Free Thunder In The Deep (02) by Joe Buff Page B

Kaiser again, and a half-finished empire." Yes, Beck reflected, a nation's soul is always for sale. But what of man's soul? Why are we here? What about our responsibility to our own morality? Beck stared at a battle map taped to the wall. Yes, a sailor always has his duty, but what if that duty becomes a trap?
    "I sometimes wonder if it'll end up finished, Jakob, or finished." While Beck spoke, a far-off nuclear detonation sounded through the hull, drawn out and growing to a crescendo before dying off. The tragedy of his words was heightened by the reality of their tactical situation.
    "If we lose this time," Coomans said half to himself, "it will be very bad." Beck nodded somberly. There could be no quitting halfway now.
    The two men, lost in their own interior journeys, were startled from their reverie by a knock on the door: a messenger.
    "Sir, the captain's compliments. Enemy Convoy Section One is approaching. We're almost in attack position, and he requires your presence in the Zentrale." Beck forced a smile; it was his job to help put this convoy on the bottom of the sea today. . . . He thought of his twin sons, now ten. He thought of having grandchildren someday, of playing with them when he retired, long after this war. Germany's place in the sun. He was doing it for them.
    He followed Coomans wordlessly, down the short corridor, past the Christmas decorations.
    Deutschland's crowded Zentrale, her control room, was rigged for red. The men were up, excited, and Beck took an inner pride in their readiness. He'd taught them, drilled them, made them the eager tools they were for Kurt Eberhard. "Attack stations manned and ready, Captain." Convoy Section One was the target.
    "Very well, First Watch Officer. I don't like surprises." Beck winced. Intel on the rendezvous of relief warships from England with the convoy had proven inaccurate. The enemy reinforcements were coming hours ahead of expected. Beck saw Eberhard study the tactical plot and frown.
    "Now we're caught between the convoy's frigates driving from the south, and fresh destroyers converging from the north. And the escorting carrier battle group has us boxed in from the west."
    Beck nodded ruefully: The carrier was the nuclear-powered Harry S. Truman, one of America's latest and best, probably escorted herself by four Allied fast-attack subs. Eberhard gave Beck a withering look. "If this first con voy section does get through, in spite of the beating it took off the Azores yesterday, and the second section suffers acceptable losses, Allied morale and logistics will get such a boost this war could drag on for years!"
    Beck shuddered to think of the consequences if Deutschland failed today. Whole continents were waiting to choose sides, or to pick through the cooling ashes when the First World immolated itself: all of Asia, half of the Middle East, and most of South America were holding back from the fight. Everything hinged on starving out the U.K. quickly, exposing America's impotence, and scaring U.S. voters to sue for peace. Beck told himself there was no choice but to press on.
    Luck and timing, good or bad, were always crucial factors in armed conflict. Merchant ship tonnage sunk was what mattered.
    "I will not settle for sniping at the convoy from the flanks," Eberhard said. "To hit the priority targets with confidence, we need to get in very close, and damn the escorts." Beck eyed the large-scale digital tactical plot on his console. Deutschland steamed due west, on an interception course with Section One. She made top quiet speed, thirty knots. Her depth was fifteen hundred meters, exploiting a temperature/salinity layer caused by conflicting currents deep in the ocean—excellent concealment from searching Allied planes and surface ships.
    "Sir," Beck said, "recommend update target motion analysis on the carrier group. They may cease steaming semi-independently and close up with the convoy for the rendezvous."
    Beck knew his ship had a clear playing field