The Catfish Gambit

An American training sub is forced into action near the end of WW II.

The Catfish Gambit

## CHAPTER 1: THE HAND-OFF

The USS Catfish wallowed in the South Atlantic, a steel ghost cutting through gray swells on May 9, 1945. Germany had folded yesterday—VE Day—but out here, the ocean didn't care. An S-class fleet boat, pre-war vintage, she'd been demoted to training Brazilian and Argentine crews, her hull patched and her pride dented. Two live Mark 12 torpedoes sloshed in her tubes, a .50-cal machine gun rusted on deck, and a 3-inch cannon sat like an old dog too tired to bite. She wasn't a hunter anymore—just a schoolmarm with dulled teeth.

Captain Daniel Harwood stood on the bridge, collar turned up against the spray. At forty-seven, his face was a map of wind-burned lines, hands gnarled from years of salt and steel. The night watch had ended, but sleep eluded him. His thoughts drifted to Boston—to a desk job waiting for him, to hot showers and fresh sheets, to conversations that didn't involve depth charges or torpedo angles.

The shortwave had crackled at 0200 in the radio shack. "Catfish, rendezvous with PBY Catalina, 25°S, 40°W. Crew transfer. New orders." Harwood had sworn under his breath, rubbing salt-stiff hands. "Another damn errand. I'm due for a desk."

Now, as false dawn smeared the horizon, Lt. Senior Grade Paul Travers joined him on the bridge. The XO chewed a cold pipe, scanning the water with eyes that had seen too much. Forty-two years old with thinning hair and permanent furrows between his brows, Travers had been with Harwood since Midway. They didn't need words.

"PBY incoming, sir," called Lt. JG Eddie Voss, the officer of the deck. Twenty-six, with a perpetual five o'clock shadow and the easy confidence of someone who'd never known real fear—at least until '43, when their old boat had nearly been crushed at 300 feet. Now Voss yawned, binoculars dangling from his neck like an oversized pendant, but his eyes were sharp.

Lt. JG Ira McIntosh, the diving officer, stood beside them, a matchstick rolling between his teeth. Half-Ute, half-Irish, raised in a Nevada shack where the wind howled louder than his old man's drunken rages, McIntosh was thirty, copper-skinned, with eyes that gave away nothing. His fingers tapped a rhythm on the rail—not nervous, just constantly moving, as if stillness might kill him.

Dawn broke fully, a bruised smear of clouds bleeding across the sky. The PBY skimmed in, fat and black against the light, landing hard on six-foot swells that made its hull groan. The transfer promised to be a bastard—raft bucking, lines tangling, spray soaking every man to the bone.

"Better you than me," Travers muttered, puffing his empty pipe.

McIntosh just grunted, matchstick shifting to the other corner of his mouth.

Two officers struggled from the PBY into the pitching raft. The first was Commodore Victor Grayson, fifty-nine, a chain-smoking ruin of a man with a voice like gravel being crushed and dolphin pins glinting on his chest. Behind him came Lt. JG Harold Owens, intelligence, lean as a blade with eyes sharp enough to cut glass, his own dolphins polished to an obsessive shine.

The raft approached the submarine's hull, bouncing against the steel like a toy. Hands reached down, hauling the men aboard. Grayson stumbled, wheezing, as his feet hit the deck. Owens moved with purpose, eyes scanning each face, each fitting, each weapon—cataloging.

"I'm taking her," Grayson rasped, fumbling in his jacket for papers that he shoved at Harwood. "You're relieved."

Harwood grinned like a kid sprung from school, no ceremony, no salute—just the sudden lightness of responsibility lifted. "Orders say back to Boston on the PBY. Don't wreck my boat, Commodore."

"Not your boat anymore," Grayson coughed, lighting a cigarette with fingers that trembled slightly.

Harwood nodded to Travers, to Voss, to McIntosh. "Been a trip, gentlemen. See you in Boston, suckers." He scrambled into the raft with a wave, his seabag tossed after him.

The raft pushed off, cutting through chop back to the PBY. The pilots helped Harwood aboard, the craft's engines already spinning up, vibrating the hull. Then the sky split open.

A Ju 290, a long-range Kraut bomber—some holdout too stubborn to quit—dropped from the clouds, its black crosses stark against the gray sky. Its guns blazed, tracers cutting water into white plumes.

The PBY erupted, a fireball cartwheeling into the sea. Harwood was gone in a heartbeat, consumed by flame that turned water to steam.

Shrapnel raked the Catfish's conning tower, pinging like lethal hail. Blood bloomed on Voss's cheek from a jagged slash. Men dove for cover.

"Dive, dive!" Ira bellowed, shoving men toward the hatch, slamming it behind the last one. The klaxon wailed, and the boat plunged.

Grayson, unsteady on the ladder, slipped—cracked his skull on a stanchion with a sound like a melon splitting. He crumpled at the bottom, blood pooling, dark and sticky, spreading across the deck plates. He was dead before the hatch dogs clicked shut.

In the control room, the air turned sour with fear and sweat. Travers took the conn, barking, "Set course for Recife, all ahead full!"

Owens stepped forward, a manila envelope in hand, voice cool as ice. "No, you're not. New orders. We're hunting U-977—Nazi sub, escaping with cargo vital to national security. We intercept, force her surrender."

Travers laughed, a dry, bitter sound. "With what? Two fish and a popgun? Our happy meal's gone, Commodore's brains are on the deck, and you want us to hunt a Nazi boat? You're cracked."

"Bullshit," Travers snarled, pipe clenched in his teeth. "I'm XO. Boat's mine now."

It boiled over fast—Travers lunged, fists up; Owens drew a .45 from under his jacket. A shot cracked like a whip, echoing through the metal confines. Travers hit the deck, a hole in his chest, pipe rolling free. His eyes widened in surprise, then glazed over.

Voss bolted aft, panic in his eyes—Owens fired again, a slug catching him in the spine. He crumpled in the passageway, twitching once, then still.

The gun swung toward Ira, last man standing among the officers, but before Owens could speak, the control room erupted. Tanner lunged from the helm, another sailor grabbed a wrench, and Rodriguez moved to block the passageway. In seconds, Owens found himself surrounded, men closing in from all sides, faces hard with rage.

"You're outnumbered," Ira said evenly, matchstick still clenched between his teeth. "And these boys have seen enough death today."

Owens's eyes darted around the compartment, calculating. Six, maybe seven men, all within striking distance. His finger tensed on the trigger, then relaxed. Slowly, deliberately, he reversed his grip on the pistol and extended it, handle first, to Ira.

"You're right," he said, voice calm despite the sweat beading on his forehead. "But you need to hear me out. Those orders are real, and we don't have time for a mutiny trial."

Ira took the weapon, keeping it trained on Owens. "Get them out of here," he ordered, nodding to the bodies. Two ratings dragged Travers away, leaving a smear of blood on the deck plates. Another went for Voss. "And the Commodore."

"My cabin," Ira said to Owens. "Now."

The crew parted reluctantly, murderous glares following Owens as he walked ahead of Ira to the captain's tiny cabin. The door closed with a metallic finality.

"Start talking," Ira said, the gun resting on his knee. "And make it good."

Owens leaned forward, all pretense gone. "There'll be a court of inquiry when we get back. I know that. I'll face whatever comes. But right now, that doesn't matter." He slid a paper across the table. "These orders are real. U-977 is running for Argentina with cargo Command wants destroyed at all costs. No witnesses, no survivors. That boat goes down, or we do trying."

