"Captain," Kathy said. "Large object heading toward the bottom fast! Heavy flooding and breaking-up sounds!"
"Object is Deutschland, sir," Bell said.
"Put it on speakers." There was a horrendous crash, followed by endless banging and clunking, as pulverized wreckage scattered and hit the bottom. There was a continuing whoosh, as all the air and fumes in Deutschland's shattered hull and ballast tanks rose to the surface to mark the ship's grave.
"Helm," Jeffrey said, "make your depth eight thousand feet. Left standard rudder, make your course two one five."
Ilse looked at a nav chart. Course two one five: the GIUK Gap.
Ilse turned to Jeffrey and smiled. Jeffrey grinned back. They'd done it. They'd done it. Bell pointed at a chronometer. It was 0005, Zulu time.
Zulu time was also Greenwich Mean Time. Challenger, up near the Arctic Circle—not all that far from the North Pole—happened to be due north of Greenwich. It was 24
December 2011.
"Hey, everybody," Jeffrey said. "Tonight's Christmas Eve!" NEW YEAR'S EVE.
NAVAL SUBMARINE BASE,
NEW LONDON
The Navy tugs moved USS Challenger toward her berth in the new hardened underground pens, blasted into the high bluffs up the Thames River opposite Groton, Connecticut. Jeffrey stood in the cockpit atop the sail. He eyed the nontoxic smoke screen that blocked the sky but gave his ship concealment. He heard the roar of F-18's and F-22's flying top cover. He couldn't hear the racket in the ether, as aggressive electronic countermeasures helped ward off Axis attack.
Inside Challenger, Jeffrey knew, things were very crowded. Here on the bridge, things were crowded, too. Besides the regular lookouts, standing in safety harness up on the sail roof itself, Captain Taylor, from USS Texas, and Ilse Reebeck stood next' to Jeffrey in the cockpit. Ilse pressed against Jeffrey every time Challenger rolled, and she seemed to enjoy the body contact. Jeffrey desperately wanted to hold her hand, but it was out of the question with Captain Taylor there. . . .
After leaving the erupting volcano, Jeffrey had examined the site of Deutschland's impact with the bottom: The
wreckage was real, the German SSN truly destroyed. Then a message through the deep sound channel ordered Challenger to rendezvous with HMS Dreadnought in the North Atlantic. Texas had won her duel with the German Amethyste II after all. The ceramichulled Dreadnought evacuated the survivors from Texas, then transferred them to Challenger, using her Royal Navy minisub. Challenger, out of ammo, the German mini with the missile back inside her internal hangar, was the field ambulance. Dreadnought, freshly provisioned, all eight tubes and her autoloaders working, provided armed escort, until Jeffrey could link up with U.S. Navy forces near the East Coast. Jeffrey and Kathy Milgrom even got to visit with their Dutch uncle and mentor Commodore Morse for a little while—Dreadnought was his flagship for an undersea battle group. They shared a drink in Morse's cabin, in honor of the holidays and Challenger's success. Morse told Jeffrey an attempt would be made to salvage Texas, using gas bladders robotically placed in the flooded engine room. Till then, two Royal Navy SSNs stood guard. Now, Challenger was inside the pen. The blast door interlock was closed behind her. Lining the underground pier were hundreds of people. These were the welcoming committee, wives and children and parents and friends—and girlfriends—of the two hundred plus souls Challenger was bringing safely home. Jeffrey also saw a group of people wearing black, comforted by chaplains of several faiths; not everyone had made it.
As Challenger nudged the deep draft separators against the concrete pier, Jeffrey noticed several figures in dress blue. He counted seven captains and four admirals. With them was Commander Wilson, Challenger's CO, looking refreshed and well. The moment the aluminum brow was in place, Captain Wilson strode onto Challenger's hull. Jeffrey climbed down through the sail trunk to meet him; the trunk was damp, from the flooding, and it stank. Ilse went below.
Chief Montgomery and his SEALs tenderly carried Shajo Clayton's litter up through the weapons loading hatch. Wilson spoke to Clayton and shook his hand; both men smiled warmly. Shajo, Jeffrey knew, had a Special Warfare commando's million-dollar wound: a Purple Heart, a Silver Star at least, a paid vacation to convalesce, then an almost certain return to combat status.
Wilson surveyed his command. He looked very hard at Jeffrey. "What did you do to my beautiful boat?"
Jeffrey felt self-conscious standing next to Wilson. The captain's uniform was spotless, beautifully starched. His shoes had a mirror-hard shine, and the three gold rings on each jacket cuff gleamed. Under Jeffrey's salt-stained parka, his khakis were wrinkled and dirty—at least he'd had time to shower and shave, in spite of the water rationing. Jeffrey glanced around, following Wilson's gaze. For the first time in weeks, he could see Challenger from outside. The periscope and antenna masts were ragged stumps. Aircraft cannon shell hits, and shore defense gun shrapnel, pockmarked the sail. Shaped-charge antitank missile hits holed the sail and the top of the rudder. The anechoic coatings and piezorubber tiles were shredded in some spots, and missing altogether in places. The sailmounted under-ice and mine avoidance sonar complexes were smashed. The whole ship's upper works were scorched along her port side. From this angle, Challenger looked like she'd been through the wars indeed.
"I've left my patrol report on your desk in your stateroom, Captain."
"I read it already. A copy of the copy you gave to Commodore Morse. The German mini, the model missile, the hard drives, Mr. Salih—they'll be offloaded when all these civilians are gone. . . . This is for you." Wilson handed Jeffrey an envelope.
"What is it, sir?"
"Orders. You're being detached. To the Prospective Commanding Officers Course. Your class started last week.
You have a lot of catching up to do, and you've got some blind spots you better fix real quick."
"Er, I don't know what to say, sir." PCO school was a necessary step to Jeffrey's own, official, independent command.
"Then don't say it. . . . This is for my weapons officer." Another envelope.
"Orders, Captain?"
Wilson nodded curtly. "Prospective Executive Officers School. He earned it." Jeffrey saw Wilson held a third envelope. "Where's Miss Reebeck?" Wilson said.
"Her stateroom, sir."
"We're sending her through the Basic Submarine Officers Course. . . . This isn't charity. Her government-inexile paid a fee."
"Lieutenant Milgrom?"
"She stays with the ship."
Jeffrey just stood there, numb. He was being discharged from the vessel that was his only real home, home for three months that felt like a lifetime. The ship's company was being broken up, as she was readied for dry dock and badly needed repairs. Wilson shooed Jeffrey off the quarterdeck, toward the brow. "I'll have your luggage sent. You're missing class." Then Wilson's manner softened, and he actually gave Jeffrey a smile. "You did well, Mr. Fuller. Enjoy your New Year's Eve." Jeffrey walked onto the pier. The families and friends were growing impatient. Challenger's A-gang, the deck hands, part of Bell's department, were already waving and shouting to their loved ones. Jeffrey spotted Lieutenant Bell's wife, beaming and great with child. Jeffrey knew not to bother to look to the crowd; there'd be no one waiting for him.
Jeffrey shook hands with the senior officers standing near the brow. His squadron commodore, and group rear admiral, pounded him on the back.
Finally, it all sank in. The schools, at the New London base. For six weeks, Jeffrey and Ilse would be together on dry land.
Jeffrey decided, then and there, to ask her out for tonight—they'd usher in the new year, 2012, together.
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