no doubt.

“See anything?” said Tommy. “I’m ready to follow you in.”

“Come on. Just take it slow.” Dex drifted over to the brick-like object. As he drew closer, he could see it wasn’t the treasure Tommy had imagined. There was no gold sheen about it. He reached out, picked it up and was surprised to feel how heavy it was — some kind of really dense material. Rubbing it, he was surprised to see no thin rime of algae sticking to its surface. The color looked like a dark pewter.

Whatever it was, the Nazis probably had some use for it. Lying nearby were the rotted remains of what might have been a canvas rucksack. No way to tell if there’d even been any more bricks here or if this was the only one. Dex opened the throat of his collection bag, slipped the heavy object into it. As he was doing this, Tommy floated over to him. “Hey, so was I right?”

“You mean is it gold?”

“Yeah…”

“I don’t know what this thing is, but it’s not gold.”

“Hey, guys,” said Don’s voice through his earpiece. “You wouldn’t want to clue us in up here, would you?”

“Sure,” said Dex. “We’re not rich, okay?”

He briefly summarized their findings, then listened to Don bemoan their bad luck. The water in the flooded chamber was clear enough to see the closed hatch in front of them — leading toward the center of the boat. Other than their breathing, amplified through their hoses and communications gear, the normal silence of being under the sea morphed into something more eerie, more oppressive in the sub’s cloudy interior.

“We’re going to work our way aft towards the conning tower now,” said Dex. How’s Team Two? They ready?”

“Been ready,” said Don.

“You can get them in the water on schedule,” said Dex. “Everything looks okay so far.”

“Any sign of damage?” said Don.

“Not yet. Looks like the Jerries scuttled this thing but they didn’t use charges.”

“Jerries?” said Tommy. “Why they called that?”

“No idea… I’ve always wanted to say the word, that’s all.”

Moving to the hatch, Dex checked the wheel-lock. It was frozen, as often happened to moving parts in seawater, but in the open position. He put his shoulder against it, and it swung inward, away from him easily. Beyond this bulkhead, they entered a surprisingly open section of the boat, which housed two long, lean diesels. The salt water had failed to eat much of the formidable engines, and in tribute to the German engineering that created them, they still looked clean and powerful enough to be refurbed and push this boat along at a good clip. Flanking the diesels on the outer walls of the hull were banks of batteries to power the electric motors. To them the sea had been less kind, reducing them to crusted piles of corrosion.

“Pretty big rig,” said Tommy.

“This was a big boat.” Dex paused to study the path ahead, making sure there were no obstacles that might be a problem.

Between the two engines, a ladder headed up to a wider than usual hatch, which appeared to be locked down. Dex played his torch beam over it. “That’s probably the access to the second level.”

“We goin’ up?” said Tommy.

“Not yet. I want to see what the control deck looks like. Plenty of time to check that out later.”

“You’re the boss,” said Tommy.

“Hey, Dex…” Don’s voice in his earpiece. “Andy and Kevin are ready to go.”

“Check. They need to bring the camera.”

“They got it.”

“Good.” Dex paused for a second. “Kevin? Andy? You guys copy that?”

“Just hit the water,” said Kevin Cheever. “What’s up, Boss?”

“We’re about midway down the aft section. When we get there, we’ll see if we can get the hatch on the bridge open. That leads down to the control deck, which is where we’re headed. We can meet you there.”

“Sounds like you worked this out pretty good,” said Andy. “We’ll be there.”

Dex checked his chrono — they were making pretty good progress. He’d have a little time to poke around in the captain’s area before having to head up. And he felt good about having the second team nearby when he did it. He was starting to feel confident, and even a little comfortable as they moved along, and he had to remind himself he was floating through the center of a rusting hulk at the bottom of the bay. A dark, congested coffin that hadn’t yet given up all its secrets.

In other words: still watch your ass.

Next came a section of the hull filled with bunks so neatly and closely stacked, he could almost see them still occupied by fresh-faced German sailors. What had happened to them? If any were by the oddest chance still alive, they would be stooped and shrunken old men. From the looks of the number of racks, the sub had supported a larger crew than the Type VII boats.

“Just cleared the crew quarters,” Dex reported to Don. “Nothing unusual.”

He was looking for anything that might help explain the boat’s size and oddly shaped hull, but so far Dex hadn’t noticed a damn thing.

“Hey, Dex,” said Tommy. “I’ve been meaning to ask you…”

“Yeah?” he said as they floated past the bunks, heading ever closer to the center of the boat.

“You think everybody got out of this thing? I mean, what if we find… you know… some bodies?”

“Like I said, my first impression is they scuttled her, which means everybody jumped ship way before she ended up down here.” He paused as they approached the next bulkhead door, slowing their motion to see if there were any potential problems. But nothing revealed itself in the beam of their torches and he tried to relax.

“Sounds like a ‘but’ coming…” said Tommy.

“Kind of. Any bodies exposed to seawater this long would be pretty much just gone. But if we did find some poor bastard holed up somewhere — protected somewhat — well, we’d have to give him a proper burial.”

“Gives me the creeps,” said Tommy.

“Yeah, I hear you.”

Dex motioned him to move closer as they were within reach of the next bulkhead. The hatch here was also unlatched, but this one swung in toward them, to reveal a collection of tables and benches, which defined the crew’s mess and the galley beyond it. This deep into the boat, the metal surfaces looked cleaner than Dex would have expected. The incursion of endless variations of sea life was everywhere, of course, but not with the ravenous reclamation he’d seen in other wrecks.

“Everything looks so small,” said Tommy. “How many guys get to scarf in here at a time?”

“Fifteen. Twenty, maybe.”

“I don’t know if I could’ve stood this shit.”

“Lot of guys can’t,” said Dex.

They drifted over the tables and benches, past the entrance to the compact, efficiently designed little galley.

“You ever sail in a sub?”

“Not as duty,” said Dex. “Had to be inside on a couple of rescue ops. Before they’d refined the DSRVs.”

“The whats?”

“Deep Submersible Rescue Vehicles.”

“Oh yeah…”

“I’m sure the latest ones are kind of half-assed classified.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet…”

Playing the beam of his torch on the next door, Dex could see it was sealed, and he hoped it would open as easily as the others. Despite its larger size, this U-boat had been laid out in similar fashion to its smaller, older siblings, and Dex figured the control deck would be the next chamber.

“Hey, guys,” said the familiar voice of Kevin Cheever. “We’re about halfway down the safeline. Sounds like you haven’t made the conning tower yet.”

“Just about there,” said Dex. “Be careful when you enter the bridge — watch out for the antenna and the snort, okay?”

“Got it covered,” said Andy.

The bulkhead door loomed in front of them. Its steel facade, encrusted in a thin layer of sea scum, seemed to absorb their torchlight. Dex gestured to Tommy to grab the wheel-lock on the door and give it a good, hard turn. But it was already in open position, the door ajar.

Now they were entering the heart and mind of the boat. Dex knew if there were any secrets to be found, they would probably be found here. He announced their entry on the Divelink’s open channel.

“We’re right above you,” said Kevin. “Looks like we have a clear path to the bridge.”

“You still with us, Donnie?” Dex said.

“I’m hanging in there,” said Don through the base unit. “Be careful, guys.”

The bulkhead door to the control deck swung inward, and Dex had the sensation of a curtain being pulled back as the beams of their torches passed the threshold ahead of them.

“You first,” said Tommy.

Dex nodded, leaned forward and lightly flippered through the opening. Above him the hull thumped and echoed the arrival of Kevin and Andy on the bridge.

“Okay, we’re in…” he said.

The control deck was wider and longer than any vintage sub he’d ever seen. The only thing similar was the low ceiling, crammed with piping, cables, and wires. The periscope array hung from the center of the chamber, but there was ample room all around it for a chart table, an instrument pedestal, and communication bay. The aft end comprised the helm and fire-control panels; the prow of the conning tower was dominated by a striking innovation — a viewing port.

“Look at that,” said Tommy as he played his light over the thick glass of the port. It was a horizontal slash in the conning tower, like the gun-port in a pillbox. The German engineers had obviously solved the problems of pressure and maintaining an efficient seal. Impressive.

“Dex…?”

“Yeah, Andy?”

“We’re right above the deck hatch. It’s locked down tighter than a crab’s ass.”

“We’ll give it a go in here.”

Motioning to Tommy, Dex directed him to the ladder leading to the bridge above their heads. He watched his partner’s red suit glow briefly as he passed through his torch beam. Floating up to the wheel-lock, Tommy muscled it open with little effort. As the lid peeled back, Dex saw Andy Mellow’s faceplate framed in the circular aperture.

“Trick or treat,” he said as he drifted back, positioning the videocam in the opening. “I’m gonna get a shot of us coming through.”

Dex and Tommy backed away, giving Andy room to maneuver his wide-shouldered torso through the hatch. He was followed by Kevin Cheever. They wore orange and lime green suits respectively, which flashed colorfully in the torchlight, and now with four outfitted divers in the chamber, the space did not feel in any way near as capacious or comfortable. As Andy slowly panned around the interior of the conning tower, Dex found himself imagining what it must have looked like with a crewman at every station.

“We have about twelve minutes,” said Dex. “Tommy and I are going to look for the captain’s cabin. You guys can see if they left anything in here that might tell us something.”

“Got it,” said Kevin.

“After that, it’ll probably be a good idea to get some video of the aft sections — engine room, crew quarters, and then if you have time, head on back to the rear torpedo room. If they scuttled this tub, they would have opened all the tubes to get it done.”

“Got it.”

“Let’s see… what else? Okay, then Tommy and I will exit from the control deck hatch to save time.”

“Okay, Chief,” said Kevin.

“Anything else?” said Andy.

“If you have time, see if you can get a look inside the hump-back.” That was the term Andy had come up with to describe the additional chamber on the U-boat, which ran the entire length of the hull’s aft section.

“Yeah, right.”

“We saw a hatch in the engine room leading up that way,” said Dex. “But don’t try anything risky. Don’t go up there if your air is low.”

“We won’t,” said Kevin.

And Dex knew he wasn’t bullshitting him. Kevin Cheever was one of those by-the-book kind of guys. He was polite and thoughtful and you just knew he was a highly moral person. He also knew the value of following procedure.

“Okay, Tommy, let’s see what we can find up this way.”

Dex drifted toward the bulkhead door leading to the bow, and was a little surprised to see it ajar. Pausing, he looked for signs of damage, but there was nothing apparent. The corridor beyond this door seemed more narrow than the others. Two doors flanked the passageway, the one to the right was a second room with stainless steel tables and benches — the officer’s mess. The one on the left was closed, but it swung inward as Tommy leaned into it. By submarine standards, the room beyond it was like a first class stateroom. A trundle bed, a wardrobe locker, private bathroom, and an expansive desk with a chair that, despite the corrosion and the rotted fragments of leather, looked somehow imposing.

“Captain’s quarters,” said Dex. “You copy that, Don?”

“Yeah, Chief. Sounds exciting,” said Don through the headset. “Glad I’m not there…”

“Hey, we might find somethin’ here,” said Tommy. “You want me to start diggin’ around?”

Dex checked his watch. They were running short on time and air. “Yeah, let’s just be careful. Stuff’s going to be real fragile after all this time.”

“Gotcha,” said Tommy as he drifted closer to the wardrobe and storage drawers built into the hull.

As Tommy eased open each door and drawer, trying not to disturb their contents, Dex fixed his attention on the Captain’s desk. There was a center drawer, which contained nothing but decayed and corroded stationery items, but there was file drawer that formed the right side of the foot well, which looked promising. It was locked, but Dex used a compact, flattened pry-bar from his tool bag to spring it open. Sixty-plus years underwater had defeated even Germany’s precise manufacturing specs, and the file drawer slid open to reveal a section of decayed files and a small, steel oblong box with a four digit combination lock.

Dex picked it up, immediately feeling its mass. The box, perhaps ten inches long and half as deep, was well-machined… and heavy, and quite possibly air and water-tight. Carefully, he slipped it into his sample bag. Then, scouring the inner walls of the file drawer with his torch beam, he saw nothing else of interest.

“Hey, this might be something…” said Tommy.

He was still scanning the storage area where the Captain’s clothing had been kept.

“What’d you find?”

“I dunno, looks like some clips and some medals.” He held them out in his hand, pinned them there with his Ikelite.

“Yeah, grab any of that kind of stuff you find. It’s all that’s left from the clothes, but it might tell us something.”

“Okay,” said Tommy.

“This place looks pretty empty,” said Dex. “But the seawater could’ve eaten everything. No way to tell.”

“Piece of his shoes,” said Tommy. “There were little scraps and pieces in the locker. That was all that was left of this guy’s shoes.”

“I remember reading somewhere that the German sailors used to put their names in their shoes — that it was a good way to ID a ship by checking the guy’s name on naval registries.”

“Not this time,” said Tommy.

A soft beeper sounded, synched up with the LED on Dex’s Princeton Tec. The device was telling him it was just about time to go.

“Hey, you about ready?” he said to Tommy as he gestured toward the ceiling.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Kevin, Andy…? How’s it going in there?”

“Not much around. This place looks like they picked it clean.” said Andy. “We’re heading towards the aft torpedo room.”

“Be careful. Get samples of anything that looks interesting,” said Dex. “Tommy and I are heading up. You copy that Don?”

“I hear you.”

“What about Doc and Mike?”

“Ready to hit the water,” said Doc. “On your mark, Boss.”

“Any time you’re ready,” said Dex. “We’ll see you on the safeline. On our way up.”

Nodding to Tommy, Dex gestured to his dive-mate to get moving.

He felt a pulse of excitement jump through him as he anticipated going through the stuff they’d just found. Good chance they’d ID the sub for sure now, and that might just be the beginning.

Chapter Fourteen

The next several hours passed with the deceptive calm of typical U-boat operations. Erich’s experience warned him to never accept a lack of peril as an indication of safety. A ship that traversed under the sea was always in danger. Period.

As the 5001 continued its path along the coast of Greenland, Erich used the time to get Manny up to speed on what they would be doing, and how they would do it. They spoke openly in the privacy of the Captain’s quarters.

After going over the sealed instructions on how to gain access to Station One Eleven, Erich leaned back in his chair, opened his hands as if to say any questions?

His Exec did not disappoint him.

“How long have you know about this secret base?”

Erich shrugged. “Not long. Six months, perhaps. Only since the time I was selected for this current mission.”

“Everything on a need-to-know basis.”

“True,” said Erich. “But, as you can imagine, there are always rumors flying. The most obvious assumption is that our scientists are working on special weapons projects. Although I’ve heard this is not the only such base.”

“Really?”

Erich grinned. “There is talk of a ‘Station Two Eleven’ located in the Antarctic.”

“Someone in High Command has a preference for cold weather.”

“Inaccessible locations seems to be the priority.” Erich poured more black coffee from his thermos, sipped it absently. “Even if the enemy discovers the existence of such bases, they will be difficult, if not impossible, to attack.”

“What about our boat? How hard for us to get into the Station?”

Erich tapped the now unsealed orders and directions. “You have read the briefing. We have a precise map of the underwater passage, but it will require skill and some luck, as usual.”

Manny smiled. “Of course. How much do we tell the crew?”

“That will be to our discretion. Since this is an emergency mission, we may include them in whatever will ensure success, would not you think?”

