Crush Depth (15 page)

Wilson, frowning, responded, “I don’t know.”

Jeffrey felt the deck heeling under his feet.
Challenger
creaked against the rubber blocks holding her firmly in the hold. The heeling grew much steeper, to port—the
Prima Latina
was turning hard to starboard.

The vibrations and heeling grew stronger; the water in the hold all rushed to
Challenger
’s port side, slopping over the submarine’s hull, gurgling and roaring.

“She’s making an emergency turn,” Wilson said.

Above the other racket, Jeffrey could hear a warning bong begin to sound somewhere in the
Prima Latina
. He put two and two together fast.

“Chief of the Watch,” Jeffrey snapped. “Collision alarm.” The raucous siren blared. Crewmen tried to brace themselves.

The Russians are going to ram.
Now Jeffrey heard a deep mechanical moan from outside the hull. Kathy said the freighter was sounding its horn, a lengthy, insistent blast.

The collision alarm kept blaring inside
Challenger.
Jeffrey watched through the periscopes, helpless, waiting to see the
Prima Latina
cut in half.

The
Prima Latina
turned sharply the other way. The heeling reversed. The maddened shaking and sloshing continued. Jeffrey gripped his armrests, hating having nothing to do.
She’s trying to evade the trawler’s charging bow.
All eyes were glued to the periscope pictures now, each person dreading to see what Jeffrey dreaded—an insider’s view of a freighter being skewered on the high seas.

The freighter sounded her horn again, an endless series of angry staccato blasts. She turned sharply back toward starboard. The shaking went on and on.

Then the vibrations died down.
Challenger
’s deck righted itself. By gyrocompass, Jeffrey saw the freighter was resuming her course south.

In a little while, a crane on a catwalk in the hold lowered a gangplank onto
Challenger
’s hull. Jeffrey watched a man swagger down the ramp and knock on
Challenger
’s forward hatch with a pipe wrench. Jeffrey recognized the scruffy seaman who’d been smoking the cigar

On
Voortrekker,
inside the
Trincomalee Tiger

G
UNTHER
V
AN
G
ELDER
sweated and his heart was pounding, both from exertion and from fear. He was truly caught between a rock and a hard place.
Hurry up. But be quiet. Work faster. Not so loud.

Van Gelder and his men needed to maintain absolute silence, because the enemy was so near. But they also had to work quickly. The cruise missile vertical launch array was already reloaded, but there was so much still to be done. Van Gelder stood on
Voortrekker
’s hull behind the sail, next to the open weapons-loading hatch which led down to the torpedo room. He paused for just a moment, to wipe his dripping brow. He eyed his wristwatch and frowned. He glanced up from his labors and looked about the secret hold to take stock of the situation. The feeling of being on tenterhooks wouldn’t subside.

The
Trincomalee Tiger
was well equipped—with the special cranes needed to transfer weapons to a nuclear submarine, and with the nuclear weapons themselves. The German Kampfschwimmer commando team that ter Horst had told Van Gelder to expect was already below with their gear.

But the loading of torpedoes—Van Gelder’s major remaining task to supervise—was taking much longer than
planned, in part because the seas around the
Tiger
had gotten so rough. Van Gelder thought the tropical storm off Australia must be stronger than forecast. Or maybe a different storm had formed unexpectedly off Antarctica; Antarctic weather often changed suddenly, violently.

The worse the weather outside, the longer the last of the loading would take. The longer the loading took, the worse the weather. Van Gelder just couldn’t win.

The biggest problem was that, because of these delays, the Australian destroyer arrived. With typical British Commonwealth seamanship and flair, the Aussies sent over a motorized launch with a well-equipped repair party. They were aboard the
Trincomalee Tiger
right now. Sometimes Van Gelder could hear banging beyond the aft end of the submarine hold, where Royal Australian Navy sailors were trying to help fix machinery that wasn’t really broken.
Voortrekker
’s weapons reloading was supposed to have been completed, and the fake mechanical problems on
Tiger
solved, well before the destroyer ever got there.

Outwardly, Van Gelder maintained the appearance of calm and confidence. He didn’t allow crew discipline to slacken in the least. Inwardly, the thought of enemy forces so close, with
Voortrekker
so defenseless, sent chills right up his spine. Van Gelder’s hands felt like ice cubes, yet he sweated all the more. He listened to his men whispering urgently while they worked.

