“What happened?” Renard asked.
“Ice ridge came out of nowhere. Mister Lion’s hurt pretty bad. Mister Cheetah’s probably got some busted ribs. Gant’s fine, but Mister Leopard’s got a broken arm.”
“I banged against the side of my rack,” Renard said, “but no major damage. I think most of us who were sleeping are okay. How’s the ship?”
“We’re on the bottom, but I don’t know much else.
“Look at our under-ice sonar,” Renard said. “I no longer think we’re stuck.”
“What?”
“The roof. It’s sixty feet above.”
“That correlates to charted water depth,” Jake said.
Jake watched a sardonic smile form on Renard’s face.
“Your methods are most brutal, but I must congratulate you on clearing the icepack.”
Brody scurried to the Miami’s control room.
“Captain, the sonar room called it an ice event, but now they think it’s sounding like the Colorado,” Parks said.
“What do you have?”
“Cracking noise, and lots of it, but afterwards we picked up metallic crumpling and popping on the same bearing. Something hit the ice hard.”
“Do you think the Colorado hit the ridge we cleared four days ago?”
“That’s my guess, sir.”
Brody envisioned the impact of a Trident smacking ice. The sonar dome would be damaged, and the warped metal of the bow would add flow noise to an already battle-scarred submarine. He had found his prey, and it was wounded.
“If the Colorado isn’t already flooding,” Brody said, “we’ll close in and finish her off.”
Jake entered the missile compartment and coughed out toxic fumes. He reached for a cubby with stenciled red ‘E-A-B’ letters, grabbed a canvas bag, and pulled out a facemask.
With the rush of air and a snap, he popped his Emergency Air Breather EAB line into a forced air breathing station, pressed the facemask to his cheeks, sucked stale air and tightened straps around his head.
Wisps of black floated by his face mask. Gulping a last breath, he disconnected from the air supply and held his breath, pinched his air line, and descended the ladder to the missile compartment’s lowest deck.
Here, he pressed his air line into a copper fitting and exhaled. His lungs burned, and he craved the ensuing breath. Hoping his connection was valid, he sucked from his mask. Clean air filled his lungs.
Above the bilge, a high-pressure air valve fanned a glowing flame. Orange danced against a paste green lagging canvas.
Jake gulped and disconnected. He walked to an extinguisher and hauled it back to his air connection. Heat billowed over him as he shot smothering foam over the lagging. When the foam stream sputtered and died, he dropped the canister and retraced his steps to the air.
Smoke rose above the green hull insulation. A tiny flame burst through the white foam. Jake took a breath and retreated.
His EAB facemask slung over his shoulder, Jake climbed up the ladder to the control room.
“Fire in missile compartment lower level!” he said.
“How bad?” Renard asked.
“I don’t know but it’s in the hull lagging and getting fanned by a busted air reducer. An extinguisher did no good. We need hoses. Fast.”
“I will summon the crew,” Renard said.
The entire eleven-man crew — sans Gant and Leopard stranded a world away in the engine room on the fire’s far side — assembled around Jake.
For the first time, Jake noted the commandos looking more spooked than the sailors. His men were trained for damage control, but fire in an inescapable confined space was a new horror to the frogmen.
“We’ve got a hull lagging fire in missile compartment lower level,” Jake said. “We’ll use two hoses to keep the fire from spreading aft while we push it forward and douse it. We’re going to use EAB’s on a buddy system.”
“Bass,” Jake said, “take Mister Tiger and hook his air line into yours on a buddy-breathe. Flake out hose nine on the third level and attack from above. I’ll take Mister Panther and get it done at the source with hose twelve. Grab some EAB’s and wait for me at the third level watertight door. Scott, take Mister Jaguar to the oxygen breathing apparatus locker, put on the OBA’s, and get into fire fighting suits. We might need you guys on self-contained air. When you’re geared up, join us with hose ten. Go.”
Men scrambled. Jake turned to Renard.
“Get us off the bottom to level the deck so we can fight this thing.”
Jake studied Kao, who leaned his head into paper towels held by the wincing Cheetah. Blood trickled from a forehead gash, and indigo and black discoloration covered his eye. His fingers trembled, and Jake expected that the commando was entering shock and would pass out.
He slipped by the injured commandos and flipped knobs that directed pressure from trim tanks to the fire main.
“There’s a first aid kit in the galley when you have time,” he said and descended the stairs.
Jake met his firefighting team and peered through the tiny window into the missile compartment. Thick smoke filled the other side.
“Mister Panther, I’m going to hook into this air manifold. Once I do, hook your EAB into the manifold on my belt. Then slip your mask on.”
Jake tasted stale air. He heard his muffled voice resonate from his EAB mouthpiece.
“Can you hear me?”
Panther nodded.
“Good, because you won’t see me when we’re in there. Whatever you do, don’t panic or we’re dead. I can find any manifold in that compartment. Just inhale when I tell you and keep an arm on me while we’re moving. Got it?”
“Yes,” the wide-eyed commando said.
“Ready, inhale!” Jake said.
He tugged open the circular door to the missile compartment and stepped into dark smoke. Moving through opaqueness, he groped for a ladder, pinched his air hose between his fingers, grabbed the railing, and stepped down the rungs. The commando’s sneakers bumped his head on the way down.
When he reached the deck, Jake’s lungs were burning. He felt the commando’s weight hit the deck and his hand slap his shoulder. Jake grabbed the hand, moved to the nearest air manifold, and clicked his hose.
“Inhale!” Jake said.
Jake sucked several breaths while sweat trickled from his brow. Crackling flames started to roar.
“Around the corner. Ready?” he asked.
“Ready!” Panther said.
“Inhale!”
Jake reached the coil of hose twelve and drew breaths from a nearby manifold. He heaved the hose’s bronze and plastic nozzle to the deck.
Tossing lengths about the floor, he unraveled the hose, giving it room to expand. He twisted a valve and watched the hose bulge with water pressure.
“Can you reach the nozzle?” Jake asked.
“I have it,” Panther said. “There is no water pressure.”
Jake grabbed the hose, jerked, and straightened a kink. He returned the nozzle to Panther.
“Drag this. We’re moving aft. Ready, inhale.”
Jake reached a manifold, clicked the air line, and breathed.
“Stand behind me. Press down,” he said.
Jake pointed the nozzle at the flames and flipped forward a piece of bronze. His chest and arms tensed against the backlash. He welcomed Panther’s weight over the hose.
A conical burst of water shot at the hull lagging. From above, sheets of water from Bass’ hose cascaded down the curved hull. Squinting at the flame, Jake watched the fire outpace the efforts of two hoses.