Dangerous Ground

launch positions.

Even before Jerry could report the Manta ready for operations, the control room talker reported, “The Captain wants to know the status of the Manta’s battery.”

Jerry didn’t have to look at the gauge. It was the first thing he’d checked. “Forty-seven percent. Call it three and a half hours at ten knots.”

The phone talker replied, “Forty-seven percent, control aye,” and that was it.

The silence on the phone line pulled at him, demanding to be filled, but Jerry forced himself to be patient. The Russians were close aboard, and all he could do was wait. They might secure in half an hour or they might be here tomorrow morning, still having done nothing. Hopefully having done nothing, he corrected himself.

Jerry checked the space, making sure that everyone was quiet and on the job. The men sat or stood at their stations quietly, speaking in whispers. Foster had several tech manuals out and was leafing through them, being careful to turn the pages quietly.

Another rumble made them turn their heads, automatically trying to locate the sound, which was nearly impossible after passing through both water and a steel hull. Jerry wanted to think it was behind them. It certainly sounded fainter.

WHAAMM. Jerry felt, as well as heard the explosion. It was painful; he couldn’t tell whether from the shock or the intensity of the sound. He looked around the torpedo room in alarm, convinced that water was pouring in somewhere. It reassured him to see that the hull was still intact, but then a second, even stronger explosion rocked the sub.

Jerry had to hang on to the console to stay in his seat. Objects fell out of their racks. Foster’s coffee cup shattered on the deck. The lights failed and the battle lanterns automatically clicked on, then off a moment later as the overhead lights flickered back to life.

The first explosions, the ones Jerry had felt up in control, had been many smaller charges detonating together, like popcorn. Those were RBU-6000 ASW rockets fired by the surface ships. They had a small warhead, only about fifty pounds of explosive, but each mount fired twelve projectiles.

The last two jolts were hammer blows. Jerry had never imagined anything could be so powerful and not destroy the sub.

“Check the room and the weapons,” Foster ordered, and Jerry automatically looked at his own displays, as well as those of his men. A few were dark, and the Senior Chief ordered Boswell to reset the breakers.

As FT2 Boswell stood up and turned toward the breaker panel, a third explosion sounded, fainter than the first two. Jerry felt the vibrations and heard the rumble, and relaxed because it was so much weaker than the first two.

They weren’t prepared for the one that came next. It felt like the hammer — a giant’s maul — had hit the hull directly outside the torpedo room. Jerry only heard the beginning of the explosion; the ringing in his ears that followed was like church bells.

Boswell was thrown into the port torpedo stow and every man in the torpedo room was knocked to the deck. The lights failed again and sparks flew from cable junctions in the darkness before the circuit breakers cut the power.

21. Breakout

The battle lanterns cut in again and Jerry waited for moment, taking inventory of his bodily appendages before attempting to stand up. He’d struck something — or someone — on the way down and he hurt. From the moans and complaints surrounding him, he wasn’t alone.

The phone talker had been knocked to the deck with the others, but he still had his headphones on and said, “Control wants all stations to report.”

Jerry stood up slowly, favoring a sore knee, and looked around. His division looked battered but unbloodied as they resumed their stations. Boswell reached the breaker panel. “Can’t reset it,” he reported. “No power to the panel.”

“Petty Officer Boyd, report no casualties, but no power either.” As Jerry gave the order, Foster staggered over to the breaker panel, double-checking Boswell. He nodded, confirming the diagnosis.

After he repeated Jerry’s message, Boyd said, “I can hear reports from back aft.” The talker shared the circuit with the other stations on the sub and could hear their reports to control. “There’s a short in the main switchboard and a steam leak in the engine room. There are injuries.”

Before Jerry could ask for more information, Boyd added, “The Captain wants you and Senior Chief Foster in control, ASAP.”

Jerry and Foster moved as fast as they could in the dim illumination up the two decks to control. Jerry smelled the smoke and ozone as he approached the space and coughed as he stepped into the murky darkness. The beams cast by the battle lanterns, instead of illuminating the control room just reflected off the smoke, forming cones of bright white vapor, while the rest of the space seemed pitch black in comparison.

His eyes smarting, Jerry looked away from the lights, feeling his way through the crowded space. He found Hardy and the XO near the chart table and threaded his way over to them.

“Reporting, sir.”

Hardy and the XO both turned to face him. “Two things, Mr. Mitchell. First”—Hardy pointed to one corner of the control room—”we’ve lost the Emergency Torpedo Preset Panel. Second, there is a problem in the engine room.”

Behind Jerry, Foster turned and headed for the panel, as Hardy continued talking to his division officer. The Emergency Torpedo Preset Panel was just that, an emergency backup that allowed the fire-control party to set a torpedo’s course, speed, depth, and enable run in the event the fire-control system was damaged. Unfortunately, the earlier fire in the torpedo room had disabled the receiving circuits, and the Emergency Preset Panel was the only way they could talk to a Mk48. With it gone, Memphis had no weapons capability at all.

As Foster approached the panel, maim lighting came back on and the panel, along with several other pieces of equipment, crackled to life. Showers of sparks flew wildly about and new smoke started pouting from cabinet vents.

“Trip the breaker!” Foster shouted. “Trip it!” Two ratings standing near the control room switchboard dove toward it. The two quickly turned a number of barrel switches and plunged the control room into darkness once again.

Slowly, cautiously, the technicians re-energized the equipment in the space, leaving the preset panel’s breaker open. Two other pieces of gear, the BPS-15 radar display and the TV repeater for the periscope, also sparked until their breakers were opened as well.

As they were bringing the control room’s power back on line, Hardy spoke. “Mr. Mitchell, as soon as you’ve got power in the torpedo room, launch the Manta. Lead the Russians away from Memphis by any means you can think of. We’re dead in the water right now, and will be until Mr. Ho secures the port main engine. We had a bad steam leak and even after we get propulsion, we’ll be noisy and slow. And with the preset panel gone, we can’t fight. Our only hope is to have them looking somewhere else.”

The control room intercom carried Ho’s voice. “Engineer, sir. We’re ready to answer bells, but only up to ahead standard. The best we’ll be able to make on the starboard main engine alone is twenty knots at full rpm. We can creep at five, tops. We’ve secured steam to the port main engine and that’s stopped the leak. It’s been isolated from the reduction gear so it won’t drag. We’re investigating the cause of the steam leak.”

Hardy nodded to Bair, who was standing next to the intercom. The XO answered, “All right Eng, thanks for the report. How are your guys holding up?”

“Final casualty count is four injured, three with burns and one with a broken ankle. I’m waiting for a report from the corpsman. I’ll pass the word to you as soon as I get it.”

“Understood,” Bair answered.

Ho added one final comment. “Sir, the plant took one hell of a beating. If we take many more knocks like that last one, we could lose a lot more than the port main engine.”