“All right,” Stefan nodded. “Blow the stern ballast. For now, keep everyone aft. Every five minutes, we’ll try to pull off this thing. Hopefully, we can do it before the Soviets send visitors.”
“Sorry, Stefan,” Eryk said.
“For what?’
“My charts ... I didn’t have this down ...”
“Forget it. My fault. Your charts are fine and they’re still going to get us out of here alive. Don’t worry.”
But as Stefan climbed back up to the bridge, he was wishing he felt as confident as his words. In fact, they were in serious danger. The freighter had already contacted Soviet authorities. He was sure of that. Even now, pilots were probably scrambling to their planes, ground crews loading the racks with bombs.
“Look, they’re curious,” Reggie said, pointing to the approaching freighter. “Can’t imagine why they’re coming back. If it was me, I’d be high-tailing it out of here.”
“I’m sure the captain would like to do just that,” Squeaky said. “He’s probably been ordered back by his superiors. If he disobeys, he gets a first-class ticket to Siberia.”
The freighter circled the submarine at a safe distance, tracked the entire way by the deck gun crew. They were willing to try a shot, but Stefan shook his head. “It would be like spitting grapes at an elephant,” he said.
After fifteen minutes, the freighter’s signal lamp began to flash, and then the vessel resumed her course toward Helsinki.
“What did they say?” Kate said, looking up from her notebook where she had been writing furiously, her eyes wide.
Stefan couldn’t help chuckling. “Their captain said he was sorry for our misfortune and wished us all a speedy trip straight to hell.”
“My word,” Reggie said, taking another photograph of the departing vessel. “What does he mean by that?”
The water at the
Eagle’s
stern began to froth again. There was a shriek of metal, a slight sense of movement, and that was it. “Almost,” Squeaky said under his breath.
Stefan wasn’t paying attention. He was scanning the northeast horizon. He saw them at the same time as the lookouts. “Planes,” they yelled in unison.
“That’s what they meant,” Stefan said, pointing. “If we don’t get off this rock in the next ten minutes, we’re dead.”
There was a knock outside Ritter’s door. He suppressed a groan. After three nonstop days and sleepless nights, he had finally retired to one of the destroyer’s Spartan guest quarters, determined to get some rest. He had just pulled off his shirt and socks.
He pulled open the door. “Yes?”
The sailor took a step back, frightened by the look on Ritter’s face. The scarring didn’t help, either. “Here.” He thrust the paper into Ritter’s hand, and then scooted down the passageway.
Ritter unfolded the sheet. Another radio message. Soviets had found the
Eagle
. She was stranded in the North Baltic approximately 43 kilometers southeast of Helsinki. They were sending forces to neutralize her.
The antiseptic language didn’t disguise what was about to happen. Or what had happened already. Submarines, for all the fear they inspired, were still surprisingly fragile vessels. A destroyer or battleship could take on planes and survive the encounter. A submarine’s only protection was the deep. If the
Eagle
couldn’t dive or move, she was dead. It was as simple as that. She was probably already gone.
Ritter couldn’t help feeling disappointment. He had hoped to meet up with the crew again, deal with the submarine personally. And now that too had been taken from him.
As for Dönitz, he wouldn’t be happy to learn that
Eagle
was destroyed by the Soviets and not ships of the mighty
Kriegsmarine
. It was almost as bad as having one of Göring ’s planes do it.
Everyone in the conning tower watched the planes take shape, growing more distinct with each passing second. And then they heard them, a far off drone, like bees working in an orchard.
There were two of them. “They’re called the Illyushin IL -2M3,” Stefan remarked. “Should have four bombs each, plus machine guns.”
“How do you know that?” Reggie asked.
“Bedtime reading courtesy the staff at headquarters,” Stefan replied with a blank stare. “They actually thought the Russians would be the first to invade. Decided it would be good if all the senior officers new the difference between an Illyushin and a Yak. I always figured one could kill you just as dead as the other, regardless of what they were called. In any case, these pilots won’t do anything fancy. You two should go below.”
Kate shuddered. “Sorry. Like I said back in the harbor, I think if I’m going to die, I’d rather do it up here. I promise to stay out of the way. Hell, give me a rifle, and I’ll shoot at them myself.”
“I’m sorry,” Stefan said. “But we need everyone we can spare in the aft end of the submarine. Another few kilos might make all the difference. You boys, too,” he said to the lookouts.
Kate swallowed hard, decided the fierce look on Stefan’s face made it clear what he thought about an argument. She was the first to leave, disappearing down the ladder without another glance. Reggie and the rest of them followed her. “You, too,” Stefan said Squeaky. “And when you get down then, I want everyone to start racing back and forth between the fore and aft sections. Squeeze as far forward and back as you go. Keep at it until I tell you to stop. It might be enough to help wiggle us off the rocks.”
Squeaky didn’t say anything. He just nodded.
From then on, it became race between nature and plane. Each passing minute, the tide rose another few inches, while the planes flew a few kilometers closer to the
Eagle
. Stefan had no idea who would win.
The AA crew in the aft section of the conning tower had their guns swiveled in the direction of the approaching planes. “They’re Russians,” Stefan advised them. “That means they’ll come in low, lengthwise and vodka for everyone on the plane that sends one down our throat.”
The two young men at the gun tugged nervously at their gray helmets, licked their lips. Better here than in that iron coffin down below, Stefan knew they were thinking. From below, he could hear someone bellows and shouts, urging the dog-tired crew to keep going, all the way to the bow of the boat and then back again. And it was helping. He could feel a faint shift in the
Eagle
each time they ran back and forth down the passageway.
It would be close.
