“The light looks quite powerful,” said Manfred. “Not moving. Probably not a searchlight.”
Neither man spoke for a moment, considering the possibilities.
“A beacon, perhaps,” said Bruckner. “Regardless, it is time to find out.”
Manny nodded, said nothing.
Turning from the viewing port, Bruckner walked to the tube, spoke into it: “Forward Gunnery Crew. Assemble for surface action.”
Manfred nodded, addressed the helmsman. “Blow all ballast. Rig for surface running.”
“Well,” said Bruckner. “We go up… at least for the moment.”
As his crew began to carry out his orders, Erich drew a deep breath. The air on the control deck was probably not as foul as the closer quarters in other parts of the boat, but it was bad enough. The ever-present tang of machine oil and men’s sweat commingled to create a scent equally familiar — fear. Erich could never have described it, but he knew it so well, he would never forget if he lived into the next century. And, as the sound of the ballast tanks venting shuddered through the hull, he could feel the crew’s apprehension in the air like a thick, humid fog.
Before executing his plan, he turned to address his Warrant Officer, Ostermann.
“Is the Forward Gunnery Crew ready?”
“Yes, Captain. Standing by…”
“Have them ready to break the hatch seal and deploy at my command.”
“Aye, sir.”
Erich turned back to his Executive Officer, exhaled slowly.
“Now we find out how bad those diving planes really are,” he said to Manfred, standing at his side, but looking through the thick slab of the viewing port glass. “Ready?”
“We begin,” said Manfred, who then turned toward the helmsman. “Bubble?”
“Level, sir,” said the crewman.
“Bearing one zero seven. Slip speed… steady as she goes.”
The helmsman complied.
Slip speed was the term Erich always used to refer to the slowest possible forward motion a U-boat could maintain. He’d heard it from one of his training officers at Flensburg, and it had stuck with him. He had no idea whether it was a universal reference, but he liked it because it was so accurate — you wanted your boat to crawl as slowly as possible when approaching the immovable object of the concrete slip in the sub-pens. And his present situation was even more precarious with the threat of colliding with an unknown object while nursing his ship to the surface.
His strategy, although simple and straightforward, remained fraught with peril. After a careful study of the briefing map and soundings by Herr Bischoff, Erich located what appeared to be a stretch of beach with a graduated ascent-slope of less than 5 degrees. This suggested the ideal set-up for the maneuver he now attempted as he coaxed the U-5001 toward the section of beach. If the diving plane did not raise the submarine to its waterline before running out of maneuvering room within the cavern, his boat would gently nose up on the shoreline with little chance of any damage.
In theory.
Smiling, he rubbed his jaw and felt the beginnings of his beard growing in. Most kriegsmariners stopping shaving while at sea, and he was no exception. He normally hated having hair on his face, especially when he was kissing a woman; however, that particular concern had no meaning in his life for the foreseeable future. Unconsciously he had already decided he would not remove his beard until he was free of this boat and its command — which meant he may never shave again.
As he turned to join Manfred by the viewing port, he had a brief flash of himself as an older man — his sandy-blonde hair turned gray, his stern jawline covered by drooping flesh, his eyes pale and no longer brooding. He shook his head slowly, as if he knew he had not much chance of living so long.
“Ballast clear!” said Ostermann. “Maintaining bubble.”
The resonant thrum of the electric motors at slow revolutions pulsed through the hull at a low frequency. It was an odd and irritating characteristic of the U-5001 that ultra-slow speeds caused so much vibratory noise in the hull. Erich wondered how such low-end sounds affected their detectability signature — it was something the engineers at Trondheim would be interested in knowing about.
Hmmm.
That last thought made him smile wistfully. Every now and then he caught himself thinking in terms of a real future… and that was quite foolhardy, if not dangerous.
“Rising, Captain,” said the Helmsman. “But very slowly.”
“Acknowledged.” Erich turned fully to the viewing port and peered upward toward a rippling ceiling of water, beyond which a cool luminosity appeared to be awaiting their appearance.
“Sixty…” said Bischoff. There was, for the first time in many hours, an inflection of hope in his voice. “Fifty-five… range to shoreline twelve hundred… vertical now fifty!”
“You did it,” said Manfred. “The bow is up just enough.”
“Until we break the surface, I am not counting on anything.”
“We are not running out of bottom either,” said Manfred, squinting as if to penetrate the murky panorama beyond the thick glass of the port.
Erich nodded as he watched the glimmering panel of the surface grow ever closer. Until his boat finally broke free of the ferryman’s watery grip, and he knew an ambush did not await them on the surface, he could not relax. The air grew thick, fouled by the collective anticipation of the entire control deck crew, encased in a silence that may as well have been a prison of amber.
“Periscope depth.” Bischoff’s voice cut through the colloidal atmosphere. Briefly entertaining a look through the ’scope for a quick preview, Erich dismissed the idea. It would not be fitting of the Captain to show such impulsive behavior — behavior that could be interpreted as a sign of impatience, or worse, a lack of conviction in what he was doing. And yet, Erich could not shake his anxiety they might be gliding into an American trap. Not knowing the cause of his rescue mission was not good. If the enemy was up there waiting for him, he was a cooked goose.
“Con breaking the surface,” said Bischoff.
“Forward Gunnery, on your mark,” said Ostermann into the tube.
“Water line!” said Bischoff.
“Engines full stop.” Erich was thankful it had not been necessary to slide the bottom of his boat up the beach. “Have Kress commence re-charge procedures as soon as feasible.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Gun Crew — breach the hatch,” said Erich, and Ostermann repeated the order into the tube.
A soft clanging reverberated through the hull as Erich turned away from his crew to gaze through the viewing port.
“God in heaven.” said his Exec. “What… is that?”
Erich knew instantly to what Manfred referred. Something very bright — burning beyond a wall of thick mist. Even though it was far from their position in the underground cove, the intensity of the light had become evident, but unrecognizable. The images, at such considerable distance, however, were not terribly clear through the thick viewing port glass.
Turning, Erich knew he must get above decks.
There followed a muffled response from the tubes, then Ostermann: “Forward Gun Crew reports all clear, Captain.”
“No sign of our people?”
A pause as his question was passed along, more as a reply came through.
“They see nothing,” said Ostermann.
“Control deck stand by,” said Erich. “Come with me, Herr Fassbaden.”
Moving quickly, but not wanting to appear anxious or panicked, Erich covered the distance from the conning tower, down the main corridor, pausing at the lockers where he and Manfred donned heavy parkas. They reached the gangladder to the forward hatch in a series of long strides. His Exec remained a measured pace behind him, and although Manfred had said nothing, Erich could feel the tension ready to burst free of the man at any moment.