Free The Passenger by F. R. Tallis Page B

from him. He tightened his hold on the firing lever, and as he did so, he heard an exhalation close to his right ear, an expulsion of air, but imbued with a faint vocal quality, enough to suggest the emotions of frustration and regret. Although disconcerting, Lorenz dismissed the phenomenon. He could not afford to be distracted.
    â€˜Tube one—fire! Tube two—fire!’
    Falk counted off the seconds, and Lorenz kept his gaze fixed on the target. Graf was still giving orders. To maintain depth and keep the boat level it was necessary to fill the trim tanks with sea water weighing exactly the same as the torpedoes that had just been discharged. The adjustment was subtle but perceptiblenevertheless. Lorenz felt strangely detached, like an ancient god dispensing casual destruction. He saw the cargo ship transformed into a blazing fireball, and the absence of sound made the conflagration appear like an event in a dream. Lehmann, who was manning the hydrophones, must have reacted and signaled success, because a chorus of triumphal exclamations preceded the arrival of the shock wave.
    â€˜Did we hit it?’ asked Falk.
    â€˜Yes,’ said Lorenz. ‘We hit it.’ He was obliged to evaluate the feasibility of undertaking another attack, but when he looked for the flanking escort he discovered that it was already turning toward them. ‘Close torpedo doors, new course 180 degrees, 75 meters, ahead slow: silent routine.’ In the control room, men grabbed the handles of the leverage valves, and their feet left the matting as they used all of their body weight to pull them down. The ballast tanks flooded, and the boat tilted while Falk and Lorenz were still negotiating the ladder. Hand wheels were being rotated with furious, concentrated energy, and members of the crew who were not seated had to reach for the overhead pipes to stop themselves from falling. Anything unfastened slid toward the bow: cans, sou’westers, books, and boxes.
    The first detonation was like a sledgehammer landing heavily on the hull. It produced a reverberating clang, all of the lights blinked, and the metal began to shriek. There then followed a terrifying roar, even louder than the initial strike. An enormous quantity of water, blasted outward by the force of the explosion, was rushing back to fill the void. Men staggered, others lost their footing and fell, and the boat’s angle of descent steepened. In the confusion that followed, Lorenz heard a voice shouting: ‘Ober-Maschinistmaat Richter badly injured!’
    Before Lorenz could react there were two more massive detonations that accelerated the boat’s descent. Graf’s response was swift and effective. The aft compartment dropped and the deck became level again. When the noise subsided there was absolutesilence. Even a cough would conduct through the hull and betray their location, so all of those who were not seated swapped their boots for slippers. Men crept into bunks and attempted to breathe slowly and remain calm. The boat could not remain submerged indefinitely: it was imperative to conserve air. Only essential lighting was retained to save power. They waited—and waited—until the stillness was infiltrated by the repetitive thrashing of high-speed propellers.
    A mechanic lowered himself to the matting and knelt next to the master gyro compass. Another seaman crouched beneath the chart table. It seemed that the crew was trying to escape danger by making their bodies occupy less space. Fear had impoverished their thinking, and their irrational behavior betrayed a return to infantile logic, the reappearance of semi-magical beliefs. They folded their arms and shortened their necks, as though it were possible—by the exercise of will—to shrink to a vanishing point and elude the destruction promised by the relentless thrashing above. Lorenz looked at his men and hoped that their sanity would be protected by some vestige of pride or honor,