Sonar called out, “Estimated range to torpedo is five hundred yards.”
Wilson focused again on firing preparations as seawater doused the four combat control consoles. Petty Officer Malocsay at the Weapon Launch Console was making final preparations, sending presets to the weapon, when his console began to spark. Lieutenant Benjamin and Malocsay stepped away as the XO directed one of the other fire control technicians to reconfigure his console for Weapon Control. As Benjamin moved behind the reconfiguring console, the three remaining workstations dropped off-line.
Wilson stared at four dead consoles. They could not shoot back.
“Two hundred yards to incoming torpedo!”
Their only hope was that the acoustic jammer and Michigan’s proximity to the ice canopy would confuse the torpedo enough.
“One hundred yards to incoming torpedo!”
Wilson grabbed on to a nearby piping run, bracing himself for the explosion.
He counted down the distance, finally reaching zero.
There was no explosion.
He waited a few more seconds, then Sonar made the report he’d hoped for.
“Conn, Sonar. Torpedo bears three-five-zero. Down Doppler.”
The torpedo was on the other side of Michigan and heading away. However, the Russian submarine was still out there, and its Captain would soon realize his torpedo had missed. It would not be long before he steered the torpedo back toward Michigan or fired another one.
Josef Buffanov stood at the back of his Command Post, listening to the report from his Weapons Officer.
“Second-fired torpedo has homed to detonation on Yury Dolgoruky.”
Buffanov was pleased with the report, but destroying a submarine lying on a smooth ocean bottom was not challenging. His first torpedo, however, faced a more difficult task. The Americans had ejected a powerful acoustic jammer, and Hydroacoustic had reported air transients, followed by a loud metallic transient. The American Captain had emergency blown and hit the ice, hoping his proximity to the ice cap would fool the incoming torpedo.
The Weapons Officer announced, “First-fired torpedo bears three-four-zero, range three-five hundred meters. No detection.”
Buffanov joined his First Officer, examining the fire control solution. The American submarine was at a range of 3,200 meters. Their torpedo had passed it. He decided against a steer; it would turn their torpedo around, headed not only toward the American submarine, but also toward Severodvinsk. It would be better to launch another torpedo, and keep them both heading away.
The lack of counterfire from the American submarine was comforting. It must have experienced Command Post damage from the ice impact. Buffanov decided to approach even closer before firing his next torpedo, leaving the America Captain with insufficient time to react, just in case he had another trick up his sleeve.
Buffanov examined the bearing to Hydroacoustic four-nine, then ordered, “Steersman, left twenty degrees rudder, steady course three-four-zero. Slow to ahead one-third.”
Severodvinsk turned toward its target, slowing to reduce the sound of its approach.
Buffanov ordered his Weapons Officer, “Reload tubes One and Two. Make both tubes ready in all respects.”
96
Christine fell through the darkness, expecting to break her legs when she hit the metal deck. Instead, she plunged into ice-cold water. She kicked her way to the surface and flailed about, hoping to grab on to something. But her heavy boots and Arctic clothing became waterlogged and started to pull her under. Just before she slipped beneath the water, she took a last gasp of air.
As she sank toward the bottom of the compartment, she ripped off her gloves and tore at her bootlaces, pulling the second boot off as her back hit the deck. She planted her feet and pushed upward, ascending only a few feet before sinking again. Terror tore through her mind when she realized she could not reach the surface while wearing the heavy Arctic clothing, and there wasn’t enough time to remove it; she already felt lightheaded.
She tried once more, squatting low and thrusting upward, kicking with her legs and pulling herself up with her arms, but a moment later her feet hit the deck again. As she searched frantically for a solution, a light plunged into the water, traveling quickly to the bottom. The light scanned from left to right, and as it illuminated her profile, Christine repressed a scream when she spotted Stu Berman floating beside her, his eyes frozen open and blood flowing from a gash in his head.
The light grew brighter, then moved past her. There was a tug on her parka hood, dragging her backward. The light extinguished and she was hauled upward, and just when she thought she couldn’t hold her breath any longer, her head was lifted above the surface.
As she gasped for air, she heard Brackman’s voice in the darkness, a few feet above her. “Grab on to the ladder.”
Christine felt the ladder behind her and twisted around, grabbing the cold metal and gaining a foothold. Brackman released her parka, then withdrew the flashlight from his pocket and shined it around. They were halfway up the compartment and the water level was rising rapidly; it had already reached her chin again. Brackman aimed the light upward, following the ladder until it reached a walkway in upper level. He began climbing and Christine followed.
She reached the walkway and followed Brackman toward an open watertight door, illuminated in the distance. After entering the next compartment, Brackman tried to shut the door, but the door latch was encased in a layer of ice. Water began surging through the door opening as he hammered the latch with the back of his flashlight, knocking off chunks of ice, and it finally broke free.
Brackman tried to close the door, but was unable to overcome gravity and the force of water rushing through the opening. Dolgoruky had settled with a twenty-degree down-angle and fifteen-degree list, and both were working against him. Christine joined in, pushing with her hands while Brackman put his shoulder into it, and the door began closing. But their feet slipped on the sloping deck, and the door started to inch in the wrong direction.
With the water level halfway up the door opening, Brackman shouted over the roar of the inrushing ocean. “Hold on to the door!”
Brackman gradually let go, and Christine’s feet slid across the deck as the door opened, until her right foot hit a stanchion. Brackman stuck his flashlight in her parka pocket, bulb end out, and he pulled himself through the door opening into the adjacent compartment.
Brackman turned around and grabbed the handwheel in the center of the door from the other side, bracing himself with both feet on the bulkhead. It took a second for Christine to realize what he was doing. They had no leverage pushing the door shut, their feet slipping on the angled deck. So he had climbed into the adjacent compartment where he could use the strength of his back and legs, pulling the hatch closed. The problem was — once the door was shut, Brackman would be on the wrong side.
Christine refused to help, shouting through the door opening instead. “What are you doing?”
“Push the door shut!” Brackman shouted.
“No!”
“This is the only way!”
The terror Christine felt moments earlier as she was about to drown returned, but this time she feared for Brackman. She was unable to will her body into motion; to sentence Brackman to death.
“No!” Christine replied. “Let’s try from this side again.”