Akin marveled at how quickly Wells and Perry seemed to fall asleep. In his mind he imagined their brains being able to enter a hibernation mode instantly and the bodies being dragged down into slumber so effortlessly. He had loaned the pair his cabin and spare cots so they could rest up, three hours hardly seemed enough time. Akin could barely get his mind to stop racing as he relaxed back into the bunk. He tried doing light mental excersize, focusing on the light rock of the ship. He tried thinking of how soft the wind sounded against the porthole of his cabin. He tried focusing on the strangely regular and rhythmic pattern of Perry and Wells’ light snore. Each time his eyes closed he saw his grandfathers wide and terrified expression when Akin came to see him on his death bed, Akin adorned in a double breasted coat with gold buttons.
Ke had long learned herself well enough to know her limits. She would test those limits every few weeks for fun. She had learned growing up that luck was only as real as you built it to be, and luck came from skill. Was it lucky she had so many international job offers when she graduated, or was it because she spoke the five most business needed languages? Was it lucky she survived each of her deep sea construction jobs or was it because she was so cautious and paid attention to each detail so fanatically? She believed in luck as much as she believed in pixie dust. She wasn’t going to sleep for 48 to 72 hours, she had already forced her body to reach that conclusion. She was going to be with salvage team when they went back to the Brunhilde, and she was going to know as much about that vessel as possible. Her eyes continued to scan back and forth through the logs, the story of U-5918 becoming more dire and drastic.
When the Brunhilde had surfaced and Kessler offloaded with Hochberg and few of the science team and crew, Kessler left behind a folder to be opened twenty days later off the coast of Long Island. Dropping off the communists seemed as important to Sajer as getting rid of genital crabs, his disgust at Kessler’s “Bolshevik Love” was so profound that Ke seemed surprised that Sajer didn’t try and drown him. It seemed that without Hochberg and Kessler, Burton filled a sort of leadership gap, but because Burton was not a career sailor or even remotely military he did not function well in that position. As the days dragged forward leading to the moment when Sajer would read Kessler’s letter, turmoil between Burton and the Kaptain seemed to bubble up.
January 13, 1945 Kaptain Sajer U-5918 Brunhilde
There was a bicycle repairman back home, years ago, that would sometimes swear out loud in French about his tools. He would fix bikes all day long, drink, and swear at his tools. He would drunkenly threaten his wrenches and pliers with being melted down and made anew, or that he would replace them and cast them into the river. He never did, but his rage would reduce all the watching children to giggles. For all of Hochberg and Kessler’s idealogical faults, they were fantastic sailors, I miss their company quite deeply. Burton is a good scientific mind, a clever and witty fellow at a meal table, but he is not a sailor. He is not reliable. I fear I may have been the drunken bike repairman with my rage towards my first mate and chief, I hope they can forgive me for that one day.
We have begun our final approach towards the New York City harbor and should be there by nearly months end. Burton assures me that each mechanism is in working order and the Steam Torpedoes are locked in and ready to be launched when those targets appear. I worry. I worry we will create another hidden tiger like we did with the Blitz over London. That instead of burning our enemy into submission we will fire the coals that galvanize them into a sword of vengeance. I think, perhaps, I might be seeing the brilliance of putting Kessler and the others into work behind the lines. Perhaps a softer and more subtle touch is needed to guide our enemies against themselves.
Burton assures me that the divers and the torpedoes will cripple any pursuit craft after the launch, and that if we let the kettle scream at full steam we can break for the open ocean without concern of chase. I want to believe him, but I also know he is willing to test his creations at any cost to us here in the ship. These lads, these brave boys who have seen so many of their brothers wave as they left on wolf pack missions. I want them to have a home to return to and pride when they go back, but each bit of news from the eastern and western fronts sounds worse and worse. The allied broadcasts seem more and more arrogant, like our own during the ’39 and ’40 pushes to Dunkirk or Poland. This plan must succeed or we will be ghosts in the depths.
Ke turned the page to the next entry and a small pressed bit of paper wifted away, gracefully slipping back and forth to the floor. It was addressed to the Kaptain from Kessler. In bold letters of the first line it read:
Burton is a traitor.