Novel Full Chapter 655: Ghosts in the Water
Chapter 655: Ghosts in the Water
Beneath the Reich Chancellery, in the armored bowels of the Naval Command Bunker, a projection flickered to life.
A grainy, infrared time-lapse.
Target: HMCS Ottawa.
Timestamp: 0243 hours.
Playback: 1.25x speed.
A thermal silhouette, Canadian destroyer, C-class retrofit, static on the surface.
Then, a flash.
A pulse of overpressure light. The kind only a select few in the world even knew how to recognize.
Seconds later: the hull bloomed open like a crushed tin can.
Fragmentation spiraled upward in a mushrooming plume of seawater, white-hot shrapnel, and atomized flame.
The room remained silent.
The projector snapped off with a final pop as the lights returned.
“As you can see, Reichsmarschall,” said Admiral von Stosch, voice tight with awe,”the APTT exceeded all expectations. Hull penetration, fuel dispersal, ignition, flawless.”
He tapped the dossier beside him.
“Impact occurred precisely seven meters below the keel, just aft of the engine room. The entire internal frame was flash-vaporized in under 1.2 seconds. Casualty estimate: total loss. No survivors aboard.”
A whispered “My God…” escaped one of the aides.
Bruno stood at the head of the table, hands behind his back, still in his field-gray uniform, collar stiff, decorations gleaming.
His expression was unreadable.
“One torpedo,” he said. “No fallout. No international outcry. No satellite trail. Just… gone.”
“Yes, sir,” said Vice Admiral Bergmann, eyes bright with admiration.
“The fuel compound was more volatile than anticipated inside a confined hull. It consumed the oxygen in every sealed compartment before detonation. Their own bulkheads killed them.”
Bruno nodded slowly.
“A battlefield weapon with strategic consequences. Not just naval superiority… optical erasure. A ghost hit. No return address.”
The words hung in the air like drifting ash.
“And the survivors?” he asked.
General Kühn of Military Intelligence replied with a tight smile on his face.
“Recovered by our fast attack craft at 0400. Frostbitten. Delirious. Their stories contradict each other. Some say sabotage; others talk about ’impossible boats with glowing eyes.’”
The room chuckled darkly.
“Our official position,” Kühn continued, “is that neither the Reich nor Denmark is aware of any combat in the Arctic. No distress signal was received. The Danish government confirms that its Coast Guard rescued the survivors from a presumed civilian accident.”
Bruno raised an eyebrow.
“Good. The moment we admit that these torpedoes exist… they become a threat. So long as they’re a fantasy—”
He tapped the dossier once.
“—they remain a ghost story. And fear of ghosts does more damage than any declaration of war.”
The admirals murmured their assent.
“Sir,” von Stosch said, “the Danish Fleet requests limited integration of the APTT. They believe it could be decisive against Allied screening lines in the Channel.”
Bruno’s response was immediate.
“No deployments. Not yet.”
He looked each officer in the eye.
“One strike. One torpedo. One ship. That’s all they think we have. Uncertainty is more powerful than a hundred launches.”
He turned toward the bunker door, his silhouette swallowed by shadow.
“Let them chase phantoms. Burn fuel. Lose sleep. Wonder.”
He paused once more at the threshold.
“And if they ever get too close to the truth…”
A smile, faint but sharp.
“…remind them that the Arctic is vast. And ships sink in silence.”
—
In the Office of Naval Intelligence, Washington, D.C the air was stale.
No windows. Just tobacco smoke, burnt coffee, and the low hum of a reel-to-reel projector long since spun out.
Rear Admiral Dewitt leaned forward, knuckles white on the metal table.
He peered over his glasses at the assembled brass.
“Gentlemen… we are not here to speculate. We are here to understand. One of His Majesty’s destroyers, combat-ready, was lost three nights ago off Greenland. And we still don’t know how.”
He turned to Commodore Fairchild, stiff in his chair.
“You’ve confirmed no mechanical fault? No unstable fuel? No onboard accident?”
Fairchild’s voice was gravel.
“The Ottawa was in peak condition. She passed inspection the day before. She wasn’t even in combat posture, just standard intercept and inspection.”
Dewitt’s jaw flexed.
“Then how does a destroyer vanish in five seconds? No mayday. No sonar ping. No wreckage larger than a bulkhead hatch?”
He flung a series of grainy photographs onto the table.
Oil-streaked waves. Charred debris. A scorched officer’s cap: HMCS OTTAWA.
Fairchild exhaled slowly.
“We had a skiff in the water. Seven men were en route to board a German-flagged merchant headed toward Greenland. They saw it happen. Said they felt a shockwave pass beneath them, then light… and pressure. Then nothing but fire.”
A U.S. analyst interjected:
“Could’ve been a sub. Depth charge, maybe? Rogue U-boat. Or a Q-ship disguised as a merchant?”
Fairchild shook his head.
“No torpedo trail. No detonation trace. Whatever hit the Ottawa, it didn’t behave like any known naval munition.”
A nervous lieutenant passed out transcripts, his fingers shaking.
“Survivors’ statements, sirs. Incoherent for the most part. But one phrase repeats.”
He flipped a page.
“’Bioluminescent path beneath the waves.’ They said it shimmered… just before the ship exploded.”
The room fell still.
Rear Admiral Dewitt narrowed his eyes.
“A glow in the water?”
“Sir… plankton response. Water displacement. But not from the merchant, it came from beneath it.”
“And the Germans?”
Fairchild’s lips tightened.
“Officially? Nothing. The Danish Coast Guard claims it was a civilian accident, fog and engine failure. Berlin’s radio silent.”
“Convenient,” someone muttered.
“Deliberate,” Fairchild corrected. “They want us guessing. It’s psychological. They left survivors for effect.”
Dewitt turned to his tech chief.
“Hypothetically. Could this have been a new torpedo? A thermobaric payload, maybe? The Germans love fuel-air weapons.”
The tech officer hesitated.
“Sir… we don’t even fully understand how they make their thermobarics. But as a torpedo?”
He shook his head.
“The physics are against it. Fuel-air explosives require an atmosphere. Detonating underwater is nearly impossible unless—”
“Unless?”
“Unless it’s an armor-piercing warhead that enters the hull first. Uses the internal atmosphere to disperse fuel, then detonates.”
He looked around, eyes heavy.
“Theoretically possible. But nothing in our inventories or theirs can do that. Not officially.”
Dewitt closed the file and tapped the table once.
“Then we treat it as what it is.”
“A warning shot,” Fairchild said. “Fired with a ghost gun we can’t see.”
Dewitt nodded.
“And the next time we try to board one of their ships…”
He looked up at the red line curling across the North Atlantic.
“…we may not even get the chance.”