The lower hatch of the Seawolfs escape trunk opened, admitting eight men. The last in accepted the bundle of Steinke hoods from Hobart and shut the hatch. Pacino shivered as he thought about what was going on overhead, the trunk flooding with the frozen water, the men filling their hoods with compressed air, opening the upper hatch and swimming out into water a quarter-mile deep. Just before the last man went out he would signal Hobart, who would wait thirty seconds and shut the outer hatch with hydraulics. Then the whole process would start again. The second batch of eight men climbed the ladder to the trunk. More hoods. The hatch shut.
Pacino wandered to the starboard side of the ship, to the signal ejector. He found the locker where he had stowed the four slot buoys and pulled out the one marked No. 4. There was no way to operate the signal ejector now, Pacino thought. There were no seawater systems with pumps pressurizing them to flush the buoy out of the tube. Someone would have to take it out the escape trunk with them. He returned to the base of the trunk, where the third batch of men were climbing the ladder. Henry Vale was the officer to go with this batch.
“See you on top. Captain,” Vale said.
“Good luck, Nav,” Pacino said, turning the slot buoy upside down and turning its transmitter on. He handed the buoy to Vale. “Take this up for me. Henry. It’s a distress signal.”
“You had that preloaded, sir?” Vale asked, not sure what to make of it.
“Yes, Nav,” Pacino said quietly. “Just in case. Now go on and I’ll see you in a few.”
“Hope there’s water up there, not ice.” Vale crossed his fingers and looked around one last time. “Goodbye, Seawolf.” He disappeared up the ladder.
Milo Nelson stood at the EPM. “I’ll be damned,” he mumbled to himself. “It works. Be a damned shame if there’s nobody in the front seat.”
Up forward, Sanderson stepped into the control room, his hair sweat-soaked though the temperature had sunk to the thirties.
“Captain, let’s try the UWT. We’ll either burn it to hell or it’ll work.”
Kane picked up the microphone and waited while Sanderson flipped a toggle switch and adjusted the controls.
Sanderson nodded, turning down the volume. Kane spoke into the mike.
“AFT COMPARTMENT, AFT COMPARTMENT, THIS IS THE CAPTAIN. ENGINEER, THIS IS THE CAPTAIN. IF YOU CAN HEAR THIS, GET SOMETHING HEAVY AND TAP ON THE HULL TWICE.”
Kane heard the echoes of his voice being broadcast to the ocean, bouncing off the bottom of the sea. Sanderson turned up the gain-knob on the panel, the speaker rasping the sounds of the ocean around them into the control room.
They listened. Thirty seconds, a minute. Kane put the microphone up and sat down at one of the control chairs of the attack center. No one wanted to speak. Then, through the speakers, came the sound of two booming clunks. They had heard! Kane hurried back up to the conn and grabbed the microphone.
“AFT COMPARTMENT, THIS IS THE CAPTAIN. IS THE EPM OPERATIONAL? KNOCK TWO TIMES FOR YES.”
Again two clunks came over the speaker.
“AFT COMPARTMENT, IN TWO MINUTES WE WILL FLOOD DEPTH CONTROL TO GET US DOWN. TAKE LOCAL CONTROL OF THE RUDDER AND STERNPLANES. PUT THE RUDDER OVER TWENTY DEGREES RIGHT AND PREPARE TO PUT ONE THIRD AHEAD TURNS ON THE EPM.”
“Where’s Houser? XO, get depth-control one and two flooded quick as you can.”
After hurrying out and back in, Mcdonne picked up a phone from the ballast-control panel, where he could talk to Houser, who was in the lower level machinery space. Mcdonne watched the tank levels rise, took a look at the depth meter at the ship-control panel and spoke again to Houser.
Finally the depth gauge started to move, the depth increasing from 160 feet to 180, then 200. Mcdonne nodded to Kane.
