The captain, realizing his sin of pride in the last moments, ordered an emergency blow in a desperate attempt to save his men. But it was too late. In addition to being much smarter than he’d thought, the torpedo was also faster. It found the delectable propellers with their swirling troughs of air bubbles, and detonated.
The initial impact severed the propeller shaft and tore it loose from its thrust bearings. As the shock traveled through the ship, old seams sprang leaks, and then completely parted.
Under pressure, the streams of water rushing into the submarine were like sledgehammers. They smashed sailors against steel bulkheads, killing many of them before they could drown. As the bulk of water increased, it quickly flooded the battery compartment. The combination of seawater and battery acid yielded chlorine gas, and those that were not smashed, or drown, died of chlorine gas poisoning.
The captain had the presence of mind to order the watertight doors between the forward and aft portions of the submarine shut. Sailors frantic to escape the carnage astern surged forward, and the sailors in the forward compartments had to use their combined strength to slam the hatches even though arms or legs were still in the way. The steel hatches severed the bones, but the remaining flesh and blood fouled the seals and compromised the watertight integrity.
The captain also ordered the ventilation secured, thus slowing the spread of the chlorine gas. The sailors that survived rushed for the emergency breathing devices that were used to egress a submarine at depth. They fumbled with the straps and fasteners, the lessons not repeated often enough to become reflex.
As one by one they struggled to put them on, the submarine suddenly went hard down at the bow, throwing them all against the aft bulkhead. Two more died from the impact.
The awkward angle of the submarine, fifty degrees, nose down, made it virtually impossible to climb into the emergency escape hatch, but still some managed. They crammed too many people into it, and were unable to secure the hatch behind that would allow them to flood and escape after equalizing pressure. Not one of them was willing to leave and go with the second group. Finally, the largest sailor among them simply clubbed a smaller sailor over the head, and tossed him down into the control room below. They pulled the hatch shut and equalized the pressure.
Most sailors in the egress tube had donned their escape devices improperly. As a result, as the seawater flooded in, they drowned. The remaining sailors waited, panicking, as the water rose over their heads until pressure was equalized. They then left the lockout hatch, breathing out as they rose to keep their lungs from rupturing and let the buoyancy of their escape hoods take them to the surface.
Unfortunately, the submarine had been especially sloppy about discharging its garbage and food waste. As a result, a small school of sharks had taken to following immediately in her wake, and they found still-living flesh far more tasty than the remains of the crews’ meals.
The sharks munched their way through the first egress groups, until satiated, and then left the second group alone. The captain was part of that group as the last man to leave the ship.
The captain turned on the speaker to allow the sounds of the other submarine breaking up to fill the ship. It was not some gruesome ritual, but a simple reminder of the reality of what they did for a living. Each man thought he was alone when he felt a sweep of sympathy and despair for the other submariners, yet not one of them would have traded places with them. They might regret killing other men but under the same circumstances they would do it again. After all, if the submarine’s mines found their targets, far more men would die.
Finally, when the last creak and groan of mental stress died down, the captain said, “Communications depth. Are the mine positions ready to go into the Link?”
“Yes, Captain, they are.”
“Very well. What to do about them is the carrier’s problem, not ours.” He turned to his XO. “How is Harding doing?”
“Doc says he’s as stable as he’s going to get. If you can arrange the transport, Doc thinks he can withstand it.”
The captain took a deep breath and shook off the tension and fear of the last several minutes. It was time to refocus.
“Admiral, I need a medical evacuation from my ship to the carrier.” He recounted the details of Harding’s injuries, concluding with, “When can I expect the helo?”
TWENTY-SIX
Batman turned to his air operations officer. Captain Bill “Copycat” Hart was a Tomcat driver himself, a post command senior aviator who knew how to take care of his people. Over the course of the cruise, Batman had developed the utmost respect for him. “Copycat, this whole thing stinks. Tell the helo squadron commander that I want a helo overhead that submarine within the next five minutes. Peel off a couple of our Tomcats as an escort.” Batman’s voice took on a peculiarly gentle note. “If that sub skipper is willing to risk his ass to talk to us about it, then I’m sure as hell going to get his boy out of there.”
It took a little longer than five minutes — more like seven — but a helo loaded with a doctor, two corpsmen, and life-support equipment was en route to the submarine immediately. And the skipper of the helo squadron took the mission himself, with his XO in the copilot’s seat. Between them, they had almost four decades of aviation experience.
A metal frame structure was attached to their hatch, and once overhead, it was lowered to the surface, now broached by Seawolf. The submarine officer on the deck held up a grounding wire to discharge the static electricity, and pulled the structure down to the conning tower. Moments later, the injured sailor was strapped in, hoisted up, and on his way to the carrier.
Petty Officer Apples gently slid the last electronic card home, and gave it a gentle pat. He refastened the cover plate for the data processor, then turned to look up at his chief. “If this doesn’t do it, I don’t know what will.”
Chief Clark looked down on him with approval. “I’ll tell the captain that we’re ready to go online.
Chief Clark found the captain on the bridge, making the conning officer nervous as he observed his station-keeping. “Captain, sir, ready to try it out.”
“It’d better work.”
“I can’t promise anything, sir. We swapped out every piece of every component we had. We should be able to bring up a good enough resolution off the radar for fire control, but the IFF is definitely shot.”
The captain grunted. “The aviators will just have to stay in their return corridors, then. Go on, light it off. We’ll deal with any problems as they arise.”
Chief Clark went back down to the data control center, and nodded at his petty officer. “Put her online.”
Fingers trembling, Apple toggled on the power switch. He let the components warm up, then energized the antenna. Slowly, he increased rotation speed until it was at max. Then he put it online.
In combat, the radar screens flash on with a salt-and-pepper clutter on every bearing. The pixels wavered on and off, creating a blurry, grainy pattern. As he watched, Chief Clark groaned. All those hours, all the time — dammit, where was the problem? Just as he started to despair, the radar picture snapped into sharp, clear resolution, and a computer began assigning identification tags to the contacts.