Sea of Shadows

The second report came almost immediately, at a near shout as the Flying Squad leader struggled to be heard over the noise of the strange groaning vibration. “CCS — Flying Squad. We have heavy smoke in AMR #3. We are preparing to scan with Nifty.”

Nifty, or NFTI, was the Naval Firefighting Thermal Imager: a handheld infrared viewer that could spot sources of heat even in total darkness.

“CCS, aye.” Sebring was only half-listening to the reports of the Flying Squad. The groaning was still growing louder, and its accompanying vibration was beginning to rattle the entire ship. He was picturing AMR #3 in his mind now, and he knew what the Flying Squad was going to find.

The door behind him rattled as the dogging lever came up. Lieutenant (junior grade) Mark Wu, the ship’s Damage Control Assistant, came through, dogging the door behind himself. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I shouldn’t have had that damned chili. It’s killing my stomach. I can’t seem to get more than fifty feet from the head.”

He walked up behind EN1 Sebring. “Give me a pass-down.”

He was interrupted by a half-shouted voice over the speaker. “CCS — Flying Squad. The line shaft bearing is smoking! I say again, the main line shaft bearing in AMR #3 is smoking. It’s so hot that it whited out my Nifty. Recommend we rig a fire hose to attempt seawater cooling.”

Sebring keyed his mike. “Flying Squad — CCS. Negative. Do not attempt to cool the bearing. Evacuate the space and wait for orders.”

“Good call,” the DCA said. “If that bearing is hot enough to zap the Nifty, it’ll explode when cold water hits it.”

Sebring switched circuits and keyed up again. “Repair Three — CCS. Set primary fire boundaries around Auxiliary Machinery Room #3.”

The repair locker phone talker acknowledged and repeated back his order.

The groaning sound was a roar now, and the entire ship was rattling like an old car on a dirt road.

Sebring pulled off his headset and handed it to the DCA. “You’ve got to talk to the captain, sir. He won’t listen to me.”

Lieutenant (jg) Wu pulled the headset on and keyed the mike.

“Captain — DCA. The main line shaft bearing in AMR #3 is burning.

Recommend we stop engines and lock the shaft immediately to prevent serious damage to the engineering plant.”

The CO’s voice came back immediately. “DCA — Captain. Negative.

We are in pursuit of a hostile submarine. You are ordered to maintain speed.”

The DCA keyed his mike again. “Captain — DCA. If that bearing locks up while the shaft is still turning …”

The captain cut him off. “I know we can wreck the plant, Mark. I also know what can happen if we don’t sink this damned sub. Two minutes, Mark. That’s all I need to get within firing range. You give me two more minutes of speed, and then you can trash the whole plant.”

Wu keyed his mike. “DCA, aye.”

He looked down at Sebring. “What do you think? Will that bearing hold together for another two minutes?”

Sebring shrugged. “I have no idea, sir. I’ve never even heard of anyone running flank speed with a burned line shaft bearing. I’m amazed that it’s held this long.”

* * *

For a little while, it seemed as if the captain might actually get his two minutes. But suddenly, there was a brief but harsh metallic scraping sound, followed immediately by the shriek of tearing metal.

In AMR #3, the burning bearing seized up, grinding the spinning propeller shaft to an abrupt halt.

In the Main Engine Room, Ingraham’s gas turbine engines continued to crank forty-one thousand horsepower of torque into the input shaft of the main reduction gears. But the reduction gears couldn’t turn, because the output shaft was locked in place. The transverse frames that supported the reduction gear housing began to buckle under the strain, as the howling turbines attempted to turn the entire main reduction gear, housing and all.

The monstrous stress ripped open welds between plates of the ship’s hull, and the sea came flooding in. The MRG housing cracked, spraying lubricating oil all over the engine room, and throwing off hot steel shrapnel like a bomb.

A fist-sized chunk of broken gear caught the Upper-Level Watch in the left cheek. Moving at the speed of a meteor, it tore the side of his head off without even slowing down. His limp body fell off the catwalk and into the rapidly flooding bilge.

* * *

Ingraham drifted to a stop and wallowed at the mercy of the waves.

The chase was over. The submarine was gone.

CHAPTER 40

OVAL OFFICE

WASHINGTON, DC

SUNDAY; 20 MAY

4:03 PM EDT

“Just a second, Bob,” President Chandler said. “Let me go secure.” He inserted the magnetically coded encryption key into the slot on his STU-6 secure telephone unit and gave it a half-turn clockwise. The key clicked as it locked into place, and a brief series of warbling tones came out of the earpiece while the phone synced up with the encryption algorithm in a twin phone on the desk of the Chief of Naval Operations. The red “clear” lamp went out, and the green “secure” lamp came on.

“Okay, Bob,” the president said. “We’re in the green. I assume you’re calling to give me an update on the sub hunt. How are we looking?”

“It’s the old joke, Mr. President,” Admiral Casey said. “Good news and bad news.”

“What’s the good news?”

“We have clear battle damage assessment. Towers took out one of the submarines. Her helicopter took out another one.”

“So there’s only one hostile sub left?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent,” the president said. “What’s the bad news?”

“Towers and Benfold are both shot up pretty badly, and Ingraham is totally out of the picture. Somebody is going to have to write a bunch of those ‘The U.S. Navy regrets’ telegrams, sir. Quite a few of our young men and women out there are coming home in body bags.”

“We’re paying a hell of a price,” the president said. “But we can still win this thing, can’t we?”

The CNO sighed. “I don’t know, sir. Towers has already restored her electrical power, and Benfold should be back under way within an hour or so. How much speed they can make still remains to be seen. Maybe they can catch that sub. Then again, maybe not.”

“If they catch it, can they kill it?”

“I think so, Mr. President. I damned sure hope so.”

“You aren’t exactly filling me with confidence here, Bob.”

“With all due respect, sir, if you want more confidence you’ve got to give me more assets. It’s not too late to get a couple of P-3s out there. Then I could pretty much guarantee you a kill.”

“I can’t do that, Bob,” the president said. “We’ve got to show that we can go toe-to-toe with the best the Germans can offer up and still come out on top.”

“I understand that, sir. But what if that sub gets by us? Why risk losing when there’s still a chance to guarantee a win?”