Erich felt strongly about that, believed he owed his men a high level of honesty for their trust in him.

Manny nodded as he checked his wrist watch. “I agree. The more they know, the more well-equipped to deal with the unanticipated.”

Erich stood up, reached for the cabin door. “It is time,” he said softly.

As he entered the control room, he saw Bischoff hunched over his funkmaat console, hands pressing his headphones ever closer to his ears. He looked up to address his captain.

“All quiet, sir.”

“Herr Ostermann,” said Erich. “An update on our position.”

“We are approaching the entrance coordinates. We should be able to get a visual any time now.”

The helmsman was standing by, waiting for the command to take additional action.

Turning, Erich directed his attention through the viewing port, past the pale, ghostly reach of a single searchlight. He paused as something began to define itself in the murky water.

“Helmsman,” he said. “All ahead one quarter. Zero bubble.”

“I see a darker space,” said Manfred, whispering. “Is that it? The entrance.”

“We need to get a little closer.” Erich trusted the data from the sealed briefing. He was certain they were on track, but a solid confirmation would make him feel even better.

As the boat surged forward, her bow level, the details of the ice-shelf, which formed the cruel, undersea shoreline of Greenland, revealed themselves.

“That looks like the opening we are looking for. Right there.” Manny pointed dead ahead.

Erich squinted ineffectually through the thick glass of the viewport. He silently cursed the visibility, at the same time realizing how innovative and helpful it was to even have a viewport. Having spent all of his undersea time sailing “blind,” he should be happy to be able to see anything.

Visibility gradually improved, but with excruciating slowness. Meter by meter, the boat closed the distance between itself and the opening in the shelf. Erich could almost feel the weight of all the ice over their heads.

A little farther. A little more, and—

“It is a cavern,” said Manfred, still whispering so only Erich could hear him. “Look!”

“Affirmative. Helm, approach with caution on current heading. Slip speed.”

Waiting patiently for a clearer view, Erich could see they were slowly knifing through a natural geologic opening, perhaps a fault that had been there a long time.

Closer and closer, the U-5001 approached and Erich could now appreciate the size of the yawning chasm in front of them. Even allowing for distortion and lack of proportion, the opening appeared capacious, ready to swallow up their bulk like a minnow.

“Steady as she goes,” said Erich.

Like the open maw of an enormous sea creature, the submerged entrance to the secret base filled the viewing port with a vast, hollow darkness. It was like the entrance to an undersea hell, to a place of nightmare and the ending of all light forever. Terrifying, yet comforting in a way he had not expected, Erich tried to estimate its true dimensions.

When entering a space that defied experience and logic, such as this one, he knew it would be easy to let your imagination loose on a catalogue of horrors. There could be a monstrous row of stalagmites, like the saw-teeth of a beast, waiting to split open the hull like a pea pod. There could be an utterly black wall behind the ice-shelf, which had only appeared to be an opening. A barrier into which they would plunge, nose-first, in several seconds. There could be an underwater tremor, which would bring the ceiling of the cavern down upon them like the sledge-hammer of a Norse god.

All these thoughts passed through him like flashes of lightning. In an instant, disaster could seize them like a failing engine in mid-stroke.

He imagined the bulkheads crumpling down and around them like wrapping paper, followed by the frigid pressure-slam of the sea, rushing over him with such speed and power he might be flensed of his skin. His men turned inside-out before the icy water filled their throats and lungs with the force of a forty-foot wave. Could there be a worse way to die?

Surely no.

Closer to the deeper darkness plunged his boat. They had entered the mouth to the cavern, slipping down its vast throat.

“Incredible,” said Manfred. “We made it…”

Erich continued to stare through the viewing port. “For the moment. But I want another set of eyes, Manny. We must be vigilant.”

“Aye, sir.” The view beyond the glass could have been a mile beyond the moon. The boat’s searchlight probed the darkness and found nothing close enough to reflect. Where were they?

“Ahead. Slip speed,” said Bruckner. “Bearing one five nine.”

No one spoke for several minutes. The sounds of the U-5001 held them in a false machine-silence. The metal beast breathed and stretched and inched forward, making the sounds they had all learned to ignore.

Manny exhaled slowly. “It looks as if we are headed beneath the whole of Greenland. Impossible, I know, but…”

Erich turned to his radio/sonar man. “Bischoff, get me some readings. I want to know how much room we have to maneuver. I cannot trust my briefing alone.”

“Aye, sir.”

Manny continued to peer into the darkness beyond the viewing port. The lance of the boat’s single light appeared feeble, almost silly, when confronting such a vast cavern. No one spoke for several minutes as new information was gathered. Erich glanced at the other crewman on the control deck, and he felt a swelling of pride to be with such men. Despite knowing virtually nothing about this part of the mission, they performed their duties without question or hesitation. Even now, as bubbling over with curiosity as they must be, they kept their mouths shut, their emotions in check. Every man performed with the utmost character and professionalism.

“Captain,” said Bischoff. “Soundings concur. We have more than ample room in all directions. But there is one oddity.…”

“Tell me,” said Erich.

“Unless my equipment is wrong, we are only one-twenty from the surface.”

“Given the details of our briefing,” said Erich in a low voice. “That is quite possible. Right, Manny?”

“If we are entering a huge air-pocket, trapped in the vault of the cavern. Certainly.”

Erich spoke to his funkmeister. “Inform me when we have a clear ascent.”

“It appears we are clear now, Captain.”

Manny looked at him. “Best way to get her to the surface?”

“We are going to experiment,” said Bruckner.

Erich outlined his idea to inch forward through the underground sea, carefully sounding the surrounding to see if the topography might offer them the assistance they needed. After briefing Bischoff and the rest of the control deck crew, Erich and Warrant Officer Ostermann studied the chart of Station One Eleven that had been appended to the sealed orders. Erich hoped he could find a natural slip — a place where the seabed rose gradually. This was his back-up in case the diving planes would not get the boat to the surface.

“Get me a status report from Kress,” he told Manny.

Signaling on the tube, Kress responded almost instantly, his voice edged with tension that all engineers seemed to possess in great quantities. Erich could imagine Kress, a spindly-thin man, with very round eyes, enhanced by the thick glasses he wore, leaning into the tube.

“Fassbaden, what in feiken is going on up there? I am getting bits and pieces, but mostly pieces.”

“This is Captain Bruckner, Herr Kress.”

“Pardon me, Captain. It is stressful down here.”

Kress was very smart, well-read and full of plans to someday be an inventor for the automobile industry. His entire family had worked for Daimler since the founding of the company, and he longed for such a career — if he could just get out of this war alive.

Erich exhaled slowly. “Things are complicated. I will brief you later.”

“My men are on edge,” said Kress. “Not knowing is one thing. But hearing the torpedoes being fired… they deserve to know if they are in danger.”

Erich grinned, but without humor. “Remind them they are in a U-boat… they are always in danger.”

“Are we making for the surface?”

Erich explained to Kress what he would need from the boat, plus his contingency plans.

Kress understood perfectly. “We should be able to handle it. I can give you five hours of battery.”

Erich knew his tactics depended on how easily their ascent could be accomplished. If he had to ground the boat on the slope of the shoreline, he might have to think about abandoning the ship. He could try to get his crew to the surface with the “D.T.”—an escape device whose real name was draeger tauchretter.

Erich had little faith in the equipment, which had been used with varying success (and much failure) by submariners. Essentially it was a “re-breather,” which converted carbon dioxide into oxygen. In theory, it would allow a man to stay alive until he could reach the surface, but all sailors knew an air supply was only part of the problem of escaping a sunken submarine. Depth and pressure and nitrogen poisoning were the other three variables, which ultimately determined whether or not survival was possible. Although every crewman had trained on the draeger, no one really believed it could save their life.

“One more thing before we start, Herr Kress—”

“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. But 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

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.

“Just passing through,” said Doc as he came into view from the cloudy water above them.

“Kevin and Andy should be in the aft section,” said Dex. “I’m thinking you should use the rear hatch to hook up with them.”

“No problem,” said Doc. He and Mike gave the thumbs up as they continued their descent.

After staging their ascent, pausing to let any possible excess nitrogen leak from their bodies, Dex and Tommy broke the surface and climbed aboard the Sea Dog. The sun was climbing higher, burning off the early morning fog and haze, revealing a soft blue sky with only few scattered clouds. It was going to be a good day to be out on the Bay. Don, momentarily abandoning his post on the Divelink base station, was standing on the rear deck, waiting for them. He was sporting his usual lopsided smile as he helped Dex over the gunwale.

“Okay, so what do we have down there?” he said.

Dex pulled off his mask, sucked in another lungful of salty air. “Couple things I want to look at.” He reached into his collection bag, took out the steel box. “You have anything on the bench that will get this open?”

Don looked at it, grinned. “One way or another. Might get messy, though.”

“I’ll take it into the shed and see what gives,” said Dex. He followed Tommy across the open section of the boat to the equipment lockers and the dive salon amidships. They sat down, unharnessed their tanks and utility belts. Don eased past them, climbed back up to the bridge to keep an ear on the base unit.

“You want me to start recharging the tanks?” said Tommy.

“Yeah, good idea. But bring that stuff you found into the shed first.”

They went inside the small deckhouse where Don had built in a workbench, and storage for all the tools and equipment a well-rigged diveboat should have.

Opening his collection bag, Tommy laid out the items he’d found in the U-boat captain’s locker: some metal buttons, some clips and pins and several other pieces that had once been military medals. Dex picked up one of the two Iron Crosses on the bench, held it up to the light.

“The Knight’s Cross,” he said. “You had to be a real hero-type to get one of these.”

“Must’ve been pinned to something hangin’ in that closet, huh?” Tommy said. “Looks like our captain was good at his job.”

“He brought a super-sized sub right up the gut of the Chesapeake Bay. I’d say he was real good.” Dex placed the steel box on the bench in front of him, then looked over the array of tools to see what would get him inside with a minimum of difficulty. There was always the cold chisel and hammer approach, or an oxy-acetylene cutting torch, but Dex didn’t want to get that physical if it wasn’t necessary.

As Tommy left to re-fill the tanks, Dex finished his inventory of all the onboard tools and things that would pretty much destroy the steel box as well as open it. He nixed every one of them. Something as well-machined as this container just might be holding something very valuable or very fragile. He didn’t want to do anything too violent that might destroy the contents.

Reluctantly, he replaced everything to the sample bag, and re-connected it to his belt. Despite its weight and unwieldiness, he figured it was safest close to his person. Dex had gotten this far in life listening to his gut and his hunches, and something was telling him to be very careful with the box and the brick.

“Hey,” said Tommy as he re-entered the deckhouse. “You get it open?”

Dex explained why he had not.

Tommy shrugged. “You’ll figure somethin’ out, I gotta feelin’. But if you don’t, I got some stuff in the basement at my place. My uncle used to be a machinist at the Key Highway Ship Yard. Long time ago.”

“Really?” Dex looked up with renewed interest.

“Yeah, when he left me the house, a buncha his tools were down there. I never got around to doin’ anything with’em.”

“Good to know. Maybe we can take a look later tonight.”

“Yeah, no prob.”

“You get the tanks going?”

“Oh, yeah. All set.” Tommy walked over to the bench, hands in his pockets, head down. “Hey, listen… about yesterday, I—”

“You already apologized. Just don’t do anything stupid again… or your diving career with me is going to have been a very short one.”

Tommy leaned against the bench. “I know, I know. I just want you to know I was listenin’. You won’t have any trouble outta me. No more, I promise.”

Dex looked at him. His lean, dark features were set in an all-business expression. “Okay, but like I always told my Navy swabs — don’t make promises, just do what’s expected, that’s all.”

“Thanks, Dex. Exactly what I plan to do.”

“Okay, okay. Now, let’s get up to the bridge and see how things are going down there.”

When they reached the bridge, they found Don Jordan hunched over the Divelink base unit, his left hand holding the headset tightly to his ear, and his attention obviously locked on what he was listening to.

“Don?” said Dex.

Jordan gestured quickly to be quiet for a moment. “Hold it!” he whispered.

Dex felt the muscles in his jaws tighten. Something was wrong. Moving quickly, he flipped a toggle on the base unit and the sounds in Don’s headset were now coming through the speakers. The divers were all talking at once, their voices edged with panic and fear. Andy Mellow’s voice seemed to penetrate the noise most efficiently: “—and get ’im the fuck outta there!”

“What’s going on?” said Dex, trying to sound very calm, while his stomach had already started folding in on itself.

For Dex, time had slipped its gears for an instant, grinding to a stop. Something was very wrong. For sure, somebody’d gotten their ass in a crack.

Don Jordan’s face had lost a lot of color as he looked up at them. “Mike’s fouled up in a bunch of cables and wires. The aft torpedo section.”

The base unit’s speaker blabbered with everybody talking at once.

“All right, can it!” Dex yelled as he picked up the base mic. “Andy! Kevin! What’s going on?”

“Not sure,” said Kevin. “Mike squeezed his way into the last compartment. Doc tried to stop him, but Mike didn’t pay any attention.”

“What’s his status?”

“He’s stuck in some lines, it looks like. The light’s bad in there and—”

“I think I cut a hose…”

Mike Bielski’s voice cut through the transmission like a dull knife. He sounded dreamy, exhausted, resigned.

“Mike, what the fuck’re you doing, man?” said Dex. “Give me the picture.”

“Can’t…”

“He’s just about out of air,” said Kevin. “I see a lot of bubbles, Dex.”

“Okay, who’s closest to his position?”

“That’d be me,” said Doc.

“Can you get him your respirator on a buddy-share?”

“I don’t know,” said Doc. “The torpedo room’s a mess. Crap everywhere. Mike forced his way through it. He’s about eight, maybe ten feet past the bulkhead. But I don’t see how I can get in there and not get hung up in the junk myself.”

“Don’t try it,” said Dex. “Just stay with him and keep him conscious if you can. Keep him focused. I’m coming back down with some stuff.”

“We have about twelve minutes,” said Kevin. “Then Doc’s on his own.”

“I’ll be there way before then,” said Dex.

He turned and practically jumped through the hatch to the deck ladder. Tommy was right behind him. As he pulled on his gear, Tommy set him up with fresh tanks. He grabbed a utility belt and the small cutting torch, unhooked the sample bag.

“Here,” he said, handing it to Tommy. “Don’t let it out of your sight.”

“Got ya.”

Dex moved smoothly, quickly, but he had this really bad feeling he wasn’t going to be fast enough.

As he dropped into the still, cool water, he felt a terrible tightness in his chest — his body’s way of telling him things were not going to work out very well. Better not to think like that. He forced himself to concentrate on what he might be needing. In addition to the cutting torch, he carried an extra tank of air with extra lengths of hose, and a ten-foot grappling arm with a simple mechanical hand. It better be good enough.

But he hoped he wouldn’t need any of this crap at all.

“Doc, you there?” he said through his mask mic.

“Yeah, where are you?”

“More than halfway down, should be there any second. How’s he doing?”

“Can’t tell… he’s not moving.”

As the submarine’s features took form through the murky water, Dex kicked harder, propelling himself towards the stern and the open hatch. The bright colors of Kevin’s and Andy’s dry suits were like beacons as he headed for them.

“Doc, get clear of the hatch,” said Dex. “I’m coming in.”

They helped him feed the gear into the aft section, which was looking more narrow and tight and dark despite the light from everybody’s torches. Dex followed headfirst and oriented himself toward the bulkhead and open hatch into the torpedo room.