Ira examined the paper. The authorization code matched ones he'd seen before—highest level. "Why us? We're a training boat."

"Because we're what they've got in range," Owens replied. "The war in Europe just ended, but out here, there's one last mission that could change everything if it fails." His voice dropped. "I'm not asking you to forgive what happened. I'm asking you to put it aside until we finish this. Then you can hang me yourself if you want."

The matchstick snapped between Ira's teeth. He spat the fragments onto the deck. "Why should I trust you?"

"You shouldn't," Owens answered honestly. "But you should trust those orders. And you should trust that whatever's on that Nazi boat is important enough that both Washington and Moscow want it at the bottom of the ocean."

Ira stared at him for a long moment, weighing options that all seemed bad. Finally, he set the gun on the table between them.

"I'm the captain now," he said. "This is my boat. We work together until we're back in port, then the court sorts it out. Clear?"

Owens nodded once. "Clear, Captain."

As Ira left the cabin, he felt the weight of the boat settle onto his shoulders—felt the eyes of the crew, questioning, afraid. He'd never wanted command. Now he had it, baptized in blood.

## CHAPTER 2: FRACTURED CREW

The Catfish cruised at 100 feet, screws humming low. Though not rigged for silent running, the crew moved with the hushed reverence of mourners at a funeral, voices rarely rising above whispers. The control room stank of sweat, oil, and fear—red lights casting long shadows against the bulkheads. The death of two officers hung in the air like a fog, thicker than the cigarette smoke that clung to the overhead pipes.

Chief Petty Officer Roy "Buck" Tanner, a grizzled vet with a limp from a '42 depth-charging off Guadalcanal, stood at the helm, his meaty hands steady on the controls. He glared at Owens, who leaned against the plotting table, studying charts.

"Murderin' bastard," Tanner muttered, loud enough to carry.

Owens didn't look up. "Something to say, Chief?"

"Plenty," Tanner growled. "Knew you as a hardass senior chief in '41. Blamed my buddy Danny for your busted still, then saw him court-martialed. Now you're wearing officer's stripes and shooting men. Some climb."

The tension thickened. Men paused at their stations, watching like spectators at a prizefight, waiting for the first real punch.

"Back to your station, Chief," Ira cut in, stepping between them. "We've got a boat to run."

Tanner's jaw worked, but he nodded. "Aye, sir."

Sonarman Jimmy Ruiz, a wiry Puerto Rican kid with quick hands and quicker ears, hunched over his set, earphones clamped tight to his head. His fingers adjusted dials with the precision of a safecracker.

"Mierda, no pings yet," he muttered, frustration evident in his posture. "Nada en el sector sur. Podría estar en cualquier lugar."

Lt. João Silva, a Brazilian trainee with a boxer's build and a permanent scowl, barked back in Portuguese from the chart table, "Cuidado com o barulho, idiota! Silêncio é vital!"

"English," Tanner snapped. "Speak English, goddammit!"

Three languages tangled in the tight space—English drowned in the mess. Tension sparked like static electricity.

Ira slammed a hatch with his fist, the metallic clang silencing the room. "Stow it! One tongue—mine—or I'll have you scraping bilges until your fingers bleed. Clear?"

Nods all around. The multilingual mutter subsided to a sullen silence.

Owens jerked his head toward the wardroom. Ira followed, conscious of eyes tracking them.

Charts spread across the cramped table like a battlefield map, curling at the edges. Owens tapped a pencil on a set of coordinates off the Argentine coast.

"U-977, Type VII-C," he said, voice low. "Last seen running south from a convoy off Rio. We've got forty-eight hours to catch her before she reaches territorial waters."

"What's the cargo?" Ira asked, eyes on the charts.

"Classified," Owens replied. "Microfilm, maybe jet plans, maybe worse. Either way, it doesn't reach Argentina."

Ira spat a fresh matchstick onto the deck. "You just shot my XO and deck officer. Why the hell should I trust you?"

Owens smirked, tapping his dolphin pins. "Ex-senior chief, Mustang officer. I know every system on this heap backwards and forwards. Five years on diesel boats before they gave me a commission. I'm the best friend you've got right now."

"Friend?" Ira snorted. "That what you call it?"

Owens leaned closer. "Listen, McIntosh. I know men died. I know it was my hand on the trigger. But this mission matters more than any of us. That Nazi boat gets home, we lose something bigger than you know."

Ira studied him, trying to see past the cold eyes. "And I'm supposed to just take that on faith?"

"Take it on orders," Owens replied, sliding a folded paper across the table. "Presidential authorization. Eyes only."

The seal was genuine. The signature matched ones Ira had seen before in classified briefings. It didn't make the knot in his gut any looser.

"So we're hunting," Ira said finally. "With what? Two torpedoes, one that's probably not even working right? A deck gun that hasn't hit anything smaller than an island?"

"We'll find a way," Owens said, confidence unwavering. "Always do."

Outside the wardroom, the crew's distrust hung thick as jungle fog. Tanner's eyes burned holes in Owens' back; Ruiz whispered to Silva, who nodded darkly. The Argentine trainees clustered in corners, shooting glances at the Americans. The Brazilians kept to themselves, Silva their self-appointed spokesman.

Ira saw no choice—port was a dream, and the boat was his now, like it or not. Command might not even know Grayson was dead, or that Owens had shot two officers. By the time anyone figured it out, they'd either have sunk U-977 or be dead themselves.

"All ahead two-thirds," he ordered, voice steady. "Rig for quiet. We hunt."

The Catfish prowled deeper, her old bones groaning under the strain. In the crew quarters, men lay on bunks, staring at the ceiling, wondering if they'd ever see home again. In the galley, cook's mate Freddie Wilson stirred a pot of something that might have been stew three days ago, muttering curses at the stale bread and weevil-ridden flour.

In the torpedo room, maintenance crews checked the two remaining fish, one already loaded, one in the rack. The empty tubes gaped like toothless mouths.

On the bridge, under a moonless sky, Ira stood watch, scanning the horizon with night glasses. Owens appeared beside him, lighting a cigarette, cupping the flame against the wind.

"You'll do," Owens said, smoke curling around his words. "Seen worse captains."

"High praise," Ira replied, matchstick rolling from one side of his mouth to the other.

"Meant to be," Owens nodded. "Not everyone's cut out for this. You are."

Ira didn't answer for a long moment. "This mission. There's more to it than you're saying."

"Always is," Owens admitted. "But the core's true. Nazi sub, bad cargo, needs sinking."

"And the 'no prisoners' order?"

Owens took a long drag, the cigarette's tip glowing red against the darkness. "War's ending. Some things need to end with it. Clean slate."

Ira nodded slowly. "I'll remember you said that."

Below them, the Catfish sliced through black water, her hull a thin skin between her crew and the crushing depths. Ira felt every rivet, every weld, every patch in his bones. The boat was old, tired. Like the world. Like the war.

But not done yet. Not quite.

## CHAPTER 3: INSIDE THE WOLF

Aboard U-977, 200 miles southwest, the air was thick with diesel fumes and despair. Water dripped from overhead pipes, pooling on the deck plates. Men moved in a fog of exhaustion, some not having slept properly for days.

