Collapse Depth

by Todd Tucker

  The first thing damaged was the forwardmost part of the ship: the fiberglass dome that protected the sonar sphere. Dome and sphere were ripped from the hull.

  Next, the three front main ballast tanks hit. These tanks were always exposed to sea pressure, designed to be either all the way empty, when the ship was surfaced, or all the way full of seawater, when the boat was submerged. As the collision crushed them, it didn’t flood the Alabama, but it did greatly affect the ship’s ability to come to the surface, as they could no longer expel water from them and completely fill them with air, to make the ship buoyant. But the tanks did save the ship in another way. By absorbing so much of the shock, they functioned like the crumple zones on a car, absorbing energy even as they were destroyed, so that when the ship’s pressure hull finally came in contact with the hard basalt, it was not breeched, and the “people tank” remained largely in tact. The ship came to a complete, sudden halt.

  Most of the immediate damage to the ship was done by that sudden deceleration. Since the ship’s equipment was designed to withstand the shock of battle, the pumps, motors, and electrical panels remained safe. A breaker on the propulsion lube oil system did trip, momentarily causing the throttles to shut. Two pitometers, eighteen inch rods that struck from the bottom of the ship and measured speed through the water, were sheered off, which problematically caused every digital indicator inside Alabama to show that the ship was still travelling at Ahead Flank even has it sat motionless near the ocean bottom. But other than that, at the moment of impact, the machinery of the Alabama held up remarkably, miraculously, well.

  The human beings of the Alabama suffered more damage. In general, men who were sitting down or in their racks withstood the collision with few injuries. Men who were walking through the ship were less fortunate, at the mercy of where they were on the boat, and, most importantly, what piece of equipment was directly in front of them as they were propelled forward into it by the ship’s sudden stop. Hallorann, in Machinery One, was saved from crashing into the diesel engine by the navigator, as he collided with his swinging body and held on.

  Chief Palko, the ship’s leading electrician, fractured his skull as he was thrown against the bulkhead between the missile compartment and the forward compartment. He’d been going forward to the scullery with a toolbox in hand to take a look at one of the ship’s two dishwashers, which had stopped running during the night. After the collision, he lay groaning, unconscious, bleeding from his nose and ears.

  Two crewmen were killed within seconds of the impact. Missile Technician Third Class Simpson had been standing atop the ladder from Missile Compartment Third Level to Lower Level when the collision occurred. Out of every eighteen hour period at sea, Simpson roamed the missile compartment for six, a billy club on his belt and a clipboard in his hand, watching over all twenty-four missiles much like a zookeeper watches his animals, monitoring their temperature, their humidity, and their general well-being. He was preparing to climb down into missile compartment lower level when the ship hit. He was thrown forward, then fell down the ladder. His chin struck the deck plate just forward of the ladder, snapping his head back as he fell and breaking his neck. He was dead before he hit the deckplates.

  The other death was Petty Officer Juani, the torpedoman on watch whom Hallorann had seen laughing at his computer screen immediately before discovering the dying navigator. Earlier that watch he’d done some minor maintenance on one of the idle torpedo trays, re-attaching a nylon roller that had come loose during the last time they “indexed” the torpedoes, or moved them around the space. While he had placed the large tool box back in its proper position, he had failed to lash it in place with the nylon straps that were there for that purpose. When the ship hit the seamount, the tool box shot forward, aimed at Juani’s skull with an assassin’s precision. His entire head was flattened, and he was dead without ever realizing what had happened.

  Almost everyone not hurt critically was shaken or dazed. As quickly as they could, they picked themselves up, and without waiting for an alarm or an announcement, moved toward their stations to fight to save the ship.

  • • •

  The hull itself was badly deformed where it struck the seamount, but remained intact, a testament to the overcaution of the submarine’s designers and the strength of HY80 steel. A large breech through the actual wall of the hull would have been impossible to staunch, and the forward compartment, at that depth, would have filled completely with seawater in minutes until the ship could never rise again. In the language of submarine design, the ship didn’t have enough “reserve buoyancy” to overcome a completely flooded forward compartment, even with an emergency blow of all main ballast tanks, even if all the main ballast tanks had survived the collision.