Van Gelder glanced aft apprehensively.
How much longer will our luck hold out?
The maritime patrol plane was still orbiting overhead, and the destroyer would be well armed with nuclear antisubmarine weapons. This meant that
Voortrekker
dared not leave until the destroyer was gone—to even have the freighter open the secret hold’s bottom doors, with the destroyer’s sonars listening nearby, was an appalling risk.

Worst thought of all, if the enemy realized what the
Trincomalee Tiger
really was, her neutrality would be forfeit. She could be sunk quite legally, with
Voortrekker
still inside.
There might be no advance warning down here in the hold, and a stream of five-inch armor-piercing shells might come through the
Tiger
’s sides at any time.

Van Gelder wiped his dripping forehead on his uniform sleeve yet again. Yet again he urged his loading crew to work faster, without making noise. Any strange thuds or clanking forward of the
Tiger
’s engine room might easily trigger suspicion, and cause an investigation by an armed Australian boarding party. If the freighter’s crew were lax in their acting skills, or seemed nervous in the wrong way face to face with Royal Australian Navy officers and chiefs, the game would be up that much sooner. The Australians might even disable the tender’s bottom doors, and capture the
Tiger
with
Voortrekker
trapped inside.

A crewman dropped a wrench. It made a dull thunk against the soft anechoic tiles that covered
Voortrekker
’s hull. Van Gelder almost jumped at the sound. He turned to the man and scolded him under his breath. The loading work went on.

A few minutes later Jan ter Horst climbed up on deck through the open forward escape trunk. Van Gelder was surprised to see he wore a pistol belt. Two Kampfschwimmer followed, the commander and the chief, lugging scratched-up, old Russian AK-47 rifles.
Ter Horst must be as worried at this point as I am.

On
Challenger,
inside the
Prima Latina

“Buenos días, Señor Capitán.”

Jeffrey, standing outside the open weapons-loading hatch of
Challenger,
shook hands with the bearded seaman. Up close, now, the man looked not so much scruffy as authoritative and shrewd. He smelled strongly of cigar smoke and stale sweat.

“Yes,
buenos días,
” Jeffrey replied. That much Spanish he knew.

“I am sorry for the rough ride before,
Capitán.
The Russians, since the war, they do not like Cuba so much, you know. Sometimes they try to scare us with the hazardous maneuvers. Their trawlers make our freighters get out of the way, and we file protests. Sometimes they even throw garbage, and we throw garbage back.” The man laughed from deep in his belly, like it was all some great sailor’s joke.

“Exactly who
are
you?”

The man touched the side of his nose. “My real name does not matter. The important thing is that I am a friend. You may, I suppose, call me Rodrigo if you wish.”

Jeffrey looked him square in the eyes. “Who do you work for?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“I couldn’t begin to.”

“But
surely
you can guess. Don’t you enjoy guessing games,
Señor Capitán?
”

“You’re not American,” Jeffrey stated.

“But I am, or should I say, I
was.
I was born in Miami. My family returned to Habana, our ancestral home, after the Great Reconciliation, when our former enemy Castro retired. As Fidel himself was able to foresee, socialism and democracy are not so contradictory after all. Now I only use my Cuban passport.”

That was all well and good, but Commodore Wilson expected Jeffrey to trust his command to this guy, and to whomever he represented. “So who do you work for?”

“Why, the CIA of course!…Please,
Capitán,
please, come with me.”

Jeffrey followed the man up the catwalk inside the
Prima Latina
’s clandestine hold. They came to a small hatch.

“I apologize that we must go now on our hands and knees. The secret passages must be small, you understand, so as not to be discovered by an adversary.”

Jeffrey nodded. Wilson had told him to go with the man, but told him nothing more.

“And please do not mind the rats.”

“Rats?”

“Every aged tramp steamer must have rats, no? They discourage customs inspectors from inspecting us too closely.” Rodrigo laughed again, a hearty, confiding laugh. “But do not worry, they are our pets.”

“You keep rats as
pets?
”

“
Sí.
These are all former laboratory rats. How do you say?
Pedigreed.
Please,
Capitán,
after you.” Rodrigo gestured at the entry into the crawl space.

Jeffrey hesitated.

“The rats are tame, and had their shots. I assure you they do not bite.”

Jeffrey climbed into the tight companionway, followed a bend, then took the ladder up. He didn’t see any rats. On Rodrigo’s urging, he undogged the hatch at the other end of the crawl space.