“Hurry up,” said Doc.

As Dex cleared the bulkhead, he could see Mike’s pale yellow suit defining his body, which floated parallel to the deck, arms and legs outstretched like a store mannequin. No more bubbles exited his regulator. There wasn’t the spaghetti bowl of wires and cables he’d expected — just a single, loose bundle of stuff that had rotted through its tubing and hung down like the tendrils of a man-o-war. Mike had somehow gotten his hoses fouled in the lines and split one of them trying to slip free. He wasn’t moving as he drifted in the chamber, but seemed barely attached to the wires holding him.

It didn’t look like big trouble, but that’s exactly why wreck diving was so dangerous. A lot of the things that looked harmless were exactly the ones waiting to turn you into a deader.

Not needing the grappling arm, Dex dropped it and lifted the extra air tank into position as he closed the distance on Mike’s still form. There was plenty of crap dangling down around him, but he’d been through worse.

Through the faceplate of his mask, Mike’s eyes remained open, looking very empty.

“Mike, you hear me, buddy?”

Nothing.

Dex inched closer. He could avoid the tangle of wires by staying beneath Mike, who hung closer to the ceiling. In one smooth, coordinated motion he pulled Mike’s regulator from his slack lips and replaced it with the one from the fresh tank. He slapped him hard in the temple and thought he saw the suggestion of a blink, but nothing more. Hard to tell how long he’d gone without taking a breath but it wasn’t looking too good.

Dex fired up the cutting torch and adjusted the flame to a fine point. It sliced through everything like going through cobwebs, and Dex had him free in less than fifteen seconds. He passed him out to Doc, who eased him through the escape hatch to Kevin and Andy.

“Take him up as fast as you can,” said Doc. “I’m right behind you.”

Dex emerged from the hatch as they ascended, pushing his gear out ahead of him. The bends weren’t an issue, and even if they were, they would still be the least of Mike’s problems at this point. If Doc couldn’t get him breathing it was all over anyway. The idea of losing Mike started to hit Dex — now that he wasn’t running on adrenaline. All those years in the Navy had produced its statistical share of fuck-ups and weird accidents, but it never made it any easier to see one of your men go down and never make it back.

By the time he scrambled over the aft gunwale, they had Bielski supine on the deck in front of the dive salon. Doc was leaning over him doing CPR.

“How is he?” said Dex as he dropped his tanks and rushed to join the circle. As he took a reading of their faces, he could see mixtures of fear and relief — worrying about Mike and realizing it could have been any one of them, and an unspoken gladness it was not.

“I’m getting nothing,” said Doc, breathing hard.

“C’mon, Bielski…” said Kevin.

“Mikey, you hear me!” Andy Mellow was actually yelling at him. “Come on, you fuck!”

Tension enveloped everybody like a noxious cloud, a cloud tinged with the stench of death. Infecting them, making them angry and crazy.

Dex stood behind the small circle with Donnie, who moved closer, spoke very softly. “I got the Coast Guard on the radio. They’re on their way.”

Pump, pound, blow. Over and over Doc tried everything he could to get a response out of him, finally looking back at Dex. “Time for something drastic! Get me that battery charger! Hurry!”

Kevin moved so fast, it was like he’d had the charger and its dolly in his pocket. Suddenly he was right there, wheeling right up to Mike with the gear, and Doc grabbed the big, oversized alligator clips.

“Is it on!?”

“Go!” yelled Andy.

Like he was trying to goose a big diesel into life, Doc jammed the clips into each side of Mike’s ribcage. There was a sound like a dry piece of wood snapping in half and Mike’s whole body arched and spasmed galvanically. Doc repeated the charge a couple more times before finally throwing down the clips.

“Turn it off…” he said. Schissel fell back on his folded knees, wiped the sweat and tears from his face. “Shit…”

“Oh, man… are you kiddin’ me?” Tommy spoke so softly as if he were in church.

“I can’t believe this,” said Kevin. “I can’t believe it.”

Dex felt like somebody was trying to yank his stomach inside-out. He knew he had to keep himself busy, keep from letting this take him over and turn him into something useless. “Somebody get a blanket,” he said.

Everybody except Doc drifted away; he remained out of respect or duty, or maybe he was just a little stunned. Tommy came back with a big beach towel, handed it to Doc, who ignored it as he went through the motions of CPR. No way he wanted to drape it over Mike Bielski’s long, oddly serene face.

“He didn’t even act like he was in trouble,” said Andy. “Almost like he accepted his fate, you know?”

“I’ve seen guys do that,” said Dex. “They kind of give up. Doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.”

“Okay, guys, we’ve got company coming!” Don Jordan yelled down from the bridge as he pointed off the starboard side where an orange and white helicopter angled toward them. The whine of its turbines filled the air and within seconds it was hovering close enough to batter them in its prop wash. Tommy moved up next to Dex, nudged him. “Man, that thing is rippin’ it up pretty good,” he said.

Dex watched the chopper’s side door open to reveal a guy in search and rescue gear — hood, goggles, and flippers. He was the “swimmer.” He stepped into the air, knifed down to the water and swam quickly to the little platform at the stern.

Climbing on board, the guy didn’t say a word until he reached Mike’s still form. “Okay, we hoist him out of here, now! Is he breathing?”

“Negative,” said Doc.

“Decompression?”

“We were just past 66 feet — some damage,” said Dex. “But he cut a hose. No air.”

Signaling to the pilot, the Coast Guard swimmer then motioned everyone to stand back. Instantly, a steel basket began unreeling from the chopper toward the deck. “Watch out! Stand clear!”

“Get back,” said Dex. “That thing can carry a static charge that can half kill you.”

“What?” said Andy.

“Stay away from the rail!” said Dex.

“You got it,” said Tommy.

When the basket brushed the Sea Dog’s rail, Dex thought he caught a small spark of discharge just as the swimmer grabbed it, then guided it down to the deck. They wrapped Mike in the blanket, eased him into the steel cradle, then the swimmer hoisted himself above it. Holding on as the rig was hoisted back into the belly of the chopper, he didn’t so much as wave at Dex and the others.

“Oh, man, this is bad,” said Kevin.

“I can’t believe it,” said Andy.

Dex shook his head, fighting a feeling of total nausea, like a classic case of sea-sickness. “It’s not over yet, guys,” he said. “Look.”

They followed his gaze as the prow of a Coast Guard Cutter cleaved the bay water at high speed. Its course would bring it alongside Don’s boat very quickly.

“That thing can move,” said Doc.

“What’re they going to want?” said Tommy. “We in trouble?”

“Nah,” said Kevin. “They’re just following protocol. They’re government — gotta file a report. You know how that is.”

The cutter slowed and made a sharp turn to come about on their starboard.

“Good sailors, those guys.” said Dex. “My father was Coast Guard.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I never saw him all that much. But he did get me into boats and the sea.”

“My old man worked at Sparrows Point,” said Tommy, shaking his head as if to get rid of a bad memory. “Steel yards. He came home so beat up, he never talked to us. Just dropped into his chair with a bottle of Natty Boh and the TV. That was it, man…”

Dex was looking out toward the patch of sky where Mike had been taken. “How many kids did he have, I… I can’t remember. Or maybe I don’t want to…”

“Two, I think,” said Kevin, shaking his head slowly.

Doc folded him arms, watched several sailors on the cutter climbing down into a motor launch. “This is not going to be easy.”

It never is, thought Dex. He had been forcing himself to think as clearly as possible. Mike’s death changed everything in ways none of the other guys had probably thought about. Dex knew how he had to deal with the emotional side of what happened — just start thinking about other stuff, the stuff you had some control over. No percentage in making yourself neurotic worrying about the immutable things already slipping away into that cold place we called the past. A career in the Navy had shown Dex how he was put together and what worked for him… what had marked him as a survivor… no matter what. He knew the key to keeping it together.

And that was to never look back.

“Ahoy, Seadog!” The amplified sound of the cutter’s bullhorn cut through his thoughts. “Permission to come aboard!”

The cutter was in close quarters to their vessel, and four seaman were already motoring toward them in a small, sleek boat. Don signaled them over. As captain, he would handle the protocols; Dex was just another passenger, and that was fine with him.

He stood there waiting for the routine questions. The Coast Guard dealt with water fatalities all the time, and this would only be unique because of the circumstances leading up to it — not many divers breathed their last in the passageways of a Nazi sub.

Which changed everything.

Until this moment, Dex hadn’t thought about it much. He’d just kind of subconsciously assumed the sub and its location would remain a… a secret, among him and the others. At least until they’d clocked its identity, picked over it for anything of value.

But that was over now.

There was bound to be publicity, which would attract other boats, other divers. Even the Navy would act like they were interested — even if they weren’t.

It probably wouldn’t be such a big deal in the long run, but there was that small matter of that weird bar of Tommy’s. A subliminal alarm kept beeping at the base of his thoughts, suggesting it might be important. Important enough to keep quiet… for as long as they could.

The rest of the guys had seemed to instantly sense the odd, delicate situation they were in. Nobody wanted to be interrogated because they had been in the vicinity of somebody dying, and they all probably figured Mike’s death had most likely complicated by their discovery of the wreck. Dex had mentioned the need to keep the news and location of the sub a secret for the time being for several reasons — one, other wreck divers and “treasure hunters” would descend on the boat and it would not only be an absurd circus, but also a lot more dangerous. Two, they hadn’t had enough time to solve some of the boat’s major mysteries — like discovering its mission, whatever was under that hangar-deck, and of course the bar of unrecognizable metal.

When Dex tried to casually assume responsibility and do all the talking to the Coast Guard officer who needed some answers, none of the other guys acted like they wanted any part of it. After Mike’s body was hauled off, they all drifted away from the railing — a signal that Dex could tell the officer whatever he wanted and they wouldn’t be doing any editing or embellishing.

Not even Tommy, and thank Christ for that. He strayed up to the bridge with Donnie and sat there keeping his hands warm around a mug of coffee.

The Ensign with the clipboard and pen had the name Hawkins stenciled on his uniform; he started taking notes as he ran down the standard checklist of questions about the accident. The guy wasn’t overly wary or suspicious and Dex figured this wasn’t the first water accident victim he’d investigated.

And when Dex gave him his full credentials, especially the part about being a master diver with the Navy, everything changed even more for the better. Their conversation became less of a formal inquest and more of a friendly chat between brothers on the sea. Finally, the talk steered around to the nature of the wreck itself.

“What’d you guys find down there, anyway?”

“Well, I was hoping we could keep it quiet for awhile — before the accident, I mean.”

Hawkins kind of half-grinned sarcastically. “Why? Buried Treasure?”

“Nah,” said Dex. “World War II wreck. But we wanted a little more time to poke around before it attracted a crowd.”

“So what is it?”

“U-boat.”

The Ensign looked at him with a half-smile. “I’m assuming we’re not talking about ‘the Black Panther’?”

Dex shook his head. Hawkins had referred to the U-1105, a well-known wreck off Piney Point near the mouth of the Potomac. The sub had gotten its name because of the black rubber coating on its hull to make it less visible to sonar. “C’mon. Of course not. We found a new one.”

“No kidding?” Ensign Hawkins registered genuine surprise. “Another one in the Bay, that’s kind of cool.”

Dex managed a half-grin. “Yeah, like I said, we were hoping we could get a little time to knock around on it before everybody else got wind of it.”

“Yeah, I understand,” said Hawkins. “You get a name on it yet?”

“Well, we haven’t found anything official yet, we think it might be U-5001.”

“Yeah? How come?”

Dex mentioned the numbers stenciled on the interior hatches.

The Ensign nodded, checked his watch. His demeanor had become more relaxed, and now he continued with his by-the-book questions with an unspoken tone that said he just wanted to get it over with.

Ten minutes later, he looked into Dex’s face, nodded. “Tell you what, Chief… I’ll try to keep the… ah, exact nature of your wreck kind of vague for as long as I can. Maybe log the report with something like ‘World War II vintage’ or something like that. That might get you 24 hours — maybe more if none of my supes asks for a clarification — but a lot of times they have a poker up their ass about stuff like this. You can understand that, right?”

“Oh yeah…”

“I mean, I’m assuming you and your guys feel up to going back down on her.”

“We were planning on tomorrow. Thanks.”

The Ensign grinned. “That’s cool. After what you just been through, some guys aren’t up to it.”

Dex nodded. “Well you know the old saying about when you fall off a horse…”

“That’s the only way to look at it, I figure.” The Ensign extended his hand, shook with Dex. “Take care of yourself, Chief. I’ll be in touch if I need anything else. And… sorry about what happened, you know?”

Watching the Coast Guard officer climb into the launch and head back to his cutter, Dex felt uneasy. While he didn’t expect much follow-up from him, he doubted he actually might be able to keep a lid on the news about their sub for very long, if at all. It was too much of a unique event. Didn’t matter, though. Dex knew things had changed with Mike’s death, and he and the other guys would have to adjust to it.

Like, right away.

Dex and the rest of the guys cleaned up the decks as Don fired up the engines and headed back in toward the harbor. Nobody talked much, and it was a hell of a way to wrap up a weekend. Somebody was going to have to step up and notify Mike’s family, and Dex knew it wasn’t going to be him if he could help it. Doc had a lot more experience on that end, and that was that.

The next day was the last scheduled day for their dives, and Dex had a feeling if they didn’t do it tomorrow, they’d never get back down there on their own.

He knew there’d be a funeral to deal with and maybe some publicity about what happened to poor Mike, but that was not enough reason to postpone the next dive on the sub. No way he could count on a Coast Guard Ensign to protect their salvage rights. They weren’t going to have much time to get some answers, and he needed to know who he could count on.

After thinking about it for only a second or two, he realized there was only one person he could count on — Dexter McCauley.

Chapter Sixteen

Bischoff’s efforts to reach anyone at Station One Eleven had been met with silence — other than the white noise of an open channel. That could mean damage to the staff’s equipment, or an unattended radio room. The latter possibility bothered Erich. Communications facilities were never abandoned or ignored — unless some kind of catastrophic event had happened.

Bischoff had, however, acquired a fix on the open channel, and Erich’s rescue team would be able to home in on it.

His other concern did not appear as dire. The early report from the damage control team was not as bad as he’d feared.

As suspected, the diving plane on the starboard side had been bent just enough to affect its performance. Since it was located below the waterline, the repair would be troublesome, but not impossible. The breach in the escape hatch, which had cut off the aft torpedo crew, proved more of a problem. And once the U-5001 had surfaced, the water had to be pumped out of the flooded chamber. Kress had a team working feverishly to hammer and bang the hatch back into alignment, but Erich knew there would be no certain way to check the airtight quality of the seal until they were in the open sea, diving under pressure. Not the kind of test any submariner wanted to apply — especially when anything less than total success could be your your demise.

Before departing the boat, Erich sat in his quarters, staring at his personal journal rather than the boat’s official log. Ever since he’d joined the Kriegsmarine, he’d been keeping his journals — initiating a new one for each new boat on which he’d served. In the beginning, he believed he was doing it for his children. Having come from a military family, it had been a long and honored custom to compile memoirs of a man’s time in service to the Fatherland. But he had since stopped thinking about having a family, and was now recording his personal feelings and observations more out of habit than anything else.

