First Strike

To his credit, although his face was doubtful, the chief did not even hesitate. Seconds later, the submarine was headed into the heart of the Russian task force at flank speed.

There was no need for conversation now, no need for orders or advice or reports. This was simply a flat-out race for their lives—8,000 tons of submarine shoving her way through the sea at her absolute top speed, the fires of her nuclear reactor burning at 120 percent of capacity, the propeller biting hard into the water, getting a grip, the speed of the propeller at the propeller tips so great that the temporary vacuum sucked dissolved gases out of the water, creating cavitation.

Although the crew was silent, moving about the ship like ghosts, Seawolf was as noisy as he’d ever heard her. The reverberating rattles, creaks, and assorted complaints from joints and seams were frightening at the most visceral of levels. Seawolf was running for her life, her speed almost two knots above what she done during sea trials, every system redlined at max capacity and beyond.

There was no second chance. The three remaining torpedoes were gaining on them, following them with hard, icy pings, the scent of their prey hot in their electronic nostrils.

The graphic display spelled it all out. Ahead, shallow water, the massive bulk of the Russian transports. Behind, the Yankee submarine and three remaining small torpedoes that had barreled out from her.

“Two thousand,” the chief said, his voice cold and professional. “Planesman, take us up ten feet.”

“Ten feet, aye.” The change in depth was not even perceptible.

Depth was crucial this close to the island. The continental slope crept up toward the coast, the shallow water a more dangerous environment. There were wrecks here, some of them still uncharted, and Forsythe and chief were doing their best to avoid them by maintaining some distance from the bottom while still trying to stay as deep as possible. The shallower they went, the less dense the water, and the more turns per knots of speed required.

Something slammed into the side of the submarine and traced its way down the hull, fingernails on a chalkboard. One sailor yelped, then fell quiet, his lips tightly compressed as though to hold in his fear. The rest of them were shaking.

“One thousand yards,” the chief said.

Are we going to make it? Is it even going to work? The charts — how accurate are the water depths? I must be insane to try this — I must be insane. But if there’s any other way, then I don’t know about it. This is all we’ve got left.

The pings from the sonar were harder now, faster, excited. The torpedoes were actively homing, as well as following the wake and the acoustic signature of the submarine. There was no way they could miss the Seawolf now, no way at all. And their speed, while not as fast as the latest generation torpedoes, was more than sufficient to enable them to catch up.

“Five hundred yards.”

“Make your depth one hundred and ten feet,” Forsythe ordered. Assuming the Russian ships had a draft of thirty-two feet and the submarine eighty-five, that would give them just enough clearance to sneak by under the ships. Maybe. There was still too much he didn’t know: exactly how much water the transport drew depended on how heavily laden she was, how much fuel she had on board, and whether or not there have been any design changes since the reference books were written.

“One hundred feet.” For the first time, the chief’s voice showed the tiniest shiver of emotion. Forsythe wasn’t sure anyone else would have noticed.

Their own sonar showed the bulk of the transport ahead, a massive steel cliff in the water.

It was not the first prayer that Forsythe had murmured since they left port, but it was certainly the most heartfelt. Most of the crew was staring at the overhead, as thought they could see the giant ship overhead and somehow duck if they came too close.

And then they were under her, the pressure wave surrounding the submarine hitting the ship’s beam and keel and the pressure forcing her down slightly. The water depth at this point was 140 feet, and there was no guarantee that the debris on the bottom wouldn’t decrease that.

It was as though they could feel the ship overhead. The water around them was saturated with the sounds of machinery, stamping feet, almost with the sound of voices. They were so close that someone standing on the conning tower could have reached up to touch the barnacle-encrusted hull above them.

“Emergency back full,” Forsythe ordered, and saw that hands were already poised over controls. “Emergency blow.” The sharp hiss of compressed air being pumped into ballast tanks filled the submarine.

Even as small as she was compared to the ship, Seawolf could still not stop on a dime. It took time to slow her down, more time than it took to come shallow. But how long — had he miscalculated? Could she surface and turn in time to—?

The Seawolf slammed sideways, throwing everyone not strapped in against the port bulkhead. Loose gear went flying. A massive groan that seem to encompass their whole world filled the submarine, far more overwhelming and powerful than any sonar they had heard so far. It went on and on, angry, screaming, the sound of metal tearing and fuel exploding. It crescendoed, increasing to the point where there was nothing left in the world except the sound of the massive transport dying.

The force was sufficient to rotate the Seawolf around her long axis, and to shove her through the water with her conning tower parallel to the bottom of the sea. Her speed decreased quickly, and by small increments, she righted herself. In the forward part of the compartment, the planesman and helmsman struggled for control of the ship, powerless against the massive forces acting on her.

Just when it seemed neither steel nor flesh could endure it any longer, Seawolf slammed to a stop. A cacophony of sound filled her, less agonized than the tearing of steel.

“Chief, surface the ship,” Forsythe ordered, still on his side along the port bulkhead but struggling to his feet. For some reason, his right leg wasn’t working the way it should. He felt numbness extend from his waist down to his feet, worried for a second, then dismissed it. It was preferable to the pain that would certainly follow.

“Surface the ship, aye.” A thin trickle of blood ran out of the corner of the chief’s mouth. “Planeman, surface the ship.”

A groan arose from the planesman’s position. The sailor was leaning sideways in his straps, struggling to sit up straight and reach for the planes controls, but clearly disoriented and confused. Forsythe crawled across the deck to him, used the man’s chair to pull himself into a standing position, and leaned over him, bearing all his weight on his left leg. He grabbed the controls and yanked back, putting Seawolf into a climb.

“Depth?” Forsythe asked, studying the indicators.

“Ninety feet, sir,” the chief answered. “But I’m not certain that—”

Suddenly, they both felt it, the change in the weight and inertia of a submarine that is no longer completely submerged. Forsythe restored the controls to neutral position and made his way to the center of the compartment to the periscope. It still operated, although with a noisy squeal as it extruded from its housing. He spun it around and looked back the way that they had come.

At first, he could see nothing. He thought the periscope was broken, a cracked lens or something. Then he realized that what he was seeing was fire. Fire, water, and steam obscuring the picture, making it difficult to make out any details.

“We did it,” he said, then all at once felt every bit of adrenaline vanish from his system. He hung on to the periscope to keep himself upright. “We did it.” The torpedoes that had been following them had hit the three Russian transports. Even if they’d been trying to follow the Seawolf’s maneuvers, the torpedoes couldn’t have maneuvered to avoid them.

Forsythe leaned against the bulkhead. The blackness was back, eating at the edges of his consciousness, inviting him, enticing him, and he fought against it. There was still too much to do, too much to…

Forsythe crumpled and slipped to the deck. The chief watched, and turned to the planesman who was now completely conscious.

“Benson, take us down. Real slow. We are a feather drifting down through the water. I want to sit us on the bottom and stay at quiet ship. Then, we’ll wait here until the captain comes around and tells us what to do.” The chief glanced around the control room and saw heads nodding in agreement. The ship settled gently to the bottom of the sea. They waited.