“AFT COMPARTMENT, CAPTAIN, ALL AHEAD ONE THIRD ON THE EPM, RIGHT TWENTY DEGREES RUDDER. USE THE STERNPLANES AS NEEDED TO LEVEL THE SHIP.”
Mcdonne watched the ship-control panel indication as the ship turned, waiting for the compass to come around to the south. It took a long time but eventually the gyro read 180 degrees.
“I’m gonna take a peek out the type twenty,” Kane said, raising the periscope. “It’ll be dawn soon. Maybe I’ll be able to tell when we’ve got open water overhead.”
“Let’s hope we see it before the battery runs dry,” Mcdonne said. “We didn’t have much juice when that Nagasaki hit us, unless the Eng had some power up his sleeve.”
The next batch seemed to go fast. Too fast. The crew in the space was thinning quickly. There were only twenty-four men left in the Seawolf’s engineroom. Another two batches through the trunk and it would be Pacino’s turn.
He paced the aft compartment, knowing this would be the last time he’d see it. He plugged into a connection, took a breath and disconnected his hose, walked to the next station until he was far aft in the maneuvering space. The modem electronics were all dark, the space deserted and quiet. He sank in the control chair of the engineering officer of the watch and shut his eyes for a moment.
“Sir?” Vaughn’s mask-distorted voice said at the door.
“I’m here, XO.”
“Last batch. Captain. We’re ready to go. The airbanks are down, sir. We might not even get this last group out. Once this batch goes, there won’t be any air left. We have to go now, sir.”
Pacino felt like telling Vaughn he would stay anyway. The walk felt like a stroll to the gallows. Not a praying man, Pacino managed a few silent words, not wanting to go into the trunk.
“We’re the last. Captain,” Vaughn said, pointing up the ladder.
“Maybe you should go on ahead …”
“Skipper, I read you, but we’re going to live, you’ve got to believe that …”
“Lube Oil. Jack. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but”
“Sir … Patch, listen to me.”
Vaughn had never called him that before, Pacino thought.
“Have you thought about the men upstairs, trying to survive, floating in those rafts? What do I tell them? What the hell do I tell them?”
That he was a cop-out, Pacino thought. A bullshit captain afraid to cast his lot with theirs. Maybe they would die up there but at least they deserved to die with their commanding officer. And he with them.
“Okay, XO. You first.”
Vaughn climbed up, discarding his mask and tossing it to the deck. Pacino did the same as he climbed the ladder and looked below at the battle-lantern-lit engineroom one last time. He climbed into the tight escape trunk, got out of the way of the hatch and shut it, the metal of it making a loud clunk against the steel of the hull.
Chapter 36
Saturday, 4 January
Kane could see the ice cover overhead, not with normal vision but with the low-light enhancer. The ice overhead looked thick.
Back aft at the electric plant-control panel, the amp-hours clicked away, the battery moving closer to exhaustion with every turn of the screw.
Pacino took the plastic Steinke hood handed him by Vaughn and stood with the other men while Vaughn opened the valve to flood the trunk. The trunk was about ten feet in diameter, about ten feet tall, with a steel wall separating the upper portion from the approach to the upper hatch. The wall came down only a few feet, ending at chest level.
Vaughn had his head inside the partitioned area as he operated the valves.
The water that came in soaked into Pacino’s clothes, terribly cold, the water at that depth actually colder than ice water because of the salt in it. The water rose to his shins, and by that time his feet were already numb, his ankles beginning to get numb. The frigid water climbed to waist level, soaking the trousers of his poopysuit. The air in the space was getting foggy, its pressure rising, its temperature climbing from the compression, the odd effect of the hot humid air next to the freezing water filling the chamber with fog so dense that Pacino could no longer make out the upper hatch in the light of the twin battle lanterns. The water rose to his chest, and he could feel his heart pounding, working against the stress of the cold. When the water rose higher he heard Vaughn calling him into the partitioned area. Pacino crowded over with the rest of the men, the hot cloudy air and close quarters making it difficult to breathe. The water rose up to chin level.