Print Edition Vol. 12 - Sæter

Sæter

by Laura J. Campbell

There were two things about the submarines that Lieutenant Junior Grade Thomas Coffey knew he would never get used to. One was the smell. The other was the damn cockroaches.

Life aboard the submarine was cramped, hot, and smelly. Fourteen men crammed into a tin can. God, there must be a better way, he thought. A shower every other week. The smell of diesel fuel, food supplies, cleaning products, sweat, and sewage collaborated to form an unworldly odor.

Although he would never admit it, Tom approved of his own natural smell. It wasn’t the sort of fact a man might learn about himself in the above-water world, where a regular shower was an underappreciated luxury.

 The cockroaches were a different matter. They were large, they were cunning, and they seemed indestructible. The presence of food crammed into every nook and cranny of the small sub gave them shelter and sustenance. The roaches were just as adept at avoiding human detection and destruction as the sub was at evading depth charges and U-Boats.

The sub he was assigned to for three tours, in order to carry out his mission, had a name. The name ‘Huntsman’ had been painted in white on the black hull. The ship also had an ‘official’ name, made up of letters and numbers. Nobody referred to her by that name, except during official communications.

The Huntsman was running shallow, while avoiding detection from planes or surface ships. It was the dead of night, and she had surfaced briefly to let the noxious vapors out, reclaim fresh air, and recharge her batteries.

Coffey was with the Captain, scanning the waters.

Coffey kept his binoculars to his face, ever attentive for anything that might threaten them. They were too close to enemy waters for his comfort. He was more accustomed to surface ships; but he had a special assignment that required he be on board the Huntsman for this run.

Captain Ortquist, gray-eyed and salt-and-pepper haired despite being fairly young, stood next to him, wearing a warm pea coat. “Those lights,” he said, nodding towards a distant cluster of illumination. “They mark the port city of Sæter. It has been occupied and is currently serving as a U-Boat and troop ship launch location. We need to get closer. There’s a troop vessel moving out about twenty hours from now. We are tasked with spoiling their trip.”

“Is the intel solid?” Coffey asked.

“Somebody told Major-General Wallace, and nobody in their right mind would tell something to a Major-General in the British Expeditionary Forces that they weren’t sure was true,” Ortquist replied. “The Brits would say it just isn’t proper to relay unverified information. We’d say that telling a potential lie in wartime is the type of thing that should get your ass handed to you.

“Under the Arch and through Devil’s Canyon.”

    “Kincaid can navigate underneath that rock bridge. There’s clearance over the rock arch to allow ships in and out of the harbor; there’s more than enough passage under it to accommodate a slim submarine like ours. You keep your senses about us...you have a knack for sensing things, from what I have been told. You came highly recommended to my boat, Lieutenant. As for engagement, Feldman and Podleski can handle the torpedoes, when we need them. I have full confidence in my crew and my boat.”

“What’s the name of the target?”

“The Pascolo,” Ortquist replied. “Our orders are to sink the bitch.”

A large cockroach scattered across the hull, pausing near the two men. Ortquist slapped it into the ocean with a snap of his wrist. “Damn things,” he muttered. “It’s like they live on the outside of the ship even when we’re submerged. There’s no killing these things.”

#

“I am familiar with the Arch,” Chief Petty Officer Gilmary ‘Bats’ Kincaid confirmed. Folklore had it that once upon a time he had played exceptional baseball, earning a reputation as a formidable hitter, and even being scouted by several major league teams. That was how he earned the nickname Bats. If it was true, he never spoke about it.

Kincaid only spoke the sub and duty. In the rare instances where he acknowledged the existence of the above-surface world, he spoke about it as if he were discussing a mythical location.  They joked kindly with him, suggesting that Bats Kincaid had been found at the bottom of a shallow sea and brought aboard the Huntsman through a torpedo tube, never having set foot on dry land.

Bats liked that story.

“It’s a narrow fit,” Coffey remarked. He drew a rough representation of the underwater arch of rock. It bridged from shore-to-shore underneath the inlet, jagged rock buttressing it. Fragments of it were known to break off with regularity. Underwater caves and crevices littered in the rock face of the canyon.

“I like a narrow fit,” Bats smiled. “Anyway, there’s more than ample space for our lady Huntsman to navigate. She’ll do fine. And I’m willing to wager that Devil’s Canyon isn’t as bad as the old mariners say. They like to play it up, so they sound like heroes, just for doing their job. Tell a harrowing tale of near death and let the ladies in the Air Force buy them a drink.”

“We’ll take it slow and steady, then.”

“Aye, Mister Coffey. I like it slow and steady, too.”

“Mrs. Kincaid must be missing you something terrible,” Coffey replied. This was his first tour with the Huntsman, but he had noted that most of the crew wore wedding bands, including Kincaid, as improbable as any connection between him and anyone on dry land seemed.

“I think I’m missing her more,” Kincaid answered. He fiddled with his ring. “Anything else, sir?”

“We’re at T-seven hours,” Coffey answered. “I’ll make sure that Petty Officer Lafferty puts fresh coffee on for you.”

