The dimness of the compartment and its stuffy stench were much worse after his glimpse of the surface. Grachev walked over to Svyatoslov, who
was wheezing and moaning on the deck facing the overhead, his eyes shut in pain.
"Are you hurt?"
"Leg. Broken," the first officer winced.
"Come on." Grachev pulled the big man out of the water, now five centimeters deep, and rushed him to the ladder and pushed him up to the top hatch.
"Can you pull yourself out?"
"Yes, Captain!"
Grachev found Novskoyy facedown in the water. Grachev kicked him to turn him over. The unconscious consultant sputtered and coughed in his slumber. Grachev would save him for last. He pulled the officers out of the fire-control cubicles, hauling them to the ladder, Svyatoslov hauling them up. Tenukha was dead in his couch, his body becoming stiff, his skin cold and gray. Reverently, Grachev pulled him out of his harness and pushed him upward, refusing to leave him in the compartment. Finally he turned to Novskoyy and dragged him to the ladder and up to the upper hatch.
Alone in the wreckage of what had been his control room, he looked around for a moment. The water came up to just below his knees. He found a package the size of a large emergency duffel bag, just small enough to fit through the emergency hatch, and muscled it to the opening. Water continued to pour in, although he couldn't tell from where. After the bag was up on the deck above, there was nothing more to do inside the compartment. He looked around one last time.
"Good-bye, Vepr" he said.
He climbed up to the upper hatch, emerged back into the sunshine, and took a deep breath. The outer surface was not smooth, but was covered with angles and pieces of the structural steel, the former lattice that had held up the fin. He stood next to Svyatoslov, who was opening the emergency duffel, which had several life rafts, emergency food supplies, flares, and several emergency radios. The first officer had opened up one of the radios and activated the emergency beacon.
"Sir, if any of the surface ships survived, they might be able to pick us up."
They could only hope, Grachev thought.
"What's your hurry, Mr. First? Think of this as a vacation."
Novskoyy picked that moment to return to consciousness.
"Who are you?" he said to Grachev. "And where in God's name am I?"
Grachev glanced at Svyatoslov and smiled.
"What have we got?" McKee asked Judison.
"Reactor scrammed on shock. Port seawater system flooding stopped by the chicken switch. Trouble with the starboard reactor recirc pump breakers. Torpedo room monitors show a weapon fuel leak. Cyclops has sealed the torpedo room and purged it out with nitrogen gas, with liquid nitrogen spray going intermittently—"
The deck jumped as a torpedo tube was fired.
"—and is jettisoning weapons as fast as the cycle time will allow."
"Which leaves us with no torpedoes and we're out of Vortex missiles," McKee said.
"Exactly." The deck jumped again, another torpedo jettisoned below.
"How many weapons to go?"
"Three more. Then we'll need to emergency-ventilate the torpedo room. We need power first."
"Start the reactor on the port loop and the steam plant starboard side. We'll limp out of here. Any other flooding?"
"Port seawater was bad enough, Skipper. There's four feet of water in the aft compartment. Drain pump is about to take all the battery, and the emergency propulsion current to keep us level is taking as many amp-hours as we would have used starting up."
"Then get back aft and help bring the reactor up. No excuses, I want power. If you have to cut the drain pump, do it, but get the reactor online. Take Dietz. Go!"
The two experienced officers dashed aft. McKee's cigar had gone cold. He contemplated the wet chewed end and finally tossed it in the trash, deciding he'd smoked his last cigar. That had been the entire reason he'd lit it, because he'd assumed he'd be dead in minutes.
But the Vortex missiles he'd launched at the incoming torpedoes had worked. The torpedoes were gone. Most of the damage to the Hammerhead had been caused by his own missile exploding. Major flooding—that had been stopped—and a problem with a reactor loop, while serious, were minor compared to what could have happened. And with the
torpedo room weapon fuel leak, a lesser ship would be on fire and sinking, but the Cyclops system, the sealed torpedo room, and the ship's ability to rapidly jettison weapons in a self-oxidizing fuel leak emergency would save their lives.
