“You don’t say,” mumbled Cunnetto, whose attention had refocused itself on double-checking the fit of the gasket. Satisfied that all looked well, he sealed the lid shut and reached over to turn the unit on.
The compactor activated with a low-pitched, grinding hum. Several seconds later, it turned itself off and Cunnetto anxiously opened the lid. A satisfied smirk painted his moustached face as he lifted out a heavy, black plastic bag filled with tightly compacted trash.
“Did you know that this is the second repair that I successfully completed this morning. Homer? Sometimes I think that I should have been a mechanic.”
“What else did you fix?” questioned Homer.
“The TDU,” responded Cunnetto as he handed his shipmate the garbage bag.
“Follow me and I’ll show ya.”
It took both hands for Homer to lift the bag and carry it across the galley to an adjoining space where the TDU, or trash disposal unit, was located. It was through this opening to the sea beyond that the sub’s trash was ejected. Several more plastic bags of garbage lay on the deck here, and Cunnetto opened the TDU’s main chute and pointed inside.
“Remember yesterday when we went to shoot the trash and we couldn’t get the unit to seal properly,” commented Cunnetto.
Homer nodded that he did as Cunnetto continued.
“Well I thought about the problem all night, and figured that it couldn’t be anything too serious. Sure enough, this morning when I went to take a closer look I found a can caught in the ball valve. I cleared it in time to start breakfast. Load it up and let’s give it a try.”
Homer managed to drop each of the plastic bundles into the chute, noting the sickening ripe scent that emanated from the garbage bags that had been stored on the deck. With great relief he torqued shut the hatch and backed away.
“Homer, you look a little green around the gills,” observed Cunnetto with a wink.
“Now you can just imagine what this whole boat would have smelled like if the TDU were inoperable during the rest of this patrol.
Stand by to shoot the trash, while I get permission to unlock from the Chief of the Watch.”
“Receiving hull popping noises from the contact, Captain,” reported the OOD.
“Sonar classifies Sierra three a hostile submerged contact by the nature of this sound.”
“Man battle stations!” ordered Slater forcefully.
A steady electronic tone began warbling in the background as Slater and his XO gathered behind the firecontrol console, where they were met by Ensign Lockhart, the head of the tracking party.
“Captain,” said Lockhart, “Sierra three appears to be in the first convergence zone, with a range of two one thousand yards. Its course is westerly, at a speed of seven knots.”
“Has sonar been able to run a signature I.D. check on it?” questioned Slater.
Ensign Lockhart nodded.
“That they have, sir. Preliminary data show Sierra three to be a Russian fast attack sub.”
Bressler winced with this revelation.
“Great, just the type of vessel we want to lead into our underwater test range.”
“I doubt that they’ve got a definite on us, XO,” offered Slater.
“Ensign Lockhart, inform sonar to initiate a self-noise check.”
Slater and Bressler were in the process of returning to navigation, when Ensign Lockhart’s voice spoke out tensely.
“Captain, sonar reports that we’re making noise aft.”
“What?” retorted Slater, who vented his rage on the nearest intercom handset.
“Lieutenant Worth, what the hell’s going on back there?”
The Lewis and Clark’s reactor officer answered directly.
“Water pump failure. Captain. We’re switching over to the auxiliary unit, and I’ll have us buttoned down as soon as possible.”
Slater disgustedly hung up the handset and addressed his XO.
“Murphy’s law strikes again. We’ve got a malfunctioning water pump.”
“That bogey will have us for sure now,” said Bressler.
“Maybe we can lose them in the layer.” “Good idea,” said Slater as he turned towards the two seated planes men positioned forward in the control room.
“We’re going up through the layer. I’ve got the conn. Make your depth nine-zero feet.”
“Nine-zero feet, aye, sir,” returned the diving officer.
“Helm, five degrees up on the fair water planes.”
“Five degrees up on the fair water planes, aye,” repeated the helmsman as he pulled back on his control yoke.
The sub’s rounded bow angled upwards, and as it crossed into the layer of relatively warm water near the sea’s surface. Lieutenant Worth informed them that the auxiliary water pump was now online. Seconds later, sonar reported that the Lewis and Clark was no longer making unwanted noise, and Slater’s relief was noticeable.
“They’ve lost us now, XO. No way could they follow us with all this surface noise topside.”
“Now where to, Skipper?” asked Bressler.
Slater answered while scanning the instruments mounted before the helm.
“It’s time to take us back beneath the layer and get on with our mission. The Lewis and Clark has got a date to keep in the Andros Trench.”
As both of the boat’s senior officers turned for navigation, neither of them paid attention to the chief of the watch as he picked up the intercom and fielded a question from Chief Cunnetto in the galley. Without a second’s hesitation, the watch chief denied Cunnetto’s request to shoot the trash, instructing him instead to concentrate his efforts on preparing his compartment for a deep dive.
Homer Morgan was the only one in the galley whom Chief Cunnetto failed to inform of the dive. Still waiting in the tight space reserved for the TDU, Homer reached out for a handhold when the bow unexpectedly pointed downwards at a steep thirty-degree angle.
It took a total effort on his part to remain standing, and he breathlessly listened as several implements went crashing to the deck outside in the food-preparation area.
Unwanted sound was every submariner’s worst nightmare, and Homer knew that a can crashing to the deck could reveal their position to an enemy. Ever since being assigned to the galley staff. Chief Cunnetto had emphasized this fact to him, and Homer could picture the mess crew as they frantically struggled to stow away the rest of their gear. He wasn’t surprised when the chief forcefully called out to him:
“Homer, get the hell in here and give us a hand!” “Should I shoot the trash?” asked Homer before abandoning his post. Before Cunnetto could answer him, the pot holding the oatmeal went sliding off the stove, and one of the cooks caught it just before it tumbled to the floor.
“Empty that damn thing, sailor!” ordered the chief angrily.
Thinking that Cunnetto was responding to his question, Homer reached out to activate the TDU. He flooded down the chamber, and adjusted the pressure until it was equal to that of the surrounding sea. Then he opened the outer hatch and depressed the button that was supposed to launch the trash into the depths beyond. Strangely enough, the trash remained in the tube, and when he depressed the button once more, the interior hatch sprang open and Homer was sprayed with a shower of icy seawater. As the torrent intensified, Homer was thrown to the slippery deck by a pressurized column of water that had the force of a fire hose.
“Flooding in the galley! I show the TDU open to the seal ” The watch officer’s words of alarm filled the control room crew with instant dread, and prompted an immediate response from the sub’s captain.
“Blow all ballast! Emergency surface!”