TIPOTS: Case Vulkan

[MKSheppard]

Posted by Mike on 19 December 2003:

For those who may remember and for those who don’t, ‘Those In Peril On The Sea’ was my first attempt at alternate history fiction back around 1999, I think – where the USN ended up going up against the Bismarck alongside the RN. Unfortunately, domestic upheavals here led to me never getting the last couple chapters posted, so let me do some quick catch-up:

In the TIPOTS alternate history, Bismarck went down on 27 May 1941, just as in the true timeline – but this time only after being crippled by an airstrike launched by USS Wasp and USS Ranger, and then finally being run to ground by USS Texas and HMS Rodney (which, by the way, delivered the coup d’grace.). The victory is not without cost - Rodney is badly hurt, as are USS New York, USS Tuscaloosa, and the destroyer Erickson.

Adolf Hitler declared war on the United States four days later on May 31st – after making a few other changes:

1.) Hermann Goering ‘resigns’ as head of the Luftwaffe and is replaced by Adolf Galland, who vows to turn the Luftwaffe into the kind of instrument it should have been.

2.) Just before Hitler declares war, he cancels Operation Barbarossa, due to kick off in just a few weeks. The invasion of Russia never happens. Hitler now intends to turn the full fury of Nazi Germany against England before the US can get into the fight.

Just a few weeks after that, there is a meeting of the Imperial Japanese War Council in Tokyo – where it is decided that the Americans will be far too alert for the IJN to take a chance on Operation Z, the attack on Pearl Harbor. Therefore, they shall go with that old standby of an attack on the Philippines, with the intent of bringing the USN out for the legendary ‘decisive battle.’ ADM Yamamoto Isoruku is strongly against it, but the decisive battle advocates outnumber him. Yamamoto manages to win only one small victory, but it will have tremendous consequences – he convinces the War Council not to launch the attack until April of 1942, when Yamato and Musashi have both joined the fleet.

TIPOTS actually ended with FADM Brian Shannon – who commanded Texas against Bismarck – going aboard the nuclear battleship USS Texas (BBGN-77) in May of 2001 to mark the 60th anniversary of the battle. Part of that chapter’s back-story was the revelation that WWII didn’t end until January of 1947, with the Battle of Sagami Bay and the first use of nuclear weapons at sea against the IJN. Germany went down first, in February of ’46, but only after 8th AF used the first combat nukes against eight German cities. But before that happened, the Nazis were able to get the first primitive ICBMs off against US and British targets. But without nuclear warheads all they could do was terrorize – then anger.

The Russians – who, BTW, didn’t get into the war until April of ’45, and then screwed it up into a rematch of WW I’s Western Front, right down to the trenches – decided that America could not be permitted to rule the world, even though we had no intention of doing so. The result was The Long War – an on-again, off-again hot war where Allied and Warsaw Pact forces traded shots on a regular (and impressive) basis, especially at sea, until the Pact collapsed in 1990. The end result was a truly militarized US and European Community that is even now – thirteen years after the fall of the Pact – trying to pick up the pieces. (The old USSR collapsed into about a dozen feuding republics, some of which had nukes and weren’t afraid to use them; India is just barely holding on this side of religious genocide, China is a basket case that more resembles the warlord-ruled region of the 1920s, and the Middle East, save for Israel, Turkey, and Jordan, is a nightmare of religious warfare and military skirmishes – the only order comes when the US reminds people that they’re not afraid to nuke anybody who messes with the oil tankers, and on at least one occasion does so.) Out of the horrors of the Middle East, a new threat has arisen – Margbar Kufr (Death To Infidels), led by men who were trained by the Allies to give the Soviets heartburn in their Islamic provinces. These men convinced themselves that they defeated the USSR, and now rule or influence several Middle Eastern and SW Asian nations. Worst of all, they have access to the trillions of dollars of military equipment – both Allied and Pact – that remained in these regions. Their goal is nothing less than to raise the Crescent flag over the great capitals of Earth, and to call the faithful to prayer from Capitol Hill.

In the meantime, the US is still the richest, most prosperous, and most powerful nation on earth. Our level of technology in the TIPOTS 2003 is about twenty years ahead of where it is in the true timeline, but we’re still trying to make sense of it all…all because of a rain cloud that got in the way of a RN cruiser in May of 1941.

Anyhow, this is the second TIPOTS story. The original was – to me – a little dark, and I will be the first to admit that this one may go a bit in the other direction…but it was still a lot of fun to write. So – here’s the teaser:

(This film has been rated PG-13 by the MPAA.)

“In 1941, it has been one hundred and twenty seven years since enemy troops set foot on American soil.

“Our luck is about to run out.”

“THOSE IN PERIL ON THE SEA: Case Vulkan – coming 12/19/03…”

CaseVulkan.gif

[MKSheppard]

PROLOGUE

LANGLEY FIELD, VA
15 FEB 2000, 1645 HRS

It doesn't snow all that much in Hampton Roads, but Lord, does it rain and it was raining today, a steady, bone-chilling downpour that soaks through just about anything mankind can come up with to try and stay dry. The look of the weather usually doesn't help either a solid gray overcast that seems to just hang there forever, making people count the days until spring.

It was a little bit worse than usual for the Corps of Engineers troops who were digging a trench at the east end of the runway, near the old NACA facility known as the Mile-Long Building. The massive HQ buildings that dominated that end of the base First AF, HQ Tactical Air Command loomed over the soaked diggers in the trench, backed up by the wall of rain clouds and the cold, damp embrace of the Back River that was seeping upwards into the trench. Congress was finally starting to debate letting civilian contractors onto military facilities to do heavy construction work, but until then, the men and women of the Green Machine would still be responsible for keeping these places running.

The whole task was simple enough TAC wanted a pipeline run from the main fuel storage tanks over to the dispersal runway on the other side of the base. Simply needed to dig a trench about eight feet wide, fifteen feet deep, and three miles long. Pretty direct, really, unless the politicians and enviros delayed it until mid winter, thought the Sergeant operating one of the big Lorain shovels that were slowly gnawing their way through the sodden Virginia turf. The good news for him was that it was reasonably dry and warm inside the shovels olive-drab control cab, and all he had to do was listen to what his spotter was telling him.

The massive dig arm extended outwards with a moan of hydraulics and stressed steel, then slammed down into the ground, the thud muffled by grass and mud. The soil tore easily, but then crumbled and disintegrated, and the spotter called, “Okay, more spillage, like thats a surprise. Clear it out to the floor and we'll call it a day.”

Now that was good news, the Sergeant thought as his hands danced over the levers that pulled the bucket up out of the trench, and he shot a quick look at his watch: 1645. Not bad at all. Secure the gear, and he'd be back at Fortress Monroe in time for dinner, assuming the traffic on Military Highway wasn't too miserable.

The bucket swung slowly and smoothly back down into the trench.

No, wait, I've got to stop at the BX first...

The dig arm quivered slightly as it sliced through the spoil at the bottom of the trench.

That'll slow me down another twenty minutes...

CLUNK.

The noise and the vibration from it got the Sergeant's attention very quickly. It was a practiced, almost reflexive motion for him to immediately haul back on the handle, and the bucket was up over the top of the trench almost before the spotters shouted cry echoed out of his eardrums. Shutting the rig down, the Sergeant jumped out of the cabin and into the rain. Others, from the dig boss on down, were already headed over to see what happened.

Please, the Sergeant thought, let it just be a piece of scrap, something harmless, please. With water and mud running down over it, it was hard to make out at first, but it looked like an old section of pipeline.

Trouble is, there wasn't supposed to be any old pipeline here. The dig boss - a new butterbar not long out of the Point and a decent enough sort, was already there with his Databank, running the coordinates. He watched as the display came up and shook his head. “There's nothing down there, guys. This whole area is supposed to be clear as a bell.”

The Dig Super, a massive Senior Master Sergeant who had dug fortifications from Vietnam to Cuba and Iceland, spoke respectfully but cautiously. “Beggin' the Lieutenants pardon, but its been my experience that a lot of these older air bases have what can charitably be described as poor engineering records. The wing-wipers were real good at forgetting to report engineering changes in the old days because they got the money through less than official channels. We really ought to do a full sweep to make sure there's nothing else hiding down there.”

The Lieutenant grimaced at that thought, but realized that the DS was right that was what the book called for, and thats what they were going to have to do. Nodding, the Lieutenant said, “Okay then”. He looked up at the clouds in disgust. “Secure whatever that thing is down there and we'll pick it up in the morning.” The Dig Super saluted smartly. “Yes, sir.” Turning to the shovel crew, he gave a sharp whistle and pointed down. No explanation was needed, they'd gone through this drill more times than they'd cared to think about.

The shovel operator and his spotter muttered to themselves as they trooped down to the mud encrusted ladder that went down into the trench about thirty feet from whatever it was they'd hit. Okay, the shovel operator thought as his boots sank into the muck, I'll still get home at a decent hour.

The spotter got there first and looked at the bit of metal they could see. Maybe about a foot and a half across, corroded as hell - the bucket had put a good dent in it, a silver scar that went a good half-inch into its flank. Now that had the spotter wondering if it was just scrap, it should have been a lot thinner. The shovel operator came up beside him and started scraping away the mud that was slowly giving up its grip on the object.

“Careful, now,” the spotter said.

“Careful, shmareful,” the shovel operator said, scooping out huge handfuls of mud and water. The damn thing didn't have the decency to show up at the beginning of the shift - There was an odd slurping noise as the object suddenly shifted, and for one awful heartbeat, the two engineers thought it was going to come down on them like a falling tree trunk. But it instead just seemed to pivot on about half its length, revealing a solid cap on one end, now sticking about two feet out of the mud.

The spotter breathed a sigh of relief. It had to be an old section of pipe that somebody had left here, probably from some ancient construction project. The shovel operator wiped his gloved hand over the end cap, peered closely at it

And the spotter watched him freeze

“What?”

The shovel operator brushed more water and mud away, very gingerly.

The spotter looked at him impatiently. “What is it, dammit?”

The shovel operator carefully pushed him back with one arm, never taking his eyes off the end of the object. “Corporal, I want you to move, very carefully but very quickly, back up that ladder, and start screaming UXO, UXO. Got it?”

The spotter couldn't quite connect with what was going on here. “Sarge, what do you mean, UXO? This wasn't a range..” And then he saw what the shovel operator had seen, half inch stamped letters on the end of the object that suddenly seemed to be six feet high and written in flame:

SHELL M1 AP/HE
M1910 14 INCH
DALGHREN NAVAL ARSENAL
LOT 1803-21

As the sergeant heard the rattle of the ladder behind him and the corporals voice hollering, “UXO, UXO!” at the top of his lungs, all he could really think of besides the fact that he was apparently standing about a foot away from a goddamned artillery round was how ticked off his wife would be that he'd be later for dinner again.

22 FEBRUARY 2000
NORFOLK NAVAL BASE VA
QUARTERS ONE, 1900 HOURS

It was still raining and thoroughly dark now as the Studebaker staff car pulled up in front of the huge Georgian mansion that overlooked Hampton Roads from the best vantage point on the base. It always struck Commander Mike Kozlowski, USN, how dark the place always was at least the last few years, since the Admiral's wife passed away. He could remember from his days as a JO how the doors to that old monstrosity were always open to well, really anybody who wanted to stop in and ask advice or just talk history.

History, Kozlowski thought. Now there was a funny word. The man who still lived there - had since 1960 - was just about seventy years of history all on his own. There was a bit of history in the small box that rested on the passenger seat beside him, too, one that required a bit of explanation. Hopefully he'd get it inside. Master Chief Cochrane, the Admiral's aide, had thought it was a good idea to come by but wasn't entirely sure how the Admiral would take it. Couldn't hurt to try, though.

Tucking the box under his arm, Kozlowski got out of the Studie and trotted up the walk to the imposing portico that sat a good hundred feet back from the road. The sign, freshly painted and polished, was still there - five silver stars in a circle around a fouled anchor on a blue background, and beside it the words:

FADM B.J. SHANNON
USN

“Be careful what you wish for,” one of his old skippers had told him once, and he had been talking about being a five-star. There had once been twenty five-stars. Brian Shannon was the last survivor, a public charge and officially on active duty for life. Shannon had been in the Navy for eighty of his ninety-seven years. That was almost mind-boggling for Kozlowski to consider the man had been in the USN almost twice as long as he'd been alive.

Pushing the doorbell, Kozlowski heard the muted sound of Westminster chimes inside, then a second or two later, the sound of footsteps on polished marble floors. The door swung open, and Master Chief Rick Cochrane opened the door, a smile from ear to ear.

“Evening, sir, glad you could make it! Come on in out of this lousy weather.”

“Thanks, Chief.” Cochrane took the package from him and was surprised when its weight belied its small size. “This it?”

Sure enough, Kozlowski smiled. “Don't drop it it may go through the floor.”

“I'll keep it in mind. This way, sir.” Cochrane led the way from the foyer into a good sized, comfortable study with a warm, crackling fireplace.

“Please have a seat, sir,” Cochrane said. “Would the Commander care for a drink?”

Kozlowski was tempted, but decided to wave it off. “Some coffee will be fine, Chief. I have to drive back into Yorktown tonight and a drink probably wouldn't be a good idea.”

Cochrane smiled. “Consider it done, sir. By the way, how's your family?”

Cochrane poured the coffee into a thick, handle-less ceramic mug, and handed it to Kozlowski. Kozlowski took it gratefully. There were few places one could get real navy coffee away from a ship, but this was one of them. “Thanks, Chief. Family's fine. Kathy's up in Ohio visiting my folks right now, and Mike's in college up in Cleveland. Engineering major, of all things. This from a kid who couldn't figure out which end of the pencil you put on the paper.” Kozlowski took another sip and let the warmth flow down his throat. “Speaking of families,” he said, tilting his head upstairs.

Cochrane nodded. “Here all the time, Commander. Just doesn't do for him what it used to.”

Admiral Shannon his son the CINCLANT has tried his best, but Cochrane let the thought go unfinished, but Kozlowski understood. A living legend of the US Navy was slowly fading out in this house. Well, maybe we can turn that around, he thought, even if just for one night.

Cochrane turned and headed out of the study, leaving Kozlowski alone for a moment. Something wasn't quite right, and it took a few seconds for Kozlowski to place it, but then it hit him almost no souvenirs. No I-Love-Me wall or trophies along the mantelpiece, no pictures of Shannon with the high and the mighty.

There were some incredible paintings of Shannon's ships - the old Texas, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and the Oregon and one particularly nice pic of him and his wife at the commissioning thirty-five years ago of the new Texas, the one where Commander M.J. Kozlowski, USN, was now Executive Officer and Chief Babysitter. But otherwise, nada.

Kozlowski studied the picture carefully. Lord only knew how Shannon was ever able to walk under ten rows of ribbons one of which was The Medal. With an OLC, yet. The award that always got everybody's attention, though, was his Master Line Officers Badge. It wasn't really clear in the picture, but Kozlowski knew what it looked like as he took another sip of coffee. A small gold replica of Shannon's Texas cutting through a small gold sea, with a star and wreath above it, signifying battleship command and flag command respectively.

But Kozlowski also knew that at the bottom of the badge was a bar with four gold stars. Every officer who served in battleships had the badge, but you only got the Bar if you had commanded at sea. And you only got the stars for being in command and sinking other battleships. Everybody in the US Navy knew the score those stars signified Bismarck, Kirishima, Yamato, Sovietsky Soyuz. A couple of other men had gotten two stars, but those days were long past. Most battleship commanders considered themselves blessed beyond words to have gotten just one, and there were damned few of them. Brian Shannon had four.

“Don't let the picture fool you, Commander, came the voice from behind him. I don't think I ever looked that professional or happy.” Kozlowski turned to see a tall, slim, gray haired man standing in the doorway, wrapped in a thick cable knit sweater and his hands jammed in his pockets. He didn't look bad at all for ninety-seven, Kozlowski thought as he walked over and extended his hand. Brian Shannon took it, but it seemed to Kozlowski it was almost warily.

“I never trust pictures myself, sir,” Kozlowski smiled, but didnt get much of a response back from Shannon, who merely nodded and asked, “You're Commander Kozlowski?”

“Yes, sir. I'm very grateful that you were kind enough to see me...”

Shannon brushed past him and walked steadily but carefully over to a huge wingback chair by the fire. “Don't be”, Shannon said a bit abruptly. “You won't be staying long.”

Kozlowski was a bit taken aback by that, but said nothing. “Well, in any event, Admiral, I've brought something I thought you might get a kick out of seeing.”

Kozlowski sat down in a chair opposite Shannon, and handed him the box that he'd brought in with him. Shannon was a bit surprised by its weight, but said nothing as he opened the box. Shannon looked into it for a second, then reached in and pulled out a conical piece if metal, just small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Shannon looked at it skeptically. “I generally get my spare change collecting soda cans, Commander. They're lighter.”

Kozlowski kept smiling politely, but he reflected that everybody had been right the Old Man was a bit of a handful. “Sir, thats the armor piercing cap from one of the fourteen inch rounds that you fired into Langley Field on September nineteenth, 1941.”

Shannon looked at the cap for a moment, then at Kozlowski, handing him the cap as he did so. “You need to do your homework, Commander. Two rounds hit the field. They both exploded. End of discussion. Now if you'll excuse me.”

Kozlowski loved moments like this, even when they were being laid down on an old man. “Begging the Admirals pardon, but this was dug up at Langley seven days ago. It had an unexploded fourteen-inch round attached to it, with no fuze in it. The shell was dug up and demilitarized; it's going into the officers wardroom on Texas. The markings on it proved, without question, that it was loaded aboard the Texas -- your -- Texas on September seventeenth. And a review of the actual reports, plus the explosives inventory done when Texas went into drydock indicates a discrepancy of exactly one round. In other words, Admiral -- we have a bit of a mystery.”

Shannon's face went positively dark. “Now you listen to me, lad. It may be sixty-two years downrange, but I know what we fired that night. Bad enough the second shot we got off hit one of our own bases, but there is no question that two rounds landed and exploded at the western end of the Langley runway.”

“Fair enough, sir. How do you explain that one they dug up?”

Shannon opened his mouth to say something, paused, then stopped and stood. “Commander, I have lived with my career for three quarters of a century. I have seen every action I ever took dissected, analyzed, and critiqued over and over again. Frankly, I'm not all that keen on doing it myself. I was there, I know what happened, and I'll not argue it with anyone.” The tone more than indicated that Shannon considered the interview over.

Okay, Kozlowski thought. One last try. “Understood, Admiral,” Kozlowski said as he stood himself. “The shell cap is yours, the disposal troops thought you might like a memento.”

“Now if only it were mine.”

Kozlowski nodded and started to turn. “Now mind you, Admiral, if my ship fired a round and I couldn't account for where it landed, I'd be a little concerned myself.”

Kozlowski winced and waited for the explosion. There wasn't one, just a very terse, “Commander?”

Mike Kozlowski's smile was charity itself. “Sir?”

Shannon pointed towards the chair Kozlowski had just left. “Sit your backside down, Commander. We're going to account for your magic round. Nobody, but nobody.....” Shannon stepped over to one of the bookshelves that lined the study and started pulling out volumes. Kozlowski ran over to help, and soon found himself at the bottom of a rapidly growing pile of books, reports, and maps. “Tells me I don't know what my own damn ship did in combat...” Shannon muttered, and Kozlowski turned to see Chief Cochrane grinning like a Cheshire cat in the study door. Within a second, Kozlowski couldn't see anything but bookbindings, and could smell nothing but the wonderful scent of old paper. There were worse things, he thought with a smile.

“Over here, Commander!” Kozlowski more or less followed Shannon's voice to a map table that sat in one corner of the study, and then placed the books as neatly as possible. Shannon was pulling two chairs over and motioned for Kozlowski to sit down. As Shannon sat, he turned and called, “Chief!”

Cochrane poked his head in the door. “Sir?”

“Coffee, and lots of it. Our guest is going to be here for a while.” At that moment, Mike Kozlowski realized that he may have bitten off more than he could chew but on the other hand, Fleet Admiral Brian James Shannon, United States Navy, seemed to be having the time of his life as he spread the maps and books. Looking at Kozlowski, he asked directly, “What do you know about the Battle of Hampton Roads?”

Kozlowski paused for a second, then said, “Well, late on the evening of September 19th, 1941, a German raider disguised as a tanker got into the roads and attacked the base. The Texas was the only ship able to get up steam and take them on, which they did and in turn sank the raider.”

Shannon nodded. “Not bad. Also completely wrong. Theres not a history book in print that tells the rest of the story, and that damn History Channel gets more of it wrong every time they tell it. So Cochrane, wheres that coffee?”

Cochrane almost ran in with a huge silver pitcher of coffee and three handle-less cups, one a yellowed, cracked and chipped one that still had the faded letters, USS TEXAS CO on it. Cochrane filled all three and pulled up a chair himself. Shannon took a deep drink, then smiled the smile of a man who was back in command for a few minutes, at least.

“Anyways, so tonight, you're going to hear the stuff they don't tell about. And you're also going to see that I fired two rounds into an Air Force base, and they both went off. Now shut up and listen.”

Mike Kozlowski grinned, and he couldn't resist. “Admiral, you're sure this isn't going to start with the words, Now, 'this is no shit?'” Cochran almost sprayed his coffee out of his nose trying to keep from laughing at that one, and all Shannon did was smile. “Lad, once were done tonight, I intend to call Marina O'Leary and tell her what a smart-ass she has for an XO. You'll be lucky if she lets you polish the captains gig from now on. Now, like I said shut up and listen...”

And then, in that room, with the fire burning and the rain safely outside, the twenty-first century went away for a while....

[MKSheppard]

VULKAN’S FORGE

1 AUG 1941
VULKAN WERKE
HAMBURG, GERMANY
2330 HRS LOCAL

It had been called the Vulkan Works since the day its first brick was laid in the 1870s, it’s symbol the old Roman god for iron working, and he was everywhere. But the old timers – and there were a lot of them – just called it the Forge.

The Forge had built some of Germany’s finest merchant ships in its seventy year, and during the Great War, it had done its part as well – Vulkan-built destroyers and torpedo boats for the Kaiser, may God bless his soul. But afterwards the Forge went back to civilian ships, and say what you would about the rest of Germany, the Forge wasn’t about to let its standards slip.

That, in the final analysis, was probably why the men from the Kriegsmarine had picked Hull 800. They knew she was built tough, solid, and strong as any warship. If the Navy needed a ship, the old riveters and ship fitters agreed, they’d picked the right one. Of course, none of them were so curious as to ask why the Navy had wanted an unfinished tanker in the first place. They were happy with their jobs, and even in the Third Reich their lives hadn’t been too bad, but they understood there were some questions one simply did not ask, especially when 800 was pulled away from the slip where she’d sat since her construction was suspended in ’40, and taken to the old breaking pier a few hundred yards downriver. And after the SS suddenly showed up to guard her, they stopped even thinking about her. When the SS draped tarps over her topsides, they made up their minds to forget about her.

If the work being done on her was that important, better to leave it alone. Mind you, apparently some people knew – there were crews working one her round the clock, even when the Tommies came over, though heaven knew that wasn’t all that dangerous. Terror raids now, that’s all they were, a few planes at a time and that was it. So when the convoy of black Mercedes staff cars rumbled past that evening headed for 800, the Forge’s crews noticed – quickly – and ignored it. Some looked long enough to see the big blue BMW saloon with the Forge flag on it go by as well, along with some cars carrying KM flags, and one big Mercedes with an SS flag. Pay no mind, and get back to work.

The SS guards were in their tarnjacke – camouflaged smocks that didn’t do much in a shipyard, but they didn’t look any the less menacing for it as they trotted up to each car, checked everyone’s papers, saluted, and waved them through onto the dock. The dock was about two hundred yards long, and its only occupant was the shrouded form of Hull 800, tied up at the very end. A few work lights could be seen around her, but for the most part she was blacked out. A single gangplank, also shrouded, led upwards onto her deck. The guards at the gangplank came to attention as the cars emptied, the rest just continued keeping a wary eye on things.

It was warm under the tarps as the Works manager paused on deck, making sure he had everyone here. A ship under construction was a remarkably dangerous place, and at night it was doubly so.

“Gentlemen,” he called, “please follow me, and stay close together. There is still a great deal of work being done, and it is quite easy to hurt yourself.” He led them forward to the midships superstructure, then in through a hatch.

It was always worth it, the manager thought, to see the looks on their faces when they found themselves face to face with an Ar196 floatplane. They all did the same thing – the sudden double take and backwards step, followed by an ear-to-ear grin. All, this time, except for the SS colonel with his hat pulled down low and collar turned up. He didn’t flinch.

Taking a quick count to make sure everyone was here, the manger launched into the little speech he’d prepared. “Gentlemen, welcome aboard the Führer’s newest warship – the Poseidon! I think you will find...”

“I think you will find that I will be a great deal happier if you shut up and show us the ship.” It was the colonel again, and his voice indicated that he really wasn’t in a mood to do anything but get on with business. Mildly flustered, the manager bowed, snapped his heels together, and replied, “Jawohl, Herr Colonel. If you will all please follow me into the Attack Center.”

The manager led them deeper into the ship, into a tight space that looked to the Kriegsmarine officers like the flag plot on a battleship, but…different. Red battle lights were already on, but it was clear that even under normal lighting it wouldn’t be all that bright in here. A map table was in its center, and a huge, transparent piece of…well; something was mounted on the forward bulkhead, lit from the bottom in a way that gave it an eerie glow. It was engraved with a series of concentric circles that were bisected by straight lines, all of which seemed to almost hang in space. On the bulkhead beside that, was an overhead plan view of the Poseidon, a good eight feet long. It was engraved on the same clear material used on the other display, but this one had several pairs of jewel-like red and green lights at intervals across the layout. The rest of the compartment was filled with status boards, map tables, radios and other electronics, and a few empty spaces where other items hadn’t been installed yet.

The manger cleared his throat, deciding that he had best give a direct briefing this time. “Gentlemen, this is the Attack Center – we believe it is the most advanced naval combat control center in the world. All incoming information is funneled here and then displayed on the status boards and display maps...” he gestured around the Center at the glowing display forward – “so that the Captain and other officers are no longer chained to a map table, or exposed topside. This compartment, by the way, is lined with ninety millimeters of armor on all sides. You see some spaces where equipment has not yet been installed – the radar will eventually go in one of those, with a large cathode ray tube display that will be visible from anywhere in the room. The remaining spaces will be for the remainder of the signals monitoring and jamming equipment.”

“How many men will be down here?” asked one of the Kriegsmarine officers.

The manager thought for a moment. “I believe that at general quarters, there will be twenty six crewmen in this compartment, not counting the Captain. I would point out that should the Captain desire...” the manger held up a phone handset – “he can have all relevant information passed to wherever he is on the ship.”

The KM officers were talking and smiling to themselves, agreeing that this would be a wonderful thing to have at sea, but the SS colonel simply looked around, saying nothing until he got to the Poseidon’s layout. “Show me the weapons,” he said quietly.

The manager nodded, flicking a series of switches on a console below the display. “Actually, Herr Colonel, this is not just a weapons display but an all-inclusive ship’s systems display. Please observe.”

Pointing to the forward part of the layout, the manger began his spiel, sounding for the entire world like a car salesman.

“Four torpedo tubes below the waterline, just at frame eighteen, with two loads per tube. “

One of the KM officers peered at the display. “What kind of fish?”

“The new G7Es. Although these are pre-production models, the ordnance scientists advise us that they are completely reliable. Since they are electric, they leave little or no wake to track. The red line that runs down the forecastle deck back to the superstructure – that is the ship’s catapult, disguised as a pipeline. The engineers at Arados designed a special cradle for the aircraft – it’s been tested several times and no problems have arisen.”

Pointing to the superstructure, the manager pressed a button, and the outline of two turrets, one on each side of the ship, appeared. “Two fifteen centimeter turrets, each one with a one hundred and forty degree firing arc. They are, of course, hidden by retractable hatches.”

“How many rounds?” asked another KM officer.

“Two hundred for each turret.” Proceeding with his explanation, the manager continued. “Midships, just aft of the turrets, are two more torpedo tubes on each side of the hull, each with two loads. In the engine rooms, there are twelve Wagner high-pressure boilers powering Deschimag turbines, turning three screws – the same arrangement as in the Scharnhorst class battlecruisers. There are also a dozen small arms mounts hidden on each side of the ship. When the crew goes to general quarters, all they need do is put them in place. In addition, there is an armory aboard that carries every weapon available to the German fighting man short of wheeled vehicles.”

“Billeting?” asked the Colonel.

The manager pointed to areas forward and aft of the midships superstructure. “They are not specifically shown on this display, but they are here and here. Poseidon requires a crew of approximately two hundred officers and crew. She can also carry up to two hundred fully equipped combat troops. We have made provisions for special hatches and collapsible boats for deploying them.” The manger paused, hoping for at least some word of approval from the colonel, but he didn’t get it. Instead, the colonel just stepped forward to examine the display, then stood silently for a moment. Still fixed on the display, he asked, “When will she be ready?”

The manager paused and thought for a moment. “The final equipment installations are scheduled over the next several days. I expect to have her ready for dockside trials on the seventh, and assuming all goes well, I will turn her over to the KM on the fifteenth.”

The colonel digested this for a moment, then quietly asked, “The fifteenth?”

There was something about the way he asked that sent a shiver through the manager. “Yes, Herr Colonel – assuming no problems.”

“There will be no problems.” It wasn’t a question, but a command, and the manager knew it.

“Jawohl, Herr Colonel.” It was only then that the colonel turned to face him, and his blood ran cold. In the red lighting, all he could see was the lower half of the man’s face under the brim of his hat, but that was enough – more than enough, in fact, for a scar ran like a sinuous ridgeline down from his nose, across his lips, and down under his chin. The part that crossed his lips had turned that side of his mouth upwards in a twisted, frozen grin, like something out of a horror movie.

“Good,” the colonel said. “I hate to be disappointed.” Gesturing to the others in the compartment, the colonel said, Get yourself and the others – except for Captain Holst – out of here.”

The manager nodded. “Gladly, Herr Colonel,” and he herded the others out. The only one who remained was a tall, almost gaunt man in the uniform of a KM Captain, who simply looked at the colonel. “Did you have to be so rough on him?” Richard Holst asked quietly.

“The man is an idiot,” the colonel replied. “This isn’t a trade show, this is war.”

“And I will remind you that it will be my ship, Colonel. You will be but a passenger – an important one, but a passenger nevertheless.”

“Frankly, I don’t care if you carry me as a steward. Get me and my men to our target on time.”

“I can’t promise what the trials will show –“

“Make sure everything works. How long can that take?”

Holst considered that. “Two days.” Before the colonel could say anything, Holst cut him off. “Don’t bother arguing. It should be at least three, with proper gunnery tests as well. Any less and you stand a good chance of being towed into New York by whatever ship finds us adrift.”