Kincaid sniffed the unique atmosphere, smelling the aroma of fresh grounds percolating. “Cookie is one step ahead of you, sir,” he said. “I can smell it brewing already.”

#

“Why do they call it Devil’s Canyon?” Coffey asked.

 Captain Ortquist paused a moment before answering. “Truth is, nowhere near as many ships successfully navigate the canyon as should,” he replied. “A lot of vessels have simply disappeared. Sometimes wreckage is found. Most of the time not.”

 “One suspects U-boats,” Coffey noted.

“One would, if not for the hundreds of vessels that went missing in the centuries before the invention of U-boats,” Ortquist replied. “Not to mention the number of U-boats that are counted among the missing.”

“The currents are treacherous,” Coffey noted. “And the rocks redistribute themselves on a regular basis. It is a dangerous stretch of water.”

“Perhaps your new machine will help us,” Ortquist suggested. “Naval HQ said the gadget you’re testing will revolutionize our way of life. What was it called again? Sonya? Damn strange name for a classified piece of equipment.”

“Sonar,” Coffey corrected. “Sound, Navigation, and Ranging. A fellow named Paul Langévin has been toiling away at it. Naval Intelligence got hold of some early schematics and a roomful of extremely intelligent and resourceful men and women have developed a remarkable instrument.”

“All I know is that we officially don’t have it – or you – aboard,” Ortquist remarked. “What does it do, this fabulous contraption you ‘haven’t’ brought aboard my ship?”

“It uses transmitted and reflected underwater sound waves to detect objects.  It should be capable of measuring underwater distances, as well, if my experiments support the existence of that functionality.”

“Sonar,” Ortquist repeated.

“The Brits reportedly have a program they call ASDICS – Anti-Submarine Detection Investigation Committee. Anti-sub meaning anti-U-boat, of course. The recent sinking of RMS Lusitania has spurred significant efforts to eradicate the U-boat threat once and for all.”

“So, we will be seeing using sound,” Ortquist summarized.

“Precisely.”

“How accurate is it?”

“Currently echo-location needs a lot of development,” Coffey answered. “In time, I can imagine it being highly accurate. Even capable of identifying specific ships. Of course, that it me, dreaming of advances that are likely decades in the future.”

“Incredible,” Ortquist replied. “Well, you can try it out in Devil’s Canyon. Keep us away from anything we may harm ourselves with.”

#

The Huntsman moved ahead steadily, choosing a path in the center of the underwater canyon entrance. She wanted to stay away from the underwater canyon walls, with its jagged rocks that could slice open the sub like a can opener popping off the top of a tin can.

Coffey opened up a creaky wooden chest and set up his machine in a small space on the bridge. He stared intently at a screen.

“What makes that contraption so special we all had to obtain top notch security clearances?” Kincaid asked. He had felt offended by many of the questions and the background check. They had made him talk about things that had happened on dry land.

“It is leading edge technology,” Coffey replied. “For this particular sonar device, there is a sound wave projector and receiver on both sides of the signal path. An acoustic transducer and acoustic projector. It is very ahead of its time.”

“Sounds like gobbly-gook to me,” Kincaid replied. “Probably a million dollars spent on a fancy radio.”

“You know about bats – not the ones in baseball, but the flying mouse kind?” Coffey asked.

“There was a bunch that used to hang out – literally – in a tree on my sister’s yard. They’d fly out at twilight, to eat the insects. They filled the air, diving and soaring all over the sky.”

“Bats echo-locate when they hunt those insects,” Coffey said. “They locate objects using reflected sound. Dolphins do it, too. Send out a signal, perceive what bounces back. Use that information to ‘see’ with sound.”

“Every submariner has a soft spot for dolphins,” Kincaid nodded.

“The machine sends out sound waves and listens for returning echoes – the monitor helps us ‘see’ the data. This is very new, very ahead of the curve. The powers that be knew you would be navigating the Arch and Devil’s Canyon. Figured it would be a good environment to explore what the new contraption can do. So, here I am, with my fancy million-dollar radio.”

“Happy we could accommodate your little science experiment,” Captain Ortquist interjected. “Keep us steady, Mr. Kincaid.”

“Aye, sir.”

Kincaid was silent for a moment. “The sound waves – they can’t cause things to disintegrate, right? You’re not putting us at risk using that thing?”

“The waves aren’t strong enough to chip rock off of the canyon wall. And there’s no threat to the Huntsman, inside or out.” Coffey assured him. “Plus, no one else has this technology. It won’t be detected or give away our location.”

   There was a pinging noise, and Coffey looked at his screen.

“What was that?” Ortquist asked.

“Probably a fish,” Coffey replied. “Pings are pulses of sounds – I am listening for the return. If I change the frequency, you’ll hear a chirp. A very low frequency will give a ‘bah-wong’ sound. We’ve done quite a bit of controlled environment research. I have a good idea what fish, whales, and U-boats sound like.”

“I don’t care for my crew being overly attentive to the sound of passing fish,” Ortquist noted.

