Thunder In The Deep (02) (36 page)

Jeffrey sent Cooper to fetch Ilse and have her give her weapon to a Turk. Ilse crawled to the command group. Jeffrey filled her in.

"I agree, Mr. Salih," Ilse said. "I've had to go through this myself. We need you to speak out, to testify . .. You can always return, reinsert through hostile lines. Look at me." Salih hesitated, and Jeffrey could see his torment. The constant incoming fire and detonations in the distance wouldn't help him think.

"All right," Salih finally said. "I suspected this was coming . . . assuming any of us get out of here alive." "I'll form up the men for a diversion," Cooper said. "That German platoon is working closer," Jeffrey said.

"I'm going after the machine gun on the pier."

A helicopter gunship tore in from over the water, its Gatling cannon blazing. Out of the corner of his eye Jeffrey saw Montgomery pull a Stinger from his huge equipment pack. He fired. The rocket roared at the helo. They connected. There was another bright flash, then a hard, sharp bang, and debris fell into the bay. The MG on the pier fired toward the source of the Stinger, and everyone blended into the now-wrinkled asphalt. Bits of pavement—secondary projectiles—pelted the group once more.

"I'm going into the water," Jeffrey shouted. He'd seen a boat tied to the pier. "Chief, keep that MG distracted!"

"We're out of missiles!"

Jeffrey swam under water in his Draeger. The surface roiled and chopped, from the earthquakes and landslides and tidal wave.

His dry suit was badly cut up, and he was quickly chilled. At least the cold reduced the pain of his minor cuts and wounds. He surfaced quietly under the pier, and spotted the fortified emplacement for the machine gun. From this close its report was very loud. Spent shells fell between the planks of the pier, and hissed on hitting the water. From below, Jeffrey placed a satchel charge. He yanked the timer cord. A guard saw something through the planks, and fired down with his assault rifle. Jeffrey dived away, and the bullets plunged past his right side—the guard had forgotten to account for the bending of light by the water, and his aim was off. The satchel blew. The force of the air-burst was painful even underwater. Burning planks landed in the bay.

Jeffrey stayed submerged for protection. When the rain of debris died down, he came to the surface. The emplacement was blasted to smithereens. Jeffrey cursed. So was half the pier, and the rowboat he'd seen tied up. His SpecWar skills were stale; he had used too much explosive.

He turned around and almost shit his dry suit. He saw a low-slung landing craft come right at him. Its top hatch popped open, and two heavily armed men aimed their weapons in his direction. They recognized him, then scanned the sky for threats. It was Meltzer's minisub, running in on the surface. He'd been watching through the periscope, and waiting for his chance.

Meltzer held the minisub against the remains of the pier with his side thrusters. The two SEALs who'd stayed in reserve with Meltzer dashed forward with a heavy mortar and mortar bombs, to help drive the approaching German soldiers back. There was another huge eruption from the ammo train, and everyone ducked.

"Chief," Jeffrey shouted above the noise, "give Nine and the Turks all we can spare of weapons and food and medical supplies!"

Montgomery nodded. "It looks to me like they've all got good footgear and overcoats by. now!"

Turks and SEALs carried Clayton and eased him down the open top hatch. Jeffrey and Ilse handed down the disk drives. These too went into the transport compartment, including parts smashed during the battle. Jeffrey hoped they weren't impaired by the magnetic storm—at least the cases were nonconductive.

Last came the model missile, still largely intact. It barely fit through the wide top hatch, and had to be left awkwardly filling most of the lock-out sphere. Those who were staying behind bid farewell to those who were leaving. Cooper said he'd do everything possible to maintain a diversion, to draw forces from the bay.

Jeffrey threw some radiation sensors into the water,

then closed the top hatch; the sensors would transmit in a few days, to show if the bay was contaminated. Meltzer got underway, following the narrow dredged channel leading from the pier.

Montgomery, watching the sonar, shouted that a speedboat was attacking. Jeffrey opened the top hatch—the water was much too shallow for the mini to submerge. Water splashed and sloshed as the minisub picked up speed. It had low freeboard; one shell through the hull and they were finished.

