MOSCOUHAFEN, CENAESIEN
25. MÄRZ 2015 | 05:12 SCHIFFSZEIT
MOSCOU HARBOR, CENAESIA
25 MARCH 2015 | 05:12 SHIP’S TIME
The hatchways and departments of U-214 reverberated with only one sound: the heavy, churning screws of the commercial freighter passing a hundred feet overhead. Masked by the deafening noise, the submarine’s own screws drove her at a creeping five knots deeper and deeper into the foreign harbor.
“We have passed the first mark and are ready to begin the approach, Herr Kapitän,” the navigator spoke to the old sea dog at the head of the quiet control room.
They hadn’t begun their silent running yet, but already the crew felt the pall of deathly anticipation grip their mouths shut.
“Very good,” Korvettenkapitän Hans Peterschmidt replied. “Helm, make your course two-six-zero.”
“Jawohl, Herr Kap’tän. Two-six-zero.”
Not because of her small size, but because of her slow speed, the U-214 only gradually broke from the safety of the deep shipping channel towards her real target: the Imperial Fleet Yard Moscou, the port-of-call for Welka’s greatest rival on the waves of the Middle Sea—the Cenaesian surface fleet.
Within a minute the submarine was established on its new course, and the crew already began to hear the soothing blanket of shuddering noise above fade.
“Commence silent running.”
“Jawohl. Commencing silent running.”
The message was whispered up and down the departments, from maneuvering in the stern to the torpedo room at the bow. Now the men felt hard pressed just to breathe, lest they point out the submarine to some careful Cenaesian sonarman. The ventilation fans whirred to a stop and already the crew began to sweat. The only sounds left was their screws slowly carving up the water in their wake, and the next whisper from the navigator.
“Approaching mark two. Sea floor rising to one-two-zero feet.”
“Make our depth one hundred feet,” Peterschmidt whispered to the dive officer.
Out from the complete darkness emerged the U-214 in the slightly-lighter depths. On Peterschmidt’s right stood his XO, twenty years his younger, Stabskapitänleutnant Altmeyer. His hands had an iron grip around the handrail, knuckles as white as a sheet. His eyes were trained on the fathometer. Watching the number slowly tick downward, he knew the keel had just barely passed within ten feet of the shallowing seabed. If they struck a rock or some unrecorded rise on their charts, so close to a wasp’s nest of destroyers and frigates and depth charges, he knew they would be finished.
The little submarine grew closer and closer to the naval base. At 05:25, they passed the third mark on their charted course and climbed to eighty feet.
“Herr Kap’tän,” the sonarman hissed. “New contact, bearing zero-six-zero. Warship, likely frigate! Moving away!”
Peterschmidt merely nodded. “Decrease speed to two knots,” he ordered, hoping slower screws would edge out a tired sonarman aboard that frigate so early in the morning.
The submarine did not waver from its heading, but no one aboard knew that nature had conspired against them. As they slowed down, the two-knot current invisibly pushed their boat west, into the keen ears of that roaming frigate. The navigator had only accounted for a current half as strong.
“Contact lost,” the sonarman whispered. “Contact is in the baffles.”
Altmeyer swallowed. Somewhere behind them that frigate had disappeared in their acoustic propwash. If it hadn’t spotted them yet, then maybe it would continue to pass by without a second look. But if it spotted them any time from now until they turned around, they wouldn’t know where it was until it was already on top of them. And even if they did complete their entire mission without being spotted, that frigate at the entrance to the base still stood between them and home.
For the next twenty-nine minutes, it seemed the frigate hadn’t spotted them. The navigator read out his final report. “We have reached mark five, Herr Kapitän.” Mark five was the point from which the periscope would broach the surface and photograph the fleet tied up.
“All stop,” Peterschmidt ordered.
The submarine, already meekly wading through the sea, stopped its engines. But it was still being pushed laterally by the current into shallower water. This mission had no margin for error, but an error had already been made without anyone on board yet knowing.
Peterschmidt turned to his XO. “You ready?”
Altmeyer finally decided to make his concerns known. “It’s 5:54, Kapitän. The sun will be up soon.”
“Better light for our pictures,” Peterschmidt gruffly answered.
“And a better chance the Cenaesians spot our scope,” Altmeyer countered.
“I’m not going to wait until dusk in the middle of an enemy naval base. Time me. 45 seconds, like we agreed.”
Altmeyer obeyed. He raised his wristwatch to time how long the periscope had broached the surface.
“Up scope,” Peterschmidt said, lowering the viewport and flipping down the handles.
Forty feet above them, a five-inch mast rose out of U-214’s sail. It slipped up and over the mild seas, sticking two feet out of the water. Altmeyer began his count as soon as he heard the periscope motor stop. Peterschmidt squinted through the viewport, clicking the camera toggle on his right handle. The submarine came not to sink the Cenaesian fleet, but photograph it. This was the view that their country’s spies could never get from the high-security base—especially the newer capital ships being fitted out at the pier.
“Fifteen seconds,” Altmeyer said.
Peterschmidt clicked the toggle frantically. Already he’d taken two-dozen pictures.
“Thirty seconds.”
He had taken sixty pictures of every ship he could see. Then he spotted some other intriguing construction.
“That’s it—forty-five seconds,” Altmeyer called out.
Peterschmidt didn’t lower the scope.
“Kapitän, that’s forty-five seconds!” Altmeyer hissed.
“Just one more,” Peterschmidt dismissed him. For another agonizing ten seconds he photographed the floating scaffolding.
