The Nashville’s executive officer shrugged. “Maybe it’s a submerged cargo container that’s drifting along the bottom, but if it is then our sonar ought to be—”
“Conn, sonar. Contact is moving and picking up speed!” the sonar chief exclaimed, nearly jumping out of his seat.
McDonald could hardly believe it. “Where’s she going?”
The sonar crew continued to look at their consoles in silence. The patterns they were seeing were chaotic, and they couldn’t discern what was happening.
“Somebody talk to me,” McDonald said tersely.
One of the junior sonar techs raised his hand. “I… I think… Less than fifty yards, closing in on our starboard side, skipper!”
“Jesus,” the executive officer said. “It’s moving at over thirty knots?”
McDonald’s training immediately kicked in. “Left full rudder! All ahead flank!”
Everyone could feel the sudden shifting of the entire compartment as the submarine began to quickly accelerate. Jaws were now clenched in anticipation. A number of crewmen started sweating despite the cold, ventilated air swirling around the control room.
“Where is it? Talk to me,” McDonald said. If she’s another boat, then what the hell is she doing? Ramming us?
The sonar chief stared at his console in bewilderment. “We… we’re not sure, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“All we could see and hear is frying bacon, and it’s all around us,” the sonar chief said. “Our readouts are going haywire.”
McDonald could hardly believe what he was hearing. “You said the contact picked up speed, didn’t you? You should be able to hear her propellers on your headsets then.”
The executive officer stared back at him and shook his head. “No cavitations whatsoever, skipper. Whatever is out there, we can’t find it.”
“We’re in a trench, Captain,” the assistant navigator said. “We’ll need a minute to get our bearings.”
“All stop,” McDonald said. Maybe we can locate it now without having to hear our own screws. “Try again, sonar.”
“There’s still too much noise, sir,” the sonar chief said. “Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s another boat.”
McDonald let out a deep breath. We’re blind and we don’t even know what the hell it is. “Navigator, plot a course to take us out of here. We need to relay this back to—”
His words were drowned out by the earsplitting crunch of grinding metal. Several members of the crew shouted out in alarm as they all sensed something scraping along the Nashville’s outer hull. The unidentified contact had now seemingly attached itself along the length of the submarine.
“Take us up!” McDonald screamed at the diving chief, but he sensed it was already too late.
In less than a few seconds, something hard and chitinous struck against the base of the Nashville’s sail. The attack occurred so quickly that it generated powerful cavitation bubbles with enough force to crack the hull. Due to the depth of the submarine, the slight break quickly expanded as the inner pressure of the vessel was breached. USS Nashville imploded, nearly rupturing in two before her remains began to drift down towards the seafloor.
8
PETTY OFFICER SECOND Class Devon Hernandez was stationed with twelve other crewmembers inside the USS Nashville’s engine room when the unthinkable happened. At first it sounded like a series of pounding noises coming from the forward section of the outer hull, but seconds later they all felt a sudden pressure wave, quickly followed by the sound of twisting metal as the submarine’s outer hull was catastrophically breached.
The subsequent implosion due to the outside pressures of the deep threw most of them along the narrow confines of the compartment. Flesh and bone collided with heavy steel and plastic machinery, causing grievous injuries amongst some of the survivors. The once bright interior lighting flickered out, leaving only the dim, hellish emergency illumination with which to make some sense of it all. As if that wasn’t enough, the unmistakable sounds of burst pipes and leaks could be heard by those who were still conscious.
After slowly getting up from the now wet floor, Devon felt a slight, burning pain on his forehead. Rubbing his left hand over it, the young submariner gasped when he realized the thick crimson liquid staining his palm was his own blood.
“Is anybody hurt? Sound off,” Lieutenant Junior Grade James Brigger said. He was the Engineering Officer of the Watch assigned to the compartment when disaster struck. Devon felt a sense of relief that the lieutenant was alright; at least they still had a leader.
Over a half dozen “I’m okay, sir,” replies were followed by a handful of pained moans and shrill, desperate cries for assistance.
“Help the wounded,” Brigger ordered, before he started limping over to the intercom system. It was apparent that he was hurt too, but as the designated Senior Survivor, he couldn’t advertise it.
Devon turned and noticed that the tall, black machinist’s mate getting up next to him was clutching his right forearm and grimacing in pain. This was Alfonzo Smith’s first submarine deployment, and he was still learning the ropes.
“I think it’s broken,” Smith said softly. He had yet to earn his coveted dolphin insignia, a silver breast pin that would denote him as a true submariner who knew the ins and outs of the boat, and now his short career in the Navy was in dire jeopardy.
Spotting a first aid kit nearby, Devon tried to reach over and open the container, but the entire compartment began to slope downwards at a forty degree tilt, and he was forced to grab hold of a nearby support beam just to keep from falling down, as did the others.
One of the other crewmen was lying flat against the hemispherical dome of the watertight door, looking through the small porthole. “The compartment ahead of us is flooded, Lieutenant.”
Brigger was leaning against the intercom system, the microphone still in his hand. “I believe the attack center was hit, and the pressure breach must have taken out all the forward compartments. We’re sinking too. Prepare to abandon ship. Put on your SEIE suits now—inner suits first, outer suits just before you get into the escape trunk.”
SEIE stood for Submarine Escape Immersion Equipment, and those orange full body suits could both inflate and provide some breathable air for their users. One of the other crewmen opened a cabinet, and began handing out the box-like packages with the gear still wrapped up in them.
“Assist the wounded into their escape suits,” Brigger ordered.
Unsealing the first package, Devon pulled the contents out and unrolled the escape suit in front of Smith. “Come on, I’ll help you.”
Smith winced in pain as he placed his injured arm through the hollow part of the inner suit, just underneath the shoulder. “Damn, it hurts like a mother—”
Everyone immediately fell silent as they all heard a monstrous scratching noise along the length of the outer hull. Whatever had killed the crews in the forward section of the submarine was still out there. The others turned to look at the lieutenant, who merely gestured at them to continue.
After helping Smith to zip up and seal the front portion of his escape gear, Devon quickly got into his own inner suit as the water inside the compartment had by now reached his shins. Despite his rising fear of being trapped inside a broken steel cylinder in the deepest part of the ocean, the constant drilling for these types of situations fostered an internal, almost religious discipline that kept them from losing their minds.
Unlike the rest of the survivors, Brigger had yet to put on his escape suit as the remaining live crewmembers of the Nashville began lining up in front of him, some being supported by others.