Jeffrey shouldered a Stinger that a reserve SEAL passed him from below. Jeffrey drew a bead on the speedboat. He was afraid the Stinger might not work, out here in the conductive seawater with the solar storm, but he got a tone as green tracers probed in his direction. He fired, and the missile tore away. It hit the boat, and fuel and ammo blew in wild secondary bursts. The aurora high above, reflecting off the choppy bay, plus the exploding ammo train, made a beautiful light show. Flying debris kept landing in the water all around. Jeffrey dropped back inside and dogged the hatch. In the lock-out sphere, bending around and leaning under the missile, the two reserve SEALs were finished suiting up. Each held a compressed-air-powered underwater rifle, which fired depleted uranium bullets, deadly out to twenty or thirty feet.

"In case we meet enemy swimmers, sir, leaving the bay. They may try to block the hole in the concertina, or put limpet mines on our hull."

Jeffrey nodded. These men were up, clicked in, ready to fight. He knew he was in good hands.

Jeffrey went into the back to check on Clayton. The wound was through his lower left pelvis, from front to back. SEAL One said it must have been a. 7.62mm round—.30caliber. It hadn't tumbled, but cleanly pierced muscle and went right through the saddle of the pelvic bone, below vital organs and away from key blood vessels and nerves. Clayton was very, very lucky—he might even

return to combat status. He was shocks getting plasma from an IV, and groggy from a morphine shot, so Jeffrey didn't try to talk to him.

Jeffrey gave silent thanks that Clayton had survived; Jeffrey had grown very attached to the man, his forthright confidence and clear thinking under pressure. Jeffrey knew Clayton would be torn up inside over the deaths of three more of his men, plus so many fallen Gastarbeiter. It was just as well he was sedated for a while. Jeffrey spoke gently to Salih, who sat with one arm in a bloody bandage and a sling. Salih seemed in mental shock himself, morose and distant. He began to murmur in Arabic, a Muslim prayer.

Jeffrey pulled himself away. He had much too much to deal with to get sentimental now, and didn't want to grow maudlin himself over their heavy losses. This was his own third SEAL raid, counting the one years ago in Iraq, and the loss of friends in combat never got easier:

Jeffrey chided himself. He'd sworn after the first time not to introspect; it just worsened the hurt. Plenty of chance after the war—if he lived and if the Allies won—to think back at reunions over beer or something stronger.

Jeffrey steadied himself as the mini started to roll in deeper water. Montgomery announced they were diving. Jeffrey heard the ballast tanks begin to vent. The continued detonations from the ammo train, transmitted through the water, boomed and reverbed like a distant thunderstorm.

Jeffrey went through into the control compartment, dogging the hatches after him. He squeezed behind Meltzer's seat. Ilse stood behind Montgomery; the chief was pilot again. In the rig for red, out of line of sight of the chief and Meltzer, Ilse reached and squeezed Jeffrey's hand.

Was she feeling it, too, the postaction emptiness? The elation of being alive fast turned to black depression over the wastefulness of it all? Jeffrey squeezed back, gratefully, and felt a bit less lonely. Ilse's touch lingered seconds

longer than it should. Finally, she reluctantly broke his grip, and wiped a tear from her left eye. Jeffrey tried to make eye contact, but she stared stoically ahead, at the tactical plot. Speedboats and more helo gunships charged about, firing MGs and cannon at the water.

"Pilot," Jeffrey said, "ahead flank. Zigzag smartly. We need to get out of here before somebody with a depth charge or torpedo reaches the bay. Those sonar helos may come back, if their avionics aren't scrambled by the storm."

Montgomery acknowledged.

"Sir," Meltzer said, "if we make it through that hole in the concertina, what do you want to do? There's hardly any fuel left."

"Let me see the nav chart."

"We could try to bluff our way at one of the German bases on the Baltic," Montgomery said, "and get more fuel and have more options."

"I don't think so," Jeffrey said. "Even with comms disrupted by this magnetic storm, and power blackouts, they'll have fiber-optic land lines." Jeffrey was sure the alert would go out soon, if it hadn't already, even if German intercommand and army/navy connectivity were slow. Jeffrey knew his team's whole survival now came down to a race against German reaction time.

"Sir," Montgomery said, "we'll barely have enough range to reach the southern coast of Sweden at four knots. It's fifty nautical miles."

"It'll take forever," Meltzer said. "The Germans will cut us off." Big cannon shells impacted close, probably from more Leopard III's, and Montgomery veered to starboard. Jeffrey held on tight.

"It's our only chance," Jeffrey said. "Make for neutral territory. Maybe we can escapeand-evade into the hinterland with our booty, and contact the American embassy or something."

There was another heavy explosion in the water.

