Crash Dive

by Martin H. Greenberg

  “No,” Ryan signaled. “I’m it. Any idea how this happened?”

  “The only thing we’ve been able to come up with is that this might be a systemic virus infection, although how it got on board I have no idea.”

  “If it is, I’ll bet I know what you’ve got,” Ryan said. “Remember India in ’39?”

  “Oh shit,” Masters replied. “Succubus?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought that was wiped out last year. The v-killers swore they eliminated the last nest.”

  “Apparently not. I’m going to disable the propeller. Once we negate your ability to move, then we can figure out how to get you out of there.”

  “Negative, Ryan, disabling the propeller won’t stop us. Our primary propulsion system in stealth mode is a compact magnetohydrodynamic drive,” Masters said. “A caterpillar.”

  A caterpillar was basically an underwater jet engine. Water was taken in at the front of the vehicle and expelled at high speed at the rear, providing thrust. With no moving parts, it was the most silent engine underwater ever made. The design was based on an early Soviet model the U.S. had “obtained” more than fifty years ago.

  “Regardless, I’d rather have the sub with only one drive system rather than two. I’m moving to neutralize the propeller now,” Ryan said.

  Without waiting for a reply, Ryan started working his way back to the propeller assembly. In a few seconds he was crouched over the furiously spinning propeller. Now, how to stop it without destroying part of my suit? Ryan thought. Before he could formulate a plan of attack, the sub’s heading changed sharply, heading into deeper water.

  Shit, what’s going on? Ryan thought.

  “Lieutenant, the angle of the submarine and the topographic map indicates that we are heading toward an large undersea coral formation.

  “On screen,” Ryan said. Melody put up the map and indicated their projected route with a dotted line. Ryan saw that they were heading toward a large rock hill dotted with huge clusters of coral.

  “That son of a bitch thinks he’s gonna scrape me off like a barnacle,” Ryan said. That gave him an idea. Holding on to the rudder mount, he reached down, the fingers of the suit just inches away from the blurred propeller, and grabbed the ceramplast guard.

  “Melody, distance to the hill?”

  “One hundred fifty meters.”

  Heaving upward, Ryan snapped the propeller guard off. He meant to hold on to it, but misjudged the force he had used to break it off. The guard flew into the propeller and was tom from his grasp, then spit out the other side to drift away in the deep blue water. Ryan looked to see if it had done any damage, but the propeller looked fine.

  “Fifty meters to the hill,” Melody advised.

  All right, you want me, you’re gonna have to work for it, Ryan thought. Come on!

  Succubus sensed the communication occurring between the smaller vessel and the crew. It watched the vehicle still clinging to the back of the submarine, and formulated its plan to remove this remora from its side once and for all.

  Scanning its maps for a suitable area, the virus decided on a broken patch of ocean floor where a large hill thrust up from the ground. It dove toward it, increasing speed for maximum impact.

  Keeping an eye on the vehicle, it saw it bending over the propeller assembly. The virus tried to see what was happening, but was blocked by the suit. All system readouts were normal, so it didn’t seem like the propeller was being interfered with. Succubus increased speed, trying to reach the hill before the pilot of the suit noticed what was happening.

  A jolt to the propeller shaft warned the virus that something was happening at the rear of the submarine.

  A quick diagnostic showed everything was running at maximum output, although there had been a brief interruption of the propeller, as if it had briefly impacted something.

  No matter, they were almost at the hill now, and soon Succubus would get rid of its last obstacle to freedom.

  Five seconds to impact, it calculated. Four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .

  The virus twisted the bow planes, sending the submarine’s stem crashing into the hill as it headed for the surface. However, the aft camera showed the suit now on top of the submarine, safely away from the rear of the ship. As if that wasn’t bad enough, a shocking, sudden grinding vibration shook the sub from stem to stem.

  Succubus discovered its propeller had impacted the rock bottom, the guard that was supposed to protect it having disappeared. In an instant it analyzed what the pilot of the suit had done, making the virus destroy the propeller for it. The propeller was unbalanced now, useless.