Coffey sent out sounds, listening to their returns with his highly trained ears.

In response to his acoustic probing there was a quick ping, followed by a deep ‘bah-wong’ sound. The submarine jostled.

Coffey fiddled with the dials and evaluated the data he was receiving. “That was something big. And very close.”

“A whale?” Kincaid asked.

“Whales aren’t usually found in these waters,” Coffey noted.

“Put up the periscope, Ensign Hardy,” Ortquist commanded. “Tell me it’s a whale. I trust your keen young eyes more than a fancy radio.”

Ensign Hardy, a young man with bright red hair and striking blue eyes, obeyed.

Normally the periscope would be useless in water, but the water around them was bright enough and clear enough to afford some visualization of the water around them. The periscope being used underwater was not without risk; there could be leaks along the periscope shaft, but the Huntsman had deployed the periscope while submerged before, with no ill effect. And the Huntsman was nowhere near its maximum depth, which further suggested the exercise would be safe.  Ortquist wanted eyes on whatever had nonchalantly glanced against a U.S. submarine underway in enemy waters.

Coffey glanced about the sub; a large cockroach made a hasty retreat for a corner, to hide behind a stack of boxes.

“There’s a light, Sir.” Hardy reported. “It’s moving. Quickly.”

“A light? Underwater? Preposterous.” Ortquist stated. “What do you see, Mr. Coffey?”

“A large object –moving in a non-uniform pattern,” Coffey replied. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“That supports with what I am seeing,” Hardy reported. “The light is moving quickly and erratically. Not like a vessel. More organic.”

“Like a whale?” Ortquist repeated.

Coffey and Hardy exchanged worried glances.

Hardy consulted the periscope again; he gasped and stepped away quickly from the scope.

    “Ensign?” Ortquist demanded. “What do we see, Ensign?”

“Teeth, sir,” Hardy replied, maintaining his composure. “Very big teeth. That is no whale. Nor a shark. This creature is much larger. And it has bigger teeth than any whale or shark I’ve ever heard of.”

There was another jostle of the sub, the sound of something pressing against the Huntsman’s hull.

“Coffey?”

“It’s moving around us,” Coffey reported, placing his earphone connector into the jack of the machine. He was concerned about the emotional effect of the numerous pings and chirps upon the crew’s morale.

Ortquist stepped up to the periscope. Hardy stepped aside.

Ortquist could see clearly outside the sub. A dangling light hung very near the scope, a lure of luminous flesh. It turned, as if sensing Ortquist evaluating it, opening its mouth wide to give the Captain a good look. Its crescent shaped mouth was filled was sharp, translucent teeth.

It moved out of the immediate frame of view. Ortquist watched Coffey’s machine’s screen. The screen showed a dot moving around them.

“The thing I saw is at least twenty feet long,” Ortquist said. “Kincaid...stop the engines. Hold us steady, right here. We’re in treacherous waters, approaching a U-boat port, and now we have some damn fish with scythes in its mouth looking at us like we’re a can of sardines.”

Kincaid obeyed. The ship hovered in the water, maintaining its depth.

Hardy looked through the periscope again. “It’s going into a crevice under the Arch,” he reported. “I can see the light. It seems to be perched on the edge of an underwater cave.”

“Coffey? What do you make of that?” Ortquist asked. “Why would it play with us, then retreat? Fish don’t do that sort of thing.”

“It’s observing us,” Coffey offered. “It’s waiting.”

“For what?” Kincaid asked.

Coffey sent out a series of chirps. His eyes grew intent. “We have another problem, Captain,” he stated.

Ortquist approached the machine. “What does your device see?” he asked. There were more dots and blips on the screen. He didn’t know how to read them; but he knew that Coffey could interpret the signals.

“Another sub,” Coffey replied. “And I know this signature. I trained on the device using one as a target. Well, the captured hull of one.”

“What is it?”

“A U-boat, sir,” Coffey replied. “About fifty feet beneath us.”

“Direction?” Ortquist demanded.

“It’s holding steady, like we are.”

Ortquist approached the periscope, peering at the glowing yellowish light as it dangled outside of the crevice in the Arch’s underbelly. Whatever the creature was, it was gazing intently on the two subs holding steady in the water.

#

Ortquist pulled out a small notebook from his pocket; he thumbed through the pages. He took meticulous notes in preparation for every mission.  This mission was no exception.

“The U-boat is commanded by a man named Mäder Kretschmer,” Ortquist read from his notebook. “Intelligence had it leaving yesterday evening. It should be out of the Canyon by now. Our mission was timed to be in the window between Kretschmer’s boat leaving and the departure of the Pascolo. The Brits have a dreadnought patrolling the area where Kretschmer is likely to surface. Kretschmer’s boat should be long gone by now.”

“Its itinerary was that established?” Coffey asked.

“The U-boats can only stay under about 24 hours before they have to resurface for air. Intel plotted the course, figured out where it was likely to surface. The Brits aim to shoot the damn thing out of the water when she comes up for air. Like you said, they have a particularly fierce dislike of U-boats since the Lusitania.” Ortquist went back to periscope. “We can stay under about forty-eight. We just surfaced, so our air is fresh, and our batteries recharged. What concerns me is that the thing we saw swimming around us looks like it can outlast any sub.”