Better to stop that line of thinking. He wrote down his experiences in self-defense. He needed rational thoughts to shield him from reminders of the terrible loss this war had exacted upon him. But he had no desire to actually test them out. He might re-read his journals on some far future day — if that day would ever come — but not any time soon.

He reached for a bottle of schnapps, and poured a small glass. He did not prefer the peppermint flavor, but it was all they had provided for the voyage. Erich would not complain because he really needed to drink some alcohol.

As he sat sipping and staring at the closed cover of his journal, he knew there was no time to make any entries at the moment, but he wondered what the next few hours would bring, what he might write in the next few pages.

Right now, he needed to face facts head-on. He and his crew had been thrown into a new mission that may change everything. He had no idea what kind of emergency had happened here, and how he dealt with it would surely be crucial. He needed to conclude business here as soon as possible before returning to his original mission, which was in jeopardy if he could not rendezvous with the cruiser, Sturm.

But as he sat there, trying to organize his thoughts in short, dry sentences, he realized he was ignoring his gut instincts.

Something about this place did not feel right.

It was more than its location or its extraordinary geologic profile, but Erich could not identify it any more than to say it disturbed him. Like some other creations of his country’s leaders, this one also… scared him.

And that was a big problem because he knew he could not let any of his crew know such a thing — not even his officers, except Manny, who would understand, and perhaps share his dark intuition. Newton Bischoff, who was so inflated with all the party hype, would assume there was nothing here beyond the scope of the Third Reich; Helmut Massenburg, being the perfect soldier in an imperfect world, would see this as just another mission to be completed; and Ostermann, with his heavily analytical mind, would see things more or less as a puzzle to be worked out — something no more threatening than a set of Chinese rings.

Erich, however, could not avoid the feeling it was a bit more complicated than that.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

“Yes?”

“Captain, I have news.” Fassbaden’s voice resonated through the cabin door.

“Come in.”

Opening the door, Manny leaned his tall frame forward, stepped into the cabin. “Busy?”

Erich shrugged. “Close the door, Manny.”

His exec did so, then pulled up the only other chair in the room. He sat with his hands interlaced in front of him as though he were in the waiting room of a doctor. “The rescue team is ready to depart. The hydroplane fix will probably hold, Kress tells me. The aft escape hatch may be a problem. The tolerances are small, and he cannot guarantee a proper seal.”

Erich exhaled softly. “Without a machine shop and a foundry at his disposal, I cannot expect miracles. My only concern now is that we are seaworthy enough to continue the mission.”

“I believe we are. We can always continue with only the exit chamber flooded and the lower hatch sealed.”

“Good. Good,” said Erich, looking at his old friend with a sardonic grin. “The larger question is when we will continue the original mission.”

Manny leaned forward, removed his officer’s cap and ran a large, bony hand through his thick hair. Like many of the crew, he had also stopped shaving and his beard was struggling through the stage that made any man look like an unkempt tramp. “I agree. How much time will we lose in this place?”

“Exactly. Something happened here, Manny. And I have a feeling it was very bad. There may not be anyone left to rescue or recover.”

“And I assume you want my input.”

Erich nodded. “But quickly, we need to get ashore.”

Reaching for a cigarette, he shook two out of his pack. After he and Erich had ignited them, they leaned back, watched the thin blue streams they exhaled.

“All right,” said Manny. “As you may expect, I have been thinking about our situation. We are now in the month of May. Eisenhower is almost in Berlin, and if we are smart, we should be praying he beats the Russians to the Reichstag.”

Erich knew where his friend was headed with the conversation. They shared a similar one in a bar called die Wharfratte in Trondheim before shipping out on the U-5001. There were many thousands of very unhappy Russian soldiers looking for some revenge against the Germans. If the communists gained control of the Fatherland, there would be a terrible punishment meted out, whereas the Americans would, in their patronizing way, believe they should spread their democracy over the landscape like so much fertilizer.

“Are you suggesting we cancel the remainder of the mission?” Erich was not ready to admit he had entertained that very notion; he needed input from his friend.

“No, I have not reached that point, yet. We need to see what has happened here. But we also need to consider all the implications, all the options.”

“No doubt you have been thinking about them.”

Fassbaden nodded. He held up his hand, ticking off each point, finger by finger. “One — we are expected to meet the Sturm in six days. Two — Ostermann says we are presently a little less than 1600 nautical miles from rendezvous at Montauk Point. Three — that means — even if we maintained a less than optimum submerged speed of 20 knots — we will need a minimum of four days to be in position.”

Erich grinned. “It looks like you have given this very much thought. What about the maneuvers? The tests were never completed.”

Fassbaden shook his head, smiled. “I think we can safely conclude this boat is seaworthy. Were it not, we would be dead by now.”

“Agreed.” Erich stood. “Let’s get that rescue party off.”

Manny hesitated.

“What? More?”

Fassbaden shrugged. “Not that much. I would never say this to anyone else, but what is the point of finishing this mission? We both agree the war is over. The ‘Bulge’ proved that.”

“It was not von Runstedt’s fault,” said Erich wistfully. “It was a bad plan.”

“You speak as if our ‘Fuhrer’ actually had a few good ones.” Fassbaden scowled. “Christ in heaven, how did we get ourselves into this mess?”

“We would make ourselves crazy trying to answer that. Stay on course — we must decide if the mission is even worth completing.”

Fassbaden looked at him like a detective sorting out evidence. “If you know more than the rest of us, then I am not qualified to give my opinion.”

“That is true. And there is one part of the mission entrusted only to me.”

“Which is?”

Erich shrugged. Given their current situation, did it matter if he shared top secrets with his friend? “Are you telling me you have not considered the facts you already know? Manny, you have probably pulled together all the final pieces of the puzzle.”

Fassbaden nodded. “I have been thinking, yes. Let’s see… We carry a single plane and its payload, and we are to pick up its crew and an additional bomb. Close to New York. To what end? Why would we want to send a single plane to attack an American city?”

Erich stared at him. “I think you know. Tell me.”

“It is real?” said Fassbaden. “They did it.”

Erich nodded. “My orders were to inform the crew at the rendezvous point. So what if I am a little early.”

“Unbelievable!”

Both men sat silently for a moment. They had both been privy to the rumors circulating through High Command that Heisenberg and the rest of German physicists were a lot closer to creating what was called a “fission bomb” than anyone imagined. Their quest had been called Project Norway, and the payload aboard the ME-5X was indeed a product of that secret weapons program.

“They want us to drop a super-bomb on New York.”

“Yes, and if it works, a second one on Washington. The Sturm is bringing it to us.”

“Oh my God…” Manny looked pale.

“The question begins and ends with us. Do we need to do this?” said Erich. “Will the killing of maybe 100,000 civilians change the course of the war, or just make us a special group of murderers?”

“What about Dresden? Why did they do it to a place like that?”

Erich nodded. “I know. I have heard all the same reasons as you. Although, even Goering admitted the firestorm was unexpected. And the Brits tried to justify it as payback for Coventry before that.”

“Yes, I have heard all that.”

Erich felt disgusted by it all. “Well, what the hell are we talking about, Manny? Are we in a fucking war, or not?”

Fassbaden flushed — either from embarrassment or anger, it did not matter. “Yes, we are…”

“So I ask you — do we continue the madness, or do we stop it?”

“That is sounding fearfully noble, Captain.”

Erich knew his friend was serious when he addressed him as “Captain.” He used the formality as a means of distancing himself from his friend. “Is that such a bad thing? I have to tell you — I am weary of being a soldier.”

“You are not alone in that.”

“If we drop a bomb on New York,” said Erich. “We will not bring back Dresden. Or anyone else who died in this mess.”

“I know, I know,” said Fassbaden. “I am not comfortable making decisions like this. It makes me question my own purpose. Whether or not I have wasted my time, my life.”

“I think that is a question most soldiers must face.”

“More so for the ones who fight on the losing side.” Manny grinned with absolutely no humor intended.

“It is natural to feel this way. You do not have to explain yourself.” Erich smiled the fatherly smile all captains practice in the mirror. “In the meantime, I trust you took some great care in selecting two crews.”

“Two?” His exec looked at him with curiosity. Manny tilted his head, raked his large hand through his hair again.

“One for the rescue team. And the other to stay here and take care of my boat.”

“Where do you want me?” said Fassbaden.

“I want someone on board I can trust, and that would be you. But I also want you with me.”

“Sounds like you have a problem.”

“I think Massenburg can keep things under control here,” said Erich, who valued the Warrant Officer’s age, experience, and loyalty.

“Agreed.”

“All right, get the lifeboat ready for launch. Crew of six, not counting us. Make sure Bischoff is one of them — it’s not that I do not trust him alone, but I feel better having such a party loyalist close at hand. And get me that troublemaker, Liebling. I want him in my sights as well.”

“Armament?”

“MP40’s and sidearms for everyone but Liebling. Give him the toolbox and the radio — he can be Bischoff’s mule.”

Standing, Fassbaden smiled as he adjusted his officer’s cap, then moved to the door. “We will be ready in five minutes. I will inform the Chief.”

Erich walked to his wardrobe, opened a drawer in its footlocker, and retrieved his holstered Walther P38. As he snapped it over his belt, Chief Warrant Officer Massenburg reported for duty, and Erich briefed him quickly.

The old salt was such a professional sailor, he never asked for a clarification, never hesitated as he reviewed his orders and expectations. While the U-5001 was under Helmut’s watch, he would tolerate no abuses or derelictions; punishment would be swift and uncompromising.

Leaving his Chief on the control deck, Erich felt confident all would be well when he returned. He climbed the ladder to the open bridge to find Fassbaden and his handpicked crew loading the last of their gear into the lifeboat, which was an inflatable large enough to carry twelve men in a pinch. The U-5001 was equipped with enough of them to evacuate an entire crew if necessary — an event he did not want to contemplate.

As he reached the main deck, Erich could not help but notice how utterly calm the water was in this subterranean place. The U-boat lay so steady and immobile, it could have been set in concrete. While not contained by a palpable fog, there was a humidity in the air, thick enough to cloud the landscape that enclosed them. Features and details in the distance were shrouded in a thin, but concealing mist — including the source of light and heat Erich wanted to discover.

Fassbaden awaited him on the relatively small section of deck between the conning tower and the swell of the hangar, which defined the hump-backed shape of much of the aft section. Behind him, a short, heavyset man with reddish-brown hair stood glaring at him.

“Ready to shove off?” said Erich.

“Yes, Captain.” Manny gestured with his eyes to indicate the man at his back. “But first, Seaman Liebling requests a word with you.”

Normally, Erich would not have appreciated one of his men doing such a thing, but in this instance, he welcomed it.

“What is it, sailor?”

Liebling stepped out from behind Manny’s tall presence. “Captain, I only wish to make my case clear — I am not a submariner.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, captain.”

“How is it, then, that I just saw you emerge from a submarine?”

The man’s voice was a bit high-pitched, and his tone was one of careful indignation. “I was dragooned onto this boat only hours before it pushed off, and—”

“I am well aware of your situation,” said Erich, cutting him off. “Do you think for an instant I would not know everything there is to know about everyone on this boat?”

Liebling looked suitably surprised, but marshaled himself to push on. “Yes, Captain, I am sure you do, and I do not wish to suggest otherwise. I only mention it because I feel I am unfit for this… this present mission.”

Erich remained silent for a moment, letting this jackass twist in the wind a bit. Then: “Do you recall me asking you how you ‘feel’ about this mission?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

“Do you believe you might be a better judge of the fitness of this boat’s personnel than its captain?”

Liebling’s lower lip quivered, either from anger or anxiety. “No, sir, I do not.”

“Then why do you address me on the subject?”

“Quite simply, Captain, since you have asked — I do not wish to go.”

Erich looked at Liebling with the dispassion of a lion eyeing its next meal. A hush had settled over the men in the lifeboat as they collectively looked up to watch the small drama playing out. After perhaps a minute of silence, Erich slowly unholstered his Walther.

Liebling’s eyes widened. Several men drew in tight breaths, held them. “I am within my command to simply shoot you on a charge of mutiny,” said Erich. “But for now, this will suffice…”

Holding his sidearm by its barrel, he backhanded Liebling across his face, driving the heavy handle across his upper jaw and nose. The blow was administered with stunning quickness and Liebling’s knees folded him into a limp heap, which toppled off the deck and into the water between the sloping hull and the rubber boat.

“Yank him out of there,” said Erich as several of the men moved quickly to haul Liebling over the gunwale like a gaffed fish. Blood streamed over his face from the calculated glancing blow; his eyes had rolled back toward his forehead. He was conscious, but just barely.

When Erich looked back at Manny, his exec was trying to stifle a smile. “Quite a memorable statement, Captain.”

“Glad you appreciated it,” said Erich. “Let us push off.”

They both climbed into the boat, and the crew eased it away from the huge bulk of the U-5001. As they slipped oars into the green glass surface, the sound of their splashing sounded like a violation of the sacred silence of the place. Erich directed them toward the far shore, above which hovered the strange source of light.

As they glided away from their boat, Manny looked back and attempted to get a visual fix on its position in case they might lose it in the mist. A precaution in the event the batteries of Bischoff’s funkmaat failed. Liebling huddled alone in the stern, holding a kerchief to the side of his face. He averted his gaze from Erich, and that was exactly the posture he wanted from garbage scow material such as him.

“Take her ninety degrees of starboard,” said Erich to the men on the oars. “Use the light source as your target.”

“I brought this along,” said Manny, lifting a Leica rangefinder camera from the outer pocket of his field vest. “So we will have a record.”

“Good thinking.” Erich stared ahead into the gossamer mist, which hung close to the water’s surface, possibly because of well-defined layers of differing air temperatures. “Bischoff. Try to raise the Station again.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Erich looked into the mist and the curious light source.

“Whether they reply or not,” he said. “Soon we will have some real answers.”

Chapter Seventeen

It was dusk by the time Dex reached his neighborhood. All the townhouses on his street had windows aglow with television light; everybody doing the same silly thing. Funny how most people ran their lives — like they were all following the identical, dull script; all cast in the same vapid play. Even though he’d always been glad to have escaped that fate, right now he almost longed for a little more of the purely mundane existence.

Pulling into the garage, Dex killed the engine, hit the Genie door-closer, and reached for the backpack on the passenger seat. He was hungry, thirsty, and dog-tired, but he knew he had a long night ahead of him, and he wanted to be out on the water at first light. He grabbed the pack — which held the Nazi captain’s little box and Tommy’s bar of weird metal from the sub — and headed inside. Just in case he might need his laptop, he was stopping in to grab it before leaving for Tommy’s place. As he was loading it into its case, he glanced at the thin, lightweight Canon scanner on the corner of his desk. A notion struck him — another one of his hunches. Just to be sure, he stuffed the scanner and cable into his backpack.

A Guinness and a sandwich later, as he was heading back out the door, his cell phone rang. When he saw Kevin Cheever’s name on the ID, he accepted the call.

The first minutes of the call rehashed the whole thing with Mike, and Dex figured Kevin needed to just get it off his chest. And not surprisingly, his wife was talking in the background about how she didn’t want him anywhere near the sub anymore.

“Well,” said Dex. “Tell her after tomorrow, she probably won’t have to worry about it.”

Kevin understood the lid had been lifted on their discovery. They couldn’t count on the Coast Guard keeping any secrets. “I hear you. No way to tell who will want to join the party when the news breaks.”