He came out in a dark and dingy cargo hold, filled with stacks of large cardboard cartons on pallets. The deck he walked on was a solid floor of wooden packing crates. The hold reeked of stinking bilgewater. Jeffrey jumped when something on the deck, brownish and ugly, hissed and scurried out of his way.

“My apologies,” Rodrigo rushed to say. “I forgot to mention we also have the spiders.”

“That
thing
was a spider?” It was the size of a dinner plate.

“
Sí.
From the swamps of Venezuela. They are called bird-eating spiders, because they sometimes eat birds.”

Oh God.
Jeffrey almost vomited. “Don’t tell me,” he said sarcastically. “They’ve been defanged, and they’re
also
pets, to keep your pet rats company.”

Rodrigo smiled. “You understand almost perfectly,
Capitán!
But these are not defanged. Their venom is not poisonous to humans. They keep down the cockroaches nicely…. Many customs officials detest big spiders, you know.”

Bright lights snapped on and seven deep male voices yelled, “Surprise!”

Jeffrey almost jumped out of his shoes. All around him, standing in tight corridors between the tall stacks of cargo, stood eight heavily armed men. Jeffrey recognized U.S. Navy SEAL Lieutenant Shajo Clayton, and his second in command, Chief Montgomery. The enlisted SEALs with them were all new to Jeffrey, but Shajo and Montgomery were old friends.

Hands were shaken with bone-crushing strength, backs were pounded hard enough to knock the wind from a large man’s chest. Shajo Clayton had been with Jeffrey on
Challenger
’s South African raid, and then Montgomery joined them for the mission to northern Germany. They’d braved Axis fire together, seen comrades mortally wounded and die, and set off nuclear devices in the enemy’s lap. Jeffrey was
very
glad to see them, given where
Challenger
was going next.

“Gentlemen, please,” Rodrigo offered. “This is no place for a proper reunion. Come with me. Come, we have some delightful refreshments prepared.”

But Jeffrey’s face grew grim. “Shajo, Chief, don’t toy with me.”

“Sir?” Shajo Clayton was in his late twenties, from Atlanta; he possessed a trim build and a perfect swimmer’s body. He had a good sense of humor, was even-tempered and easy to talk to. Chief Montgomery, in his thirties, was built like a football linebacker: over six feet tall, immensely broad and strong. His humor was very biting at times, especially in the stress of combat. If he had a first name other than “Chief,” Jeffrey didn’t know yet what it was.

Like many SEALs, both men loved practical jokes.

“No more
surprises,
” Jeffrey said. “I have to ask. Is Ilse Reebeck here?”

Shajo Clayton looked confused and glanced at Chief Montgomery. The chief was just as confused.

“We thought she’d be with
you,
” Clayton said.

Jeffrey’s heart sank. He realized he finally had to give up hope. All this time, in his heart of hearts, he’d been daydreaming that Ilse’s death was faked, a subterfuge to fool the Axis. “She was killed,” Jeffrey said.

Clayton’s and Montgomery’s faces fell.

“What the hell happened?” Montgomery said. He sounded angry. “An enemy hit? Her ex-boyfriend’s goons get even?”

“No, nothing like that. An accident. A freak accident.”

“I’m really sorry,” Clayton said. “You two were dating, last I heard through the grapevine, weren’t you?…I’m—I’m sorry. How recent was it?”

“Just before we sailed.”

“She was a good person, and a good fighter,” Montgomery said. “We’ll miss her where we’re going. Wherever
that
might be?”

Jeffrey shrugged. “Commodore Wilson fills me in one step at a time.”

“
Commodore
Wilson?” Clayton said.

Jeffrey nodded. “I made full commander.
Challenger
’s mine now.” He’d removed his rank insignia, for security.

Clayton and Montgomery, all too experienced at coping with the loss of friends in war, congratulated Jeffrey with obvious relish. Jeffrey donned his mask of command, forgot about Ilse, and accepted their congratulations with warmest thanks.

Jeffrey turned to the Cuban, who’d been standing there stroking his beard. “Rodrigo, with all gratitude for your kind hospitality, I think we should just get to work.”

Shajo and Montgomery and the enlisted SEALs agreed. They had a lot of equipment to load aboard
Challenger,
and all of it had to go through the crawl space.

“I understand,” Rodrigo said. “Work first, refreshments perhaps later. There is no hurry, gentlemen. We will be several hours to reach and then go through the canal…. And
Capitán,
my sincerest condolences for your tragic loss.”