As he worked with Gunnery Officer Schlag, he allowed his movements to become mechanical and repetitive. The torpedoes slipped past them as if they were factory workers, and gradually their pace and skill grew quicker. Every few minutes another underwater missile leapt from the forward tubes, lightening the bow by another appreciable fraction.
With each firing, he tried to sense a change in the bubble of the deck, but noticed nothing. Manfred tried to not worry about whether this desperate move was going to work or not. It was all they had. The control deck would let him know how they were doing.
“That’s twelve,” yelled Neil Schlag to one of his men. “Good work — keep them moving!”
Continuing to perform his part of the task, Manfred slipped into a semi-trance. Ever since the first depth charge attack, he’d felt a kind of strange sense of completeness, of finality. He knew their mission was doomed to failure, and he could feel an increasingly powerful grip of fear crushing his spirit. He knew he was going to die, and he could no longer face the inevitability with the stoic acceptance that had carried him through more than five years of battles and uncounted hours of dread.
Whoosh…!
Another fish away, and Manfred hoped the plan would have an effect. The boat continued to almost hover, its forward motion all but stopped, but if its bow continued to point just enough off the level, it would be sufficient to take it on an inexorable, if terribly slow, trip to the bottom.
Gunnery Officer Schlag moved another torpedo along the ball-bearing track, stopping it in front of Manfred. As they began to loosen the screws of the plate concealing its arming device, they heard the Captain’s voice bark from the tube.
“Achieving bubble. Cease fire. Fassbaden to the control deck.”
When Manny reached the con, Ostermann stood hunched over his chart and the Captain’s expression hinted at a level of relief. Looking up at Manny, he afforded him a small grin. “Good work, Herr Fassbaden. We are leveling off and have ascent capapbility.”
Ostermann finished a calculation, handed a slip of paper to Bruckner, who read it aloud: “New heading One-Six-Zero. ETA in three hours twelve minutes.”
The helmsman adjusted the course as Bruckner moved to peer through the glass of the forward port. “Schnorkel depth. All ahead full,” he said.
Manny relayed the command to Engineering, then joined his captain at the glass, beyond which a dark, cold sea waited to devour them — if they made even the slightest miscue.
Chapter Thirteen
The harbor area of Annapolis had grown over the years to accommodate an ever-increasing number of pleasure boaters, struggling to retain its centuries-old charm. As Dex entered the narrow cobblestoned streets leading to the wharfs, he could smell the water in the air, and he felt at home. Funny how the sea became such a part of you.
As he parked at the dock he recognized some of the other guys’ vehicles already. Nobody wanted to be late for this one. The Sea Dog, with its long aft deck, bobbed and nudged at its moorings, waiting for its call to duty. When he climbed on board, he found Kevin Cheever and Doc Schissel giving their gear a once-over. They both waved when they saw him.
“Hey, Boss,” said Kevin with his characteristic big smile.
“Where’s Don?”
“Below,” said Doc. “He said he wanted to take a look at the engines before we headed out.”
Dex nodded, moved to his own locker and started his own equipment-check. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he was feeling very anxious about going back down to the wreck. Although he’d conducted more than a hundred dives to sunken vessels over the years, intuitive forces tugged at him like the unseen gravities of worlds, whispering a message of urgency, and perhaps danger.
And that was a strange thing — part of him wanted this dive to be just like all the others (which meant routine and ultimately unremarkable), and another wanted it to be the one that would be a milestone, the signal event in his life that would make the difference, would make Dexter McCauley know it had all been worth it.
That all the crap he’d endured actually meant something.
He smiled as he thought about that. No way he’d ever want any of these guys to know such notions of fame and posterity ever crossed the brow of good, old, pragmatic Dex…
He spread out his pale green dry suit, and began checking his array of electronic gadgets. He liked the modern stuff, but he never forgot the most important fact about them: they might make diving easier, but not safer. There was no gear that could make you cautious.
Sensing movement in the periphery, Dex turned to see Don Jordan’s watchcap-clad head appear above the stairs to the main deck. His big Irish face was flush and grinning.
“Hey, Dex!.Ready for a big day?”
“We’ll see. Everything look good down there?”
Don rubbed his two-day stubble with the back of his hand. “Oh yeah. Those engines’ll still be running a hundred years from now. I’m going up to the bridge and warm up the radio gear.”
“Weather going to hold?”
“If you wanna believe the Weather Channel.” Don smiled, then headed up to the bridge.
Dex checked his watch. Almost seven. Where were the other guys?
His cell chirped as if in answer, and he fished it from his outer vest pocket.
“Dex here,” he said.
“It’s Mike. Just checking in. I’ll be there in about five minutes.”
“No problem. We’re still waiting on Tommy and Andy too. Relax.”
“I’ll try to do that. See-ya.”
As he flipped the little phone shut, he spotted Andy’s dark green Cherokee pulling into the parking area. And as Andy was opening his door, Tommy’s Mustang almost clipped him as it swung into the slot next to him.
Andy just stood there, hands on his hips, glaring at Tommy, who climbed out of the car with a big smile on his face.
Dex shook his head. He’d been trying to figure out how he’d set up the teams this morning, and his choices just got narrower. Even though Andy’s temper was by nature as brief as it was volatile, Dex would not be pairing him up with Tommy Chipiarelli. The smartest move would be to keep Tommy on a short leash, and that meant buddying up with him all day. One thing for sure — he knew he wouldn’t be hearing any complaints from any of the other guys.
True to his word, Mike Bielski showed up five minutes later. Watching him walk from his car and down the dock, Dex caught a weird feeling. The guy was walking so slow it was a little scary. Like he was headed to his own gallows.
When he came aboard, everybody greeted him with the usual round of chatter, and Dex’s odd feeling passed. He didn’t believe in premonitions or any of that kind of stuff. Nobody noticed his silence as they tugged into their suits and gear, trading bullshit chatter. Maybe he was just being his usual overly cautious self, but he was aware of a couple things: everyone had become partially infected with the gold bug, and Tommy had pissed everybody off yesterday. If he acted as impulsively today, there could be worse trouble. But at least with Tommy, Dex and the other guys knew what they were dealing with.
As he undressed in the cool morning air, layering into his dry suit, Tommy was already in high motor.
“And I gotta tell ya,” he said. “This chick had legs up to her ass.”
Andy Mellow rolled his eyes. “How many times I have to tell you, you dumb fuck? Everybody has legs up to their ass! That’s where they connect, you dope!”
The other guys laughed, and so did Tommy. “Oh yeah, that’s right. I meant her shoulders. Yeah, she had legs up to her shoulders!”