From the way her mast stump and stacks were bent, and the destruction of the bridge superstructure, Beck judged that the destroyer had taken a near miss from an airburst off her port bow, caused by an atomic cruise missile. She seemed to have burned while sinking, but must have sunk quickly, because the fires were snuffed before her main magazines could explode. The fires topside had been fierce while they lasted: Beck saw aluminum melted and fused. Paint was blistered or totally charred. She probably tumbled underwater before striking the bottom — the hard impact had made a crater in the seafloor muck. It strewed debris in a wide area, splitting her seams along many frames.
This was fortunate, because the antisubmarine torpedo launchers on her external decks were all smashed. To find what they were looking for, the divers had to go inside the hulk. The pictures on the Zentrale screens seemed to jiggle and jump around; the imagery would spin, then focus on something, then spin or bounce to focus on something else.
Beck watched in morbid fascination as the divers began to search the ordnance-handling areas, ammunition hoists, and magazines. Much was twisted beyond recognition, and space to work in was tight. Shapeless tangles of multicolrored pipes and wires and ladders, and sheet steel crumpled like cardboard, formed jagged obstructions. Some voids were filled with viscous pockets of buoyant, sticky engine fuel, caught there after the hull tanks ruptured apart. Some watertight doors were jammed hopelessly shut; others stood gaping, burst wide open, with dogging bars sheared from their bracket mounts by brutally destructive forces. Everywhere mud and silt drifted, along with flecks of insulation and plastic, and the divers’ helmet lights cast haunting shadows. To enter this terrible place, Beck thought, took great courage.
Clearly the divers had reviewed the plans of this destroyer class very thoroughly. They showed an impressive ability to make sense of the mess that seemed to Beck incomprehensible. He wondered if the divers had practiced by studying video of the damage to the USS Cole, a sister ship of this destroyer. Maybe their training had also included a briefing by the Russians on how to work around and inside the carcass of the Kursk — and her severed torpedo room.
At last the divers found what they were looking for: intact, or mostly intact, American-made atomic torpedo warheads. The cameras showed the team of divers working far inside the hull, within what was left of one of the magazines. Two divers stayed outside the wreck with one camera, as safety monitors, and to make sure the cable feeds running into the hulk weren’t snagged. Using special tools, working slowly and carefully, the four inside divers dismantled the American torpedoes, removing the warheads and placing them in special, shielded carrying cases.
“They’re looking for the ones in the best condition,” von Loringhoven said. “They’re taking three, just in case.”
“Just in case what?” Beck knew the wrecked ship’s magazine was full of self-oxidizing weapon propellants, and damaged high explosives too. The divers could potentially set something off, causing a massive detonation that would damage the von Scheer.
“We need samples, for intelligence purposes.”
“Why aren’t the divers going after crypto gear?”
“It’s doubtful any survived in usable form.”
“Our side hasn’t salvaged Allied atomic warheads before?”
“We have, but I’m not privy to details. And I assume the Allies have salvaged some of ours.”
Beck grunted. He hadn’t thought of that. “So why are we grabbing more, with a relief convoy to Africa on the move? We seem to be taking considerable, and unnecessary, risks, at a most inappropriate moment. And we’re wasting precious time by doing so.”
“We need at least one warhead, of specifically American manufacture. It has to come from an antisubmarine torpedo so it’s pressure-proof enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“Enough to use the physics package… Ah, I see the divers are finished. They’re starting back to the von Scheer’s air lock.” One special air lock opened downward, through the bottom of the SSGN’s hull, and had a winch for lifting personnel and cargo.
Beck didn’t like the way von Loringhoven had just changed the subject. “To use the physics package for what?”
“Like I said, intelligence. Research. Berlin doesn’t tell me everything.”
Beck decided to play along, for now. The one thing he did know was that von Loringhoven was lying.
The kampfschwimmer dialysis divers were back inside the von Scheer, safely ensconced in their decompression capsules. Their plutonium-lined diving suits hadn’t sprung any leaks. The three atomic torpedo warheads were now in the radiological containment area, within the kampfschwimmer working space in the missile compartment.
Beck sat in his cabin, feeling utterly exhausted. Von Loringhoven knocked from inside the bathroom they shared.
Beck rolled his eyes. “Come.”
Von Loringhoven entered.
“I really wish you’d stop doing that,” Beck said.
“I apologize again, Captain. I’m just beginning to grasp how many unwritten rules there are to proper etiquette aboard a submarine. You were right, of course, to tell me that I am not now in an embassy or at a diplomatic reception.”
“Speaking of which, Baron, I am formally inviting you to dine with me and my officers in the wardroom tonight…. I’m sure security won’t be compromised. If anything, by hiding from everyone and eating alone, you’re only drawing the wrong sort of attention to yourself.”
“Thank you, Captain. I would be honored to join you and your officers for dinner.”
“Good. Now. I’ve been told by the kampfschwimmer chief that one of the warheads retrieved is in usable-enough condition that we can continue on our way.”
“Excellent.”
“It is thus time to open the next envelope with my orders.”
Von Loringhoven nodded. “At your convenience, Captain.”
Hmm. The guy does seem to be showing a little respect and humility now. Maybe there’s hope for him after all.
Beck opened his safe and retrieved the latest envelope. Each time, the package grew thinner and lighter, but he could tell there were several more layers of sealed orders within orders.
Ernst Beck read. “Ach.” He had to grin. “This is all nicely thought out. There’s some risk, especially for the kampfschwimmer, but less than I expected for von Scheer.”
“You see now why the Russians turned toward Nova Scotia. We want the Americans to think you’re aiming to catch the convoy from behind, from the north.”
Beck nodded. “And the strongest convoy defenses will be protecting their eastern flank, standing between the cargo ships and the hostile Euro-African coast as they head for the Congo pocket.”
“Precisely. And to throw ourselves against the Americans’ strongest defenses is foolish.”
“And thus we cut ahead and attack from where they least expect and they’re least prepared. From their front, from south of the convoy, and with accurate firing solutions from very long range… I want to check a nautical chart.” Beck switched on his laptop, connected to the von Scheer’s onboard fiber-optic local area network. “Look with me, Baron.”