Kapitänleutnant Franz Krieger, 41, gripped the periscope handles, his gray eyes glinting like steel in the dim control room lighting. His once-immaculate uniform hung loose on his frame—weeks of short rations had hollowed his cheeks and sunk his eyes, but the fierce intelligence remained, undimmed by defeat.

"We reach Montevideo in three days," he rasped, voice hoarse from shouting orders through too many depth charge attacks. "From there, arrangements will be made."

The Type VII-C U-boat limped along at eight knots, an oil slick trailing from a cracked stern gland—souvenir from a run-in with a British corvette two weeks back. Her batteries were old, her hull patched in a dozen places, her crew a mixture of fanatical veterans and terrified boys pressed into service in the war's dying days.

Unlike the rest of the cramped submarine, the forward torpedo room remained sealed, guarded by two SS men who spoke to no one. Every four hours, they changed shifts with two others, the quartet keeping the space under constant surveillance. Rumors had spread through the boat—the sealed compartment held something far more valuable than torpedoes. Some whispered it was experimental weapons technology, others claimed it was Nazi gold, and still others believed it housed high-ranking Party officials.

Twice daily, a tall, thin man in civilian clothes—referred to only as "Herr Doktor"—would enter the compartment, carrying small packages. He never spoke to the regular crew, conversing only with Krieger in whispers or behind closed doors.

"The war is over, Herr Kapitän," said Leutnant Hans Weber quietly. At 26, the XO looked a decade older, hollow-eyed from strain. His once-blond hair had dulled, his hands permanently stained with grease and oil. "Germany has surrendered."

Krieger's hand flashed out, catching Weber across the face with an open palm. "The Reich lives as long as we do!" he snarled. "The Führer's will lives through us!"

Weber absorbed the blow without complaint, but his eyes hardened. Later, in the cramped mess area, he leaned close to a junior officer, Leutnant Dieter Brandt, whispering, "He's mad. War's done—why die for nothing?"

Brandt glanced nervously toward the forward section. "What do you think is really in there? Something worth all this?"

"Nothing good," Weber muttered. "I overheard Müller and the Doktor talking. Something about 'Project Phoenix.' Whatever it is, it's the Kapitän's obsession—and our curse."

The boat's senior officers—Oberleutnant Müller, a hawk-faced man with the Party badge still pinned to his jacket, and Chief Engineer Schäfer, whose hands trembled unless he was working on the diesels—nodded like whipped dogs whenever Krieger spoke, fanatics to the end.

The young ones, though—Weber, Seaman Klein, Machinist's Mate Hoffman, a dozen others—swapped glances in the passageways, hands brushing knives or wrenches when the captain passed. A mutiny simmered, slow and sour, waiting for a spark.

In his tiny cabin, Krieger sat on his bunk, Luger disassembled on a cloth before him. His fingers worked mechanically, cleaning each part with practiced precision. A photograph was pinned to the bulkhead—himself in full dress uniform, standing proudly beside Großadmiral Dönitz. Beside it, a faded picture of a woman and two children, their faces blurred with handling.

"The future," he murmured, reassembling the pistol with a series of metallic clicks. "They'll understand when we arrive."

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. The door opened to reveal Radioman Josef Braun, a skinny youth with intelligent eyes and perpetually damp palms.

"Message from Berlin relay station, Herr Kapitän," Braun said, extending a folded paper.

Krieger took it and read the decoded text: CATFISH PURSUING. DESTROY ALL MATERIALS. ABORT MISSION.

His face darkened. "Acknowledged," he said. "Dismissed."

After Braun left, Krieger crumpled the message and threw it aside. "Cowards," he muttered. "Surrender is never an option."

What Krieger didn't know was that Josef Braun was not what he seemed. Recruited by British intelligence in 1943, the young radioman had posed as a committed Nazi while passing information to the Allies whenever possible. Now, with Germany defeated, his mission had changed—monitor U-977's mysterious cargo and ensure it didn't reach its destination.

In the radio room later, Braun carefully transmitted a coded message when the boat surfaced briefly to recharge batteries: STILL ON COURSE. PACKAGE SECURE. SPECIAL CARGO FORWARD COMPARTMENT. KRIEGER UNSTABLE.

He sent it on an Allied frequency, disguising it as atmospheric static to any listeners aboard. As the set hummed, he heard a noise and turned to find Radioman Schumann watching from the doorway, eyes narrow with suspicion.

"Just clearing interference," Braun explained, switching frequencies casually.

Schumann nodded slowly. "The captain wants regular reports on Allied traffic."

"Nothing but victory celebrations," Braun replied with just the right amount of bitterness in his voice.

Later, in the control room, Krieger found young Seaman Klein lingering near the passageway to the forward compartment, eyes darting suspiciously.

"What's this?" Krieger snapped, pistol appearing in his hand as if by magic.

Klein stammered, hands rising, "Just passing through, sir. On my way to the head."

Krieger's glare held, measuring, judging. Then it softened fractionally. "Good. Vigilance. Loyalty is all we have left."

Weber watched from the plotting table, jaw tight, fingers curling around the dividers he'd been using to mark their course. The sharp points gleamed in the dim light.

That evening, Herr Doktor emerged from the forward compartment looking troubled. He spoke with Krieger in hushed tones, their conversation becoming heated.

"It cannot be delayed," the Doktor insisted, his German carrying the faint accent of Austria. "The procedures are time-sensitive."

"Security takes precedence," Krieger replied firmly. "We may have a spy aboard."

The Doktor's face paled. "That would be... catastrophic. The Phoenix cannot fall into Allied hands. It would change everything."

In the diesel room, Weber and Chief Engineer Schäfer argued in harsh whispers.

"You know what he'll do," Weber insisted. "Get us all killed for nothing. Germany is finished!"

Schäfer's eyes darted nervously. "The Kapitän knows what he's doing. The mission continues."

"What mission?" Weber demanded. "Delivering death to people who've never seen a U-boat? Is that what you signed up for?"

Schäfer looked away. "I follow orders."

"Like a good German," Weber spat. "Like we all did. And look where it got us."

The chief's face hardened. "Careful, Leutnant. Talk like that is dangerous."

Weber moved closer, voice dropping. "Not as dangerous as what's in the forward compartment. Not as dangerous as a captain who'd rather see us all dead than admit the war is lost."

In the crew quarters, Seaman Klein whispered to Machinist's Mate Hoffman, "Weber's planning something. Tonight, maybe."

Hoffman nodded slowly. "I'm in. Better to face a court than die for nothing."

But Radioman Schumann, lying in his bunk seemingly asleep, heard every word. His eyes opened, calculating. As a devout Party member, he knew his duty—report the traitors and save the mission.

Meanwhile, Braun sat on his own bunk, careful to maintain his cover while planning his next move. Whatever "Phoenix" was, it had to be stopped from reaching Argentina. The war might be over in Europe, but here, in this steel tube beneath the Atlantic, it raged on, with the fate of more than just the crew at stake.

The U-boat plowed on through dark waters, screws turning, a coffin of its own making. Inside, men waited—for salvation, for disaster, for the courage to act.

## CHAPTER 4: THE RAIDER'S MASK

May 11, 0700. The Catfish broke the surface, her conning tower shedding water like a dog shaking off rain. The dawn sky stretched pink and gold across the eastern horizon, the sea a sheet of hammered silver.

Two days since VE Day, and the South Atlantic still reeked of war—diesel, salt, and blood. Peace was a rumor from another world.