  But along the port side of the ship, one of the ship’s four torpedo tubes was deformed, its perfectly circular opening pushed into an oval, an oval that the round brass breech door no longer sealed. The sea pressure was so great at that depth that the water entered the hull through that crescent-shaped gap with an almost explosive force, a roar that sounded more like an oncoming freight train than flowing liquid. Seaman Hallorann, still clutching the navigator’s body a few feet away, heard it and assumed at first that it was a high pressure air leak, because that was the only sound he’d heard in his life that could compare. He let go of the navigator’s body, got to his feet, and stumbled into the torpedo room to fight the flooding.

  • • •

  Jabo flew forward when the ship hit, completely destroying a stationary bicycle that was mounted to the deck in front of him, and briefly losing consciousness. When he awoke, he felt the steep, odd angle of the stopped ship, and he heard people running above him, at the berthing level. He was groggy, and thoroughly entangled in the remains of the bike, but as he got to his feet, he determined that the worst thing wrong with him was a badly torn uniform. He wondered if he’d missed an announcement while knocked out. He realized with a start that he must know more about what had happened to the Alabama than any man onboard. Any man, that is, other than the navigator. The navigator, he realized again, the navigator did this. He’d tried to kill them all. He’d also set the fire in the laundry, and killed Howard with the Freon. Now, with the whole crew fighting for their lives, who knew what else he might be capable of. He had to tell someone. His ears popped painfully as the flooding caused a pressure change; he swallowed to clear them.

  He stood up in the lower level between the two rows of missiles. He was okay. Whatever was wrong with the ship, he was going to fight.

  He ran forward through the passageway between the two rows of missiles. He felt strong and in control, grateful to be of sound mind and body after the collision. He was an officer of the United States Navy’s submarine force, and he wanted to get quickly to where there was the most danger, to fight it in the way he was trained. And, if along the way, he found the navigator, he was going to beat the shit out of him.

  At the end of the compartment, he came to Petty Officer Simpson’s body at the bottom of the ladder. His head was at almost a right angle to his body; there was no question he was dead. Jabo again felt a surging rage toward the navigator.

  He considered grabbing the nearest 4MC and alerting control about the body, but quickly decided not to. Simpson was dead, there was nothing anyone could do about that, and he was sure that control was being overwhelmed with information. He didn’t want his report to distract Kincaid from his real priority: saving the ship. With a twinge of guilt, he climbed over the sailor’s dead body and shot up the ladder.

  The hatch to the forward compartment was right at the top of the ladder. Just as Jabo started to climb through it, one hand on the top sealing ring, the watchstander from Missile Control Central, on the other side of the hatch, heard the rush of water in the forward compartment. Anticipating the order to rig for collision and flooding, he jumped from his chair, ran into the passageway, and slammed the three-hundred pound steel hatch shut, breaking every finger on Jabo’
s left hand.

  • • •

  When Kincaid heard his friend and roommate yelling on the 4MC, he was startled. But he followed his recommendation.

  “Dive make your depth one-six-zero feet!” he said. The Diving Officer immediately gave the orders to the helm and lee helm, and they both pulled back on their controls. The ship rose, giving Kincaid just a moment to wonder what the fuck Jabo was doing. Then they hit.

  Kincaid was thrown forward into the Dive’s chair. The Dive was actually wearing his seat belt, one of those small miracles of the day that might have prevented immediate and total catastrophe. He was thrown forward and jackknifed across the nylon strap, but not propelled headfirst into the ship’s control panel, not knocked out when the ship’s survival depended on his quick actions.

