Dexter McCauley
Chesapeake Bay, May 8, The Present
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.
But this one was way different.
They were crossing into that weird zone where anything might happen, and Dex couldn’t help getting caught up in the anxiety coloring that realization.
A submarine.
The idea they were diving on a previously unknown sub made Dex feel like a kid who’d just found a bunch of his uncle’s old army stuff in the attic. He couldn’t help imagining what it might be. The most likely possibility—an old pre-World War II American ship that had been used for target practice or training destroyer crews to use depth charges. Problem was those old subs were nowhere near the size of this one. Same went for the German U-boats. Nothing this big.
Hell, thought Dex. This thing was ringing up bigger than the hunter-killer Navy jobs—the 688s were around 350 feet, and the hull looming just below was even bigger than that.
So what was going on here?
Russian? Chinese?
Considering that possibility made Dex reach out and grab the safeline, and put the brakes on his descent. “Hey,” he said softly into the mask-mic. “Hold up a sec.”
Mike Bielski reached out, braked himself on the nylon rope. He looked at Dex.
“What’s up, guys?” said Don through the base unit. Whenever he piped in, it was like he was the voice of their conscience.
“I was just thinking…” said Dex. Then he briefly brought everybody up to speed on his extrapolations. The notion they might be diving into the hot zone of a nuclear reactor cracked open like a bad egg chilled him. He paused to let it sink in, then: “Is Kev around?”
“He’s already got his suit on,” said Don. “Can’t wait to spell you guys. He’s right here.”
“Put him on the horn, would you?” said Dex, as he absently checked his Princeton Tec—the timer which told him how much time he had left in his double tanks. So far, so good. Plenty of air and time left.
There was a pause and a brief sound of movement and rustling about, then the lazy Baltimore drawl of Kevin Cheever oozed through the earphones. “Okay, boss, whatcha wanna know?”
“You sure about the size of this thing?”
“Chirp side-scan sonar don’t lie,” said Kevin. “418 feet long’s gonna be the number. Right on the money.”
“C’mon, Don,” said Dex. “You heard what I was saying—so what’s the chance we’re over a Russian or a Chinese sub?”
“It’s a chance, but pretty damned slim. I think our spy-guys would know about anything like that just about the minute it happened. A bogey sub would attract a whole lot of attention.”
“You sure?” said Mike.
“As sure as my faith in the natural superiority of our Navy and NSA and the rest of the ‘alphabets.’ Listen, guys,” said Kevin. “There ain’t no way the Bad Guys lose a nuke-sub and we don’t know about it. No fucking way…it just doesn’t happen. We knew about the Kursk before Moscow, for Christ’s sake.”
“Okay,” Dex said, breaking the silence. “So we can take your word for it…we’re not gonna be glowing in the dark anytime soon…”
“Hey, I’m coming down right behind you. That proof enough it’s safe?” Kevin chuckled into the mic. “I’m signing off so I can finish up with my tanks, okay?”
“Roger that,” said Dex. “Mike and I’re heading down.”
“I’m staying on the line,” said Don. “Watch yourselves…”
Dex looked at Mike through the murky water, pointed downward.
Nodding, Mike tilted toward the wreck below, started kicking his legs, and descended.
Dex followed him down, hand-over-hand on the safeline. The beam of his lamp traced out the widening contours of the sub’s conning tower. The amount of accumulated undersea crud attested to its age—pretty much a safe bet it had been down here a long time. Which allayed his fears about any stricken nuke sub. That said, it was still considerably wider than most of the old Word War II boats, and it even had a thick, glass viewing port on the control deck. That was ultra-sophisticated for something that could be more than seventy years old. He could see Mike Bielski just below him, in the dim, ambient light, his mask facing the side of the wreck. And even though it was encrusted with layers of solidified silt and micro-organic marine life, Mike and Dex could not miss the partially obscured insignia on the side of the tower. He rubbed away more of the collected algae and other barnacle-like stuff.
“Oh shit,” said Mike. “Is that what I think it is…?”
“What?” said Don Jordan through their earphones. “Is that what?”
“I see it,” said Dex. He felt himself suck in a little more air than his regulator wanted to let him have.
“Is that an Iron Cross?” said Mike.
“Sure looks like it,” said Dex.
“Son-of-a-bitch…”
“What’d you say?” said Don from topside.
“Looks like an Iron Cross,” said Dex.
“As in Germany, I’d say,” said Mike.
“Tell Kevin and the rest of the guys,” said Dex. “This thing looks like a Nazi job.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Uh-uh. Serious as cancer.” Dex inched his way across the surface of the conning tower. “Give us a minute or so to get deeper and closer, okay?”