“Anything else we want to know about this boat, I figure, is going to have to happen tomorrow.” Dex turned off the kitchen light as he talked. Headed out to the garage.

“We can handle it.”

“I know we can.”

“Funny, though,” said Kevin. “I have this weird feeling about that boat.”

“You got that, bro.” Dex knew exactly what Kevin was talking about. “Like there’s more to it than we’ve been able to figure so far. And I’m not just talking about the hangar on the aft deck… even though that is very cool.”

“No damage to the hull. Looks like they scuttled it.”

“I agree. So the real question is why?”

“Yeah, and what happened to the crew? And how come nobody has a record of the boat?”

“Somebody does.” said Dex. “We just need to find out who it is.”

“Which reminds me — I already put out a feeler,” said Kevin. “I think I mentioned it. One of my guys at the lab, Sal, he has a pal at the Naval Historical Center in Southeast.”

“The Navy Yard,” said Dex. He knew the place pretty well but he didn’t know much about the Historical Center.

“Sal already called them. They said they’d have to check and get back to him. Official records is what we want. A lot better than the stuff on the web. You never know what’s accurate on half of that crap.”

“Okay, see what you can find out. Meanwhile, I’ll see you on the Dog in the morning. Regular time.”

Dex was in his truck by the time he punched out the call, alone with his thoughts as he pushed his pickup up I-97 just as nightfall settled over it.

A half-hour later he was looking for a parking space in Little Italy. It was an interesting little neighborhood comprised of a grid of short blocks, narrow streets, and century-old brick rowhouses maybe fifteen feet wide and fifty deep. Tommy had inherited one of them on High Street, right up from Da Mimmo’s restaurant. The entire block was always full of cars, and Dex had to park a few blocks away.

But he didn’t really care because he liked walking through the neighborhood. Decades earlier, it had become surrounded by some of the worst slums and benighted government housing projects, but it had survived brilliantly. An island of culture and cleanliness, both physical and spiritual, Little Italy was a safe, vibrant monument to people who understood the value and reward of self-reliance. Suffused with so many restaurants, it was hard to imagine how they all made money. But they did; the sidewalks were always crowded with regulars and tourists. Definitely a place to be in Baltimore.

“Hey, man, c’mon in!” said Tommy only a second or two after Dex knocked on the door. “I’ve been waitin’ for ya.”

Dex eased through the door carrying his laptop bag in one hand, his backpack in the other. “How’s it going, Tommy?”

The young firefighter shrugged, took another pull off the Moretti he was drinking. “I don’t know, Dex. I just can’t believe it, you know. Mike bein’ dead… it’s like so weird. So hard to believe.”

“I know what you’re saying. Now maybe you’ll understand a little better why I went off on you.”

“Say no more, man.” Tommy rubbed his chin with the back of his hand as if to wipe away the embarrassment he obviously still felt.

“Look, we’ve got to push through it, that’s all. Nothing else we can do.” Dex stood in the center of a narrow living room, still crammed with the inherited, old-fashioned furniture from Tommy’s uncle. On the walls, other than some Baltimore City Fire Department commendations in Walmart frames, it didn’t look like Tommy was much of a decorator.

“Ya wanna beer before we get started?” Tommy held up his own as if to remind Dex what they looked like.

“Sounds like a plan.”

Tommy retrieved a bottle from a forty-year-old Frigidaire, then led him down a narrow staircase to a basement — half of which had been finished off in sagging ceiling tiles and ugly linoleum. Tommy used it for storage and it was filled with boxes and junk. Beyond it, running to the back of the house’s foundation, lay the furnace and water heater, plus a big workbench, over which Tommy reached up and flicked on a big fluorescent light.

“Whaddya think of this piece,” said Tommy, patting a professional grade drill press with obvious affection. It shared space with a small lathe covered with the dust of disuse.

Dex dropped his backpack on the bench, retrieved the stainless steel box. “I think it’s exactly what we need.”

Tommy smiled. “Great. You know how to run it?”

“I can be dangerous enough on it.”

“Okay, it’s plugged in. Let’s give it a rip.”

After lining up the lock and latch assembly with the metal-chewing bit, Dex grabbed the press handle and slowly eased the business-end down. The perfect balance and mass of the drill press gently kissed the surface of the lock and almost gently bore into the metal assembly holding the box fast. Within a few minutes, the steel mechanism of the lock had surrendered to the carbide invader. Although it had heated up fast, the box had opened with a minimum of damage. As Dex looked at it, he knew whatever it held would still be unscathed, even though the steel chips curling off the box were still smoking.

“Like butter,” said Tommy.

“Hot butter. Watch it, the friction heats it up quick.”

Grabbing a screwdriver, Dex popped open the box, which had been as dark and silent as a tomb for more than sixty years. Amazingly, the interior was dry and clean; it contained folded envelopes, a leather breast-pocket wallet, and another military medal.

“Hey, looks like Christmas mornin’,” said Tommy. “Whatta we got here?”

The first thing Dex removed was the flat leather wallet, which he unfolded to reveal a sheaf of documents.

“Man, look at that,” said Tommy.

The one on top was a small, gray booklet, emblazoned with the standard, Bauhaus-style Nazi eagle. Under the image a single word: Wehrpas. Dex opened it, and a black-and-white photograph of a young man in civilian clothes (suit jacket, white shirt, and tie) looked back at him. The man had blondish hair, large dark eyes, and a chiseled jaw. If not for the inked traces of various government stamps, his photo could have been a “publicity still” for one of the old Hollywood matinee idols. But this one lacked the posed dreaminess of many of those old shots. This man appeared serious, intelligent, and full of energetic vision. Under the photo was a place for his signature, and his printed name.

“Erich Heinz Bruckner,” said Dex. “Our captain.”

“What’s that, his passport?” Tommy reached out, barely touched it with his fingers as if it were a magic amulet.

“Something like that. But strictly military. See these tables and spaces on the right pages? That’s where they kept track of your service — ranks, promotions, assignments, duty tours, commendations, all that stuff. You were to keep this with you at all times.”

“Is that what the guys in the movies are always talking about when they say ‘your papers’?” Tommy chuckled at his small humor.

“Yeah, one of them.” Dex pulled the next item from the box — a tan booklet similar to the first one. Under the eagle carrying the swastika was the word Soldbuch, and beneath that the word Kriegsmarine.

“And this one too.”

He opened it to reveal Bruckner’s photo in full military dress, displaying the hat and insignia of Kapitaenleutnant. The guy looked like a pro, no doubt about it. Looking at his pictures, Dex received an immediate impression of total confidence, knowledge, and authority.

“Is that his passport?” said Tommy.

“No, it’s his really official ID in the military. The other one’s just more Nazi bullshit. This is the one that counts.”

“How do you know this stuff?” Tommy looked at him like a little kid.

“You mean other than because I’m a really smart guy?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know, I was always kind of interested — fascinated, really — by the whole Nazi thing,” said Dex. “I’ve read a lot about them.”

“You read German?”

Dex shook his head, pointed to some entries on the right page of the Soldbuch. “Nah. But if I could — see this? — it’s a record of all our Captain’s assignments. We could find out a lot about this guy.”

“That’s cool.”

Scanning the printed words in the small entry spaces, Dex pointed to a column and smiled. “Yeah, and look at this. Here’s exactly what we’ve been looking for.”

“What?” Tommy leaned closer.

“Right here. This line. The last one filled in? The last assignment — U-5001.”

“The name of the sub?”

“I’m sure of it now,” said Dex. “I saw those numbers stenciled on the inside of a hatch lid. If we can find an ID plate somewhere, that’ll just confirm what we already know. The torpedo room is usually where they put them. If we get that, it’s just icing on the cake.”

“U-5001.” Tommy tapped the open lid of the box. “So this thing’s a home run, huh?”

“Oh yeah. It should help unravel most of this boat’s total story. Or at least point us in the right directions.”

“We’re gonna need somebody who reads German,” said Tommy.

“That won’t be a problem. If I have to, I can transcribe this stuff and run it through a translation website.”

“They got stuff like that?”

Dex looked at him. “You need to explore more of the world than its bars.”

Tommy grinned, raked his fingers through his thick, black hair.

Reaching back into the metal container, Dex pulled another book from it. Thick, heavy pages bound into a durable but flexible cover. The pages were filled with writings. Rather than cursive, the words were printed in bold block letters, with a fountain pen. A handwriting specialist would probably say the printing had been by someone of great confidence and authority.

“Wow, take a look at this,” said Dex as he began to flip through it.

“What is it?”

“This is the captain’s log. Day-by-day entries on what happened onboard the boat. See, here’s the dates. And then look here — the little column down the right margins? And the check marks?”

“Yeah,” said Tommy.

“That indicates when the entries were forwarded home to U-boat control. Every day’s activities of every sub were kept in Berlin — they were called BdU KTBs. It was a perfect record of a boat’s orders, communications, engagements… you name it.”

Tommy chuckled, shook his head. “Man, how the hell you know this stuff?”

“I read a lot,” said Dex with a shrug. “Plus I watch the History Channel.”

Tommy, perhaps shamed into silence, nodded and tried to look suitably serious.

“We need to find out what this says.” Dex closed the log. “And we will.”

“What’re we gonna do?”

“You’ll see,” said Dex, folding the log up and carefully placing it on the table. “But let’s see what’s left in there.”

Looking down, he saw one more item in the box — a thick envelope filled with medals and decorations, which he picked up, opened, and spread out on the bench.

“Here’s another Knight’s Cross, with the ribbons,” said Dex.

“Yeah, and hey, are those things diamonds?”

Dex nodded. “Yeah, this one is. With the oakleafs. It was one of the highest medals they could get. This guy, Bruckner, he must have been special.”

“You mean good?”

Dex grinned. “Well, that’s a relative term when you’re talking about these guys.”

“You know what I mean.”

Dex nodded, started returning Captain Bruckner’s effects to the steel box. “Let’s take a quick look at the brick. Then we’ll see what we can get out of that journal, okay?”

“You’re the one who knows what you’re doin’. Sounds good to me.”

Dex retrieved the remaining object from the backpack, laid it on the bench. Although roughly the shape and size of regular red brick, it was surely nothing so mundane.

“Man, it looks freakin’ weird in the light,” said Tommy.

And it did.

As Dex regarded it under the fluorescent light, he noticed right away that he couldn’t actually identify its color. The smooth surface on first glance appeared to be a slate gray, but light seemed to dance and shimmer just beneath the surface, imparting a spectral aspect to it. It was as if the object were somehow absorbing light and reflecting different wavelengths at random. This effect also gave it a less substantial appearance — just the slightest suggestion of wavering, like a special effect in an old movie.

But it was a real, solid object. It had a lot more mass than most things its size, and Dex wondered if it might be some weird isotope the Nazis had been screwing around with. He knew they’d had several deuterium plants up and running in Norway before a few Lancaster bombing runs took them out.

A thought burned through him — could it be giving off dangerous, or even lethal radiation? Then he shrugged inwardly. If it was, then it was already too late to worry about it.

“Not much I can make of it,” he said. “We need to have some science-guys take a look.”

“Maybe Kevin knows somebody where he works.” Tommy reached out, touched the odd surface. “Feels kinda cold.”

“Yeah, I wonder if the density of the material is allowing it to retain the temperatures from the bottom of the bay.”

“You got me there. I slept through my science class, know what I mean?” Tommy chuckled at his own wit.

Dex had been only half listening to him. He was wondering more and more about these strange objects they’d dredged up from the past, and his paranoia meter continued ticking like a Geiger counter. If this thing were some kind of odd element, giving out weird radiation, then they’d been absolute jerks to expose themselves and anybody else who might have been close enough. There was definitely something odd about the surface and the color of the object, and that could only be the beginning.

Plus there was the whole question of how many people he wanted to involve in this — if there was something special, or dangerous, associated with this brick, he wasn’t sure he wanted any government types getting their noses out of joint about it.

Not yet, anyway.

Not until they’d had a chance to do some checking on their own. Once the feds got involved, you got shut out of the game. Good chance you’d never hear another word.

With Kevin Cheever at NavTronics, he had a straight path to some of the best research scientists in the business, whom he hoped could keep their mouths shut. He hoped Kevin could get something out of the lab that would at least give them an idea about any radiation problems.

Checking his watch, Dex looked at Tommy.

“Still pretty early,” he said.

“Why? You wanna go down to the ‘Point’?”

Dex shook his head in mock sadness. “Is that all you ever think about is hanging in bars?”

“You got a better idea?”

“You have a computer?”

“Not really. I fuck around with the one at the engine house. But I don’t have one here, no.”

“That’s what I figured. That’s why I brought mine. Let’s go up to the kitchen table.”

Dex explained the need to get those log pages translated ASAP.

“So what’re we gonna do?” said Tommy when they emerged from the cellar stairway.

“Watch me.”

First thing he did was plug in his scanner to his laptop and punch up his latest OCR software which claimed to be able to not only grab and transcribe printed text, but reasonably legible handwriting. Since the program had been bundled with the scanner when he bought it, Dex had never had the need to test what sounded like dubious ad hype.

Now we’ll see, he thought.

Retrieving the captain’s log from the strongbox, he opened it to the first pages. The large block printing looked plenty legible. As soon as the laptop screen said everything was ready, he laid the open sheet on the glass bed and keyed the scan command.

A few seconds later, he saw Bruckner’s words appear on a place the captain could have never imagined — the digitized image of the computer screen. He ran the recognition part of the software, surprised to see most of the printing now transformed into word processing text.

Amazing. He didn’t even want to think of what kind of technology made this possible.

“Did it work?” said Tommy, still not sure what he was looking at.

“Like magic. Now, all I have to do is scan in the rest of the pages.”

Tommy reached into fridge for another beer. “How long will that take?”

“Maybe an hour or so.”

“You need me for anything? I was thinkin’ I’d turn on the ballgame.”

“Go ahead.” But Dex looked up, suddenly realizing something. “Hey, that reminds me — you have cable, right? You don’t, by any chance, have internet service, do you?”

“Nah, not yet, why?”

“Once I get the pages done, I need to translate them on the ’net.”

Tommy shook his head. “Hmmm, outta luck, I guess.”

“Too bad. I’ll have to do it when I get back to the house.”

Tommy picked up the remote, started clicking through the channels. “Hey, wait a minute! Augie’s got it, I think?”

“Who’s Augie?”

“The old guy next door.”

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. He talks to his relatives in Sicily on his computer. Watches those old black and white movies too. Always wantin’ me to watch’em too.”

Dex grinned. “How old’s Augie?”

Tommy smiled. “I don’t know — eighty-somethin’.”

“Well, God bless him — lots of old people refuse to learn anything new. Why don’t you ask him if we can hook in a little later, okay?”

Tommy gave him the thumbs-up, then slipped out the front door to check in with his neighbor.

Returning his attention to his laptop, Dex continued to scan in the pages. He needed to get everything into the computer’s memory then do a full text recognition. If that worked, then he’d get a rough translation from one of the internet sites.

He shook his head in mock disbelief. A process that would have required weeks or months boiled down to hours. Dex appreciated the technology on another level as well — he didn’t want the added hassle of getting some third-party translator into the mix. But maybe that didn’t matter. Kevin had already told his lab pal about the sub, and of course, there was the Coast Guard.

Flip the page.

Scan.

Recognize.