"All hands to battle stations. Gun crews to the deck." Ira's order sent men scrambling, pulling on kapok vests and manning their positions. The deck gun crew—Seaman Boyle and the Argentine trainees Ramirez and Gonzalez—opened the deck weapons locker, readying the 3-inch cannon. Tommy Shea, the redhead from Brooklyn, slipped behind the .50-caliber machine gun, chambering a round with practiced hands.

Ira stood on the bridge, binoculars pressed to his eyes, scanning methodically. The matchstick in his mouth had gone soggy, but he kept it clenched between his teeth from habit.

"Steamer, bearing 020," he announced. "About five miles. Greek colors on her stern."

Owens joined him, squinting against the rising sun. "What's a Greek doing way out here? Shipping lanes are north."

"War scrambles everything," Ira replied, still watching. "She's riding high. Probably empty, heading for a South American port to pick up cargo now that the Atlantic's safer."

Tanner climbed to the bridge, moving stiffly with his bad leg. He took the binoculars Ira offered and studied the distant ship.

"Something ain't right," he muttered after a moment. "No stack smoke. No bow wave."

From below, Ruiz's voice piped up through the voice tube. "No screws, sir. She's dead in the water."

His Puerto Rican accent clipped the words fast—Silva barked Portuguese back through the tube from the control room, pointing at the chart spread before him. "Navio neutro, talvez! Poderia ser uma armadilha!"

Tanner growled, "Speak English, damn it." The babel grated; Ira waved them quiet with a chopping motion.

"What'd he say?" Ira asked, eyebrow raised.

Ruiz's voice came back up the tube, translating reluctantly. "He says it might be a neutral vessel... or a trap."

The linguistic confusion brought a momentary smirk to Ensign Rodriguez's face as he climbed to the bridge. "Silva says even Brazilian fishermen don't come this far out. Whatever that ship is, she's not supposed to be here."

"Looks like a tramp steamer," Owens said, leaning on the rail, his dolphin pins catching the early light. "Might be a straggler. Engine trouble, maybe. War's over—could just be a civilian in need of help."

"In the middle of nowhere?" Ira frowned. "Signal her."

Seaman Boyle, a wiry Bostonian with perpetually sunburned ears, worked the signal lamp, its clack-clack-clack sending a challenge across the water. They waited, watching, gun crews tense at their stations.

No reply came. The steamer sat motionless, her profile low against the horizon.

"Something's wrong," Ira said softly. "She should have—"

The "Greek" steamer's deck erupted—gun ports swinging open like hungry mouths, the unmistakable shapes of 88mm cannons glinting in the morning sun. Flame belched from the barrels, and shells screamed overhead, splashing into the sea fifty yards off the Catfish's bow.

"Nazi raider!" Owens roared. "Disguised merchant! Could be a sub tender!"

"Return fire!" Ira shouted. "All guns, target her waterline!"

The Catfish's deck roared with activity. The 3-inch gun spoke, its shell arcing toward the enemy vessel. Shea's .50-cal chattered, brass casings bouncing across the deck as he raked the raider's superstructure.

Another salvo from the raider's guns splashed closer, sending up geysers that drenched the submarine's deck. A shell fragment pinged off the conning tower, inches from Ira's head.

"Dive! Dive!" Ira ordered through the voice tube. "All hands below! Gun crews, abandon your stations!"

The klaxon wailed its urgent cry as men scrambled for the hatches. The 3-inch gun fired one last shot—a direct hit that blew a hole in the raider's bow.

"Go! Go!" Ira shouted to the gun crew, who were already abandoning their weapon and racing for the hatch. Shea left the .50-cal, sprinting across the heaving deck as water began to wash over it.

Another shell landed just yards away, the explosion knocking Gonzalez off his feet. Boyle grabbed him, hauling him toward the conning tower as the deck tilted dangerously.

"Come on, Captain!" Tanner shouted from the hatch.

Ira took one last look at the raider, now clearly burning, before following the others down the ladder. Water was already pouring through the partially open hatch as Tanner struggled to dog it shut.

"Some help here!" the chief yelled. Ira and Rodriguez threw their weight against it, finally forcing the hatch closed as seawater showered them.

"All hands report!" Ira called, wiping saltwater from his eyes.

"Deck gun crew accounted for," Boyle replied, supporting a limping Gonzalez.

"Helm answering, sir!" came the call from control.

"Dive! Make your depth six-two feet," Ira ordered, sliding down the ladder into the control room. "All ahead full!"

The Catfish plunged, her bow angling steeply downward as the planes bit into the water. Men braced themselves against bulkheads and equipment as the submarine descended.

Ira scanned the water around the raider, searching through the periscope. "There!" he shouted, pointing to a periscope wake visible behind the ship, barely breaking the surface.

"U-977," Owens confirmed, voice tight. "Using the raider for cover."

A torpedo wake churned from the raider's lee—U-977, still unseen except for that fleeting periscope trace, had slipped a fish toward them.

"Hard port!" Ira yelled. “Down scope.” The Catfish swung, engines screaming, her old hull shuddering with the strain. The torpedo passed close enough above her stern that men swore they could hear the screws whining.

"Mary, mother of God," Shea whispered, his face as white as his knuckles on a stanchion.

The Catfish leveled, running away from the engagement zone. “Up scope”. Ira watched the raider burning on the surface, listing heavily to port, her disguise in tatters as German sailors abandoned ship, leaping into the unforgiving Atlantic.

"Pirates," Owens spat. "Disguised like that, they'll hang if they're caught postwar."

With antenna up, the radio crackled, a voice cutting through static: "Catfish, Catfish, this is ComSubLant. New orders. Find U-977. Engage, destroy with prejudice. No prisoners. Board only to scuttle. Repeat, no prisoners. Acknowledge."

Radioman Peters looked up from his station, face pale. "Sir? Orders request acknowledgment."

"No prisoners?" Tanner said quietly, his weathered face aghast. "That's murder, sir. War's over."

Ira stared at Owens, something cold settling in his stomach. "The chief's right. That's an execution order."

Owens met his stare unflinchingly. "War's done. This ain't about law—it's about ending it. Making sure certain things stay buried."

"What things?"

"I've only heard whispers," Owens said, voice dropping. "Project Phoenix. Something big enough that both we and the Soviets want it buried at sea."

"Acknowledge the order, McIntosh," he added after a pause. "Or I will. And I remind you, I speak for the President."

The control room had gone silent, all eyes on the captain and the intelligence officer. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Below, in the control room, Tanner muttered, "Glory-hunting bastard." Silva hissed a stream of Portuguese venom—Ruiz snapped Spanish back, the words unintelligible but the anger clear.

"He said your mother was a—" Rodriguez began translating with a straight face.

"I get the idea," Ira cut him off, almost smiling despite the tension. He slammed a fist on the periscope stand. "Stow it! All ahead full—track that sub!" Then, to the radioman, "Acknowledge receipt of orders. Will comply."

The raider sank, a bubbling wreck, but U-977 was gone, a wraith in the deep, leaving only a fading oil slick as evidence of its passage.

In the control room, Ira and Owens stood facing each other, the air between them charged with unspoken conflict.

"You know what those orders mean," Owens said finally. "No loose ends."

Ira nodded, the matchstick shifting. "I know what they say. I'll decide what they mean when the time comes."

Owens's hand moved fractionally toward his holstered .45. "That's not how orders work, Captain."