“Why hasn’t the U-boat taken a shot at us?” Hardy asked. “They undoubtedly see us.”

“They probably saw the thing swimming, too, using periscope. They don’t have our machine, but they have instincts. Down here, that’s better than a fancy radio.” Ortquist replied. “I think they are staying very still and very quiet for the same reason as us. They don’t want to attract that thing’s attention any more than we do.”

“We should give it a name,” Hardy interjected. “With a U-boat and an unidentified threat, I think I need more specific terms than ‘the thing.’ So, I know what I’m being asked to look at.”

“Good point,” Coffey agreed. “Skipper?”

“My Norwegian great-grandmother used to tell me fairy tales,” Ortquist replied. “Looking back, they were some morbid stories to tell a child. One was about a troll that lived under a bridge. You had to avoid being eaten by the troll to get to the meadow – the Sæter, coincidentally the name of the port city we’re looking at. Sæter means ‘meadow.’ Since this monster lives beneath the Arch, a bridge of sorts, I suggest we call it a troll.”

“Maybe name it the word for ‘troll’ in Norwegian, to give it an authentic ring? What is the Norwegian word for troll?” Coffey asked.

“Troll,” Ortquist replied. “The English language stole that word from the Norwegian.”

“Then I guess ‘troll’ it is,” Coffey asked.

“We’ll have to come up with a better term before I write up the official report,” Ortquist noted. “I’m not submitting fairy tales to Naval HQ.”

“How about the Lure?” Kincaid offered. “It has that light hanging off of it, like a giant lure.”

“Somehow that sounds even more ominous that troll,” Ortquist complained. “Like sirens in the sea, luring sailors to their death.”

“Well, whatever we call it, that troll or lure or whatever it is ...” Hardy said, his eyes to the periscope, observing the creature’s movements, “It is back out in the water. It’s circling us. Us and the U-Boat. Doing a figure eight in the water. Very close to our hull. Those little shifts in our movement are it pressing water up against us as it swims by. It is not afraid of us. Neither us nor the U-boat.”

“It’s probably deciding which one of us it wants to eat first,” Kincaid surmised.

There was a motion outside the Huntsman, something large brushing against it. The light from the monster’s lure rested for a moment near the periscope. Hardy could see the enormous transparent teeth gleaming in the water.

“Captain?” Hardy asked. “It looks mighty hungry.”

“Kretschmer’s boat has been down at least sixteen hours,” Ortquist replied. “It has to surface soon. At the very least, it has to surface before we do.”

“We wait it out?” Coffey asked, making sure he understood the Captain’s strategy. “See what happens when the U-boat has to surface?”

“In the fairy tale, three billy goats had to cross the bridge to get to the sæter. When challenged, the first two goats each told the troll to wait for the goat following him. They assured the troll that next goat was bigger and tastier. It was a matter of telling the monster who to challenge – while keeping your own skin intact.”

    “The U-boat surfaces, the troll sees the movement and goes after it, while we escape.” Kincaid summarized. “You think Kretschmer can kill it?”

“I don’t know,” Ortquist answered. “My guess from the infamous history of this region is that quite a few boats have probably tried. And failed. The creature moves quickly. By the time you see that lure, the odd light bringing you closer to investigate or aim, it is moving against you.”

The water outside the sub compressed against the hull of the ship again. Hardy stood resolute at the periscope.

“Ensign?” Ortquist asked.

“Arms, sir,” Hardy answered. “It also has arms and large webbed hands. I don’t think it’s a fish at all. It’s something else.”

“A lighted lure, large hands, gigantic teeth, and smells like fish,” Kincaid noted. ” Sounds like half the floozies who line up to sell themselves in the liberty ports. And little better for your health.”

The attempt at humor did little to alleviate the atmosphere.

Hardy stood, pensive at his periscope. “It’s coming at us again,” he reported grimly.

An unearthly sound followed. Like fingernails being dragged against a chalkboard; only this noise was more ominous. It was the sound of fingernails being dragged against the hull of the Huntsman.

“Report,” Ortquist said, the awful noise still reverberating in his skull.

“The troll is diving,” Hardy answered. “Towards the U-boat.”

“It wants to check out the skin of Kretschmer’s boat,” Ortquist guessed. “See which of us it can scratch into. It’s getting hungry, as you said, Ensign Hardy. And it is figuring out which of us is an easier dinner to catch.”

“How would it get us out of the sub? And I assume its eats organic matter – like us, and not the sub itself.” Hardy asked apprehensively. “And it appears disturbingly familiar with subs.”

“I don’t know,” Ortquist answered. “And I don’t aim to personally find out.”

Hardy stayed at his post. “It has swum a short distance away. I can see the lure. It seems to be waiting, as Lieutenant Coffey suggested.”

“It knows that subs can only stay under so long,” Coffey guessed. “Like you said, it seems familiar with subs. It’s probably familiar most types of boats. How long did you say that this stretch of water has had a bad reputation, Captain?”