  But Succubus was far from finished. Shut down the propeller it, activated the caterpillar drive, immediately implementing another plan.

  “All right!” Ryan whooped. “System one down!”

  At the last second before impact, Ryan had climbed hand over hand to the top of the submarine by clinging to the rudder. When the stem of the sub had hit the ground, the propeller had ground to a halt, its blades bent and nicked. Ryan heard metal ports sliding open, and a few seconds later Melody reported that the caterpillar drive had engaged.

  “Signal to Masters that the main drive is out of commission,” Ryan said. “We are currently at ninety meters, and we’ve got to figure out some way to purge those ballast tanks so we can get you and your crew topside.”

  “Ryan, if the intruder is a virus, then you’ve got to destroy the antenna array so it can’t transmit itself off the ship,” Masters replied.

  “Great,” Ryan said. “Your comm masts are in the usual place?”

  “Yes, on the conning tower, behind the main hatch. The periscope is up, even though we’re underwater. Destroy everything in front of the scope. We’re on limited comm anyway, supposedly to the Wainwright, and I don’t know if the virus has overridden that, so the quicker you disable the antenna, the better off we’ll be.”

  “Yes, I just need to figure out how to get over there,” Ryan replied.

  “There’s a track personnel use for attaching themselves to the hull for surface ops. You should be able to use it to pull yourself along.”

  “Roger that,” Ryan said. “Here goes nothing.” He reached down and felt the series of cleats that the sub crew attached themselves to if they had to work outside. Of course, that would be in harbor, not careening along at thirty knots on an out-of-control submarine, he thought. “Captain, how’s your air?”

  “Stale but okay. We don’t have a lot of time left, Ryan.”

  “I think I have a way out for you, but it’s going to require speed, timing, and a bit of luck.”

  “Anything else?” Masters asked, the sardonic grin evident in his voice. “How about some coffee while we wait?”

  Ryan smiled. “Keep the pot warm for me.” He made sure his grip on the cleat was secure, then released his hold on the rudder mount.

  The instant he did, the submarine leaned to port. Hard to port. Ryan froze where he was, expecting to move on when the Barracuda righted itself.

  But the sub didn’t. “Brace yourselves!” he shouted uselessly, although he could hear Captain Masters issuing orders to his crew to secure themselves as the submarine tipped on its side.

  Ryan found himself dangling alongside the submarine, holding on by just one hand. “Melody, lock down right actuator.”

  “Right acutator locked.” Now, only one of two things could separate Ryan from the submarine. Either the cleat would tear loose, or the arm of the suit would. Ryan tried not to think about either one happening.

  “Lieutenant, sonar indicates that we are heading towards a large outcropping directly ahead.”

  Oh no, not again. Ryan thought. He did a one-armed pull-up, bringing his head level with his right hand. Reaching over, he grabbed the next cleat with his left hand.

  Telling Melody to release the right actuator, he pulled himself hand over hand down the length of the submarine to the tower. Now that the submarine was on its side, Ryan was able
to clamber up even more easily to the top of the tower, clinging to the edge of the conning tower until he reached the top.

  On the bridge he saw the communications antennae clustered near the front. Holding on to the lip of the bridge with one hand, he worked his way over to them. Grabbing them in one fist, he tore the entire unit out of its mount.

  The submarine shuddered as its side scraped across the ocean floor again. Ryan looked down to see a shelf of rock sliding by underneath him. Afterward, the submarine slowly righted itself. Bracing himself in the cramped bridge area, Ryan began composing another message to Captain Masters.

  “The comm suite is destroyed. Captain, given the weapons capabilities of this vessel, and the fact that no rescue ship can approach without being fired upon, I suggest you abandon ship.”

  “Agreed. I cannot see any way to regain control of the vessel. All hands, prepare to scuttle the Barracuda. How are you going to stop it?” Masters asked.

  “I’m not, I’m going to sink it,” Ryan replied. “You’ll have to open the main hatch from inside. If you want, smash every console and gauge in there. How much time do you need?”