"On my boat, it is," Ira replied evenly. "You want to relieve me too? Go ahead. The crew already thinks you're a murderer. Add a mutiny to it."

The moment stretched, taut as piano wire. Then Owens's hand dropped. "Just find the Nazi boat, McIntosh. That's all that matters now."

Ira nodded once, eyes returning to the periscope. The sea beyond the lens was empty, revealing nothing of the dangers that lurked beneath its surface—much like the mission itself.

## CHAPTER 5: CRACKS IN THE HULL

The Catfish crept along at 150 feet, running silent, her screws barely turning—just enough to maintain steerage. Above, depth charges from a rogue Luftwaffe plane rocked the ocean, concussions traveling through the water like hammer blows against the submarine's hull. These were late stragglers, like the bomber that had taken out the PBY—aircrews who refused to believe the war was over, or who feared Soviet captivity more than death.

The control room was dim, lit only by red battle lamps that cast everything in a hellish glow. Men's faces looked like masks, sweat gleaming on foreheads and upper lips. The depth gauge needle trembled with each distant explosion.

"Holding at one-five-zero feet, Captain," reported Tanner, his voice tight. The chief's knuckles were white on the dive plane controls.

"Very well," Ira replied, voice deliberately calm. "Maintain depth and heading."

A particularly close explosion rattled the boat, metal groaning in protest. Something gave way with a sharp crack, and the ominous sound of rushing water came from aft.

"Leak in the torpedo room!" came the call over the intercom.

"Damage control party, aft," Ira ordered. "Chief, take the conn. I'll check it myself."

As Ira moved through the boat, he noted the faces of his crew—tired, scared, some resentful. The Brazilians and Argentines clustered together, speaking their languages in hushed tones. The Americans moved with purpose but exchanged glances that spoke volumes. Trust was a commodity in short supply.

In the aft torpedo room, water hissed through seams where metal had flexed beyond tolerance. The deck plates were already ankle-deep, the pumps struggling to keep up.

Seaman Tommy Shea, the redheaded kid from Brooklyn, patched pipes with shaking hands, slapping sealing compound over a spray that soaked his dungarees. "Gotta get home," he muttered, seemingly unaware he was speaking aloud. "Gotta write Mary… tell her about the baby…"

"You're doing fine, Shea," Ira said, crouching to help. "We'll get you home."

Shea looked up, startled, eyes focusing slowly. "Sir! Sorry, I was just—"

"No need," Ira said, taking some compound and working on another leak. "Tell me about Mary."

As they worked, Shea spoke of his wife back in Red Hook, pregnant with their first child. He'd never even seen her with the bump—had shipped out before she knew. His bunk overflowed with unsent letters, ink-stained and crumpled, each beginning with "My dearest Mary" and filled with a young man's attempts to capture the terror and tedium of war.

By the time they'd sealed the worst leaks, Ira knew more about Mary Shea of Brooklyn—her laugh, her freckles that matched Tommy's, her fear of thunderstorms—than he'd known about any woman since his mother.

"You'll get home," he promised again, clapping Shea's shoulder. "Get some rest."

Moving back through the boat, Ira found Owens in the officers' small wardroom, poring over charts. The intelligence officer glanced up, noting Ira's soaked uniform.

"Bad?"

"Bad enough," Ira replied. "We can't take another close pattern."

Owens nodded. "The Luftwaffe's falling apart. That was probably the last plane for a thousand miles. U-977's the real problem."

Before Ira could respond, Chief Tanner appeared in the doorway, his lined face set in a scowl. Without preamble, he cornered Owens, voice low but intense.

"You'll kill us all, you son of a bitch. I knew you in '41—pushed Danny Harwood overboard for a busted still. Court-martialed him to save your ass. Now you're shooting officers and chasing ghost boats. What's your game?"

Owens didn't flinch. "Danny was drunk. I saved the boat."

Tanner's weathered face flushed with anger. "You lying—" He swung a meaty fist; Owens ducked with surprising speed for an officer, and Ira stepped between them, his own .45 suddenly in hand.

"Next man swings, eats this," he said flatly. "I don't care who starts it. Move."

Tanner glared, but backed off. "You'll see, Captain. He's poison. Always has been."

After the chief left, Owens straightened his uniform. "Man holds a grudge."

"Maybe with reason," Ira said, holstering his weapon. "What really happened in '41?"

Owens's face closed. "Ancient history. We've got a U-boat to find."

Meanwhile, aboard U-977, the situation had deteriorated further. As the submarine ran south at maximum sustainable speed, Lt. Weber moved through the engine room, ostensibly checking gauges. When no one was watching, he carefully cut a fuel line—just enough to cause a slow leak, not enough to be immediately noticed.

Seaman Klein stood watch nearby, sweat beading on his upper lip. "Officer coming," he murmured.

Weber straightened, wiping his hands on a rag as Chief Engineer Schäfer appeared. The chief's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Problems, Lieutenant?"

"Just routine checks," Weber replied smoothly. "Diesels are running hot."

In the radio room, events took a darker turn. Kapitänleutnant Krieger found Radioman Braun hunched over the set, a message form half-hidden under his hand.

"What's that?" Krieger demanded.

Braun startled, hand covering the paper. "Nothing, Herr Kapitän. Just—"

"Show me." Krieger extended his hand.

The radioman hesitated, then slowly revealed the message: CATFISH PURSUING. DESTROY ALL MATERIALS. ABORT MISSION.

Krieger's face went white, then purple with rage. "Traitor!" he screamed, pulling his Luger. Before anyone could move, he shot Braun point-blank, blood splattering across the radio dials.

"Loyalty or death!" he screamed, waving the gun wildly as sailors scattered. "There are no alternatives!"

The crew froze, eyes hollow with fear and resignation. Weber, hearing the shot, exchanged glances with Klein. Their time was running out.

Back on the Catfish, the fractures in crew cohesion widened. Portuguese orders from Silva garbled into Spanish from Ruiz, with English lost in the linguistic noise. During a course change, a helm command went wrong—ten degrees off—nearly ramming the boat into a thermocline that could have given away their position.

Ira chewed a new matchstick, spitting splinters as he dressed down the responsible parties. "One more mistake like that, and we're all looking at Davy Jones instead of home. Clear?"

Later, in the wardroom, he and Owens shared a flask of rotgut that Tanner had somehow squirreled away. The harsh liquor burned going down, but loosened tongues.

"Redemption, not glory," Owens said suddenly, voice softer than Ira had heard before. "Screwed up in '41. This fixes it."

"How?" Ira asked. "What did you do?"

Owens stared into his cup. "Missed something. Intel. Warning about a Japanese patrol near the Philippines. Didn't take it seriously, passed it along as low priority." He took another swallow. "Boat went down. All hands. This time, I don't miss. This time, I make it right."

Ira nodded, understanding but still uneasy. "Better hope so."

The Catfish shuddered violently, metal groaning as they passed through a deep thermocline. The sudden temperature change played havoc with the old submarine's hull, already strained from their recent depth charge encounter.

A pipe burst in the aft engine room, steam hissing into the compartment like an angry serpent. Warning bells clanged as men scattered from the scalding vapor.

"Seal it off!" Ira ordered through the intercom. "Kill the affected boiler!"

Chief Tanner was already moving, limping fast toward the engine room, wrench in hand. "On it, Captain!"