He began the drill, noticing right away there were lots pages. Either the captain had been very wordy, or he had an awful lot to say.

As Dex continued the repetitious steps, watching the number of pages mount up, he wondered where all this was going. What exactly would they find on what might be their last dive to the sub? And why was it so important to him? The second question intrigued him more than the first. He was aware of a subconscious alarm going off in some walled-off part of his mind. Muffled, distant, but no less insistent.

There was something weird about the wreck — not showing up in any of the internet records, its size and shape, and, of course, the brick of unidentified material. In Dex’s worst moments, his thoughts returned to his deadly radiation fears. (A couple of days under its invisible glow and he would be waking up with all his flesh oozing off his bones like molasses.)

He smiled at the image — like a Gahan Wilson cartoon — but was only a breath away from shuddering as well. Made sense. Maybe that’s why the crew left it onboard — they’d known it was dangerous as hell.

The smart thing to do was get the brick into the hands of somebody who could analyze it and find out just what the Germans had been up to. Which is exactly what he would do — as soon as he ran these pages through one of the online translators. If there was nothing in there sounding too damned odd, he and Kevin would check in with some of his lab-buddies.

But that last thought kind of pushed his thinking toward the next logical “if”.

Namely, what if the captain’s journal revealed something really weird or dangerous about the sub and/or the brick?

Then what?

Dex knew enough about the way things worked — the more people you let into any loop, the less control you have over what happens next.

The questions were eating at him, and he wasn’t the type to let that kind of neurotic crap get to him.

Suddenly the front door opened, and Tommy reappeared with a short, wizened old guy. He was thin, and a little stooped over and wore an Orioles cap over big ears.

“Hey, Dex, I want you to meet somebody,” said Tommy. “Augie Picaccio, this is my pal, Dex McCauley.”

He shook hands with the old guy, who smiled with what looked like his real teeth. “You wanna get on-a-line? No problem. I got-a Skype and Netflix and ESPN.”

Fifteen minutes and a couple glasses of wine later, Dex was sitting in Augie’s living room with Tommy and the laptop. It had been Dex’s experience with computers that nothing worked right the first time, and not until the cyber-gods had their fun with you before getting bored.

And so, he was both shocked and pleased when his laptop accepted his wireless login and let him get started. The old guy’s son had set him up with the wireless modem and it worked just the way it was supposed to — Dex was online without much hassle.

Using a website he googled called Transliteral, he started cutting-and-pasting the scanned text. It was slow-going because the site only allowed about a page at a time in the “text to be translated” box. Then you got to see another ad in a pop-up. Dex grinned as he sipped his Chianti Classico. You get what you pay for — and Transliteral was free.

Chapter Eighteen

The mist was not as thick as it appeared, and as the rubber boat slipped across the calm surface, Erich could see farther into its depths than he’d anticipated. Two seamen from the gunnery crew, Decker and Stirtz, plied the water with caution coupled with a degree of clumsiness. Each man had a Schmeisser MP-40 slung over his shoulder, and had been picked for their ability to use the submachine gun with great facility, rather than their paddling skills.

“Ready to transmit, Captain,” said Bischoff.

“Proceed.”

“One Eleven, come in. One Eleven, come in. Over…”

Erich listened for a response through the static on the portable radio.

Nothing, which prompted Bischoff to continue: “One Eleven, come in. This is U-five-zero-zero-one on R&R to your position.”

After a short pause, a voice penetrated the static. It was weak, but clear. “This is Dr. Bernhard Jaeger. Station One Eleven. We read you, Five-zero-zero-one.”

“Contact,” said Bischoff, handing the headset to Erich.

“Get those paddles out of the water,” said Erich. “I need silence.”

He spoke as his men complied. “This is Captain Erich Bruckner of the U-5001. We have been sent here to assist. Can you state your location and situation?”

Everyone on the boat strained to hear the words of Dr. Jaeger, who gave precise coordinates and directions. He reported that there had been an “event,” which killed many of the Station personnel. Erich did not like the sound of the doctor’s words.

“Doctor, is my boat and crew in danger here?”

A pause, more static, then: “Presently, I think not. The danger is over, the worst has already happened.”

“How many survivors?” said Erich.

Weakly, Jaeger spoke: “Unknown. In my lab, there are five of us. That is all I know. Rubble from an explosion has blocked us in.”

“Very well, stand by…” Erich nodded, looked at Bischoff. “You have a fix on their transmission?”

“Yes, Captain.” He gave him a compass reading and Erich directed his men to follow it.

As they moved toward the shoreline, they could not ignore the illumination above them.

“What the hell is that light?” said Manny. “It is bizarre.”

He pointed upward at perhaps fifty degrees off the horizon to something that appeared to be a sun-like object trying to burn its way through the thick fog. But Erich knew it was impossible to be getting actual sunlight this far underground. “Probably something Dr. Jaeger and his friends have arranged,” said Erich. “Soon we know for certain.”

The paddles violated the water, slapping and gurgling loudly. The sound made Erich ever more aware of the silence of the place. As they distanced themselves from the U-5001, he felt like they were entering a vast cathedral in the middle of the night, feeling alone, and dwarfed into insignificance by the scale of things around them.

So large was the enclosure that he had no real sense of movement other than the gradual dissipation of the mist as they cleaved it. The “ceiling” above hung so distant, it could have been the sky itself. Manny raised his compact Leica to his eyes, snapped off what would be the first of many pictures. The slide-click! of the aperture also sounded loud, intrusive.

“Bischoff,” said Erich. “The field glasses.”

Instantly, the funkmaat operator handed his binoculars to his captain.

Raising them to his eyes, Erich focused on the light source which threatened to burn through the curtain of fog at any second. Without warning, a sudden brilliance filled the eyepieces and he yanked them away from his face.

“Sheisse!”

“Look at that!” said Manny, his words shaped by equal amounts of awe and fear. “What is it?”

Erich rubbed his eyes quickly, forcing them to adjust. He looked back at the bright orb beyond the mist, not sure what he was seeing. The object was a girdered tower, similar to the one in Paris, standing alone on a rocky island-base. It rose to a height of several hundred feet and its top held a sphere of glowing light. A thick shaft ran up its center from the earth to the sphere.

Decker and Stirtz had ceased their paddling, transfixed by the structure before them.

Forcing himself to remain calm, to appear in control, Erich raised the field glasses to study the surface of the tower. Magnified, it appeared hastily constructed with no thought to style or design.

“What is that thing?” whispered Manny, as he paused to photograph it. There was something in the timbre of his voice which negated the question. Fassbaden knew what it was — as did Erich.

“Excuse me, Captain,” said Seaman Stirtz. “Do we keep going?”

“I do not remember telling you to stop.” Erich nodded toward the towering object before him and tried to look as implacable as possible.

Instantly both crewmen began paddling with renewed energy, and the rubber craft surged forward. No one else dared speak as Erich continued to stare at the strange tower.

The mist which still roiled in the distance began to thin.

“Look, beyond the tower.” Erich pointed as he raised the field glasses to penetrate the fog-like barrier. Instantly, new details became clear. At the far end of the underground sea, where the curved arch of the enclosure finally curled down in a vertical wall of rock, there loomed unmistakable lines and shapes.

More towers, more structures. Held together by the curves and angles of an unknown geometry, the shapes reached upward to define the elemental, yet very alien, profile of a city.

The configurations were so unfamiliar, and also terrifying… because Erich knew they were not of this time, of this world. He felt it in the deepest folds of his brain, the part some scientist had called the reptilian core. It was the place where cold simple assessments were made, where atavistic reactions originated, and it was screaming a warning to be very careful.

“What is this place?” said Manny. “Where are we?”

“Decker, Stirtz. Ease off.” Erich continued to scan the escarpments of the architecture ahead, looking for any sign of movement, of hostility or danger. Although the men had ceased their paddling, the boat still glided forward with a deliberate tack. They were at least 500 meters from the shoreline, but caution must reign. “Bring your arms to bear, gentlemen. Be ready for anything.”

Manny reached down, pulled his own Walther from its holster. The others, except for Liebling, unarmed, readied their weapons.

“All right, steady as you go. Maintain heading.”

Manny looked straight up at the distant ceiling, then across to the tower and harbored city behind it. “This is so weird. I read a story when I was a teen. A translation of an American writer. He described a place like this — called Pellucidar.”

Erich nodded. “Burroughs. Yes. He wrote Tarzan. Popular, fanciful stuff.”

“But this is real. Could he have known?” Manny said. “The American?”

“Not a chance,” said Erich, who finished a sweeping, binocular study of the landscape ahead, then repeated his search in the opposite direction.

“Do you see anyone?”

“Not a soul. The base of the tower looks barren. No place for anyone to dig in. The buildings on shore, they also look empty. But we are still too far to be certain.”

“All right,” he said. “We will have a quick look around. Herr Bischoff, remain here and alert Massenburg that all is well — so far — and inform him of position and progress.”

Nodding, Bischoff directed his pack-animal, Liebling, to hold the radio steady while the funkmeister dialed up the frequency back to the boat. Liebling rubbed the flaming red wound across his jaw and complied without a word.

They headed to the center of what looked like it may have been some kind of harbor. Mist still hung close to the water’s surface, alternately obscuring, then clearing, their view of the city ahead of them.

As they approached, Erich realized they were victims of some kind of optical illusion. He knew that sometimes when you approach distant objects which are of sufficiently immense proportion, you lose your sense of scale, and he suspected he had been thus fooled. Although they continued to paddle straight toward the unknown shore, the city appeared to remain at an unreachable distance. Erich realized part of this effect was the truly gigantic cavern, an enclosure on the scale of America’s Grand Canyon. The city grew out of the rock that held it as if it were a natural extension or growth of it.

And it was impressive, growing larger with each passing meter which drew them closer, despite the mist which tantalized them with ambiguous views of their target.

Everyone must have sensed what Erich felt about this place. No one spoke as their little boat slid across the inland sea. The gunners paddled in unison, drawing the dinghy closer to the center of what Erich had begun to think of as the harbor for the city that lay before them like a series of sculpted steps carved into the side of the mountain. Within several minutes, the soaring sun-tower lay behind them and along the shoreline the details of individual structures and buildings grew more defined. Checking his field glasses, Erich could see much smaller features now. Openings that must have been windows or doors — some of them in unexpected geometric shapes, and some like flattened rectangles. The latter reminded him of the ports of fortifications like the “pillboxes” the vermacht had strewn along the French coast.

“It looks dead,” said Manny.

Erich grunted softly. “But we know there are survivors.”

Erich nodded, but preferred not to imagine too deeply what forces might be at play. He didn’t like this place. Too many questions that could not be answered.

The rubber boat slipped ever closer to a narrow quay that fingered outward through the water as though pointing at them. Directing his men to put ashore at the base of the quay, Erich appraised the strange city from closer range.

The buildings were far from equal in size. There were innumerable honeycomb-like arrangements of enormous proportion, as well as smaller, separate structures. The general shape of these things tended to be conical, pyramidal, or terraced; though others were perfect cylinders, perfect cubes, clusters of cubes, and other rectangular forms.

Erich allowed himself to think aloud. “How could our people build something like this? In just a few years? It does not seem possible.”

“I have never seen anything like this,” said Manny as the boat was within meters of the quay. “Who builds things that look like that?”

A rhetorical question to be sure. No one offered an answer as Decker reached out with his paddle to ease them to a stop. “Captain?” he said tentatively.

“Stay here with our boat,” Erich said to him. “Everyone else — with me. Now.”

He stepped onto the quay first, followed by Manny, then Bischoff, then Liebling with the radio strapped across his back, followed by Stirtz with his MP-40 at the ready. Motioning his gunner forward, Erich looked toward the city which lay in wait for them. “You take the vanguard,” he said to Stirtz, whose growing beard gave him a dark, angular aspect. “Anything that looks threatening, shoot it.”

Stirtz nodded, swallowed with difficulty. “Aye” was all he could muster in reply.

Erich started walking toward the shore, noting the construction of the quay appeared to be a seamless shape of some sort of metal or polished stone. It looked as if it were one solid piece, as if popped from a gigantic mold, or rose fully-formed from the seabed. Whatever it was, he had never seen anything like it.

Walking in single file, they entered the city as Bischoff re-established contact with Dr. Jaeger, who gave them specific directions to navigate the station.

Up close, surrounded by countless structures, Erich felt overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the place. It was not so much the expanse of the city being so large, but the buildings themselves conveyed a sense of immensity and great age. It was like walking into the tomb of a great ruler, instantly knowing the chamber was sacrosanct, and apart from any other location in the world.

The effect was mitigated by the presence of German military equipment, large field tents, several motorcycles with sidecars, and large crates of supplies. And of course, flags and banners. And everything strewn and smashed as if by a cyclone

And many corpses.

As they moved deeper into the warren of buildings, they found the bodies of soldiers and civilians. So mutilated and bloodied, on cursory glance it was not possible to tell if they’d died from an explosion, gunfire, or something worse. The casualties littered the installation. Something terrible and sudden had happened here. But somehow, Dr. Jaeger and a few others had survived.

Erich did not like the situation. Too many questions. Too many ways to have a calamity.

In addition, Erich noticed an air of instability in the way things were arranged and set up. Hasty and impromptu — exactly how long had Dr. Jaeger and the others been established here?

“Easy now,” he said to Stirtz, who was advancing down a wide avenue bordered by soaring towers that appeared to have been lathe-turned into great, soft spirals. The gunner’s mate pointed his Schmeisser forward from his hip, finger on the trigger ready to fire instantly. He looked like most soldiers who believed they might die — anxious but resolute.

“Not much farther.” Bischoff pointed straight ahead.

“Captain?” Stirtz had spoken softly, but his voice, amplified by the architectural acoustics, rolled back over them as if he’d used a megaphone.

“Yes?”

“I think we’re heading into an open space up ahead.”

“I see it,” said Erich. “Keep going. We should be close now.”

Stirtz had managed to pull away from the others without realizing. He was more than fifty meters ahead of them when he suddenly starting shouting.

Looking up, Erich could see that his gunner had cleared the canyon-like walls of the buildings, and was now standing at the edge of what appeared to be a vast open space. As Erich advanced, he entered a plaza in the center of which stood a tall domed structure with eight sides. Each face of the building held a large arched entrance.

Stirtz moved carefully through the nearest opening, lost from Erich’s view. Several moments later, the seaman rushed out to face the rest of the party. His eyes were wide, his jaw slack. Something was wrong.

“Captain!” he yelled hoarsely. “You must see this for yourself!”

On Erich’s signal everyone, including Liebling, moved forward to join Stirtz, who guided them into the hexagonal structure. The interior walls were devoid of ornamentation or design — perfectly smooth. But Erich barely noticed this because his attention focused on the thing in the center of the space.

Towering 20 meters just below the vault of the dome, a gigantic statue dominated the space. Erich stopped in mid-stride, as did the rest of his crew, locked into a sudden paralysis. So shocking and utterly alien was this monstrous sculpture, no one could move or speak. A silence gripped them and an almost palpable sense of dread enveloped them.

The statue’s posture proclaimed total predator — hunched and coiled as if captured in stone at the moment just before it lashed out with primordial fury. A great hulking body supported by saurian-like hind legs ending in webbed claws and long, thickly-corded forelegs rendered ordinary only because of the hideous and hugely out-of-proportion talons that gripped the edge of its pedestal perch. Curving scimitar-sharpness that could gut a dinosaur with a single cursory swipe.