“Two days, Captain. It may be your ship –“ the colonel looked directly at him, and Holst saw the death’s head grin glow in the red lights – “but it’s my mission. I’m going to go back to Lichterfelde and get my men ready; I’ll see you back here on the night of the fifteenth.” Without waiting for a reply, the colonel strode out of the Attack Center, his boot heels echoing through the passageways.

[MKSheppard]

THE RAMPART

13 SEP 1941
ABOARD USS TEXAS (BB-35)
NORFOLK NAVY YARD, VA
1330 LOCAL

“Hell of a way to start a war, T. Hell of a way to start a war.”

If I live to be a hundred, Brian Shannon thought, those words will haunt me every minute of it. He’d said them to T. Tiornu after the burial ceremony for Bismarck’s crew that morning last May, and for the first few days, he had the comfort of being able to think he may have been wrong.

Of course, he thought as he strode forward along the main deck, I was in pretty good company. Until Hitler actually declared war on May 31st, the polls said that everybody was behind the President – he’d done what he’d had to do, and that was that. Even when the word came through that the war was on, for the first couple days it was quiet enough that everybody hoped they’d have time to get to battle stations and be ready for what was coming. As it turned out, time was exactly what they didn’t get. Admiral Stark had told Ernie King to go by the book, the same book they’d practiced for twenty years. King had gone off with an explosion that was impressive even for him, but in the end, he’d done what he was told.

Trouble was, the Germans were playing by a different book.

Hitler had ordered the U-Waffe thrown at the Atlantic coast with a ferocity that no one had expected, and the result had been – quite simply – the worst defeat of the United States Navy since the War of 1812. There hadn’t been enough destroyers or patrol planes or anything else for that matter, and no one had even remotely expected the sheer number of attacks that had come down that first awful week. More than thirty destroyers had been sunk or damaged, a dozen cruisers likewise, and the only thing that had saved the battleships and carriers was the order to return to port – any port - on June 10th. At that point, Ernie King had been sent in to try and fix the mess while Betty Stark was kicked upstairs to a nice safe desk where he couldn’t hurt anyone.

Shannon hadn’t been there when they told King he was now CINCUS, but he was told that King had smiled around his cigarette holder and said, “When they get in trouble, they always call for the sons-of-bitches.” Well, Ernie King would have known one when he saw one, and they needed one: for all intents and purposes, the US Navy had been driven from the Atlantic Ocean. Two entire convoys, both eastbound, had been wiped out, and the Atlantic Fleet was penned into its harbors. It had taken another three weeks of vicious fighting – and the transfer of just about every destroyer from the Pacific Fleet – to turn things around. As far as they knew, the U-boats had taken horrific losses, but so had they – and worse, so had the convoys. England was now on starvation rations while the Luftwaffe was pummeling it day and night. On at least two occasions the RAF was admitting to, they had lost local air superiority – briefly, but it was still bad enough. The RAF was now coming perilously close to the point where defeat was a monstrous possibility. Shannon had heard from one British skipper that Churchill had begged the King and Queen to leave for Canada with the Princesses, but they’d refused – or more properly, told the Prime Minister they’d leave when he did. And from what Shannon knew about Churchill, he’d never leave.

America, he knew, could survive alone for years if she had to. But if that came to pass, Shannon thought as he trotted up the ladder to the navigation bridge and his sea cabin, she might not want to. Eventually, someone somewhere would tire of the constant vigilance, the constant sacrifice, the constant watch, the constant fear, and they’d start suggesting a compromise…or an understanding…and they’d convince someone else, and so on and so on. And the end would come, in handshakes and smiles, just as surely as if it had come in fury and flame.

“Captain on the bridge!” the orderly called as he came through the door, and Shannon nodded as everyone came to attention. Mind you, whatever it was his XO was at wasn’t exactly attention, but Shannon supposed it passed.

T Tiornu was in New York with the North Carolina, getting her finally into shape. Her inability to join the hunt for the Bismarck had been a very sore subject for the Navy, and as Shannon and Tiornu were the Fair Haired Boys of the Day; T got the nod – and the eagles that went with it. His replacement was Commander Beauregard Toussaint Courbet, United States Navy – Beau to his friends and almost incomprehensible to anyone else. Proudly – no, Shannon thought, make that almost rabidly Cajun, Courbet spoke in a bayou accent that a bayonet couldn’t cut, and what you could make out was a mix of French, Creole, English, and anything else he’d picked up.

Courbet turned to Shannon and gave a lazy salute. “Afternoon, mon Capitaine,” the XO smiled. “Lunch done settled wit’choo?”

Shannon blinked for a moment. “If you’re asking if I enjoyed chow, the answer is yes. Anything come up?”

Courbet picked up his clipboard off a bulkhead and scanned it quickly. “One truckload de po tato, shipped down to de locker. Chief Gatling, he gon’ get them secure. Runner gone get de mail, I have taken the liberty of placing mon Capitaine’s in his cabin. Also, Guns stop by and ask if you can see him and one a his boys for a few minutes when you get back.”

Shannon thought for a second. “Don’t see why not, nothing much this afternoon – what’s up?”

As Courbet hung his clipboard back up, he said, “Guns got de new boy, de Ensign Holloway – I get de impression dat Mister Holloway been havin’ a few problems.”

“As have we all. That serious?”

Courbet shrugged. “Pas vraiment, mon Capitaine. Myself, I think it sounds like de boy just need to see what the woodshed look like, not necessarily go into it.”

Shannon smiled. “Got it – I think. Call him up here.”

“Oui, mon Capitaine.” Shannon stepped into his sea cabin and closed the door with a smile. Courbet was…well whatever he was, he was an original. Shannon had to step carefully in the crowded sea cabin – he normally lived and worked here, as opposed to the big ‘in-port’ cabin a couple decks down. The only time he every really saw it was when they had a VIP aboard, or throwing some kind of social event – and neither one of those was happening a lot lately. Texas was finishing up a quick and dirty refit after things settled down, and then it would be back out to sea – for what, nobody was quite sure yet.

Shannon sat down at his desk and scanned through his mail for a moment, grinning as he heard the bridge orderly call the gunnery officer to the bridge – even Beau Courbet knew better than to try and work that accent out on a 1MC. Let’s see…statement from the Bank of Virginia, though for the little bit he had in there, they could have saved themselves the postage.

A postcard – a Revolutionary War sailor, standing atop a fortress’ walls, looking at a sailing ship, with the caption, ‘The Rampart’ Shannon turned it over and grinned again – it was from his mother, down in Houston.

“Dear Brian –
Saw this and thought of you – will write more later, please stay safe – Love, Mother.”
“P.S: Mrs. Hawtell and Ginger say hello.”

If mothers anywhere ever stopped trying to fix up their sons, Shannon thought with a quiet grin, he hadn’t heard about it. Ginger Hawtell – who had at least two married names he could think of – had grown up with Shannon in Houston, and was still one of the queens of the social scene there. That sort of thing had never really interested Shannon though, one reason he’d joined the Navy and stayed in back in the early 30s instead of getting out for a fairly comfy job skippering tankers for Texaco like his father had done. Seamus Shannon had risen from deckhand to Senior Master of the Texaco fleet, and done quite well in the process, but his son followed a slightly different path – and although old Seamus regularly let him know that he could have done better, he was still intensely proud of his boy. Shannon went to tuck the postcard into his desk, but then hesitated, and instead carefully tucked it into the silver frame that held the picture of his parents, taken on their fiftieth wedding anniversary last year.

The rampart, he thought. Mrs. Shannon's little boy, a thirty year old battleship, and a bunch of green kids. Not much between his parents and a very unpleasant world, he thought. But he’d do his best.
Another letter, this time from BuPers…letting him know that he was, indeed, Brian James Shannon, CAPT(06), USN, and that he would continue to be paid. Well, that was reassuring. Last letter, and Shannon paused at the unfamiliar typeface and stamp. It was one of those black-and-white British stamps with the King on it, and in the opposite corner, in very crisp letters, were the words:

U. E., LTD
LONDON, SW.6

Shannon blinked for a second, then read the address again. It was for him all right, but he was damned if he could think of anybody he knew in London, at least at that address. Shannon opened the letter, and out came a piece of carefully folded stationery, with the U.E. thing again at the top:

“30th August 1941

“My Dear Brian –

Just a quick note to let you know that I shall be in your vicinity in the very near future and hope to stop in and say hello. Much to discuss.

“Best regards,

…Followed by a scrawled signature that he didn’t quite recognize. Shannon searched his memory for some kind of clue...And then it hit him. Venezuela, 1935...oh NO. No, not now, he thought, the last thing I need right now, is that lunatic running around loose on my ship, the Navy Yard, or even on the same continent as I am. Looking at his desk calendar, Shannon could see it was at least three weeks since this had been mailed, so he might be – Shannon shook his head despairingly at this – out there right now.

It was just then there was a sharp knock on the door. “Come,’ Shannon called suspiciously. He breathed an internal sigh of relief as Beau Courbet stuck his head in and said, “Mon Capitaine, Guns and his boy are here to see you.”

Okay, Shannon thought. This I can deal with. “Send ‘em in, XO,” Shannon said, and quickly dropped the letter from London into a side drawer as his officers entered.

[MKSheppard]

INCOMING

ABOARD KM POSEIDON
13 SEP 41
2130 LOCAL
50N 30W

All things considered, thought Kapitan Richard Holst, Kriegsmarine, things had been going fairly smoothly so far. The Vulkan Werke had been as good as their word – slightly better, in fact – and delivered Poseidon on August 14th. The trials had been fast and exhausting – he’d stayed up almost every hour of them, trying to squeeze in as much as they could, but in the end Poseidon had passed with flying colors. They’d taken advantage of every minute after that to run dockside trials and double check everything one more time while they waited for the raiding force to arrive, and they had duly shown up on time. In the middle of the night, no less, and done with the utmost in theatricality. Holst had to smile at the thought.

The SS had a reputation as blowhards, but this had been unusually impressive – lots of saluting, yelling and giving of commands. Everything except the torchlight procession, Holst thought, and if they’d have had more time that might have shown up too. They’d left Hamburg with the city under attack by a handful of RAF bombers – not enough to do any serious damage except from a truly lucky hit, and Holst knew that as long as he was underway, that was the only thing they had to fear. It was still chilling, however, to sail out of the harbor in a darkened ship, the searchlights sweeping the sky and occasionally disappearing in a sudden blossom of light somewhere on the ground.

The trip outbound had been straightforward, with a few quick exercises to keep things going, and Holst putting the SS troops to work disguising the ship. She looked quite impressive, with an altered stack and forward superstructure made of wood and canvas and some spare paint. As far as the rest of the world knew, she was the MV Tre Kronor, a tanker out of Stockholm headed for points west. Holst had been a bit concerned about the cover story, but the Abwehr officers had assured him that if anyone in Sweden dug into the files, they’d find a fully developed legend, thanks to an agent in the Swedish Ministry of Shipping who’d been ‘persuaded’ to lend his assistance. That was one aspect Holst didn’t want to dwell on too long, because he knew that ‘persuasion’ tended to be neither kind nor beneficial.

Holst sipped a mug of hot coffee and looked around the Attack Center. The room was stuffed full of men and equipment, all of which was working remarkably well together. Something like this, he thought, would have been priceless at Jutland, where the mere smoke from the guns had ruined any hope of coordination and communication. Telefunken and Siemens had done most of the work in here, and their representatives hadn’t had much time to explain how things worked, but work they did. The entire rig, it seemed, had been shipped whole from Blohm und Voss, where they were going to be installed in the first of the H class battleships. The radar was impressive enough, capable of tracking both surface and air contacts. But it was the signals and target-monitoring rig that had truly amazed Holst with its abilities.

Holst paused for a second as he heard a distant thump-thump and shouts, and relaxed as he realized it was the sounds of the SS doing their daily runs around the deck. They’d started running in their combat gear now, and that was a sight to put the fear of God into you. The SS technical boffins had only a few months to come up with something that would give them an edge in combat, and they’d done it. Thin sheets of ceramic armor in a special jacket gave them an almost armored look, and a matte black helmet that entirely covered their faces and heads except for a polarized glass insert that gave surprisingly good vision in just about any light. The old coalscuttle helmet topped all this off with the SS flash on the sides. Holst had to admit that their appearance alone would rattle an enemy, especially one that thought themselves safe in their own backyard.

Out of the corner of his eye, Holst saw a young rating stride up to him and snap to attention. “Guten Morgen, Herr Kapitan,” the rating said politely as he handed him a clipboard.

“Danke.” Holst quickly scanned the message flimsy, noting the thicker message beneath it. Incoming from Kriegsmarine…direct from Dönitz. Holst had been expecting this one for a couple of days, but it was still something of a jolt to actually see it. The captain pulled his glasses out of his shirt pocket and read the message:

FROM: KRIEGSMARINE/GROSSADMIRAL DÖNITZ

TO: COMMANDING OFFICER KM POSEIDON
COMMANDING OFFICER FORCE VULKAN

1. EXECUTE CASE VULKAN.

Well. There it is, then.

2. DETAILS AND UPDATE ATTACHED. FÜHRER GRANTS YOU FULL FREEDOM OF ACTION TO CARRY OUT OPERATIONS.

That was an unexpected surprise, but a pleasant one. At least that was more than
that poor bastard Lindemann had.

3. INTELLIGENCE SOURCES ARE KEEPING US FULLY POSTED RE ENEMY ORDER OF BATTLE. KRIEGSMARINE WILL CONTINUE TO SEND UPDATES AS THEY COME IN.

4. DO NOT REPEAT DO NOT ACKNOWLEDGE THIS OR ANY FURTHER COMMUNICATIONS FROM KRIEGSMARINE.

5. PERSONAL TO HOLST FROM DÖNITZ: REMIND THEM WHY THEY ARE AFRAID OF US. HALS UND BEINBRUCH. DÖNITZ.

Holst appreciated the sentiment. He and Dönitz went some way back, but Dönitz had stayed in the Navy after the Great War, while he’d gone on to the Merchant Marine. Otherwise, Holst thought with a smile, he might be sitting in a comfortable office on the Tirpitzallee. Oh well, he thought. Fortunes of war.

Flipping the message up to the larger attachment, Holst saw that it was already decoded and ready to brief. Good, good. When a crew got the little things right, you knew they’d handle the big ones just fine. Turning to the rating, Holst said quietly, “Please make four copies of this and the attachment, and then bring them to the Officers’ Wardroom.”

“Zu befehl, Herr Kaptain.” The rating did an about face that fairly whistled and took off. Holst picked up a phone beside his station and hit the all-hands button. “Now hear this, now hear this, this is the Captain. Ship’s staff , ground force commander and section leaders please report to the Officer’s Wardroom immediately.” Holst didn’t need to repeat it as he secured the handset and headed to the Officer’s Wardroom.

The staff and the SS were already there as Holst entered, and the entire room snapped to attention. Closing the door behind him, he motioned for everyone to take a seat.

“All right then,” Holst said quietly. “I have a message here from Kriegsmarine, which simply tells us to execute our mission.” The copies Holst had asked for were already on the table, and he passed them down the line. “We have all been practicing very hard for the last few weeks, and now we are going to put our talents to the test. Colonel?”

The SS commander was still in his combat uniform, his helmet on the table before him, and he looked up directly at Holst. It wasn’t the first time Holst had seen his face without it being masked or obscured, but that didn’t make it any easier. “Yes, Herr Kapitan?”

“I’m going to go ahead and do the briefing, since everyone here is concerned. Please feel free to add anything you see fit.”

“Certainly, Herr Kapitan.” A slight smile, or whatever it was that turned the scar upwards a bit.

Holst picked up the message attachment and started looking over the information. “Right, then. As of now, most of the capital units of the Atlantic Fleet are in port at Norfolk, New York, and Charleston. Their carriers – personally, my biggest worry – are all in the Pacific, except for Wasp, which is in refit at Newport News, and Ranger, which is in the Caribbean. Our intelligence tells us that their battleships are deployed as follows: North Carolina and Washington – their newest – are both in New York.”

“Arkansas, New Mexico, and Mississippi are operational at Norfolk, but have not been deployed for some weeks. In addition, the New York is tied up at Norfolk. Our sources tell us that the damage Bismarck inflicted on her may be so serious that she will not re-enter service. Their destroyer and cruiser force is still spread across the East Coast, and they appear to consider the U-boats the biggest threat right now. As far as ...”

“Wait.” The SS colonel had a thoughtful look on his face, as if he was trying to think of something.

“Yes?,” asked Holst.

Pause. “There is another battleship.”

Holst thought for a moment, then looked at the attachment. “By God, Colonel,” Holst replied with a slight smile, “You’re right. One other battleship is in Norfolk, getting what the Amis call a ‘bobtail refit.’”

The colonel’s face hardened. “What ship is it?”

Holst checked the paper once more. “Texas. The ship that helped the Tommies finish Bismarck. I assume you’ll be most glad to take a crack at her.”

The colonel’s eyes unfocused for a moment, then he looked up with a grin that was enough to turn anyone’s blood cold. Helmut, Ritter und Freiherr Von Kadaver, knew the effect that his appearance had on most people and enjoyed it, but this time there was more than just sheer cruelty behind the half-smile, half-snarl. Holst didn’t have to see that grimace for more than a few seconds to know there was something else there.

“If I didn’t know better, Colonel,” Holst said evenly, “I’d swear there was something personal about you and that ship.” Von Kadaver just continued to smile as he replied, “Her captain and I are old friends.”

That got a few raised eyebrows around the table, but everyone knew better than to say anything. Holst considered this for a moment, then cleared his throat. “In any event,” he said firmly, “let’s get on with the briefing. At our current speed, we’ll be at the target in just about four days, and we’re going to need every minute of it to get there on time.

Holst paused for a moment. “Our target, gentlemen, is the home base of the American Atlantic Fleet at Norfolk, Virginia. We are going to sail – literally – into the lion’s den. We will sail right past Cape Charles and into Chesapeake Bay and Hampton Roads, and teach them a lesson about pushing the Fatherland.”

Holst stood back up and went to a series of maps that stood on an easel in one corner of the wardroom, flipping them back until he came to one that showed lower Chesapeake Bay. “Maintaining our identity as a neutral, we will sail directly into Hampton Roads, here. Now, you will notice the red outlines on this map. Those are harbor and coast defense installations. This one here at Cape Charles is Fort Custis – actually more of a guard post than anything else, with only seventy-six millimeter guns, and just a handful of those. The next threat after that is at least one, and probably two minefields, here and here. Our sources tell us that these mines are both contact and command fuzed.”

Pointing down to a small spot in the center of Hampton Roads, Holst continued. “As we get further in, the protection, of course, gets stronger. This is Fort Wool. It has somewhat heavier armament, and covers the entire lower bay. However, the weapons here are in comparatively fixed positions due to the way the weapons are mounted. It is here –“ Holst touched a huge, irregular star-shape just northwest of Fort Wool – that we face our biggest threat. This is Festung Monroe – the Amis call it the Gibraltar of the Chesapeake, and they are not far off. Its armament ranges from literally dozens of seventy-five and seventy-six millimeter weapons, to three hundred millimeter weapons mounted on disappearing carriages. In between there are equally large mortars and smaller guns. Festung Monroe was intended to hold off – on its own, if need be – a full scale naval attack on Chesapeake Bay, for days if necessary.”

The first officer raised a hand, and Holst nodded to him.

“How exactly are we going to avoid weapons that powerful at that close a range?”

Holst turned to Von Kadaver. “I think this is where the Colonel needs to come in.”

Von Kadaver rose and went to the map. “When the Poseidon reaches approximately here –“ he pointed to a spot roughly ten kilometers from the Fortress itself – “Major Halberstadt will take the first company ashore. The landing point is a children’s park called Buckroe Beach. The park itself is about one kilometer from our actual target, and since it’s closed and fenced off from the fortress, it will not be as well guarded. Here, about one point five kilometers from the park, is the largest and most potentially dangerous battery at Monroe – Battery DeRussy. DeRussy mounts two three hundred millimeter rifles mounted on disappearing carriages, and they are the most powerful and longest ranged guns based at Monroe. Major Halberstadt’s men will take Battery DeRussy itself and the fire control tower, disabling both. They will then execute diversionary attacks until they receive the signal to return to the Poseidon.”

Friederich Halberstadt, a tall lean Brandenburger, grinned like a wolf. “Needless to say, we’ll take any targets of opportunity that arise.” There was polite laughter around the table, and even Von Kadaver had to grin at that. “Fritz,” he replied, “I swear unto god that if you take that verdammt fortress, I’ll make you give it back. As a practical matter, this is probably the most heavily fortified post in the United States. There are several other smaller batteries that I would like to take out as well, but we simply do not have the manpower to do it safely.”

“The second company – with myself and Major Grosbeck – will land here at the Navy Yard’s seaplane ramp. From there, it is only a few hundred meters to most of the major repair shops and supply warehouses. We will destroy these buildings and then return to the Poseidon. As the Poseidon withdraws, Captain Holst will use the ship’s guns to shell the base’s fuel storage tanks and drydocks.”

Von Kadaver paused for a moment, and when he resumed it was quietly but earnestly. “If everything goes well – and I have no reason to expect otherwise – we will cripple as much as half of the Atlantic Fleet – not by sinking or damaging it, but by destroying its ability to feed, fuel, and repair itself.”

Poseidon’s chief engineer spoke up. “For how long?”

Holst took that one. “Kriegsmarine estimates that the Atlantic Fleet would be effectively out of commission for at least two weeks, perhaps as long as five. Most of the ships elsewhere will stay right where they are – to conserve what supplies are left and to guard against any further attacks. Ships still at sea will either be recalled or curtail their activities sharply, again in order to conserve. Either way, the end result would be the same – the United States Navy in the Atlantic will effectively become a coastal defense force for at least two weeks. When that happens, the U-Waffe and the other surface forces will be able to run right over whatever is left of the Royal Navy’s escort forces.” Holst leaned forward, his voice dropping. “They are that far from the edge, gentlemen. One or two more convoys torn apart – or destroyed – and the Tommies will face either surrender or starvation.”

“There is one more facet to this as well.” Von Kadaver’s voice got everyone’s attention. “The American political situation has been taken into account as well. When America entered the war, there was overwhelming support for Roosevelt – but the losses that followed shocked most people, who only then discovered that they were considerably short of being ready for it. An attack – even only partially successful – less than three hundred kilometers from Washington will shock them even more. There will be demands that Roosevelt protect them instead of the British. In addition, I am authorized to inform you that there are…certain parties in American politics that realize what a foolish mistake Roosevelt made in entering the war. I was told that Germany has quietly maintained contact with these parties, and should America itself come under fire, they are prepared to lead open opposition to Roosevelt’s policies, and take action to withdraw America from the war, then work for…peace.”

There was a brief pause as everyone around the table reflected for a moment as to what exactly was at stake here. Some officers looked at the maps, some considered the plans, and others weighed their own chances of survival. The navigator was the one who spoke up next.

“Herr Kapitan, what plans do we have for getting into the Bay itself? Even arriving at night, that is still a very constricted area, and us dropping off forty assault boats is going to at least raise some eyebrows. In addition, there is a large Army Air Force base just a few miles from where we’ll be.”

Holst nodded. “A good point, Hans. Stefan, will you answer that, please?”

Leutnant Stefan Abench, the Poseidon’s weather officer stood and walked to the maps, flipping them back to one of the entire Atlantic Ocean. “We have several U-boats and merchant ships on weather patrol especially for this mission, along with special weather information coming out of the West Indies and South America. There is a tropical storm here...” Abench pointed to a location just northeast of Barbados – “that is expected to grow into a small, but full fledged hurricane. Based on the behavior of past storms, it will continue on this course and reach landfall here at Cape Hatteras – just a short distance south of Norfolk – a few hours before we arrive.”

Holst spoke up at this point. “The Americans have a tendency to flush their ships out of harbor before a hurricane, as well as move their aircraft further inland. Even if they didn’t do so, the storm will give us a fair amount of cover.”

Halberstadt said, respectfully but with concern, “Herr Kapitan, that is a very thin reed to hang things on.”

“Not really. Even if it doesn’t become a hurricane, it will still make landfall close enough to Norfolk to provide us with sufficient cover. Since we are moving much faster than the storm ever will, we can adjust our speed accordingly to arrive when it does. And if the storm breaks up or doesn’t go as we anticipate…well, we’ll just have to be flexible, that’s all. One thing we...”

The phone at Holst’s seat buzzed, and he felt a chill go up his spine as he picked it up. “This is the Captain.”

“First Officer here, sir. We have a contact to the northeast, closing at high speed. Appears to be a warship.”

Damn, thought Holst. Well, one’s luck can only be pushed so far. “Right. Please go to General Quarters, I’m on my way to the Attack Center.” Before Holst could put down the phone, the GQ bell was ringing. As he stood, Holst said, “Get to your posts, gentlemen. Colonel, please come with me.” Von Kadaver grabbed his helmet and followed Holst out.

By the time Holst and Von Kadaver got to the Attack Center, the compartment was already bathed in red combat lights. Holst went to his post, a raised platform in the center of the compartment where he could literally see every post in the Attack Center. The big map display showed an unknown target still some distance away, and Von Kadaver looked at it suspiciously.

“With respect, Herr Kapitan, that would seem to be beyond visual range right now. I thought the radars were shut down to keep from giving our position away.”

Holst smiled. “They are,” and then pointed to a large console to his right, where an odd display glowed a bright, cheery blue. Von Kadaver looked closely at it, not quite able to make it out. It looked like a badly distorted view of the ocean ahead of them, with a glowing – well, blob off to one side. Holst caught Von Kadaver’s expression and nodded. “It’s a sensor that detects heat – such as that given off by a ship’s engines and stacks. What you see there is the heat radiated from the ship, not an actual picture of it – but since a hot ship stands out quite nicely on a cold ocean, it’s actually better than a radar, which can sometimes lose the target in the surface returns.” Von Kadaver had to admit that even he was impressed. “How far out is that ship right now?”

Holst looked up at the main tactical display. “About twenty kilometers, but closing.”

“Any idea what it is yet?”

Holst looked at the screen, then at the systems display, where the lights were all going green. “Probably a frigate or destroyer, from the size of it. I’ll know more in just a moment.” Holst turned to look behind him and called, “Light it up!”

Von Kadaver’s jaw dropped. “You’re using a searchlight?”

Holst grinned. “Well, you might say that.” There was a crackle and hum of electronics warming up, and another screen glowed into life. This one was a sickly red-orange, but it was much clearer – and Von Kadaver could see very clearly an American destroyer as if he was watching it on a movie screen. It was a small image, but surprisingly clear, almost as if it were in daylight.

“How...”

Holst held up a finger to interrupt him as he picked up the line to the bridge. “This is the captain. Maintain our present speed, get everyone off the deck, and make sure we have the Swedish flag up.” Holst turned back to Von Kadaver. “It’s a combination of two different inventions. We’re actually watching it on a television receiver – there’s a good-sized camera mounted in a turret topside, but it looks just like another piece of equipment on the deck.”

“Television? I thought that was another twenty years off.”

Holst shook his head. “The Americans already had some regular programming going out in some of their big cities. Telefunken planned on starting it at home in a couple years, but…”

The destroyer – an old four-stacker, from the looks of it – was turning steadily towards them. Holst called back over his shoulder, “Tactical, do not, repeat, do not drop the gun covers unless I specifically order it!”

“Jawohl!”

Von Kadaver frowned, and on him it was a more unsettling look than on most people. “You’re not going to sink it?”

Holst looked him dead in the eye. “Not unless I have to. To do so otherwise would do nothing but bring unwanted attention on us. Within an hour – two at the most – someone will notice when they don’t call in a position report.”

Von Kadaver took that more equitably than Holst had thought he would. Nodding in agreement, Von Kadaver simply replied, “You still haven’t told me how you can see it like that. It is dark out there.”

Holst nodded himself. “But not if you have the right kind of light. This is what is called infra-red photography – it uses invisible light from the far end of the spectrum that can’t be seen by the human eye, but can be seen by the right kind of camera, and no, I don’t know how it works.”

The television screen had stadia lines on it that showed the destroyer closing to fifteen kilometers. Von Kadaver watched it quietly for a moment, then asked, “I don’t suppose we could be lucky enough that it will just sail on past?”

Holst shook his head. “Not likely. He’ll want to get at least close enough to confirm our identity, and that means close enough that he’ll be able to spit on our deck if he wants.”

A pause. “You’ll have to kill him.”

Holst continued to watch the destroyer close, then picked up the bridge phone. “This is the captain. Are we ready to give him a good Swedish welcome?”

“Jawohl, Herr Kaptain. Hopefully he’ll take it and leave.”

“Good.” Holst hung up the phone, and then looked directly at Von Kadaver. “Colonel, let me make something very clear. If we need to go into combat before we arrive in Norfolk, I will make the decision to do so, and I alone. Is that clearly understood?”

Von Kadaver regarded Holst harshly for a moment, and then nodded. There would be more than enough time to deal with this later.

USS STEWART
DD-224

Even in early fall, the waters of the north Atlantic were far rougher than those of the placid southwest Pacific, and Stewart’s skipper wished he and his ship were back there right now. But the losses the Atlantic Fleet had taken had demanded that every available tin can be called back from the Pacific, and that was all there was to it. Out here, you kept one eye open all the time and the other one on your back.

The lookouts, used to far greater sighting ranges in the Pacific, hadn’t picked up the bogey until it was far closer than the skipper would have liked, but he was able to breathe easier when they told him it appeared to be a merchantman. He could see it now – long, low in the water with a split superstructure. A tanker, no sweat. A yeoman was standing next to him with the ID book as they closed on it, trying to look it up as the skipper brought his field glasses to bear on it. Let’s get this show on the road, folks, the skipper thought. Time to get back inside and get to sleep.

Holst and Von Kadaver were up on the bridge now, and they could barely make out the destroyer closing on them, but it got a lot easier when a searchlight stabbed out of the darkness and filled the bridge.

“Stay calm, everyone,” Holst said. “Signals, get someone on the portside blinker please.”

“Jawohl, Herr Kapitan.”

Stewart’s captain looked at the ID book once more, then back at the ship that was now brightly illuminated ahead of them. “XO,” he asked, “what do you think?”

Stewart’s XO looked himself, then handed the glasses back. “No question, skipper. Swedish. No heartburn.”

“That’s what I thought, but let’s be sure. Send them…”

The signals runner snapped to attention. “Herr Kapitan, the American –“

“I know, Junge. I can read Morse myself quite nicely. Send back…”

“They confirm, skipper. Tre Kronor, out of Stockholm and bound for Venezuela.”

The gunnery officer sat at his post in the Attack Center, the television displays showing him exactly what his gunners were seeing as they tracked the destroyer from behind the gun hatches, able to lock on to just about any part of the ship with the heat-seeking or infra-red aimers. He could even see the glowing blotches of the destroyer’s lookout and gun crews. This was almost unfair, he thought with a smile.

Almost.

