"Target aspect change, sir," Van Gelder said, grateful for the distraction. He pointed. "I think she's started zigzagging."
Ter Horst leaned to the intercom. "Weapons, Bridge. Disable torpedo homing packages. Use zero gyro angle, set running depth seven meters."
A muffled acknowledgment sounded on the speaker.
"Her draft is four times that, sir," Van Gelder said. That's why the tanker couldn't use the Suez Canal, he told himself, not that they'd ever make it through the Med.
"I know," ter Horst said. "I want to blow her sides out. She'll go down fast that way … Infrared binoculars, please."
Van Gelder took the strap from around his neck, gulping at the grisly association, and presented them to his CO.
"I can see her load," ter Horst said as he peered intently. "It's a kind of X-ray vision, you know, infrared."
"Yes, sir."
"Good German optics, and good electronics too. Look at that, I can even see the crewmen on the bridge … and a few more in the deckhouse on her forecastle."
"Can't we give them a chance to surrender, Captain?"
"Don't be ridiculous. What do you think this is, World War I?"
"It's just that—"
"Yes, I know. With the best survival gear in creation they'd never be rescued from the sea in time. Whose fault is that, hmmm? Certainly not ours."
A rogue wave struck from aft, and Voortrekker's bridge was under for endless seconds. Van Gelder felt the suction begin to lift him from his feet. He fought to hold his breath, praying that his lifeline held. Then the water cleared. Ter Horst shook himself off and leaned to the intercom again. "Weapons, use target speed eighteen knots. Our angle on her bow is starboard zero four zero, mark."
"May I see, sir?" Van Gelder said, badly needing something to do. It was so cold with the wind chill that his speech was getting slurred, and his face had lost all feeling in spite of the woolen ski mask and fur-lined parka hood.
Ter Horst handed over the binocs. "Sonar," he called, "go active. What's the range?"
"Thirty-nine hundred meters, Captain," came back a few seconds later.
"Weapons," ter Horst said, "target bearing, call it two four five relative, mark!" Van Gelder heard the acknowledgment as he studied the doomed tanker. Their own boat pitched to an especially nasty following wave. The sub heaved upward in the swell and he could see the endless choppy seas. The horizon was a dusky blur beneath a dark and glowering sky, the sun a lifeless coppery orb low to the north. He watched the wave roll past the bow, completely covering Voortrekker's foredeck. The massive supertanker, four hundred meters long or more, seemed to barely feel the storm.
"It's a little approximate," ter Horst shouted, "doing this by eye, but she's so big we can hardly miss."
"I know, Captain."
"We've pulled ahead. Time to set up the shot. Helm, Bridge, port ten degrees rudder. Steer one nine five true." The sub slid down the back of one tall wave, bore up into the next, and a wall of water slammed the sail. Now the seas came from broad off the port bow, slowing Voortrekker down, and the wind seemed more intense.
Van Gelder ran the infrared binoculars along their quarry's hull. The huge laden cargo tanks stood out clearly in the enhanced imagery, the warmth of the crude petroleum radiating through the vessel's cold steel sides.
"Weapons," ter Horst called, "she's turning away … She handles like a pregnant bathtub … Angle on the bow now starboard zero five four. Bearing three two zero relative. Make the range thirty-six hundred meters, mark."
Again a tinny acknowledgment came back, barely audible above the howling of the storm and the water surging, slapping the cockpit.
Van Gelder stared at their target. A heavy bank of fog spoiled his view, then passed. "Sir, I don't understand something."
"Weapons," ter Horst called impatiently, "final bearing, three two four, angle on the bow now starboard zero six one. Range closing to thirty-four hundred meters, mark … What is it, Gunther?"
"Her tanks aren't quite full. In fact I'd say they've only got three quarters of capacity."
"Helm," ter Horst said, "increase speed five more knots. I'm getting cold." He turned to Van Gelder. "The way she's altered course away from us makes it more challenging, you know. Not that she can keep it up. Icebergs calve in that direction this time of year."
"I know, sir. We're inside the mean limit of pack ice for December as it is."
"Bergy bits off the starboard quarter!" a lookout called. Van Gelder watched the cottagesized translucent obstacles bob and tumble. The sub quickly left them behind.
"We have our prey in the snare for sure," ter Horst said. "She's embayed against Princess Ragnhild Coast … We should change that name. Kruger Coast, or something."
"Sir, these waters are getting hazardous, and something doesn't make sense." Ter Horst leaned to the intercom again. "Weapons, make tubes one through four ready in all respects. Open the outer doors … What is it now, Gunther?"
"If she's running the blockade, why wouldn't her tanks be full?"
"Let me see that," ter Horst snapped. He grabbed the binoculars. "Hmm. I see what you mean."
"Sir, I don't like this."
"What's there not to like? We're alone with her out here."
"I know, sir, it's just that—"
"Look. We've used her noise to do an ambient sonar search, and we checked twice for anything backlit against the grinding of the floes. We patrolled under the ice shelf on our way over here, remember?"
"Yes, sir, I know."
"I inspected her bottom myself using an unmanned undersea vehicle probe. There's nothing that's a threat."
"Something just doesn't feel right, Captain. The bridge crew, they never move." Ter Horst chuckled. "Talk about frozen with fear."
"Bridge, Sonar," came over the intercom.
"Sonar, Bridge, aye aye," Van Gelder shouted.
"Mechanical transients, wide-field directional effects, mean bearing one five seven true. Range matches the tanker."
"Near her stern," ter Horst mused. "Engine room noises?"
"Bridge, Sonar, negative. They sounded like muzzle doors opening."
"Muzzle doors?" ter Horst said. He hesitated. "Scheisse!" He turned in a circle and pounded the cockpit windscreen with his fist. "Now it all makes sense. Seawater. I'll bet her tanks are filled with fucking seawater!"
Van Gelder nodded. "Crude's lighter, sir." That's why the tanks were partly empty. Saltwater took some 80 percent of the cargo volume for the same weight and hull displacement.
"Torpedo in the water bearing one five seven!"
Again ter Horst cursed. "Fire an antitorpedo rocket!" He glanced at Van Gelder confidently. "They'll never go nuclear, Gunther. Not while we're this close." There was a violent explosion halfway between the submarine and tanker. Dirty water soared into the air, and soon the acrid fumes made Van Gelder choke.
"Intercept successful," Sonar said.
"She's a verdammt Q-ship," ter Horst sputtered. "Torpedo tubes jury-rigged below the waterline."
"Yes, sir," Van Gelder said.
"How dare they? The whole thing's a bloody trap!"
"Second torpedo in the water!"
"Destroy it!" ter Horst shouted.
Again rumbling water fountained and a shock wave raced across the sea. The torpedo and antitorpedo's twin concussion hit Van Gelder in the gut.
"Sir," he said, "she's turning toward us."
"With that deep draft they'll try to ram … Helm, port thirty rudder now, steer one six five true."
Ter Horst winked at Van Gelder as the sub's sail heeled into the turn, putting the two vessels on a collision course. "We'll still do this my way." He leaned to the intercom. " Weapons! Firing point procedures on the tanker, tubes one through four." Van Gelder looked through his binoculars, his ears ringing from the explosions, his forehead aching from the cold. "The crew still haven't moved. I think they're heated dummies, sir."