The first indication anyone saw was a rapidly falling oil pressure on a gauge on the throttleman’s control panel, followed by an alarm horn sounding and several alarm lights flashing.
The throttleman yelled "Loss of propulsion lube oil!"
He spun the Ahead throttles shut with a giant heave. As soon as the Ahead throttles shut, he opened the Astern. The only hope of saving the engines from catastrophic destruction was to immediately stop them by using astern steam.
The engine-room upper level and lower level watch-standers rushed to find the cause while Chief Turston tried to restore the flow of oil to the bearings before they became red hot and welded themselves to the shaft. When that happened, the shaft would suddenly lurch to a halt.
An electrician ran to the operating propulsion lube oil pump switches and punched them on in a vain effort to start the standby pump. The Des Moines factory worker’s hangover was now in the chain of events. No amount of effort would start that pump.
“Loss of propulsion lube oil, stopping and locking the shaft,” the EOOW screeched over the 7MC Announcing System.
At the same time, the throttleman rang up All Stop on the engine order telegraph.
“Answer the ordered bell, do not stop the shaft,” Hunter immediately replied. “Engineer, lay aft and see what you can do. If we stop now, we are a sitting duck for that KILO.”
Stuart leaped up and darted out of the back door of the control room. He slid down the ladder to the mess decks, colliding with Petty Officer Swain. Not even delaying to apologize, the Engineer dashed to the engine-room.
Stuart and his team tried frantically to restore oil flow as the temperature of the bearings inexorably continued to rise.
“Conn, maneuvering, high bearing temperature port high speed pinion bearing,”
“Conn, aye. Continue to answer the bell.”
“Conn, maneuvering, high bearing temperature starboard high speed pinion bearing.”
The temperature-monitoring panel was lit like a Christmas tree, red alarm lights blinking madly. Still the bell had to be answered. Their lives depended on it. The only hope was to get past the KILO before the shaft seized.
Then, the inevitable happened. One of the bearings, manufactured slightly closer to the tolerance limits and subjected to higher heat, reached its material limits. The red hot bearing metal welded itself to the shaft. With an awful grinding noise and a powerful lurch, the shaft came to a halt. The sub would race no further.
“Rig out the outboard and shift to remote,” Hunter ordered. “We still might have a chance." Ten miles to the boundary, and the outboard could only push them at two knots. But the noise of the outboard might sound enough like a fishing boat to confuse everyone.
"Shift reactor coolant pumps to reduced frequency. No sense in letting the pump noise advertise we're here.”
Fast speed reactor coolant pump sound was distinctive. No matter how much the outboard screw might sound like a fishing boat, the reactor coolant pumps would be a dead give-away. Reduced frequency did away with that problem. SAN FRANCISCO would look like a tiny diesel fishing boat to any sonar operators in the area. At least, Hunter prayed, close enough to confuse them.
The race had slowed to a two-knot creep. Everything now depended on who detected and shot first. The tactics had been reduced to an old West gunfight, but both with gunfighters blindfolded. The basic rule was, ‘He who shoots first, lives’.
15
11 Jun 2000, 1326LT (0426Z)
Chief Holmstad yelled into the microphone, “Conn, sonar, KILO bearing two-six-seven. Designate sierra six-three. He is opening his outer doors!”
Even with his years of experience, this was the first time someone was really shooting at him.
Hunter barked, “Snapshot, sierra six-three, tube three!”
Fagan said, “Solution ready.”
“Weapon ready” from the Weps.
“Ship ready” from the Nav.
Hunter ordered “Shoot tube three.”
Weps threw the large brass knob first to the left, “Standby”, and then to the right, “Shoot.”
The ship lurched as four thousand pounds of high-speed death impulsed out of tube three. The roar of high pressure air venting through a muffler drowned out everything as the large air powered piston forced water to literally flush the Mark 48 ADCAP torpedo out the tube. Ten seconds after Holmstad's report, the torpedo raced toward the KILO.
“Conn, sonar, indication of outbound weapon running normal in high speed.”
Weps reported, “Captain, normal wire clearance maneuver, weapon running in high speed.”
Hunter asked, “Sonar, what is the KILO doing?”
This was what they had spent years training for. Everyone was working at the peak of their abilities. In one part of his mind, Hunter reflected on how proud he was of these men. The rest of his mind was devoted to getting them through this in one piece.
“Conn, sonar, he is being masked by our weapon now.”
“Wait! I’m hearing something over our weapon! Torpedo in the water! In-bound torpedo bearing two-six-five.”
“Launch the MOSS from tube four,” Hunter ordered. “Launch evasion device from the forward signal ejector and reload. All stop.”
Blackness started to close in around the edges of Hunter's consciousness. Not now! He fought it with every ounce of his being. The whirling sensation was overpowering. He reached out to grab the chrome handrail and steadied himself.
Bill Fagan yelled fearfully, “Captain, we're dead in the water! We need to get some speed on!”
Running clear of the torpedo’s acquisition cone was the normal torpedo evasion tactic. Everyone knew that. But there was no way to do it.
Fagan's voice filtered through the misty blackness. With pure raw will power, Hunter forced himself back from the edge. He glanced around, hoping they hadn't seen. All the crew
