Hochberg scrambled over to one of the dead ghouls and grasped into his shoulders, standing him up. One of the SEALs seemed to figure out what the old chief was up to and helped him to stand the the corpse up. Hochberg bent down to snag up one of the bloody spears and shoved the weapon into the lifeless brass laden divers back. The scene was pure macabre. The diving suit was limply stood on its feet and leaning strangely back on the half impaled spear. It’s bronzed helmet still had the visor swinging open and Kessler took a glance at raw muscles bared to the world. The soft flesh glistening in the mix of light bulbs in the room. Whoever this sailor had been was barely recognizable as human any longer. Kessler reached out and shut the visual port, wandering around a row of the old diving suits and crouching behind them with his rifle up. Hochberg scanned the room and ensured everyone was someplace half hidden or or least half protected before he gave a silent signal like a hand turning down a volume knob. One of the SEALs looked around a moment, unable to figure out where the light switch was or indeed what it might look like. Hochberg sighed and positioned himself by the switch, partially in the open and openly annoyed no one else knew the inner workings of the U-Boat but him and Kessler. The stage was set, the plan was in motion. Hochberg struck the lights and Wells wrenched the leaver down and the door swung inward.
Light poured in the room, chasing the edge of the hatch as it swung open. It led into the central passage, the long bay that had doors to each and every major compartment and specialty division. The SEALs would have to clear each room and post guards to keep their rear secured as they hunted down each of the gruesome defenders lying in wait. As the light shone in and the Strike Team peered down the hall two things became apparent.
The first thing everyone quickly noticed was that there were four dive suits ducked behind opened hatch doors armed with old machine pistols. Hochberg recognized the old clatter-boxes immediately, the finicky MP-40. The sleek black and Bakelite design was space-aged for its time and became synonymous with the German war machine, but it was a terrible weapon in reality. Expensive to produce and difficult to maintain, the 9mm round was untrustworthy on battlefields where rifles reigned supreme and when the fight got close and needed the automatic capabilities the Russians simply outclassed the MP-40 with their PPSH weapon system. Each of the four heavy dive suits wore the battle rigs over their bulky bodies, the magazine pouches attached to their waist belts.
The second thing everyone noticed was that Hochbergs play worked. None of the defending ghouls had to fire to give away their position and each of them were standing still as stone partially exposed from cover, it was perfect. Hochberg didn’t need to say anything other than “now” and every aimed rifle held by the SEALs fired two bolts each, the brilliant blue no longer suppressed in the water. Three of the four heavy diving suits lost all life and clattered to the deck, hard. The remaining brass helmet tucked behind the hatch and shoved the MP40 around the edge, firing blindly down the hall. The staccato of 9mm splatting into the held up corpse with the sound of meat slapping a kitchen floor. Strike Team dutifully hunkered down or pressed themselves as best they could into cover while wild rounds snapped past and ricocheted off the bulkheads. Chief Royale calmly increased the velocity of his rifle and quickly leaned round the plated desk he was ducked behind. He spied where the divers boots we’re and guesstimated where his body should be, firing a burst. Other SEALs followed suit, taking calm and precise shots into the hatch. Some of the Gauss rifle bolts smashed into the steel door leaving white hot gobs of molten metal, others passed through weak points, leaving satisfying little red rimmed circles. The defending dive suit crumpled forward on all fours as if kicked in the back. Black tar oozed out from a dozen holes around the suit. The heavy body tumbled onto its side but hefted the machine pistol up with one hand, weapon growing level with the dark doorway he aimed at.
Two more SEALs stole quick snap shots and the wounded ghoul’s visual port shattered, a heavy wave of the blackish oil spilling out and over the deck. A light smoke wafted around the two rooms as the cordite exhaust fumes from weapons fire faded. Hochberg whispered into the radio, briefly forgetting they were in individual suits.
“Wait a moment, ‘zair may be more…”
As if on cue, the lights into the primary passage turned off and the world was in totally blackness. Each of the members of strike team immediately dropped down their visors into night vision, reaching forward on their rifles and activating the infrared laser. Wells and Perry had not been told about this feature in the diving suits, Ke had learned only after conversing with the medical SEALs. Wells blurted in the moment of blind panic.
“Is anyone else alarmed?”
Royale quickly put together the context clues and reached out beside him to where he could see Wells, wide eyed and panic stricken inside his rebreather helmet. The chief flipped down what could have been mistaken for the worlds smallest sun visor, the plexiglass looking night vision screen glowing calming in front of Wells’ face. The scene was awash in green. A light static filled the room as white laser lights cut through, emanating from little boxes on the rifles. Perry figured out his contraption and had already scanned the room trying to figure out what came next. A SEAL spoke softly.
“Contact. Hallway. Three, coming our way, guns.”
All eyes craned up and peered down the hallway, the lasers quickly filling the corridor with flooding light. It was as if the dive suits could see the beams, the moment they were spotted they fired back at the sources, 9 mm bullets smashing into walls and desks that bodies took cover behind. But that didn’t matter, the fury of gunfire was where these men made their living. Carefully and methodically lasers sought out heavy brass helmets and in a frantic thump those same helmets would shutter, shatter, and crumple to the deck.
The process took moments. More cordite mist filled the air and for all the world Hochberg could swear he smelled it from inside his rebreather system, like the familiar scent of a lawn after fireworks were lit. Awkward memories of strange 4th of July barbecues swirled in the back of his head a moment before chief Royale spoke. “The Helm team is gonna push forward. Captain, which ways the bridge?”
There was a brief pause as Kessler looked down the passageway. He had only seen it in his dreams and he hasn’t been able to imagine it outside of his old memories. There it was, the hallway he would pace for hours while he had to figure a way to save his country and his captain. Now seven lazily heaped bodies lay with black pools seeping out around their helmets, the mission he had spent so long looking forward to and he could barely make himself look at what they had to do.
“Captain?” Royale’s voice sounded as though he were concerned his radio wasn’t transmitting.
Kessler spoke, feeling as though he were standing next to himself, still in his HBT coveralls, still white eyed and alert, Kessler could feel his own ghost. “Head down this passage, at the end is a ladder well that goes down to the power station, around that same well is the hatch for the bridge.”
Royale called out an affirmative and instantly the SEALs were on their feet and slowly snaking their way out the door. Each man careful to shut and lock the hatches they passed to avoid a surprise ambush. Hochberg sent two of his team to cover Royale’s advance down the hallway, each man moving as though they were part rehearsed dancer, part merciless machine. Kessler neared the hatch to exit the make-shift dive suit repair shop when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked back and saw Hochberg lean in close.
For the first time in a long while, the old chief spoke German to Kessler. The entire Strike Team heard it, but only Ke understood it.
“Tu’s nicht ohne mich, Komerad”