The main valve refused to budge, corroded from years of neglect. Tanner strained against it, sweat pouring down his face in the steam-filled compartment. The temperature was climbing dangerously.

"Move!" came a voice behind him. Owens pushed through the gathering crowd, shirt already off and wrapped around his hands for protection. "You're doing it wrong."

Tanner's face darkened. "I know this boat better than—"

"Not this system," Owens cut him off. "S-class boats had a bypass valve installed in '42. You're wasting time."

For a moment, it seemed Tanner might swing the wrench at Owens instead of the pipes. Then the boat lurched again, another groan of stressed metal echoing through the hull.

"Where?" Tanner asked tersely.

Owens pointed to a secondary junction behind the main manifold. "There. We need to redirect pressure, then kill the main. Otherwise, we'll blow the whole line."

Tanner nodded reluctantly. He held out the specialized wrench. "You'll need this. My hands are too big for that space."

Owens took it, surprised at the concession. "Hold that line steady. If it whips free, we're both cooked."

The two men worked in grudging synchrony, communicating in terse commands and nods. Owens's fingers found the bypass, opening it with practiced precision while Tanner stabilized the main line.

"Now the cutoff," Owens said. "Three-quarter turn counter-clockwise."

Tanner reached in, grimacing as steam scalded his forearm, but managed the turn. The hissing diminished, then stopped entirely.

Silence fell in the compartment, broken only by the heavy breathing of the two men.

"Damage contained," Tanner reported through the intercom. "Need a repair party to replace section four of the steam line."

He turned to Owens, who was inspecting the bypass valve. "Where'd you learn that trick?"

"USS Barracuda, '41," Owens replied, wiping sweat from his brow. "Before I got Danny court-martialed." The words hung between them, neither challenging nor apologetic.

Tanner studied him for a long moment. "You were right about the bypass." It wasn't forgiveness, but it was something.

Owens nodded. "And you kept that line from breaking free. Would've taken both our faces off."

"Still don't like you," Tanner said, but there was less venom in it.

"Feeling's mutual, Chief." Owens handed back the wrench. "But I like drowning even less."

Tanner almost smiled. "On that, we agree."

Later, in the mess, Rodriguez whispered to Ruiz, "You see that? The murderer and the chief working together?"

"War makes strange companions," Ruiz replied. "Like Americans training Brazilians to hunt Germans in American submarines with Argentine crews."

They both laughed, a rare sound in the tense confines of the Catfish.

## CHAPTER 6: THE CHASE

In the tiny captain's cabin, Ira sat alone, staring at a metal cup half-filled with clear liquid. The torpedo alcohol burned his nostrils even before he tasted it. He'd been nursing these small sips since the orders came through—just enough to steady his hands, not enough to cloud his judgment. Or so he told himself.

A knock at the hatch made him start.

"Enter," he called, voice steady despite the tremor in his fingers as he set the cup aside.

Owens stepped in, ducking beneath the low overhead. His gaze flickered to the cup, then back to Ira's face, but he said nothing about it.

"Tanner and I finished the repairs to the aft manifold," he reported. "We'll hold together."

"You two playing nice now?" Ira asked, a hint of a smile touching his lips.

Owens shrugged. "We've reached an understanding. He still thinks I'm a murdering bastard, but he admits I know my way around an S-class boat."

"High praise from the chief."

"Highest he gives." Owens paused, studying Ira's face. "You alright, Captain? You look..."

"Like hell?" Ira finished for him. "Comes with the chair." He gestured to the metal seat bolted to the deck.

"Command's not for everyone," Owens said carefully.

Ira picked up the cup again, rolling it between his palms. "I never wanted it. Not like this."

"Nobody does. Not like this."

"Those orders..." Ira began, then stopped. "No prisoners. We're executioners now, not sailors."

"It's war."

"War's over," Ira countered, echoing the words he'd said a dozen times since VE Day. "So what are we doing?"

Owens had no answer for that. After a moment, he said, "We're closing on them. Should make contact before 0400."

Ira nodded, taking a long swallow from the cup. The alcohol burned down his throat, warming his chest with false courage. "I'll be ready."

After Owens left, Ira reached beneath his bunk and pulled out a canteen. The liquid inside wasn't water. His hands shook as he refilled the cup.

Three hours later, Ruiz's voice cut through the control room: "Contact! Submarine bearing one-seven-five, range four thousand yards!"

"Battle stations," Tanner ordered, then glanced toward the captain's cabin. "Someone wake the skipper."

Owens moved toward the cabin but froze as the hatch banged open. Ira stumbled out, eyes wild and bloodshot, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He reeked of alcohol and something else—fear, raw and acrid.

"Got the bastards!" he shouted, too loud for the confined space. "Dive! Take her down to four hundred feet!"

The control room went silent. The Catfish's maximum safe depth was 250 feet.

"Sir," Tanner said carefully, "we have a contact. U-977, most likely. Bearing one-seven-five."

"I heard it!" Ira snapped, swaying on his feet. "I'm not deaf, Chief—I'm the goddamn captain!" He lurched toward the periscope, shoving a rating aside.

Owens and Tanner exchanged glances.

"Captain," Owens said quietly, "you need to—"

"Need to what?" Ira spun, nearly falling. His hand dropped to his sidearm. "Need to let you shoot someone else? Need to let you take my boat too?" His voice was rising, edged with hysteria. "You think I don't know what they are? What they've got down there in that forward compartment? Death! They're carrying death!"

The crew froze, watching in horrified fascination as their captain unraveled before them.

"Sir," Tanner tried again, stepping closer, hands open and unthreatening, "let me take you to your cabin. You need rest."

"Don't touch me!" Ira shouted, drawing his pistol. The .45 wavered in his unsteady grip. "This is my boat! My command!"

"Nobody's saying it isn't," Owens said, voice maddeningly calm. "But right now, we need clear heads."

"Clear heads?" Ira laughed, a broken sound. "You shot my XO and my deck officer. That's your idea of a clear head?" He waved the gun toward the depth gauge. "Four hundred feet! We can crush the Nazi bastards! Ram them if we have to!"

In the corner, Ruiz whispered urgently: "He's lost it. Completamente loco."

Silva nodded grimly, muttering something in Portuguese that needed no translation.

"Tanner," Owens said quietly, "can you take the conn?"

The chief nodded fractionally, understanding.

"You're relieved, McIntosh," Owens said, stepping forward. "Put the gun down."

Ira's face twisted. "Relieved? Like Travers? Like Voss?" The pistol steadied, aimed at Owens's chest. "I know what happens when you relieve someone."

"This isn't you talking," Owens said. "It's the booze and the pressure. Give me the gun."

"Captain!" Ruiz suddenly called out. "Contact changing course! They've detected us!"

Ira's attention snapped to the sonar operator, his momentary distraction all Tanner needed. The chief lunged, powerful arms wrapping around Ira from behind, pinning his gun hand. They crashed to the deck, the pistol skittering away.

"Get off me!" Ira roared, thrashing wildly. "Mutiny! This is mutiny!"

It took three men to subdue him, his strength multiplied by alcohol and madness. When they finally had him restrained, Tanner looked up at Owens.

"The brig?"

Owens shook his head. "His cabin. Under guard." He turned to face the stunned crew. "I'm assuming command. Any objections?"

The silence was broken only by Ira's incoherent curses as he was dragged away.