Erich swallowed hard as his mouth had turned instantly dry. Just gazing at this hideous apparition filled him with what could only be described as the most atavistic fear he ever experienced. As if he knew the thing in front of him was a true and terrible representation of a real horror beyond imagining.

And it had wings.

Fanned out beyond its broad shoulders, as if grafted from a gigantic bat or pteranodon. They looked both absurd and terrifying, because the thought of this leviathan being able to fly just didn’t compute. Was it possible such a massive behemoth could actually lift itself skyward?

But it was the bulbous, tilting head that kept the men mute and immobile. Erich knew they all shared the same thoughts searching for a means to refuse the basic existence of such a creature. Such a thing, thought Erich, simply could not be. Beneath a baleful pair of huge, blistered, amphibian eyes there swarmed a swollen tangle of tentacles curled and spread as though probing in constant search of prey.

Suddenly nauseous, he staggered back, dizzy and disoriented. Unprepared for what he had seen, Erich felt stunned into silence as though stricken by the hand of God.

Erich had often imagined the awe and the sense of insignificance men must have felt when they first gazed upon the unearthed bones of the dinosaurs. What kind of wonder and terror crossed their minds when they realized what horrific beasts once walked the earth?

Now, Erich had an answer to that question… but others leapt to mind.

Was this sculpted nightmare the vision of a tortured artist, or the fearful icon of a lost religion? Or was it something far, far worse?

Erich could not escape the notion, rooted deep within him, that they all stared at something of an age unknown and uncountable. What race of beings had created such a thing?

Manny, standing next to him, squeezed off several shots with the Leica.

Erich was not certain if the other men understood fully what they were looking at, but the troublemaker Liebling was clearly disturbed as he backed away from the statuary and began to sob.

“We have entered the gates to Hell,” he said.

Liebling was an embarrassment, but on second thought, maybe Erich had not given the man enough credit.

At least he had the good sense to be terrified.

Regardless, a distinction must be made between feelings and actions. Liebling’s behavior was not befitting of a kriegsmariner. When Manny angrily reprimanded him, ordering him to attention, the man ignored the command, and began to wail. So loud, his voice echoed off the distant walls.

Erich was incensed. There was no time for such distraction.

“Stirtz, get him out of my sight.”

As Stirtz reached for Liebling, the man wrenched Stirtz’s pistol from him and ran full speed out of the domed building, back toward the quay. Before anyone could react, he had gained enough distance to dodge down an adjacent intersecting avenue. He waved the Sauer sidearm wildly as he ran, firing off several rounds into the air.

“We cannot have this,” said Erich. “We have a job to do.”

Stirtz spit contemptuously before speaking. “I’ll get him, Captain.”

As the gunner ran off in quick pursuit, Erich, Manny and Bischoff followed more slowly. Liebling had no way of orienting himself. He could become hopelessly lost in the labyrinth, but he made no effort to hide himself as he rushed headlong away from them.

Angrily, Erich wished he had listened more sincerely to Herr Kress, who had warned of the man’s instability. All the more reason to keep him under watch, but now Liebling had become more than merely a problem. He was a dangerous problem.

Gradually they closed the gap and caught up with Liebling. His frantic pace had exhausted him. Stirtz ran him down outside a large building flanked by supply wagons and several mangled corpses. But Liebling complicated things. Instead of accepting the end-game, he emptied his stolen weapon at everyone.

But wildly, with no effect.

Erich grinned ironically, thanking the fugitive for making things easier.

“He is out of shots,” said Erich. “Stirtz, take him out.”

The gunner raised his Schmeisser, shot Liebling once — through the heart. Turning away, they left him slumped against a wall where he dropped. No one wanted to bring him back.

“Very well,” said Erich. “Let us finish this job.”

But as they walked away, embraced by the cold, ancient spaces, Erich experienced a strange guilt. Not for killing — because his business had been killing. Rather, he feared he had, in some way, violated this place.

They moved quickly after that, until they reached what was obviously their target objective — what had been a series of stepped terraced buildings now violated by a large crater and huge mounds of debris. Following Bischoff’s instruction via radio contact, they located Jaeger and four other survivors trapped behind a wall of rubble that had been part of their laboratory.

Requiring a slow, methodical approach, the rescue took several hours to clear a passage through the debris. A thin man with small wire-rimmed glasses and a thick shock of blond hair emerged first.

“Thank you! Thank you, gentlemen. We have two people back there hurt quite badly.”

Stirtz helped an older gray-haired man in a white lab coat out of the hole in the wreckage, then joined Bischoff and Manny, who went inside to assess the situation.

Erich, however, wanted answers. He remained with the two survivors and introduced himself.

“I am Dr. Bernhard Jaeger.” The blond man reciprocated and gestured at the older lab-coated man. “This is one of our engineers, Hervie Waechter.”

“What happened here, Doctor?”

He shook his head, held up his hands. “An experiment… an explosion. We were in a shielded area when it happened. But we were trapped as you found us. We thought other station personnel would be coming to our aid, but… something happened to them, they were… attacked.”

“Attacked? By who?” said Erich.

“I have no idea. All we could do was try to piece things together from what we heard by radio.”

“Where we have been. We have seen no survivors,” said Manny.

Jaeger did not react to this news. “From what we could hear, that is not surprising. It was utter chaos.”

“Mein Gott,” said Waechter the engineer. “The radiation must have been more than we imagined.”

The remark bothered Erich. He would need more information, but first he wanted another question settled. “You notified Berlin. How could you get a signal out of here?”

Jaeger looked up at him. “We had a team construct a special antenna buoy attached by undersea cable.”

“Ingenious,” said Erich. “Can we use it to inform Berlin of your rescue?”

“Certainly.”

Erich was pleased to know he was not totally isolated in this very strange place. He looked at Waechter. “Now, tell me about the radiation.”

“Similar to what you would call X-rays,” said Waechter. “But more… ah, potent. We call them ‘Tau’ radiation.”

Erich did not want to know what kind of terrible power had been unleashed here. No sense immersing himself in detail and situations he could not control. But he did want to know the timeframe. “When did this happen?”

Jaeger looked around, obviously haggard from the ordeal. “Three days ago.”

Erich had suspected something like this. The High Command had declined to tell him about the rescue mission until he had gotten underway, and he could surmise the reason. If there proved to be no survivors, there would be no reason to reveal the existence of this top secret base to an entire U-boat crew. When Jaeger’s radio messages persisted, Doenitz must have agreed to attempt a rescue.

The events of the last several hours had affected Erich in ways he would not have expected. The secrets of this base were clearly more profound than any other Nazi scientific projects, and he was not sure he felt comfortable with the likes of Jaeger and party zealots dubbed as its caretakers. Erich realized he would need more answers, but first he would remove the survivors from any further danger.

Several things happened in the next few hours: Kress and his men were able to repair the hydroplane, although he could not swear to how long the fix might last. Metal fatigue was one of those things that could not be assessed until an actual failure occurred. In addition, Dr. Jaeger and his four associates were pulled from the wreckage and returned to the boat for medical attention and food from Hauser’s kitchen. The U-5001 still floated on the serene inner sea of the cavern, but that would soon change.

Erich spent the time trying to make sense of what he’d seen at Station One Eleven. Too much of what he had seen did not “add up,” and he knew he would be demanding more answers from Jaeger, and perhaps eventually, even Admiral Doenitz himself. But for the moment, he had ordered a briefing with Dr. Jaeger and had invited Manny to sit in.

A tap at his quarters’ door announced their arrival.

“Come in.”

Manny opened the door, ushered in Jaeger, who looked better after cleaning up and a good meal. As they took seats on the bunk, Erich leaned back in his desk chair, regarded the scientist, who appeared to be in his mid-forties.

“I trust we have treated you well, Doctor?” he said.

“Wonderful. This is a magnificent boat, Captain. An impressive crew.”

“Good, good.” Erich paused, sat up, and assumed a serious expression. “Now, I will get right to the point. We are in the middle of a very important mission, but that does not preclude my asking you for some additional information.”

Jaeger grinned sheepishly. “To be blunt, Captain, I would be more surprised if you had no questions.”

Manny looked on, but said nothing.

“To begin,” said Erich. “What is the nature of the work being done there?”

Jaeger paused. “I am sorry, but the exact nature of Station One Eleven is so classified that—”

Holding up his hand, Erich spoke softly. “No, Doctor. Do not bother with the official party line. I have been inside the Station. It is no longer classified to me or my crew. Now, either you tell me what I need to know, or I will leave you here. This is my boat, and as long as you remain onboard her, I am the supreme authority.”

Manny grinned as a pall settled over the cabin. Jaeger’s silence indicated he was taking Erich’s words to heart. Finally: “You make a fine, logical point. I suppose there is no need to pretend the base has not been compromised.”

“Being here to effect a rescue, I would not use that particular word,” said Erich. “But I have no interest in semantics, only facts. Now tell me, what kind of work has been going on here?”

Jaeger drew in a breath, exhaled slowly. “Two basic lines of research, actually. One group has been exploring the ruins and the… artifacts of the cavern. The other group has been working to apply what we learn to our own new energy and weapons technology.”

“Ruins? Elaborate please. How long have our people been here? How old is it? Who built it?”

“The site that eventually became Station One Eleven was actually discovered in 1931 by Frederick Millhausen, a geologist from the University of Leipzig. His specialty was vulcanism, and he had been searching for evidence of volcanic activity. His team discovered a strange fault in the surface ice, and after some test bores, he uncovered unexplainable heat signatures and evidence of great geologic anomalies.”

“And that’s how Millhausen found this cavern?”

“No, not exactly. Several years later, after the Fuhrer had been sworn in as Chancellor, he heard about Millhausen’s work.”

“How and why would that happen?” said Manny.

Jaeger looked at him with a patronizing expression. “Hitler has always been driven by the idea of secret bases at both poles. He believes the antipodal positions mark the widest possible boundaries for the reach and control of the Third Reich.”

“Go on,” said Erich.

“Later that year, the new Chancellor financed new expeditions. One to Greenland and one to Antarctica. The northern expedition found an entrance cavern, and the ruins. Hitler was ecstatic. He believed he had been ‘fated’ to uncover this place.”

“Hmmm,” said Manny. “I have heard rumors that he and his cabinet are quite interested in things mystical.”

Jaeger smiled sadly. “Yes, that has been said.”

“What do you know about the ruins?” said Erich.

“Not as much as we would like. The best estimate is that they are at least fifty thousand years old, but that figure could just as easily be one hundred thousand or one million. There is no way to be certain.”

“Fifty thousand? That in itself is incredible.” Erich felt a slight shudder pass through him. The idea unsettled him. A million years was simply incomprehensible.

“Where did they come from? Who built them?”

Jaeger shrugged. “We do not know yet. There are theories, of course.”

“Such as?” Erich leaned closer across his desk.

“The earth is very old, perhaps billions of years. It is not difficult to imagine previous civilizations farther back in time than we ever realized. It is quite possible they were totally wiped out by some catastrophic events. All traces scrubbed clean from the surface of the earth. Perhaps more than once.”

“But not beneath the earth,” said Manny.

“Correct,” said Jaeger. “Or beneath the waves. Perhaps the legend of the sunken city of Atlantis is based in fact. Such as this place.”

“What about records? Language? Art? What is left?”

“We have found traces of all those things. But they remain mostly a mystery.” Jaeger shook his head. “Deciphering a language with no links to any known language in existence is daunting. We have had better results using mathematical cues.”

Erich nodded. What the scientist was saying did not sound unreasonable to a thinking person. “Tell me more about the station. Our people have been here more than eleven years?”

“Yes, but in small encampments… until a large-scale permanent base was established in 1939. It has been under the command of General Hans Kammler — although he does not spend all his time here.”

“What about that tower in the harbor?” Manny said.

Jaeger smiled. “One of our greatest achievements. The first teams in here found the ruins of something very much like it. We used rare earth phospho-vanadate phosphors — based upon what we found in the original artifact. They emit light under extreme heat. We built the tower and the geo-thermal energy system by back-engineering.”

“Geo-thermal?” said Erich.

“Heat from the molten layers of the earth’s mantle.”

“Impressive,” said Erich. “Did it require all six years? Is that what contributed to blowing yourselves up?”

Jaeger looked embarrassed as he smoothed down his thick blond hair. “No, no. We have uncovered many remnants and artifacts of a very advanced technology, but we will need many years to understand even a small fraction of it.”

“What caused the explosion?” said Manny.

Jaeger shrugged. “Until we can get more people in here to investigate, I have no way to know for sure. Most of what we do here is trial and error.”

“Tell me more about the Tau radiation. You said it did more than you realized.”

Jaeger appeared hesitant to speak, then: “It may have… how would you say… awakened something in here.”

“Awakened? Awakened what?”

Jaeger shrugged. “Whatever attacked and killed everyone at the Station, obviously. You saw the bodies…”

Erich shuddered at such a notion. He mentioned the statue they’d seen, and Jaeger nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “There are others like that, scattered throughout these ruins. Some depicting even more bizarre beings.”

“Are you suggesting we may be in danger from these things?”

“At this point, I don’t know what I think. I am sorry.”

“And what exactly were you trying to do when the accident happened?”

Jaeger looked at him with eyes tinged by fatigue and a touch of madness. “Have you ever heard of the Philosopher’s Stone?”

Erich paused as he searched his memory for the vaguely familiar term. Then: “Something to do with alchemy, as I recall.”

“Very good, Captain. Yes, it was the element sometimes called carmot, which could be changed or transmutated into whatever element was required.”

“All right,” said Erich. “Go on.”

“We have discovered artifacts that appear to be something like carmot. When we presented our initial findings to Dr. Heisenberg, he was intrigued enough to come here himself.”

“What?” said Manny. “Werner Heisenberg has been here?”

Jaeger nodded. “Rather than carmot, he called the substance we discovered ‘inter-matter’ because it appears to exist in a state unknown to modern physics. But the implications are world-shaking, gentlemen.”

“In what way,” said Manny.

“If we can discover the mechanism, the means to convert any substance into any other.” Jaeger beamed as he imagined a future utopia. “We can create infinite supplies of energy sources from our garbage, and that is just the most obvious use!”

“Hmmm,” said Erich. “It sounds like the term ‘precious metal’ would become obsolete.”

Jaeger waved him off. “Inconsequential. Whatever country controls inter-matter will rule the world.”

Erich sighed. “I think I’ve heard that phrase before…”

“What do you mean by that, Captain?”

“‘Ruling the world?’ Perhaps you have not noticed, Doctor, but things have not exactly been working out to plan.”

Jaeger bristled under the remark, but said nothing for a moment. Then he added: “I understand you may be war-weary, Captain. And I respect your feelings. However, we are all working under obligations, and we must all do our part. In fact, there is one more thing we must do here before we depart.”

Erich looked at the scientist with the perfect Aryan features. No doubt Jaeger had mortgaged his soul to the cause of the Fatherland long ago, and for a man like that, there was no turning back. “Let me guess,” said Erich. “We need to retrieve your magic stone.”

Chapter Nineteen

The translation routine became automatic through repetition, and Dex had lost count of how many pages he’d processed. Captain Bruckner had a lot to say, that was obvious. The Transliteral website was slow and clumsy — obviously designed only for snippets of text — but Augie had plenty of “Red,” as he called it, and he was treating the evening like a party. It wouldn’t be a problem. Pushing on until he cut-and-pasted the last of it into a big document file, he printed it out on Augie’s little Canon inkjet, and began to read. He handed off pages to Tommy, who was a slow, but careful reader.

