Ultra Deep (31 page)

“What?” he asked.

To hell with it.

You only get what you ask for. His grandma had probably already told him that one.

“You want to take a nap with me?”

His eyes widened, and his mouth went wide with a lazy smile.

“I’m not very tired,” he said.

“I’m not, either.”

“I’ll lock the door.”

“Damned good idea.”

*

1850 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 20' 40" NORTH, 176° 10' 58" EAST

At the northeast quadrant of the search area, the
Los
Angeles
deployed a transponder.

The cannister was ejected from the Number Three torpedo tube and rose immediately to the surface where its radio antenna could function. The sub continued to cruise at a depth of sixty feet with its antenna deployed until Lt. (j.g.) Arthur Cover, who had the conn, was certain that the transponder was operating properly.

Lieutenant Cover then ordered a wide 180-degree turn and a gradual descent back to 2,000 feet, to resume the search. Alfred Taylor, who was watching the young officer closely, though not overtly, approved of Cover’s cautious maneuvers, though he did not say as much. That would come later, when he wrote Cover’s officer efficiency report.

Abrupt maneuvers were not recommended when they were towing the deep-diving sonar array.

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.”

*

1923 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 20' 8" NORTH, 176° 10' 6" EAST

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.

Overton had already filed one story, using the
Bronstein
ʼs satellite relay telephone. He had been told that it was relatively private, and while, yes, they had scrambling equipment available, it was not available to civilians.

He was about coffeed out, and he thought longingly about his bottle of Chivas Regal Scotch, now resting in somebody’s secured locker. It had been confiscated from his bag as soon as he had boarded.

“Bridge, Comm,” came over the intercom.

“Go ahead, Comm,” the watch officer said.

“We’ve got an emergency.”

Overton rose from his stool and slipped back into the communications compartment, staying just inside the doorway and well away from the consoles, as he had been told.

“You’ll have to leave, sir,” an ensign told him. “We have an emergency under way.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“Please, sir.”

He went back to the bridge.

The watch officer was standing next to the intercom. “Sorry to disturb you, Captain. We’ve picked up an SOS from the
Los
Angeles
. She’s taking on water fast and is in danger of foundering.”

Overton could not hear the captain’s reply.

The watch officer turned to his helmsman, “Come about to zero-four-two. All ahead full.”

He got a chorus of “aye-ayes,” in return, and Overton got out his notepad.

Finally, some action.

*

2016 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 41' 34" NORTH, 179° 52' 18" EAST

The
Orion
crossed the international date line shortly after eight o’clock at night.

Paco Suarez was in the radio shack, Fred Boberg was on the helm, and Mel Sorenson had the watch. Brande, Dokey, Emry and Thomas were also on the bridge.

It was crowded, but Brande was not ordering anyone off the bridge.

An hour and five minutes had elapsed since Suarez had heard the SOS from the
Los
Angeles
. He was currently scanning half a dozen military channels, and the low-volume chatter from the radio shack was a modern-day Babel. The primary channels had been cut into the public-address system so that ship’s crew and the team members gathered in the wardroom could also track events.

Brande was in his customary position to the right of the helm, staring ahead into the night. They were at midpoint in the time zone, and the sun had already departed, leaving a faint rosy glow in the overcast ahead of them. The seas were running heavy, long swells that rose five feet and more. Emry’s low pressure system and the
Orion
were going to meet right in the impact zone.

Emry, Sorenson, and Thomas were bent over the chart table located on the port side at the back of the bridge. One of the technicians manning the radar/sonar compartment called out the coordinates of ships as he picked them up. Sorenson plotted their latest position, provided by the satellite navigation system.

“How far off course would we have to take it, Mel?” Thomas asked.

“Where we are now, we’d have to come starboard a couple points, darlin’.”

“Do it, then,” she said.

Sorenson straightened up. “Fred, let’s take a heading of two-five-eight.”

“Two-five-eight cornin’ up, Captain.” Boberg leaned across his wheel and adjusted the autopilot. On the
Orion
and the
Gemini
, the helmsman was the backup to the electronic systems. Tied into the NavStar Global Positioning Satellite system, the autopilot could maintain a truer course than any human. Humans reacted much better to emergencies, however. Their thinking was not programmed.