"Captain, XO." A voice from the overhead speaker sounded on Circuit Seven.
McKee found the mike. "Captain."
"Sir, we're going to need some time. Recommend coming to periscope depth and snorkeling on the diesel."
"Very well. Give me full report after the diesel's on the bus."
"XO aye."
"Pilot," McKee called, "make your depth seven five feet and prepare to snorkel."
After the sub had risen, he spoke into the microphone:
"Commence . . . snorkeling!"
The order was punctuated by the roar of the diesel engine starting up. It pulled in air from the snorkel mast ten feet above the top of the sail and blew its exhaust out the plenum aft of the sail. The diesel engine, once warm, would supply the DC buses, allowing the XO aft the time he needed to restart the damaged reactor plant.
"Pilot, right full rudder, steady course west."
"Aye, Captain, my rudder's right full."
He might as well drive to the position of the Severodvinsk and see if it had been hit. He glanced at the display of data coming in from the Predator, which should be running out of fuel any minute. The data was now coming in on the photonic peri-
scope mast, since the football buoy had been damaged in the battle. One display showed the fleet far to the south, the ships reforming, the combatants largely gone. One troopship had been hit by a weapon mistake, leaving behind a destroyer with the other cargo vessels and troopships. Whoever commanded that destroyer was now in command of the fleet. The ships were turning back to the northwest, which was odd, considering that they should have been heading northeast to return home.
McKee stared up at the angled display screens, wishing for the feel of a periscope optics module. The display of the photonics mast showed the water coming toward them, the snorkel mast aft, and something strange in the distance.
"Cyclops, what do you show at bearing west?"
"Magnifying, Captain."
The image in the display grew. The jumping image looked like a boat, with the hull low in the water.
"Take the Predator over the contact."
"Captain, Predator fuel level is at low-low."
"Take it as far as the onboard fuel cell will allow. Let the unit glide to the contact."
"Aye-aye, Captain," the electronic voice said. "Predator engine shutdown. Captain, if it continues to transmit, we will not have the ability to perform the Predator self-destruct."
"Forget the self-destruct. Fly the Predator to this contact and keep the camera feed coming as long as it answers."
"Aye-aye, Captain."
McKee watched the image grow as the Predator glided in toward the contact. The view showed something round.
"Conn, Maneuvering, electric plant is in a full-power diesel lineup. Request to restart the reactor."
McKee found the microphone. "Restart the reactor."
"Restart the reactor, Conn, Maneuvering aye."
The image grew until McKee could see he was looking at a floating object with people standing on it.
It was some sort of escape pod. There were survivors from the Severodvinsk sinking! And here he was without weapons. He thought quickly—there were small arms in a cabinet in his stateroom. But then, how logical would that be, to shoot survivors with machine pistols as they stood on their escape pod?
But then, how logical would it be to let them live, after what had happened to Princess Dragon and Devilfish? And to Karen Petri?
"
Conn, Maneuvering, reactor is critical."
"Maneuvering, Captain, aye."
McKee stared at the display from the photonics mast as the image grew closer.
"Captain, Predator shutdown," Cyclops reported, the display screen winking out.
"Do we have contact with the Mark 23 Bloodhound or the Mark 5 Sharkeye?"
"No, sir. Contact lost during the battle, sir."
"Sir," the pilot said. "Maintain course?"
"Keep going," McKee said absently, staring at
the photonics mast display. The men were growing clearly visible on the deck of their huge escape pod.
"Range to the pod, Cyclops?"
"Estimated range, four thousand yards."
Keep going, McKee thought.
"Radio, Captain," McKee said on the Circuit Seven mike. The speaker in the overhead rasped to life.
"Radio aye."
"Radio chief to control."
Morgan Henry took all of four seconds to arrive. "Sir, did you want to send a sitrep?"
"Sitrep?" McKee asked dumbly.
"Yessir, about the sinkings of the task force ships and the submarine?"
Sitrep, McKee thought. He'd probably go to prison for shooting the surface ships in violation of his orders.
