Thunder In The Deep (02) (2 page)

Taylor struggled to his console, tried to lift the red handset to Damage Control back aft, and realized his right collarbone was smashed. He grabbed for the phone with his left. Every breath came with agony. He vomited, then almost blacked out. He made himself go on, of sheer necessity; one-handed, he pulled on his mask. There were a hundred thirty-five people aboard—including the SEALs—all his to lead, to protect; their wives and kiddies collectively totaled twice that. He'd seen them on the pier, too, making their goodbyes.

Taylor knew the crew needed to stop the flooding very quickly once on the surface, then resubmerge, or they'd be picked off by a nuclear cruise missile. The Axis antishipping campaign was conducted with numbing ferocity. As if to emphasize the point, more explosions rumbled in the distance from the now one-sided convoy/U-boat fight. The Texas broached nose first, consummating her sickening upward trajectory, then smashed back flat on the surface, forcing Taylor to his knees. The ship wallowed, rolling heavily, obviously settling fast. The engineer back aft tripped the panic switch, • valving shut all sea pipes, which shut down propulsion too, but the water kept roaring in. Vital welds had cracked, in places difficult to find amid the blinding incoming spray. COB had already blown what he could, but the Texas was going down.

Taylor knew that if he ordered Abandon Ship, the few men who'd get out would perish horribly. He didn't activate a photonics mast—to see the multiple mushroom clouds would alarm the men to no purpose.

He stared very hard at a digital chart. A few nautical miles away lay the spur of a jagged seamount peak, an extension of the Azores volcanic chain. The spur's depth was almost seventeen hundred feet, challenging Virginia-class crush depth, especially after the beating Texas just took. The remainder of the seamount was sheer-sided basalt cliff; if they missed the spur they were doomed. But it was their only hope, to huddle down deep and await a harrowing rescue, and pray their SEAL raid against a crucial German weapons lab could somehow be pulled off before it was too late.

Taylor ordered the sea valves reopened, to get the propulsion shaft turning again. He ordered all nonessential personnel to evacuate the engineering spaces, which were all one giant compartment when it came to truly watertight doors. He knew the men were coming when his aching eardrums crackled and he felt the air get warm; the incoming water was squeezing the atmosphere.

The watertight hatch was closed again, and Taylor told COB to put more high-pressure air in the engine room, to help hold back the water. Its influx would only grow stronger as Texas drove for the seamount spur, her depth increasing by the minute, all reserve buoyancy lost. American SSN's simply weren't designed to float with one entire compartment flooded.

The XO conveyed by sound-powered phone that he'd stay aft with a handful of seasoned men. He knew that what Texas needed the most was speed, and people had to be there to override the safeties as the freezing seawater rose. Taylor authorized the reactor be pushed to one hundred eight percent.

Taylor eyed a depth gauge and watched the vessel's rate of descent, then glanced back at the nav chart. Maybe they'd make it to the spur, and maybe not, and even if they did they might crash-land too hard to live.

In simulator training his crew would have called this scenario grossly unfair. Taylor was fatalistic, staying detached. He tried not to think about the men working aft, who couldn't possibly survive.

The COB and the helmsman fought their controls, as the main hydraulics failed. The turbogenerators went next, and console systems switched to batteries.

"Rig for reduced electrical," Taylor said, and Texas labored her heart out, the propulsor refusing to quit.

The phone talker reported the seawater aft had risen well past the tightly dogged watertight hatch. It was time to scram the reactor. Texas kept going on built-up momen-tum, sinking like a stone on her glidepath into oblivion.

"Collision alarm," Taylor ordered, as the crucial moment neared. He hoped his inertial nav fix was good and the local bottom charts accurate—with the ceaseless nuclear reverb and swirling bubbles all around, the bottom-mapping sonar only showed meaningless snow. He wished his boat had a gravimeter, which would have removed any doubt, but someone had decided some ten years back that gravimeters were too expensive.

Wincing with every gasping breath, suspecting now he'd also broken some ribs, Taylor ordered an emergency buoy prepared. He had it programmed for a tight-beam laser microburst, and hoped that the satellite due to pass overhead in an hour was still operational. The deeply encrypted message gave his ship's position, his plan for survival, and asked for help. It also reported his two Rubis TWO HOURS LATER.

SAO VICENTE ISLAND,

Water lapped against the submarine pier. Gulls called, machinery growled, the air stank of dead fish and diesel fumes, and the equatorial sun shown brightly near the zenith in a silvery blue sky. There were no clouds he could watch, nor ships beyond the breakwater, and on this leeward side of the island only minor swell on the sea. Dominating the horizon loomed the next volcanic peak in the Cape Verde chain, seeming indifferent and invulnerable. Lieutenant Commander Jeffrey Fuller fidgeted.

