Then Braun heard it. At his feet, the solid clang of the hatch closing. A churning astern as U-80Ts screws were engaged. Bastards! The boat eased forward, and her bow planes extended with a downward tilt.
Braun scampered down from the sail and ran forward to the cargo hatch. He stomped on it with his boot, the rubber sole thudding against a steel fortress. The boat picked up speed, and soon foamy water began to churn over the top of her black hull. When the water reached his knees, he succumbed to the futility. Braun jumped as far as he could, hoping to clear the twisting screws. The water was cold and hit like a shot of electricity, but for the moment only one thing mattered — kick, swim, get clear!
With his head down, Braun pulled for all he was worth. The water transmitted a throbbing pulse to his ears, closer and closer. His body twisted against waves and whirlpools that seemed to pull him toward the spinning propellers. He went under, tumbling, not sure which way was up, which way was clear. Then, finally, he surfaced. He shook his head to clear the water from his face and saw U-801 slip down and disappear into a maelstrom of foam. The sound of her engines faded and the seas quickly reverted to their standard, uniform chaos, no traces left to betray the steel black monster lurking just below.
Treading water, Braun scanned the horizon for the shoreline he had seen only moments ago. It was hopeless. The gentle waves that had caressed U-801 now seemed huge. Braun rose and fell on the swells, yet even at the crests he was too low to make out the horizon. He had to act fast. With water so cold his time was limited. There was only one reference, the moon, still low to the east. As long as he kept it at his back, he would be moving in the right direction.
Braun began swimming at a brisk pace, but quickly realized his problem. The clothes were impossible, dragging like a sea anchor. He curled down and took off his boots, then tore away the heavy jacket. He tried again, but progress was still impeded, and when he stopped a breaking wave caught him flush in the face. Braun coughed and spit out the briny mess. He cursed inwardly. He had survived far too much. It will not end here, he thought. Not like this!
He reached down and frantically stripped off everything — shirt, pants, briefs, and socks — until he was naked, save for the Swiss-made timepiece strapped to his wrist. Now the water seemed colder still, and for a moment Braun despaired. But he knew the one thing that would save him. He could just make out the second hand on his watch. One minute.
He took a deep breath and fell back, floating fluidly on the churning sea. Above, he saw the stars in their familiar patterns, an unmoving reference against the roiling ocean. It was the same constant he had found in the skies over Stalingrad. There, on clear nights, the black stillness above was the only thing to hold against the chaos of bullets, knives, and explosions all around. Time and again over the last years he had watched men panic in the face of such trials. He'd seen them throw their guns down and run screaming from foxholes, seen them rush suicidal into enemy onslaughts, perhaps hastening what they saw as inevitable. He had watched men who were not on regular terms with God fall to their knees and pray for His intervention.
Braun, however, had always been the provider of his own salvation. This was where he differed from other men. Purging the cold, purging everything, he closed his eyes and set his mind to a blank. He soon acquired a tranquility that mirrored the heavens above. It was his advantage, a mental structure that always held form and foundation. He would waste no thoughts on cursing Colonel Gruber or the captain of U-801 for bringing him here. He would not brag inwardly that he would win, or that he had never been beaten. He simply fell calm. Braun allowed his limbs to float freely in the ocean's cold, aqueous womb. His mind acquired order and a singular, absolute constant fell into place — the task of swimming a few miles in the correct direction through a freezing ocean.
He noted the time, referenced the moon, and again started off. His arms and shoulders did the work, stroking at a firm, rhythmic pace as his mind considered the variables. How far was it to shore? He was a strong swimmer, but the cold would take his strength. Would he have an hour? Two? The winds were light, but what about the current? Sourced from the south, he decided, the Gulf Stream flowing up along the coast. Perpendicular. He hoped it was so. A knot or two against him would double the task. Braun concentrated on his form, and his muscles filled with blood from the exertion. It felt good, but he realized that the warmth his body manufactured was ultimately no match for the oceans cold. There were limits. Even he had limits.
The breaking waves were merciless. He sucked in seawater, coughed up brine and bile. Every few minutes he paused to reference the moon, rising steadily behind him. He went for nearly an hour when, at the crest of a wave, he thought he saw a light on the horizon. His spirits rose. But on the next rise he saw nothing. Braun returned to pulling through the water, his limbs straining with less authority now. Had it been a light on shore? A low star? Or perhaps a boat? He felt the first cramps in his back. Yes, a boat would do nicely. A fisherman. He could make it work. Somehow. He looked west again, but still saw nothing. It was very cold.
He ignored his watch now, and Braun's mind began to drift — odd, directionless thoughts. Minnesota, Cambridge, the steppes of Central Russia. Useless thoughts. Had it been another hour? Two? What did it matter — he had the rest of his life. The cramps forced him to adjust his stroke. From an overhand crawl he shifted to the breaststroke, but with the seas in his face it was impossible. He went to a sidestroke, alternating, and made far less headway. Soon his legs began to cramp, and Braun began to shiver. His teeth chattered uncontrollably against the temperature drop. He knew what it meant — his body was nearing the end of its ability to function. This, too, he had seen in Russia, but always in others. Braun had never been this far himself.
Still no lights. His mind began blanking. The waves seemed bigger. Or was he simply moving lower in the water? His right leg seized, the muscles rigid. Headway was nothing. Just stay up!
Waves slapped mercilessly, and then suddenly all was calm. His surroundings fell still and dark, shrouded like an overcast Russian sky. And with the last vestige of consciousness, Alexander Braun realized he had gone under.
Chapter 7
Michael Thatcher strove desperately to find the virtue of routine. When he woke at five thirty, his customary hour, the first stop was always the washbasin. He stirred shaving cream in a cup and was about to apply it to his face when he paused to regard the image in the mirror. Five o'clock shadow notwithstanding, the face staring back at him was a sad sight. His thin, narrow features seemed to strain along the vertical axis, as if some great weight was pulling everything down by the chin. Dark circles lay under murky, tired eyes. And his brown hair was too long, tousled, and untidy. I've let myself go, he thought. Or perhaps Roger is right. I've been working too hard.
After shaving, the tide continued against him. Laundry had been piling up and there was no clean underwear in his top drawer. Thatcher eventually found a pair wedged in the gap between his dresser and the wall, and he thought they looked clean enough after he'd shaken off the dust. Once dressed, he placed a pot of water on the stove.