he
asked, "Permission to secure Sea Detail, sir?" Then, "Hold it!" directed at several seamen about to leave the bridge.
"Come here, Ernst." Pointing down, he said, "See those rust spots on the forecastle? I want them chipped and
painted before dinner."
Kurt cluck-clucked as Ernst went away grumbling.
"You're a slavedriver."
Hans laughed. "Take the paint away and there wouldn't
be any ship." There was a grain of truth in his words.
Only the most intense, loving maintenance kept Jager
from expiring.
"Quartermaster?"
"Sir?"
"Do you have a track for the Channel?"
"Yes sir. We should come right to two zero zero in a
half hour."
"Inform me when it's time."
"Yes sir." Kurt gathered his weather logs and stepped outside to see which direction the swells were running.
Hans followed.
"I was surprised," the boatswain whispered. "Nobody jumped ship."
"Surprised me too," Kurt replied. He winced, still not wanting to remember Beck and Franck.
"I sort of figured you'd go, what with Karen on her
way. You know, I've been wondering. Why was Beck the
only one they shot?"
"I never seriously considered jumping ship," Kurt said truthfully, and asked himself why he had not. Karen was
precious to him. "As for Beck, I think someone wanted to get rid of him." He was about to tell Hans of his discovery 52
in the after fireroom, but thought better of it. "I wouldn't much miss the man."
"Who would? But he refuses to die." For a moment
Kurt was afraid he would bring up their brief conflict over Beck's life, but Hans let it drop. He and Kurt looked
forward, silently watched Jager's bow rise and fall as she
met the swells of the North Sea.
53
v
JAGER wallowed through moderate seas at an unchanging
eight knots, all she could comfortably manage on one
screw, though she was capable of twelve in a panic. There
was ample time to reach Gibraltar. The Gathering would
not sail eastward until mid-July.
The ruins of a city lay three kilometers off the port
beam. Kurt studied an old map, guessed it to be Cher-
bourg. He felt a sadness. This was even more depressing
than Kiel, because it was dead. He suspected the ruins
would glow by night. Calais and Dover had been horrify-
ing, like the impossible, wicked cities of the evil beings of old folk tales.
The crossing of the North Sea had been unmarked by
significant event. High points had been a fog, a squall, and a few fishing boats seen in the Dogger Banks, all of which
had run when they spotted Jager's gray wolf silhouette
on their horizons. Kurt did not blame them for their
reactions. The warship was a ghost from a bloody past, a
death-specter, a haunt.
The passage through the English Channel, thus far, had
been equally uneventful. There were dangers, but these
they evaded by careful sailing. The old mudbanks, which
had once plagued Romans, Norse raiders, and the Spanish
Armada in its time, had returned. But someone, probably
fishermen, had kindly marked the banks with lighted
buoys. All in all, Kurt decided, Norway to Cherbourg was
a dull four days' voyage.
He glanced at the map again, frowned. Like most
Jager carried, it was English-language. For the thousandth
time, he wished he could leam the tongue. His work
would be so much easier.
He wondered what had become of the Americans, who
had built Jager so long ago. Word-of-mouth history,
rapidly becoming legend, had that whole nation burned in
the nuclear exchange following the Battle of the Volga.
Kurt tried to picture millions of square kilometers of
radioactive wasteland, and could not. He had been to the
54
border of the vast dead plain south of Hamburg, but that
could not be believed either. It was too big. The entire
concept of the War was too big to comprehend. He took
binoculars from a locker, leaned on the rail. His eyes
watered when he examined the magnified ruins.
He wondered why. Was it because of his father's sto-
ries? Old Kurt had been fond of things French
asked, "Permission to secure Sea Detail, sir?" Then, "Hold it!" directed at several seamen about to leave the bridge.
"Come here, Ernst." Pointing down, he said, "See those rust spots on the forecastle? I want them chipped and
painted before dinner."
Kurt cluck-clucked as Ernst went away grumbling.
"You're a slavedriver."
Hans laughed. "Take the paint away and there wouldn't
be any ship." There was a grain of truth in his words.
Only the most intense, loving maintenance kept Jager
from expiring.
"Quartermaster?"
"Sir?"
"Do you have a track for the Channel?"
"Yes sir. We should come right to two zero zero in a
half hour."
"Inform me when it's time."
"Yes sir." Kurt gathered his weather logs and stepped outside to see which direction the swells were running.
Hans followed.
"I was surprised," the boatswain whispered. "Nobody jumped ship."
"Surprised me too," Kurt replied. He winced, still not wanting to remember Beck and Franck.
"I sort of figured you'd go, what with Karen on her
way. You know, I've been wondering. Why was Beck the
only one they shot?"
"I never seriously considered jumping ship," Kurt said truthfully, and asked himself why he had not. Karen was
precious to him. "As for Beck, I think someone wanted to get rid of him." He was about to tell Hans of his discovery 52
in the after fireroom, but thought better of it. "I wouldn't much miss the man."
"Who would? But he refuses to die." For a moment
Kurt was afraid he would bring up their brief conflict over Beck's life, but Hans let it drop. He and Kurt looked
forward, silently watched Jager's bow rise and fall as she
met the swells of the North Sea.
53
v
JAGER wallowed through moderate seas at an unchanging
eight knots, all she could comfortably manage on one
screw, though she was capable of twelve in a panic. There
was ample time to reach Gibraltar. The Gathering would
not sail eastward until mid-July.
The ruins of a city lay three kilometers off the port
beam. Kurt studied an old map, guessed it to be Cher-
bourg. He felt a sadness. This was even more depressing
than Kiel, because it was dead. He suspected the ruins
would glow by night. Calais and Dover had been horrify-
ing, like the impossible, wicked cities of the evil beings of old folk tales.
The crossing of the North Sea had been unmarked by
significant event. High points had been a fog, a squall, and a few fishing boats seen in the Dogger Banks, all of which
had run when they spotted Jager's gray wolf silhouette
on their horizons. Kurt did not blame them for their
reactions. The warship was a ghost from a bloody past, a
death-specter, a haunt.
The passage through the English Channel, thus far, had
been equally uneventful. There were dangers, but these
they evaded by careful sailing. The old mudbanks, which
had once plagued Romans, Norse raiders, and the Spanish
Armada in its time, had returned. But someone, probably
fishermen, had kindly marked the banks with lighted
buoys. All in all, Kurt decided, Norway to Cherbourg was
a dull four days' voyage.
He glanced at the map again, frowned. Like most
Jager carried, it was English-language. For the thousandth
time, he wished he could leam the tongue. His work
would be so much easier.
He wondered what had become of the Americans, who
had built Jager so long ago. Word-of-mouth history,
rapidly becoming legend, had that whole nation burned in
the nuclear exchange following the Battle of the Volga.
Kurt tried to picture millions of square kilometers of
radioactive wasteland, and could not. He had been to the
54
border of the vast dead plain south of Hamburg, but that
could not be believed either. It was too big. The entire
concept of the War was too big to comprehend. He took
binoculars from a locker, leaned on the rail. His eyes
watered when he examined the magnified ruins.
He wondered why. Was it because of his father's sto-
ries? Old Kurt had been fond of things French
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