Tanner straightened his uniform, face grim. "You heard the man. Battle stations. We've got a Nazi sub to catch." He looked around the control room, meeting each man's eyes in turn. "This changes nothing about our mission. And it stays in this boat, understood? Not a word to anyone when we dock."

Nods all around—American, Brazilian, Argentine. Whatever their differences, this was a submarine's business, and they would handle it themselves.

"Helm, come to new course," Owens ordered. "Prepare to intercept U-977."

The next twelve hours passed in a blur of activity. Two seamen stood guard outside the captain's cabin, where Ira had finally succumbed to unconsciousness after hours of raving. Doc Simmons, the pharmacist's mate who served as the Catfish's medical officer, emerged from checking on him, his face grim.

"Acute alcohol poisoning," he reported to Owens and Tanner in the wardroom. "He must have been drinking that torpedo juice straight for hours. I've given him what I can, but we're not equipped for this. He needs a real hospital."

"Which he's not getting until we complete this mission," Owens said. "Will he live?"

Simmons nodded. "Probably. But he's out of commission for at least twenty-four hours, maybe longer. Even when he wakes up, he won't be himself."

"We don't have twenty-four hours," Tanner said. "U-977 will reach Argentine waters by then."

"Then we operate without him," Owens replied. He looked at Tanner. "I need you, Chief. The crew trusts you. I can command this boat, but not without their cooperation."

Tanner's weathered face revealed nothing. "What's your plan?"

"We stay on U-977's tail. Force her to surface before she reaches territorial waters. Complete the mission."

"And the 'no prisoners' order?"

Owens's jaw tightened. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Tanner studied him for a long moment. "I'm still watching you. But right now, we need a captain." He turned to leave, then paused. "The men won't take kindly to this. Not after what you did."

"I don't need them to like me, Chief. I just need them to do their jobs."

Tanner nodded once, then left to address the crew.

Silva and Rodriguez stood just outside the galley, speaking in hushed tones, switching between Spanish and Portuguese with occasional English words mixed in.

"McIntosh loco, Owens assassino," Silva muttered. "Y ahora Owens es capitán. Que desastre."

Rodriguez nodded grimly. "The Yankees have strange ways of promoting officers."

They fell silent as Tanner approached, his limp more pronounced after hours at his station.

"Something to share with the class, gentlemen?" the chief asked, his voice deceptively mild.

Both men straightened. "No, Chief," Rodriguez replied.

"Good. Because in case you haven't noticed, we're hunting a Nazi submarine carrying something so dangerous that Command wants it and everyone who's seen it on the bottom of the ocean." Tanner's eyes hardened. "I don't like Owens any more than you do. But right now, he's the only qualified commander we've got. So we follow orders. We do our jobs. Questions?"

Silva hesitated, then asked, "What about Captain McIntosh?"

"He's sick. Doc's with him." Tanner's expression softened slightly. "The captain... he took on more than any man should have to bear. Sometimes the pressure gets to be too much."

Rodriguez nodded slowly. "We will follow orders, Chief. But we do not forget."

"Nobody's asking you to forget," Tanner replied. "Just do your duty. That's all any of us can do right now."

Under Owens's command, the Catfish continued its pursuit of U-977. The intelligence officer ran the boat with cold efficiency, standing watches at the periscope for hours without rest, plotting interception courses, drilling the crew on damage control and battle stations. The men responded with professional detachment—not the easy camaraderie they'd shown with Ira, but with the precision born of shared danger.

A ping cut the silence—U-977 had ears too. A German torpedo churned past, missing by feet.

"Evasive, starboard twenty!" Owens snapped. The Catfish twisted, her old frame shuddering. They surfaced, last torpedo jammed in the tube. The 3-inch gun roared—Shea on the .50-cal, raking U-977's deck. A hit: her screws fouled, oil gushing black.

"She's ours," Owens said, grim, wiping salt from his face.

## CHAPTER 7: FALSE FLAGS

U-977 ran aground on a Falklands shoal at dawn, her hull scraping rock, white flag fluttering. Owens scanned her through the scope. "Surrender?" he muttered. "Seems too easy."

Tanner snorted. "Trap."

Owens sent a boarding party anyway—Shea, Boyle, and a Brazilian trainee named Cardoso, ropes and rifles ready. "Secure her," he ordered.

They hit the deck, boots slipping on oil. Then the trap sprang—Germans poured from hatches, MP40s chattering, knives flashing. Shea took a bayonet to the gut, gasping, "Mary…" as he fell. Boyle's skull split under a wrench; Cardoso's scream cut short by a bullet. Krieger slipped free in the chaos, scrambling to the periscope as U-977 dove, half-flooded, leaving bodies bobbing in her wake.

The Catfish rocked from the fight—five men dead, blood washing the deck. Tanner's fists clenched. "Bastards."

Owens nodded grimly. "Now we finish this."

Consciousness returned to Ira in fragments—the taste of bile in his mouth, the throb of his temples, the distant hum of the Catfish's engines. He tried to open his eyes, but the dim light of his cabin felt like needles stabbing into his brain.

"Steady, Captain," came a voice—Doc Simmons. "You've been pretty sick."

Ira managed to croak, "Water."

A cup touched his lips, and he drank greedily despite the pain in his throat.

"What happened?" he asked, though pieces were coming back—the alcohol, the gun, Tanner tackling him to the deck.

"You had a breakdown, sir," Simmons said simply. "Acute alcohol poisoning on top of extreme stress. Your body shut down."

Ira closed his eyes again, shame washing over him. "The boat?"

"Acting Captain Owens has the conn. We're still pursuing U-977."

Ira processed this, the memories becoming clearer. He'd disgraced himself, endangered the mission, confirmed every stereotype about drunken Indians and Irishmen. The thought made him want to disappear beneath the waves forever.

"How long?" he asked.

"You've been out about eighteen hours, sir. It's 0200."

Eighteen hours. So much could happen in eighteen hours. "I need to get up."

"Not yet, sir," Simmons said firmly. "You're still not stable. Another few hours at least."

Ira wanted to argue, but even the slight movement sent his head spinning. "Status report," he managed.

"We've been tracking U-977 on a southwestern course. Should intercept before dawn if their heading holds." Simmons hesitated. "The crew's standing by you, sir. They understand."

But Ira didn't understand. How could he have broken so completely? What kind of captain was he?

As if reading his thoughts, Simmons added, "It happens, sir. Seen it before in the Pacific. Good men crack under enough pressure. Doesn't make them bad officers."

Ira didn't respond. In his mind, he could see Owens at the periscope, giving orders. His boat. His command. His failure.

"I need to rest," he said finally, turning away.

"Yes, sir. I'll check on you in an hour."

After Simmons left, Ira stared at the bulkhead, his thoughts clearing with each passing minute. There was something important, something about the U-977, about what they were carrying. Something he'd ranted about in his drunken haze.

Death. They were carrying death.

The realization came with sudden clarity. Whatever was in that forward compartment, whatever "Project Phoenix" was, it couldn't be allowed to reach shore. Owens had been right about that much.

With trembling hands, Ira reached for the water cup again. His duty wasn't finished yet.

## CHAPTER 8: THE STAND

Below, Owens and Tanner squared off in the control room. "Surface—grab him!" Tanner urged, voice raw. "He's a war criminal."

Owens gestured to the plotting table. "Orders say no prisoners. And after what they did to Shea and the others..."

