One second later, a distant blast rumbled across the deep expanse, pulsating the billion water molecules between the one-thousand-pound HBX warhead detonation and the Providence’s steel hull. Though three miles away from the blast, the deck still shuddered beneath Edwards’ feet from the massive explosion.
A loud cheer erupted throughout the room, and this time Edwards made no effort to stop it. The Hatta certainly could not recover from such a blast. Even if her countermeasures had managed to draw the weapon off at the last second, her engine room and shaft were most likely a mangled mess.
Miller could not contain himself either and began slapping Edwards on the back with undue familiarity.
Edwards let it go. He didn’t care, but he didn’t join in either. He simply stared at the small blip on the console, the blip that represented the sinking Hatta.
The loud whoops and cheers drowned out all other sounds, and Miller probably did not hear him when Edwards sadly mumbled, “Goodbye, Peto.”
Back in the engine room, Lieutenant Coleman heard the Providence’s torpedo explode as did the half dozen nuclear mechanics staring blankly at him as they lounged beside the half-assembled port main engine. Coleman had made it his priority to get the main engine back together once he heard that the Hatta was nearby, but the recent order to set ultra quiet conditions had ground that effort to a halt. Despite the ultra quiet order, they had made good progress and the only thing remaining was one final access plate, now lying on the deck with its associated metal bolts and fasteners. Of course, once that was done they’d also have to conduct a long warmup cycle on the potentially bowed turbine, a long laborious process that required spinning the engine with steam in both the ahead and astern directions a couple times a minute for an entire hour.
Coleman felt fairly satisfied with the men’s performance, especially since they had managed to assemble the engine without the experienced eye of the M division chief, Chief Hans, who was at this moment laid up in sick bay with a terrible contusion on his head from the previous night’s action.
“Why we sittin’ at all-stop?” one mechanic asked another, who was wearing a sound-powered phone set. “Did we get that bastard or what?”
“That’s what it sounds like,” the sailor replied. “Electrical operator came up on the line a few minutes ago. Said we got a hit. Said that’s what the chief of the watch told him on the JA circuit.”
Coleman could just picture the electrical operator in Maneuvering acting in his role as the central point of information dissemination — or gossip — to the forgotten watch-standers in the engine room. Why the men so direly needed to know always puzzled Coleman’s duty-filled mind, and he tried to get the thought out of his head as he continued to review the engineering log bundle lying across his arms. He was certain that the now handcuffed and confined Indonesian marine was the saboteur, but Edwards had ordered the logs reviewed, so Coleman figured he’d knock it out while they waited.
He’d already made it through the last month’s main engine logs, looking for anything out of the ordinary, but everything looked fine. Now, as he went through them a second time, it wasn’t long before his scanning eye focused in on the forward-bearing temperature for the number two main engine. The readings all fell within limits, but the warming trend over the past few weeks was alarming, to say the least. Temperatures had risen several degrees higher when compared with their normal values only a month before.
“Shit!” Coleman let out an audible sigh as he came to the realization that the Indonesian marine could have nothing to do with it. The main engine condition had existed well before Providence had plucked him from the sea. He had accused the man falsely, and he felt ashamed for it. He felt like going forward and telling the captain immediately, and had resolved to do just that when another chilling thought entered his head.
If the marine didn’t sabotage the main engine, then who did? The thermal trends had started weeks ago, well before this mission had even started, indeed well before Providence had even reached Pearl Harbor. The first indications of rising temperature dated back to a time when Providence was still crossing the Indian Ocean, just after she had left Diego Garcia and only a few days after the failed ORSE examination.
Tiny beads of sweat suddenly formed on Coleman’s forehead and he began to pale.
“Hey, Mr. Coleman,” one of the mechanics said. “What’s wrong? You don’t look so good, sir.”
Coleman ignored the sailor as he desperately tried to recall those days after the ship left Diego Garcia. He searched his brain but could not remember Providence having any more visitors after the ORSE team had left. In fact, no visitor set foot on board the ship for the entire trip back to Pearl Harbor. That left only one option. The saboteur had to be one of Providence ’s crew!
The thermal trends had started during the mid-watch on the fourteenth of May, exactly one month ago. Coleman now flipped violently through the logs, turning page after page almost to the point of ripping them as he searched for the one containing the watchstanders’ signatures. It was the page each watchstander signed when he assumed the watch, and then signed again when he was relieved at the end of his watch. Finally finding the signature page for the engine room lower level watch, Coleman yanked it from the bundle. Only the engine room lower level watch had access to the propulsion lube oil strainers. Only the engine room lower level watch could easily remove the strainers and introduce a Kimwipe into the system. Sweat dropped from Coleman’s brow as his finger sped down the list of signatures, stopping only when it reached the midnight entry on the fourteenth.
There was a printed name, and a signature that he recognized. And suddenly everything became very clear to him.
“Hey, Acting Eng!” a mechanic called after him. “Where you going? Ain’t we gonna put this thing back together? Mr. Coleman?”
Coleman did not hear him but continued marching aft in stunned silence. He had to report his discovery to the captain, but before he did, he wanted to make sure. He didn’t want to accuse another man falsely. The gaggle of nuclear mechanics gazed on as their lieutenant reached the portside ladder, tucked the log page under one arm, and descended out of sight.
“Conn, Sonar. Still picking up transient noises coming from the Hatta. Sounds like a lot of pipe patching going on over there. But I think they’re losing the damage control battle, sir. We’ve already heard one compartment implode.”
The sonar display showed exactly what the chief had described as Edwards and Miller looked on. Sporadic green dots appeared on the same bearing as the Hatta.
“Damn, sir,” Miller commented. “Those Germans build their boats well, don’t they? One of her countermeasures must’ve stopped our torpedo just short of hitting her. But she’s damaged bad enough to sink her. I’m guessing she’ll be on the bottom before the hour’s up.”
Miller was right. The Hatta was definitely in trouble and sinking into the abyss, but Providence’s sonar could clearly hear the survivors as they desperately tried to save her. Edwards guessed that the Hatta’s engineering compartment was the one sonar heard implode moments before. She had no flow noise, so her propulsion was gone, and after coasting another thousand yards she had come to a dead stop. Just the thought of what the Hatta’s survivors must be going through right now gave Edwards chills. Wet bodies, some dead, some not, struggling to move around in partially flooded compartments with freezing high-pressure water shooting at them in all directions from a hundred different leaks, blinding them as they cut sheet metal for patches and hammered shoring into place. The effort was hopeless, and Edwards seriously considered ending their misery with Providence’s still-running number three torpedo before it ran out of fuel, but he could not bring himself to do it. The Hatta was finished as a fighting submarine. His mission was accomplished. He did not harbor any hate toward Peto, and if through some miracle the rebel captain could make it to the surface again to get his men off, Edwards would not interfere.