Sinclair
Chesapeake Bay
“Target approaching,” said Sypniewski, who sat hunched over a screen which switched among a choice of displays with a touch of his index finger. “Depth 69.7 feet. ETA five minutes.”
Sinclair nodded, said nothing. He sat in the command chair peering out through the bubble head of the Dragonfish even though the green-brown suspension of the Chesapeake Bay ratcheted visibility down to murky at best. The DSAR’s instrumentation provided vision and a clear view better than any pair of human eyes ever could. The central LCD outlined the old U-boat as it lay on the sandy bottom, its humpbacked shape distinctive and memorable. He had seen classified blueprints from the old OSS files back when he’d been USN. The fate of the U-5001 had been one of those almost mythic mysteries in the Pentagon for a long, long time. To finally be a part of the unraveling was very satisfying to him—especially since he was no longer part of the system.
Of course, the Guild had a larger agenda than merely uncovering the fate of a World War II relic. Since the end of the war, its scientists and military people had known about the order from Doenitz to visit Station One Eleven. The Guild also had fragmentary data suggesting the Arctic station was the repository of innumerable technological wonders. But they—like everyone else—had never been able to discover its location. Finding the U-5001 might provide a key to the proper coordinates. And of course, there was one other pesky problem with this mission—a 70-kiloton weapon that may or may not be operational.
“That’s a damned big boat,” said Sypniewski. His simple observation yanked Sinclair from his thoughts.
“By the folks who brought you the Bismarck,” said Taggard, adjusting his speed and descent angle.
“Dive team—stand by,” said Sinclair. He watched his screens intently as the 5001 materialized right in front of the DSAR. Taggard reversed the engines, then dropped to a full stop. “Okay, gentlemen—get in the water.”
Sinclair watched their progress via remote-cam, but the visibility was terrible. He relied more on the running narrative of the team leader, a very capable diver named Lansdale, as they entered the submarine through the open hatch on the conning tower. The other two comprised a Tactical Officer named Barrett and Waldrop, the Weapons Tech. Once they gained the boat’s interior, their remote cam’s images became remarkably clear. Sinclair saw no evidence of damage anywhere, which gave credence to the theory that boat had been scuttled all those years ago.
But why? Part of a larger story, no doubt.
Tense minutes passed as the three divers worked their way through compartments of the boat. Sinclair watched his screens with intimate interest, as if he were right along with them. The team leader assessed their progress so far: “Looks like we were late for this party, sir. The captain’s quarters has been picked. If there ever was anything here, it’s gone now. Nothing anywhere else either. You copy that?”
“Loud and clear,” said Sinclair. His orders had been laid out in very simple terms: find anything that might lead to the location of Station One Eleven. He had no idea why his superiors needed that information, but he would work under the assumption it was vitally important. If he needed to know more, they would tell him. It was a comfortable paradigm and to tell the truth, he didn’t really care what the Guild wanted or why. Sometimes the hours were long, but they paid him well and his life was generally good.
“Proceed to next phase?” said Lansdale.
“Affirmative.” Sinclair exhaled slowly, clearing his mind as best he could. No sense worrying about what was coming next. It had to be done.
“Entering the hangar deck,” said Lansdale.
Sinclair watched the screens as they revealed the dive team’s progress. The sight of the seaplane bomber proved galvanic, even to a jaded veteran like him. To think it had come close to being a part of history was chilling. When he noticed the bomb bay doors open, he wondered why?
He watched the number 2 camera’s display, Waldrop’s, as it revealed the underbelly of the German plane. “We have a problem,” said Waldrop, who had once been in charge of the nukes on one of the supercarriers.
As the diver moved directly under the plane, looked up so that Sinclair shared his view of the interior, he said: “No bomb.”