At last, Peterschmidt lifted his face off the viewport. “Down scope, ahead two knots, turn right to zero-three-zero.”
The relieved control room went to work. All their tension had popped like a balloon. All except for Altmeyer’s, whose watch read fifty-five seconds. He didn’t say a word to the captain, who was sighing with relief. All he did for now was fold his arms and glare at him.
Fifty-five seconds he would mention in his report. That is, if he made it back to file his report.
“Steady boys. We’ve done it,” Peterschmidt said, refreshed. His wandering eyes over the control room ended on his XO.
He tried to cheer up the young officer with a smile. “We’ve done it.”
Altmeyer didn’t buy it.
Domus aurea imperatoria, Hispalis, cenaesia
25 Martius 2015 | 6:28 MCT
imperial Golden estate, Hispalis, cenaesia
25 Martius 2015 | 6:28 MCT
The heavy wooden door swung out silently, exposing the numerous bolts and locking mechanisms buried deep into the ancient wood. A man stepped gingerly over the gasket and metal platting in the doorway, though his weight was nothing to it, and into the bedchamber before him. The light-footed step of the man, his feet sheltered in supple brown leather slippers, were buried by the sharp breeze sweeping in from the moorlands broken down into a gentler sound by the intricate geometries of the buildings upon the estate.
“It is at least a half hour again before my scheduled time, if the light does not lie.” A voice muttered from within the bed, hidden by the generous quantity of pillows and obscured by the ultrafine cloth hanging from the posts of the bed. “So, either something important has occurred or you’re meant to kill me, which may it be?” The voice muttered again, the sleep slowly slipping away with each syllable.
“Of...of course not Your Grace. I would never betray the realm and crown.” The attendant said nervously, “I come bearing unfortunate news of an incident at the Imperial Fleet Yar- “
“A matter of state then. Has the admiralty forwarded response options and initial analysis?” The younger man said, rising to a sitting position and sliding to the edge of the bed.
“They have, Your Majesty.” The attendant responded, confidence in his voice finally. “Would you care to review them in the SCIF?”
“Ah…” The emperor paused a moment, shuffling himself to the edge of the bed before he swung his legs towards the ground. “No, I shall not. Direct the command attaché to convey my desire that they pursue a strategy of finding what caused the issue and acting in the most reasonable way available. I shall review their reports when they have more information for me.” He slipped his own slippers on and reached for a silk robe hanging a few inches away. “Now, has the estate-master given any update on the stock? I am most interested to see the newborn foals before I return to the capital.” “I will get an update at once Your Majesty. Should I have the attendants prepare your morning bath for after your cardio circuit?” The attendant asked, now firmly back in the realm of what he had been trained for.
“Yes, have them add rose pedals. I saw them trimming them on the grounds yesterday evening.” The king stated, turning his attention from the attendant and towards the smartphone he extracted from a locked faraday cage before powering on.
HMS PUGIO, IMPERATORIA navali navale, cenaesia
25 Martius 2015 | 6:32 MCT
HMS PUGIO, IMPERIAL FLEET YARD MOSCOU, CENAESIA
25 Martius 2015 | 6:32 MCT
The bridge was near silent, Commander Tiberius Fabricius glanced around at his officers and the short hallway to the communications closet. Waiting. They had finally begun the pursuit once the RIB had been pulled out of the water, not that he was in any hurry. He enjoyed the hunt.
Plus, the submarine had been foolish enough to blow several ballast tanks it a seeming panic. By now both the submarine and the frigate had nearly cleared the inner protective waters of the military harbor and would soon reach the more open waters of the channel. If only my damn orders would come. He lamented, barely able to burry his impatience for proper approval to follow it.
“Captain, incoming priority flash. From CENTCOM.” An enlisted stated as she stepped over the threshold on the bridge bulkhead. A single paper was in her hand, either side of it punched with regular holes that betrayed messages sent via the secure teletype system.
Tiberius took several measured steps towards her and reached out his hand as the gap closed. He grasped it firmly when he felt the paper touch his hand and whipped it in front of his eyes, reading.
<<PRIORITY 1 FLASH>> //MESSAGE BEGIN// //IMPERIAL CENAESIAN NAVY EXECUTIVE COMMUNICATION// //FROM/CENTCOM //TO/PUGIO/FFG //SUBJECT: RE: UNIDENTIFIED HARBOR CONTACT //CLASSIFICATION: TOP-SECRET //BODY BEGIN //TRACK AND FOLLOW UNKNOWN SUBMARINE. //CODE DESIGATION: MERMAID. //ENGAGE DEPTH CHARGE WHEN 5 NM FROM HARBOUR //CAPTURE PRIORITY TASKING. //LETHAL IF PRIMARY UNVIABLE. //END
A thin smile drew itself upon his clean shaven face. “XO, brief our aviation detachment to prepare ASW package. Weapons, make ready bow rockets.” He stated, glancing up out of the bridge windows and towards the calm waters of the early morning sea. “Navigation, inform me once the ship has exceeded five nautical miles from the harbour. I shall be in by day office, inform me once we’re cleared to engage. XO, you have the bridge.” He said, handing the slip of paper with their orders over. His executive officer looked over and nodded, “Aye Captain, I have the bridge.” Before he glanced down and read the paper, a similar smile finding its way onto his face as had befallen the captain. As Tiberius was about to step over the threshold of the hatch he paused, glancing back. “Comms, request aerial assets to provide overwatch. I don’t want to let this fish slip away.” He said, before turning back around and leaving the bridge.