Stewart’s commander nodded and turned to the signals runner. “Tell ‘em safe voyage and good night.”

“…And a pleasant night to you, Herr Kapitan,” Holst murmured as the destroyer broke off to the southeast. Holst turned to the helmsman and said quietly, “Maintain our present course, flank speed.” As the engine room telegraph rang, Holst picked up the phone. “Attention all hands, attention all hands, this is the Kapitan. Stand down from general quarters, resume normal routine. That is all.”

Von Kadaver watched the destroyer fade into the blackness. “I think it would be a good idea if my men stayed below decks from here.”

“A wise call. Even with our toys, it’s not impossible someone could sneak up on us.”

A pause. “How long?”

Holst thought for a moment. “About three days. I expect we’ll make landfall sometime on the night of the 19th.”

Von Kadaver nodded, but remained silent.

“There is something on your mind, Herr Colonel.” Silence, then a brief, quick, “Ja.”

“Out with it, then.”

Von Kadaver chose his words carefully. “What is the largest warship you could safely take on?”

Holst raised an eyebrow, but in reality it was a reasonable enough question. “Well, given our armor, armament, and the advanced tracking systems we have, I have no problems taking on anything up to a light cruiser – even an American one, which would be a powerful ship in any navy on earth. The idea though would be to avoid combat. Our job is to use stealth to destroy merchant ships and attack targets in an enemy’s rear, such as we are doing.”

Von Kadaver seemed to wait a long time before he asked his next question. “What about a battleship – a battleship tied up at dockside, at a low state of readiness.”

Holst folded his arms and looked quizzically at Von Kadaver. “You’re joking.”

“Not at all. I have just asked you a serious, military question of tactics, Herr Kapitan. Please answer me.”

There was something in the SS colonel’s tone that suggested Holst needed to give him a direct, professional answer – now. Phrasing his answer as well as he could, Holst replied, “Under those exact circumstances, Herr Colonel…I could do a great deal of damage, perhaps even sink her. If we could get in close, the guns would wreak havoc on her, all the more so if she was an older ship. The torpedoes would almost certainly sink her, if she was tied up at dockside in a low state of readiness. But – and I need to stress this – it would probably take all our weapons to inflict that kind of damage on even one older battleship. There are – what, four operational battleships at Norfolk right now.”

Von Kadaver smiled slowly, his scar twisting upwards. “Don’t worry yourself, Kapitan. I’m only thinking of one. Guten abend.”

[MKSheppard]

THE MAN FROM UNIVERSAL EXPORTS

Brian Shannon sipped his coffee and leaned back in his chair a bit as Kozlowski and Cochran nursed theirs. “You know,” the Admiral said, “damned few people here anymore even remember what the Chamberlain was. Used to be the fanciest hotel between New York and Charleston - honest to God resort hotel, in the best tradition of the word. But when the war started, nobody wanted to visit a resort where you could look up from your drink and see coast defense guns...not to mention the fact that the Army didn't want you to do that anyways. So, the owners made a virtue out of necessity and offered to run the place as a 'all ranks' club and temporary quarters. They even set it up so that if you had access to a boat, you could just tie right up to their dock there...which is how I ended up having breakfast there that morning.”

Mike Kozlowski put down his coffee with a polite but mildly skeptical grin. “Admiral, you're telling me they used to let you take the gig across from Norfolk and tie up at the Chamberlain?”

“Don't laugh, sonny. I was there the day the Omaha's skipper tied the whole ship up there. CINCLANT was not amused.”

“On the other hand,” Chief Cochrane pointed out, “The present CINCLANT brings the Constellation -” the CINCLANT's gig - “over there all the time.”

Shannon shot the Chief a hard look. “My kid has earned the privilege. Anyways...”

THE CHAMBERLAIN HOTEL
FORT MONROE, VA
19 SEP 1941 0800 LOCAL

Brian Shannon watched with horrified interest - along with a few waiters, busboys, and an apoplectic cook - as Beau Courbet poured most of a bottle of Tabasco sauce onto his scrambled eggs, with all the nonchalance of someone lightly salting their french fries. Courbet didn't seem to notice a thing, though Shannon's eyes were beginning to water. It wasn't until he finished the first mouthful that Courbet looked up and realized he was the center of so much attention, looking around suspiciously.

“Somethin' wrong, Mon Capitaine?”

Shannon shook his head slowly, leaning back in his chair. “Not really, Beau. I was wondering though...how in the hell do you eat that stuff?”

Courbet shoveled another forkful in and shook his head. “Nothin' that bad about it. I grew up wit da stuff - went to school wit' some of da MacIlhennys, too. They used to drink da stuff. I tell you, Mon Capitaine, it was a sight...”

Shannon waved a hand to shut him up. “It's okay, I get the picture.”

Courbet kept eating with all the Cajun gusto he could muster. “Actually, I make dis wonderful chili-"

“Commander?”

“Mon Capitaine?”

“Shut up.”

“Never let it be said a Courbet disobeys orders.” Courbet piled into his breakfast with a relish one usually associated with starving men, and Shannon tried to finish his bacon and eggs. The Chamberlain's dining room looked out onto Hampton Roads itself, and as clear as it was right now Shannon could even see Texas at this distance, tied up at the last of the piers. Nice to be able to get off the boat for a while, Shannon thought, even if it was just someplace where you could still keep an eye on it.

It is axiomatic that as soon as the Captain thinks he is going to enjoy a quiet meal, someone or something ruins it, and today was no different. As Shannon tucked into his breakfast, a neatly attired messenger boy came trotting over from the front desk. The kid - couldn't have been more than thirteen or fourteen - came to attention with a precision that would have done a Marine proud.

“Message for Captain Shannon.”

Shannon looked up to see a manila envelope hovering above his plate. Putting down his fork and folding his napkin, Shannon took it and there indeed was his name and table number. Sighing, Shannon took a dollar out of his wallet and tipped the messenger, who whirled back to the desk. Opening the envelope, Shannon found a piece of Texas' letterhead and a scrawled note with the navigator's signature. As he began to read it, his attention was diverted for a moment by the sight of more messengers - some with envelopes, some carrying heavy telephones on long extension cords - start to race into the restaurant. Obviously a bunch of people were getting messages, all of them Navy, and all of them his fellow COs, men who ran everything from subchasers to carriers. This, he thought, couldn't be good.

Turning back to the letter, Shannon read:

Captain -
Rec'd word from CINCLANT - we are to prepare for hurricane evacuation ASAP. Storm expected to go ashore near Cape Hatteras around 2000 hours tonight, clear by 0900 tomorrow. A/C will sortie immediately, ships as able. Running checklist now.

LCDR Cable

"Problems, Mon Capitaine?”

Shannon handed Courbet the letter, and the XO read it between bites. After a particularly large swallow, Courbet dabbed his lips with his napkin and said, “Well, dis one real easy. We ain't goin' anywhere. Two condensers down, most of the crew on leave while we finish up da refit - nope, we just goin' ballast her down and tie up tight.”

“Agree with you ten thousand percent on that one, Beau. Let's get finished though and get back to the ship. I want everybody we can locate in town brought back to batten her down, we'll need to have that finished up by about dinner time so we can cut the married folks loose to get to their families...” A hand landed gently on Shannon's shoulder, and he spun around in his seat to see who it was.

“Good heavens, Brian. You do need to get away from that stuffy old ship of yours more and get some fresh air. It'll do wonders for your nerves.” It was a tall, slim man in a British naval uniform, not that unusual around here these days. Behind him was a woman in a modest but well cut outfit that set her red hair off quite nicely. The trouble was that right now it could have been Betty Grable standing behind him, and Shannon wouldn't have cared. It was hard to keep a depressed sigh from escaping him, but he did. Standing up, Shannon made the necessary introductions.

“Commander Beau Courbet, may I introduce Lieutenant Commander Ian Fleming, Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve. Commander Fleming, this is Commander Courbet, my executive officer. Commander Fleming and I worked together a long time ago.” Courbet stood and extended a hand just long enough to peer around Fleming and say, “A pleasure, Commander...and dis lovely lady is?...”

Fleming smiled and stepped to one side. “Gentlemen, Marie Blair.” Shannon and Courbet both shook her hand with politeness, but although Courbet was already angling for a date, Shannon had a little voice in the back of his head, and he figured he'd better deal with it right now.

“A pleasure, Miss Blair,” Shannon said. “But at the risk of sounding terribly cliched...haven't we met?” Marie and Fleming looked at each other with knowing smiles, and for a moment Shannon thought he was about to be the butt of a joke. But instead Marie smiled with a grin that lit up the room. “I was wondering if the Captain was going to remember. You were a houseguest of my family some years ago.”

Shannon felt that little click in his brain, the one you get when you make an unexpected mental connection. Trouble is, he couldn't quite connect it. After all, someone like Marie Blair, he'd remember. Fortunately, she finished it for him. That thousand-watt smile again as she said, “When you were in Venezuela, 1935. My father was the US air attache there at the time.”

Shannon's face lit up. “Your dad was Colonel Charlie Blair? Now I remember you...”

“Major general now. He's on his way out to the Pacific in a few weeks to take over the Hawaiian Air Force.”

Beau jumped in at that point, and frankly Shannon was surprised he'd restrained himself this long. “No doubt you are very proud of your daddy, Mam'selle. That's a very important command dese days.”

Marie grinned. “Mais naturellement. Le père est un pilote superbe, et il est travaillé dur pour une occasion comme ceci.”

Courbet grinned from ear to ear as he replied, “Madame parle français exquis ! Où l'avez-vous appris ?”

Marie's smile was a bit more knowing this time. “Laissez-nous le papa que juste de parole a circulés.”

Fleming discreetly cleared his throat. “As much as I dislike interrupting old home week, I was wondering if I might speak with Brian for just a few moments.” Before Shannon could say anything, Marie spoke up with a vaudevillian's timing. “I'm sure the Captain would love to, Ian. Commander Courbet, I have never seen the lovely seawalk here - perhaps you could escort me?”

Beau Courbet wouldn't have been human had he refused that request. “But of course, Mam'selle.” Beau was all Cajun courtliness and charm as he extended his arm for Marie, and they headed for the French doors at the end of the dining room. Shannon watched them go, his last chance for politely getting out of here walking out with him. Oh well - might as well enjoy what was left of his morning. “Well, Ian,” Shannon said as he motioned to the table, “join me for breakfast?”

Fleming smiled. “Thank you, Brian, lovely of you to ask.” It was only then Shannon noticed that Fleming was giving the food on the table the same kind of look that one normally reserved for showgirls and fast cars. He remembered the stories they'd heard of how bad things were on the other side of the pond. Well, Shannon thought, no sense in not being pleasant to the man. They sat down and Shannon waved a waiter over. “Commander Fleming is my guest this morning. Anything he wants...”

The waiter nodded and pulled out a pad. “Very good, sir. Would the Commander care to order?”

They made small talk over a rasher of bacon and eggs, some thick, buttered toast with real coffee, and the waiter had even found some kippered herring back there, which had sent Fleming into transports of ecstasy.

“Seems that your Commander Courbet has a fair amount in common with Miss Blair.”

Shannon shrugged as he took a sip of coffee. “Honestly couldn't tell you. As far as I'm concerned, he's incomprehensible in any language. Superb officer, though. I've been lucky - had two incredible XOs in a row now.”

Fleming nodded. “Frankly, I'd give anything to get out to sea myself. Unfortunately...there aren't as many commands as there used to be.”

“So where are you now, if I might ask?...”

An enigmatic smile. “Still working for Universal Exports. Liaison work now though.”

“Ah. How is that other gentleman who was with us...Boothroyd, I think?”

Fleming's countenance saddened at that. He got down another mouthful before saying quietly, “Captured at Dunkirk. He's all right, as far as we know.”

“I'm truly sorry to hear that, Ian. We've all lost a lot of friends in the last year or so.” Shannon leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “But at the risk of seeming less than friendly, I am reasonably sure that you didn't cross the Atlantic under the present conditions just to say hello.”

Fleming patted his lips with his napkin, took a sip of his coffee, and smiled. “Oh, I would gladly do so Brian, truly - but I am here on business.”

“Involving me?”

Fleming shook his head. “Not strictly. You might say....I'm sort of working as an advance team for someone.”

Shannon gave Fleming a skeptical look. “The last time I heard those words, I ended up being chased by the Gestapo, the Royal Navy, and MI-6.”

Fleming held up his hand. “No need to worry this time, Brian. This is going to be a friendly - and strictly unofficial visit.”

“By whom?”

Fleming thought on that for a second. “Let's simply say a certain personage who wishes to pay his respects this evening.”

Shannon shook his head. “Let's not. Let's say that for once, you tell me exactly who it is that wants to meet me - and then I'll tell you that it certainly won't happen anytime soon, because I have to prepare my ship for a hurricane, and then I need to finish what repairs I can so I can get my ship back to sea.”

Fleming looked as if he was taking it somewhat personally. “Brian, I'm sorry to hear that. This person has been looking forward to seeing you for quite some time.”

“Well, the fact is Ian, we are going to be far too busy to entertain anyone anytime soon.”

Fleming had a hound-dog look to his eyes right now, as if he was truly disappointed. “Not at all?”

“Ian, right now, - and I say this with all due respect - I don't care if it's Their Majesties themselves who want to come aboard.” The grin Fleming gave him in reply turned Brian Shannon's blood ice cold. His eyes going wide, he leaned forward and asked in a whisper, “It isn't Their Majesties...is it?”

Fleming coolly drew an envelope from inside his jacket and handed it across to Shannon, saying, “Not quite...”

Shannon held the envelope as if it had some awful disease upon it, and he looked at the lettering stamped in the upper left hand corner:

OFFICE OF THE CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS
WASHINGTON, D.C.

Oh, hell...Shannon looked at Fleming in utter defeat. “You know, I really do NOT want to open this.”

“Perhaps you should, Brian. Just to be on the safe side.”

Shannon did so, scanning the letter quickly. Very straightforward, very direct, and there was no mistaking Ernest King's signature at the bottom. “You will provide any and all support for or requested by LCDR Fleming...” Shannon folded the letter back into the envelope and handed it back to Fleming.

“Ian, please be reasonable - we have a hurricane inbound, the ship isn't at all ready for visitors of any kind...”

Fleming smiled and gave a dismissive wave. “Tut tut, Brian. Your visitor doesn't mind a bit of a mess, and as far as the weather - well, what better or safer place to ride out a storm than in the company of good friends and good food aboard a strong ship?”

Shannon knew there wasn't going to be any arguing with Fleming. “Well,” he said, finishing his coffee, “I suppose we will be seeing you this evening, then. Will Miss Blair be of the party as well?”

“What would a dinner be without a beautiful woman?”

“At least one place setting smaller. Ian, I had better get back to the ship, obviously we have a great deal to get ready for. I am not happy about this, Ian - you know that.”

Fleming gave a mock bow. “I am but a servant to His Britannic Majesty's government, Brian.”

“Right.” Shannon pushed back from the table, and Fleming stood as well. “I'd better collect my XO, and I assume you'll be wanting Miss Blair back.”

“Most definitely.”

Shannon paused for a moment, then asked, “Ian, I've got to ask - “

“Strictly professional, my boy. Strictly professional.”

“I'll take your word for it, though I'll be damned if I know why I should. How many will there be?”

Fleming thought for a moment. “Seven, counting myself.”

Shannon cocked his head in surprise. “Ian, I am NOT running a restaurant over there -"

“Consider it a chance to help further cement Anglo-American relations.”

Brian Shannon wanted to snarl, but there were far too many people around to do it. “Commander Fleming, if I ever see you again after tonight...”

Fleming grinned as he straightened up his coat. “ - It won't be soon enough. See you at nine, then. And by the by, it isn't formal - leave the cummerbund packed.” 'With that, Fleming straightened his jacket and headed for the door. “Till this evening, then. Cheerio.”

Brian Shannon shook his head in frustrated defeat. One of these days, he thought, walking to the desk to pay the bill. Middle of a damned war, the weather going straight to hell, and he was going to host a dinner party....

KM POSEIDON
350 NM E OF CAPE CHARLES LIGHT

Holst stood over the attack center's map table to compare the positions and times once more. They had almost run themselves ragged trying to pace themselves with the damned storm - speeding up here, coming almost to a stop there - but it looked like they were matching Mother Nature turn for turn, and doing pretty well at it. Looking up at the navigator and the meteorologist, Holst asked, “All right, then. In the worst case scenario, what happens?”

The meteorologist leaned over the table to trace an invisible line in front of the storm. “Even if the storm suddenly turned to the north this instant - unlikely for a number of reasons - it's still big enough that a good portion of it would still pass over Norfolk and Hampton Roads to cover our mission.”

“Mmm. How long will it remain in place?”

“At least until dawn tomorrow morning. More than enough time to cover our withdrawal.”

Holst nodded and looked at the maps once more. He was holding the message from Kriegsmarine that told him the Amis were starting to disperse their ships and planes in front of the storm, so by the time they arrived off Cape Charles the entire Atlantic Fleet would be sufficiently dispersed that it would take hours - if not days - to get anything onto them, and by that time they would be safely southbound, a harmless merchant ship again.

Holst was about to ask something else when the hatch swung open and Von Kadaver entered wearing his fatigues and strode directly to the map table.

“Entschuldigen Sie mich, Kapitan.”

Holst looked up. “Colonel, you must be a mind reader - I was just about to call you. We're on course to make landfall at Cape Charles around -" Holst shot a look at the clock - “ten o'clock tonight.”

Von Kadaver looked at the maps himself for a moment. “Excellent. How long from there to the first dropoff point?”

“About an hour, perhaps two depending on the weather. It's going to be quite spectacular - I hope your men don't get terribly seasick.”

The scar twisted upwards slightly. “I have ordered them not to.”

Holst simply blinked at that. “No doubt. In any event, I would suggest you and your men get some rest. We shall have a busy evening ahead of us.”

“Of course.” Von Kadaver clicked his heels and left the attack center, stepping out onto the walkways that surrounded the midships superstructure. The breeze was refreshing, and Von Kadaver had picked up enough knowledge to know that it was merely a harbinger of a natural nightmare to the southwest - one that would cover them in the most audacious attack in military history, a fitting start to the SS's war on the Americans. Three hundred and fifty miles away, Von Kadaver thought. And they have no idea we are coming. The scar twisted upwards, not in anything resembling a smile this time, but a feral grimace, promising fear and terror to thousands of the Reich's enemies.

And if he had anything to say about it, one in particular.

Sieg Heil.

[MKSheppard]

BEFORE THE STORM

Chief Cochrane put down his coffee, looked at Shannon and tried to get his thoughts composed before he said anything - always a good idea when dealing with the Admiral. “Sir,” he finally said carefully, “do you mean to tell me that this was THE Ian Fleming - as in James Bond, 007, license to kill Ian Fleming?”

Shannon sipped his coffee. “That is exactly what I mean, Chief. Everybody forgets that Fleming was a spy for most of his adult life, and when he wasn't actually out in the field, he was planning operations. Officially he was a reporter - got himself into Russia that way during the 30s to get out some Brit engineers who'd gotten arrested by Stalin, that was why he never worked in Eastern Europe again. Keep one thing in mind though - he was never the bon vivant that he liked to make himself out to be. Man smoked those damned three-ring cigarettes of his like a chimney, and for everything he ever wrote about champagne, he couldn't tell Bollinger from bathwater.”

Kozlowski nodded. “Seems reasonable enough, sir, but my question is what the heck happened in Venezuela in 1935? So far, you know Fleming from there, you know Marie Blair from there, and I have a feeling that any minute now the Seven Flying Santini Brothers will walk in and say they knew you there too.”

Shannon put down his coffee and smiled at Kozlowski. “Commander, I'll make this so simple even you can understand it. In 1935, I went to Venezuela at the request of President Franklin D. Roosevelt. I accomplished that mission, and on my return, President Roosevelt classified that mission unto the seventh generation. And until President Roosevelt comes back to tell me it's okay to talk about it, I'm not saying anything else - got it?”

Kozlowski nodded respectfully and said, “Yes, sir,” but in the back of his mind he was trying to remember the phone number of one of his Annapolis classmates who now worked at BuHist. This one was way too good to pass up.

“Now,”, Shannon said, “where was I? Oh yes...anyways, here was Ian Fleming telling me that he wanted a dinner party on my ship that night, and as he had a note from God - or at least, his self-appointed representative upon this earth - I had to go along with it. The ship was a wreck - equipment torn out and lying around, most of the crew gone on leave, training, and cadre for the South Dakota -"

“You were down to about 30%, according to the AARs,” Kozlowski said, taking a sip of coffee only to see Shannon looking at him as if he'd just done something rude in the fireplace.

“Commander,” Shannon said acidly, “who's telling this story - you or me?”

Kozlowski and Cochrane both folded their hands like chastised schoolboys and answered in unison, “You are, Admiral.”

Shannon regarded them coldly for a moment, trying to decide if they were pulling his leg, decided they weren't, and relaxed again. “Thirty-three percent, you smart aleck. And here I was trying to get all this done...”

USS TEXAS
NORFOLK NAVY YARD, VA
19 SEP 41
1240 HRS LOCAL

Brian Shannon stood on the starboard bridge wing and watched as Chief Gatling oversaw the final tie-downs of everything on Texas' deck that they couldn't pull inside. Off to the southeast, the first cloudy feathers were starting to pop up in an otherwise clear sky. Pity about the damn storm, Shannon thought. Was going to ruin a beautiful day. Shannon preferred to outrun a storm at sea - things weren't as likely to get thrown at you by waves out there, and the storm hadn't been made yet that even the old Texas couldn't outrun.

Shannon turned as he heard the bridge hatch open behind him. It was Beau Courbet, holding a heavily laden clipboard. “ 'Allo, mon Capitaine. Here's the drill for this evening's festivities.”

Shannon took the clipboard and looked at the menu. Grilled filet of sole, baked potatoes, salad, and -

“Strawberries?”

Courbet looked at Shannon in mild puzzlement. “Mon Capitaine doesn't like strawberries?”

“Your Capitaine loves strawberries, Beau. What your Capitaine wants to know is where did we get the strawberries from?”

Courbet gave him a slight smile. “You really want to know?”

Shannon didn't blink an eye. “Indulge me.”

“Well, we gave the Enterprise some raisin bread and vanilla ice cream.”

Shannon nodded. “And they gave us the strawberries?”

“Non, mon Capitaine. They traded the raisin bread and ice cream to the Wichita.”

“Who gave us the strawberries.”

“Not exactly. They traded them to one of the DD's, the Caine., and...”

Shannon had to restrain an out-and-out snarl as he asked, “Who gave us the damned strawberries, Commander?”

Courbet stepped back a bit and swallowed hard. “The Caine, sir. And I gather their Capitaine was not at all happy about it.”

Shannon shook his head in disbelief. “Couldn't you have just said that in the first place?”

Courbet's smile was logic itself. “Mon Capitaine did say he wanted to know.”

Shannon scrawled his signature at the bottom of the form and handed it back to Courbet. “Forget I asked. Who's ramrodding this operation?”

“Myself and Petty Officer Robinson. His boys doin' the cooking and serving.”

Shannon furrowed his brow. “What's Robbie doing aboard? I signed his leave form so he could get home for a few days.”

“Couldn't tell you, mon Capitaine. All I know is that he's still here.”

Shannon replied, “Tell him I want to see him now. Everything else looks good, Beau. The Officers' wardroom?”

“Oui. Eighteen hundred hours, uniform khakis wit' tie.”

Shannon thought for a moment, trying to think of anything he might have missed. Deciding there wasn't, he told Courbet, “All right then. Keep me posted on any other last minute disasters.”

“Will do, mon Capitaine.” Courbet shot him a salute and went off in search of Robbie, who appeared on the bridge a few minutes later.

“Petty Officer Robinson reports as ordered, sir.” Williford Robinson was six feet two inches of solid ebony, the senior of Texas's stewards and runners. Shannon often thought about the fact that with nearly twenty years in, Robbie should have been a chief by now - but the Navy, nor the rest of the country, wasn't quite ready for that yet.

“Robbie,” Shannon asked, “What are you doing here? I signed your leave papers a couple weeks ago. Something wrong at home?”

Robinson shook his head. “Far from it, Cap'n. It's just that getting the trains is kinda rough, and with the harvest comin' in, nobody would have been able to do much visitin'. Besides, they woulda made me work harder there than I do here.”

Shannon had to grin at that. He'd met Robbie's parents not long after he'd taken over as CO - they'd pulled their way up from being sharecroppers in South Carolina by dint of hard work, and they'd made sure Robbie had a way out. Robbie always swore that unlike everyone else - who came back from leave ten pounds heavier - he was the only one who came back ten pounds lighter.

Shannon kept all this in mind for a moment, then said, “Robbie, I'll tell you what. After we secure the ship in the morning, I am writing you a three day pass. I don't care what you do or where you go - but I want you to enjoy some kind of vacation – understood?”

Robbie grinned and replied, “You're a hard man to deal with, Cap'n - but if you insist.”

Shannon smiled back. “I do indeed. See you this evening.”

“Aye, aye, Capn.” Robinson saluted and strode back off the bridge.

1730 HOURS

Shannon fixed his tie as he finished getting dressed in his sea cabin. The cabin really was pretty bare, he thought. Ought to do something to liven it up a bit. The only real decoration was - of all things - his Academy sword, hanging from two neat metal hooks that the shipfitters had made for him. The standing joke was that the Old Man had only used it on officers. Funny, Shannon thought, since he'd had it put up in there, people tended to get awfully intimidated when they were being counseled. Oh well...

As the day had gone past, the weather had gotten progressively worse, and the last time Shannon had looked outside, the sky was a leaden, foreboding gray that seemed to change by the second as the leading edge of the hurricane approached. Weather said that by 2000 the rain would be coming down in sheets, and by midnight - well, just tuck yourself in with a good book and some hot milk, because you didn't want to go outside. As hurricanes went, it was a fairly easy one - winds only up to eighty miles an hour. The trouble was that it was coming in at high tide, and when you added the storm surge to the tide, it was going to play hell with the coastal areas - and anything tied down to them, Shannon thought. Like a battleship. Fortunately, Texas was already ballasted well down to the point where if she started getting tossed around, they'd have a lot more than just a hurricane to think about.

On the other hand, Shannon considered, he was going to get a particularly good meal tonight, the ship and the Yard itself were almost deserted, and the one thing he could rely on was that there weren't going to be any sorties tonight. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all...

There was a knock on the door, and Shannon called back, “Come,” over his shoulder.

One of the runners poked his head in and said, “Beggin' the captain's pardon, but the main gate is on the landline for you.”

“Thanks, I'll get it on the bridge.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Shannon walked onto the bridge, deserted except for Ensign Holloway, the OOD. Holloway had seen the light after their talk, and had really seemed to come around quite a bit.

“Good evening, sir,” Holloway said, handing Shannon the handset for the landline phone that connected them with the rest of the Bell System when they were tied up.

“Captain Shannon.”

“Cap'n, this is Gunnery Sergeant Dell at the main gate - I just wanted to let you know your guests are on their way.” Dell paused, as if trying to frame his next words. “Cap'n, these folks do know that parking is restricted on the piers?”

Shannon frowned. “Sergeant, I'm not quite sure I follow you. How many cars are there?”

“Three, sir. All of 'em big Packards except for one Chrysler.”

Shannon swore to himself. Space on the docks was tight enough that the only people who were allowed to park even close to the ships were the captains themselves. Admirals of course, were another matter entirely, but even they had to obey the rules sometimes. Sighing to himself, Shannon said, “I'll keep an eye on it, Sergeant. Thanks for the heads up.”

“You're welcome, sir.”

Shannon shook his head as he hung up the phone. Turning to Holloway, he said, “Call the XO and have him meet me at the gangway. Duty calls.”

Holloway grinned, “Aye aye, sir.”

Out on the deck, the wind was starting to really go now, long sustained gusts that were whirring through the rigging. Shannon held onto his cap with one hand and tried to ignore the end of his tie slapping him around as he made his way to the gangway, watching the waves start to chop in a fast forward-back motion. By the time he got to the gangway, Courbet was already there, his long frame leaning into the wind. The XO nodded towards the end of the pier, where a small convoy of cars was coming through the gate. Sure enough, three cars - a bright red Chrysler in front, followed by two huge, black Packards - came rolling through.

Courbet shook his head. “Mon Capitaine, I ain't seen a procession like that since they laid Madame Bouchardet to rest back home in nineteen and twenty-three.”

Shannon cocked an eyebrow. “Who was she?”

Courbet fought down a grin. “She ran the local house of ill repute.”

Ask a silly question, Shannon thought... With nothing else than a grim look at his XO, Shannon headed down the gangway to greet his guests. As the procession got closer, Shannon could see the Packards were indeed monsters - the big black limos with Brewster bodies and darkened windows. One - the third car in line - had oddly shaped doors on the side closest to him, and for a moment, Shannon was sure it was a hearse. Dear God, he thought, maybe Madame Bouchardet was their guest of honor tonight.

Shannon went to parade rest as the convoy came to a stop. The red Chevy shut down first, and the driver's side door opened. Shannon couldn't see the driver, but it didn't surprise him in the slightest that it turned out to be Ian Fleming, resplendent in his uniform as he came over to greet Shannon. Mindful of the proper courtesies, Fleming snapped to and gave an unexpectedly sharp salute before shaking Shannon's hand.

“Brian, thank you so much for your hospitality this evening.”

“Ian, my boy - it's not like I had a choice.” Fleming smiled unpleasantly. “Fear not, old man. All will be revealed shortly.” Fleming took a few steps back to the Chevy and opened the passenger door.

A shapely leg swung out -

- Gliding up into an olive drab skirt...?

Marie Blair stepped out, and Shannon would tell people for the rest of his life that he had never before and would never again see the uniform of a Major in the United States Army look quite as good. Marie was smiling as she came to attention and saluted Shannon, who had to think for just a moment before remembering that he was supposed to return it. Her smile was just slightly on the wicked side, and even Fleming was having a hard time restraining his laughter.

Finally, Shannon broke the silence.

“Ah...Major...you didn't tell me...”

That thousand watt smile again. “The Captain didn't ask.”

All Shannon could do was nod and reply, “You have a point, Major. You remember my executive officer, Commander Courbet...?” There was another exchange of salutes, and Beau simply turned on his best charm once again. “The Major's uniform doesn't do her justice.”

“The Major can't always look her best...and this evening is business, sir.”

Courbet blinked as if he'd been slapped with a blackened whitefish, but simply inclined his head and answered, “Major...”

Fleming led the party to the first limo, where an Army captain had emerged and was swinging the passenger door open. A tall, strongly-built, white-haired man in civilian clothes emerged, holding his Homburg down against the wind. With his other hand he took Shannon's and gave it a firm, strong grip. “Captain Shannon, I presume?”, he asked with a solid New York City accent.

“Yes, sir!”

“I'm Bill Donovan, Office of Strategic Services. Pleased to meet you!” Shannon had never heard of him or them, but there were a lot of new outfits out there these days, so that wasn't too upsetting.

