little, and Jerry spotted an angular shape poking up from the foam. Steel or fiberglass, it had been torn and bent several feet out of its proper position. There were also huge gashes in the hull around main ballast tank 1A. But as bad as it looked, there was clearly much more damage still out of view.
“I don’t think the sonar techs will be able to get any of the bow arrays working again,” Jerry observed.
“If we still have them at all,” Shimko remarked darkly. Jerry wondered if the XO was being pessimistic, but the bow wave made sense if you imagined
They could also see damage on the sail, a large grooved dent running up the starboard side all the way to the top. Shimko took more photos, cursing the damage but praising their luck. “At that speed, if he’d hit us dead-on, we’d be on the bottom right now.”
It was harder to see the aft part of the casing from the sail, but Shimko managed to spot damage back there as well, an angled scar in the boat’s anechoic tiles. The pressure hull underneath was made of HY100 steel two inches thick. It didn’t appear to be dented, so if the Russian had hit them there, the two boats must have bounced, hard.
Jerry occasionally checked the gyrocompass and scanned the horizon. There were no navigational hazards, except for the ice, for miles in any direction, but they were under way, and he had the conn. The roll of the deck reminded him of unfinished business.
“XO, I recommend two eight zero to smooth out the ride.” That would take them into the wind, and also toward where the UUV was waiting for them.
Shimko, still taking photos, agreed, and Jerry ordered them onto the westerly course. Toward the line of clouds.
He felt the wind swing around as they slowly turned, and found what shelter he could from the wind. Almost unwillingly, Jerry focused on the pitch and roll of the hull. It was a little better. And so far, his stomach was behaving itself. Too much other stuff to think about.
“We’ll stay surfaced until they’ve finished plugging the leaks around the masts. Stay at three knots.” Shimko finished taking pictures, but continued to stare at the bow. “I’ll move it along as quickly as I can, but figure on being surfaced for at least a couple of hours.”
“Yessir. If you get any information on the casualties, sir, could you please pass it up?”
Shimko nodded. “It’s first on my list.”
The XO left and Jerry began his regular bridge watch routine. Scan all the dials, sweep the horizon with binoculars, check on the lookout. Poor Boster was just as exposed to the elements as he was; there was really nowhere to hide from the wind. Seeing no reason to freeze lookouts, Jerry recommended that they be relieved every hour. Lavoie agreed, and said he’d arrange it.
The dark radar repeater reminded Jerry of their damage, as well as their location. Normally, when
They’d lost their bow sonars, their periscopes and all their other masts, the radar, and their radios. Most of that gear, except the sonar, was his responsibility, maintained by his electronics techs and ITs. It was too soon to think about all the repairs, not while they were still at General Quarters, but the instant they secured, he’d have to find Chandler and Hudson and put them to work.
Jerry shivered as the wind gusted. But it wasn’t only the cold chilling his bones. They were virtually blind, close to the Russian coast, with a leaky boat and no way to call for help. And that storm was coming right at them and it didn’t look friendly.
Shimko was good as his word. He’d been gone only a few minutes when his voice came over the sound- powered phones. “Jerry, you asked about the casualties. We’ve got nine total, besides the bumps and bruises on just about everyone. Most are minor injuries, but they also include two fractures — and Rountree. The doc’s working on him, but that’s all I can say.”
Jerry thanked the XO, and returned his attention to his bridge watch duties. The boat’s slow speed and the bleak horizon belied the urgency of the situation. A Russian aircraft could appear at any time, and without their sensors, they’d have no warning until it basically flew overhead. He wasn’t afraid of being attacked, but it would be best for everyone if they could leave the Barents undetected.
Shuffling about in an attempt to keep warm, Jerry found his mind constantly going back to the events that led to the collision. He knew he’d have to write a report, possibly testify at a board of inquiry, so he tried to fix details while they were clear in his mind. It would be important later.
He wasn’t worried about the outcome of any investigation. American and Russian subs had collided before on operations like this, although it wasn’t common. The entire incident would be reviewed, but as far as he could see, Rudel’s actions had been correct and the Russian had acted with incredible aggressiveness.
The cold wind swirled around him in the sub’s cockpit, and Jerry busied himself to pass the time. With Lavoie’s concurrence, he tried several different courses to smooth out the boat’s ride. Jerry wasn’t the only submariner vulnerable to seasickness.
An hour after he’d started his bridge watch, they secured from General Quarters. A moment later, a relief lookout appeared, ET2 Lamberth. Bundled up as the enlisted man was, Jerry didn’t recognize one of his own petty officers until Lamberth spoke, relieving Boster, who gratefully hurried below.
“I don’t remember you being on the watch bill as a lookout,” Jerry remarked.
“I’m taking Stone’s place. He banged up his knee, and can’t climb a ladder too well. Besides, I wanted to tell you about Rountree.”
Jerry’s heart sank when he heard Lamberth’s foreboding tone. “Are his injuries that bad?” Jerry prompted.
“Yeah.” Lamberth paused, swallowed hard, and then just spat it out. “He’s gone, Mr. Mitchell. He died.”
The news hit Jerry like a freight train. Stunned, silent, he turned away from Lamberth, desperately trying to maintain his composure. A young sailor entrusted to his care had died. Rountree was his responsibility, and now he was gone.
Helpless, angry, Jerry slammed his fist on the coaming. “Shit!” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Yeah, sir. You got that right. It was his heart, sir. Chief Gallant said it was probably the electrical shock. It damaged the muscles in his heart, and they kept on wanting to stop. It did stop, twice, and the chief zapped him and brought him back. Everybody was rooting for him, even Brann with his broken leg, half drugged up.
“But it stopped again, and the chief ran out of things to do. They’ve got him bundled up in a blanket off to one side in the wardroom. Guys keep coming over to it and patting it, saying good-bye. Robinson’s sitting with him right now. He and Blocker are taking it pretty hard. I mean, we all are, it’s just bugging them more… I guess.”
They aren’t the only ones, thought Jerry as he wiped the stinging salt water from his face. “Thanks for coming up to tell me.”
Lamberth nodded sadly and moved over to the lookout position. Jerry turned back to check the bridge instruments, but then the petty officer spoke again.
“He’s got family in Florida, I think.” He had to raise his voice to be heard.
Jerry searched his memory of Rountree’s service record. “Parents and a younger sister,” Jerry answered. He’d never met them. Rountree hadn’t been aboard long enough for his family to visit.
Lamberth nodded and raised the binoculars again. Conscious of their exposed position, Jerry kept searching the sky, hoping he wouldn’t see anything. If something did appear, they couldn’t escape quickly. Nuclear subs couldn’t crash-dive the way the old fleet boats did in WWII. Come to think of it, he didn’t want to dive at all. Not with all those leaks, and the depleted air banks…
“Will we bury him at sea?” Lamberth asked. It took a moment for Jerry to realize he’d asked a question, and the petty officer had to repeat it.
Jerry paused before answering. Finally, he shook his head.
“I don’t think so.” Then more definitely, “No. We should bring him back to his family.”
“But where will we keep him?”
It surprised Jerry that they would have to think of such things, but there was hardly a spare inch of space on