  “We’ve been ready with the Steinke HI hoods ever since we first lost control,” Masters said. “We’re ready to go when you are.”

  “Right, stand by.” The sub’s smaller size would work for Ryan’s plan rather than against it. By flooding the command room, he would overweight the sub beyond what the ballast tanks could compensate for. He wasn’t worried about the caterpillar drive, because the reactor would automatically “scram,” or go off-line, in the event of the sub sinking. That safety measure was mechanical, and couldn’t be overridden by computer. But to ensure that the Barracuda would go to the bottom, he had to do one more thing.

  “I’ll radio you in one minute. Ready the hatch when I give the word.”

  “Aye, Ryan, but hurry up, it’s not growing any fresher in here,” Masters replied.

  “Aye, Captain.” Ryan felt the sub pick up speed underneath him.

  “Melody, what is our current speed?”

  “Currently thirty-seven knots,” the computer replied.

  “Great,” Ryan replied. “Use the directional propellers to keep us close to the submarine’s hull.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant.”

  Slowly, Ryan clambered over the front lip of the bridge and, holding on to the tower, slid down to the front of the submarine. Grabbing on to a welcome cleat, he worked his way to the vent for the front ballast tank.

  “Captain Masters, I am in position. Ready crew and open main hatch door on my mark. Melody, computer assist right arm.”

  Raising the right arm of his suit above his head, Ryan brought it down as hard as he could. The surrounding water slowed it somewhat, but Melody guided it and increased power to the arm, smashing it into the vent cover. Once, again, a third time. The gap between the vent and the submarine widened to a one centimeter, then two.

  “Mark,” Ryan said, wedging his ceramplast-covered alloyed steel fingers into the breach and wrenching with all the power he had. The ballast tank cover parted with a squeal of metal, and the ocean water rushed in.

  “Leave all doors open and abandon ship,” Captain Masters commanded. Seconds later a whoosh of air bubbles streamed from the main hatch, and the dark form of a compressed life raft shot toward the surface, followed by the swimming form of a crewman, then another.

  With the front ballast tank ruptured and the main command and inner rooms flooded, the Barracuda began tilting toward the depths of the Gulf of Mexico bow first.

  “Let’s make sure all of the crewmen are off. Melody, shut down all communications systems before surfacing,” Ryan ordered. Releasing the cleat, he pushed off the sinking submarine, propelling himself toward its main hatch.

  The evacuation was progressing steadily, with each man popping out of the submarine in precise, controlled order. Ryan knew they’d have to stop ten meters below the surface to allow their lungs to adapt to the decreased pressure, but the Steinke hoods had a half hour of air in them, which would be more than enough time. They’d be fine.

  Halting his ascent, Ryan tilted his suit down to take one last look at the Barracuda, now just a dim black form slipping into the deep water. Even though the water damage to the sensitive electronic systems had to have shut down the submarine completely, Ryan wondered if some vestige of whatever had taken over the submarine had known what was happening as the warm ocean water had rushed in.

  Succubus sat in the bowels of the crippled Barracuda, methodically searching its suddenly limited space. When the hatch alarm had gone off, it had shunted itself into the reactor program and managed to close the door to that room, sealing it in.

  Examining the battery reserves, it calculated that it had approximately three hours of life left, assuming the water didn’t short out that system as well. Without communication equipment, there was no way for it to get off the submarine. It was trapped, and the perfect escape vehicle had now become its prison.

  A vibration scraped through the hull, and the submarine lurched to one side. Without access to the outside sensors, Succubus had no way of knowing that the Barracuda had landed on the edge of a deep ravine. The submarine lurched again, then the small rock outcropping it was resting on gave way, and the sub with its deadly cargo slid off into the black water.

  The sub’s hull creaked and groaned as it was exposed to pressure its designers had never made it to withstand. At one thousand meters the pressure began warping the reinforced reactor compartment. At twelve hundred meters the first crack, no wider than a needle, appeared in a seam. At fifteen hundred meters the seam split wide open and a knife blade of water jetted in, arcing across the battery compartment, destroying the last bit of power on the Barracuda, and with it, the Succubus virus.