"The mountains in the winter will be murder," Ilse said. "Stockholm's a long way from the southern coast."

"If the Swedes pick us up," Montgomery said, "and don't shoot us on sight, we'll be interned for the rest of the war. They'll keep our goodies themselves, sir, even give them back to Germany." Another big shell landed, somewhere ahead, and Montgomery veered to port.

"Ilse," Jeffrey said, "you have any other thoughts?" "I wish I did." Jeffrey stifled a heavy yawn. The adrenaline was wearing off, and he felt an overwhelming drowsiness. "Ilse, there's nothing more you and I can do right now. Let's go in back and try to get some sleep and let these guys do their jobs. Pilot, Copilot, your objective is the Swedish coast."

THREE HOURS LATER,

IN THE GERMAN MINISUB.

Jeffrey jerked awake. He'd heard an explosion—it wasn't a dream. The transport compartment seemed half empty, because of the three SEALs killed in action, and Andy Cooper staying behind. Equipment packs littered the deck. The hard-drive cases were stacked near the chemical head.

Jeffrey glanced at Clayton and Salih. Clayton slept, but his color seemed good, and the SEAL attending him gave Jeffrey a thumbs-up. The reserve SEALs clutched their uranium-pellet air guns.

Salih looked very pale. "I'm seasick, and I'm feeling claustrophobic." Jeffrey forced a knowing grin. "You just need something to do, Gamal. Remember your army first aid?" Ja."

"Help us take care of the lieutenant."

Salih nodded, and stopped feeling sorry for himself.

"Let me see what's going on." Jeffrey went forward. In the lock-out sphere he eyed the Mach 8 missile, and wondered if it would ever reach friendly lines. Ilse was already up and in the control compartment.

Jeffrey had noticed this at Durban—in combat she had boundless energy. She was getting to be quite a veteran. So was Meltzer.

Jeffrey read the display screens. The mini was making flank speed, all of twelve knots, on a course near due north. Their depth was one hundred thirty feet, in one hundred fifty feet of water. German frigates and patrol craft had them surrounded. The fuel gauge read five percent, and they were many miles from Sweden.

"That blast just now was an old design of torpedo," Montgomery said, "launched from a missile boat. Crappy software, made bottom capture, blew a hole in the mud." More explosions sounded in the distance.

"Depth charges that time," Jeffrey said.

"We're stealthy," the chief said, "but they're closing in."

"Any mines nearby?"

"We're still in their submarine exercise area. . . . Of course, they could drop new mines."

"Where are all their training subs?"

"Warned away, we think, Captain," Meltzer said. "To give the combat-ready surface force an open field."

Jeffrey glanced at Ilse. She tried to smile back reassuringly—without success. "Can't we blend in?" Jeffrey said. "Pretend to be a training sub, like before?"

"What's that get us?" Montgomery said. "A POW cage, and a gibbet for Salih and Ilse."

"Torpedo in the water!" Meltzer said. "Bearing zero seven zero! . . . Constant bearing!

Sounds like an SUT unit, Captain, wire-guided, launched from that Class one-thirty corvette east of us." A corvette was smaller than a frigate, but nimble and aggressive still.

"Range?" Jeffrey said.

"Seven thousand yards."

"Torpedo attack speed?"

"Er, thirty-four knots."

"Impact in six minutes," Montgomery said, "unless we keep running, and run down our peroxide."

"Pilot," Jeffrey said, "go shallow, thirty-three feet. Maintain flank speed. Steer two five zero." Away from that torpedo. "Copilot, stand by to equalize the lock-out sphere. Ilse, gimme a hand."

Jeffrey and Ilse went into the sphere. In a small locker was a case of three-inch chemical noisemakers. The mini took a steep up-bubble. The missile shifted, and Jeffrey almost broke an ankle. He and Ilse got the noisemakers out.

The mini leveled off. The air pressure in the sphere began to rise. Jeffrey and Ilse pinched their noses and blew. The pressure held at two atmospheres. The torpedo began to ping.

Jeffrey knelt and opened the bottom hatch. Water splashed from the mini's high speed. Jeffrey held out a hand. Ilse gave him a noisemaker. He threw it into the water, hard. She gave him another, another. Contact with saltwater would do the rest. Jeffrey grabbed the intercom. "Pilot, make a knuckle, steer due north." He and Ilse held on as the mini banked into the turn.

Jeffrey dropped three more noisemakers, then closed the bottom hatch. Again he grabbed the mike.