“Welcome to the Texas, Mister Donovan.”

“Thanks, Captain. Got some other folks I'd like you to meet.” Donovan led the party back to the second limo as it's doors opened and two heavily built men in overcoats sprung out and took positions on either side of the Packard. Shannon had been right - the doors were suicide doors, squared off like those on an ambulance. Shannon didn't quite make to the Packard when he heard the voice - unchanged all these years, still jaunty and full of cheer:

“Bill, no introductions needed here - Brian and I know each other quite well, and it's been far too long!”

Shannon's eyes went wide, and a little voice in his brain was telling him to stop, stop NOW, but he took the last couple steps and turned to face Franklin D. Roosevelt, President of the United States. The cigarette holder, the pince-nez, the smile -

Oh yeah, Shannon thought with a mixture of excitement and dread. It was the President all right. But it was the other voice that really caught his attention from inside the darkened limo, the rumbling cadences that every American knew from the radio and the newsreels.

“Captain Shannon...it is indeed an honor, sir. My nation and I cannot express our gratitude for your services.” Out of the shadows, a Romeo y Julieta clenched firmly in his teeth, Winston Churchill leaned forward and extended his hand in friendship.

And as he shook Churchill's hand and listened to Roosevelt laugh himself silly, all Brian Shannon could think of was that he wished he'd told Robbie to put out the good place settings.

Mike Kozlowski could only look at Shannon with his jaw down.

“Commander,” Shannon said, “You look like a stunned trout.”

Kozlowski closed his mouth and gulped before plunging forward. “Sir,” he said hesitantly, “FDR and Churchill himself were there?!?”

Shannon nodded. “I've got the pictures somewhere to prove it.”

Kozlowski almost stuttered as he answered, “Sir, I don't doubt you in the slightest - it's just that not a single history book even suggests...”

Shannon smiled like a hungry wolf. “Don't believe everything you read, boy. Now - quit interrupting me. In any event, dinner was excellent - Robbie's men outdid themselves, the conversation was fascinating, and the company was....incredible...”

After the dishes had been cleared away, everyone sat back to relax a little. Shannon was still having a hard time believing what exactly was going on, but after a bit it was just easier to sit back and enjoy it.

Churchill and Roosevelt had bantered back and forth and with everyone else with all the skill and timing of a pair of practiced vaudevillians. Marie Blair was an utterly charming and self-confident young woman, and as she spoke Shannon remembered the young girl he'd met in Caracas six years before - and what an incredible difference there was between the two. Donovan was also an experienced raconteur, relating stories of his service in The Great War - “Though I suppose,” he pointed out, “ they'll have to come up with a different name for it now...”

It was over the second cup of coffee that Shannon looked at the clock and realized it was almost eight. Roosevelt caught the glance and said, “Brian, I expect you've gathered that we are here for more than just a chance for the Prime Minister to say thank you.”

Shannon nodded. “The thought had occurred to me, Mister President. I just wish I'd have had a bit more notice that you were all going to be here.”

Churchill shook his head. “Secrecy and security are mother's milk to this war effort, Captain Shannon. The fewer in the know, the better - not to mention that were you to be mentioned, it could make you a target as well. The Hun despises you for what you did to his ship. He will stop at nothing if he had the chance to destroy both of us.”

“Tru' enough, sir,” Courbet said, “but we are already targets by virtoo of what we do.”

“Targets,” Donovan pointed out, “who happen to have a great deal of experience in dealing with a threat unlike any our nations have ever faced.”

Shannon smiled modestly. “Mister Donovan, one battle doesn't necessarily make for experience...”

Donovan smiled knowingly. “More than just one battle, Captain.” Shannon blanched, and Donovan hastened to reassure him. “Fear not, Captain. All of us in this room have been cleared to talk about it.” Shannon raised an eyebrow in surprise and looked at Courbet, who merely raised his coffee cup in salute and said, “I may say, wit' some pride, dat I myself have don' da State some service.”

Shannon nodded, trying to take it in. “That'll teach me to read personnel files more closely,” he cracked, and that brought a round of laughter until Donovan spoke up.

“Actually, Captain, that experience is what we need.”

Shannon looked at him questioningly. “How so?”

Churchill leaned forward, puffing steadily on his cigar. “Captain, one of the reasons I am here in the United States is to help lay out our war aims - one of which is to harry, harass, and hunt down the Hun wherever we shall find him, including in his own backyards.”

“And how do Commander Courbet and I fit into that...?”

Fleming took this one. “The Prime Minister and the President have ordered the formation of a joint secret service whose job is to attack the Germans from the shadows until we are ready to liberate Europe. I've been seconded over to it myself, along with Major Blair.”

Roosevelt spoke up, the cigarette holder scribing circles as he did. “Winston and I agreed that Bill Donovan will run it from this end. But we need some good people - smart ones, inventive ones - to help him. And we'd like you and Commander Courbet to do it. We'll bring you up to Washington and put you on Bill's staff - it's in mufti, so you can pretty much leave the uniforms behind.”

Churchill jumped in, his eyes alight. “Captain Shannon, you have shown yourself to be everything that is great and courageous about the United States Navy. Your record and that of Commander Courbet speak for themselves. Come with us - help us set Europe ablaze, help us teach the Hun that there is no hiding place, no safe haven.”

Shannon sat back in surprise, and even Beau Courbet was taken aback.. Every one of his guests had a knowing smile as they waited for his reply.

“Ah...gentlemen - and lady...” Marie Blair smiled again, and for a moment, he thought about just grabbing his seabag and going - “This is an...well, an honor...may I have an evening to think about it?”

Roosevelt nodded. “Of course, Brian. We're asking you to give up a lot...”

“And gain even more,” Churchill said. “In the meantime, having taken care of business, please allow me to have more of that wonderful navy coffee...”

KM POSEIDON
2 NM S OF FORT CUSTIS
2200 HOURS

Holst always tried to avoid saying or even thinking the phrase “so far, so good”, but it was hard to avoid it now. The code that Kriegsmarine had sent them had gotten them past the first hurdle, the gatekeeper guns at Fort Custis. At that range, the little 75mm popguns couldn't have done much damage, but they would have alerted the Amis and they would have had to have beaten a hasty retreat.
It was what came next that concerned him. The first of the defensive minefields was up ahead, and although he knew approximately where the channel was at, the information he had on the channel and the second minefield was much sketchier. But, he was a German officer and he had to trust to his skill and training to get him through. And as long as he was dreaming, Holst snorted to himself....

The rain was coming down in sheets outside now, the wind howling and thrumming the superstructure plating. The surface radars were only intermittently useful because of the surface returns, so Holst had had no choice but to post extra lookouts, poor sods who were now getting soaked to the skin and beyond out there.

They were at a stop now, bobbing a bit, as they waited for the pilot boat to come out to them. At most - another hour ninety minutes at the absolute most - and they'd be deploying the first assault company. That was going to be an interesting exercise at best - they'd practiced deploying in heavy seas, but nothing quite like this.

The lookout phone rang, and one of the bridge crew picked it up with a quick motion, listened, then hung up with a quiet, “Danke.” Turning to Holst, the crewman said, “Lookout reports a small craft on its way to us, brightly lit - appears to be the pilot boat.”

Holst nodded. Now the adventure begins, he thought. “All right. I want two security men up here now - have them stand by in my sea cabin in case we need to deal with the pilot.”

"Zu befehl.” The crew man picked up the phone and called the security chief. Within seconds, two huge crewmembers, both carrying holstered Walthers. Holst gave them their orders, and both men stepped back into the navigation room, out of sight of the bridge, but easily reached in just a couple steps.

Just in case.

MV CHESAPEAKE PILOT
2 NM S OF FORT CUSTIS
2220 HOURS

The Chesapeake Pilot had been bringing pilots out to warships and merchantmen alike for decades - certainly longer than any of her present crew could remember, and this was just one more trip. The Swedes had sent word that they were unfamiliar with the mouth of Chesapeake Bay and asked for a pilot to come out a bit earlier than usual, which was no problem. They'd been through worse weather than this, and the extra pay was more than worth it.

The helmsman looked back at the pilot, a rail-thin Georgian named Longton, who had opened a window every few minutes to spit chewing tobacco over the side. “Mister Longton,” the helmsman said, “I'm gonna bring her up along the lee side, you ready?”

Longton nodded, zippering up a battered black raincoat and pulling a sou'wester down on his head. “Ready as I'll ever be, boy. Just get me up there without sinkin' this thing, y'hear?”

The helmsman nodded. “Aye aye, sir,” and nimbly brought the Chesapeake Pilot alongside the tanker's starboard side, where there was already a ladder down with several crewmen waving at them. The waves were far less violent here, and although she was bobbing like a cork, the Swede was sitting there in majestic stillness. The helmsman had done this lots of times before...it was just a matter of timing the waves, figuring out the timing between each swell and just letting the waves do all the work for you.

There was gust of wind and rain, and the smell of the sea suddenly filled Chesapeake Pilot's bridge as Longton stepped out, gripping the rail all the way. The mate took the conn and simply gave, “Steady as she goes.”

“Steady as she goes, aye aye.” Everyone here knew the drill, there was almost no need to even give orders. The helmsman watched Longton wrap an arm around the rail, reaching out for the ladder. One wave broke a fraction of a second sooner than the helmsman had thought it would, and Longton's hand missed the rail by an inch. It earned him a hateful look from the pilot, but a quick twist of the wheel put the pilot boat right on the next wave, and Longton took the ladder as if it had been dropped into his hand, scrambling up before the next wave hit. The mate watched Longton hop over the Swede's rail, then clapped the helmsman on the back. “Get us out of here, boy.” With that, the Chesapeake Pilot's engines dug into the waves and she began a careful circle to starboard, heading back to Norfolk.

One of the crewmen motioned for Longton to follow him, and they got inside the ship to start for the bridge. Longton always liked checking out ships he hadn't seen before, and this one looked like one of the best he'd seen in a while, a helluva lot better than those other rustbuckets he saw every day.

Holst watched as the crew escorted the pilot into the superstructure, then motioned to the security men. Both drew their weapons and stood ready and silent. After a few moments, the sound of footsteps could be heard in the passageway, and the crewman held the door open for Longton to enter.

Holst wasn't impressed. The man looked one step shy of being a derelict. Holst's father had been a pilot in Kiel and had prided himself on his appearance no matter what. But this...the battered mackintosh, the tobacco stains...good grief.

The pilot looked around the bridge for a moment, and Holst figured he had best introduce himself. Stepping forward with his hand extended, Holst assumed what he hoped was a reasonable Swedish accent and said, “Welcome aboard, sir. I am Captain Holst ...”

Longton's response was to take off the sou'wester and extend his hand and shake Holst's.

“Ja, ich weiss. Wilkommen von Amerika, Herr Kapitan.”

And then Longton's right arm shot upwards, palm down.

“Heil Hitler,” he said quietly.

[MKSheppard]

Alarm Red

19 SEP 1941
2240 HOURS LOCAL
KM POSEIDON
2 NM S OF FORT CUSTIS VA

Richard Holst had rarely been as surprised in his life as when the pilot had greeted him in flawless German except for a second later when he gave him a Heil Hitler. It must have shown Longton smiled mirthlessly and said, “Don't let my appearance fool you I only look like this when I'm working.”

Holst could only give a relieved nod and ask, “You know why we're here, then?”

Longton nodded. “I do indeed, Kapitan. And your mission has changed.”

Holst, Von Kadaver, and Longton were in the wardroom a few minutes later. Von Kadaver had been getting his combat uniform on when he got the word to report, and he had been in long enough to know that any summons this close to getting underway could only be a problem.

The wardroom was almost dark, a single lamp in one corner providing just enough light for everyone to see. Longton shrugged out of his mackintosh and pulled a waterproofed envelope from inside his shirt. Opening it, he laid out a map of Hampton Roads and the Norfolk Navy Yard and picked up a pencil to use as a pointer.

“Right. Now, your original mission was twofold: cripple the coast defense weapons at Festung Monroe, and then execute an attack on the Navy Yard itself. Well, there's been an occurrence in the last few hours that changes things considerably.”

“They've been warned?” Von Kadaver asked.

Longton shook his head. “Actually, that seems to be the least likely thing thats happened. You see,” Longton pointed to the map of the Navy Yard, putting a checkmark on the outermost pier. “Late this afternoon, some VIPs – we don't know who - arrived for some kind of conference here.”

“On the pier?” Holst asked.

“No. On the ship at the pier.”

Which is?

“The battleship Texas.”

Von Kadaver looked as if someone had just physically punched him in the stomach, but then regained his composure. “How sure are you of this?” the SS colonel asked.

“One hundred percent,” replied Longton.

Holst looked at the map and shook his head. “All right then. Who are these VIPs?”

Longton shrugged. “That, were not exactly sure. We believe them to be high civilian leaders. Our contact doesn't know why they chose this day and this ship, but the fact that they went through with it in the face of this weather tells us it must be vitally important.”

Holst nodded. “That's a fairly reasonable assumption, but how are we expected to change our mission to allow for it? It seems like the best thing to do would be to just go ahead as planned and let them see what we can drop literally right into their laps.”

“Thats what I assumed as well - but Berlin has other views on the subject...”

Holst sighed, knowing what was coming next. “They want us to raid the meeting itself?”

Longton nodded slowly. “For what its worth, I advised against it.”

Holst carefully looked at the map for a moment, then sat back, shaking his head. “Gentlemen, I'll be damned if I'm going to take on a battleship with a raider. The answer is nein.”

“The answer is ja.” Von Kadaver's voice cut through the room like a gunshot. “We will change the mission accordingly.”

Holst and Longton looked over to Von Kadaver, who was staring intently at the map. “We'll split up the second company - half to the base, the other half to the battleship. We'll get aboard, do what damage we can, and get back out.”

There was silence for a moment until Holst said, quite calmly and reasonably, “You're mad.”

“It can be done.”

“What can be done, Herr Colonel, is that you will needlessly sacrifice a hundred stormtroopers. Do you have any idea at all what you're talking about?”

Von Kadaver's face was twisted in the dim light into an angry mask that looked even more unnerving than usual, but he still never looked up from the map, his eyes still fixed on that pencil tick. “It's no more difficult than attacking any other strongpoint...”

“One that you'll have to climb thirty feet in the air to get aboard before you can do anything. You'll have to avoid lookouts, you'll have to avoid Marine sentries, and you'll have to penetrate, what another six, eight kilometers deeper into the base just to get there. Our job is to get in and hopefully get out, causing a maximum of damage with a minimum of casualties on our side.”

Longton nodded in agreement with Holst. “Herr Colonel, once the shooting starts at the Navy Yard, you will not be dealing with mere garrison forces. You will be dealing with United States Marines - der Teufelhunde. I know men brave ones who faced them at Belleau Wood and do not ever want to again.”

Von Kadaver waved dismissively, still glaring down at that pencil tick. “They aren't the same men they were twenty-three years ago.”

“They are still the closest thing the United States has to the Schutzstaffel.”

Von Kadaver never looked up, never acknowledged Longton's comment other than to say, “But they are not SS, my friend. We are.”

Holst leaned forward, quiet but firm. “Herr Colonel, you have had some bizarre obsession with that ship since we left Hamburg. Now you either tell me what is going on here, or so help me God, I shall abort this mission now.” Von Kadavers face twisted into a snarl, and his hand started to move for his pistol, but Holst never blinked, never moved.

“Do not even consider it, Colonel.” Holst's voice was flat and calm, but unyielding. “Feel free to shoot me. All that will do is save me the trouble of having to explain why you were found here the when the sun comes up. Because believe me, you will not move this ship so much as an inch with me dead by your hand.”

Holst and Von Kadaver merely glared at one another for a moment until Longton broke the silence. “If you gentlemen can avoid a shootout here and now, we need to make a decision at once. Harbor Control is expecting me to tell them we are underway any moment now.”

Holst never took his eyes off Von Kadaver. “Suit yourself, then. I wont risk my men and this ship to get you out.”

“Fair enough,” Von Kadaver replied evenly. “And I will take the utmost pleasure in taking the Texas' flag and shoving it down your throat.” With that, Von Kadaver turned back to the map. “Do you know the Navy Yard well, pilot?”

Longton nodded. “As well as my own home.”

Von Kadaver turned the map towards him and studied it intently. “Now,” he said, almost to himself, “here is the seaplane ramp where we were supposed to go ashore – here.” Von Kadavers finger stabbed at a spot about three hundred meters east of the northernmost pier at the base. “What's this area like?”

Longton turned the map back and thought for a moment. “Empty scrub and a narrow beach. The currents there though are difficult under the best of conditions.”

“It does go down to the water, though?”

“Ja.”

“Then we go there.”

Holst said nothing as he examined the map. “That means another few kilometers further into the harbor before we let you go, and then that much closer and past the guns at Festung Wool.”

Von Kadaver looked up. “That will be fine. Make the necessary changes.” With that, the SS colonel strode out of the room. Holst could only shake his head and pause for a moment, muttering German obscenities to himself as he motioned for Longton to follow him.

USS TEXAS
2250 HOURS

Brian Shannon stood on his bridge, watching the rain cascade down. The ghostly moan of the wind through the rigging was enough to stand your hair on end, no matter how many times you'd heard it before, and even in the warm, dry bridge, with lights on and people around, it could rattle you.

Churchill's growl came from behind him. “We become so wrapped up in our own power, that we forget the power of nature herself. We have yet to create a weapon that can unleash that kind of power.”

Shannon nodded. “Actually, Prime Minister, this isn't even a terribly bad one. Winds are only around eighty knots. Whats going to be tough is in a couple hours when the storm surge comes through.”

Churchill frowned in puzzlement. “I'm not familiar with that term, Captain.”

Beau Courbet spoke up. “Prime Minister, dat be da wave dat a storm like dis push ahead of itself. Again, dis' one not gonna be too bad, - only about eight, ten feet but it looks like it gon' hit right at high tide. Lotta people gonna get flooded out tonight.”

Churchill nodded in understanding. “I thank heaven then we shall be spending the night aboard a ship, especially one as stout as Texas. Do you not fear, though, that you shall lose your power from ashore?”

Shannon shook his head. “We're running on our own power, Prime Minister. When I realized that I was not only going to have you as guests but that you'd also be staying overnight, I had our engineering staff light off enough boilers to get the generators going. You'll be as cozy as if you were back at Ten Downing.”

Churchill grinned. “Captain Shannon, cozy would be a vast improvement over the truth. Ten Downing barely has enough room to turn around in, and I require all the room that I may get.” After a round of smiles, Churchill gave a bone-cracking yawn. “My apologies, Gentlemen that was no reflection on your hospitality or personality, but my day has been a long one.”

“Of course, Prime Minister. This orderly,” Shannon motioned to one of Robbie's men, standing discreetly in the passage “will see you to your quarters. Your security and liaison detail are already there.”

“Thank you, Captain. Until the morning, then.”

Churchill bowed to everyone on the bridge, then trailed out behind the orderly. As soon as he was out of sight, Shannon leaned back against a bulkhead and slowly let his breath out. “Beau,” he said, “explain to me again how we ended up in this situation.”

“I would, Mon Capitaine, but I'm still a bit fuzzy on dat myself.”

Shannon smiled. “Reasonable enough. Refresh my memory on where everybody's at?”

“The Prime Minister is in Admiral's country, the President in your day cabin. We managed to squeeze the escorts in with their respective clients. Mister Donovan and Commander Fleming be in my quarters, and Major Blair is down in Cheng's cabin. Hoo boy, he gonna be miffed when he finds out what he missed.”

“Only if she was made of cast steel and covered in grease and oil. Where are you sleeping at?”

“Guns' quarters, Mon Capitaine. He ashore wit his family.”

“Good enough. Make sure Robbie knows to lay on a first-class breakfast in the morning.”

“Will do, Mon Capitaine.”

With a nod, Shannon headed for his sea cabin, only to notice one more figure still on the bridge besides Courbet and Holloway Marie Blair, looking quietly out the ports at the storm. Shannon walked over beside her and for a moment they said nothing, just watching streams of diamonds pour down from black velvet. You know, Captain, Marie finally said, “this is my first hurricane. Pretty impressive.”

Shannon smiled. “I was telling the Prime Minister that these things can get a lot worse.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “Major, may I ask a question?”

“By all means.”

“I must admit to a certain curiosity- the last time I saw you, the last thing I would have pegged you for was a future spy.”

Marie grinned as she continued to gaze out the port. “Well, I'm not entirely sure what General Donovan...”

Shannon's eyebrow lifted about three inches. “General?”

“Lieutenant General, to be precise. I'm not sure what he saw in me, but from what I've seen over the last month or so, he has a knack for finding people with qualities they may not even be aware they had. Now, I have a lot of time and experience in South America. Daddy was air attache to two different countries there. I speak the language pretty well, and if I may say so myself, I can handle myself pretty well. I may end up just shuffling papers in some Washington office, but its still a pretty good way to help fight the war.” Marie paused herself for a moment before finally turning to face Shannon. “And what about you? Think you'll take General Donovan up on his offer?”

The rain and the wind created a low rumble that seemed to echo on forever as Shannon thought about his reply. “Major,” he finally said, “I'm just not sure – I've wanted to be a naval officer all my life. I've trained, practiced, and - well, and may God forgive me, hoped for the day when I could take a ship of the line into combat.”

Marie nodded. “My understanding is that you did pretty well.”

Shannon replied, “Don't believe everything you hear. We just helped out - the carriers slowed Bismarck down, and the Royal Navy gave her the coup d' grace.”

Silence for a moment, then Marie asked, “And what if it was more important in the end that you be somewhere else?”

Shannon slowly exhaled. “Actually, Major,” he replied, “I've kind of been hoping nobody would ever ask me that. Good night.”

“Good night, Captain.” Marie watched Shannon disappear into his sea cabin and close the door quietly behind him, then she turned back to watching the rain.

KM POSEIDON
5 NM EAST OF OLD POINT COMFORT
2320 HOURS

Holst had to admit that whatever his appearance, Longton was a superb pilot, handling the Poseidon like a virtuoso and never once resorting to a chart. After about half an hour, Longton looked at Holst and pointed forward. Just barely visible in the distance and it took Holst a second or two to make sure of it was a dim green glow.

“Point Comfort Light, Herr Kapitan, just about five miles off. Festung Monroe is just behind that, and your first assault company will be heading for a point actually about four miles north of there. There's a long grassy hillock that runs almost the length of the beach as soon as your men clear it, they'll see the amusement park immediately behind it.”

Von Kadaver stepped out of the shadows. He had on his entire uniform except for his helmet, which he cradled in his right arm. “Any sentries?” he asked.

Longton shook his head. “Normally, yes. But with the weather as bad as it is tonight, the Army will have pulled the beach sentries back for safety. You probably won't encounter any sentries until you reach the Festung grounds proper.”

Von Kadaver nodded at this and then asked Holst, “How long until we get to the drop point?” Holst shot a quick glance at his watch. “Fifteen minutes. I'll have the alarms sound at one minute, then I'll open the hatch. We'll be deploying you on the starboard side.”

“Alles in ordnung, then,” Von Kadaver replied after a brief pause. Longton extended his hand to the SS colonel and said, “Best of luck to you, Herr Colonel. Teach them a lesson.” Von Kadaver wordlessly shook the pilots hand, then looked Holst dead in the eye. “See you in a few hours.” Von Kadaver pivoted on his heel and strode away.

“From his lips to Gods ears,” Holst muttered before turning back to his XO. “When I sound the alarm for that madman to go over the side, put the crew to battle stations. Do not deploy any weapons until I tell you to do so. Verstehen sie?”

“Jawohl.”

Von Kadaver made one last visit to his quarters, then headed down to the deployment bay. Stepping through the hatch, he was greeted with the roar of his NCOs calling the men to attention. Everyone was in formation, fully suited up. Von Kadaver couldnt help feel a thrill as he looked at the ranks. In black armor and helmets, they reminded him of the Reiters, the German knights who sowed terror through Reformation Europe. More than once, they had inflicted damage on their enemies far out of proportion to their numbers.

Just like they were about to.

The units were split up into three groups now instead of the original two. Halberstadt's troops the first ones ashore were standing to their boats on the starboard side. Grosbeck's men had been split into two groups the ones Grosbeck would take ashore at the seaplane ramp, and the second group that Von Kadaver himself would lead to the docks. Striding over to Halberstadt, Von Kadaver snapped to attention and returned Halberstadt's salute.

“Alles in ordnung, Herr Oberst,” Halberstadt said quietly. Von Kadaver looked them over quickly and asked Halberstadt, “Right, then. Ready?”

Halberstadt grinned like a wolf. “I'll have a drink in their officers club before I leave.”

“Kill those guns and I'll buy you your very own officers club when we get back.”

“Jawohl.”

Before Von Kadaver could say anything else, a harsh bell sounded over their heads, echoing off the bare steel bulkheads. Simultaneously, red lights appeared over the massive doors that led out to the deployment chutes. Von Kadaver nodded sharply to Halberstadt, who pulled on his helmet and turned to his men. The electronic buzz that came from the helmets speakers didn't even sound close to human, but it was perfectly comprehensible, from a whisper to a command.

“All right, you rabble, lets go!”

And in return came a crash of boots and the raising of arms in salute, and a robotic roar of, “Sieg Heil!”, then they broke ranks and headed for the boats as the light over the door turned green and started to move with a rumble of hydraulics and gears. The boats were already in place, ingenious variations on the standard Pioneer boats that were not only collapsible, but powered by a battery powered electric motor that was all but silent. Halberstadt and his squad trotted to the first of the ten boats in line as the doors pulled to the full open position , followed by three quick blasts on a klaxon. The smell of the sea filled their masks, and a piledriver gust of wind crashed into the men closest to the door, spray flying through the chute like bullets from a gun.

“Go!” Halberstadt bellowed, and a member of Poseidon's crew at the forward bulkhead punched a red button. The deck beneath the boats actually a thick rubber belt jerked once and began to roll quickly forward, moving Halberstadt's boat towards the waves that were reaching inside the Poseidon. They'd practiced dozens of times, but the conveyor had never seemed to move so quickly before, taking them out of the chute stern first and into the water just as the men leapt in with practiced movements. It was almost a reflex as Halberstadt slapped the switch on the motor...

And then held on for his life as the ships wake yanked them out with all the force of a static line on a parachute drop. The waves were far colder than he would have thought, and he involuntarily inhaled as the propeller bit and screamed as the waves disappeared from beneath them then slapped them upwards again. For one awful second, Halberstadt had the sickening feeling that the boat was going to roll as he looked down at the roiling water, then it landed with a teeth-rattling SLAP and took off, bucketing across the waves towards Point Comfort Light.

Halberstadt looked behind him to see Boat Two get the same introduction to Chesapeake Bay, then start caroming off the whitecaps in trail. Three out, no problem, Four...

Mein Gott, Four hit the waves and did a berserk flip end over end, and Halberstadt could see black shapes scatter and disappear. Halberstadt gritted his teeth and forced himself to look forward at the growing green glow that was their aimpoint. It was widely known but unspoken that going over the side in the armor would almost certainly be a swift and final end. With the suits, backpacks, and weapons, there wouldn't even be time to try and get them off. You'd be under and gone in a moment, and that would be it.

Turning back again, Halberstadt had to wipe the spray and rain off his visor to see the other boats emerge Five, Six, Seven...Eight...Nine...Ten. Just marvelous, Halberstadt thought. Ten percent casualties before they'd even gotten ashore...

Holst and Longton watched through the bridge ports as Halberstadt's company went off on a nightmarish sleigh ride across the waters of Hampton Roads. Longton quickly counted the boats and paused, realizing what must have happened. “Gott mit dir,” Longton muttered to himself.

Holst heard, but remained silent until the last of the boats disappeared into the darkness. Looking at his watch, he did some quick mental calculations and figured the first boats would be ashore in about ten minutes. Turning to Longton, Holst said quietly, “My friend, God will have nothing to do with this.”

BUCKROE BEACH, VA
2350 HRS

They were able to throttle back as they headed for the beach, which was just fine with Halberstadt that left that much more power for getting back to the ship. The waves were doing all the work for them now, throwing them towards the onrushing beach almost as fast as if they'd been under full power. As they approached, Halberstadt held onto the boats ropes as tightly as he could. Even in the darkness, Buckroe Beach stood out as if it was glowing, its sands a bright line between the hillock and the waves.

Two more roller-coaster bumps, then a weird feeling of weightlessness as the boat slipped out of the waves and became airborne for a brief moment, the hissing rasp of sand on its keel letting them known they'd arrived. Halberstadt was out first, and for a moment he though he'd jumped out too soon until his boots crunched and sank into sand. Each man grabbed a rope and pulled the boat as far ashore as they could, then dropped to a crouch around it. Halberstadt looked back once more the rest of the boats were coming ashore, one tumbling at the last second, but its men quickly rising to their feet and trotting up the sands soggy but safe.

Halberstadt made a stay down motion and scrambled up the hillock, staying as low as he could. Peering carefully through the seagrass, Halberstadt could see, just a few dozen meters away, the incongruous shape of a Ferris wheel and a carousel, surrounded by smaller buildings. All right, he thought. We're a little bit north of where we wanted to be, but - he shot a quick glance at the radium dial of his watch - we've got time. He felt rather than heard someone scratching up the hillock beside him, and he turned to see his second, Captain Busch, settle down beside him.

“How do we stand?”

“We're a few hundred meters north of the original landing point.” Halberstadt scooted forward slightly and peered south. The road that the maps showed was there, but of course the maps hadn't shown the roadblock that ran between the amusement park fence and the hillock. Not much to be concerned about, though some barbed wire and Spanish Rider barricades, intended more to slow down vehicles than stop determined soldiers. Halberstadt nodded to himself, considering the situation. Nothing they hadn't expected and planned for. Rising back into a low crouch, Halberstadt motioned “Follow me”, and rolled over the top of the hillock, dropping back down until he was sure everyone was over. Then, carefully and deliberately, he led them down the road that led directly to Festung Monroe.

As nearly as Major Halberstadt could tell, there was absolutely no one in their way.

[MKSheppard]

Beachhead

FORT MONROE, VA
0001 HOURS
20 SEP 41

Damn Army, the sentry thought as another rivulet of spray ran down the back of his neck and he hunched down a bit further in his poncho. Jarheads had the good sense to pull their people inside during weather like this, but not the Army. Even the damned birds stayed in during this, but not the Army. Another gust of wind blew into the sentry, staggering him back a few steps, and he swore once more, cursing the Army that had taken him from Ohio to a place like this where you could drown standing up on dry land.

The sentry reached the end of his track and turned around, thankfully putting his back to the wind. A hundred yards or so away, almost erased in the rain, was the dark shape of Battery Anderson, eight twelve-inch mortars capable of dropping a thousand pound shell on ships miles out to sea. Invisible to the south of Anderson was its twin, Battery Ruggles, and beyond that another four batteries and ten guns that he could not have cared less about tonight. Damn Army, he thought again as he shook his head sadly and trudged back again on the sodden sand of Buckroe Beach.