“Over two centuries,” Ortquist replied. “They call it Devil’s Canyon for a reason. What does your device see?”

“There’s movement,” Coffey reported, his eyes intent on the screen in front of him. “From the U-boat. It looks like Kretschmer is surfacing.”

“He has to,” Ortquist replied. “Death by asphyxiation is a more immediate threat than alerting that beast. Keep our eyes on the U-boat, Coffey. Odds are Kretschmer is more concerned with the troll right now, but if he tries to fire at it -- well, a stray torpedo is no friend of ours either.”

“Kretschmer’s boat is rising, sir,” Hardy said, as the U-boat came within view of the periscope. “It’s moving up, steady, slow.”

The rest of the crew sat in silence.

“The troll is moving as well, sir,” Hardy reported.

“Heading?”

“Heading straight for Kretschmer’s boat. It can move so quickly! I’ve never seen anything move so quickly.”

Coffey kept his eye on the sonar. “The troll is approaching the U-boat with alarming speed,” he confirmed. “It’s almost upon them.”

There was a horrible crushing noise that filtered through the water. It vibrated through the metal walls of the Huntsman like an undisciplined child banging on a large bass drum.

“Coffey? Hardy?” Ortquist demanded.

Coffey checked the screen, listening to the language of sound waves bouncing back and forth in the water. “Contact. The beast has reached Kretschmer’s boat.”

 “The troll’s hands are on it,” Hardy reported. “The U-boat trying to surface. It looks like the troll has embraced it, from beneath. It’s holding on. I’ve never seen anything like this!”

“Full steam ahead, Kincaid,” Ortquist ordered. “Now! Get us out of here while that thing is occupied with Kretschmer.”

“Shouldn’t we help?” Hardy asked.

“We can’t help,” Ortquist said. “We can’t risk becoming dessert after the thing has enjoyed its U-boat dinner, and we can’t radio – we still need to stop the Pascolo. We have a mission to complete. Regardless, we were relying on a dreadnought to sink the U-boat in open water; seems like a troll is doing the dreadnought’s job for it. We’ll pick up survivors on our return. If there are any. That’s the best we can do.”

“The U-boat is nearly at surface,” Hardy reported. “They’ve fired a torpedo. It isn’t anywhere near the creature. There’s no way they can shoot at something latched on to their hull.”

There was a rumbling, as the torpedo impacted the canyon wall.

Kincaid urged the Huntsman to move at full speed. “We’re moving away, Captain. Full speed. Away from troll, U-boat, and stray torpedoes.”

“They’ll open the hatch at the surface,” Coffey guessed. “They’ll try to evacuate.”

“If they get out of that boat, they’ll be sitting ducks in the water,” Kincaid noted. He made the Sign of the Cross over himself.

“If they stay in it without opening the hatch, they’ll suffocate. If they stay in sub and the troll starts bringing them down into the water with the hatch open, they’ll drown.” Coffey said. “Their best bet is to abandon ship. Try to get to the rocky beaches.”

    “Nothing we can do about it now,” Ortquist replied. “If we surface and attempt rescue, that thing would take us next. Full speed ahead, Mister Kincaid.”

“Aye,” Kincaid replied.

#

 The Huntsman traveled silent for an hour, when Ortquist gave the order to surface.

“You sure that thing wasn’t following us?” he asked Coffey, as they opened up the main hatch.

“Sonar was clean,” Coffey reported. “Nothing followed us. The creature stayed there. With Kretschmer’s boat. Poor bastards. Being destroyed by an explosion in a time of war is one thing; being eaten by a monster – nobody signs up for that.”

Ortquist looked towards the bay; they were much closer now. He had to focus on their mission. “The Pascolo is due to launch in T-minus four hours.”

“We have ample time and space to achieve our mission, Sir,” Coffey replied, re-focusing himself. Nature was even more brutal than war, he thought. War had some rules; nature had none. It sustained itself off of predation.  And there was a monstrous predator just a few miles behind them. “Where do we sink the Pascolo, Sir?”

“I want to wait until she is in the channel, navigating the waters approaching the Arch.”

“That puts her nearly at open sea,” Coffey noted. “It would be easier to torpedo her when she was over the Canyon.”

“I have two targets now, Lieutenant,” Ortquist stated authoritatively. “I aim to kill both.”

A large cockroach scampered across the hull. It retreated before Ortquist could swat it into the sea.

“Strange thing,” Coffey said, watching it scurry away. “Normally these things are not fazed by anything. But when that creature was swimming around us, they hid from sight. I didn’t see one of them the entire time the monster was near us.”

“I’ll chalk that up to us being fixated on the immediate danger,” Ortquist replied. “No way in Hell I want to suddenly start thinking of cockroaches as our early warning system.”

Coffey nodded. “True, that. I need to get back to my equipment, Sir. If we have two targets, we’ll want every advantage we can muster. We know how to sink an enemy ship; but this creature is an unknown. I don’t like unknowns.”