  Kincaid got to his feet and jumped back onto the conn. The lights in control flickered but stayed on. The chief of the watch climbed back onto his stool and hurriedly cut out the dozen or so wailing alarms that dotted his panel. Not everyone else had gotten up; a number of men were sprawled across the control room, bleeding and unconscious. Paper was everywhere; while the ship’s equipment had been designed to withstand such an impact, the ship’s innumerable three-ring binders had never been shock tested, and the control room floor was awash in paper. Paper and blood.

  There was a bang followed by a roar below his feet, in the torpedo room.

  While Jabo had feared that Kincaid, the Officer of the Deck, would be inundated with frantic reports, the opposite was true. He had almost no information, just indications: the bilge alarms in the torpedo room, the horrifying sound of the ship’s hull scraping the earth, the roar of the flooding below decks. He knew intuitively they had collided with something, but the repeaters in control all said they were still going flank speed. In a drill, the communications were carefully choreographed, and the exercise always began with a 4MC announcement. Had Petty Officer Juani in the torpedo room lived, he might have made such an announcement, telling control about the flooding in the torpedo room. But he was dead, and Hallorann was fighting his way into the space past a frigid blast of water.

  Kincaid waited what seemed like an eternity for someone to say something informative on the 4MC, to give him something he could announce, pass along, sound the alarm, get the crew moving. But he’d been around long enough to witness real casualties at sea, and he realized that a cogent announcement might not come any time soon. More importantly, he realized that whatever was wrong, he was the Officer of the Deck, and he wasn’t doing any good by standing there with his thumb up his ass waiting for someone to tell him that something was wrong. He muttered, “fuck it,” and grabbed the 1MC.

  “Flooding in the forward compartment!” he announced. “Rig ship for flooding and general emergency.”

  He hung up the mike, his heart racing and sweat running down the back of his neck. As calmly as he could, he turned to the chief of the watch, one of several watchstanders in control who were staring at him, waiting to see what would happen next.

  “Chief of the watch,” he said. “Sound the alarm. Ahead Full.”

  • • •

  In lesser casualties, one of the major purposes of the ship’s clanging alarm was to wake up all the off-watch crewmen to get every hand devoted to fighting the casualty. That was unnecessary in this case; the only men of the ship’s 154 man crew who weren’t awake were unconscious with head injuries. But the clanging alarm did serve the purpose of triggering an automatic response from the well-trained crew, getting systems aligned in the safest possible configuration, and getting every man moving toward the position where he could do the most good. The highest ranking and second highest ranking men on the boat crossed paths without a word to each other leaving their staterooms, the captain on his way to control, the XO on his way toward the sound of rushing water.

  • • •

  Duggan opened eyes and heard the frantic reports of all three of his watchstanders. No one in maneuvering had noticed that he was knocked out.

  “Sir, the electric plant is in a half power line up,” reported Patterson.

  “Throttles are still shut,” said Tremain.

  The EWS growled a report into maneuvering, but Duggan was processing it all slowly, his vision hazy. He couldn’t keep up.

  The engine room watchstanders continued to call in reports. In everyone’s tone was this request: someone please tell us what the fuck is going on. Except for Duggan, the men in maneuvering were all on their feet, facing their panels, cutting out alarms. About one quarter of the electrical control panel was dark; one of the turbine generators had for some reason tripped off. Patterson, without an order, deftly shifted the electric plant into a half power line up, where everything was powered by a single turbine generator. The lights for all the electrical busses again glowed blue. Duggan looked down at the EOOW’s small desk, which was covered in blood. He touched his forehead, felt a large gash. He’d slipped when the boat grounded, slammed his head into the desk, right onto the metal bracket that held the 7MC microphone. Blood streamed down the sides of the desk onto the deck.

  Reports continued pouring in, the impact had knocked dozens of things off kilter. Blood ran into his eyes, he wiped it off with the back of hand, felt the slick smear of it against his face. As his eyes focused Duggan saw yellow lights all over maneuvering, warning lights, and a few red alarms: one for the knocked out turbine generator, one for the pressurizer level detector, and one for salinity in the feed system. Every time a watchstander announced one and cut out the alarm, another one would come in. It was almost overwhelming, especially coupled with the chorus of concerned, urgent announcements being made by his team in maneuvering, as they tried to sort out their own problems. And the splitting pain in his skull.