The IR scope image was sharp enough that the sniper could see the sentry shake his head, and for a moment the sniper thought that the sentry could see him, but then he remembered that the sentry was far enough away. If he'd had the eyesight of an eagle, he couldn't have seen him.

There was a rustle behind him and the image on the scope wavered, disappeared for a heartbeat, and then reappeared. Never taking his eye from the scope, the sniper growled, “Hold that damn thing still, you ass.”

The corporal next to him whispered, “Don't blame me - this wind will blow you all the way back to Germany.” The heavy IR spotlight was difficult to hold under the best of circumstances and they'd never practiced using it under conditions like this.

The sniper muttered a Bavarian obscenity, released his breath, and then sighted in again. The Mauser rifle still felt a bit odd with its heavy silencer on the muzzle, but the sniper thanked God for it. The sentry, a luminous red blob more than a hundred meters away, had obligingly stopped walking. Be grateful for small favors, the sniper thought as he carefully squeezed the trigger, and the rifle dug back into his shoulder with a pffft noise that was lost in the rain and wind. The sentry's head went horribly distorted in the scope as he went down without even a cry, the rattle of his weapon falling muffled by his own body.

The sniper gave two taps on the spotter's knee, and the spotter about-faced and switched the spotlight off and on twice. Halberstadt, watching through his own IR scope nodded to himself and put the viewers back into their protective pouch. The personal IR gear was a godsend, but the heavy electronics - secure in their backpacks and connected to the viewers by a coiled cable - was almost enough to make you think twice. Halberstadt turned slightly and raised his hand over his head, twirling it three times, and then moved forward.

KM POSEIDON
0010 HOURS

They were opposite the fortress now, just passing the long pier called Engineer's Wharf, with Fort Wool off their starboard bow. Holst watched everything passing with a calm he didn't feel. Longton was still standing next to him, buttoning up his rain slicker.

“I'll be leaving as soon as we clear Strawberry Point,” the pilot said. “I have some friends coming out to get me.”

Holst could only smile. “I imagine we've got more than enough room to take one person back.”

Longton shook his head. “Captain, I'll tell you something I probably shouldn't. I've been here since 1910. I've done my duty here through two world wars, and as much as I cannot wait to see the swastika raised over Washington, this is my home now. I don't even think I could find my way around my old hometown now.”

“Where was that?”

“Berlin.”

Holst smiled gently. “You're right. You wouldn't recognize it.”

Fort Wool was slipping past them now, just a few hundred feet to starboard. Holst and Longton watched silently as it loomed in the darkness. There were a dozen or so 76mm guns there, and Holst reflected for a moment that he had never been quite that close to an enemy's guns before. Longton seemed to be reading his thoughts as he said; “I've seen them at target practice. They're quite good.”

“I believe you. That's why, as insane as this idea is - if it convinces them to stop now, I'm for it. If they don't...only one of our nations will ever walk away from this.”

Longton nodded. “Better it should be ours.” The pilot walked to the door and opened it, a strong breeze filling the bridge. Clicking his heels, Longton gave a bow. “Auf widersehn, Herr Kapitan. Have one at Horcher's for me.” Holst came to attention and saluted. “Horcher's is a Luftwaffe watering hole now, I'm afraid. But I'll have one wherever I can get it.”

Longton shook his head as he closed the door behind him and headed down the ladder to the main deck.

The red brick western port of the Hampton Roads tunnel sits today just a little bit to the west of where Holst hit the alarm bell and the portside hatch rumbled open. Grosbeck took his team out first for the ride to the seaplane ramp. Grosbeck held on for dear life as his boat caromed over the wavetops, risking occasional glances behind him to see just how many boats made it. It looked like all five, anyways. Grosbeck's teeth slammed together as the boat gave a stomach-churning drop, and then hit the water again. After a few minutes of this, Grosbeck thought, getting shot at would be a pleasure.

A few minutes later, Holst watched as the last boats thumped out of the hatch, rolling and pitching into the rain and spray, then picked up the phone to the Attack Center. “This is the captain. I'm on my way down.”

“Jawohl.”

Turning to the first mate, Holst said, “Get us in position, and then close down the bridge. We'll shift full control to the attack center. Make sure everyone is under cover and that everyone is ready to respond instantly.”

“Yes, sir.”

Holst took one last look around the bridge. Another kilometer or so, and they'd be at the anchorage. Of course, they wouldn't drop anchor, and the big turbines would keep spinning, ready to help them leap away at the first opportunity. They'd come around into the wind, which would point them north in any event - and that was just fine with him. They'd move out, guns blazing, and with a little luck they could clear the bay outbound before the surviving guns at Fort Wool and Fort Monroe could get a bead on them.

But as Richard Holst headed down the ladder for the attack center, he couldn't shake a nagging, empty feeling.

The feeling that this might be the last look he had at the outside world.

NAVAL BASE NORFOLK
SEAPLANE RAMP
0017 HOURS

Major Grosbeck and his men huddled down behind the seaplanes - rail-thin Catalinas and hulking Mariners - that the Amis had so thoughtfully lined up on the ramp, each one carefully tied down and neatly concealing their approach from anyone who might be looking. A team was swiftly running along the parked aircraft, setting charges every couple of aircraft. They had intended to place charges on every aircraft, but there were literally more here than they could have possibly imagined. If they had any fuel at all, a few explosions in their midst would set the whole gaggle off like a string of firecrackers. It would make excellent cover during their escape.

Peering through the IR scopes, Grosbeck looked eastward across the ramp. A row of buildings across the road from the ramp area was the aircraft maintenance buildings - the heart of the US Navy's ability to keep their aircraft flying. Behind them were the storehouses, the priceless stockpiles of beans and spare parts that the US needed to keep its ships at sea. Well, they wouldn't be there for long, Grosbeck thought with a grim smile. Taking one more look around, Grosbeck raised his hand above his head and twirled it once. Staying in a low crouch, he moved forward, and he thought for the entire world that they must look as if they were in?what did the Amis call it in their Western movies - Indian Country?

As Grosbeck was moving his men out, Von Kadaver's squads ran up the rocky shingle that made up the southeastern edge of the Naval Base, hitting the dirt at a small lip of sand and weedy grass. Von Kadaver himself looked through his IR scope, swinging it around until he saw it - badly distorted and almost shapeless in the distance, but over the last few hours he had reviewed in his mind the intelligence pictures over and over again. There were the fire control directors, there was the tripod mast, and those were the main turrets.

Schlachtschiff Texas. And as far as he could tell, there was nothing between him and the ship. Nodding to himself, Von Kadaver secured the scope and twirled his hand. They had roughly a kilometer between where they had come ashore and where they would actually cross into the dock area. It was open, but thank God it was unlit, and apparently unpatrolled. Still in a low crouch, the black figures moved almost noiselessly across the thin, sandy scrub.

If you asked Von Kadaver and his men how long it took them to cross the field, they probably would have said hours, but for highly trained and fit men, it was only a few minutes. They stopped again just a bit west of where the McDonald's is on today's Norfolk Naval Base - there was a low, nondescript brick building there then, and the SS commandos paused for a moment while Von Kadaver and his IR spotlighter peered carefully around the corner.

“Dammit,” Von Kadaver growled as he got a feel for his target. First, there was a heavy, gated chain-link fence blocking access to the otherwise empty pier where Texas sat, imperturbably riding out the storm. But Von Kadaver could also see, quite clearly, three large cars parked beside here, and what looked to be movement around them. He had hoped to be able to get up to the pier unnoticed, but with the revelation earlier that there were dignitaries of some kind aboard the ship; he knew in his heart that it would be impossible.

Slipping back around the corner, Von Kadaver thought for a moment. Get to the ship?

Very possible, especially if they took down any sentries and rushed the gates.

Get aboard the ship?

Questionable. They would have to make a three hundred meter run in just about record time and get up the gangplank before anyone could stop them. He checked his watch once again. Not quite 12:30 in the morning. What kind of routine did they have up there? Poseidon pretty much shut down, with only a skeleton crew on duty at night. Did the Amis do the same thing?

The little voice in his head said, only one way to find out.

Von Kadaver turned and motioned his squad leaders forward. They moved like wraiths through the wind and rain, each one a skilled combat leader, each one the veteran of three campaigns. In the US they'd have been Majors at the very least, but in the SS they were still Lieutenants. Leaning forward so as to keep his voice down, Von Kadaver said, “All right. I want the snipers out front first, to fire on my orders only. When they've fired, we're going to rush that gate - first man there open it. Then run like hell for that gangplank, and simply start shooting at anything you see. Listen to me on the command circuit...” Von Kadaver tapped the side of his helmet for emphasis “...and do exactly what I tell you, no more, no less. If you lose contact with each other or me once inside the ship, whatever you do don't go further down into the ship - go up and forward. Most likely the people we're looking for will be there. When I tell you get off the ship, get off it, no nonsense. Understood?”

The squad leaders nodded. They knew that they didn't stand a good chance of getting through this in one piece, but that was all right. They were SS.

“Sehr gut,” Von Kadaver said. “Snipers into position, wait for my signal.”

FORT MONROE

Batteries Anderson and Ruggles were theirs, and fairly won. The sappers had taken just moments to drop special thermite grenades into each mortar. Once someone was foolish enough to slide a round into the barrel, the thermite would light off at thousands of degrees centigrade and utterly ruin some poor gunners day.

Halberstadt had moved forward much more carefully after they had cleared Ruggles, for now they were getting within sight of the massive fortress itself and the buildings that had sprouted up around it like dandelions after a spring storm - and a great many of those buildings were barracks. Halberstadt knew how to deal with them as well, and his sappers sprinted forward to take care of the closest ones before racing back. Checking his watch once again, Halberstadt's mind quickly ran down the list of what was happening - or at least supposed to be happening. Grosbeck's men were crossing the road at the seaplane ramp; Von Kadaver was in position across from the battleship. The Standartenführer had been most explicit about what would happen next - as soon as Halberstadt took out Batteries DeRussy and Church, the party would start across the bay, and Halberstadt would have to hold on until he got the word to start falling back to the boats.

Fair enough, thought Halberstadt. More than one of his instructors when he'd been at the Kadetkaserne at Lichterfelde had told him that the Führer wasn't paying them to live, he was paying them to die. Fair enough, Halberstadt thought once again, falling back on his training. Focus on the job, focus on the job. Do that and you'll get home every time.

Halberstadt leaned out behind the row of bushes that was sheltering him to take one last sweep with the IR scope. Everything looked fine - and more importantly, deserted. But then, peering into the rain and wind, Halberstadt paused. No, something wasn't right. But what?-

The IR scope was showing everything quite clearly - the two-story barracks, a scattering of the odd metal buildings the Amis called Quonset huts, three more batteries ? - Three?

Halberstadt quickly looked at the plasticized map of the fortress that he kept in his blouse. There was where they came ashore, there were Anderson and Ruggles, and there were supposed to be only two more batteries, DeRussy and Church. But the IR scope said otherwise. Just south of DeRussy was the unmistakable shape of another fortified battery. At this range it was impossible to tell what was in it, but there was no doubt what it was.

Halberstadt reflexively checked his radio to make sure no one could hear him as he loosed a string of obscenities inside his helmet, then settled down. Training again - when the worst happens, assume the worst and act accordingly. Calling his squad leaders together, Halberstadt explained what had happened. “My guess is that the fools in intelligence somehow missed it, but there will be plenty of time to assign blame later. For right now, I want Schaap to take Church as planned, Balch, you take DeRussy, and I'll take the rest on down to this other one and secure it.”

One of the squad leaders spoke up. “What if there are no guns there?”

“Then the worst that's happened is that we've secured a strongpoint over the only sally port out of the Fortress that directly faces us. If at all possible, I'll pull back to DeRussy before the party starts. All right then; off with you.” The squad leaders moved back to their positions, and Halberstadt checked his watch once more. 12:25 AM. They had built a five-minute lag into the plan, and Halberstadt was sure he was going to need every second of it.

NORFOLK NAVAL BASE

From the looks of things, Grosbeck was sure that the Amis had absolutely no idea they were at war. Even allowing for the bad weather, they hadn't seen a single sentry yet - which was fine with him. Before he could reflect on this any further though, his headset gave three gentle beeps, inaudible to anyone except him. That was the signal that everything was wired and ready to go. The sappers had been forced to move even faster than they had in training, because a lot of the men who were supposed to help them were now with the Standartenführer a few kilometers down the road. Grosbeck had helped assault real, state-of-the-art fortresses during the French campaign, but he had absolutely no desire to help attack an actual warship. He hadn't understood der Chef's insistence on attacking that steel monster across the base, but one didn't rise to greatness in the SS by questioning one's superiors. Actually, one could only go downhill from there...

Grosbeck looked up as he saw the black forms of the sappers glide almost noiselessly back to their positions. He risked a quick look at his watch - 12:28. All right, then. Wait for Halberstadt to sound Gabriel's trumpet.

The snipers - Von Kadaver had taken all the snipers from Grosbeck - were in place on either side of the warehouse, and the team had been divided into two groups as well. Von Kadaver had been most blunt - anyone who even twitched before the snipers fired would become the first casualty of the evening, and at the Standartenführer's hands, no less. Each sniper had their targets in sight, two sentries who were dutifully marching back and forth along the battleship's length. There really wasn't much of a challenge to it - it was unlikely the heavy rounds would strike the fence with its huge open links, and both sentries were marching far enough apart that they never crossed. Everything was as ready as he could make it, and Helmut Von Kadaver didn't often come to that particular conclusion. One last look at his watch - 12:29. Von Kadaver looked back over his shoulder to where he knew Fort Monroe lurked in the darkness; half expecting to see a sudden flare to tell him Halberstadt had started his devils' work, and then turned back. No sense in watching the clock. As he turned, Von Kadaver felt a familiar, almost comforting tug at his equipment belt and reflexively lowered his hand to the long, solid length of steel that hung there. The troops had certainly noticed the sword - an old imperial pattern that Von Kadaver's father had marched into France with in 1870, a weapon that had saluted the Iron Chancellor and four Kaisers - but no one had said anything, half out of respect and half out of fear that der Chef might just use it on them.

Actually, Von Kadaver thought, even if someone had provoked him badly enough, he wouldn't have used the sword. He had another target in mind for it.

Fritz Halberstadt took one last look around from what he now knew to be Battery Parrott. It was awfully impressive for its age, he thought, but unmanned it was nothing more than a potentially deadly display piece.

Halberstadt's men were atop Batteries Church, DeRussy, and Parrott, and they were now carefully making their way down into the galleries that surrounded the massive coast defense rifles. The Amis had been kind enough to put earthen embankments on the seaward side that were easily climbed and kept the heavy concrete bulk of the batteries between them and any stray sentries. Directly across from Parrott and DeRussy was the only actual entrance out of the Fort on the seaward side, a narrow gate through the ramparts that was just big enough for a single car to squeeze carefully through. There were two more entrances - one large one on the south face, and another on the west - but the batteries would do a wonderful job of covering the approaches. It was one of life's little ironies that so much thought had been put into keeping people out of the fort, but those same advantages would make it surprisingly easy to keep people in.

All right then, Halberstadt thought, let's get started. Quietly, so much so that even someone next to him couldn't hear, he spoke into the radio. “Squad leaders, confirm.”

“Hier Schaap. All ready.”

“Hier Balch. At your command.”

One last look. So quiet. Almost peaceful, even with the storm whirling away around them. The watch sewn onto the left sleeve of his blouse showed 12:30 and some seconds. He was late, but not by much. As Halberstadt turned to face the lead sapper, he knew that it wouldn't matter.

The sapper held a small box in his hands that connected to a small transmitter mounted in his backpack that would set off every charge they'd laid simultaneously. Telefunken had worked for months to come up with something that small and reliable, and at least one researcher had found himself discussing technical problems with the Gestapo. Halberstadt nodded to the sapper and hoped that whatever the researcher had gone through, it was worth it.

The sapper gave a sharp nod and with a flick of his thumb popped off the bakelite trigger guard.

Flick the trigger toggle once - ignite the batteries - feel the heat as they ignited...

...Look up at the thirty-meter silver pole with its red, white and blue banner that reared up over a bastion a short distance away across the moat...

...Flick the trigger toggle once more, no going back now as he felt the hum of the transmitter sending out its invisible trumpet call...

What did the Amis say in their national anthem ?

...Bombs bursting in air ?

[MKSheppard]

Postern Gate

FORT MONROE
00:30:46

Halberstadt winced in reflex as the charges went off, splintering the ends of the barracks closest to them like toothpicks. He felt, rather than heard, the charges they had placed in the batteries going off. A few wisps of smoke were all that indicated that Batteries Parrott, DeRussy, and Church were now no more than very expensive piles of scrap iron.

And now – there they were – shapes starting to move in the smoke and the rain…

NAS NORFOLK SEAPLANE RAMP
00:30:48

Grosbeck slapped the lead sapper on the shoulder and the man pressed the DETONATE button so hard he thought it would break. Yellow-white light filled the sky, and even the rain stood out in relief for one incredible heartbeat, and then the shockwave hit them so hard that it was like getting punched in the stomach.

“Mein Gott...” Grosbeck ducked as a huge secondary explosion, then another, started to billow up from the warehouses. What in the name of God had they hit? No time to worry now, the men were on their feet and moving forward as fast as their legs would carry them.

PIER TEN
NORFOLK NB
00:30:47

Von Kadaver saw the flash and part of his mind started counting the seconds until he heard the combined roar/thud, but he didn’t have time for such niceties. The snipers were true to their word, and they fired so closely together that it might have been a single shot. The rounds flew straight and true, both sentries going down before they could even turn to see what was happening.

“NOW, NOW, MOVE OUT!!” Von Kadaver jumped out in front of his men, leading the way, the gate just a few hundred feet away. My God, he thought, this is just like Poland or France again ...

USS TEXAS
00:30:47

Ensign Holloway saw the flash of the Fort Monroe charges going off and turned a little, thinking it might be lightning – but the sight of Grosbeck’s men setting off their charges quickly disabused him of that idea as most of Supply Row being turned into a cloud of incandescent gases. The shockwave that followed was enough to even shake Texas, and that shook Ensign Gilbert Holloway.

When the human brain – no matter how well trained, no matter how acclimated to sudden and unexpected stress – is faced with completely unanticipated, surprising terror, the tendency is to freeze, to stay right where one is until the brain finds the right response in a lifetime of experiences. Holloway knew that he had to get the Captain...

...He had to sound general quarters first...

...No, get the Captain first...

...No, GQ, had to be GQ first ...

And with both of those thoughts running through his brain, he could see, as if in a dream, shapes moving towards the gate a few hundred yards down the pier, and dear Lord they were SHOOTING, call the Captain, sound GQ...

But instead, he stood his ground, and merely screamed.

Then he hit the GQ alarm.

At Camp Allen, the Marine base beside Norfolk NB, the CQ saw the flashes and was about to write them off as lightning, until the thunder knocked him out of his chair and sprawling onto the floor, along with dozens of Marines who were in their bunks. Marine training being what it is, when they got up they had their rifles in their hands.

The gate to the pier blew open, helped along by bursts from the troopers, swinging inward. Von Kadaver was at their head, getting loose two sharp bursts at the men who were trying to get out of one of the cars parked near the ship’s gangplank. They dropped, but even in the rain he could see them assume shooting stances. At that range, a hit from a pistol was more of a miracle than anything else, but there were still rounds coming their way, and the leading troopers reacted just the way they’d been trained.

Brian Shannon was out of his bunk in the sea cabin as soon as he heard Holloway’s screams and the GQ alarm go off, and he was sure later he never touched the ground as he bolted through the door and onto the bridge.

“What the hell are you – ***!!” A few stray rounds bounced harmlessly though spectacularly off of Texas’ flanks, and Shannon instinctively hit the deck, Holloway close beside him. Shannon heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Ian Fleming charge onto the bridge with a Webley revolver drawn.

“Goddammit Fleming, put that thing away on my bridge!” Fleming only smiled and replied, “Not very likely dear boy, we’re being shot at!” Before Shannon could answer, Marie Blair came onto the bridge with her M1911. “Major!” Shannon barked, “put that thing away!”

“Never will forget the look on her face,” Admiral Shannon said after a sip of coffee. “Looked at me as if I’d grown six heads.”

Shannon mentally shrugged, then got off the deck and looked down onto the pier, where – what the hell were those – were charging towards his ship –oh, hell –

“Captain!” It was Marie, gesturing to the two .50 machineguns that had been mounted on the bridge gallery, complete with ammo in the ready bins. “Do those things work?”

Shannon’s jaw dropped. “Yes, but you don’t know how they work!”

Marie grabbed Fleming and they both leapt through the hatch onto the gallery as rain blew back into the bridge. Both of them dropped down behind the gallery coaming and started loading the fifties with quick, professional motions.

Fleming, okay, but – “Major!! Put that damned thing down before you kill yourself!”

That thousand watt smile again. “You forget Captain, I was An Army brat...” she popped up like a tigress attacking lunch, and released a long burst that pinged against the dock below – “toys were expensive, but ammo was cheap! Daddy used to take us to the range to keep us amused and out of Mom’s hair!” Fleming squeezed off a quick burst, turned back to look at Shannon and cracked, “I wouldn’t argue with her, Brian – she seems to be quite good at this!”

Far be it from me, Shannon thought as Robbie Robinson came thumping onto the bridge. “Robbie!” Shannon barked, “start feeding ammo up this way, and get your runners onto any gun they can!”

“Aye aye, sir!” Robbie bounded back into the passageway behind the bridge and disappeared.

The Secret Service men in the car had gotten enough shots off fast enough that even Von Kadaver’s men had paused for a second, but no more than that as they rushed the line of cars, firing from the hip. One of the squad leaders almost reached the cars and dropped, sprawled like a broken toy. Von Kadaver had enough time to think that it might have been a head shot – the armor there wasn’t as strong as the rest of the suit – before his men opened up on the cars with a fusillade that surely would have woken the dead. In the event, it didn’t – but it did create a few more, turning the majestic line of cars into scrap metal, hundreds of rounds turning the cars into sieves. And then – just as they’d been taught – they took cover and reloaded, and Von Kadaver realized they might have just lost the fight.

“YOU ASSES!” Von Kadaver bellowed, “KEEP MOVING, KEEP MOVING!!” and the troopers responded to the electronic buzz, but the momentum would be broken.

The first Marines out of Texas’ superstructure saw the flashes from the stormtroopers’ guns and hit the rough teak deck, trying to locate their targets, and they were rewarded with the sight of vague movement near the cars lined up near the gangplank. When all else fails –

Von Kadaver dropped as rounds started pinging around him. Looking up, he saw the flashes of gunfire from the ship, near where its stack loomed upwards. “Move, move!!” the SS leader called, and his men rushed the gangplank.

“Holy ***, Sarge, they’re trying to –“

Whatever the Marine private was going to say was cut off as rounds started to carom off the gray steel over their heads, and the Sarge wondered why the clown had bothered to say anything at all, because it was obvious that whoever it was, they were trying to get on his battleship, and he’d be damned if he’d be the first Marine to lose a ship in a hundred freaking years or so.

“Give it everything you got!” Marine Springfields fired so rapidly that it looked as if a machine gun had been set up on the main deck.

The leading SS man went down in a skid as his armor lost the fight with the heavy .30 rounds that were being thrown at him, and the man right behind him leapt over the motionless corpse, only to be flung back himself. Having to sweep around the cars, the halt for reloading, then get moving again, the SS men were now just a few heartbeats behind the eight ball, and they were now running for the narrow opening that led up to their prize, boots crashing on the pier’s blacktop. But for every step the stormtroopers took, more rifles seemed to be opening up.

“FIRE!!”

Halberstadt roared the command as the first armed men began to race out from the Postern Gate, and were just as quickly mowed down, but as that registered with him, shots began to ricochet off the concrete facings behind him from riflemen who were mounting the top of Fort Monroe’s massive ramparts.

His men responded coolly, taking their time and aiming with the sort of precision that they had shown marching through Europe. But they were firing upwards at men who had the largest fortress in the world to protect them.

The Sergeant and a handful of Marines watched as the attackers seemed to be setting themselves up for another run at the ship, but then stopped as heavy machinegun fire lanced out from – up around the bridge, it looked like. And he had to come up with a way to keep those bastards off his ship…

The Lieutenant came up the sodden ramp to Flagstaff Bastion, and the first thing that caught his attention was that some idiot had forgotten to bring the colors down –

“LOOTENANT, GET THE HELL DOWN!!” A hand was around his leg and he was suddenly down in the mud as he heard the pffft of bullets slicing through the air above him. One of his Sergeants was looking at him like he had six heads, and he felt for all the world like the biggest fool in the US Army just then.

The Sergeant didn’t wait for him to ask what was going on, and just gave him the situation. “Sir, I’m not sure what the hell happened, but we got hostiles in Church, DeRussy, and Parrott!” A long burst tore the night open, and they heard the sound of someone – one of their someones – scream and gurgle. The Sergeant swore under his breath, and then started again over the mounting sound of small arms fire. “Looks like some of our guys already tried to get through Postern Gate, but they didn’t make it!”

Oh hell, the Lieutenant thought. “What about the guys in the barracks out there?”

A quick fusillade made them both duck, then the Sergeant said, “Sir, it looks like that gawdaful bang we heard was them taking the barracks out! I’m not sure anybody got out of there!”

The Lieutenant didn’t know exactly how many troops were stationed at Monroe, but he knew that most of the combat troops had been in those barracks just outside the moat. And if they were gone…dammit, they didn’t cover this at OCS. After a second, the Lieutenant said, “For right now, let’s just make ‘em keep their heads down and see if we can keep ‘em from getting away!”

“With pleasure, Sir!” Turning to the troops, the Sergeant barked, “Okay, ladies, keep ‘em pinned down!” The troops kept firing as more and more riflemen came pounding down the rampart.

The phone next to his chair buzzed, and Shannon grabbed it.

“This is the Captain!”

“Cap’n, this is Sergeant Brophy from the Marine detachment! I’m midships with my men – Major Kelly’s ashore! Look, we gotta get the gangplank over the side – whoever those bastards are, they’re trying to get aboard!”

A cold chill ran down Shannon’s spine as he realized just what he was being told. The President of the United States and the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom were a few feet away from him, and at least a hundred armed men were about to try and take his ship.

“I read you, Sergeant!”

“Look, sir...” the sound of impacts and ricochets scratched down the line – “I need you to get those fifties ready to cover us!!”

“Captain, you ready?”

Shannon had the phone to his ear, waiting for the word to go. “Anytime you want, Sergeant!”

Back amidships, the Sergeant and three of his men were down behind a ventilator, crouched down out of the line of fire. It was only a few feet – maybe twenty or thirty – to the head of the gangplank, and they were going to have to grab the heavy canvas and tubular steel structure and get it over the side. He took a long look at the – whatever the hell they were down there on the pier trying to get up to the ship, and figured if they didn’t do something, they were going to get up there. The Sergeant took a deep breath and roared into the phone, “Okay, NOW!” Throwing the phone down, the Sergeant jumped forward, his eyes locked on the spot he intended to grab for, three other Marines leaping ahead with him.

“NOW!” Shannon bellowed, and Fleming and Marie opened up, spraying the pier with fire.

Von Kadaver dropped back behind one of the cars as the heavy machine gun fire dug trenches across the pier, and out of the corner of his eye he saw movement on the main deck, and he knew what was coming. It was reflex that made him jump up and run forward, screaming his lungs out as he pounded across the piers, concrete fragments spraying around his legs and the entire formation coming up behind him. Only vaguely did he realize that everyone else was screaming too, but it was the electronically distorted whine of the helmet speakers, and it sounded like banshee’s wails.

Time was moving in slow motion as the Sergeant ran down the deck, moving like a broken field runner at the Rose Bowl. There was fire over their heads in both directions, and he wanted to duck down even further. One of the men alongside him went down, thrown back against the bulkhead with a stunned look on his face, but there was no time to help. A few more steps, that’s all…

The handful of engine room snipes still aboard Texas was tripping over each other in the cramped semi-dark maze that was the old dreadnaught’s boiler room, with Courbet and a grizzled Chief snarling orders and doing their best to help out, but it had been a long time since Beau Courbet had been in the boiler spaces of anything, much less a battleship. The one boiler that had been lit off was being brought up to full pressure as fast as they dared, a young ensign overseeing the process. Courbet came around a corner, the steel grating vibrating under his feet as he roared, “Mister Whatley, you better be gettin’ dat boiler up, we do not have all goddamn night!!”

Whatley looked up at Courbet, his voice almost breaking. “Sir, I’m doing my best –“

“Chief,” Courbet called, “show dis lad how to get a boiler running!”

“Aye aye, sir!!” The Chief respectfully pushed Whatley out of the way, and spun two huge red valve wheels. There was a loud hiss, followed by a thump and a roar as gallons of oil combusted inside the boiler.

“That’s how you do it, Mister Whatley! Merci beaucoup, Chief! Get them other boilers up!”

Bullets picked up a stormtrooper beside Von Kadaver, flinging him down as they put their first steps on the gangplank and the plank was moving, NO - instinctively reaching for the rail, Von Kadaver was trying to grab it with one hand as he watched three men lift the gangplank off the ship’s deck with a Herculean effort. He raised his pistol and got one round off, but their leader, a huge man in a white t-shirt and khaki trousers, leveled his pistol and fired directly at Von Kadaver.

He felt the punch, like someone throwing a shot put right at him, and he felt himself physically lifted off the pier and flung down hard onto his back, knocking the wind out of him. His mind knew what he had to do, and his body wanted to respond, but he couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, he needed air and when he could breathe again, he felt someone hauling him back towards the wrecked cars, now burning merrily in the rain and wind.

Fort Monroe’s Postern Gate is remarkably small. Perhaps only ten feet high, and just barely wide enough for a car to get through if the driver is very careful. And just inside it now, pressed up against the muddy slope of the rampart, were a dozen wet, frightened soldiers, lit by the flames of the burning barracks. One of them, a Corporal who a few months earlier had been a football player in California, looked around at the tiny band and said, “Okay – who’s in charge?”

There was silence for a very long moment, broken only by the sounds of the battle going on outside, then one of the others looked at him and said, quite softly, “I think you are, Corporal.”

“Great.” The corporal shook his head, trying to figure out what to do next. They had to get out there and …well, do something…but what? We gotta secure a firing position, that’s what we gotta do…

“Whaddya say, Corporal?”