#

The Pascolo was a sturdy ship, with two steam smokestacks and a solid iron hull. It had originally been employed to carry ore from Sæter to distant ports.  It was now equipped with guns and depth charges; it had been retrofitted to transport troops and provisions.

The Pascolo believed that an advance U-boat under command of Mäder Kretschmer had cleared its passage of any potential threats, from the surface of the water, or below the surface. The vessel’s only true concern was navigating the infamously dangerous waters over Devil’s Canyon and the Arch. After that, they would be in open sea. A rendezvous with a military vessel just outside the Arch was scheduled, designed to give the Pascolo protection once she was fully underway.

What the Pascolo did not know was that the Huntsman was already waiting in the waters below.

Coffey had sonar on; the device had been enabled so that the crew could hear the pings and chirps the machine sang.

“She’s going over us now,” Coffey reported.

“Should I deploy the periscope to surface?” Hardy asked.

“Negative, Ensign,” Ortquist answered. “The periscope may give away out presence. There will be look-outs on deck, scanning the water for any sign of a periscope. We trust this sonar, for now.”

Coffey watched the screen, his ears attentive to the noises returned to the device. “They are traveling under steady speed. They appear to perceive no threat,” he said.

“Bats,” Ortquist addressed Kincaid. “On my order, start us as slow and quiet as we can be. We tail them as they navigate over the Canyon. I want clear shots, from a comfortable distance away.”

“Aye, Captain,” Kincaid answered.

Ortquist looked at Coffey. “They zig or zag, you tell me,” he ordered.

“Yes, Sir.”

“And one more thing, Mister Coffey,” Ortquist said, his gray eyes squinting and filled with grim determination. “The moment that creature shows itself, you alert me. That beast and I have some business to finish. Nothing threatens my ship and lives to tell about it.”

#

Coffey put the earphones on, surrounding himself with the sounds reflecting back and forth in the water. Hardy occupied himself with his periscope station, waiting to be told to gaze through the clear water. It was darker, so his visibility would be less than before. But he wanted to see what he could see.

Kincaid kept quiet, focusing on his gauges.

Ortquist paced ten feet in one direction, turned, paced ten feet the other direction, and repeated.

“The Pascolo is approaching the Arch,” Coffey reported. “So far they are the only thing I’m picking up, movement wise.”

“Keep your sound-eyes alert,” Ortquist said. He nodded to Kincaid. “Steady and deliberate, Bats. We don’t need depth charges or mines being dropped. Even if one wonders how that beast would fare swallowing one of those.”

“Probably think of them as an aperitif,” Kincaid offered.

“It’s an animal, not a demigod,” Coffey replied.

“Two hundred years of uninterrupted successful hunting seems more like the ability of a demigod than an animal,” Kincaid stated. “And seeing as how it latched onto the locations of us and that U-boat, I would be willing to guess that it can echo-locate even better than you.”

Ortquist spoke into a tube. “Feldman, Podleski – have our torpedoes ready for my order. We only get a shot at this. Two targets, and neither of them inclined to give us another chance. Bats, keep your attention on our progress. Like Lieutenant Coffey says, it’s an animal. It can be killed.”

“I haven’t seen it bleed. Yet,” Kincaid offered. He turned his attention to his station.

“Partial periscope,” Ortquist told Hardy. “I want to see the hull of the Pascolo, but not have her see us.”

“Aye, sir.” Hardy seemed relieved to have something to do.

“What do you think, Tom?” Ortquist asked.

Coffey shrugged. “I haven’t seen a bug running around here in over ten minutes. I think it’s out there. That thing. The troll. The creature. The lure. Whatever we’re calling it. I think it senses us and the Pascolo. Figuring out how hungry it is.”

“Animals eat when there’s food in front of them,” Kincaid interjected. “They don’t know when the next meal may be coming their way. They’ll gorge themselves over taking the chance that the meal they’re having won’t be followed quickly by another. And that’s a big beast out there. The devil in Devil’s Canyon. I suppose the reason no one ever spoke of it before was that nobody who saw it ever lived to tell the tale.”

“Maybe we will be the first,” Hardy replied.

“We haven’t survived it yet,” Kincaid reminded him. “We escaped once, but now we’re running the gauntlet again. The creature is smart. It lets us pass by on the way in when we’re lean. But it knows that what goes into the Bay of Sæter has to come back out through the same channel. And that when ships and subs depart back for the open sea, the crews are better fed and boats are full of fresh provisions. This troll lets us become our own fatter, tastier selves. Then it aims to gobble us up.”

“An intelligent creature, with hands and arms, and fins,” Hardy assessed. “And a dangling light to lure us to it, to investigate. And then those teeth. And big eyes to see us with.”

“It’s nothing but a swimming appetite,” Kincaid said. “Don’t let it fool you. To itself, it is all teeth and a hungry belly.  Like Lieutenant Coffey said, it’s an animal. I was just joking about the demigod thing.”

“Ensign?” Ortquist sensed that Hardy was seeing something.

    “I see the lure, emerging from beneath the Arch. It is going towards the surface. I wonder if it needs to breathe air.”

