He looked around the control room. All eyes were glued on him.
"Our plan is to dive deep and hope to avoid the enemy submarine. But they're looking for us, as you know. Be ready. Be prepared. If that sub comes around or even so much as opens up a tube door, we're going to take her out." Pete exhaled. "This is the captain."
Pete hung the microphone back in its place. Dead silence was broken only by the diving officer's status report. Pete had decided to dive even deeper.
"Passing nine hundred feet."
He checked the sonar sweep monitor in the control room. Nothing. The oblong red image was gone.
"He's gone, " Frank Pippen was looking over Pete's shoulder.
"The heck he is, " Pete said. "He's up there." He looked up. "Somewhere."
"Nine-five-zero."
"Along with a dozen others just like him. Plus a whole fleet of aircraft and surface ships. All with torpedoes."
Depth dropped. Dropped more. 1100… 1200… 1250…
Pete was already deeper than he had intended to go. At 1475 feet, the submarine would be at "crush depth" and in danger of imploding. Enough was enough.
"Zero bubble."
"Zero bubble, aye, sir. Twelve hundred seventy-five feet, aye, sir."
The Honolulu was now headed in a westerly direction, toward the coast of Romania, nearly 1300 feet below the surface.
In the sonar room, the Bloodhound detected movement. "Soup, he's coming around, " he called.
Lieutenant Boers picked up the microphone. "Conn! Sonar! The Kilo's turning around, sir." A small red blip shot out from the larger, oblong red cylinder. "Conn Sonar! Torpedo in the water! Bearing two-four-one!"
A second red blip followed the first one. "Conn! Sonar! Second torpedo in the water. Bearing two-four-two!"
In the control room, sweat dripped off Pete's nose, splatting on the floor. If either torp exploded anywhere near Honolulu, it was all over.
"All ahead flank! Right full rudder." The sub swung hard to the right.
"Conn! Sonar! Three thousand yards and closing, sir!"
"Sound the collision alarm!" Loud bells rung all over the ship.
"Torpedoes at twenty-five hundred yards, sir."
"Rig ship for impact!" Pete ordered. "Hang on to your seats, gentlemen!"
"Two thousand yards!" Lieutenant Boers' voice boomed on the 1MC, echoing in the ship's corridors.
"One thousand five hundred yards. Bearing zero-seven-zero. Zero-seven-five. One thousand two hundred yards." Men grabbed onto anything they could, as if that would somehow stop the flow of deathly freezing water that would flood the submarine from a direct hit.
"One thousand yards and closing fast, " Boers' voice echoed. "Nine hundred fifty yards!"
"Launch the five-inch evasive device!" Pete shouted. "Launch countermeasures!"
"Countermeasures away, sir!"
Two metal canisters shot into the dark water from the hull of the submarine. The canisters, five-and-a-half inches in diameter at the base and propelled by small motors, gyrated and swirled through the water in a desperate attempt to deter the torpedoes from the submarine.
"Shift your rudder to left full!" Pete said. The helmsman complied. Honolulu swerved sharply through the dark water to the left, sliding coffee mugs, pencils, and anything else not buckled down in the opposite direction. The idea was to pull the ship away from the countermeasures, and pray that the torps fell for the bait.
"Three hundred yards and closing, sir." The sharp turn continued as Boers spoke.
"Sir, the first torpedo is going after the countermeasures! They missed! They missed!"
A massive underwater explosion rocked the Honolulu. The control room vibrated like the violent aftershock of a major earthquake. Men hung tightly to pipes, stationary cylinders, handles, anything they could find.
"We've got another torp out there!" Pete screamed. "Keep turning! Keep turning!"
Honolulu held her tight loop to the left.
"Conn! Sonar! Second torpedo incoming! It's going to be close!"
The second explosion rocked the submarine with a vengeance and sustained shaking unmatched by the first. Honolulu shook and rattled as if a giant jackhammer were pounding it from the inside out. The pounding continued. Men flopped to the steel decks and bounced about like ragdolls.
"Conn. Sonar! The Kilo's disappeared in the thermal, sir!" The shaking began to subside. Then it was over.
For now.
Alarms chimed throughout the submarine.
"All ahead standard, " Pete ordered. "Rudder amidships!" The helmsman brought the steering wheel to a straightaway position.
Pete pulled himself off the deck. Alarm lights were blinking all throughout the control room. He went back on the 1MC. "All stations. Report damage. Report damage."
"Engine room reports number two ASW pump failed."
"Contol. Torpedo room. It's like someone's turned on the showers in here. We got two feet of water in the bilge and she's rising fast. Request a team of personnel to assist in flood containment."
"Chief of the Boat." Pete looked at Master Chief Sideman. "Grab a team and get to the torpedo room to isolate that flooding."
"Aye, Captain." Sideman rushed out of the control room.
"Sonar. Conn." Pete said. "Report hostile contact."
"Conn. Sonar. We lost him, sir."
"Keep your eyes open. He's not gone away."
"Aye, sir."
"Torpedo room, how's that flooding?"
"Still flooding, Captain. Two-and-a-half feet in the bilge, sir."
Pete wiped his forehead and uttered a quick, silent prayer. "Can you shut off the valves and isolate the water?"
"Negative so far, sir. But we're working on it."
"Let me know of any change in status, either positive or negative."
"Aye, sir."
"Sonar. Conn."
"Sonar, sir."
"Any sign of the Kilo yet?"
"Negative, Captain. He probably thinks he got us, sir."
"Let's pray to God he's wrong."
"Conn. Torpedo room." This was the voice of Master Chief Sideman.
"Go ahead, torpedo room."
"Good news, Captain. We've stopped the water for now. I think we should be okay, unless we take another hit. If we do, I don't think we can keep the water out, sir."
Pete exhaled. "Good work, Master Chief. Leave your team down there for a while in case that flooding starts again. But I need you back in the control room on the double."
"Aye, Captain."
"All right, gentlemen, let's get on with it. All ahead one-third." That was followed by two bells to the control room. "Steady as you go." Pete breathed out. "I'll be in the galley. XO, you have the conn."
"I have the conn, aye, sir, " Frank Pippen parroted.
"Mr. Jamison, come with me."
"Aye, Captain."
Pete stepped out of the control room and headed for the galley. The master at arms guarding the passageway stepped aside and opened the door for his captain. Half the lights had gone out in the second explosion. The twelve orphans were huddled in one corner of the room. All were shaking and crying.
The woman, who had a large bruise on her left cheek, was wiping blood from a little girl's face. The young, scruffy-faced Russian sailor was tending to a little boy who had been badly bruised.
The woman – he had been told her name was Miss Katovich – looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "Pazhalsta, Kapitan! Nam nada pamo-ach. Pazhalsta."
"What's she saying, Mr. Jamison?"
"She's asking for help, sir."
"Tell her we will get someone down here as soon as we can."
"Yes, sir." Jamison relayed the message in Russian.
Pete picked up the microphone. "This is the captain. Get two corpsmen to the galley. Now."
He looked back down at the girl, whose fearful eyes were locked on him. "Ask her why they were on board the ship."
He waited for the translation.
"She says the orphans were to meet the presidents of Russia and Ukraine in Sevastopol, but the ship's captain tried to kill her."
Pete exchanged a startled glance with Lieutenant Jamison. "He what? Why would he want to do that?"
More Russian, then the translation. "She says the ship was carrying some kind of illegal cargo."