At last, above the sound of cranes and trucks and urgent, shouting dockworkers and marines, Jeffrey sensed a clattering roar. The Navy courier helicopter swung into view, first above the stuccoed homes sprawling along the parched rocky slopes around Mindelo harbor, then over the drab concrete warehouses of the waterfront itself. The helo flared and hovered by the pier, bringing with it the heady perfume of burnt kerosene exhaust. Out of the corner of his eye, as she stood next to him, Jeffrey watched the aircraft's prop wash tousle Ilse Reebeck's hair. The engine noise precluded conversation now, but their conversation had already been cut short, back at the hotel. Ilse looked relieved to be coming with Jeffrey, and he was glad, too—the whole thing was very lastminute—but it only complicated matters between them to have her on Jeffrey's ship again. Lord knew in the last two weeks, with their atomic demolition raid on the South African coast, they'd shared enough experiences, and nightmares, to last a lifetime. He told himself it was worth it, for what they'd achieved for the Allied cause, but the personal price was so high. Now, with no chance to catch their breaths or succor the inner emotional wounds, they were headed right back into the all-consuming maelstrom of tactical nuclear war at sea.

As a marine guard on the pier helped the helo pilot pick his spot to land, Jeffrey glanced at the water. The last of the liberty party was already crammed into USS Challenger's ASDS minisub, moored against the pier—hiding under a special awning that helped mask the goings-on from Berlin-Boer Axis spy birds. Jeffrey knew some crewmen were forced to stand in-the mini's swimmer lock-in/ lock-out chamber. But the embark was on hold, because of this courier.

"I wish he'd hurry up," Jeffrey said out loud. For most of his life, Jeffrey had wished people and things would hurry up.

As the helo settled on the pier, Jeffrey reviewed what little he knew so far: The Texas was down and needed help, and time was of the essence. In this whole big, hot, North Atlantic-wide theater of battle, Challenger was the closest thing—the only thing—

available. Images flashed through Jeffrey's mind, training videos he'd had to watch—

ones all U.S. Navy submariners had to watch—of tattered human remains in tortured postures: the men who died on the Russian submarine Kursk. Smashed to pulp, drowned slowly, or cremated alive, then soaked in high-pressure seawater—a living medium full of creatures who sought and ate their flesh.

Was that what awaited Jeffrey's eyes, when he got to

kills, two fewer nuclear subs in the enemy arsenal now; at least if his ship and her people all died, they wouldn't have died for nothing. The buoy was launched. Taylor flashed once more on all those faces on the pier; some were widows and fatherless already. The surviving men around Taylor braced for impact with the spur. If they missed it they'

d keep going until the Texas's hull caved in. They'd know soon enough. the Texas? His ASDS was supposed to double as a deep-submergence rescue vehicle, to try to dock with the disabled sub once Challenger arrived.

Someone stepped from the helo. Like Jeffrey, the courier wore no rank or insignia, for security, but Jeffrey knew him vaguely. He was a lieutenant commander, in fact a rear admiral's aide, and by Navy regulations he spoke for his admiral with equal force. Jeffrey, Challenger's executive officer, was now the ship's acting captain. Challenger herself was submerged somewhere beyond the breakwater. She was much too high-value a target to bring into port here during this war, and her real captain, Commander Wilson, Jeffrey's boss, was confined at the hotel with a bad concussion.

"Sign, please," the courier said, handing Jeffrey a thick envelope. Jeffrey eyed the Top Secret markings, the code words RECURVE ARBOR—whatever that meant—along with the notation to open only when north of latitude 30 north. "What is this?"

"I don't know," the courier said. "I have other stops to make. This Texas thing has everybody stirred up."

Jeffrey scribbled his initials on the courier's clipboard, and did the arithmetic in his head. At Challenger's top quiet speed, twenty-six knots—the fastest she dared go for long in the war zone—it would take more than a day to cross the thirtieth parallel, almost two full days to reach Texas.

"Do we know what shape they're in?"

"A lot are still breathing," the man said, "at least so far. They managed to launch another buoy once they crashed. That's why you're being sent."

"Can't you get us a doctor?" Challenger would act as a stealthy undersea field ambulance, if and when the survivors from Texas were taken aboard. The courier shook his head. "They're all in surgery, overloaded. A hospital ship put in last night, from Central Africa. . . . Your corpsman will have to do."

"Great." Jeffrey started a mental tally of his ship's medical supplies. His people would be sleeping on the deck, to free their racks for the injured. . . .