“Hard to see for sure,” said Mike. “Don’t see any numbers…”
“You won’t,” said Dex. “They didn’t put their U-numbers on the boats.”
“Hang on…” said Don. “Kevin’s jumping in. So’s Andy. They’ll be coming down the line, so keep an eye out…”
“What?”
“Wait a sec!” said Dex quickly. “Tell those guys to hold off! They’re too early!”
“Too late, Dex…” said Don. “They’re already in the water.”
“C’mon, boss,” said Kevin Cheever, cutting into the link. “You think we’re going to let you and Mike get all the glory?”
“Yeah,” said Andy, doing his best to chuckle in his mask. “We know the laws of salvage, don’t we, Kev?”
“Okay, okay,” said Dex. “It’s just that we wanted to get maximum time on this thing by stretching out our tank-times as far as possible, remember?”
“Yeah, but this is something special, I’d figure,” said Kevin.
“Roger that,” said Dex, giving up. There was no arguing with those two. “Take your time and watch for my lamp.”
“Hey, Dex…?” Don’s voice seeped through earphones.
“Yo…”
“Without a number, I guess there’s no way I can check some databases on the ’net, huh? How do we ID this scow?”
“There’re ways, but it might be tougher than you think.” Dex checked his Tec timer out of habit, and was pleased to see he still had enough time to stay down for awhile. He also noticed, in a flash of rare self-objectivity, how utterly calm he was. Here he was floating over what could be a possibly historic discovery, and he was acting like it was business as usual.
But (came a thought from another part of his mind) staying calm was exactly the way he had to be if he wanted to stay alive down here. As the unofficial “chief” of the dive club, it had become his unspoken responsibility to watch out for the other guys, to make sure they never forgot how to keep themselves alive under the water.
Especially Andy Mellow and Kevin Cheever.
They both moved through the day-to-day with an unconscious sense of invincibility—Andy because he was a big, tall guy; Kev because he was smart and perceptive. Neither were arrogant in an aggressive way, but they both gave off unspoken “attitude”—they were big enough or smart enough to withstand whatever the world threw at them.
He sensed something moving above them before he actually saw the other two men’s lamps. After so many years of diving, he’d developed a primitive proximity sense—a kind of early-warning system that something or someone was drifting near to him in the silent water. It was hard to describe, although Dex had tried on many occasions, and divers either knew instantly what he was talking about or they didn’t. Not exactly a “psychic” experience, but more than likely an ability that fell into the “ESP-lite” category.
Waving his own lamp, Dex gave them as much of a beacon as he could in the ultra-dim surroundings.
“Gotcha,” said Andy Mellow. “We see you guys…”
Dex watched Andy, then Kevin, as they drifted away from the safeline and floated mask-to-mask with him. “Ready to have a closer look?”
“Let’s do it,” said Kev.
They’d done this sort of diving before on known wrecks—sites where all the obvious dangers had been documented and plenty of warnings existed. Dex had made them practice the most cautious procedures just in case they ever did come across a previously unknown derelict.
And now he hoped all the practice and the drilling on safety would pay off.
Dividing up into two buddy-teams was the usual tactic, and everyone did this without being reminded. Since Mike and Dex were on tanks with the shortest air remaining, they stayed together and would make the ascent together. The final team of Tommy Chipiarelli and Doc Schissel would eventually spell them.
As they eased past the conning tower, Dex fanned his lamp-beam back and forth, watching for anything that could mean trouble. Fouled cables, anchor chains, spilled ammunition, netting…there was simply no way to know what they might find.
So Dex tried to expect the unexpected…
“Okay,” he said. “Everybody stay in contact. Keep giving your position and anything you see.”
“Moving down past the bridge and the con,” said Mike. “Looks clear.”
“I’m on the foredeck. It’s a long-assed way to the bow,” said Kevin. “What’s going on here? The Nazis didn’t have anything this big.”
“Or so we thought,” said Donnie, who’d been monitoring their progress through the conversation.
“In case anybody’s interested, I just reached the bow tubes—I count eight torpedo ports. This thing was nasty.” That was Kevin.
“Just reached the aft deck,” said Andy; his voice was lower, but not calm. “Something funny here…”
Dex felt a tightening in his gut like something was grabbing and twisting—a sensation he hated because it made him feel helpless and scared, and there was no place for that kind of thinking when this deep.
“What do you mean?” he said quickly. “Andy, you okay?”
“Fine. No problem. It’s just that—”
“What’s up, man?” said Kevin, who was floating some 200 feet away from the conning tower.