The early pages were short and to the point, but no less interesting for it. Bruckner had been precise and detailed without being expansive. In each entry, he’d always noted the time, the depth, and map coordinates. With each passing word, Dex knew he and his pals had stumbled onto something extraordinary. As he and Don had figured, the big sub had been some sort of underwater aircraft carrier, but so far he saw no mention of its mission — other than a single notation regarding an eventual rendezvous with a German cruiser, Sturm.

Day after day, Bruckner continued to log in the story of his boat, and with each notation, Dex could see the captain allow more of his personal feelings and personality leak onto the pages, revealing a real person behind the words.

A person Dex found himself admiring — both for Bruckner’s obvious erudition and academics, but also a suggestion of a moral code other than the standard Nazi crap.

He read on, getting to know — through repetition — a few members of the crew: someone called Manny, the radioman Bischoff, and an apparent troublemaker named Liebling. Reliving the depth charge attacks, and the harrowing escapes from disaster felt realistic and vivid despite Bruckner’s precise language. Either the captain had a knack for using the exactly right word, or the online translation program was exceptionally good. Whatever the case, Dex found Bruckner’s log entries compelling.

The release of all the bow torpedoes was clever, but the entries which followed, detailing the entrance into a secret Nazi base, were utterly amazing. The total weirdness of the story came out of nowhere like a sucker-punch in a bar.

Although his initial reaction should have been to blow it off as a crazy story, as complete fiction, he could not.

For one reason.

Tommy and Dex had found the strange slab, and with the mention of “inter-matter,” he had a very good idea what it might be, and its possible value.

But even without the artifact, there was something starkly convincing in Bruckner’s words. It was clear Bruckner didn’t care whether or not any reader would ever believe him. For Bruckner, belief was not the issue. The underground Nazi station was real; the artifacts and technology there were equally real.

He hadn’t realized he’d paused to let his imagination ramble. Tommy was looking at him with a puzzled look.

“What?” said Dex.

“You got more pages? I caught up with you.”

Dex looked at the sheets on the table. “Yeah, there’s more. What do you think so far?”

Tommy shrugged as he glanced over at Augie dozing on the couch from one glass of Red too far. “Man, I don’t know. It’s a good story, that’s for sure.”

“You up for finishing it tonight?”

Tommy looked at him and smiled. “You know that one about the Pope in the woods, don’t you?”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Dex as he picked up the next page.

Chapter Twenty

Before we could arrange a final trip back to the ruins, Bischoff received a reply to my message to Berlin.

After applying the proper keys and rotations of the Enigma, I read the following:

Fuhrer dead by suicide. Russians and Americans at gates of Berlin. Checkmate. Admiral Doenitz assuming control of the Reich. Stand down. Await further orders.

With our mission on the verge of being stillborn, I needed time to think what we should do next. Where to go now? Do what?

When I informed the crew, a sense of relief permeated the heavy atmosphere of the boat. I told them our mission had changed, and we would be underway once I had all the details and specific changes.

I called in Fassbaden. I told him everything I knew about the impending end to the war, the mission, and the catalogue of choices we faced.

We were interrupted by Bischoff who brought me the following uncoded message:

I had suspected as much. The war is over for us. I informed my crew and they are relieved. They began to sing beerhall songs. Perhaps they will not die after all.

Dr. Jaeger accompanied Decker, Manny, and myself in the dinghy. We returned to the section of the base ravaged by the explosion. Now, seeing the structures with a new understanding, my awe of the place had heightened. How old might this place be? What race of people labored here? And what destroyed them? Were we in danger of the same fate? If I dwelled on such things too much, I feared it would affect my decision-making.

Despite my wish to depart this place, I agreed to the retrieval mission for several reasons: one, it had been the order of Admiral Doenitz; and two, I wanted physical proof of what I had witnessed here — other than the photographs from our Leica. Manny and Jaeger led the way through the debris, and looked as if struck by an aerial bomb. We were looking for a surviving sample of Heisenberg’s inter-matter, and our careful inspection, while time consuming, proved eventually successful.

Decker found a small bullion-sized object. I found another just like it. Jaeger was ecstatic. The bricks were heavy. Much too heavy for their size and volume. Ultra-high density is how Jaeger described it. The scientist was convinced these objects were keys to the overall survival of the Third Reich.

A question for the historians, I believe.

After securing the two samples in a rucksack, we retraced our route through the ruins, through the pattern of streets back to the city’s edge, to the shoreline and the great quay. As we entered the dinghy, I wondered if our actions were being recorded by unseen eyes and ears.

An unsettling concept, to be sure.

As we headed back to the 5001, Jaeger pointed through the mist at a distant point along the shoreline. He said there was something there we should see before departure.

We followed his directions, and homed in on a dark object taking shape in the fog. A vaguely familiar shape. Looking at it from an angle that compressed its length I suddenly realized I was staring at the aft-end of a ship — a sailing ship.

Nineteenth century. No stacks, no steam.

The sailing vessel looked much like the whalers of the 1880s. Masts were broken. The hull cracked like the shell of a giant egg. Shreds of rigging still entangled the wreckage.

I asked Jaeger how a surface ship could have entered this underwater/underground cavern, and Jaeger grinned, promising to tell me his theory. But he again pointed at the wreck.

I continued to stare at the ship’s center beam, fractured over a rocky shoal like the vertebrae of a long-dead leviathan. The wood of the hull, blackened by rot and time, appeared thin and almost papery in spots.

We were close to the hulk, now. The once-gilded lettering across the stern was worn to its thinnest layers, but the name remained just barely visible like a message written on a frosted pane of glass: the Nebuchadenezzar.

There was no way to determine its nationality with a name like that.

Jaeger pointed to what had been a cargo hold, burst open to a scattering of barrels and crates — all split and rotted into splintered ghosts of their original shapes. Large taluses of salt spilled from several of the barrels, which looked as if they had exploded as if from a great concussive impact.

Jaeger commented on the way the ship lay molded to the shape of the shoal, the way the salt looked exploded from the barrels.

I understood immediately. The Nebuchadenezzar had not run aground. It had fallen. From the roof of the cavern. Actually through the top of the cavern. Jaeger suggested the boat had been locked in the ice above. After many years, perhaps a geologic fault such as an earthquake or a shifting crevasse could have caused temporary rift in the cavern’s ceiling. Periods of warming and cooling could have gradually sucked the boat down until its final descent.

When we pushed off again, closing the distance to the 5001, I was grateful to leave this bizarre place.

Trusting the repairs of Kress and his men, we quickly submerged into the lagoon then followed Ostermann’s carefully charted course. Our position was accurate. (Longitude 39.49 W Latitude 69.60 N) Although the response of the diving planes was stiff, we passed through the breach without incident and once more were in open sea.

Fassbaden, Hausser, and I have agreed upon a possible, alternate plan — if all goes badly.

But the best laid plans, it is said, often go awry. And as such I am afraid to even write of it. As in doing so, I curse it.

I have, like the Ancient Mariner, cast my fate to the wind.

We are underway at half-speed.

Despite the still possible dangers of American patrols, the crew felt safer in the familiar depths of the ocean. As the hours passed, placing time and distance between us and Station One Eleven, it began to feel less real to me. As though we had glimpsed for an instant a mythic place made real only by powers beyond our own.

I believe I was not alone in these feelings. I noticed none of the crew dared mention our detour under the Greenland Shelf. As if their silence might make it somehow less real. Although I had not proscribed against it, none of my exploration team volunteered details of what they had seen — especially the unforgettable statue or the mangled corpses.

Ostermann charted our course due south. Despite our delays, he calculated we could still make the rendezvous point with Sturm within the desired time window.

In the meantime:

Batteries fully charged.

Starboard dive plane showing signs of stress. Kress apologetic as he confesses possible failure at any time.

If we need to compensate for a hydroplane failure, Kress warns me the electric engines may not be up to the task without sustaining damage themselves. We could descend with no hope of ever coming up.

We advance to Full Speed.

Night surfacing successful. Batteries again recharged.

The morale of the crew is admirable. I remain on the surface because if the war is truly over, we are relatively safe. However, I may be foolish to believe all American forces have been informed of the cessation of hostilities.

Regardless, I cannot allow them to discover our deadly cargo.

Dive plane getting extremely sticky.

Near midnight. Ostermann informs me we have reached the revised rendezvous point. 300 kilometers south/southeast of New York, we await the cruiser.

We have remained on the surface the entire night, and into the morning hours. In all those hours, we see no sign of enemy planes or shipping.

Best to not rely on the dive plane unless absolutely necessary.

We receive a message from Sturm, and almost simultaneously see her clean lines break the horizon.

I have irrevocable choices ahead.

Within two hours, Sturm was along our starboard side and I rode a bo’sun’s chair to its bridge for a meeting with its young Captain Kaltenbach, who has also received the final command from Admiral Doenitz. He asked me what he was to do with the details of our secret mission, and I declined to advise him. That was the purview of Doenitz alone.

Staff meeting — Fassbaden, Massenburg, Kress, Ostermann present. They wish to return to Hamburg as soon as possible. Kress fears the fragile hydroplane will not survive the trip across the Atlantic. The U-5001 is in a precarious state. If we slip beneath the surface in rough seas, we may never surface again.

Slowly, my crew assembled themselves, and trans-shipped to Sturm. I felt a great relief — my premonition of losing the crew would not come true. When there were only four men remaining aboard — Manny, Massenburg, and Hauser, the young cook, I told them what I had been thinking. I confessed to a terrible realization that my life no longer had a purpose. The Germany I had served, albeit reluctantly, had ceased to exist.

And I am struck by a deeper truth — I have no desire to ever return there, to ever see it again.

To the three men still with me, I brought up the possibility of the earlier alternate plan we’d discussed. I told them this was the time to decide whether or not to act upon it.

Before they could reply, I told them I would not be going back on Sturm.

Manny and Hausser understood, but Massenburg had two questions. One, was I planning to go down with my ship? And two, if not, then what?

After explaining my intentions, Chief Massenburg thanked me profusely, but declined to join us. He believed he was too old and too much a German to attempt a fresh start in a country so different. I told he him he had been my best non-com, and I would miss him. He saluted me, swore himself to secrecy, and departed for the cruiser.

Leaving the three of us. None with any family remaining in Germany. None with any good real reason to return to a place where a terrible Russo-European punishment would be the rule of the day.

These issues decided, I informed Captain Kaltenbach I would attempt to nurse U-5001 back to Trondheim. The cruiser sailed east, leaving me, Manny, and Hausser in its wake.

Since the war was at an end, I decided to keep my boat on the surface as we departed the rendezvous point and headed for the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay.

I have further decided to not surrender my boat to the Americans. Better they never know how close we came to destroying their greatest city.

My last entry.

After running more than 14 hours, as dawn fills the sky, Manny estimates we have pushed our way north into the Bay as far as we dare. The water here is deep enough to claim our boat.

We will now prepare to scuttle, and take our chances.

Chapter Twenty-One

“That’s it,” said Tommy, his voice just above a whisper. “Oh, man…”

“They scuttled and deserted.” Dex admired this guy, Bruckner. He had brass ones.

“So what’s this all mean?” Tommy sipped on a Natty Boh.

“More than I want to think about. At least for tonight.” Dex wasn’t sure he should alarm Tommy with his suspicions at this point. His imagination still sparked with images of the underground Nazi base, the shipwreck that had fallen through the pack-ice — the light tower.

And the coolest part was Bruckner, himself. He’d recorded his story in a simple, dispassionate but very readable style. A reporter on the scene, no more or less. It could have been the basic translation, but Dex doubted it. He wasn’t even sure Bruckner cared if anyone ever read his log.

Either the log had been left intentionally in the captain’s quarters, or last-minute events kept Bruckner from retrieving it. Whatever the case, his story stood on its own. Although that wouldn’t stop Dex from checking ship registries for the names Nebuchadenezzar and Sturm. Probably a waste of time — those boats were real, he was certain. But seeing them in print somewhere would apply the epoxy of total truth to the whole story.

But there was one problem — a huge problem — he would need to verify before alerting anyone to a possible danger. He wasn’t even sure he should tell the rest of the guys yet. Tommy had read the same thing as Dex and hadn’t noticed it. So, it might be nothing.

Or, it might be everything.

“Hey, Dex… Earth to Dex.” Tommy tapped him on the shoulder. “Whatsamatter with you?”

“Oh, sorry. I was just thinking about something.”

“What?”

“When we go back down to the wreck tomorrow, it might be the last time we can do it.” Dex moused in a few commands, closing the translation website as he spoke. Then he saved the text of the log to a flash drive and encrypted it with a password. Then he clipped it to his keyring. He thought about putting it in the strong box, but the lock was broken, and anyone finding the originals wouldn’t need his translation for long. But he knew he didn’t want anything on his laptop drive, so the last thing he did was run his security program that flushed out and cyber-shredded anything he’d been doing connected with the 5001. Call him paranoid, but now that the good old “authorities” knew the sub was down there, he was going to keep things as tight as possible.

“Last time,” said Tommy. “Yeah, you said that before. Hey, you want a brewski?”

“No thanks, I’m going to hit the road. Like I was saying, tomorrow might be the last dive on that boat. I want to get out early, and I want to be the first team down. You okay with that?”

Tommy looked a little surprised. “You want me?”

Dex wanted him for two reasons: one, because of his training, he was a good guy to have around in a dangerous situation; and two, none of the other guys wanted much to do with him.

Of course, he wasn’t going to tell him that second reason…

“Yeah, things might get a little dicey down there, and you’re the guy I need in a pinch.”

Tommy smiled, chucked him on the shoulder. “Cool.”

Dex started to pack up his computer and the rest of the stuff. He was about to slip the brick of inter-matter, the translated text, and the log into his backpack, then stopped himself.

“Tommy, you think Augie would mind if we stashed this stuff with him for a little while?”

Looking over at the old guy dozing on the couch, Tommy smiled. “You kidding? Aug’s the best. He’d be glad to keep an eye on it.”

“Good,” said Dex, as he replaced the log and printed-out pages in Bruckner’s strongbox. Stuffing the box into the backpack, he paused as he picked up the strange brick. Now that he had an idea what it might be, decided it would probably be a better idea to never let the object out of reach. He handed the laptop and the backpack to Tommy. “You clear it with him, okay?”

“No prob. But how come?”

Dex shrugged. “I don’t know. I just have a feeling it’ll be safer here. At least for now. Call it a hunch, you know?”

“Sure, I got ya,” said Tommy.

Looking at his watch, Dex headed for the door. “Tell Augie thanks when you wake him up. I’ll see you at the dock. Regular time.”

“You got it. I’ll be there.” Tommy noticed he still carried the metallic slab. “Hey, I thought you said you were leaving everything here.”

“Everything but this.” Dex shook hands with him, thanked him, and slipped out the door into the festive lights of Little Italy.

As he walked to his car, he wondered if he was being a jerk with all the precautions, and he waved that off. He’d stayed alive doing dangerous things throughout a long Navy hitch because he listened to his instincts on more than one occasion.

And his internal Early Warning System was beeping right now. No way was he going to ignore it.