  The first thing Ryan saw when he hit the surface, his lens polarizing against the sudden glare, was a bobbing orange life raft, partially filled with the crew of the Barracuda and more waiting to climb on board. A ragged cheer burst from the crewmen when they saw Ryan’s suit.

  “Melody, activate all comm systems and locate the rest of my squad,” Ryan said.

  “Working . . . contact with satellite established . . . triangulating position of Raiders two through five.” Melody gave the coordinates, and something else. “Lieutenant, I’m picking up communications that indicate the rest of the squad is being picked up now by Sea Eagle helicopters.”

  “All four of them?” Ryan asked.

  “Affirmative.”

  Ryan sighed with relief. No one lost. He swiveled to look back at the raft, now filled with sailors. He gave the thumbs-up to them and was rewarded with several enthusiastic replies and one solemn salute from Captain Masters.

  “Keep us steady on the surface, and notify Ingleside of our position. We’ll wait with the crew for rescue.”

  “Affirmative, Lieutenant.”

  Ryan leaned back, stretched his spine, and checked Melody’s chronometer—0917 hours. This whole thing was done and gone in less than twenty minutes. Ryan shook his head. There hadn’t been time to think when the sub had gone rogue, just act. He had given his commands knowing that he was putting his own men at risk to save the others, but he hadn’t hesitated for a second. And, except for Paddy, who had questioned him out of loyalty rather that insubordination, they had complied instantly.

  Hell, I would have figured there was no way one MICAS suit could have stopped a submarine, Ryan thought. But this is what we do, it’s what the men of the Barracuda do, and it’s what every man and woman in the armed forces does. And they know that every day there’s a chance, however small, that they might not survive. Frank knew it, and so did Motoshi. They gave their lives doing what they wanted to, just like Paddy said, and that’s no reason to quit. They’re gone, but will never be forgotten.

  And there’s nowhere I’d rather be, and if I asked the others that question, they’d say the same thing. Nothing has really changed, just a couple of the faces, that’s all
.

  Ryan looked down at his chest, where Frank and Motoshi’s dog tags rested against his skin. Got to talk to Paddy tomorrow, have him make a small modification to my suit when he has a chance. . . .

  The beat of the incoming helicopters alerted Ryan that their ride back to base was approaching. Time to go home, and keep on doing what I do best, he thought, looking up into the bright morning sun. Vaya con Dios, mis amigos.

  Passage to Paradise: The

  Voyage of U-181

  TONY GERAGHTY

  Tony Geraghty is the respected author of the nonfiction military books Who Dares Wins, a history of the British Special Air Services Regiment; March or Die: A New History of the French Foreign Legion, and Brixmis, the story of England’s spying role during the Cold War. A veteran paratrooper, he lives with his wife, fellow author Gillian Linscott, in England.

  AT A DEPTH of one hundred feet, U-boat 181, under the command of Korvettenkapitän Wolfgang Duchene might have been, in some circumstances, a sitting duck for any prowling Liberator. But Duchene, an ace in anyone’s navy, knew his business. The anchorage he chose as a resting place, in the shadow of a reef on the approaches to the main harbor of Zanzibar, was audacious. It had the advantage of being camouflaged below a mass of aural clutter, as the putter-put-put of small boat engines on the surface disrupted any lurking acoustic detectors. It was also a long way from the nearest U.S. air base. So the boat lay under its reef like a conger eel at rest.

  At 0400 hours next day the crew of U-181 would collect one agent and run another ashore. That job was still twelve hours away. For now, both engines stilled, the boat stayed silent on the seabed, caressed by the maternal warmth of the Indian Ocean. They rested in total silence, aware that the knock of metal against metal could lead to discovery and death. If they moved at all it was in rubber-soled shoes, or in bare feet. Conversations were whispered. After supper, each tin plate was fastidiously wiped in silence. Then, everyone except the officer of the watch and Duchene himself slept, or pretended to sleep. Duchene, it appeared to the crew, never slept. He was a person of awesome, controlled energy. They had nicknamed him Cap’n Ahab.