The protective suit was hot and sweaty, and would only get more uncomfortable the longer Felix wore it. But he was used to being hot and sweaty. It was one more reason Commander McCollough had chosen him and his new platoon for this task.
On the outside of Felix’s full-body suit was a buoyancy compensator and a weight belt. His knives were worn outside, strapped to his forearm and his thighs so he could reach them. His Draeger was worn underneath so he could breathe through its mouthpiece without risk of toxic contamination. The suit included a soft all-enclosing helmet with a big plastic faceplate. It was under this that Felix wore his dive mask so he could equalize his eyes and nose to the pressure of the sea.
Inside his suit, Felix also wore radiation dosimeters attached to his body.
Felix stuck his head into the mini’s control compartment. The pilot and copilot were ready. Felix shut and dogged the hatch into the central hyperbaric sphere. He stuck his head out of the rear hatch, into the aft transport compartment. Some of his men were there, either manning the Orpheus equipment or resting from a work session out on the Rocks or underwater. Felix nodded to them encouragingly, and gave a quick wave, then dogged the rear hatch. He stood in the lockout sphere, with an enlisted SEAL as his dive buddy. They did a final equipment check on each other’s gear. Felix awkwardly used the intercom to indicate they were ready.
The air pressure in the sphere began to rise. Felix kept swallowing to clear his sinuses. The pressure held steady, at less than two atmospheres — the mini was shallow. When the copilot announced that the lockout sphere was equalized, Felix opened the bottom hatch. It dropped down on its dampers. Beneath him was a pool of dark and dirty water.
Felix gripped his mouthpiece firmly in his teeth. He held his dive mask in place with his left hand, through the soft clear plastic of his protective suit faceplate. He sat on the coaming of the bottom hatch, then slipped into the water.
“Captain,” Werner Haffner reported from the sonar consoles, “the minisub is calling on the acoustic link. Lieutenant Shedler is asking for you.”
A very troubled Ernst Beck got up from his command console and grabbed a microphone from the overhead. He asked Haffner to put the conversation on the sonar speakers. Rudiger von Loringhoven stood in the aisle, smug now, almost gloating about his victory in the latest mental game with Beck.
Damn him. He knew about those orders even before we departed from Norway. But Ernst Beck had a job to do, a duty to follow. And he knew he needed a very clear head to do his job and survive.
The von Scheer was hovering close to the bottom, northeast of a long and narrow undersea rise that was topped at its farthest end by the jutting St. Peter and St. Paul Rocks. The von Scheer hid in the eastern foothills, tucked tight inside a huge L-shaped bend of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge — behind the ship, farther east toward Africa, sprawled the Guinea Plain, five thousand meters deep or more.
“Go ahead,” Beck said into the mike, keeping his voice as even as possible, forcing down his moral revulsion.
“Sir…” Shedler’s voice came over the speakers, scratchy and distorted. “Nearing the Rocks. At periscope depth. I see human activity.”
Von Loringhoven tried to grab the mike, but Beck stepped away from him. “Clarify,” he said to Shedler.
“People on Rocks.”
“Who?” the diplomat demanded. “What are they doing?”
Beck repeated the questions into the mike.
“Not sure,” Shedler said. “Topography on Rocks all up and down. Much of view blocked, far side of steep slopes, from my current position. Heavy shadowing with sun so low in east. People seen wear protective suits.”
“Military? Enemy?”
“Unknown. Not close enough to see weapons or not, or nationality. Risk of them spotting my periscope head.”
“The Rocks do belong to Brazil,” von Loringhoven said. “A weather station, perhaps?”
“Weather outpost, Lieutenant?”
“Possible. Do appear establishing some technical installation. Could be study radiation on Rocks, effect on environment. I’m guessing.”
“We can’t abort the mission,” Beck told Shedler. Duty, always duty. The source of pride has become instead an inescapable prison.
“Understood, sir,” came back over the sonar speakers. Shedler knew Beck required the targeting data.
Von Loringhoven caught Beck’s attention. “How long do they actually need to have their land station up and running for us to get what we want from Berlin?”
“Wait one, Shedler,” Beck said into the mike, and turned to von Loringhoven. “The download should be quick once they get a good lock on the satellite…. It’ll take them longer to transmit the numbers to us down here from the minisub.”
“Why?”
“The undersea acoustic-link baud rate is much slower than their big SHF antenna’s data rate.” SHF meant “super-high frequency,” the band used by naval satellite downlinks.
“I have an idea,” the diplomat said. “May I please join in the direct conversation?”
“Sonar, patch the baron in.” Beck reached and handed von Loringhoven a mike.
“Lieutenant,” von Loringhoven said, “can you hear me?”
“Yes, Baron.”
“I suggest a cover story. Granted, Brazil is neutral, but we can use that, assuming the intruders are in fact Brazilian. Some of your men speak Portuguese?”
“Two. Enough to get by.”
“If you claim you’re submariners in distress when you swim ashore, by international law you’re entitled to seventy-two hours’ safe harbor to make repairs and transmit messages asking for help from your higher command. Tell the Brazilians that if they give you an argument.”
“Repeat, please, more slowly.”
Von Loringhoven spoke more slowly, with fewer words.
“Understood, Baron,” Shedler said.
So did Beck. “Tell Brazilians a half-truth, Shedler. You swam from the escape trunk of a damaged German diesel U-boat. Ship unable to blow main ballast tanks to surface, and diving planes jammed, so unable to maneuver to shallow depth.”
“That’s good,” von Loringhoven said. “But keep it simple, Lieutenant. The key to a good lie is not to volunteer too much. Tell your men to stay low-key, resist the urge to blurt out things, if they aren’t good natural liars. And be careful. Some of the Brazilians might understand German and not let on.”
Again the baron, not used to the limitations of the acoustic link, needed to repeat himself.
“Yes, Baron. We’ll act shaken up, exhausted, worried, because parent submarine is in distress.”
“Say your satellite link is an emergency radio,” Beck said.
“Set it up under their noses,” von Loringhoven said. “Get the data download. Then say you have to swim back to your submarine.”
“Understood,” Shedler’s voice answered. “What about our weapons?”
“Take them with you,” Beck said. “Credible since you’re at war with Allied Powers. Also, we don’t know the people you see are neutral…. But for God’s sake don’t shoot a real Brazilian by mistake!”