Risky moves

"Left full rudder! Head southwest! Aim the course!" The icy Atlantic water was cleaved by the sharp bow of the submarine, casting snow-white waves into the frigid air. A man in his thirties, clad in a white navy military cap and a black leather jacket, lowered the telescope from his eye. "Sailor on duty deck! Stay alert," he commanded authoritatively. He was at the helm of the latest submarine engineered in Germany and built in the Netherlands, touted as the most advanced in the world. With a surface displacement of over 1060 tons, an endurance of 8500 nautical miles at 4 knots on the surface and 60 nautical miles underwater, it could safely dive to a depth of 165 meters. Armed with 4 front-launched and 2 rear-launched torpedo tubes utilizing 533 mm torpedoes, and manned by a crew of 56, it was a formidable force beneath the waves.

No sooner had the commander's voice faded than a dozen young sailors emerged through the narrow hatch behind him. They ascended from the simple ladder welded onto the command tower to the deck. A few stationed themselves on the 88-mm gun, two others stood by the anti-aircraft gun, while the rest used this brief period of calm to light cigarettes and share a quiet moment.

"According to our calculations, maintaining this course should bring us into contact with transport ship number 7 in about ten minutes," reported the last officer to exit the hatch, an adjutant wearing a similar white navy cap, who stood not far from the commander by the periscope.

"This tactic has proven quite effective. If we were to coordinate with aircraft and reconnaissance ships, our efficiency would be unmatched!" the commander mused, glancing at the telegram in his hand. "If only our underwater radio communications were more reliable, our outcomes could be even more significant."

"Major Dennitz, will we one day sink the enemy ships?" the lieutenant asked, a hint of doubt in his voice.

"Of course," Dennitz nodded firmly. "Hopefully, we'll take down a big one today."

"Wake everyone up and open the inlet valve! Prepare to dive!" ordered Dennitz loudly, before turning and descending back through the open hatch, his crew following in quick succession. The last sailor took a deep breath of the fresh air before reluctantly sealing the hatch as the submarine dipped closer to sea level.

They had been at sea for ten days. The compartments once stocked with provisions now lay bare, the interior of the submarine permeated with the stench of rotting food and human waste. The crew's clothes were smeared with oil, their beards unshaven for days, giving them the appearance of wild men stranded in the wilderness. The books purchased from a bookstore had been read and reread, the playing cards warped and unusable from the humid air. Their sole diversion was fantasizing about the women they'd seen on the streets of the Netherlands and contemplating their next pay.

"Major! Major Dennitz!" a sailor rushed over, a telegram in hand. "A message from Dragon's Call, sir, with the highest level of encryption, but there seems to be a mistake!"

"What's the error? How could there be a mistake?" Dennitz frowned, taking the telegram and scanning it quickly, his expression freezing.

"What does it say?" the adjutant inquired, peering at him with a mix of confusion and concern.

Dennitz handed the telegram to his adjutant, his voice tense. "A directive from Longxue orders us to sink the British transport ship number 7."

"That's impossible! Our usual orders are to merely track and conduct mock attacks for training. This isn't war; how can we be ordered to fire?" the adjutant exclaimed, re-examining the message to ensure nothing was overlooked.

The message was clear: based on intelligence, transport ship number 7 carried crucial supplies for Britain. They were to launch an attack alongside U-72, hitting the ship with no fewer than three torpedoes, creating the illusion of a sinking by mines, leaving no survivors.

"Is Dragon's Cave out of its mind? This could start a war," the adjutant fretted, sweat beading on his forehead despite the coolness inside the submarine.

"Should we confirm with Dragon's Cave immediately?" he asked, the urgency clear in his voice.

"This is the last telegram we received after diving. How can we confirm now? Should we send a telegram?" Dennitz questioned, his gaze intense.

"Then, let's just ignore this message! Pretend we never received it," the adjutant suggested, desperate for a way out.

"No! We'll fire the torpedoes and make it clean," Dennitz decided, his voice resolute. "No one will see us. We are the ghosts of the Atlantic!"

"Major, have you considered the consequences? If we miss, we could become the villains of Germany," the adjutant pleaded, his tone anxious.

"What do we train for every month?" Dennitz challenged, his stare piercing. "Isn't it to ensure our torpedoes hit the enemy's ships? Do you expect to learn a skill and then retire peacefully? Is that it?"

"Attacking civilian ships could lead to executions," the adjutant muttered almost prayerfully.

"Do you all think the same?" Dennitz raised his voice, addressing the crew gathered around the control tower.

"Fight! Let's do it! My father served on the battleship Caesar. He told me if he had the chance, he'd make the British pay for their deeds," one of the sonar operators declared, removing his headphones.

"Yes! Sink it! Let the British see what we Germans are capable of!" a young sailor shouted, his fist clenched. His youthful enthusiasm was infectious, and soon more voices joined in support of the attack.

Emboldened, the adjutant declared, "God! Then let's do it quickly! We'll launch four torpedoes to ensure the target is sunk."

"Captain Gret, to the torpedo compartment! Double-check all torpedoes! We can't afford mistakes!" Now committed, Dennitz issued his commands without hesitation. "All hands, prepare! Depth 12 meters! Maintain heading!"

He then pulled down the periscope, peered through it, and began searching for their target. Through the lens, he spotted a submarine about a kilometer away, its command tower flashing signals that they were ready to attack. The sky was dimming, perfect conditions for a submarine strike. This was a rare opportunity.

"The target appears! Adjust the attack position!" Dennitz announced upon sighting the transport ship through his periscope. The vessel, over 8,000 tons, was oblivious to the danger as it steamed ahead, belching smoke.

"Torpedo safeties off!" commanded the officer in charge of the torpedoes.

"Backup! Reload!" the crew echoed in response.

"Hold on! Hold on!" Dennitz encouraged, his eyes never leaving the periscope, his hands gripping the controls.

"Launch!" he finally commanded, the word everyone had been waiting for.

"Torpedo tube No. 1! Launch!" a sailor announced, pressing the switch. "Torpedo Tube No. 2! Launched! No. 3! No. 4! Launched!"

Boom! The sound was deafening, the vibrations palpable even within the submarine. The first torpedo struck its target successfully. More explosions followed, indicating that not only had Dunnitz's submarine fired, but U-72 had as well, both hitting the transport ship.

The ship began to break apart amid violent explosions, black smoke billowing high into the air. It seemed the vessel was carrying flammable and explosive materials, making the subsequent explosions far more devastating than the initial torpedo strikes. In moments, the ship was reduced to debris.

"If their captain was in the cabin having coffee, they wouldn't have even had time to send a distress signal," Dunnitz remarked dryly.

"It's over?" the first officer asked, disbelief in his voice.

"It has sunk. No one was seen escaping. The explosion was too severe; there are no survivors," Dennitz replied, a hint of solemnity in his tone.

He surmised correctly that the ship was transporting arms from the United States to the United Kingdom, including a significant quantity of powerful explosives and some finished artillery shells. These were crucial military supplies intended for sale to the Belgian military.

"Quickly!" Dunnitz snapped out of his brief reverie and began issuing orders. "Scan the sea throughout the night! Leave no survivors. Send a telegram to Dragon's Cave: the attack is complete, the target destroyed."

Back on land, Anna put down the phone, walked over to Akado who was dining with Krupp and Streisman, and whispered the report: "The young dragon calls; the mission is complete."

Akado's eyes sparkled with triumph as he lifted his glass, a broad grin spreading across his face. "The Germans have won the Nobel Prize and the tie! Cheers!"