Forward in the control room, LCDR Jacobs maneuvered the sub around in a slow upward spiraling circle, using the little remaining speed he had to conduct a sonar search. The sonar watch-standers listened intently to make sure that no ships were close. They were all alone in this forgotten part of the broad Pacific.
Jacobs yelled through his EAB, "Diving Officer, make your depth six-two feet."
The sub slowly coasted up to periscope depth, eking out the last bit of forward momentum.
Jacobs spun the scope around as it broke the sea's surface. The picture through the periscope was a calm tropical night with a beautiful full moon low on the horizon. The difference between the calm beauty above and the heat and smoke below disconcerted him.
The EOOW shouted into the 7MC, "Conn, maneuvering, the fire is out."
His words were barely intelligible, badly distorted by the EAB he was forced to wear.
With the fire finally out, the priority shifted to emergency ventilating the engine-room. The emergency diesel generator would provide some much needed electrical power and suck in fresh air, pushing the smoke from the ship. With all electrical loads supplied by the battery, the need for additional power was critical. The sub could not survive without electrical power. They had less than an hour’s electrical power left. And they needed to get rid of the toxic, corrosive smoke before any effective repairs could begin.
Jacobs ordered the snorkel mast raised to provide life-giving air to the diesel and quickly followed that with the order, "Commence snorkeling."
The diesel operator, two decks below Jacobs’ feet, threw the large brass quadrant lever over to push high-pressure air into the diesel to start it rolling over. He held it firmly in that position with one hand. With his other, he reached across the narrow passageway and held the snorkel safety circuit switch in "over-ride", bypassing the safety shutdowns until the diesel was up to speed. He used his left foot to hold the kick-drain valve open as he watched for the snorkel exhaust valve to slam open, allowing the exhaust gases to leave the ship. After several heart-stopping seconds, the little amber shut light switched to a green open one. He released his grip on the quadrant lever, safety switch and kick-drain. The diesel was up and running.
The rock-crushing sound of the 12 cylinder Fairbanks-Morse marine diesel was music to Jacob's ears. It meant that electrical power was available to supplement the rapidly depleting battery and, more importantly, clean outside air was replacing the smoke filled air inside the sub. They could soon remove the hot, uncomfortable EABs.
The smoke slowly cleared. The technicians could troubleshoot and repair the reactor control system without the encumbering EABs. Most importantly, the electrical loads were shifted to the diesel. They had time to fix the reactor.
After a rapid survey of the damage and a conference with his technicians, LTJG Baker reported to the Engineer that repairs to the reactor control panels would require four hours. His team was drawing parts from the supply system and preparing the procedures for the repairs.
“Engineer, secure from the training drill, conduct a fast recovery start up,” Hunter ordered Sam Stuart as they stood together behind the maneuvering room, observing the melee of action around them. The hot, sweating men removed their EABs. The watch-standers began the choreography of conducting an emergency at-sea reactor start up.
“And, Eng, tell your people, ‘well done.’ XO, we have to work on getting those hose teams back here faster. That took almost two minutes. I want a minute and a half maximum.” Training on a submarine never ended.
10
03 Jun 2000, 0400LT (02 Jun, 1700Z)
Hunter walked into the wardroom, finding Fagan sitting by himself eating a bowl of cereal.
Fagan looked up and asked, "How did Baker do? That was his first time to take her to periscope depth, wasn't it?"
Hunter had just stepped down from the control room where he had observed the trip to periscope depth to copy the broadcast. He was planning on enjoying a cup of coffee before heading to the engine-room for his morning workout. Fagan was taking a break from a late night of catching up on the never-ending paperwork, the bane of an XO’s existence
Hunter plopped down in his chair. Deep grey lines were etched in his features. He said, “Baker did fine. That kid has a lot of potential. Keep the pressure on him. He should get his dolphins by the time we get back. Have you seen the Top Secret message board yet?”
He poured himself a cup of coffee, the pushed the aluminum clipboard over to Fagan.
“No, not yet. Was there something on the broadcast? We’re about due for an intel update. Can’t say that they have been flooding us with info."
Tapping the message board, Hunter nodded, "We got an intel update from NSA. They correlated some signal intercepts with what they call 'other sources'. Apparently there is some Indonesian admiral named Suluvana who has been working with the terrorists on Nusa Funata. Seems he commands the naval base at Semarang on the North shore of Java. That's the base where the two missing KILOs are homeported."
Hunter sipped from his cup. “This admiral appears to be quite an independent operator. NSA says he ordered the KILOs to sortie and intercept any naval units heading toward Indonesia. Of course, this intel message doesn’t tell us where to expect them. That would be asking too much.”
He sat back in his chair. “Let’s play ‘what if’ for a few minutes. If you were Admiral Suluvana, what would you do, Bill?”
Hunter was fond of these brainstorming sessions. They helped him plan and at the same time to train