The corporal winced when he realized he’d been talking to himself, and then just nodded. “We gotta get out there. I don’t know how, but we’ve gotta move, and move now.” All of them hit the dirt as bullets thwacked against the granite blocks that made up the gate, and the Corporal shook the mud and rain out of his face while he tried to think of something. He turned at the sound of splashing behind him to see a team come up with a .30, and ammo…. but a fat lot of good it did them if they couldn’t set it up without being killed –

Another burst of fire went over his head, screaming off the granite once more – except for one odd thwack sound. The Corporal looked up and saw something that he’d seen every day he’d been here…and never noticed before – a huge square of plywood on one side of the gate wall, a long bullet scar running across its face. I know why its there, he thought, I know, but I can’t remember –

- I CAN REMEMBER -

With a furious effort, the Corporal grabbed the corner of the sheet of plywood, just a few inches off the ground, and pulled hard. It came away a few inches – just enough to tell the Corporal that he wasn’t crazy.

Turning to the men behind him, the Corporal roared, “All right, listen up – here’s what we’re gonna do…”

[MKSheppard]

Sortie

Brian Shannon sat back in his chair and then took a sip of coffee. The massive cherrywood grandfather’s clock in the entry hall chimed half-past, and Kozlowski had to look at his wristcomp to see what exactly it was half-past – eleven, to be precise, and it seemed like they had just sat down.

“Now, needless to say,” Shannon finally said, “this was not an ideal tactical situation. We actually had steam up on one – count ‘em, one – boiler, and although we could move on it, we wouldn’t be moving fast. In the meantime, I’m still trying to keep those damned Germans off my ship.”

Cochran asked, “Didn’t the Marines get the gangplank off?”

Shannon shook his head. “They almost got it off, God bless ‘em. The trouble was that those things weighed several hundred pounds – they used to move ‘em by crane, not by hand. The thing was hanging not quite in the scuppers, and those damned Germans were still trying to climb it…”

The SS sergeant was in his element, darting between the trees and buildings like a wraith sent by God himself to chastise these idiot Americans. Fading into a shadow, in the matte black armor he was the night itself – and he was about to remind these children why they were afraid of the dark. Flattened along the side of a building, he sidled noiselessly towards the corner, and then listened carefully for a moment. Lots of shooting everywhere else, but nothing in his path. He carefully, oh so carefully peered around the corner, but there was nothing there.

Marines, he thought. Bah –

The swing that connected a Springfield’s butt with the sergeant’s head would have knocked a baseball clean out of any park in the country if had it been with a bat. As it was, it simply broke the sergeant’s neck quite nicely at the third vertebra, and the few seconds of life he had left were spent looking up at a huge man in green fatigues, smiling grimly down at him.

The Marine who’d killed him dragged him back into the shadows, where the rest of his company and the regimental commander waited. “Damn, that sonofabitch is heavy, Colonel. What the hell are they wearing?” he asked.

The Colonel looked down for a moment and shook his head. “We’ll have plenty of time to figure that out later.

Anybody else out there?” the Colonel whispered. “No, sir,” the Marine answered. “This guy might have been point.”

The Colonel, a short, stocky man built like a concrete block with a close-cropped gray crew cut, looked down at the dead SS man. They got cocky in Nicaragua too, the Colonel thought, and they got just as dead. Turning to the company commander, the Colonel said, “Okay – send a runner over to B Company, tell ‘em to stay put until they hear us open fire, then charge down that damn street, got it?”

“Yessir.” The young captain grabbed a runner, sent him off, and then turned back to the Colonel.

“You ready, son?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

The Colonel nodded. This kid might just do all right, he thought.

“All right then. Let’s move out.” And with that, the Colonel flicked his hand over his head towards the burning row of storage facilities, and the company started advancing.

Colonel Lewis Puller, USMC – Chesty to his friends – was going to war.

Aboard Poseidon, Holst was watching the cathode ray screen down in the Attack Center. He could see the battle almost as clearly as if he was standing there, and the details were coming through with amazing clarity. Unfortunately, the sightseeing would have to wait. His part of the fight was coming up within a few moments. He looked up at the giant digital clock on the bulkhead, its numbers flipping over with agonizing slowness, but he’d been around long enough to know that it was just part of the game. He shot one last glance at the systems display, which showed nothing but green lights. All right then, he thought. Let’s get to work.

Turning to the CRT display crew, Holst quietly said, “ Starboard side cameras, please.” There was a snap of electronics and an whiff of ozone as the tubes glowed, shimmered, and then coalesced into a bulky, low lying shape squatting less than a thousand yards away – Fort Wool. The IR cameras could clearly see men running to their duty stations, loading weapons and getting ready for whatever was coming next. Well, Holst thought, they hadn’t the faintest idea what was coming next.

“Gunnery!”

“Ja, Herr Kapitan!”

“Unmask starboard main battery, engage Fort Wool. Silence any weapons that can be brought to bear on us.”

“Zu befehl, Herr Kapitan!”

With that, the shutters on the starboard side dropped with an ungodly crash, and the starboard main battery swung out, already locked on the batteries at Fort Wool. Even if the Army gunners there had been ready, there simply wasn’t enough time to do anything about it. The 11” rifles began firing as quickly as they could, directly into the low ramparts of the fort, the shells traveling in a straight line with barely enough time for their fuzes to arm before they slammed into the steel and granite facings of the old fortress. Fort Wool had been built to defend against the guns and technology of an earlier day, not the weapons the Poseidon was bringing to bear on them. The CRTs flared red and then white as round after round crashed into the fortress’ bulwarks, each one digging deeper as it went. Sheer kinetic energy was knocking guns off their mounts, throwing crews aside like toys. Holst felt a deep rumbling through his feet and for a moment thought that the ship’s engines hand started again – but then he realized it was the sound of detonating shells.

When Von Kadaver could breathe again, he looked up to see one of his company commanders trying to bring him around. “How bad?” he gasped.

The company commander buzzed, “About seventy dead or wounded. The armor is stopping rifle and pistol fire but nothing heavier. Those damned machine guns up there are tearing us apart.” It was a painful effort, but Von Kadaver rolled over and looked over a pile of crates at the bridge of the Texas. The fifties roared once more, chewing trenches through the pier’s surface, and the riflemen on the superstructure were keeping up a steady fire. Well, Von Kadaver thought, we might as well go out with a bang. Turning back to the company commander, he said, ‘Here’s what I want you to do…”

The pressure needles in Texas’ engine room were slowly creeping out of the red, and if Beau Courbet could have reached in and pushed them himself, he would have. The engine room phone buzzed, and he grabbed it.

“Courbet!”

“Dammit Beau, I need this ship moving!!”

Courbet rolled his eyes heavenward with another look at the gauges. They were perhaps a needles’ width into the yellow – strictly by the book, the ship had enough steam pressure to move, but if she moved at all, it would be with the speed and grace of an arthritic tortoise. With a silent prayer to whatever angels watched over engineers, Courbet shouted back, “Hold on, Mon Capitaine – this could get bumpy!” Turning to the engine room crew, Courbet roared,

“Hit it!!”

The Chief and his crew sprang into action, spinning valves and throwing levers. There was a nightmarish banging sound from the steam lines. Backed up by a hiss that seemed to be coming from a thousand snakes, the banging rose into a crescendo, and then abruptly died away –

As Texas gave a sudden lurch, throwing everyone on the ship off balance – but she was MOVING -

On the bridge, Shannon watched as the ship started to inch forward, and for a moment he thought they might just get away with this until he remembered the lines my God we’re still MOORED –

Von Kadaver watched in horror, as the giant ship suddenly seemed to vibrate, then almost imperceptibly at first began to move. No, no, he thought, you are NOT getting away –

Turning to a squad hunkered down behind him, he pointed at the bridge and roared, “Grenades, there – NOW!” SS troopers, trained in instant obedience, didn’t even flinch. A dozen suddenly leapt upwards and charged the bridge. Von Kadaver pointed to the tattered gangway and opened fire himself. Every other trooper followed his lead, pouring fire at the Marines and sailors who were still grimly hanging onto the gray steel bulkheads. The sudden burst of fire caught everyone’s attention – including that of Marie and Fleming, who swung their weapons to the right to try and cover the attack. The black line between the ship and the pier was widening now, and the mooring lines were starting to lose their slack and grow more taut by the second. It was just then that Fleming caught something out of the corner of his eye, barely lit by the pier lights, coming up at –

Three grenades detonated with a sharp CRACK just a few feet below the bridge gallery, and fragments raced crazily past them. He heard Marie gasp, saw her drop to the deck, clutching her left shoulder as her white shirt suddenly turned dark. Spinning the fifty back to his left, Fleming let go a burst that emptied the can as he saw Shannon race out and grab Marie’s gun, emptying his as well into the darkness fifty feet below. Looking down at Marie, Shannon called,

“You okay?”

Marie gasped in pain as she tried to move. “Left arm…hurts like a sonofabitch…” Shannon bent down to help her up.

“Explosions will do that – come on! Fleming, you too, we’re getting out of here!”

It was then Shannon heard Holloway give some kind of strangled shout, pointing at the pier. Looking down as he dragged Marie inside, he saw the pier crawling with black-clad figures…and they were rushing his ship one more time.

The SS troopers instinctively knew what to do - they charged the ship, heading for anything that was still connecting the Texas to the pier - mooring lines, telephone cables, and the twisting, swaying remains of the gangplank. Those who couldn't get onto the lines were pouring out as much fire as they could, and for the first time that night the Marines and sailors had to duck for cover. Von Kadaver was screaming, “GO, GO!” as the gunfire reached a crescendo. Black forms were on the gangplank now, moving hand over hand along it, climbing the taut mooring lines.

At Fort Monroe, the corporal was lining his troops up behind him, making sure they were ready to go. In front of him were two thirty-caliber machine guns, emplaced about as safely as anyone could possibly make them.

The corporal's discovery had been the defensive posts on either side of Postern Gate's interior - built into the granite walls a hundred years before and unused since the Civil War. The firing slits were just wide enough to cover their route once they came out, and the spaces behind the slits were just big enough for a gun team. Now, the corporal thought, we're gonna change the rules a little bit...

The Marines could see bulky black shapes moving like wraiths through the fire and smoke on Supply Row, heading for the last line of buildings. It had taken Puller only a few seconds to figure out what they were up to, and he'd deployed the troops accordingly. With any luck, B Company was in place by now - correction, B Company HAD to be in place by now. Turning to the company commander, Puller nodded and brought his rifle to his shoulder.

You did NOT attack Chesty Puller's country on his watch, dammit...

[MKSheppard]

Into the Valley

The mooring lines were now stretched to their limits as Texas strained to pull away, her propellers turning the gray water at her fantail into a rolling boil. Von Kadaver could see four - no, five of his stormtroopers climbing up the gangplank like men climbing a mountain, ascending the torn canvas and twisted steel that looked like some demented child's playground toy. Along the bow lines there were three men on one line, a fourth just getting a grip and hauling himself up. Almost, dammit, almost...

The bow lines were the ones that let go first, with sharp CRACKS that sounded like cannon fire, and even Von Kadaver flinched, knowing what was coming next. The foremost bow line let go just at the dockside bollard, flinging the stormtrooper up into the air like a circus acrobat, end over end towards Texas' bridge.

“Jees-US!!” Shannon stepped backwards as the stormtrooper was thrown against the bridge ports like a moth colliding with a car's windshield, smashed into place for a heartbeat then sliding downwards and plummeting to the deck. There was stunned silence on the bridge for a moment before Ian Fleming said, very quietly, “That could not have felt good.”

Admiral Shannon raised his coffee mug in salute sixty years later. “To Lieutenant Commander Ian Lancaster Fleming, Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve: Master of the obvious. Anyways...”

Chesty Puller looked up and down the roadway one more time - the raiders were clearly in sight now, any closer and he could start throwing rocks. On the other hand, he had something that would be much more effective. Puller gave his rifle one last squeeze before he pulled the trigger and roared, “FIRE!!” and one hundred Springfields lashed out as one...

The first indication Grosbeck had that something was wrong was when he saw the twinkling stars of gunfire ahead of him and troopers started dropping on either side of him. Somehow they'd missed him, giving him time to throw himself into the water and mud beneath him. A counterattack, fine, he thought, before he realized that this was not at all a good place to have to fight one. They were in a wide space between two parallel streets with massive pipes running down it - probably steam lines of some sort - and the verdammt pipes were sitting on narrow concrete piers a good six feet in the air - zero cover from the men shooting at him.

All he needed was to charge their firing positions, Grosbeck thought. He was pretty sure he outnumbered them, and he knew he had better weapons plus the armor. Keying his radio, Grosbeck barked, “First and Second sections, standfast - Third and Fourth, advance and pivot right on First!!”

Looking to his left, Grosbeck saw the two sections rise up and start moving forward in a combat crouch, slowly swinging to the right. In a minute or so they'd be in a perfect L-shaped ambush pattern, and then we'd see who would be taught a lesson...

The SS men on the lines had watched in stunned surprise as the trooper soared over their heads, but they had pressed grimly onwards until the second line parted like a whip in God's own hands. There had been three troopers on that line - two were slammed against Texas' gray flanks, slamming against them with odd, hollow THUMPS then skidding down over the armor belt and into the water, their limbs flailing like those of berserk toys. The third trooper had his body wrapped tightly around the line at the exact point where it let go. Every trooper on the dock and everyone on Texas' bridge saw the trooper's upper torso tumble one way and his lower torso another, connected in the lights for a brief second by a pink mist.

Von Kadaver could only watch in mounting fury as the battleship began to pivot away from the pier, now only connected by the stern ropes, the twisting gangplank, and the telephone lines - and the phone lines separated at that moment with a tremendous BANG, sparks flying as they whipped backwards like coiled snakes and lashing out against two stormtroopers, flinging them aside as if they were gossamer. Both tumbled backwards for a moment, and then lay unnaturally still on the pockmarked surface of the pier.

Company B's commander had, indeed, let Colonel Puller down - his men hadn't quite gotten into position when they heard Puller's men open fire. As it turned out, the young Lieutenant's tardiness was exactly what was called for.

As they dropped down to take cover, perpendicular to the roadway, it wasn't more than a second later that they saw the shapes moving across the road, weird robot-like creatures that resembled nothing so much as the actors in bad suits that he used to watch in Saturday morning serials. But there was no question in his mind - these weren't actors, this was no movie, and he had to do something. The Lieutenant took a deep breath, prayed he was timing it right, and roared, “FIRE!!”

Grosbeck heard the unfamiliar chatter of fire and, with the slightly distorted acoustics of the helmet, thought it was coming from in front of him as Third and Fourth sections opened fire on the Amis. It took him a long second to realize that the fire was coming from his left, aimed at the backs of Third and Fourth sections...and he'd just stepped into a trap.

The leaders of Third and Fourth sections were loping forward across the streets and manicured grass when the first fusillade came from their left. All their training taught them to turn into an ambush and charge - but they also realized that they were now between two enemy forces, and they hesitated just long enough for B Company to get moving again, firing on the run into them until the stormtroopers recovered and opened fire again, this time to their left. Marines went down in the wet grass and kept firing as fast as they could. They weren't pinned down - far from it; between them and Puller's men they had the raiders trapped. What Major Grosbeck had thought was a mere attempt to slow them down had turned into a major firefight along the Steam Line.

At Fort Monroe, the corporal looked back one more time. The men were going to have to double time out of the narrow Postern Gate as quickly as they possibly could, break off to the left and right, then push forward and take cover behind the blasted remnants of the barracks.

“Okay,” the corporal muttered to himself. “Here goes nothin'...” Pulling out a grenade, he yanked the pin out and tossed it as far as he could, hoping it would clear the moat. It made it, but just barely, bouncing once before rolling back a turn, and then exploding with a CRACK.

Halberstadt's gunners reacted with the speed and precision to which they'd been trained, pouring fire toward where the grenade detonated. Light machine gun rounds churned the soggy ground into liquid as bullets smacked into it, soaked even more by spray from rounds that went long and sailed into the moat.

Exactly what the corporal wanted. Before the German gunners could get back down, the .30 teams in Postern Gate's firing slits opened fire, the flashes of the German guns providing a perfect aimpoint. The corporal knew he had fifteen, maybe twenty seconds as he charged out of the safety of the gate, the barracks wreckage and relative safety a hundred and thirty feet away. Feet pounding through the puddles in the uneven brick road surface, every step almost in slow motion, the wind, the damned wind itself trying to stop him as it blew smoke and heat and water and God only knew what else into his face, its howling punctuated by the thwip-thwip-thwip of bullets whizzing over his head.

Halfway across, bent halfway over and running for all he was worth, the corporal risked a look behind him to see dark shapes moving out behind him, his troops broken-field running for all they were worth. The wind was roaring now, with him just a few steps away from a pile of splintered rubble, and as he flung himself headlong the last few feet, the wind's roar filled his ears. Only then did he realize it wasn't the wind, it was the riflemen up on Flagstaff bastion screaming themselves hoarse to cheer him on as they poured all the fire they could into Battery DeRussy.

On DeRussy, Halberstadt was trying to figure out what had happened - a difficult thing to do since he couldn't poke his head up without having it blown off. There was a line of stormtroopers lying motionless on the concrete walkway, in odd positions with dark spreading stains beneath them. One - Brandt - had two neat holes run through the middle of his faceplate, and Halberstadt had to fight down the urge to retch as he imagined what it looked like beneath it.

The air was full of ricocheting bullets, flying fragments of concrete, and roostertails of dust from the impacts. Halberstadt crawled along the walkway, keeping his head down as far as he could until he reached the end, where about a dozen troopers were trying to return fire.

“What happened?” Halberstadt buzzed.

One of the troopers, a sergeant, ducked back and turned to Halberstadt. “They got out of the gate, sir!”

Dear God, Halberstadt thought. “How many?”

“Better part of a company.”

Well. That was it then. Between what they had on the rampart - far more than they'd expected and what was coming out, they weren't going to get down off Battery DeRussy alive, and the Fatherland would honor them. Slapping his hand on the sergeant's shoulder, he was glad the man couldn't see his face as he said, “Now you listen to me - spread the word - we fight to the end here - you understand me?”

And until the Sergeant gave a quick nod, he was glad he couldn't see the Sergeant's face.

“COMMANDER COURBET!!”

The roar coming down the comm tube wasn't unexpected, but there wasn't much Beau and the snipes could do to help out. They had already thrown every safety precaution in the book right out the nearest hatch and Texas' ancient engines were wheezing, thumping, and in general acting as if they were about to tear themselves right off their mounts. Something was still holding the ship back though, and he was going to have to find out what it was. Turning to the Chief, Courbet bellowed, “I'm going topside - keep lighting up as much as you can!” The Chief nodded, waved and went back to doing what he could with the children that Fate had left him with tonight as Courbet raced up the ladders for the main deck.

The wind and rain lashed him as soon as he stepped out on deck, but that didn't worry him quite as much as the gunfire that was splattering against the hull and superstructure. Ducking down, he threw himself on the deck, and the wet wood felt cold and clammy as he looked back towards the fantail. Texas was at about a forty-five degree angle to the dock, and damned if there wasn't a hawser still securely wrapped around a bollard, spray blasting up around the fantail from the propellers' violent churning.

More bullets thwacked against the superstructure over his head, and he was reasonably sure no one had seen him yet. Okay, he thought. There's an axe, there's the hawser. Simple. His head suddenly snapped to his left as he hard a sound of rendering metal and wood, and what was left of the gangplank reared up from dockside, doing a berserk pirouette as it spun back down into the water. All right, Courbet thought, one less thing to worry about...

Texas, now held only by the heavy hawser aft, spun like a top out away from the dock, pivoting on her fantail. Everyone on the bridge was almost thrown off their feet by the jolt, Shannon grabbing the binnacle and holding on for dear life as Holloway and Fleming were thrown into an untidy pile in the port corner of the bridge. Shannon, though, was smiling. “God bless that crazy Cajun, he did it!”, he grinned as he jumped for the engine room telegraph and ran it through the stops to FULL SPEED AHEAD.

Beau Courbet reached up for the axe - he'd use it to pull himself up with and grab it at the same time, just start running, and with a grunt of effort he pulled himself up, felt his feet lose their grip for a second as they slipped on the wet deck, then caught and charged him forward, out of the door and onto the deck...

With a THUD that turned the world red as he went down on his back, his vision clearing just enough to see a form standing above him, something out of a monster movie in black armor, dripping wet and screaming something in an electronic tone that sounded like a cross between radio static and something crying out to escape from hell. The form reached down to grab him by the front of the shirt, and picked him up, his feet off the deck. Everything went red again as the monster pulled a fist back and hit him in the face, harder than he'd ever been hit before.

Courbet was barely registering being hit when he slammed back against the superstructure, the breath knocked painfully out of him as he sank back down..

Never getting there as the monster picked him up again, and damned if it wasn't laughing as he punched him again, this time connecting hard enough to throw him a few feet forward down the deck. Courbet had the strange, disconnected realization that something inside him was broken and broken badly, but it didn't hurt the way it should have, just a haze that swam up to surround him and want him to just fade out.

In the wind and rain and hurt, Courbet saw the monster heading for him again, and this time he knew it would be the last one. Well, he'd been in his share of fights back home... damned if he was going to go down without getting one punch in...

The monster leaned down again, that electronic laugh echoing in Courbet's ears as he balled his right hand up tight...just have to time this...that's all...

And as the monster pulled him up, Courbet swung with every ounce of strength he could muster, an effort that made him scream with pain as well as anger, a scream that stopped when he realized his swing had run into some kind of resistance as the monster suddenly let him go. Courbet fell heavily back to the deck again, looking up at the monster, which was standing there looking down at him questioningly with his head cocked to one side...and then his head slid slowly off, dropping to the deck like some monstrous toy, followed by the body sinking down to its knees, a dark fountain shooting up into the rain from between its shoulders. Courbet scuttled backwards as fast as he could from the falling body and just missed having it land on top of him.

Courbet sat there for a moment, the blood running from his own wounds in the rain, the sound of bullets pinging against the ship still in his ear. The hawser, gotta cut the hawser...

And it was only as he tried to get up that he looked down and realized he still had the axe in his hand, locked there in a death grip, and an odd stain on its edge. A grim, cold smile spread over Beau Courbet's battered face as he got to his feet, running as best he could over the corpse and back towards the fantail. “C'est la f**king guerre, Mon vieux...”

Texas was swinging out into the channel now, and Courbet was staying close to the superstructure, though the fire seemed to be concentrated forward. The entire ship seemed to be vibrating now, and Courbet was sure the stern was rising and falling as the propellers bit deeper and deeper with each turn. What happened next moved in slow motion - the bollard making an awful groaning noise, the ship giving a violent jerk, and then the line parting just past the bollard with a noise like a gunshot. Texas jerked once more, then seemed to race off into the channel, the ship almost leaping forward. Courbet went down, rolling onto the deck and bellowing in pain as he saw the lights on the dockside begin to recede behind him.

Beau lay on the deck for a moment, breathing heavily while the rain washed him clean. The vibration from the engines slowly settled down, and it occurred to him that perhaps he'd better go forward and get some help. Damned Irishman, Courbet thought as he limped off, spitting blood onto the deck. Showing off just as he was about to become a hero...

Von Kadaver watched in silent fury as the battleship literally leapt forward into the channel and into the rain-swept darkness. It took a second before he turned around and looked at the flaming dock. He had lost easily a hundred men, broken, bleeding and dead on the dock. And they hadn't achieved a damned thing other than to scratch its paint.

He looked back as the ship moved out with almost arthritic painfulness, each second opening up a few more feet. Nothing else they could do, he thought, but to pull back and get back to the Poseidon before the battleship got out there. The sound of fire coming from the northeast told him that Grosbeck was fully engaged as well, and since he was undermanned to begin with... Von Kadaver turned as one of his company commanders put a hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps we've raised enough hell here for one night, Sir.” Von Kadaver needed only a heartbeat to consider it and make his decision.

“All right,” Von Kadaver nodded, “let's get the men back to the boats and back to Poseidon. Send that to Grosbeck, hopefully he can untangle himself as well. Get the walking wounded together...we'll have to leave the others behind.” The company commander clicked his heels, then turned back to gather the survivors.

“Wait...”

Von Kadaver's electronic buzz rang in the company commander's ears and he turned swiftly around.

“Yes, sir?”

“How fast do our boats move?”

The company commander had to think on that one for a moment, then said, 'About twenty knots, sir.”

“Faster than that thing is moving now?”

The company commander was glad his face was hidden. “Yes, sir.”

A pause. “Move out back to the boats, NOW. Leave anyone behind who can't run.”

The company commander swallowed hard, but answered, “Zu befehl, sir,” then ran off to start rounding people up.

There were only perhaps a hundred yards or so between the dock and Texas, and Shannon felt safe enough on the bridge gallery to look back for a moment and try to make out what was going on back on the dock. The black shapes had milled around for a moment after they'd finally gotten underway, but then quickly formed up and started running for the gate. The lights didn't go that far down, so there was no way to know what was going on. Shannon could see flames and smoke from Resupply Row now, and it looked bad. There had been enough supplies and materiel there to keep the fleet running for years, and it looked like it was all going up.

No matter now. The ship - his ship - was safe, or at least safer than it had been. Ducking back into the bridge, Shannon saw that a pharmacist's mate was tending to Marie's injuries, trying to bandage her up as best he could while observing her modesty. Hell of a way to start a war, he thought, remembering those same words five months, a lifetime ago in the North Atlantic. It was only then that Shannon realized that everyone was looking at him, waiting for a decision of some kind.

Okay, he thought. Captain time. Turning to Fleming, Shannon said, “Ian, get one of the orderlies to take you down to the armory. Open it if you can, shoot the lock off if you have to, but get it open. I'll call you in a minute.”

Fleming nodded. “Right,” he replied, then grabbed an orderly and headed into the ship. Shannon was about to say something else when a familiar form appeared in the doorway. “Captain Shannon,” Winston Churchill rumbled, a Webley revolver in his hand and followed by two of his security detail. “May I be of assistance?” Shannon was about to tell him to get back to his quarters, but then stopped himself. “Prime Minister,” Shannon said, “tell you what - you stay right here on the bridge. Right now, I can use every hand I can find. Damned if I know what I'll do with you, but give me a minute.”

Churchill grinned and gave a little bow. “I am at your disposal, Captain.”

Before Shannon could do anything else, Robbie Robinson came onto the bridge, life jacket and helmet on over what had once been a white dress uniform. Coming to attention with a grim look on his face, Robbie said quietly, “Casualty report, Cap'n.”, then handed Shannon a clipboard. Shannon took it and scanned it, his face slowly hardening. The bridge was silent as they watched Shannon look over the report before handing it back to Robbie without a word.

“How bad?” It was Marie's voice, tinged with pain. Shannon didn't reply at first, simply looking out the bridge ports at the smoke and flames now clearly visible at Fort Monroe, the ones they were sailing directly for . There was a pause before Shannon simply said, “Seventeen dead...lots more hurt.”

On his ship. On his watch. In his country. And it wasn't over yet, not by a long shot. A fireball rising up from Resupply Row got his attention for a second, and then Shannon saw flashes of gunfire coming from right about where Fort Wool was, illuminating - a ship? The flashes appeared again, and this time it was unmistakable - the gunfire was coming from what looked like a tanker...oh dear God...there was a raider loose in the Roads. Now everything made sense, no matter how badly he would have liked to have ignored it. Well, they were headed right for it, and when all else fails, head for the sound of the guns. Shannon wasn't too sure what to say next, when Churchill's voice broke the silence.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me...”

Brian Shannon turned to face the people on the bridge who were waiting for him to make a decision, and his countenance and heart were hardened. His ship had been attacked, he had lost his men, and the enemy was ashore in his country.

Well, it was over, and over now.

Not on his watch.

Turning to Churchill, Shannon growled, “With respect, Prime Minister, I am about to become the meanest son of a bitch in the valley. Robbie?”

“Sir!”

“C'mere, we got work to do. These bastards want a fight, then we'll give it to 'em...”

[MKSheppard]

AT CLOSE QUARTERS

(This Chapter is Missing – Someone Needs to Find it! POST HASTE!)

[MKSheppard]

INTO THE TEETH OF THE STORM

Admiral Shannon sat back for a moment, looking out the window onto the stretch of water where he had fought for his ship and his life while the rain etched silver threads down the glass. “You know,” he finally said, “I had absolutely NO idea what the hell I was going to do next. That first five minutes or so after we left the pier…longest damn moment of my life.”

Shannon took a sip of his coffee and frowned. “But apparently not as long as it’s been since Cochran got me a refill. Where was I…?”

“Dey do not teach dis at da Canoe Club, do dey Mon Capitaine?”

Brian Shannon spun around to see Beau Courbet standing next to him – a trifle unsteady, but there nevertheless. “You look like hell, Beau,” Shannon said as he tried to see through the bridge ports, with water flowing down over them now fast enough to distort the vision of hell outside. “Merci, Mon Capitaine, and veuillez embrasser mon âne. What in de hell is gon’ on here?”

Shannon pointed towards where flame and smoke were rising from Fort Wool and Fort Monroe. “Well, that’s where the enemy is, and that’s where we are headed.”

“I most heartily approve, Mon Capitaine. What da hell we gon’ shoot them wit’?”

Shannon wanted to say something rude that involved the main battery, when it hit him – he had no gunners aboard. Wait a moment – he did…

“Holloway!” The ensign poked his head out from a corner where, up to now, he’d been reasonably unnoticed. “You take Mister Courbet down to Turret 2 and get those guns working – take a couple of the orderlies with you!”

Holloway’s jaw dropped in disbelief, and he stammered, “B-but, sir – I barely know how to work the damned things!! There’s no way I can teach anybody else!” Beau Courbet was having none of that; he grabbed Holloway by the arm and snarled, “Lad, you gon’ learn about takin’ a message to Garcia! Now let’s GO!” With that, Courbet hauled the ensign through the hatch, and Shannon could hear him snagging anyone else in their path.

“'A message to Garcia', Captain?” Churchill’s voice rumbled through the suddenly quiet bridge.

There was a metallic rattle from behind them, and Franklin Roosevelt limped onto the bridge, half supported by Bill Donovan. “It’s an old story from the Spanish American war, Winston. A young Navy lieutenant was given instructions to take a message to a Cuban rebel leader named Garcia. Boy had no idea where Garcia even was, much less how to get in touch with him, but he saluted and went on his way – and, not incidentally, had a hell of an adventure before he did, indeed, find Garcia.”

Churchill nodded, but asked, “And the context?”

“That even when one is faced with the impossible, one presses on.” Turning to Shannon, Roosevelt asked, “And what do we do next, Brian?”

“That, Mister President, is easy – you and the Prime Minister will go into the conning tower – it’s the most heavily armored part of the ship, and –“

“We can be of assistance here, Captain Shannon,” Churchill said, but Shannon cut him off. “Absolutely NOT, Prime Minister! I have no idea where this is going to end, but until it does, my job is to insure your safety to the utmost...”

A flash of lightning filled the bridge, and almost before anyone could react, there was a sound like rustling leaves and a roar/thud off to starboard, throwing a gout of water into the air almost as high as Texas’ mainmast.

Richard Holst looked on in disbelief as the two rounds sailed to the left of that damned battleship and exploded harmlessly in the water. “What the hell kind of shooting is that?” he demanded. “For God’s sake, it’s less than five miles away!!”