The
Eagle’s
engines roared constantly now, the seawater at the stern whipped into a frenzy, the exhaust floating near the surface like an early fog. The two Russian bombers wheeled around in front of
Eagle
, and then lined up on her bow, still four kilometers away, and began their approach. Stefan saw the bomb bay doors swing open. The AA gun behind him opened fire, flinging shells into the sky. It was too soon, but he didn’t say anything.
There was a sudden jerk. Steel plating screaming in protest, and the
Eagle
suddenly slipped off the rocks. Stefan heard shouts of joy drift up out of the conning tower hatch opening. “Rudder hard right,” Stefan screamed in the sound tube, unable to take his eyes from the onrushing bombers, hoping they could hear him below. “Hard starboard!”
Diesels racing, the
Eagle
began to pivot out of the planes’ path, but it was maddeningly slow.
Stefan saw sparks stitch the underbelly of the first bomber. The submarine’s fire was finding its target, though the plane didn’t seem to notice any more than a dog would notice a handful of mosquitoes feeding on its hindquarters.
Stefan held his breath as the bomber dropped its cargo. Nothing he could do now except wait and watch. The bombs tumbled lazily through the bright morning air, like dirt clods lobbed by a child at a distant adversary. As Stefan estimated the bombs’ trajectory, time seemed to dilate, their flight slowing to a crawl, each metal-encased explosive becoming distinct and perfect. Stefan felt a profound sense of resignation and regret when he realized it was too close call.
When the first two bombs landed meters short, plumes of water erupting high in the air, he was overwhelmed with a sense of relief almost too much to bear. He ducked involuntarily as the next two sailed past the conning tower and flew into the shoal that moments before had held the
Eagle
it its grasp. Their explosions sent a cascade of water and pulverized rock into the air, the rock peppering the sides of the conning tower like pebbles thrown by a gang of bullies.
Stefan hollered into the voice tube: “Now forward. Full speed. Rudder hard port.”
The next bomber was closing fast. The pilot had adjusted his path, dropping altitude and following the
Eagle
as she backed off the rocks and turned. He obviously expected her to continue in reverse, but the
Eagle
slowed to a stop and then, screws churning madly, began to move in the opposite direction, gaining speed with each revolution. The AA gun opened fire again. Stefan saw black dots appear along the wing and then march toward the port engine. There was a puff of smoke from the engine; the propeller began to slow; the wing dipped, pulling the plane toward port. As the pilot struggled to keep the plane flying with just one engine, the bombardier released the bombs, but too late. They fell harmlessly starboard of the
Eagle
. The bomber screamed by overhead, still losing altitude; her tail gunner opened fire, gouging wood chunks off the deck. The
Eagle’s
AA crew returned the favor, pouring fire into the heavily armored Russian bomber. But at closer range, the gun began to have deadly results. Stefan watched the canopy shatter, the plane now low enough to see frantic movements in the cockpit. She continued to lose altitude, the port engine streaming pale flames. The conning tower AA gun fell silent, and everyone on deck watched as the bomber’s port wing touched the surface of the Baltic. Friction ripped the wing from the fuselage as easily as a cook plucking feathers from a duck. The bomber cartwheeled into the water, flying apart as she spun, and then finally stopping in a shower of spray and debris.
Except for the distant hum of the other bomber and the sound of the
Eagle’s
own diesel engines, all sound of combat ceased, he sudden fury of the previous moments passing like a summer storm.
“Let’s go,” Stefan yelled into the sound tube. “New course One-nine-five. Rig ship for dive. Clear the bridge.”
There would be more planes. And soon. No doubt the remaining pilot had already radioed for reinforcements. But the
Eagle
had survived—for the moment. Another few seconds on the shoal, and the
Eagle
would have been smacked by two bombs, and probably more from the following bomber. They had been lucky. Stefan knew it was time to make for England.
The AA crew retracted their gun back into its watertight compartment. The deck gun crew plugged the muzzle and locked down their gun, and then tumbled back down the forehatch like rabbits into a hole.
Stefan waited until the foredeck was awash. He gave one quick look around, noted the smudge of two approaching ships against the gray sky and above them, three dark specks. More bombers. No surprise. The Russians would scramble every available warship. Probably the Finns and the Swedes, too. They would have uninvited company overhead before long. He took a last deep breath of the fresh air, savoring the sweet taste on his tongue like a warm piece of fruit. Just before the water began rushing in, he ducked into the ship, pulling the hatch tight.
Admiral Karl Dönitz pushed away his plate, touched his stomach slightly, and then belched. All of his favorites. Warm potatoes coated in cheese, two fat brats, juice oozing from breaks in their skins, and steamed baby carrots covered in brown sugar and butter. A mug of hearty Bavarian beer to wash it all down.
He belched again, pushed over one of the sausages, noticing, for the first time, their similarity to the shape of a submarine. Of course, it was too symmetrical for the shape of the current generation of submarines, which were still not much more than surface vessels that could operate for periods of time underwater. But he had been excited by some of the newer designs. They did, indeed, look more like sausages, long, smooth, and rounded, so they could slip more easily through the water. With better batteries, and some of the other ideas they envisioned, German submarines would someday stay underwater for days, racing along at speeds rivaling the fleetest fish in the sea, and then diving to depths far exceeding the limits of current submarines. A weapon like that would revolutionize warfare. If the war lasted that long. Right now, those submarines lived only on drawing boards and the imaginations of German engineers.
He flicked the button on his intercom. “I’m done,” he said,pushing aside his plate Dönitz lit a cigarette and stared out at the blackness beyond his window.
A moment later, there was a light knock and then the door opened. His aide crossed quickly to Dönitz’s desk, the leather creaking on his boots.
“There is this for you, sir. Just in.”
The aide pushed a piece of paper across the desk, and when there was no further request or orders from his master, he spun on his heel.. He left the way he came in. The door latched with a soft click.