Chapter 551: The Atlantic Conspiracy 2

At 10:15 a. m., the telegraph operator received an Encrypted Telegram. After Harris decoded it, it contained only one sentence: "The timing is ripe, execute Plan B."

He stared at the paper for a long time, then slowly folded it and slipped it into his pocket.

"Notify Vigilant," he said to the communications officer, "sonar has detected a suspect contact, bearing 270, Distance five nautical miles. We will proceed to investigate. Order the convoy to maintain heading and speed; we will return within an hour."

"Captain?" the communications officer hesitated, "the sonar has no report…"

"Execute the order." Harris's voice was flat.

The signal lamp flickered, transmitting the message to Vigilant. Two destroyers turned simultaneously, accelerated westward, and soon vanished from the convoy's view.

On the flagship Ocean Merchant of the NY-107 Convoy, Captain Thomas watched the departing destroyers and frowned.

The first officer said in disbelief, "They just left? In these waters?"

Thomas gave no answer. He walked to the chart table and looked at the marked submarine activity zone. 35° W, 45° N—one of the most dangerous areas in the mid‑Atlantic, where German submarines often ambush trans‑Atlantic convoys.

"Send a signal to inquire," Thomas said.

The signal lamp flickered, but there was no reply. The two destroyers had already vanished into the rain.

"Maintain formation, whole convoy go to Condition One alert," Thomas ordered, "All lookouts double watch, watch for any periscopes or torpedo wakes."

The convoy continued eastward. Without the destroyers' sonar protection, they were like blind men walking in the dark, unaware from which direction danger might strike.

At the same time, sixty meters below the surface.

U-36 submarine hovered silently beneath the thermocline, its diesel engines shut down, the whole vessel in silent mode. It is the German Navy's newest ocean‑going submarine, with a submerged displacement of 1,200 tons, equipped with six torpedo tubes capable of carrying sixteen torpedoes.

Captain Karl Müller sat in the control compartment, staring at the sonar screen. At thirty‑two, he was already an experienced submarine commander, having sunk over 80,000 tons.

"Surface target, bearing 085, Distance about ten thousand meters, multiple targets, speed estimated ten knots," the sonar operator reported.

"Escort status?"

"There were two destroyers earlier, but… they just turned away. The convoy now has no escort."

Müller frowned. It was illogical. In such a high‑risk area, a merchant convoy without escort? A trap? Or negligence by Yingguo?

He raised the periscope, slowly lifting it. The lens broke the surface; in the rain he saw the outline of a merchant convoy—eight ships, arranged in two lines, a standard transport formation. Indeed, no destroyers.

"God…," the executive officer whispered, "they're courting death."

Müller rotated the periscope, scanning the sea carefully. No black smoke from funnels, no high‑speed wake; indeed, no escort vessels.

"Calculate attack parameters," he ordered. "Targets are the lead ship and the third and fifth vessels. We will strike their command ship and two large freighters in one go."

In the torpedo room, the sailors busied themselves. Torpedoes were loaded into the tubes, gyros set, depths set. All actions were quiet and swift; these men had repeated the procedure hundreds of times over the past two years.

"Tubes 1, 3, and 5 ready."

Müller raised the periscope again. Distance seven kilometers, target course steady. Perfect attack conditions.

But he hesitated. As a professional soldier, his instinct told him something was wrong. Too smooth, smooth to the point of unreality.

"Captain?" the executive officer asked, looking at him.

Müller recalled the pre‑departure order: "Attacks on the Meilika convoy must be cautious, unless it is clearly carrying war materiel or escorted by warships." Yet the convoy before him clearly lacked escort, and from its draft it seemed heavily loaded, likely with war materiel.

More importantly, he remembered rumors circulating in the base: Meilika people were considering entering the war. If Meilika entered, Deguo would lose. Striking Meilika's shipping might make them think twice before joining.

Conflicting thoughts battled in his mind. Reason told him to withdraw and report the anomaly to superiors. But the soldier's instinct—and the two years of submarine warfare that had fostered an appetite for attack—urged him to fire.

"Target confirmed to be carrying war materiel," he finally said, more as self‑persuasion, "Execute the attack."

"Yes! Tubes ready… Tube 1 fire! Tube 3 fire! Tube 5 fire!"

The submarine shuddered three times. Three torpedoes shot from the tubes, trailing white wakes, rushing toward the target at thirty‑five knots.

On the surface, Ocean Merchant's lookouts spotted the wakes when the torpedoes were two thousand meters away.

"Port side! Torpedoes! Three!"

The alarm sounded mournfully. Captain Thomas rushed to the bridge, seeing three white waterlines closing fast. He immediately ordered a hard right rudder, but the heavily laden freighter turned sluggishly.

The first torpedo struck the midsection of the hull.

The blast was deafening; hundreds of kilograms of high‑explosive tore a massive hole below the waterline. Sea water gushed in furiously, and the hull began to list rapidly.

The second torpedo hit the third ship, Atlantic Glory, almost at the same spot. That vessel carried cotton; the explosion sparked a fire, and thick smoke rose skyward.

The third torpedo veered slightly, skimming the bow of the fifth ship, Freedom Trader, without hitting.

But the two hits were already sufficient.

Ocean Merchant sank within fifteen minutes. Captain Thomas was the last to leave the bridge; he stood on the tilting deck, watching his ship slip slowly into the cold Atlantic waters. The lifeboats had been lowered, but several were damaged in the explosion, leaving few usable.

Worse, the cotton fire aboard Atlantic Glory became uncontrollable, turning the hull into a massive torch. Crew members leapt into the sea, but many were trapped in the flames.

The whole convoy fell into chaos. The remaining ships began emergency turns, trying to evade any further attack. The radio operator frantically sent a distress call: "NY-107 under submarine attack! Position 45°12′ N, 35°08′ W! Two ships sunk! Immediate assistance required!"

On the surface floated debris, oil slicks, and struggling survivors. In January, the North Atlantic water temperature neared freezing, and those in the water could survive at most twenty minutes.

Müller watched all this through the periscope. He felt no joy of victory, only a cold emptiness. As a soldier he had completed the mission. As a man, he knew he had just killed at least a hundred strangers.

"Dive, depth one hundred meters, silent heading 270," he ordered.

U-36 slipped into the deep sea, leaving death and devastation on the surface.