“Rig for silence,” said Erich.
“They are almost right over top of us!” said Bischoff.
“Take her down, Manny. Avoidance depth.”
In the old Type VII boats, that would be 125 meters, or a push to 150 in a desperate situation. But the U-5001, with her bigger, stronger hull, was rated for at least 200 meters, which should be more than enough to stay beneath the detonation depths the enemy usually set on their charges. As the angle of their descent increased, so did Erich’s confidence they would escape with relative ease.
“Lost contact…” said Bischoff. “Though I think I heard the first cans hitting the water.”
“Still descending,” said Fassbaden, hunched over his gauges. “150…”
There was a curious groaning of the bulkheads as the steel ribs of the hull absorbed their first encounter with ocean pressure. It was normal on a new boat to hear such sounds, but they never failed to get everyone’s attention. As if the deck could grow any more quiet…
Then the silence was pierced by an abrupt series of concussions. The shockwaves rattled the boat, but far less severely than Erich had ever experienced.
“Not so bad,” he said, making sure to smile broadly and let his men see him being so defiantly cheerful.
Either the hull was a lot thicker and stronger than he’d figured, or the charges were going off at a great distance… maybe both. Whatever the reason, the attack appeared feeble.
“170… 185 meters…” said Fassbaden. “ Approaching avoidance depth.”
“Steady as she goes,” said Erich.
Another series of underwater explosions rumbled above them. This time even weaker, more distant.
No one spoke as the floor beneath them gradually leveled out. Everyone exhaled at the same time. No U-boat crewman would ever lie so poorly to swear he felt comfortable when the bubble-indicator told you the nose of your boat was pointed at the bottom.
“Keel even,” said Fassbaden. “Maintaining course at 18 knots.”
Erich held their current station status for another 15 minutes. There was one final flurry of depth charges, but so faint and far away, he knew they were out of danger.
As he and his crew had all stood rock-solid and silent, waiting for whatever the Sunderlands and fate might be sending their way, Erich had a brief image pass through him of Frieda smiling for a photograph he’d taken the last day he’d seen her. It was odd how it came out of nowhere and vanished just as quickly.
It was like a surreal message — something to remind him he no longer had a normal life ahead of him.
In that sense, he never wanted the war to end.
And what an odd irony was that? To be so weary of the war and yet desperately yearn for its continuance.
He shook his head slowly, refocusing on the moment.
“Resume normal running, Herr Fassbaden,” said Erich. “Take her up to schnorkel depth.”
“What about the ‘Eye,’?” said Leutnant Bischoff.
Erich grinned. “Keep it closed for now. It works, but maybe too well. I am not yet convinced we have not just devised a more efficient Biscay Cross for the Tommies.”
Everyone snickered on the control deck. Everyone except Newton Bischoff, that is… Erich knew the young Nazi was proud of his new toy, and hoped it was not the colossal failure of its predecessors.
“150 meters and rising…” said the Exec as the bow of the boat tilted ever-upward. “140…”
Erich moved close to Fassbaden, spoke in a low voice. “Thoughts on those Sunderlands?”
“It was almost like they were waiting for us.”
“They were, but they wait for any boat leaving Trondheim.”
“True enough.” Fassbaden rubbed his chin thoughtfully, watched his gauges.
“All the more reason I like our current route,” said Erich.
Manny nodded. “The northern path.”
“Authorized by Admiral Doenitz himself. But in case we need assistance, there will be no milchkows or surface ships close at hand.”
“He knew it was a risk.”
Erich nodded. “A risk he was willing to take.”
“Yes.” Manny grinned. “For us!”
“That is an Admiral’s job.” Erich did not envy Doenitz, especially since he was stuck so close under the Fuhrer’s nose.
His Exec moved over to a small, but functional map table where Warrant Officer Ostermann’s navigational charts and tools lay in wait. “It will take longer. Use more fuel.”
“But it will be unexpected. No convoys or even fighting ships up there.” Erich regarded the path on the map.
“True enough.”
“Make yourself familiar with the chart. We parallel the east coast of Greenland, make a run past Cape Farewell and south to St. John’s. From there, we move on to our rendezvous points undetected.”
“I see it clearly,” said Manny.
“Once clear of St. John’s, we can maneuver in the open seas, conduct all the requested tests and drills, and then south to the Jersey coast.”
Fassbaden looked thoughtfully at the map for another moment. “Unexpected and unconventional — just like the rest of this mission.”
Erich nodded, tapped a point on the map northeast of Greenland where there was nothing but the massive shelf of ice over the great island’s coastal escarpment. “Not much up there along these coordinates. We should be safe enough.”
Ostermann, the navigator, approached the table. He was a short, prototypical Aryan. Bright blue eyes and strong, angular jaw. No more than twenty-five years old, and full of hope and idealism. Erich knew it would not take long to wring both qualities from him like bilge from a dirty sponge.
“Within two miles of the ice shelf, Captain?”
“That will be sufficient. Less if necessary.”
“Schnorkel depth. Snort operational!” said one of the others on the control deck. The sound of the diesels thumping accompanied his notice.
Erich allowed himself a small smile. The batteries would soon be back up to full capacity, and once they cleared the northern point of Iceland, he would chance another surface-run. His sense of impending disaster had left him, perhaps in part due to their successful dodge of the sub-hunting aircraft, and he was beginning to feel as if they might make it.
After all, they were under the strictest of orders to not engage the enemy in any fashion. They were, in fact, to do everything in their power to keep the enemy from any inkling of suspicion that the U-5001 even existed.
Earlier in the war, Captain Erich Bruckner knew he would have found such orders demeaning and unworthy of a true warrior, but things have a way of changing, do they not?
Chapter Four
There was a long pause in Dex’s headset after he told them what he was looking at.
Finally Don Jordan spoke: “Tell me you’re kidding!”
“We’re looking at the periscope right now,” said Dex. “Not much doubt. Hang on, we’re going to move down to the conning tower.”
Moving in unison, Dex and Mike descended on each side of the array of antennae and the scope. He could feel his pulse start to jack up a few notches — to create a faint hammering behind his ears. The pressure and the excitement combined together to get everything surging inside. It wasn’t unusual to get a little psyched when you reached a wreck — even one that had already been charted and checked out. Although, when you knew ahead of time what ship you were touching, that made it somehow safer, less mysterious or threatening.
The Six had dived on a sub before. The U-1105, which had been dubbed the “black panther” because of its outer skin of vulcanized rubber. It was a well-known wreck marked with a buoy about a mile west of Piney Point. It was a popular site for divers, and Dex had been down on it enough to realize they’d just found another one.