"Captain Prien?" a Ghost Guard asked the obviously nervous man standing before him.
"Yes," Prien answered while adjusting his collar and his uniform. He was restless. Paul and he had been old, perhaps distant, but nonetheless friends. However, meeting him now was entirely different from meeting him a year ago. Back then, he had met a young and promising officer of the Wehrmacht who was still within his reach. Now he was about to meet the new Führer of Germany and the head of state.
With a light creak, the double doors were opened. Prien was led inside, and his gaze immediately went to the man sitting behind the large wooden desk. He recognized the man as Paul despite only seeing him from the side. Paul was still talking with another man whom Prien also knew.
"Sirs!" Prien saluted both Paul and Raeder. The two men turned their heads toward him and stopped their conversation.
Paul nodded. He was clearly pleased to receive a traditional military salute rather than the political salute many people still preferred. The military salute was far more fitting for the regime he had begun to establish. It was a military dictatorship where ideology was merely a tool rather than a religion.
"Prien, it has been a long time," Paul said. He stood up and shook the man's hand firmly. Prien nodded, surprised by the warmth of the welcome.
"Take a seat," Paul added before returning to his own chair and exchanging a meaningful gaze with Raeder.
Raeder quickly pulled out a small document and handed it to Prien. It was a map depicting Western Europe. A small red circle had been drawn around a cluster of islands north of mainland Scotland. Prien studied the map and the red circle for a second before his eyes widened. He looked at Paul and Raeder with a stunned expression.
"Scapa Flow?" he asked, his voice louder than he had intended.
Raeder nodded grimly.
"The British have made their move and now it is our turn. They fear our newfound naval strength, but there is one thing they fear more than a competitor. They fear losing their own strength," Raeder said with cold enthusiasm.
"Wise words indeed," Paul added. He folded his hands, and his shadow fell over the map Prien had laid upon the table.
"To lay the groundwork for everything else," Paul said with an underlying tone that ignited Prien's imagination and admiration, "we need to strengthen our Kriegsmarine extensively. We have gained the French fleet and I have just signed the order for a new submarine program to begin. Other capital ships will also be produced."
Prien leaned forward, but Paul's eyes suddenly grew dangerously sharp and his voice dropped to a low whisper.
"Such a buildup needs time and peace, which are luxuries we do not have. Therefore we will rely upon familiar weapons. We will use surprise and fear."
"Captain Prien, you will lead a top secret mission. You will command a submarine attack on the British naval base at Scapa Flow and strike the very heart of their fleet."
Prien looked at Raeder, then at Paul, and back to Raeder again as if he could not believe what he had just heard. He quickly collected himself and straightened his posture.
"Yes, Sir," he replied, though his tone sounded utterly dejected.
"You do not sound overly enthusiastic, Captain," Raeder said with a light, knowing smile.
"No, I simply," Prien stammered.
"There is no need for false courtesy, Prien," Paul interrupted, opening a drawer in his desk. "Of course such a mission is dangerous. To any other officer, it would be impossible."
Slowly, he pulled out another piece of paper and pushed it toward the Captain.
"Impossible for them, but not for you," Paul repeated.
As he watched Prien's eyes widen in shock at the details on the page, Paul felt a surge of grim satisfaction. He knew the gap in the defenses perfectly, so would have Prien originally. Raeder and Paul exchanged a brief glance before the three men continued their discussion long into the night.
August 6, 1939: The Jaeger Residence
Three weeks later, the summer air was heavy with the scent of pine and the coming rain.
"Good evening, Elisabeth," Paul said as he embraced his wife.
"Hello Heinrich, it is good to see you," Elisabeth replied. She fell deeper into his arms, her voice thick with exhaustion.
"Is it the child?" Paul asked softly, caressing her well rounded stomach.
Elisabeth nodded, and they walked together toward the living room.
"The little one has kicked me the whole day," she complained. She sat down on the large sofa and leaned her head against Paul's shoulder.
They sat in silence for a while. The fire crackled in the fireplace before them, providing warmth and a flickering, orange light that danced across the room.
"I talk and talk, but what about you?" Elisabeth asked suddenly, turning to look at him. "You are such a mystery. You barely share anything with me." She reached out and gently touched his cheek.
"I do it to protect you," Paul whispered.
"Tell me something, please," Elisabeth pleaded, her eyes wide. "Anything."
Paul smiled lightly, though his eyes grew distant as he stared into the smoldering flames.
"I can tell you a story," he said quietly. "Perhaps it is fiction. Perhaps it is reality."
Elisabeth nodded.
"It is a dark, stormy night in the North Sea. Wind tears across the waves, which rise and crash beneath a star-filled sky."
"Below the surface, the world is different," Paul whispered.
Three black shadows move beneath the foam. They are not made of flesh and bone, but of cold steel. They glide through the depths, silent as ghosts. They do not see, they listen. Every sound, every vibration matters. One wrong turn, one touch against the seabed, and the ocean would erase them without a trace.
Ahead lies a fortress that believes itself impenetrable, surrounded by forgotten secrets and hidden traps.
Slowly, Elisabeth's eyes closed, lulled by the warmth of the fire and the calm rhythm of Paul's voice. Still, he continued, now speaking only to the shadows.
"But they have a map drawn in secrets."
They find the path. With only inches to spare, they slip past wrecks and rock. The chaos of the open sea fades. The water grows still, black as ink.
They have entered the fortress.
Scapa Flow, midnight.
Under the starry sky rest dozens of steel giants, the pride of the Home Fleet. Then, somewhere in the dark beneath the glassy surface, a small disruption appeared. At first it was only a fleeting puddle of ripples, followed by a small, trailing wave. Finally, a narrow piece of metal revealed itself from the depths of the bay.
"Three wolves," Paul whispered. "A pack with bared fangs."
Below the surface, metal groaned under pressure as torpedo doors swung open.
"The beasts have found their prey."
Paul gently pulled a blanket over his sleeping wife. His eyes closed, a faint smile lingering on his lips.
"How will the story end?" he murmured.
"FIRE!" Prien shouted.
Sweat streamed down his face as the first torpedo hissed from its tube. Another followed, then two more pairs from the other boats.
Six trails of white foam cut through the dark water, racing toward the unsuspecting hulls of the British giants. The distance closed rapidly.
Since giving the order, Prien had not blinked. His eyes remained fixed on the ships through the periscope. Then, suddenly, his eyelids closed in a brief reflex. For a single moment, there was darkness.
When his vision returned, everything was light.
Fire. Blinding fire, born from a massive explosion.
Slowly, Prien stepped away from the periscope, his breath ragged, his legs weak. The boat seemed suddenly smaller, tighter, as the realization crept in at last.
It was done.
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