“The aft deck,” said Andy. “It’s like…different. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Hang on, Andy. Wave your lamp so we can see you,” said Dex. “Mike, come on. We’re coming down, okay?”
“Hey what’s going on down there?” said Don. He sounded distant and helpless way up there in the bridge. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know,” said Andy. “Wait till you see this. There’s no deck gun. Christ, there’s no deck, really…”
Dex was going to ask him what the hell he was talking about when he caught Andy’s torchlight beam oscillating back and forth. A few flipper-kicks and he was drifting over to his position.
That’s when he could see for himself.
Floating just beyond the trailing edge of the bridge and the con, Dex saw the deck of the U-boat beneath him. As he looked aft, the deck seemed to be swelling up, expanding into the general shape of a Quonset hut.
“See what I mean?” said Andy.
“Looks like a hump-backed whale,” said Mike.
“What does?” said Don. “What’re you guys talking about?”
“I’m coming back there.” That was Kevin, who sounded bored of hanging off the bow tubes and probably feeling isolated and more than a little useless.
Dex and the others began to drift back over the swollen hull of the sub, looking for anything that might give them a clue as to what they were actually looking at. It was definitely the oddest-looking WWII-vintage sub he’d ever seen. There didn’t appear to be any outward breaches. No sign of any kind of damage. If the sub had taken a hit, it had to have been in the section settled into the sand and mud of the Bay’s bottom. As they worked their way toward the boat’s tail fins, the large hump on its back gradually tapered down, following the lines of the hull.
“What’s it look like to you?” said Andy. “Is it a tanker?”
Dex exhaled, drew a breath. “I have no idea. If it is, it’s more than twice the size of the regular ‘milk-cows’ they used. The shape looks like it’s definitely part of the hull. Not just some weird add-on.”
“Strangest-looking sub I’ve ever seen,” said Mike. “Not that I’ve seen a lot of them—especially this close-up…”
“Hey Donnie, you there?”
“Yeah, I’m up here twisting in the wind. Would you guys mind telling me what’s going on? What’s so freaking weird?”
“In a minute,” said Dex. “But before I forget, make sure either Doc or Tommy brings down the videocam. Even though it’s murky, we’ll try to get a record of this, okay?”
“Gotcha,” said Don. “I’ll tell ’em. Now will somebody please—”
Mike started giving him details of what they were all looking at as Kevin joined them. Dex had just checked his SPG, his submersible pressure gauge; he was running low on air. He and Mike only had a few more minutes of safe time, and he tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at the gauge.
Nodding, Mike held up his index finger. “Yeah, I just checked mine too. Hate to leave just when it’s getting good.”
“We’ll be back,” said Dex, sensing something drawing close to him from behind.
Turning slowly, he saw Kevin Cheever in his lime green dry-suit slowly gliding toward them, the beam of his lamp probing the dim water between them.
“Hey, guys, make room for Papa. It was lonely down at the other end…” He paused as he drifted up to Dex’s right shoulder, close enough at last to see what they’d found. “Holy shit…what the hell is this thing?”
“You know what I think it is,” said Andy. “I think it’s some kind of secret weapon…something we never knew about.”
“Sounds possible,” said Kevin. “The German’s had jet fighters near the end of the war.”
“Well,” said Mike, speaking in his slow, thoughtful-math-professor tones. “If they didn’t want anybody to know about it, I’d say they succeeded…”
“Okay, Mike and I’ve gotta get topside,” said Dex. “Remember the safety regs, okay guys? We don’t want any trouble down here. Don’t do anything risky. It’s going to take a little time to get familiar with what we’re dealing with, right?”
Kevin gave him a thumbs-up.
“And nobody gets any crazy ideas about going inside this thing—not yet, anyway.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Andy, sounding impatient as ever.
Dex waved as he headed back to the safeline with Mike. After Dex pulled the right numbers from his Cochran, a tiny decompression computer, they began their slow ascent. Since they were just below the depths where excess nitrogen could build up in their bloodstreams, their ascent was not all that slow. As they did this, Dex considered the possibilities implied in their discovery.
If nothing else, they were in for a bit of adventure. But there could also be some notoriety, maybe a few minutes on the Discovery Channel, and maybe even a little money…
But one thing was bugging him.
He couldn’t stop wondering why there was no record of any subs this big, or with this shape. Could it be a fake? Not very likely. Who would go to all that trouble? What was that huge aft-section all about? It almost looked like a modern-day “boomer,” which was the Navy’s nickname for the big Triton-class missile subs.
Could the Nazis have been that slick?
Dex intended to find out…