The sailors of the Pennsylvania helped the SEALs in deflating and packaging away each of the transport craft, rolling them into tight cigars and stuffing them into body sized packs that were quickly hauled up and into the tower. Kessler observed the details finish up at the surface before climbing down the ladder-well. The Navy had largely adopted the blue gray camoflauge fatigues with digital spatters as a chance to minimize how many different uniforms they issued to their personnel. The original theory had been that since most sailors worked around heavy machinery and greasy enviornments all day long it would benifet them to wear a utility uniform that would hide some of the oil and lubricant stains that would typically adorn seasoned crewmen. The terrible irony of the decision was that a pair of navy-blue coveralls would cast the Department of the Navy ten to twenty dollars, depending on the size of the sailor. The new dark blue and gray fatigues that the Navy spent millions of dollars to manufacture and dispense to sailors around the world, nearly 120$ for a single uniform, and that wasn’t including boots, belt, undershirt, and 8-point cap. Kessler smirked to himself as he recalled the tweed pattern HBT coveralls that sailors wore on U-boats nearly a century ago, he grinned when he recalled the clever utility jean uniform the US Navy used to issue through the 70’s and 80’s. The things that changed over time could be impressive and yet eerily similar to mistakes made in the past. The submariner corps of the Navy had largely resisted the new digital fatigue uniforms, and many skippers would hoard entire crews worth of coveralls to equip the crews after going underway. The things that submarine captains could get away with were only limited by how much their subordinates bragged back portside, and as Kessler and the rest of the Salvage Team saw some of the Pennsylvania crew with heavier than normal 5 o’ clock shadows, Kessler could feel Hochberg’s grin.
When the US Navy abolished deployment beards, Kessler had wondered how Hochberg would survive, his beard had been a quintessential part of his persona, it was imperative to his aura as the ancient seaman. Not that any of the crews they would be temporarily assigned to over the years would ever know. And as Hochbergs mutations failed to match his aging face the beard had become far more important. Eventually the splotchy red stopped looking like sunburn and started looking like bad burn scars. Then the bad burn scars began to alter into something resembling poorly cooked ham. Hochberg began to wear large aviator glasses to mask his body growing immune to the gene therapy; Kessler could do little to help his old friend as time had worn on.
Royale bellowed down the passageway, “Gang way, make a hole.” And curious sailors who had been vying to get a peak at the excitement scattered like children busted peeping. The group made its way toward the bow of the ship, eventually coming to a larger, more opened passage filled with enourmous silos. Ke blinked once, recalling the different types of submarines in the American fleet. There were submarines that hunted and killed other ships and submarines, those were called Trident Class. Then there were submarines that hauled dozens and dozens of inter continental ballistic missiles that could sneak about and park off the coast of misbehaving nations with the silent threat of nuclear annihilation looming over at all times, those were nick named Boomers. The Pennsylvania must have been a boomer, because each of those silos carried several megatons of boom. Perry knew what the Pennsylvania was from previous missions; the ship was frequently deployed due to an over-eager skipper who constantly volunteered for more missions. Perry had simply assumed the captain was struggling to find purpose in a world that was receding from the Cold War with Russia.
Miller faced about toward the group and called out in the larger deck space, “Assemble by tube-team, rally up round silo 5 for briefing. Salvage team, with me. Master Chief Hochberg, Captain Kessler, you gentlemen as well.”
The four men and Ke meandered after Miller who guided the group to the ships bridge. Kessler recognized the periscope well and war-room instantly, his experience from German vessels to American vessels during his assistance deployments in the Cold War had given him insight into how the bridge was laid out. Miller presented the group to the skipper of the Pennsylvania. The Navy Captain in khaki uniform offered out his hand in greeting, first to the Master Chief and then to the Captains, working his way through the entire group.
“I’m Captain White of the USS Pennsylvania, welcome aboard. I hear we’re going hunting. You understand this ship isn’t great at this, I assume?” White’s smile was accurate to his last name and hair, in fact the only color on his body seemed to be the Khaki uniform he wore, his skin was so dark he could have been naked and vanished on the deck of his own vessel.
Kessler smiled wide, “Boomers are good at sneaking and we’re trying to catch another ghost, captain.
Miller spoke quickly behind Kesslers words, “We’ll be heading south-west of this location. There’s a substantial crevasse before the North American shelf, we suspect the target is there.”
Whites arms folded across his chest and he nodded toward the group in front of him, “Yea, about this mission. What is the target?”
Kessler’s smile barely shifted as he replied, “We should have this conversation in your goat-locker.”
The US Navy had a strange mascot in the goat. Sailors would suggest the goat became a symbol of the Navy because of most sailors being able to eat and drink anything. As the chiefs in the Navy absorbed the goat the stoic and steadfast head of a ram became more and more popular among gatherings of chiefs as they organized their decks during deployments. Eventually the name goat-locker stuck when sailors referred to the quarters where chiefs would gather to talk shop. It was known that even officers feared the cabals that would happen behind those closed doors, but it was also common knowledge that the best room to have an organized meeting would be the goat-locker. Hochberg, a foreign chief working for a foreign navy, had done the homework on the old farm animal symbol. It had merely been a mascot during an Army-Navy academy game before the 1900’s and simply became the go to symbol of the US Navy. Hochberg secretly missed the old sword-fish insignia with the jagged nose and would smirk when he would occasionally see US vessels with the U-Boat symbol.