"No. I called you in here for one reason. Get a connection with the East Coast eel phone grid. Call into Portsmouth Naval Hospital. Find out the status of Karen Petri."
"Yessir."
"And hurry."
Twenty minutes later, the reactor was online and the diesel was still running, now at no-load and cooling, and Hammerhead was hovering at periscope depth ten yards from the escape pod of the Severodvinsk.
"Radio, Captain, you got your phone call in to Portsmouth?"
"Yes, Captain. We're on hold."
"Let me know. Pilot, prepare to vertical-surface."
Judison showed up then, staring at the displays.
"XO," McKee said quietly, "here's the key to the small-arms locker. Go down to my stateroom and bring up five MAC-12s."
Judison stared malevolently at the display for a moment, taking the key. "With pleasure, sir."
"What the hell is that?" Svyatoslov asked, pointing at the odd-shaped pole protruding from the sea with a spherical shape on top.
"Obviously we didn't hit the submarine," Grachev said, spitting overboard. "There he is."
"What if he tries to take us captive?" the first officer said.
"Give me that nine-millimeter," Grachev said, taking the pistol and loading a clip.
He aimed it at the sphere of the photonics mast and fired, emptying the clip into it.
"Did I hit it?"
"Yes, Captain," Svyatoslov said, cradling his bad leg as he sat on the deck. "I think you got it."
"Ready to vertical-surface, Captain," the pilot said.
"Hold that thought," McKee said, at the same time the display winked out on the forward panel. "Hey, Cyclops, what happened to the photonics display?"
"Photonics mast is damaged, Captain," the computer's voice said. "Open-circuited."
"Dammit," McKee said. "You'd think they'd battle-harden these things. This is going in my re-
port." He smiled, wondering if his report would be made from a prison cell.
Judison came in with the machine pistols. McKee took his, the gun heavy in his hands.
"Captain," a voice said from behind him. It was Morgan Henry, the radio chief. "They want to talk to you, sir."
McKee picked up a radio handset, linked into the multifrequency antenna to the eel phone transmitter.
"XO, get ready at the hatch. On my word we'll vertical-surface. Open up the bridge clamshells and open fire on these assholes."
"Yessir."
"Hello," McKee barked into the handset of the radio. "This is Captain Kelly McKee. I want to be connected to Karen Petri's room!"
"You are connected," a voice came back. It wasn't Petri, or a doctor or nurse. It was the iron voice of Admiral John Patton.
"Sir. How is she?"
"She's fine, now—"
"Let me talk to her!"
Silence for a moment, then Petri's voice. Karen Petri's sweet voice. "Hello?" she asked uncertainly.
"It's me," he said. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. They may release me today."
"I'm so glad," he said, relieved.
"McKee!" the phone voice said. Patton again.
"What?" McKee said belligerently.
"Why are you calling Petri's room? Why haven't you called on Nestor?"
"I've been kind of busy," McKee said.
"Be careful, you're on an open circuit. But tell me now. Did you finish?"
McKee sighed, then clicked to transmit. "We finished. We're definitely finished."
"And your friends?"
"I can honestly say, they're finished too."
"Well, come home as soon as you can."
"We'll see you soon," McKee said. He clicked off.
"Well, Captain?" Judison asked. "Vertical-surface?"
McKee looked at his executive officer, who was ready to climb out the top hatch and shoot an automatic pistol at the survivors of the Severodvinsk.
What the hell, he thought.
"No," McKee finally said. "Let the Severodvinsk sailors take their chances with their remaining surface ships. I don't have time for them anymore. Secure snorkeling, take her deep, and lay in a track for Norfolk. We're going home."
Ten minutes later, McKee was leaning over the chart table when Judison joined him.
"Sir?"
"Yes, XO?"
"About those Dobermans we had trouble with . . ."
"Don't worry about it, XO. We got away clean even without them."
"That's not it, Captain. I was talking about your football game? State champs on the flea-flicker that never worked in practice?"
"Yeah, what about it?"
"Sir, you never played football in your life." Jud-ison was starting to smile.
