Neil Garrison was taking a much-needed nap, and Taylor was taking his turn at the plotting table. He penciled in the start of their next leg. As approved by Cartwright on the Kane, they had rotated their search grid ninety degrees, working the legs east and west, at a right angle to the search pattern utilized by the Soviets. If the Winter Storm missed something, there was a chance that one of the three American subs might spot it.
The chart they were using was the one developed by the Orion. Ten miles to the south was a seamount with an elevation 3,470 feet below the surface of the ocean. The approximate shape was dotted in on the chart.
On their last pass, west to east, Chief Tsosie in sonar had reported a vague return of the peak and Taylor had thickened the northern part of the outline with his pencil.
Slowly, but surely, the chart would be confirmed and the geologic structures marked more boldly.
“Depth one-two-hundred,” the planesman intoned.
“Control, Sonar.”
Taylor stepped away from the table and depressed the wall-mounted intercom button.
“Control. Go ahead, Chief.”
“The Winter Storm is making a turn to the south, bearing oh-one-oh, range one-two-thousand yards. Philadelphia has made her turn and is running parallel to us, range two thousand.”
“Depths?” Taylor asked.
“I put the Soviet at two-one-hundred feet, Skipper. Our sister is at two thousand.”
“Thank you.”
Taylor went back to the table and moved two small, circular magnets. One was red, and the other was blue. The magnet representing the Los Angeles was also blue. The Houston was far to the south, working its way northward.
“Depth one-six hundred,” the planesman reported.
The commander liked using the old-fashioned charts and symbols for monitoring his, and others’, progress. While the whole scenario was up on one of the computer screens in the electronic warfare room, he preferred his hands-on method. It made the exercise seem less like one he might find in a video arcade.
“Depth one-nine hundred.”
Taylor heard steel plates creaking.
“Begin to level off, planesman” Cover ordered.
“Aye aye, sir, leveling off.”
BLOOF!
It was not very loud, just a dull, crunchy thud.
Taylor whipped his head around to look at the status board. He picked out the red light just as the alarm sounded.
He heard water.
The engineering officer’s voice came over the intercom,“Skin rupture, Control.”
“Planes full up,” Taylor said, “Full speed ahead.”
Both Cover and the planesman responded immediately. The deck tilted upward.
Taylor could hear feet pounding in the corridors. The watertight doors were slamming all around.
“Control, Engine Room.”
Taylor depressed the button, “Report, Lieutenant.”
“We’ve got a major split, Skipper. On the starboard side, main deck level, in the machinery rooms. We’re taking on water fast”
“Clear the machinery spaces.”
“Four more people and we’re cleared,” the engineering officer said.
“Reactor room’s sealed,” Cover reported.
Neil Garrison slid his way into the control center. He took one look at the status board, then headed aft, through the electronic warfare compartment, toward the nuclear, machinery, and engine rooms.
“How bad?” Taylor asked of the intercom.
“Chief Killy estimates a thousand gallons a minute, Skipper. Worse, it’s coming in on both decks of the machinery room. We’ve got all the pumps going.”
“Depth one-seven hundred,” the planesman called out.
Taylor could visualize that ice cold seawater hitting hot generators, compressors, piping.
The vibration in the deck was noticeable now that the shaft was coming up to full speed revolutions.
Drive this baby up, Taylor said to himself.
The lights flickered, went out, came back.
Flickered again, died.
Generators gone.
The emergency, battery-powered lights came on, spreading a reddish glow through the control center.
Two minutes.
“Depth one-five hundred.”
“Skipper, this is Garrison.”
“Where are you, Neil?”
“Engine room. I splashed my way through machinery”
“Situation?”
“I think our rupture has lengthened. We’re taking water in the lower engine room now.”
“Get everyone out and seal it,” Taylor ordered.
“Under way. We’re going to have water in the shaft bearings soon, Al.”
“Give me an estimate.”
“Five, six minutes.”
“Depth, one-four hundred.”
If the propeller shaft seized, they would not be able to drive their way upward on the diving planes. With the machinery rooms engulfed, they would begin losing their compressors, pumps, and generators.
“Blow all ballast,” Taylor ordered. “Emergency ascent.”
“Aye aye, sir. Blowing ballast,” Cover said.
The compressed air tanks released their high pressure air, forcing seawater from the forward ballast tanks. The bow took on a higher cant.
Taylor gripped the edge of the intercom box to keep from sliding on the deck.
It was amazingly quiet. His well-trained crew had come out of their bunks and off their normal duty assignments and taken up emergency stations at the first chirp of the alarms.
Taylor listened.
“Depth one-one hundred,” the planesman reported. “Compressors operating,” Cover said.
They were replenishing the air reservoirs used for dumping ballast.
“Chief Killy says we’ve got a hot shaft,” Garrison reported from the engine room. “We’ve got to take some turns off, Skipper.”
“Do it. Sitrep?”
“Machinery rooms fully submerged. We’ve lost all our pumps. Lower engine room sealed and still taking water.”
“The air compressors just went down, Skipper,” Art Cover said.
The nuclear officer spoke up quietly on the intercom, “Skipper, the reactor’s shutting itself down.”
Over the intercom, Taylor heard a growing, then grinding screech. In seconds, it began to die away.
“I ordered the engine shut down,” Garrison said.
“Depth one thousand twenty feet. Rate of ascent, zero.”
Wilson Overton had been invited to the bridge of the Bronstein, though he felt very much the unexpected and unwanted visitor.
That was all right. He had a thick skin.
A lieutenant commander named Acery was his escort, designated after his credentials had been investigated. Acery had found him a cramped compartment for sleeping, a chair in the officers’ wardroom for meals, and a stool to use on the bridge. Overton had taken up a post just outside the door to the communications compartment.
It was pretty damned boring.
There was not much to see. To the southwest, the armada of civilian ships were beginning to illuminate their running and anchor lights. It was an unbelievable collection of yachts, sailboats, freighters, trawlers, seagoing tugs and smaller boats. To the west, north of the main group of ships, was the CIS cruiser and her escorts. They had not changed position since their arrival.
The Bronstein and the other U.S. Navy ship, a gunboat, kept circling the perimeter. There were rumors of submarines in the area, but Overton had not seen one. He had heard the story of the CIS sub surfacing, and he had heard about a CIS sub sinking, but the ship’s captain had refused to take him to the site of the sinking.