“You can only diagnose so many cases of the flu before it starts to lose its challenge,” Larry had said with a wry smile.
And Don remembered how Dex had been so excited to enlist a real doctor into the dive team. He never tried to soft-pedal the dangers of diving, and the need for every advantage you could chisel out of what he called “the Fates.” Life was like the ultimate casino, where you played your chips, taking chances every day. And Dex always said we all needed every extra chip in our stack we could grab. When you were underwater, that just gave you that much more of a chance to be coming back up for air.
New equipment and always-improving technology was great stuff, but none of it could replace a trained physician in an emergency. So it was no surprise Dex fell all over himself to personally train Doc Schissel — who proved to be a quick study. Within a few months, he was the sixth guy on the team, and that’s when they started calling themselves The Deep Six.
Sure, it was dopey. But they liked it that way.
Don wondered what they’d call themselves if anybody else joined the club. Not that it mattered. They were a good bunch of guys and Don liked them all — except maybe for Tommy Chipiarelli.
Well, that wasn’t exactly right.
It wasn’t that Don didn’t like Tommy, it was more like he’d never been able to understand why he was so… so wired all the time. Transplanted from New York to the Baltimore City Fire Department, he was only thirty-two and like most guys just out of their twenties, believed he was going to live forever.
Which was his biggest problem — he acted like it too. He drove a retro muscle car with big wide tires, and he was well-known throughout the BCFD. Tommy wore a silver ID bracelet from the Department which said: To Thomas A. Chipiarelli — For Heroic Service Beyond the Call of Duty. He’d racked up a ton of commendations in his ten years of service, but also had a pretty fair collection of reprimands for recklessness and a tendency to bend orders from his captain.
Yeah, Tommy could be kind of a jerk.
Couple years back, when Tommy signed up for diving lessons, Dex really took him under his wing, and invested tons of time in him. Don figured it was the old story of a guy looking for the son he never had.
Yeah, Dex — with no wife, no kids. Nobody to worry about. To care about. And then, along comes Tommy Chipiarelli — single, hard-drinking, and way too fearless. Dex said one night, when they were all drinking at The Cat’s Eye, that he needed to save the kid from himself.
If the rest of the team shared Don’s opinion, they kept it to themselves. Probably because they all loved and respected Dex so much. With him treating Tommy like his prodigal son, none of the rest of the guys wanted to say anything that would upset him.
That had to be it.
Don shook his head slowly as he mulled that one over… but was interrupted by the sudden burst from the Divelink unit.
“We’re just about up, Sea Dog.” The speaker on the base station approximated Dex’s voice.
“Got you,” said Don. “Doc and Tommy’re ready to go. Base unit’s on stand-by for a couple minutes, guys.”
Pushing back his chair, Don got up and headed down to the main deck to help Mike and Dex off with their tanks. Since they’d found their target, they’d be wanting to charge the tanks and get back down there for a couple more dives. Which meant Don would be cranking up the compressors for refills the rest of the day.
Doc in orange, holding UW videocam, and Tommy in (what else?) firetruck red. They stood on the little retractable gangway, waiting to tumble in as soon as they saw Dex and Mike break the surface. Don stood next to them, scanning the chop, until he saw their masks catch a little reflection of skylight.
“Take care, guys!” He saluted them as they fell backwards into the Bay, then reached out to help Mike up the gangway. Dex floated until it was clear for him to pull himself aboard.
“Thanks,” said Mike, removing his mask and Divelink headgear carefully. Sunlight danced off his prematurely balding head as he flipper-waddled out of Dex’s way.
“Looks like we fell into something this time, huh?” said Don.
“I don’t want to jump to any conclusions,” said Dex. “But it sure looks like we found something pretty weird. That’s a hell of a big sub. Bigger than anything we ever knew they had.”
They all nodded as they slipped out of the tanks so Don could start recharging them. As he watched Dex head up to the bridge to spell him, Don wondered where all this was going to take them.
Nazis.
Funny thing about those guys. All this time and they still had a way of making you feel kind of weird…
Chapter Six
Ostermann had navigated with his usual precision.
The U-5001 had cleared the northern face of Iceland without incident and was tracking south toward Cape Farewell. Erich Bruckner stood in the con, checking his chronometer against his Warrant Officer’s plots on the chart. Traveling at a cruising depth most of the past thirty-three hours, they had maintained a speed of more than 24 knots per hour. They had only chanced near the surface for schnorkelling — a chance to draw air into the diesels and recharge the batteries.
A close estimate had them at more than 800 miles since evading the air attack. During all that time and distance, Erich had maintained a strict radio silence, and had ventured above the surface only once in the deepest, darkest part of the night. His boat had skimmed the Arctic Circle at perhaps its coldest moments of the year, and even though the pipes and radiators were searing hot to the touch, every inch of the sub was as cold as the grave. Only the thickness of his parka kept him anywhere close to comfortable.
“Excuse me, Captain,” said a voice behind him.
Erich recognized the graveled tones before turning around to face his Chief Warrant Officer, Helmut Massenburg. “Yes, what is it?”
“Hausser has fixed you something special, sir. I took the liberty of telling him you have been awake for twenty hours and have not eaten a thing.”
Erich looked at his Chief and could not hide a small smile of appreciation. Massenburg was short and stocky and fancied a thick beard, which was streaked with gray like his thinning hair. At forty-six, Massenburg was surely one of Germany’s oldest kriegsmariners.
“Why, thank you, Helmut… I am hungry.”
Massenburg nodded, smiled. “Why not head down to the officer’s mess while it is still hot, Captain. I will take the control deck.”
Old enough to be many of the crew’s father, the Chief took on the role of such a surrogate with warm affection. Along with his general duties on the con, he acted like he should be watching out for the needs of everyone else. Erich liked him very much — not just for his kindness and thoughtfulness, but because he was a loyal and dedicated military man. Not like a lot of the youngsters who dreamed of being SS.
“Thank you, Chief. I will go now.”
“Very good, sir.”
Pausing at the hatch and ladder to the main deck, Erich paused to add a cautionary thought. “Let me know if you notice anything out of the ordinary.”
“Jawol, Captain.”
Erich touched the brim of his hat in a gentle salute and eased down the ladder, then along the central corridor to the officer’s galley, which was chock-a-block to the crew’s mess.
It would be dawn soon, and the day-shift crew would be filling the larger room jammed with economically-designed benches and tables. Unlike the whisper quiet of the officer’s galley, the other dining facility would thrum with chatter and the clank of tableware. But for the moment, the space was empty as Erich walked past it to the smaller officer’s space, took a seat near the bulkhead door.