The gunnery officer looked up, his anguished expression lit by the red/blue glow from the CRTs. “Herr Kapitan, we are shooting into the glare of the fires!” Holst looked to the big screen and sure enough, the battleship wasn’t the sharp image they had seen earlier, but a series of shifting shapes against the throbbing glow of the massive fires at the base. With that, Holst felt a cold dread in the pit of his stomach – there were no standard rangefinders or fire control directors on Poseidon – they would have given away her true abilities. Everyone had always just assumed the CRTs would function just fine…

“Goddammit,” Holst snarled to himself, trying to think of what to do next as he felt Poseidon begin to move away from the spot where she had killed Fort Wool. He had – at most - a couple of minutes before those guns started firing at him, and he had no intention of dying off somewhere called Strawberry Banks.

That battleship was going to have to die instead. Turning to the gunnery officer, Holst barked, “Torpedoes – NOW!”

Grosbeck looked up from the nearly flooded street and listened closely. Except for the howl of wind and the sibilant hiss of rain, both punctuated by crackling flames and explosions, there was no sound – and most of all, no gunfire. He had thrown what was left of his unit against the Marines who had held the Steam Pipe – and broken them. They’d run terrified into the darkness, and fallen back into the flame-pierced shadows between the surviving buildings, and that had been enough for him. Taking one more look around, Grosbeck made a fast decision – they’d raised enough hell for one night. Back to the seaplane ramp and the boats, and back to the Poseidon – if it was there. He suppressed the stomach-churning thought that it might not be there with the mental reminder that the Führer was not paying them to live, but to die. If he had to, he’d link up with Halberstadt or Von Kadaver, and they’d fight it out to the end – but there was nothing left to accomplish here. Slowly rising – expecting shots to ring out any second, but hearing none – Grosbeck motioned for his men to form up on him, and they started jogging back down the street to the seaplane ramp, the men’s boots kicking up fountains of spray.

Halberstadt ducked as fragments of concrete pinged off his armor again, and he heard the strangled cry of someone else dying alongside him. The rain was still pouring down, and now they had the damned Amis – or at least a squad or so’s worth – pinning them down. All right, all right – THINK. It had been worse than this in France – not by much, but it had been worse. What he needed was a miracle…

…What he needed was air support…

- AIR SUPPORT –

Slapping his radioman on the shoulder, he grabbed the handset. “Poseidon, Poseidon, hier ist Halberstadt!” There was static for a long, agonizing second before the Poseidon’s radio operator came up. “Hello, Halberstadt! Go ahead!”

“Launch Der Engel! Have it come in on my position!”

There was a pause – too long for Halberstadt’s liking – before the answer came back, “Stand by!”

Down in Turret 2, Holloway and Courbet were bringing the massive weapons to life. Texas had a handful of live 14” rounds aboard for a test shoot that had been planned for a few days later – but that had been intended for a trained, fully manned crew on a fully functioning vessel, and right now Texas was anything but.

Courbet nodded towards the stewards and runners who they had impressed on the way down. “Okay, boy – get ‘em going!” Holloway nodded in dumb terror, looked frantically around, then grabbed a weatherbeaten binder and flipped it open, reading aloud, “Gun, Naval, Fourteen Inch...”

“You jackass!” Courbet bellowed, “Not like THAT! You – open up that hatch there, you, get this winch moving!” Two “Yessirs!!” echoed through the turret as Courbet and Holloway tried to get everyone moving in a fashion that would start putting steel on target and not kill everyone in the tight, cramped space in the process.

[MKSheppard]

DEUS EX MARINA

On Poseidon’s bridge, her first mate had gotten the order to get the ship underway, and he had obeyed with traditional German skill and efficiency. The engine room telegraphs rang through the stops, and in the engine rooms the crews jumped to their jobs with the precision that the Kriegsmarine was renowned for. The turbines hesitated for just a heartbeat, then spun up as quickly as their design allowed.

Which, in the event, was entirely too fast.

“You have to remember,” Shannon said after a sip of coffee, “that I was racking my brain trying to figure out what to do. We were making – at best – five or six knots, and we wouldn’t be able to get any faster than that. Beau, Holloway, and their merry men were down in Turret Two trying to get one – count them, one – gun going with no fire control and a completely untrained crew. And a few thousand yards from me was a ship with the speed, maneuverability, and firepower of a light cruiser, plus a superbly trained crew. In short, Commander, I needed a miracle.”

“And I got one.”

There were only four people who knew why what had happened, and not one of them survived the war.

None of them were on the Poseidon. They had been in their places six months earlier and did their duty with the inevitability of a Greek tragedy. Not one of them was aware of it.

First were two SS privates, who had been ordered to march the third, a Jewish woman prisoner, from her workplace in the Heinrikerfabrik in Hamburg. Heinriker made marine tubing and piping – the unseen or unnoticed arteries that keep a ship alive and moving, and it was a heavy user of slave labor. The policy, of course, was to work them to death, and this woman was just about there. It had to be timed carefully, of course – finding that precise moment when a prisoner was about to drop dead and then bringing in their replacement with no loss of production. On this particular day, this had been accomplished with perfect timing, and the prisoner was being taken outside – not out of any compassion, but so as to avoid staining the immaculate gray concrete floors with her blood when they shot her.

The fourth member of the ensemble was her husband. A slave laborer as well, he was working on a huge machine that took a four-inch diameter rubber hose and wrapped it in wire to serve as fuel line on warships. He moved steadily, almost robotically, starvation and exhaustion taking their slow, inevitable toll. He had, perhaps, a day or so left himself before the two privates tapped him on the shoulder and whispered, “Juden, Raus!” with obscene glee and took him to the door. But he did his work, his brain long since feeling anything beyond a numb resignation. Man had forsaken him, even God had forsaken him. The only thought that entered his mind any more was a dim hope that someone, somewhere, would say Kaddish for him when it was all over.

But when they took her past him…for a moment, he was a Man again, and a Man did not allow his wife to be killed without a fight. Their eyes locked for just a moment, and all the beatings and humiliation and hatred that had been vented upon him, and a small red spark burst into flame inside his soul. The guards were utterly without a hint of what was about to happen next, seeing only that the two Jews were looking at one another, stopped and one turned to him, a snarl on his face as he said, “Damn your eyes, Jew! Get back to work!”

And with that, vocal cords that had been silent save for whimpers of pain worked for one last time.

“Go to hell.”

The response from the two enraged SS privates was predictable – they pulled their sidearms and shot both of the prisoners. The effect of those shots was not as predictable. When the 9mm slug passed through the husband’s body, it still had considerable force – force not expended until it sailed into the wheels that were feeding the thick rubber hose into the wire wrapper. It nicked one of the wheels then creased the hose almost halfway through its thickness. Before the slug could bury itself in a thick steel plate, the creased section of hose had been wrapped in braided wire and moved on. No one noticed, no one even considered the possibility.

When that length of hose was installed in Poseidon, it became Admiral Shannon’s miracle.

The massive centrifugal fuel pumps next to Poseidon’s bunkers were capable of 120% of rated power, and when they were built, they were tested and certified as such before installation. But on Poseidon’s abbreviated trials, no one ever tested them in a ‘crisis situation’, where they spun up faster than the engines that they were supplying with fuel – proceeding to flank speed was a slow, careful evolution.

It wasn’t now. The engine room crew threw the fuel pump controls to their stops in one quick motion and the pumps performed flawlessly, going from nearly zero to 100% in two quick heartbeats. The crippled section of fuel line, under stress it had never taken before, bulged, flexed – and ruptured. But at this point, the wire braiding held it together.

It would only do so for milliseconds more. Before the engine room crew could even register the sudden fine spray of bunker fuel emerging from the wire mesh, the automatic fuel flow sensors recognized the sudden loss of pressure – and automatically ordered the fuel pumps to 120%. The wire mesh bulged, held – but spread enough for the bunker fuel to spray out onto a hot light bulb.

The aircraft handling crew was taking the locks off of the catapult when they felt the gentle thump midships, and paused just long enough to see gouts of filthy smoke shoot from almost every ventilator on deck. Looks of utter confusion were exchanged before the petty officer in charge bellowed, “Raus!!” and they jumped back to duty, the sound of the wings locking into place drowned out by the sound of alarms sounding all over the ship.

In the Attack Center, Holst felt the ship shudder, tasted the gases that suddenly came from the vents and before he could even spin in his seat, he saw the alarm board light up like a Christmas tree – and worse yet, felt the ship stagger, then begin to slow back down…

Somehow, Holloway, Courbet, and their scratch crew had gotten a single round into the breech without blowing themselves to kingdom come, but they’d felt the booming echo of the rounds that had landed next to them, and knew they were out of time. Spinning the breech closed, Courbet turned to Holloway, who alone had any experience at the rangefinders and turret controls. Putting his right eye to the sight, the ensign focused hard, and saw…nothing…

- That’s right, to port -

Holloway’s hands mashed the controls, and he got half of it right, with the turret swinging wildly to port probably faster than it ever had before, and in his attempt to stop it, the ensign’s hand clamped down on the elevation grip as he yelled, “FIRE!” Courbet’s reaction was slowed just enough that he jumped back when the breech suddenly dropped below the deck , but he still slammed down hard on the brass firing trigger.

Brian Shannon’s eyes went wide as he saw the massive barrel lurch upwards, farther than it needed to, and then he was almost blinded by the white-hot flash that stabbed skywards.

LANGLEY FIELD, VA

The phone rang insistently, and it took the corporal a moment to answer it.

“Command Post, Corporal Duffy.”

“Duff, this is Hayley! Hey, I think they’re shooting at somebody down at Hampton Roads!”

Duffy shook the cobwebs out for a moment, sniffed with disdain, and replied, “Hayley, you dumb sh*t, it’s a freaking storm! You’re hearing thunder, you jackass!”

“I’m telling you Duff, this is gunfire!”

“And I’m telling you to go back to sleep before I send the @#%$ MPs after you! How am I supposed to get any sleep if you – “ Duffy was cut off with the sound of rustling leaves cutting through the howling wind, followed by a white/orange flash and an echoing roar that blew out every window facing the runway.

Texas’ first round of the night had sailed neatly over the Poseidon and into the turbulent Virginia night, over the little towns of Phoebus and Kecoughtan, across the Back River and drilled neatly into the turf that then made up most of Langley Field – just across the ramp from the old control tower. The good news was that there weren’t any aircraft on the ramp – the B-17s of the 2nd Bomb Wing and the P-40s of the 8th Pursuit Group had either been evacuated or moved indoors, but the blast sent fragments crashing through the tower’s windows. The Base Command Post, however, was still perfectly intact, and the alarm went out, air raid sirens wailing into the night.

There was one – exactly one – armed and ready aircraft on Langley that night, and its pilots came charging into Hangar Two as fast as they could, where the alert crew was already getting the plane ready for takeoff.

“What the hell is going on?” shouted one pilot over the chaos in the hangar. He got his answer from another officer who came running in, soaking wet. “They’re shooting at something out in the bay, we don’t know what! You guys gotta get airborne and go after it!”

The co-pilot, a young Lieutenant, looked at the officer with undisguised shock. “That’s a damned hurricane out there, sir! We’ll never get airborne, and if we do, what do we hit them with? We’re carrying depth charges!!”

As the hangar doors rumbled open, the wind and rain hurtled in, silver streaks in the lights that were just coming on. In the light, gleaming as if it had just been polished, was America’s ultimate warplane – a B-17C Flying Fortress, all silver skin , red and white tail stripes, and U.S. ARMY in huge blue letters on her underside. With no enemy targets in range, the Fortresses of the 2nd BG had been assigned anti-submarine duty, for no enemy surface fleet could ever have gotten within a thousand miles of Chesapeake Bay.

The officer, a disheveled Captain, grabbed the co-pilot by the shirt and slammed him against the fuselage. “Look, junior,” he snarled, “There is an enemy six miles away – GO DROP SOMETHING ON HIM!!!” Releasing the stunned pilot, the Captain turned to look up into the cockpit, where the crew chief was and gave a piercing whistle, turning his hand over his head. The crew chief nodded, and the hangar was filled with a cough and gray smoke as the first of four Wright Cyclones sputtered, hesitated, then turned over, setting down to a vibrating roar. That was all that the crew needed – they leapt inside the aircraft and got to their stations.

Bill Donovan looked on in quiet confusion as the smoke cleared. They’d been able to see the 14” sail away into the darkness – somewhere very far away from the ship that was firing at them. “Um…Captain,” Donovan asked in a polite tone, “What exactly were your men shooting at?”

Brian Shannon took a sip of coffee and paused for a moment. “I told him, ‘General, I’m not at all sure…but you can bet your ass I’ll find out.’ I about pulled that phone out of the wall.”

“GODDAMMIT, BEAU! YOU SHOT TOO DAMNED HIGH!!!”

Courbet’s head whipped from the breech to Holloway and back again. “How high, Mon Capitaine??”

“TRY RICHMOND, BEAU!!”

Courbet swallowed hard. “Oui, Mon Capitaine, I’m on it!” As he hung up the phone, he whistled up to Holloway, who had just lowered the barrel so they could reload. “Watch your elevation, you overshot!” Holloway was too rattled at this point to even consider where the round may have gone, and simply watched until they had the gun reloaded.

With a CRACK and a flash like lightning, Der Engel – an Arado 196 seaplane – sailed down the catapult, and her pilot hauled back on the stick, the engine screaming as he clawed for altitude. Slamming the canopies shut, he turned the Arado north, where he could see the gunfire flashing between the stormtroopers on Battery Parrott, and the defenders on what they called Flagstaff Bastion. That was his target, and with a little luck he’d bring the flag down too. With a slap of his hand, he armed the two fifty kilogram bombs that hung beneath his wings and lined up on his target.

The B-17 was turning out onto the runway now, shaking in the wind as the pilot kicked the rudder pedals to get it lined up. Instinctively he looked up at the tower, but saw only a blinking green light on the ground, held by one of the controllers. That was all the orders he needed, and he pushed the throttles forward. Four Wright engines bellowed loudly enough that they could almost be heard over the storm as the Fortress began to roll towards Back River.

Aboard Poseidon, all hell was breaking loose as the damage reports began to come in, and Holst knew his ship was doomed. He had reports of fires breaking out in the engine rooms and associated compartments, dozens of dead and injured, and he was dead in the water with an enemy warship heading straight for him. Touching the Gunnery Officer on the shoulder, he spoke quietly. “We are in trouble. Keep your men at their posts, keep them firing to the end.” The Gunner Officer was scared, but he did a good job of hiding it as Holst clapped him on the shoulder and headed topside.

If he was going to die here, it would be on his bridge, not in someplace called the Attack Center.

The sailor struggled out onto Texas’ deck against the wind and rain, trying to figure out how to get the rest of the way forward to his battle station. He had only been on the ship a few days, and it was tough enough to find your way through the maze under normal conditions, much less in this mess. Stepping forward, he heard an explosion in the distance and looked up to see something flare into brightness at Fort Monroe then fade back into darkness. God, he thought, it looked almost…beautiful, in a way.

He sensed more than heard/saw something move behind him, and he turned to see one more explosion reflected in...

...A sword’s blade...

[MKSheppard]

We now hold a brief interregnum:

It's good to see their evilness biting the Nazi's in the ass, but didn't they have strict QC on slave labor products because of fear of sabotage?

Interested to see who brought aboard their own cutlery...

QC: a downward spiral...

But who did the Nazis increasingly use for their QC ??

Trustees.

Trustees under much the same 'drop dead' rules as the 'expendables'... who knew they were unlikely to be around to face execution if a problem surfaced in the field.

And, who would check those Trustees ? MORE Trustees, who wanted only that no waves were noticed on their watch... and certainly not prepared to draw trouble.

You held the entire reel for extra testing *just* because guards fired their pistols nearby ?? Saboteur !!

The massive centrifugal fuel pumps

They would be medium sized, as pumps go. According to the Federation of American Scientists, Military Analysis Network

http://www.fas.org/man/dod-101/sys/ship/support.htm

a CV burns 2,700 barrels of Naval Distillate a day. A DDG, about 700. Let's say the Poseidon is burning 1,000 average, and 10,000 at flank speed. That's about 300 gallons per minute. That would be divided among at least three and maybe six pumps. So we're talking 50 to 100 GPM pumps, with independent pumps serving each boiler.

A fire engine has a 1,200 GPM pump and it's not massive. Powerful pumps perhaps. High pressure pumps, certainly, but not massive.

enough for the bunker fuel to spray out onto a hot light bulb

You'd be unlucky for that particular accident to cause a fire with gasoline. It would be extremely unlikely with diesel. With bunker fuel, no way. That stuff is thick and has few volatiles. I can't imagine a "spray" of bunker fuel the way you describe it.

Now a burst hose could possibly create a pool that might run into a boiler face and ignite. It would then create a helluva fire; one that could easily progress across bulkheads. But bunker does not explode readily.

Mere nits in a riveting story.

Actually, my father narrowly missed dying in an accident identical to that aboard M/V Roger Blough in the early 70s - will elaborate a bit later.

Hmmm......it's possible for a spray from a diesel fuel injector to light like that. Hydraulic oil too. Bunker fuel might spray like that if it's heated. After all, it's supposed to do that in the boiler.

my father narrowly missed dying in an accident identical to that

It appears that Murphy is as optimistic as ever. Obviously, I'm glad he made it OK.

It appears that Murphy is as optimistic as ever.

I'd go with Mike on this. I've heard of fine-sprayed bunker oil flash-firing. The Japanese had trouble with Borneo oil exploding because of the volatiles in it (IIRC that's what nailed Taiho). Another thing, this may well be synthetic oil and lord knows what is in that stuff.

Stuart and everyone -

Thanks so very much for your compliments - but you ain't seen nothin' yet.

Now, regarding the accident aboard M/V Roger Blough:

The nice folks at

www.boatnerd.com/pictures/fleet/blough.htm

have a terrific post about the accident, but I'm going to repost the pics and narrative here for everybody.

Dad had just come up out of the engine room and was walking back to the main office when the alarms went, and he turned around to see what became this:

Blough-1971-1.jpg

Blough-1971-4.jpg

From boatnerd:

The official launch was scheduled for July, 1971 but a serious engine room fire on June 24, 1971 delayed the launch for almost a full year. The exact origin of the fire remains a mystery though there was speculation pointing a finger at a high intensity light bulb.

(The local fire department, though, was unable to locate the actual cause.)

What is known is that there was diesel fuel leaking from a faulty bonnet gasket on a fuel line in the engine room and the yard employees were advised to immediately extinguish any flame. The fire, though, had already started. Those that could get off did so; but many went back on board to fight the flames knowing that four of their co-workers (two welders and two air tool department workers) were trapped as they were checking a tank filled with air for leaks located immediately below the engine room; regardless of the fact that a couple of decks below was a fuel tank containing thousands of gallons of diesel fuel. The trapped workers died of asphyxiation; the engines and aft deck house were destroyed. Repairs to hull #900 cost approximately $13 million. (I wish to acknowledge with thanks, a welder who was working in the engine room at the time of the fire for supplying me with his first-hand account of this incident.)

We knew Dad was supposed to be down in the engine room that morning, and that was probably the first Very Long Day of my life - we didn't hear from him until almost 1pm. The flames weren't extinguished until very close to midnight, and one memory that will always stay with me is standing on the Erie Avenue Bridge, looking at the Blough's superstructure glowing cherry red. In any event, that accident was the real-life basis for the events in CV.

OK, this was a dsiesel fuel ignition. Murphy's work definitely, but the stuff is gasoline compared to bumker.

The Seer makes a good point about Borneo Crude, which is probably lighter than bunker oil, and synfuel.

I will cede the field on this one and write it up to Murphy.

--------------------

2022 Addenum by MKSheppard:

In February 2021, the Blough caught fire AGAIN, with $20M in damages:

https://upnorthlive.com/news/local/repo ... n-shipyard

Blough2022-2.jpg

[MKSheppard]

Sword’s Point

The vibration from the four Wright Cyclones was matched only by the buzzing that came from the B-17’s rigging as it moved into position on the sodden eastern end of the runway. Langley then wasn’t the huge superbase it is today, with three duracrete runways running east to west, but rather a giant patch of perfectly groomed and trimmed pasture that would have done justice to a championship golf course. In fact, part of it today is a championship golf course – the PGA accredited Eaglewood, but that’s another story entirely. But in 1941, it was sod under Virginia zoysia grass, and it was under roughly an inch of rain and spray from the Back River and the storm – conditions under which it was never intended that a B-17 should try to taxi, much less take off.

The pilot looked at his gauges for a moment, trying to assure himself that all was well, then looked at his copilot once more. Yep, he was just as terrified. The green light at the base of the tower was blinking frantically as he gave the wheel one last twitch in all directions, then released the brakes and pushed the throttles through the gates…

Beau Courbet slammed the breech shut, spinning the handle with all the style of a pit crewman at the Indy 500 spinning the lug wrench on a tire. “GO!” he called, and Ensign Holloway hesitated not, bellowing back, “FIRE!”

Brian Shannon paused fifty-nine years downrange and sipped his coffee. “You know how sometimes, you say something…then realize you didn’t do what you should have done before you said it…”

Mike Kozlowski nodded. “Yes, sir. More times than I care to remember.”

“Mm. Well, as it turns out, Beau and Holloway did the same thing on the second round. Forgot to lower the damned elevation again, and Beau never noticed...”

Holloway’s blood ran cold as he watched Courbet squeeze the firing trigger, and the turret filled with the Jurassic roar of the gun letting go once more. As soon as he decently could, he lowered the elevation to something that he hoped was at least close to where it was supposed to be, and prayed that wherever the shot was going, it wouldn’t hurt anybody.

Technically, it didn’t. Spinning through the hurricane sky, it followed a path almost identical to the first one – but as Texas had traveled just a little farther, it landed just a little farther out. Had it eyes to see, it would have seen the B-17 just starting to roll down the field, roostertails of water streaming out behind it as the pilot tried to keep it straight down the field in the thundering wind. Had the pilot pushed the throttles just a little faster, the shell would have landed in the turf behind him, but instead it passed directly over his head, landing two hundred yards behind him just as the Fortress began to leave the field.

An orange flash filled the cockpit and the pilot’s brain barely had time to register it before the shockwave hit, nosing the big bomber back towards the ground. Both pilots acted on reflex, pulling the wheels practically back into their laps.

“GODDAMMIT!!”, the pilot roared as the bomber, now nose high but still dropping, bounced off the turf with a CRUNCH that came from the overstressed main gear thudding into the wet ground, then back into the air again with a sickening tilt to the right. Before the pilots could compensate for that, the right wingtip sliced through the grass, into the muddy topsoil, sending a fan of dirt and water and grass soaring back into its path. As the pilots pushed the wheels hard over to the left, the wingtip dug in, stressed, and separated from the wing with a high-pitched scream of tearing metal, tumbling end over end away from the plane, which was now in a staggering bank to the right as it desperately clawed for altitude.

The pilot flicked his eyes to the panel to see if there were any alarm lights going off, was mildly surprised to see there weren’t, then looked back up –

- THE FIRE STATION –

Two stories of English Tudor brickwork loomed before him, and in the heartbeat he had before it filled the windscreen, the pilot realized that the control columns were as far back as they were going to go, and there was nothing more he could do. Of course, there was still a lot the Fortress could do – which in this case included crunching through the roof of the fire station, sending shingles and brick and wood flying into the night – but the Fortress kept clawing for altitude, now moving faster into the rain and gale.

It was a few moments before the pilot released his death grip on the wheel to start leveling the shuddering plane out, and turned to the co-pilot with the order, “Gear and flaps!”

The co-pilot simply looked back in stunned amazement, eyes wide under his cap. “We still HAVE ‘em??”

“Now...” Kozlowski interrupted Shannon. “You’ve just told us that there were TWO rounds fired, both of which exploded at Langley. Where did THAT...” Kozlowski gestured with his thumb towards the nose cap, which rested on a nearby table “- come from?” Kozlowski grinned with all the smoothness of a Cheshire cat as Chief Cochran leaned back in his chair and laughed uproariously. “Oh, boy, Admiral,” Cochran gasped between laughs, “Mister Kozlowski’s got you – I am SORRY, sir, but he’s got ya!”

Fleet Admiral Brian James Shannon, USN, sat up straight in his chair and looked Kozlowski dead in the eye. In a tone that was more growl than conversational, he said, “Commander…it’s possible that I may have been misinformed. Now – are you gonna let me finish?”

Von Kadaver kicked the bleeding body off into the water and looked behind him. Of the men he’d led back into the boats, exactly twenty had survived the ride back out and the effort to scale Texas’ gray flanks. They’d only been able to grapple her at the fantail, and even the minimal wake she was trailing was too much for the boats.

But that was fine, Von Kadaver thought with an eerie calm. He could take an entire country with one squad of SS, and that’s what he had here. Motioning with his sword, they moved forward across the slippery deck, taking cover behind the forest of bollards, vents and other protrusions that mushroomed up from the holystoned teak planks. They had to get forward, where the ship was being commanded. Shannon would be there – he knew it, as surely as he knew the sun would come up in the morning. And there, he would kill him. Slowly, painfully, and humiliatingly. Shannon would die on the deck of his damned ship, and Helmut Von Kadaver would be responsible.

The mere thought filled him with an inexpressible happiness.

Grosbeck crouched behind a mailbox, breathing hard. They were just across the road from the seaplane ramp, the rain coming down in sheets now. Some lunatic somewhere had turned the ramp lights on, and it was illuminated like a Nuremburg rally. Couldn’t be helped, he thought. On the other hand, the Marines had melted back into the shadows, probably awaiting reinforcements. They had, in the end, been very good – the casualties they’d left behind were testament to that. But they hadn’t been quite enough to stop the SS. Taking one more look around and seeing nothing, Grosbeck raised his hand cautiously over his head and motioned them forward. Two hundred meters, that’s all….

Chesty Puller wiped the rain from his eye and scrunched it back up against the Springfield’s scope. This was going to be one hell of a shot, he thought, but it wasn’t really that much worse than trying to shoot across the valleys and rilles of Haiti and Nicaragua. Just a slightly smaller target, that’s all.

The target in question was one of the explosive charges Grosbeck’s men had placed on the patrol planes that were still tied down on the ramp. Puller had backed his men away from contact after a scout had told him that there were boats on the ramp and that some of the planes had been wired. Puller made his decision then and there – he’d never be able to block them from reaching the boats, there was just no place to even try and take cover. That was when the idea hit him, and they’d sprinted down to the ramp under cover of the rain and dark, setting up along the road. Assuming he still had his skills – and Puller had no doubt he did – he was going to let the Navy patrol plane keep the Germans from getting to the boats...

...And there they were, moving quickly and smoothly towards the ramp, taking advantage of every shadow and obstacle. Man, these guys were good…Puller sighted in through the powerful scope, and there was the black package, maybe about the size of a schoolbook, just in front of the wheel well. Piece of cake….watch your breathing….

Grosbeck was in a crouching run now, halfway across the ramp. The last cover they’d have was the closest of the patrol planes, a hulking Mariner. He and about a half dozen others stopped in its shadow, and Grosbeck turned to watch the rest of his men race across the street and take cover one last time. One hundred meters…

The Ar196 had finally gotten lined up, but its forest of struts and wires – not to mention the big floats – were catching the wind and making it almost impossible to fly with anything less than both hands, and even then it was a struggle. The pilot held on as best he could and aimed the plane towards the pinpoints of light that were erupting from the fortress and the battery the SS held. Giving the Arado every bit of power it had, he put it into a shallow dive, the 20mm cannons in the wing roots spitting lances of fire. The rounds spattered down the road, digging up mud and concrete and blacktop. As he pulled the Arado up and to the right, he barely heard the crack of a few almost harmless rifle rounds zip past him. That first pass hadn’t been at all good, but it would make them keep their heads down…

-Don’t jerk it –

Puller’s finger tightened smoothly on the Springfield’s trigger, and the big 30.06 round sailed cleanly across the street and drilled into the explosives package. For a heartbeat nothing happened, and then there was a white-hot pinpoint of light that flared into a hellish ball of flame that enveloped the Mariner, the wings folding upward and the fuselage collapsing into itself. The blast wave was almost visible in the rain, and it reached out to caress - then kill - the SS men as they moved past the plane towards their boats, tossing them like toy dolls across the concrete. But before the smoke and flame had vanished into the night, Puller was up and leading his men forward, bloodcurdling screams as they charged forward, bayonets fixed and firing from the hip as they raced across the street.

Grosbeck looked around trying to figure out how he had come to be lying on the ramp, then he felt the heat of the burning plane through his armor, and then he saw his left leg twisted at an unnatural angle away from his body. There was no pain, just an odd confusion. There were popping noises all around him, and he knew it meant he was supposed to be doing something, but he couldn't remember what until he saw figures in black dropping writhing, then going still on the ramp. He picked up his rifle and started to lean up on his good side when a sharp sudden blow knocked it out of his hand. He turned his head to see a short, stocky soldier standing next to him in one of those absurd 'Tommy' helmets, pointing a rifle at him.

Reflex being what is was, Grosbeck went for his sidearm. His injuries being what they were, he wasn't fast enough, and the soldier's rifle barked once, shattering the helmet faceplate into a berserk spider web of cracks around a neat, central hole.

Lewis Puller lowered his piece, and looked with disdain at someone who had been foolish enough to challenge him.

“Semper fi, you dumb son of a bitch.” With that, Puller trotted off to help round up the few prisoners.

[MKSheppard]

EN GARDE!

The rain was still coming down outside Quarters One as Brian Shannon paused for a moment and motioned for Cochran to refill his cup, which the chief did with alacrity. After sipping for a moment, Shannon looked up at Kozlowski and said quietly, “Your worst moment.”

Kozlowski blinked and cocked his head like an Irish Setter faced with an algebra problem. “Sir?”

Shannon got that annoyed look on his face again, the one he’d had when Kozlowski came in that night, then said, “All right Commander, let me put it in language even you can understand. What was your worst moment in combat…and I know you’ve been there, you’ve got the Red Ribbon.” Kozlowski looked down at his red Combat ribbon, the one he studiously tried to ignore whenever people brought it up. “I know your skipper was in a bad place once…she’s got the eye patch, the Purple Heart, and the Medal to prove it. Good lady, Marina…not too many Lieutenants can take command of a tin can and pull it out of the fire. But back to you – what was your bad day, Mister Kozlowski?”

Kozlowski thought for a moment, his eyes unfocusing as his mind went back to someplace he’d wanted to forget, someplace he always hoped he could convince himself was just a very bad dream. Very quietly, almost to himself, Kozlowski said, “When I was a junior Guns on the Cleveland. I wanted to serve on the ship named after my hometown, and I got it…and those idiots sent us on runner patrol off Nicaragua.”

Shannon nodded, eyes closed. “Go on.”

“Short version is we were out there off the eastern shore at night, skipper thought we were far enough out not to worry. He was wrong – usually was. Decent guy, but couldn’t command his way out of a paper bag.”