“It might,” Coffey replied. “But my gut tells me that it prefers surface vessels over subs. They are easier prey. In some ways the troll is like us; it waits underwater, and attacks from beneath.”

“Easier to eat fish-and-chips from a newspaper than unscrew a can of sardines,” Kincaid agreed. “Ships are easier prey than subs for the beast.”

“The light is moving, just below the surface of the water,” Hardy said.

 “Giving the Pascolo reason to approach it and drop their charges,” Ortquist noted. “The crew of the Pascolo are hypersensitive right now, looking for subs. Looking for the likes of us. The depth charges will sink right past the creature. The troll is too high in the water.”

“We’re out of range,” Kincaid confirmed. “Of both charges and the troll. For now. I wonder how far away from its lair the troll ventures?”

“The troll lives under the bridge,” Ortquist reminded him. “That’s its comfort zone. It will stay close to the Arch.”

“Confirmed on sonar,” Coffey said. “The troll getting right beneath the Pascolo, like it knows how the charges are dropped.” He paused. “The thing has done this before.”

“It knew Kretschmer had to surface, and about how long it would take,” Ortquist reminded Coffey.

“That implies it knows the difference between U-boats and allied subs,” Coffey realized. “It knows how long it has to wait. And it knows we have to go back out. It’s potentially seen a sub take down a ship. So, it may be looking to take out two targets, as well.”

“This thing must love our war. It divides us, makes our protocols its supper planning. I’ve no love lost for the enemy, but make no mistake, I have even less love for something that eats the enemy. And would make us its next meal.” Ortquist was still, solid in his stance. “Like you said, nobody signs up to be eaten by a monster.”

There was a rocking wave that rolled through the water. It was followed by another. And another. Coffey pulled the earphones from his head. The sub was silent. All that could be heard were pings and strange creaks that came from seams of the sub.

“Three charges, no hits,” Hardy reported.

“Three strikes,” Bats Kincaid noted darkly. “They’re out.”

“The troll is moving,” Hardy said. “I can just barely see, but its hands are gripping into the hull of the Pascolo.”

“Tell me its intentions, Ensign,” Ortquist ordered.

“It looks like it is trying to pull the vessel down. It is digging its fingers into the hull.  It appears to be trying to rock it – make it capsize.”  

“Feldman, Podleski: Fire torpedoes!” Ortquist ordered.

There was an odd sound, as if a slit opened in the sub, followed by gurgling noise. The sub lurched upwards twice in reaction to the momentum of two torpedoes exiting her belly.

The crew remained still and pensive. There would be no hiding now. Both the creature and the Pascolo would know the Huntsman was there; and both would be eager for a counterstrike.

 “One hit!” Hardy called out. He was still apprehensive. “It looks like we caught the creature attached to the hull. I see dark fluid in the water. It doesn’t look like fuel. Its lure is wobbling around. Like it isn’t sure what to do.”

“Come on, batter,” Bats said. “Hit the second one out of the park.”

The second torpedo hit is target seconds after the first.

“Hit two!” Hardy exclaimed. “Direct on the creature, through it and into the Pascolo’s hull. The creature is letting go... it appears to be swimming back to its lair in the Arch. The Pascolo is taking on water.”

“Hold us here, Kincaid,” Ortquist ordered. “Keep us out of range.”

“And any survivors?” Hardy asked.

“The Brits have that dreadnought just outside the Arch,” Ortquist reminded him. “They’ll pick up the Pascolo’s distress signal. We don’t need to have our presence known. Especially with our mission classified.”

“What about the thing?” Hardy asked.

“It bleeds,” Ortquist stated. “And it took a direct hit from a torpedo. Even a demigod would be felled by that.”

“Orders, sir?” Kincaid asked.

“Get us out of this devil’s canyon,” Ortquist ordered.

As they passed under the Arch, there was a stream of black fluid flowing from the thing’s cave. It did not emerge. And there was no light.

“Thank God for the darkness upon the deep,” Ortquist whispered, as the Huntsman safely navigated into open sea.

Coffey watched the cockroaches re-appear.

They knew the danger had passed.

#

Sixty years later

Neil Ortquist looked almost the same as he had six decades before. He was one of those people born mature; as a result, aging held little threat for him. His hair was perhaps a little saltier.

Thomas Coffey looked much older. Maintaining secrets had a way of aging a man beyond his natural years. He greeted his old submariner brother.

They were in the outdoor restaurant of a palace that had been transformed into a grand hotel, in Kifissia, Greece. The grounds were incredible, full of flourishing gardens and sparkling fountains; the exquisite hotel was made of gleaming white marble that reflected the sunlight.

“Greek coffee?” Ortquist asked, gesturing towards his own small cup filled with potent sweet coffee. A waiter stood by, ready for the order. “I’ve just ordered another.”

“Café Americano,” Coffey requested.  The waiter nodded and rushed off to retrieve the coffees. “Greek coffee has always been too strong for me.”

