Cryptonomicon

It is known, and word has gone out to all present, that the U-boat's skipper--the last man to abandon ship--had the presence of mind to bring the boat's Enigma machine with him. The RAF planes, still circling overhead, watched the skipper rise to a precarious kneel in his life raft and fling the wheels of the machine in different directions, into the steep pitches of hill-sized waves. Then the machine itself went overboard.

The Germans know that the machine will never be recovered. What they do not know is that they will never even be looked for, because there is a place called Bletchley Park that already knows all that there is to know about the four-wheel naval Enigma. The Brits will make a show of looking anyway, in case anyone is watching.

Waterhouse is not looking for Enigma machines. He is looking for stray arrowheads.

The corvette first approaches the U-boat head-on, thinks better of it and swings far around astern of the wreck, then beats upwind towards it. That way, Waterhouse reckons, the wind will tend to blow them away from the reef. Seen from underneath, the U-boat is actually kind of fat-cheeked. The part that's supposed to be above water, when it's surfaced, is neutral grey, and it's as skinny as a knife. The part that's supposed to be below, when it hasn't just crashed into a great big rock, is wide and black. She has been boarded by adventuresome Royal Navy men who have cheekily raised a White Ensign from her conning tower.

They have apparently reached her in a shallow-draft whaler that is tied up alongside, loosely bound to her by a sparse web of lines, kept away by bald tires slung over the rail. The corvette carrying the members of Detachment 2702 edges towards the U-boat cautiously; each rolling wave nearly slams the boats together.

"We're definitely in a non-Euclidean spatial geometry now!" Waterhouse says puckishly. Chattan bends towards him and cups a hand to his ear. "Not only that but it's realtime dependent, definitelysomething that has to be tackled in four dimensions not three!"

"I beg your pardon?"

Any closer and they'll be grounded on the reef themselves. The sailors launch an actual rocket that carries a line between the vessels, and devote some time to rigging up a ship-to-ship transfer system. Waterhouse is afraid they're going to put him on it. Actually he's more resentful than afraid, because he was under the impression that he wouldn't be put in any more danger for the rest of the war. He tries to kill time looking at the underside of the U-boat and watching the sailors. They've formed a sort of bucket brigade to haul books and papers up out of the wreck to the conning tower and from there down into the whaler. The conning tower has a complicated spidery look with gun barrels and periscopes and antennas sticking out all over the place.

Waterhouse and Shaftoe are indeed sent over to U-553 on a sort of trolley contraption that rolls along a stretched cable. The sailors put life jackets on them first, as a sort of hilarious token gesture, so that if they avoid being smashed to bits they can die of hypothermia instead of drowning.

When Waterhouse is halfway across, the trough of a wave passes beneath him, and he looks down into the sucking cavity and sees the top of Caesar's Reef, momentarily exposed, covered with an indigo fur of mussels. You could go down there and stand on it. For an instant. Then thousands of tons of really cold water slams into the cavity and rises up and punches him in the ass.

He looks up at U-553, entirely too much of which is above him. His basic impression is that it's hollow, more colander than warship. The hull is perforated with rows of oblong slots arranged in swirling patterns like streamlines tattooed onto the metal. It seems impossibly flimsy. Then he peers through the slots--light is shining all the way through from more slots in the deck--and perceives the silhouette of the pressure hull nested inside, curved and much more solid-looking than the outer hull. She's got two triple-bladed brass propellers, maybe a yard across, dinged here and there from contact with who knows what. Right now they are thrust up into the air, and looking at them Waterhouse feels the same absurd embarrassment he felt looking at dead guys in Pearl Harbor whose private parts were showing. Diving planes and rudders stick out of the hull downstream of the propellers, and aft of those, near the apex of the stern, are two crude hatchlike slabs of metal which, Waterhouse realizes, must be where the torpedoes come out.