White nodded and handed command of the vessel to his executive officer, guiding the group into the goat-locker for a quick briefing. Inside the tight board room, center of the table and bolted to its surface, was a percolator that never turned off and never stopped churning out coffee. Merciless coffee. Without thinking, Ke began to make herself a cup and Wells simply stood behind her, instantly creating a queue. Miller sat at the head of the table, White glaring at being relegated to a supportive position at the board table. Perry stood behind Wells, snagging up one of the paper cups and looking back at the table for the quick brief.
“A rogue North Korean submarine is currently making its way toward New York City with an unknown capable nuclear weapon.” Miller said.
White boggled for a moment and then scanned the room, doing some quick math.
“No it isn’t.” He said flatly.
Miller stared back, unflinching.
White locked eyes with Miller and leaned forward, speaking lowly, “I don’t know what you’re with or who you’re from and I don’t care. I need to know what I’m bringing my 100 boys into or you’re going to have a find a new goddamn boat.”
Kessler spoke this time, allowing his German accent to slither out at the tail end of each word, “Captain, in 1945 I left a U-Boat off the coast of Nova Scotia with the Master Chief beside you,” Kessler gestured to Hochberg who nodded politely to White. “We came to America to defect and hopefully assist American engineers in creating weapons and technology to rival and defeat the Soviets. Master Chief Hochberg and myself were experiments from early nuclear and chemical studies on gene and what later became DNA therapy. A young and gifted scientist named Burton discovered a way to keep telomeres from splintering and halting the aging process. He mastered the effect on me. Throughout the 1950’s the American’s attempted to replicate the process on Hochberg, trying to follow the patchwork understanding of Burtons work. Hochberg’s mutations were less successful than mine in some ways and more successful in others. He has somewhat enhanced strength but at the cost of fairly unsightly alterations to his integumentary system.”
White, who looked as though somebody had told him a dumb joke and then punched him square in the face, turned to watch Hochberg remove his glasses and pull down his balaclava. White had seen what burnt bodies looked like, had gone through the training for how corpses appear after nuclear burns and exposures, the Captain knew how to keep a good poker face in a professional setting. When Hochberg smiled wide and the cracks appeared in the deeply scaled and leathery face, White felt his stomach lurch. The Master Chief looked like a crispy corpse with a beard. He put the mask and sunglasses back on and shrugged, “I ‘zink I look quite pretty for 114.”
White nodded, slack jawed, and Kessler continued, “For the past 71 years we have been assisting the US Navy in defending her coast against Soviet submarine operations while also trying to keep an eye out for the U-Boat we abandoned. Her name is Brunhilde, designator number U-5918, we had hoped and prayed that our previous captain scuttled her but in 1977 we had a close call with something that wasn’t Russian. Somewhere off the coast of Cuba, in the triangle, we were stalking a submarine that had been making a racket on the seabed. As we neared within weapons range the opposing sub managed back-to-back crazy-Ivan’s and then simply vanished from radar and sonar signature. In 1989 a similar event occurred in the Arctic Circle. We tailed a ship that suddenly spooked, seemed to perform a suicidally tight turn and vanished. Master Chief Hochberg and I had our theories on what it could be and what we hoped it wasn’t, but in August 2000, we figured out exactly what it was.”
“Kursk…” Perry muttered.
Kessler looked up to the diver and nodded. “Yes. Kursk. Deep under the Arctic Circle the Brunhilde lurked for an easy kill. We think that she had been plaguing the Russian northern trade routes, spiking and salvaging supplies. Russia organized what was supposed to be a large-scale military maneuver but we largely suspect it was a hunting expedition to find and sink Brunhilde. They probably assumed it was an errant American submarine, we’ll never know. What we know for sure is that the Kursk was sunk, but sunk softly. She was maimed and sunk in fairly shallow water and by the time the vessel could be pulled to the surface she had been gutted of all her advanced technology. We think that Burton may have made some fairly dangerous advances with that technological leap.”
Ke stepped away from the coffee machine, a steaming paper cup in her hands, “But why wait until we found out about it? Why wait until he could be caught to try and initiate his final approach on New York?”
Hochberg spoke, his arms unfolding and a small logbook pulled from within his modern Navy fatigues. “Because he’s an arrogant cunt.” He laid the book down and opened it to the last entry, “It’s ‘ze same as any o’zer mass murderer. What’s ‘ze point of being the smartest man in ‘ze world if no one knows about it?”
1-SEP-2016 Kaptain Burton U-5918 Brunhilde
The tests are concluded. The work is done. My men are ready. The world will know. Before this year is over the planet will change toward the dream and a more glorious sunrise. An Aryan planet, devoid of the Jew, the black, the mixed, the Slav, the weak. It shall be cleansed in the purifying heat of my Kettle and the world will remember the gift I gave to it. Some scavengers came across Brunhilde while she rested and attempted to enter. I think when they come back we shall give them a tour. Show them what National Socialists can do. We will gift them the laboratory notes and logs. We will offload the letters home to the glorious dead who we have lost in the service of the Fatherland. The world will know who delivered it from stagnation and strife.
Sieg Heil!