“Sometimes they get through the system.”

“Yeah.” Kozlowski sipped his coffee now, and then looked Shannon in the eye. “At approximately 0200 local, twelve PTHs came out after the Cleveland. The tacco misread the radar plot, underestimating the number of inbound PTs, and the Commanding Officer failed to catch the error. In the resulting attack, Cleveland was struck by one torpedo and seriously damaged. The senior gunnery officer was incapacitated and operational control of the main and secondary batteries fell to the assistant gunnery officers.”

There was silence for a few moments before Shannon spoke. “ I read the reports, Mister Kozlowski…just never realized before that was you. You did just fine, son.”

Kozlowski looked into his coffee cup. “No sir, I did not. I just did my job.”

“You took personal command of a turret and destroyed four PTs. I’d say that’s just fine. But the reason I asked is that it’s hard to tell someone about a night like that unless they’ve been there. You can try, of course…they might nod understandingly, they might even try and get their minds wrapped around the fact that you were in a situation where everything had gone to hell, nothing was working, and not a goddamned thing in your training or experience had ever even come close to preparing you for this. But usually it doesn’t work, and they go away thanking God it wasn’t them.” Shannon sipped his coffee again and fired a short, sharp smile at Kozlowski. “Which is why I stopped telling this story years ago. Anyways…”

Von Kadaver was flattened up against a bulkhead, his men spread out behind him as he tried to figure out what to do next. It would have made sense to get inside, out of the rain, and with a lot more places to hide, but he and his men hadn’t the faintest idea of how to get around inside the damned ship. No, difficult as it would be, the smartest thing would be to keep moving forward until they got to the bridge. There would be ladders and stairs there, they could get up there and finish this. Von Kadaver shrugged his right shoulder to get his rifle sling snugged more firmly into place, and then drew his Luger. He started to move forward, then hesitated and drew his sword with his left hand. That was a bit more like it, Von Kadaver grinned as he resumed stalking his prey, ducking once as another shell from Poseidon landed close aboard, shaking the ship like a rat caught in a terrier’s teeth. The raider seemed to be looming close now…

Brian Shannon watched in stunned disbelief as another shell sailed cleanly over the raider, this time to sizzle just over the ramparts at Fort Monroe and explode in the water just behind the fortress. This was not the kind of performance he expected out of his gunnery department, but then his brain whispered that his gunnery department was, for the most part, ashore, and all he had this evening was four enthusiastic amateurs. Grabbing the phone to Turret Two, Shannon roared, “Cease fire, dammit, cease fire!!”

Holst decided to remain down in the attack center until he’d gotten his shot off, then he’d get up on the bridge. The guns simply weren’t able to track a moving target that close – but he had something that would.

“Open torpedo doors!”, Holst barked, and there was a thud as the covers on the port side dropped open and the tubes swung out. The CRT atop the tube mount lit up and the battleship appeared as a gray/red blur moving through the rain and Holst could feel more than hear the dull rumble of the tubes swinging out. Whoever had designed the CRT had thoughtfully set it up so that a set of crosshairs would track with the camera, and it was a godsend right now. The battleship was approaching at a slightly oblique angle to the Poseidon, but the crosshairs were locked solidly just beneath her bridge. At this range, they couldn’t miss.

The remaining Marines were now posted around the superstructure forward – it had the best view of anywhere on the ship, and God alone knew that they needed to be watching for any other unpleasant surprises that might appear tonight. Master Gunnery Sergeant Peter Brophy – Gunny Brophy to the skipper and the old man, Sir to everybody else – was at the starboard aft bridge door when it suddenly opened behind him and Robbie poked his head out. “Gunny Brophy!”, he called over the howling wind, “Old Man wants you!”

Wondering what he might have screwed up that Captain Shannon needed him, Brophy charged through the door, at least glad to be out of the rain for a few, and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the Captain – and standing beside him, flanked by beefy security men, the President of the United States and Winston Churchill. All Brophy could do was salute smartly and say, “Sergeant Brophy reporting as ordered, sir…and oh, @#%$…”

Shannon couldn’t resist a laugh at that one, but it was quick. “Gunny, you can see that we have some guests here this evening who hadn’t planned on staying for the show. You just let your men know that we have some VIPs aboard who have to be protected at all costs. Brophy, I can’t stress this enough – everyone, and I mean everyone on this ship is expendable if it comes down to saving their lives. Understood?”

Pete Brophy didn’t have to be told twice. He’d been at Belleau Wood and in nameless places in South America where death was not only a matter of routine, but often mandatory. The Captain was putting the lives of the two most important men on the planet in his hands, and he would follow his orders in such a manner as to bring credit to his Corps. “Aye aye, sir!” Brophy snapped. “Shall I bring my men in and...”

“No, Gunny,” Shannon shook his head. “Keep your men where they are. If it comes down to it, Petty Officer Robinson and his men will get them into the conning tower – nobody will get them in there. I need you to keep an eye on things from the outside, got it?”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The B-17 was bucketing through the cloud deck, and it would be a minute, not much more, before they would be over Point Comfort. Now if only they could see it, things would be far easier. The bombardier had gotten himself settled into his post, only to be rewarded with terrifying glimpses of church steeples and trees, far too close for his liking. The gunners were in the same unenviable position, but they had the added thrill of getting wind and rain blown in through the open Plexiglas blisters on either side of the fuselage. His heartbeat finally returning to normal after their takeoff, the pilot shouted over the roar of the engines, “Navigator, where in the hell are we, anyways?” The navigator peered towards the nose of the plane, over the back of the bombardier who was looking nervously about, and called back, “Military Highway and Fox Hill – bring it just a point or so to port!!” The pilot, well trained, did so almost reflexively but called back in a puzzled tone, “How the hell do you know?”

“I just saw it go under us, that’s how!!”

Ask a silly question, thought the pilot, as he heard the sinister rattle of machine guns being cocked behind him.

Damn it to hell, thought the Ar196’s pilot as a low-hanging wisp of cloud obscured the Fortress’ ramparts, forcing him to pull hard to the right and set up for one more pass. He had no illusions as to what was going on – something very bad had happened to the Poseidon just as he left the ship, and they weren’t going back to Germany. If they survived the night at all. But right now he had a mission and that was to keep the Stormtroopers below alive as long as possible, and the bombs that he carried were going to do it. They weighed only fifty kilos each, and hadn’t a chance in hell of penetrating the massive earthen ramparts below – but in the middle of the unprotected troops atop them, they would mow down the Amis like wheat under a scythe.

Von Kadaver held up his hand and he sensed rather than saw his men come to a halt behind him. They were midships now, and in the half-light from the fires and lightning he could see sentries – probably Marines – on the galleries around the ship’s bridge. The battleship had stopped shooting now, but was seemingly headed directly for the Poseidon’s gray flanks. Von Kadaver peered at the other ship for just a moment and realized that the ship was sitting still – not moving at all – and was sitting strangely askew, with smoke starting to flow upward from vents on the deck and superstructure. Von Kadaver’s heart went cold for a moment and he realized that the Poseidon wasn’t going anywhere tonight and probably not ever again.

That, of course, meant that he was going to stay here in a place called Chesapeake Bay. So be it. Death meant nothing to the SS and even less to Helmut Von Kadaver, especially if it meant killing Brian Shannon and his ship.

And there was less than one hundred feet between him and his goal.

“Torpedos los!” Holst barked his last command here, then turned and headed topside. With luck, he’d get to the bridge in time to see them hit…

It was one Stormtrooper’s misfortune to see the long, sleek torpedoes lance outward from Poseidon, and he unthinkingly looked at them, light flashing off his faceplate...

...And Brophy’s Marines saw it, reacting instantaneously with rapid, precise fire that found its mark. The Stormtrooper fell back, a bloody hole where his faceplate had been. Von Kadaver heard the rounds snap past and knew only that they’d been discovered.

On Texas’ bridge, everyone’s head snapped around at the sound of the gunfire, and Brian Shannon’s heart skipped a beat. The Marines wouldn’t be firing like that at shadows; they were far too well trained for that. Somebody was on his ship again, and they were going to try and take it again -

Screw THAT –

“Robbie, get our guests and Major Blair into the conning tower, now!”

“You got it, Capn’! Come on, everybody move move move!” Robbie, two of his men, and the bodyguards started hustling Roosevelt and Churchill through the thick hatch and into the conning tower.

Marie staggered to her feet with the assistance of one of Robbie’s men, but she wasn’t happy about it.

“Dammit, Captain, I can still...”

Ian Fleming gave her a good hard shove towards the hatch. “Sorry, dear heart, but this one’s for the boys!” As she went over the hatch coaming, Fleming looked up and grinned at Shannon. “Hope you didn’t mind, Brian – your bridge and all that.”

“Actually, no. I was rather afraid she’d deck me...”

The G7e torpedoes had never been intended to be fired in waters as shallow and rough as Hampton Roads that night, and they didn’t run quite as straight and true as Captain Holst had hoped for, but it would be enough. The first torpedo impacted just aft of the stack on the starboard side, followed a heartbeat later by the second one against the fantail. Two massive explosions shook Texas like a rat in a terrier’s mouth, tossing everyone on the bridge against a bulkhead. The first spent itself against the torpedo bulge and opened a massive hole in the flank of the ship and popped seams for fifty feet on either side of the impact, but the hull – for the most part - held. The second one, though, was far worse, cutting through the thinner steel plating astern with white-hot fury that burst almost halfway across the width of the ship. The only thing that stood in its way were the massive brass rams that pivoted the Texas’ house-size rudder, and they stood solid, proof even against the G7e’s warheads – but their mounts were another matter entirely.

They took the force of the blast almost head on, and with the blast from one direction and the powerful force of the steering hydraulics from another, they could not hold. The starboard ram shuddered, groaned with almost human pain, and then literally jumped. The rudder hiccupped convulsively, then locked in place just a touch to starboard, the wheel snapping out of the helmsman’s hand hard enough to break it as he screamed in surprise and pain, only to slam up against the bulkhead behind him.. Texas was now headed directly for a spot beneath Poseidon’s bridge, as surely as the arrow flew for Achilles’ heel.

Fleming, arms wrapped around a binnacle, watched the conning tower hatch close with a final, sepulchral thud as the men inside staggered. “Brian”, he called, “they’re safe!” Brian Shannon, for the first time tonight, could have cared less about his guests. Every reflex he had screamed for him to be calling for damage control, but he knew there was none aboard. His ship – HIS ship – was hurt, perhaps mortally, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. And before he could think about what to do next with what he had, the gunfire started again outside the bridge. Gotta help, Shannon thought, gotta do something. Getting back on his feet, he roared to Fleming, “Let’s get out there, they’re gonna need every gun they can get!”

“Righto!”, Fleming smiled back, then stopped. “Brian, may I remind you don’t have a weapon!”

“Goddammit!!”, Shannon bellowed, then stopped, pivoted on one heel, and raced into his sea cabin. Fleming watched mystified for a moment, then his eyes went wide as Shannon came out with his Academy sword in his right hand. “Brian, old boy,” Fleming said gently, “this may not be the best place for...”

“The hell with it, Ian,” Shannon snarled as he pushed past towards the bridge door. “If I have to, I’m gonna do it the old fashioned way!” Fleming followed Shannon out into the wind and rain, where the Marines were exchanging fire with the Stormtroopers below. Ducking down as best they could, Shannon and Fleming looked down to see at least twenty black clad figures firing upwards. Brophy saw Shannon come up beside him and started to say something when he realized that the Captain was holding a goddamned sword.

“It’s exactly what it looks like, Gunny!”, Shannon called. “We ready to go after ‘em?”

Brophy grinned like the Devil himself. “You bet, Cap’n! Just say the word!”

“After you, Gunny!!” Brophy made a motion to cease fire, and as the shooting from the gallery died away, the Marines ducked down behind the gallery plating.

Von Kadaver looked up and watched the shooting stop. It was pretty obvious, but it was probably the only break they were going to get, and they had to get off the main deck. Motioning to his men to follow, he rose into a running crouch and they headed up and forward. Von Kadaver’s heart was pounding as he shot ahead as fast as he could, his men right behind and alongside.

Brophy had his eyes closed and Shannon watched as he counted to ten, then leapt up and called, “Come on, you Devil Dogs, lets show these bastards how the Marines do it!!” And with that, the Marines raced down ladders and jumped over rails, firing on the run at the Stormtroopers – who kept coming. Shannon was halfway down the ladder when he saw one Stormtrooper suddenly skid to a stop and look directly at him...

...Holding a sword…

[MKSheppard]

Duel

Chief Cochran simply sat there, blinking in silence and staring directly at Shannon, who got a couple sips of his coffee down before he noticed, paused a moment, then carefully put his cup down and quietly asked, “What?”

“Admiral,” Cochran said quietly, “I’m willing to believe that you and Ian Fleming worked together...”

“Wait till I tell you about Venezuela in 1934 – wait a minute, I can’t tell you about Venezuela in 1934...”

“...and I can buy the story about Commander Courbet and his merry men shelling Langley...”

“Did have the benefit of getting the damned Air Corps out of bed...”

“...but I have got to draw the line somewhere, and you telling me that you were about to get into a freaking swordfight with an SS Colonel sounds like it’s starting to get into NTINS territory!”

Shannon looked at Cochran in puzzlement. “NTINS?”

Kozlowski sipped his coffee. “ ‘Now This Is No @#%$’…but Admiral, pray continue…”

For the rest of his life, Brian Shannon would remember it as the most surreal in a life full of memorable moments – what looked like a Nazi robot standing in front of him, carrying a sword, and then pulling off his helmet to reveal a scarred face that looked like a death’s-head with a sadistic grin, while all the while gunfire was going on around them. Shannon was trying to place the face when Fleming barreled into him from behind, took one look at the Nazi, and said, “Oh, bloody hell...if it isn’t Herman the German...”

“Guten Abend, Herr Kapitan!” the Nazi roared. “Don’t tell me this is how you welcome guests to your ship!”

All Shannon could do was stand there in the rain, sword down, and look at the Nazi with a thoroughly annoyed expression. “Guests, no, Von Kadaver – garbage, yes!”

Von Kadaver’s grin never wavered, even as one of his Stormtroopers staggered back with a bullet in his head and collapsed to the deck behind him, heels drumming on the teak. Tilting his head towards the corpse, Von Kadaver said, “Collateral damage, Herr Kapitan, collateral damage! We don’t need them though, do we? What do you say, Herr Kapitan? Man to man, with cold steel?” Von Kadaver punctuated his challenge by holstering his Luger and deftly tossing his sword from his left hand to his right, then slicing the air in front of him so quickly that Shannon could hear it even through the storm and gunfire.

Fleming nervously leaned in towards Shannon’s ear. “Brian, old boy, please tell me you aren’t as insane as our old friend here!”

“Not hardly, Ian, “ Shannon snarled. “I’m worse!” With that, Shannon ran forward to go after Von Kadaver, sword held in a perfect parry position. Von Kadaver lanced forward and brought his blade down on Shannon’s with a loud CLANG and a bright flare of sparks as the two men whirled around to trade places, blades flashing in the night. For his part, to the day he died, Ian Fleming would always say that the second craziest thing he’d ever done was run forward to help Shannon, a run interrupted by a hail of bullets from the Stormtroopers who had managed to get onto the deck one level up. Fleming skidded onto the deck, tearing his trousers as he slid to a stop beneath a mushroom-shaped vent, trying to flatten himself paper-thin against the superstructure.

“Brian!” he called, “I’m having a little trouble here, do you think you can handle it?”

Shannon rolled his eyes upwards just in time top parry a slash from Von Kadaver. “ ‘A little trouble’, he says!” Shannon slid his blade down Von Kadaver’s and off, slashing down and across the Nazi’s belly only to feel the blade hammer against something hard and solid as Von Kadaver nimbly jumped backwards. “Herr Kapitan, you disappoint me –“ CLANG! – “I would have expected a better attack!”

Von Kadaver delivered a thrust that sent Shannon bending backwards as the blade cut through the air just below Shannon’s jaw. “Like this?” Shannon asked as he delivered a series of whirling slashes that now sent Von Kadaver stepping back towards the bow, his blade executing perfect circles as it deftly stopped each cut.

Richard Holst had, indeed, just gotten onto the bridge in time to see two fountains of water and flame lance upward, as he took just a moment to savor his victory, he realized his ship felt ...

...wrong...

And a quick glance at the inclinometer confirmed it, they were listing to port.

Whatever had happened had torn the guts out of his ship, and he was in no position to do anything about it. So be it then. If he - Holst paused, then peered at the oncoming battleship…the damn thing was moving ponderously but steadily directly towards the Poseidon, and it would be here in a few minutes at least. The hell with this, Holst thought as he picked up the handset for the ship’s loudspeaker system. “Attention all hands, this is the Captain – all crew, on deck! I say again, all crew on deck!”

Turning to the bridge crew, Holst said, “Friends, there’s no sense in dying when we can’t get home. Valhalla may be for those SS fanatics, but I prefer to see the Fatherland again.” There were no protests, no shouts of defiance, just nods of understanding. Holst looked into each man’s eyes, distracted only when he saw the Ar196 shoot past the bridge windows and stand on one wingtip to start it’s run.

On Flagstaff Bastion, someone yelled and pointed towards the sky, where the Ar196 was now coming down like a berserk angel, headed right down the line of troops with its guns twinkling. Down on the ground between the rampart and Battery DeRussy, the Corporal saw it coming and knew now they had no chance of rushing the Battery – he was pretty sure he’d seen bombs on that damned thing on its last pass, and that would be it.

Der Engel’s pilot lined up on the moat itself between Flagstaff Bastion and the Corporal’s position. He needed to put the bombs directly on the Corporal and his men – which would also probably take down the light masonry bridge as well. It wouldn’t be pretty but it would give the men at the Battery one chance – one only – to get clear of the concrete. So ist Krieg, the pilot thought, as his hand moved for the bomb release toggle…

A shock of pain raced down Shannon’s arm as he saw Von Kadaver’s blade flash and slice across his right forearm, followed by a blossoming red stain. The Nazi laughed maniacally as he jumped back a step and motioned for Shannon to follow him. “Come now, Captain! A little blood will not stop you, will it? Think of all the blood that will be spilled tonight!”

Shannon paused for just a second –

“You know,” Shannon said fifty-nine years later, “a very smart man once said, ‘Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats.’ In my case, all I could think was…”

- And stood there in the blood and rain and wind, and then looked into Von Kadaver’s eyes. Very quietly, Shannon growled, “You know what, you square-headed son of a bitch…I have had just about enough of you…” And with that, Shannon leapt forward like a man possessed, his blade whistling up, then back down again against Von Kadaver’s – and for the first time, Von Kadaver’s eyes showed fear as he lunged back, only to be driven slowly towards the bow as he fell back, every attempt at a thrust or slash blocked by Shannon’s parry and another thrust. The gunfire was no more than a distraction now, drowned out by the brittle metallic clash of blades.

As they came even with the bridge, Von Kadaver slashed across Shannon, who deftly blocked it – but even as he did so, Shannon realized he was behind the curve, and that he wouldn’t get to block in time

- As Von Kadaver spun on one heel and grasped the handle of his sword with both hands and swung down as hard and as fast as he could. Shannon blocked it, just barely, but the force caused him to drop down hard to one knee. He cried out in pain as his knee slammed into the holystoned teak, then slipped under him. The world spun crazily as he landed hard on his right side -

- And his sword skittered out of his hand, spinning across the deck and against the superstructure.

The men on Flagstaff Bastion heard it first; a dull rumble that they thought heralded another explosion, but then they realized it was behind them. The Corporal heard it too, and he whipped his head around to see what he would always remember as the most beautiful sight in his life – the silver B-17 thundering just a few feet over the flagpole, the roaring of the engines shaking all of them to their core as it shot...

“MEIN GOTT!” The Ar196’s pilot had just enough time to see the massive Flying Fortress, the biggest plane he’d ever seen in his life, suddenly appear in front of him like the shield of a medieval knight, and he lost all thoughts of dropping his bombs, firing the machine guns, ANYTHING but pulling back on the stick so hard he thought he’d yank it cleanly out of it’s leather boot...

“HOLY...” The Fortress’ co-pilot screamed as he tried to duck below the oncoming Arado – it was all he could do, because the Fortress wouldn’t react fast enough to do anything else. All either of them saw was a green-black-gray shape race across the windshield, so close they could see the rivets on the wingtip. The Fortress’ starboard side gunner was just as surprised, and couldn’t react fast enough to get his weapon into position – but the port gunner did, and he slammed the fifty caliber machine gun against the stops with a clang of metal and rattle of ammo just in time to see the Arado come into his field of vision, and he reacted just the way he’d been taught, lead and FIREFIREFIRE!! Tracers lanced out like a spear of light, impacting into the Bramo engine and turning it from a jewel-like machine into a pile of oily, flaming junk. It mattered not to its pilot, as two rounds struck him and nearly cut him in half with a flare of white-hot pain, then oblivion. With a final, convulsive jerk, the pilot’s dying reflexes slammed the stick down and to the right as the rest of the burst shredded the Arado’s wing and fuselage. Only a tangled ball of torn metal, wires, and flame survived long enough to make the short fall into Hampton Roads, just off Engineer’s Wharf.

“SCHEISS!” Von Kadaver staggered drunkenly as Texas slammed into Poseidon just behind its bridge, opening up the raider with a nightmare scream of tearing metal. He realized what had happened, but it meant nothing to him – all he wanted was Shannon’s death, here and now. With an enraged roar, the Nazi swung down at Shannon, blocking him as he tried to scramble for his sword. Shannon rolled out of the way, but felt a sharp pain in his back as he slammed against the superstructure – trapped, and no way out. Looking up, he saw Von Kadaver grinning in the rain as he raised his sword above his head.

With a soft, wicked hiss, the Nazi said, “Auf wiedershehn, Mein Kapitan…”

[MKSheppard]

Inferno

Brian Shannon looked up through the rain and glared right into Von Kadaver's eyes. “Go to hell,” he snarled. Von Kadaver's grin was every bit as horrifying as it had been seven years ago as he roared, “Do save me a seat, Herr Kapitan!!” The blade began its fall downwards, and Shannon involuntarily closed his eyes. Well, he thought, it had been a good run. There were worse ways to die than on the deck of your own ship...

Shannon's eyes snapped open when he heard a noise that didn't make any sense, not the wet thud and flaming pain of a blade cleaving him open but an odd, brittle sounding smack. Von Kadaver was standing there, looking in amazement at his right hand, which was now a bloody piece of hamburger, dangling at a grotesque angle from his wrist. The Nazi's sword was on the deck, harmless now. Before Shannon could even react, Von Kadaver got his senses back enough to take off at a dead run towards the bow.

Shannon just sat there for a moment, breathing harder than he ever had in his life, when he heard a familiar voice. “Cap'n! Cap'n! You okay?” Robbie Robinson eased around a corner, a .45 cradled in his massive hands to the point where it looked like a toy. Shannon grinned from ear to ear as he staggered up, and said, “Robbie, I was beginning to think that everybody had forgotten me back here!”

“Perish the thought, Cap'n!” Robbie shot a glimpse over his shoulder towards where he had last seen Von Kadaver. “Dumb son of a bitch brought a knife to a gunfight…” When Shannon gave him a wry grin, Robbie realized what he'd said, he started to stammer an apology, but Shannon cut him off as he grabbed him by the shoulder and they started forward. “Don't sweat it, Robbie, no offense taken. Is the ship all right?” But even as Shannon asked the question, he got his answer as they came around a corner. Texas had sliced into the Poseidon at an oblique angle midway between the raider's superstructures, her turrets almost even with the bridge.

A fire - a serious one - was burning where Texas' prow was embedded, and even as he grasped that, Shannon realized that his ship was tilting ever so gently to starboard. He could only hope that they'd closed rough hatches belowdecks to keep it from getting too bad, because there was no way they were going to get damage control crews aboard in time. A fusillade of gunfire coming from above and behind him made Shannon duck, and he turned in time to hear a cheer - a roaring, all American cheer - from a level or so higher, followed by Gunny Brophy's parade ground bellow. “CAP'N! YOU DOWN THERE?”

Shannon stepped back enough to see the Marines racing past Brophy, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Still in one piece, Gunny!”

"Glad to hear it, Cap'n! It's my duty to report that the boarders have surrendered!” Brophy flinched as he heard an echoing shot, followed by an unnatural scream, then silence. “Begging the Cap'n's pardon - NOW they've surrendered!”

Shannon couldn't resist a grin. “Well done, Gunny! Secure the prisoners - such as they are - and stand by!”

“Aye aye, sir!" Shannon and Robbie started forward at a trot once more, and now the spreading fire lit their way forward. As Shannon raced up the ladder towards the bridge, he called back to Robbie, “Robbie, get back in the conning tower and keep an eye on our guests - if it looks like we're going down, get them midships on the starboard side and keep them alive whatever you have to do!”

“My pleasure, Cap'n!”

Kozlowski just blinked for a moment, then quietly said, “Holy shit.”

Von Kadaver lay motionless for a moment on Poseidon's deck, his heart pounding and sending him a little further into shock with each ragged, thumping beat. Any and all thoughts of cold, calculating revenge were gone now as the flames advanced steadily towards him. Survival was now his only thought, and he could care less about the pain and blood. Staggering unsteadily to his feet, his left hand cradling his wrist, he started running, vaguely remembering that he was now headed forward…the bridge…that's where he needed to go…Holst would be there…

Holst was not exactly there. He was forward, trying to help get his men off when the Poseidon shook and literally rang like a bell as the Texas plowed into her. Men staggered, screamed, and went over the side into the murky waters of Hampton Roads. As he helped the crew over the side, he looked up for a moment to see the massive gray flank of the battleship looming over his head, and then moving to press itself against the ship as if it was mooring alongside. Holst could only imagine what was going on belowdecks, as it was clear the battleship had opened Poseidon up from deck to keel just forward of the aft superstructure. The battleship's bow was held tightly in place, only able to twist sideways as it dug deeper into the raider's hull. Holst thought for just a heartbeat that he saw one of the SS troops staggering along the deck, but then vanishing behind a fiery billow of smoke and debris. He began to call to him, to let him know there was safety here, but then Holst remembered that the SS would probably shoot him rather than seek safety. The hell with him, Holst thought, and turned back to helping his men over the side.

Von Kadaver half staggered, half fell into the bridge, falling onto the deck and rolling half upright against the bulkhead. His breathing was even more labored than before, his mouth dry, sweat pouring in rivulets off his face. It was hot on the bridge, hotter than anything he could ever remember, thick greasy smoke coming in through shattered bridge windows and the whole thing illuminated by flickering red-orange-yellow-white light that moved almost as if alive. Part of his brain, the part that had kept him alive through a decade of wars and raids, began to quietly and rationally assess his chances.

They were nonexistent.

It was possible the fire might not make it up here, possible that he might hold out on the deserted bridge long enough to get his wits back, to make a run for the other side of the ship and…what? In the armor he'd never make it to shore, and knew that he'd lost too much blood to make any real effort at escape.

No. A small red spark blossomed into angry red flame deep inside Von Kadaver's mind. He was NOT going to die here, he was going to get off this goddamned boat and get ashore somehow, and with that Von Kadaver began to stagger to his feet.

Brian Shannon wordlessly handed his coffee cup to Chief Cochrane and rubbed his eyes. “Now,” he said, “at this point, the fight was pretty much over. The Poseidon was sinking, the raiders in Norfolk were dead or captured, and the ones at Fort Monroe were almost all dead after the Army stormed that last battery. Trouble was, some of my dimwit crew members just had to get the last word in…”

“Mistah Holloway?”

Ensign Holloway opened his eyes - slowly - and wondered why his head hurt. He didn't wonder long, because the next thing he did was throw up all over the deck. The stewards who were trying to bring him back stepped back respectfully and waited until he was finished, then one said with the utmost solicitousness, “Mistah Holloway suh, you gonna need a new uniform after that one.” Ignoring the solemn nods of the stewards, Holloway tried to get past the awful taste in his mouth and asked, “What…wha' happened?”

“I'm thinkin' we hit dat Kraut ship suh, and not wit da guns. You kinda slipped an' hit yo' head on th' breech.” Holloway nodded absently and tried to focus long enough to grab onto something - which turned out to be the turret controls, swinging Number 2 out to port and sending Holloway down again.

Von Kadaver had managed to get upright and was leaning against the bulkhead when he caught something moving behind the flame. Had he lost less blood, had he been not quite so deep into shock, he might have realized a heartbeat or two before he did that it was the massive barrels of Number 2 turret, swinging through the wall of flame and heading directly for the bridge. As it was, the realization of what was about too happen came entirely too late and before he could command his body to hit the deck again, there was a nightmare scream of shattering steel, pistol-shot cracks of glass breaking, and the moan of bending plates as the bulkhead to his left suddenly exploded in debris and Von Kadaver went down again in a sudden haze of pain.

Holloway's mind was swimming as he lay on the deck, unable to get his thoughts centered long enough to make any kind of decision. I have to get up, he thought. I have to find out what's going on out there -

That part Holloway spoke out loud, and the stewards - now thoroughly shaken - paused for a moment before one of them said...

Von Kadaver floated up through waves of pain, not understanding why he couldn't move and why everything sounded so hollow, like he was in an echoing cave...

“Mistah Holloway, suh…well, there's a fire outside, suh…”

Von Kadaver thrashed about, trying to move but he was held fast across his chest. He stopped when his head slammed painfully into something and his eyes came into focus. There wasn't much light but he now understood that his head was inside something, a piece of ductwork perhaps, that had landed on him...

Gilbert Holloway only heard the word, 'fire', and staggered up to grab the firing handles -

A flare of light from outside suddenly illuminated the duct and for just a heartbeat, Von Kadaver wondered idly why ductwork would have seams in it that looked like rifling...

Holloway squeezed the handles, and the last round in the gun ignited.

“You know,” Shannon said, “I don't know anybody on a battleship who didn't wonder, just once, what would happen if you plugged a main battery barrel and then pulled the handles.”

“What…did…happen?”, Kozlowski asked very slowly and carefully.

Von Kadaver would have seen a flash as the powder lit off but not much else. The combustion gases, moving at supersonic speed, would have finished the job. By the time more than two thousand pounds of armor piercing shell lanced through the barrel and out of the muzzle, Helmut, Ritter und Freiherr Von Kadaver would have been a headless, charred corpse. What did remain posed no barrier to the case hardened steel that punched effortlessly through the bulkheads and out the other side of the superstructure at an almost completely flat angle, skimming over the top of Fort Wool, then headed directly for Battery Parrott, burying itself into the massive concrete and earth bulwarks that surrounded the guns there…and made not a sound.

“Seems Ensign Holloway forgot to fuze it,” Shannon said dryly, with a sip of his coffee. Shannon made a face and handed the cup back to Cochrane. “Kinda like you forgot to put enough sugar in this, Chief.”