Fassbaden shook his head. “There was not enough time. We came under attack, and—”
“I understand. However, the longer those men remain cut off, the more of a potential problem that man becomes. That is not a good situation for someone who may be unstable in a crisis.”
“I agree, Captain.”
“Have Massenburg stay in touch with the aft gunnery officer by tube.”
“Kuykendahl, from the U-387. A good man.”
Nodding, Erich remembered the man as soon as Manny mentioned his name. “I will want to know if things worsen down there. I want Kuykendahl to know he has my permission to take whatever measure is necessary to maintain order.”
“I understand,” said Fassbaden. “I will inform the Chief Warrant Officer.”
“Very well,” said Erich. “Then meet me in the bow. We have some fish to unload.”
After Manny left the control deck, Erich briefed his men on the plan. No one replied, nor hardly looked at him or one another. They all knew the gravity of the situation. You did not dump your torpedoes unless things were desperate, and they all knew this. Erich saluted them, and turned to leave the deck.
“Herr Ostermann, you have the con,” he said.
As he walked forward, he passed the galley where Hausser, the cook, was peering out into the central corridor.
“Everything all right, Captain?”
“Of course, seaman. Return to your station.”
“Yes, Captain.” Hausser looked young, but there was an air of confidence about him. Still leaning past the threshold to the kitchen, he stared at his commanding officer. Then he spoke in a direct manner Erich both noticed and admired. “But, could I have a word with you first?”
“Quickly.”
“Herr Fassbaden informed me I would be getting an ‘assistant,’ and I should be watchful of him.”
“That is correct.”
“I know this fellow, Liebling. He is trouble, Captain. But I am here to tell you — he will not be trouble for me. I would gladly do… whatever might be necessary… to keep this boat safe from the likes of him.”
As he said this, the young cook let his index finger and thumb gently touch the handle of the large knife tucked into the belt of his apron.
Erich nodded. “I understand, seaman. Thank you for your concern.”
“Aye, Captain.” Hausser snapped off a crisp salute, stepped back into the galley.
Returning the salute, Erich headed forward along the corridor. Despite his grave concerns, he felt good knowing he had crewmen like Hausser. As he walked along, he imagined the young cook burying his knife in the chest of the hothead Liebling. Such horrific thoughts did not please him. He knew plenty of men who not only welcomed the gruesome demands of warfare, but actually hoped for it. Erich had always suspected his own father had succumbed to a touch of such madness. While not craven, the elder Bruckner had always recounted his personal wartime experiences with just a little too much relish for Erich’s sensibilities.
He would do whatever necessary to retain the honor of his military office, but he did not have to like it. There was much men needed to do in their lives that proved distasteful. The real heroes were the ones who recognized the horror and who never surrendered to its call.
Reaching the bulkhead door to the bow torpedo room, he opened it with a series of practiced moves he could have done in his sleep. In addition to the heavy, combined scents of sweat and burned tobacco, he was greeted by expressions of shock on the faces of the nearest two crewmen, and they appeared almost comical as they tried to stand at attention. The four remaining men, including Gunnery Officer Neil Schlag, quickly turned and saluted Erich as soon as they realized the identity of their unannounced visitor.
“Captain,” said Schlag, trying to appear calm and in control. “Is there something wrong?”
“At ease,” said Erich. He directed his gaze at Schlag, a thick-chested man with a heavy blue-black stubble of beard.
“Aye, Captain,” said Schlag.
“We have some work to do.”
As the men gathered around, Erich detailed the procedure to be followed to dump as many torpedoes as needed to bring up the bow. He was especially careful to emphasize the need for caution. Before any of the fish could be fired, they would need to be disarmed and their targeting mechanisms disabled. The history of the submarine contained far too many chronicles of vessels being hit and sunk by their own torpedoes. Such things could happen — ranging from human error, to a mechanical malfunction, to dumb, bad luck — and there were definite precautions to perform to prevent them.
“Our main objective is to get as much weight out of the bow as possible… as quickly as possible,” he said. “You must work fast, but you cannot sacrifice safety for speed.”
“You can rely on us,” said Schlag. He was a tough-looking character who’d worked as a bouncer in a Munchen cabaret before the war. An ugly scar on the left side of his neck snaked down across his collarbone, and it was so striking, no one ever dared ask how he’d gotten it.
At that moment, Manfred Fassbaden appeared at the open hatchway. “Herr Schlag,” he said. “I suggest you and I disable the fish personally.”
“Yes sir,” said the Gunnery Officer. Turning, he began organizing his crew to handle the torpedoes as efficiently and rapidly as possible. Erich stood by long enough to see Manny and Schlag open the first torpedo with pliers and drivers, then carefully remove the magnetic detonator. After they resealed the compartment, two other gunnery mates placed the undersea missile on the conveyor, which fed it into the bow tube. Another crewman clanged the chamber shut and opened the outer hatch to fill the chamber with seawater.
“Ready,” he said.
“Launch as soon as possible,” said Fassbaden.
Schlag nodded, then pulled the fire-control lever. There was a subtle shudder as the torpedo slipped from the tube. The entire operation had taken no more than four minutes.
No way to know how many torpedoes would do the trick. Erich did not wish to do the calculations on how much time must pass before he would know if his gamble would pay off.
Chapter Eleven
After the confrontation with Tommy and the cool-down over a few beers, Dex felt a little better. His advice had been for everybody to go home to their families and relax. Good advice for just about the whole bunch of them — except maybe Tommy and himself. Dex hadn’t had a “family” in so long, he hardly remembered what the word meant. Both his parents had died while he was in the Navy, and both times while he was on duty in some faraway port. He had an older sister, but she was off living her own life, raising her own family, none of whom had much time for “weird Uncle Dex.”
He grinned as he thought about that and keyed the ignition of his Ford 150 to back away from the wharf parking lot. Don was still onboard the Sea Dog, and he waved once then went back to checking all the tie-lines in case a storm came up out of nowhere. They had a way of doing that in the middle of the night. Waving back, Dex threw the pick-up into first gear, and patched out like he was in a hurry to get somewhere.
He wasn’t.
And his list of options ranged from totally avoidable (going back to the Dive Shop and doing the QuickBooks statements) to mildly objectionable (going home and doing all the piles of laundry) to eventually necessary (stopping at the B&O Diner for the meatloaf special).
Being hungrier than he’d first figured, he refueled first at the diner, then headed home, which was a townhouse condo in a little satellite of Annapolis called Crofton. He’d been there years now, and it was finally beginning to feel like it really was home. Although he’d always tell people he didn’t need much space, Dex had done a pretty decent job of filling it up with plenty of stuff — power tools, woodworking gear for his handmade furniture projects, and spare diving equipment. It made the basement look acceptably junky; plus, the second bedroom was shelved high with old records, magazines, paperback books and outdated rack-mounted stereo components. His old Technics turntable had given up the ghost years ago, and he kept saying he was either going to fix it or finally chuck all those “LPs.” (Did anybody still call them that? Did anybody even know what an LP was?)