U-509 hovered just below the surface. It was five thirty a.m. Kapitanleutnant Max Hoffman stood in the control room, peering though the periscope, drinking coffee. His eyes hurt from spending the entire night staring at the black seas. His head ached. He badly needed a few hours of sleep.
His first officer came to the bridge. "The window closes in thirty minutes, Herr Kaleu."
"I am aware of the time, Number One."
"We have had no further communication from the Abwehr agents, Herr Kaleu. I think we must consider the possibility that they have been captured or killed."
"I have considered that possibility, Number One."
"It will be light soon, Herr Kaleu."
"Yes. It is a phenomenon that takes place at this time every day. Even in Britain, Number One."
"My point is that it will not be safe for us to remain so close to the English coast for much longer. The depth here is not great enough for us to escape the British wabos, " the first officer said, using the slang common among German submariners for depth charges.
"I am perfectly aware of the dangers involved in the situation, Number One. But we are going to remain here at the rendezvous point until the window is closed. And then, if I believe it is still safe, we will stay a little longer."
"But, Herr Kaleu--"
"They have sent us a proper radio signal alerting us that they are coming. We must assume they are traveling in a stolen vessel, probably barely seaworthy, and we must also assume they are exhausted or even hurt. We will stay here until they arrive or I am convinced beyond doubt that they are not coming. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Herr Kaleu."
The first officer walked away. Hoffman thought, What a pain in the ass.
The Rebecca was about thirty feet in length with a shallow draft, an inboard motor, and a small open wheelhouse amidships barely big enough for two men to stand shoulder to shoulder. Lockwood had telephoned ahead, and the Rebecca's engine was idling by the time they arrived.
The four men clambered on board: Lockwood, Harry, Jordan, and Roach. A dock boy untied the last line, and Lockwood guided the craft into the Channel.
He opened the throttle full. The engine note rose; the slender prow lifted out of the water and sliced through the wind-driven chop. Night was draining from the eastern sky. The silhouette of Spurn Light was visible off the port side. The sea was empty before them.
Harry leaned down, snatched the handset of the radio, and raised Vicary in Grimsby to bring him up-to-date.
Five miles due east of the Rebecca, corvette Number 745 was maneuvering on a tedious crisscross pattern through rough seas. The captain and the first officer stood on the bridge, glasses raised to their eyes, peering into the curtain of rain. It was useless. Along with the dark and the rain, a fog had rolled in and reduced visibility even further. In conditions like these they could pass within a hundred yards of a U-boat and never see it. The captain moved to the chart table, where the navigator was plotting the next course change. On the captain's order, the corvette made a ninety-degree starboard turn and pushed farther out to sea. Then he instructed the radio operator to inform the Submarine Tracking Room of their new heading.
In London, Arthur Braithwaite stood over the map table, leaning heavily on his cane. He had made certain that all Royal Navy and RAF updates crossed his desk as soon as they came in. He knew the odds of finding a U-boat in weather and light conditions like these were remote, even if the craft was on the surface. If the submarine was lurking just below the surface, it would be almost impossible.
His aide handed him a signal flimsy. Corvette Number 745 had just changed course and was on an easterly heading. A second corvette, Number 128, was two miles away and moving south. Braithwaite leaned down over the table, closed his eyes, and tried to picture the search in his mind. He thought, Damn you, Max Hoffman! Where the hell are you?
The Camilla, though Horst Neumann did not realize it, was precisely seven miles due east of Spurn Head. Conditions seemed to be worsening by the minute. Rain fell in a blinding curtain and hammered against the window of the wheelhouse, obscuring the view. The wind and the current, both beating down from the north, kept nudging the boat off course. Neumann, using the dashboard compass, struggled to keep them on an easterly heading.