  But at the very center of the center panel, reactor power held steady at 50 percent: a lower bell must have been ordered and answered during his unconsciousness. And the electrical plant, while slightly degraded in its half-power line up, was functioning, with all busses energized. The lights were burning and the screw was turning. And Duggan, on his first day as a qualified watchstander, knew that was important enough to pass along.

  “Quiet!” he said, his first words in maneuvering since the casualty. The watchstanders silenced immediately, expecting guidance, or orders to prosecute the casualties that beset the engine room. Instead, Duggan grabbed the bloody 7MC microphone in front of him, a direct, amplified link to the control room and the officer of the deck.

  “Control, maneuvering….the reactor is critical. The electrical plant is in a half power line up. Ready to answer all bells.”

  • • •

  Jabo stood at the hatch for an agonizing second, screaming, while the missile tech struggled to open it. Finally it flew open.

  The pain in his hand was blinding, unbearable, but it was the sight of his hand that almost made him pass out: his fingers were flattened and dangling uselessly from the first knuckle on. The flattening had made his fingers unnaturally large and floppy and all the blood had been pressed from them; it looked like he was wearing an oversized white glove. Jabo looked away and fought to stay conscious.

  “Jesus Christ, I’m sorry sir,” said the missile tech. He had glimpsed Jabo’s mangled hand and was looking away, too, pale and in shock.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Jabo. Hot tears of pain ran down his face. He wanted to move toward the sound of the flooding, but the pain in his hand kept him frozen in place. Another missile tech ran out of MCC with a first aid kit and a roll of gauze. He looked down at Jabo’s flattened hand.

  “Oh fuck,” he said. His hands dropped.

  “Wrap it up,” said Jabo through gritted teeth. He knew gauze wouldn’t stop the pain, but at least it would make his useless fingers stop flopping around. And it would keep people from staring at the fucking things. “You got any Motrin in that thing?”

  The missile tech dug a small white bottle out of the bag, and shook out two pills, looked at his hand, and shook
out two more, and handed them to Jabo. He swallowed all four without water. They wrapped his hand, taped it, and Jabo ran forward.

  • • •

  The XO and Jabo got to the torpedo room at the same time. They stared at each other. Jabo started to tell the XO what he knew about the navigator, but the roar from the flooding was too loud. The XO pointed and they moved aft into Machinery One, right by the diesel, where they could hear each other, barely, over the noise.

  “Holy shit!” said the XO, as they entered.

  “The navigator did all this!” shouted Jabo. He involuntarily raised his bandaged hand.

  “How?”

  “He drove us toward a seamount!” Jabo realized he’d dropped the NTM message, probably when the hatch shut on his hand. “He set the fire and killed Howard!”

  The XO rapidly processed that information and concluded it was important, but, at the moment, not urgent. “Get a phone talker in here,” he said. “It will be too loud in the torpedo room. Let’s go.” He started marching toward the casualty.

  “But XO!” Jabo actually grabbed his shoulder. “Don’t we need to find the navigator? Stop him from doing anything else?”

  The XO paused and raised an eyebrow. He pointed over Jabo’s shoulder. Jabo turned and found himself at eye level with the waist of the navigator’s dead body, right where his belt buckle would have been had it not been digging into the soft flesh of his neck. “Jesus Christ!” he said, startled so bad he almost fell down as he recoiled from the corpse.

  “Shit, sorry about that Jabo,” said the XO. “I thought you saw him.”

  • • •

  “All stop!” ordered Kincaid just as the captain arrived control. Kincaid shot a look to him as he appeared, because his was not the conventional order to give in a flooding casualty, not what a drill monitor would look for. But the captain nodded; it was the right call. With their severe down angle, forward motion would only make the ship go deeper. And they were already very deep.