“It is good to see you,” Ortquist said. “I wasn’t sure if you would make the re-union. You were only aboard the Huntsman a short while. What, three classified tours? Then back to Naval Intelligence. It wasn’t the same without you. It was almost too normal. Especially after that run under the Arch.”

    “You know, we’re still under orders to keep that run under the Arch classified. We’re not even supposed to discuss among ourselves.”

“Who is here to overhear us, Tom? Kincaid is dead – I scattered his ashes myself. A lonely affair. Just me and the seagulls.”

“What about his wife?”

“I found out that she died right before he enlisted. A car accident. Bats never trusted dry land again. That’s why he threw himself into the sea. She must have been a special lady. I still have their wedding rings, back home. Sometimes when the sun sets just right over Blue Hill Harbor, the sun’s rays hit them at the right angle, and they almost seem to glow with a supernatural light. Reminds me of – well, of things we aren't authorized to talk about.”

“Have you seen anybody else here? I can’t imagine there are too many of us left.”

“Podleski, Lafferty,” Ortquist replied. “We’ll get together, toast memories we don’t officially have. I saw sonar – the type you demonstrated – put into use about thirty years after you used it.”

“They held the technology back. Politics. Like a lot of technology and other weapons of war -- better to not let the enemy know we have it, right? Or let them think that we’re a generation behind what we really have. Nowadays they can probably tell when a submariner farts on board a sub.”

“Ensign So-and-So had stale burritos for lunch, so that must be him passing wind,” Ortquist joked. “He’ll need to run to the head in thirty minutes, meaning that he – and his expert abilities - won’t be at his station from 0:30 to 0:50. We should attack then.”

“WWI, WWII, Korea, Vietnam, and this ongoing Cold War,” Coffey shook his head. “I thought I was done in 1916. I’m eighty-five years old now, Neil. And they still ask me to go to Annapolis or Washington or Boston or San Francisco and look at the latest version of the latest gadgets. I’m lucky I can find my reading glasses when they are on my head and the powers that be want me to troubleshoot some new technology. You know, I officially work for the National Center for Atmospheric Research. They even set up a fake office for me. Complete with office plants somebody else waters.” He paused, pursing his thin aged lips. “When I die, I want you to scatter my ashes where you scattered Bats. Maybe by being in better company than my own, I’ll have a shot of getting into Heaven. War. Weren’t we supposed to be fighting the Last War?”

“War is the answer when other means of resolving the conflict have failed,” Ortquist replied. “Politics fails us. A lot. Always has. Always will.  And I suppose there are secret gadgets being used right now that we’ll find out about in thirty years. Or would have. You and I will probably be gone by then. Yeah, Tom, I'll scatter your ashes. I guess I'll have Lafferty scatter mine. We'll all end up together at the bottom of Blue Hill Harbor. Better than ending up under that damned Arch. With the remnants of whatever that thing was.”

“I wonder about that – that thing.”

“We can only hope there’s nothing else like that out there,” Ortquist answered. “Off the record, the Brits aboard that dreadnought went into the Arch waters under the guise of rescuing the crew of the Pascolo. The dreadnought HMS William Geit made sure that the thing was dead. They undoubtedly searched the area, collected whatever pieces they could find, and did a thorough autopsy on whatever remained. The Brits can always be counted on to be thorough.”

“Hundreds of ships, swimmers, subs, scuba divers ... a lot of people died in the Arch. For over two centuries. Kincaid said it was nothing but teeth and a hungry belly. But one thought has kept me awake for sixty years. Kincaid failed to mention another focus of any creature’s existence.”

“Reproduction,” Ortquist replied. “I thought about that at the time. But I didn’t say anything. Hardy was a little skittish. Of course, he had the best seat in the house to see the damned thing in action, so his anxiety was justifiable.”

“Do you think there are others? Other things out there? Like that one.”

“I don’t know what to think,” Ortquist replied. “The Navy didn’t tell me what to think about that. But I have nightmares, too, Tom. Did the Geit find eggs hidden in some underwater cavern when they did their thorough search? Are there those eggs being preserved - or worse yet, are there offspring of the Troll being maintained and bred - in some top-secret British laboratory?"

“Waiting their time to become the next secret weapon,” Coffey added. "The British could be trusted to keep a secret like that."

The waiter returned with Ortquist’s Greek coffee and Coffey’s Café Americano. He left, to attend to his next customers.

“To nightmares,” Coffey toasted with the coffee. “The type that just stay bad dreams. And are never freed to swim in the deep ocean waters off anywhere."

“To nightmares,” Ortquist returned.

A roach crawled out from beneath a nearby table. Ortquist got up and smashed it with a resounding thud of his boot. He sat back down.

“Terrible thing is that since that mission I take seeing cockroaches as a sign of good fortune,” he said. "They knew to run away before the rest of us did."

Coffey remained silent. He was focusing on the chirps of the baby birds in their nests. Newly hatched from their eggs. Wondering about the Troll and if it had progeny.

The he spied another cockroach, but it retreated quickly, hiding under a large planter. 

As if somebody just thinking about the Troll was enough reason to urge it into hiding.

THE END