"We're not sure yet if the Axis also knows about Texas. You may hit opposition en route."

"Terrific." Jeffrey'd transferred on as Challenger's XO well after the start of the fighting six months ago—he'd been more than glad to give up a fast-track planning job at the Naval War College. He'd wanted to get to the front. Now, with no qualified skipper available at this forward base to step in for Commander Wilson, Jeffrey was utterly on his own.

"Good luck," the man called as he ran back to the helo. Jeffrey turned to Ilse. He saw her read the concern on his face. They were both still so exhausted, her expression seemed to say, and now this. Jeffrey shrugged. Ilse was a civilian, a Boer freedom-fighter, but she'd be killed as dead as the rest of the crew if something went badly wrong.

"After you," he said, letting her go first, up the aluminum gangway and down the top hatch of the little submarine. The sixty-five-foot-long ASDS was their undersea taxi today, hopefully too small on its own for someone to waste a nuke, and too stealthy for the enemy to track it to Challenger.

Ilse climbed down the top hatch, into the minisub's central hyperbaric sphere, which doubled as entry vestibule. The packed crewmen, all familiar faces, tried to make room for her. She in turn eased out of the way, so Jeffrey could follow. Ilse smiled to herself, a bit grimly. Stomach sucked in, elbows close at your sides, watch what you bump into, and respect the other person's personal space—this was how submariners moved about their cramped and self-contained world. Ilse was pleased with how quickly she'd learned these habits during her first trip on the Challenger, and how quickly the mindset returned now on this unexpected, hurried second mission. That first time, she'd volunteered; her special skills were badly needed. This time, no one asked; a message from the chain of command had ordered her to go. They were supposed to head for the U.S. East Coast and a needed stint in dry dock—and maybe some leave for Christmas, too—and then this Texas rescue came up. Now, Ilse was being swept along in the rush.

Ilse watched Jeffrey reach to close the top hatch. Before he could dog it shut, the heavy door from the minisub's forward control compartment swung open. Challenger's chief of the boat looked into the sphere and made quick eye contact with Ilse. Ilse smiled back, and her inner tensions died down a bit; it was good to rejoin these people she knew and trusted. They'd helped her relieve some of her earlier anger, her barely repressed rage. They were a family of sorts, to replace everything and everyone she'd lost after the Johannesburg coup. Was it worth risking death to be with them again?

What was her choice, to languish as a displaced person, utterly alone? Besides, in this war nowhere was "safe."

COB winked Ilse a hello, seeming surprised to see her. He was the oldest man in the crew, a salty, somewhat irreverent master chief. He had an amazing charisma, in a tough and blue-collar way, and Ilse had liked him from the moment they first met two weeks ago. Right now COB was acting as pilot of the minisub, with a lieutenant (j.g.) copilot. The last time she'd ridden the mini, it had taken her into combat in her tyranny-ravaged homeland of South Africa. Then, a U.S. Navy SEAL chief had been copilot. He didn't come back.

COB called out to Jeffrey, "Sir, another delay. More passengers."

"More?" Jeffrey said. The men standing around him groaned. The youngest, still teenagers really, looked afraid they'd get left behind.

The pressure-proof door to the rear transport compartment was closed, and Ilse wondered how many people were

squashed in there already—the official capacity was eight. One of them, she realized, would have to be newcomer Royal Navy Lieutenant Kathy Milgrom; there was nowhere else Kathy could be.

Ilse saw COB glance at his console, as if he were reading a decrypted radio or land-line message. "They're arriving any minute, Captain," COB said. Jeffrey sighed, handed the courier envelope to COB, and climbed back up the ladder through the top hatch. Out of curiosity, and because she liked to be where Jeffrey was, Ilse followed. Past the foot of the pier, beyond the big concrete obstacles and heavy machine-gun emplacements, a local taxi pulled up. Like clowns from a circus car, six big men piled out one after another, all in civilian clothing, as if for disguise. Ilse immediately recognized SEAL Lieutenant Shajo Clayton, his two logistics and backup people, and the three surviving operators from Shajo's blooded boat team. Shajo grinned and waved; he'd been with her and Jeffrey on the South Africa raid. The men untied several heavy equipment boxes from the cab's roof rack, and pulled more from the vehicle's trunk. Some boxes were black: SEAL combat gear. Some were white with big red crosses: first-aid supplies, presumably for the Texas. Jeffrey called for crewmen to help, and everyone started carrying the stuff to the minisub. Jeffrey shook hands very warmly with Clayton—they'd been through hell together, all too recently, and the resulting bond was tight. "Would somebody please tell me what the heck is going on?" Jeffrey said, smiling with pleasure at this unexpected reunion.