"Well, you've got me, XO," McKee said, smiling himself. "How did you know?"
"I'm the executive officer, sir. I have access to all the ship's personnel files, even yours. It's my job, sir."
"So, why didn't you say you knew?"
"I assume you deceived me for a reason, Skipper."
"Of course. I wanted you going in confident."
"So now you have your answer."
McKee laughed. "You know, Kiethan, someday you just might make a decent commanding officer."
Judison smiled. "Same to you, Skipper, same to you."
McKee shook his head and went back to studying the chart, lifting his head for a moment to take in the room, beginning to realize he was enjoying himself, and that the hole in his life carved by Diana's death was starting to heal. The first thing he was going to do when he got back was drink an Anchor Steam.
"Thanks, Bruce," he whispered to no one.
Epilogue
President Jaisal Warner bent to lay a wreath gently at the base of a marble monument with a cruise ship carved into the top. The names of those lost on the Princess Dragon were carved on the face, the sunshine making shadows of the orderly tombstones of Arlington National Cemetery. Next to her Admiral Michael Pacino watched from his wheelchair, his gold stripes climbing to his elbows, his medals on his chest extending from his shoulder to his waist. While he watched, a tear leaked from one eye, quickly blotted away by his handkerchief. Surrounding them were thousands of officers and enlisted men, as well as the cameras and microphones of the press. The ceremony broke up after an hour. Pacino insisted on lingering until only a few photographers remained.
Finally he turned to Colleen.
"Take me back to the hospital," he said.
The admiral was pulled into the Sea King helicopter for the trip to Bethesda Naval Hospital.
Kelly McKee stood on the flying bridge on top of the sail when Hammerhead made the turn into the Elizabeth River Channel and sailed past the carrier piers, then the cruiser berths and the destroyer<
br />
i
piers, and finally to the submarine pier. He'd declined the offer of tugs, and as he conned the ship into his berth, he could see the officers of ComU-SubCom staff as they stood there in their starched full-dress whites, swords, full medals, and white gloves. There were twelve of them, standing at parade rest.
Patton was there, in front of the triangular staff formation, standing directly opposite to where the gangway crane idled, ready to put the brow across when the lines came over.
"Here she comes," Patton's deputy commander, Byron DeMeers, said. "Miss America."
The USS Hammerhead, lead ship in the NSSN class, had just made the turn to the slip, the crew hustling on deck, getting ready to throw over the lines.
"Detail," Admiral Patton said, "atten-/mf!"
The officers of the staff formation came to rigid attention. Twelve pairs of shoes clicked together at the heels in one synchronized thump.
Patton waited with the formation until the brow was over the hull of the Hammerhead, which was tied to the pier by four heavy lines, the others coming over. The gangway in place, the crane withdrew, and a lone figure wearing khakis walked slowly across the gangway. Captain Kelly McKee, his uniform blowing in the wind, his eyes squinting against the glare.
"Detail, hand sa-/wte!" Patton ordered as McKee walked up.
The officers raised their gloved hands to the
brims of their hats in unison. McKee stepped twelve inches in front of Patton and raised a salute.
"Captain McKee, USS Hammerhead, reporting as ordered, sir."
"Ready, two!" Patton ordered, and the formation dropped their salutes.
The admiral began to smile. He pulled off his right glove and grabbed McKee's hand, pumping it enthusiastically.
"Congratulations, Kelly," he said. "Well done out there. You and your ship avenged the deaths of our fleet. We're here to thank you. There will be an awards ceremony for you and the crew at thirteen hundred hours. Here. The President is coming."
"The President?"
"And Karen Petri."
McKee smiled. "Okay, Admiral. I'll be here."
Michael Pacino watched the ceremony on SNN from his Bethesda hospital bed, with Colleen there, young Tony slouching in a chair. Admiral Sean Murphy leaned on his cane by the window, his eyes glued to the television, where President Warner, fresh from the Arlington ceremony, stood on the pier next to the USS Hammerhead, placing a ribbon with the Navy Cross around Kelly McKee's neck.
Threat vector Page 39