Tanner's jaw worked beneath his stubble. "So we're executioners now?"

"Sometimes that's what war makes us," Owens replied quietly.

"War's over."

"Not yet. Not until that boat is on the bottom with whatever it's carrying."

The hunt resumed, the Catfish tracking U-977 doggedly through the day and into night. The damaged German boat left an oil trail that even a novice could follow, limping toward Argentine waters like a wounded animal seeking its den.

Late that night, with rain lashing the bridge, they caught her. U-977 wallowed in the swells, her hull so low that waves washed over her deck. Damage from the earlier engagement had taken its toll—her screws were barely turning.

Owens ordered the 3-inch gun manned, preparing for the kill shot.

"Sir," the lookout called, "man on their conning tower. White flag."

Through his binoculars, Owens could see a figure in the driving rain—Krieger, clinging to the ladder rungs, a makeshift white flag fluttering above him.

"Bring us alongside," Owens ordered. "But keep the gun trained."

The Catfish edged closer, her hull parallel to the stricken U-boat. The two vessels rose and fell on the swells, sometimes separated by yards, sometimes by mere feet.

"What now, sir?" Tanner asked as the vessels drew within hailing distance.

Before Owens could answer, a hatch banged open behind them. They turned to see Ira McIntosh climbing unsteadily onto the bridge. He was gaunt, hollow-eyed, his uniform hanging loose on his frame. But his eyes were clear, focused.

"McIntosh—" Owens began.

"Still my boat," Ira cut him off, his voice raw but firm. "My mission."

"You're not fit—"

"Neither are you." Ira shouldered past him, taking position at the rail. He raised a megaphone. "Kapitänleutnant Krieger! This is the USS Catfish! Do you surrender?"

Krieger's voice carried faintly across the water. "Yes! We surrender! War is over!"

Ira turned to Owens. "Your sidearm."

For a moment, it seemed Owens might refuse. Then slowly, watching Ira's face, he drew his .45 and offered it grip-first.

Ira took it, checking the chamber with practiced hands. His fingers were steadier than they had any right to be.

"Captain," Tanner said quietly, "what are your orders?"

Ira looked at him, then at Owens. "Stand by."

He turned back to face U-977, rain streaming down his face, plastering his dark hair to his forehead. In that moment, he looked like what he was—half-Irish, half-Ute, American to the core, a man carrying the weight of command in a war that had already officially ended.

## CHAPTER 9: ORDERS FULFILLED

Lightning split the sky, thunder cracking overhead as the storm intensified. The two submarines wallowed in the heaving sea, Ira and Krieger locked in a moment that stretched like a wire about to snap.

"The cargo," Ira shouted over the wind. "What is it?"

"Plans," Krieger called back, one hand slipping before he regained his grip. "Weapons. Nothing that matters now!"

"It matters enough that you killed for it," Ira replied. "Killed my men."

Krieger's face twisted with desperation. "War! It was war!"

"War's over," Ira said flatly. "You missed the memo."

He leaned over the rail, wind howling around him, the .45 aimed steady despite the rolling deck. "Why save you?" he yelled. "You murdered my crew! Shea had a pregnant wife. Boyle had children."

Krieger's strength was failing, his hands slipping on the ladder rungs, voice cracking. "I have children too! A family in Hamburg! Please—just following orders!"

Ira paused, the gun heavy in his grip. Those words—just following orders—echoed in his mind. How many atrocities had been committed under that shield? How many men had abdicated their moral responsibility with that excuse?

How different was Krieger's plea from Owens's reminder about Ira's own orders?

Owens stood on the bridge of the Catfish, rain pelting his face as he watched Ira aim the pistol at Krieger. The German captain clung desperately to the ladder rungs of his crippled U-boat, waves washing over his legs.

Owens could see Ira's finger tensing on the trigger, then relaxing. In that moment of hesitation, something changed in the intelligence officer's expression—a flicker of doubt, of humanity.

"Wait—" Owens began, stepping forward.

Three shots cracked in quick succession—chest, chest, head. Krieger jerked with each impact, eyes widening in final surprise before glazing over. His body slid into the black water, red blooming in the foam.

The Catfish settled, silent. Ira turned to face Owens, his expression unreadable beneath the rain.

"Those orders came to me," Ira said, voice raw but firm. "My boat. My orders. My duty."

He handed the smoking pistol back to Owens, who took it wordlessly.

"Scuttle her," Ira ordered, turning away. "Make sure nothing surfaces."

Depth charges were prepared, timed to detonate deep within U-977's hull. The German submarine disappeared beneath the waves for the last time, taking her secrets with her. The charges blew, sending up a brief dome of white water.

The Catfish limped north, battered but breathing. Tanner saluted Ira grudgingly the next morning, his limp heavier than before. Silva muttered a prayer in Portuguese as they circled back toward the spot where U-977 had gone down. Ruiz stared at his sonar, quiet and withdrawn.

Shea's letters washed overboard from his bunk, ink bleeding into the sea—words of love lost forever. Ira stood on the bridge, staring at the northern horizon, wondering if Nevada would ever feel like home again. A new matchstick sat between his lips, but he didn't taste it. He felt hollow, scrubbed clean of emotion, like a shell washed up on shore.

Owens joined him, lighting a cigarette against the breeze. "Good enough?" he asked simply.

Ira nodded, the matchstick shifting slightly. "Good enough."

But in his heart, he knew it wasn't. It never would be. War created debts that could never be repaid, sins that could never be washed clean. He had fulfilled his orders—completed his mission—but at what cost to his soul?

The Catfish sailed on, her wake fading behind her like memory. Ahead lay port, and reports to file, and the official version of events that would bear little resemblance to the truth. Behind lay bodies and secrets in the deep, locked away from history's judgment.

As the boat approached the spot where U-977 had gone down, the seas calmed. The storm had passed, leaving an eerie stillness in its wake. The watch crew scanning the water spotted something floating amid the debris field.

"Man overboard," called Silva, pointing to a body about fifty yards away, face down, arms spread wide against the dark water.

As they watched, the body slowly rotated in the current. It was a dark-haired man dressed incongruously in a white dinner jacket and black trousers, now sodden with seawater. The formal attire seemed bizarrely out of place on a military vessel. As the body turned further, they could see a red Nazi armband encircling the left arm.

"Who the hell is that?" Tanner muttered. "Looks like he was headed to a damn cocktail party."

"That's no sailor," Owens said quietly, his face pale. "That's what this was all about."

Before Ira could question him further, the body began to sink, the white jacket gleaming beneath the surface for a moment before it slipped down into the inky void, taking its secrets with it.

"Phoenix," Owens whispered, almost to himself. "Project Phoenix."

Above, seagulls appeared, wheeling and calling—a sign of land nearby. Home, for some definitions of the word. Ira watched them circle, envying their freedom, their innocence of human concerns.

"Captain?" Tanner appeared at his elbow. "Course heading?"

"North by northwest," Ira said simply. "Take us home, Chief."

As the Catfish steamed toward an uncertain future, the ocean closed over her wake, leaving no trace that she—or U-977—had ever disturbed its surface. Just as the official record would show nothing of what had truly happened in those storm-tossed waters.

Just as Ira's nightmares would show him, again and again, the faces of the dead—friend and foe alike—for all the years of peace to come. And sometimes, in those nightmares, a dark-haired man in a white dinner jacket would smile at him from the depths, still alive despite all logic and reason.