Final Bearing

by George Wallace

  Watchstanders in the engine room scurried around, frantically turning off equipment that wasn't vital for their survival. Other technicians were busy already, trying to figure out what caused the boat’s nuclear reactor to shut down in the first place.

  Bruce Hendrix charged through the reactor compartment tunnel door into the engineering space, leading a team of ten more technicians, running aft to help their shipmates. Hendrix was the senior and most experienced nuclear electronics technician onboard. Finding the problem and fixing it was his task.

  Frank Bechtold, the senior enlisted watchstander in the engine room and the chief machinist, met Hendrix at the base of the short ladder at the forward end of the machinery space. He began his report even as people streamed past him in the narrow corridor between the massive electronic panels.

  "Bruce, the engine room is shut down. I need charging and discharging station watches." He paused when he saw Dave Kuhn jump down the ladder, still zipping his poopie suit. Bechtold went on, but now both Hendrix and the engineer were listening intently. "We lost open indication on the port loop. The reactor protection system sensed no flow in that loop and scrammed the reactor. The reactor temperature dropped like a rock. We can still do a fast recovery start-up, but just barely."

  A fast recovery start-up was a special procedure developed after the Thresher disaster back in the early sixties. It allowed the submarine operators to start the reactor and get power back in an emergency at sea, but only if certain safety limits were satisfied. If the limits were exceeded, a much longer and more controlled procedure had to be used. Having the reactor temperature above the minimum was one of the most important limits.

  Below their feet, the three men could hear the "chug-chug" of the coolant charging pumps as they strained to put water into the reactor system to make up for the contraction of the rapid cooling. They had to keep the core covered with water. The water removed the heat generated by decaying fission fragments. An uncovered core would melt, and that would be a true disaster. It was all a well-choreographed dance to keep the reactor safe yet still able to get power back as quickly as possible.

  The sub rolled violently, tossing the three against the side of a panel, then, just as viciously rolled the other way, sending them tumbling to the other side of the compartment.

  "Jesus,” Kuhn grumbled. “Looks like we're up at periscope depth and the storm's still going on up there. That’s gonna make this damned interesting."

  One of Hendrix's electronics technicians rose from the panel where he had been squatting. Sweat trickled off his forehead, dripped from his chin, and already soaked the back of his poopie suit. Having no air conditioning in such a cramped space that was already filled with hot pipes had already allowed the temperature to soar.

  "That ties it, Chief. Definite open circuit on the valve position indication. We can't fix that from here."

  Kuhn looked at Hendrix. He knew what was needed.

  "Chief Hendrix, break out your equipment and the procedure to replace that indicator. Get your team ready. Chief Bechtold, get ready for an emergency reactor compartment entry. I'm going to talk to the Skipper."

  Another roll hit them, smashing them into the switchgear. The 1MC speaker blasted: "Commence snorkeling."

  All the way forward, in the lowest level of the bow compartment, the diesel operator twisted himself like a pretzel to reach all the controls he simultaneously operated. With his right hand, he shoved the shiny brass quadrant-valve handle forward, forcing compressed air into the cylinders to make the machine roll over. With his left hand, he held in a button that over-rode the diesel safety circuit so the diesel could come up to speed. With his right foot he held open the kick drain so that water in the induction piping could drain out.

  The lovingly preserved, bright-red machine growled and groaned in protest as it came to life. Deafening noise, diesel smoke and the smell of fuel oil filled the little compartment. The "rock crusher" was ready to do its job, giving Spadefish a source of emergency electrical power.

  It was limited but vital. Otherwise, they were dead in the water.

  Durgan stood and watched the battery amps click away. The maneuvering room was almost silent once the initial flurry of activity was completed. The race now was to save the very limited power still available to them from the battery. If they conserved all they could, it would provide a couple of hour's worth of electrical power. Power needed to restart the reactor and to supplement the diesel once it was ready. Every click of the amp-hour meter meant that much more had been used already.

  The operator released the switches, grabbed a microphone and yelled to be heard over the deafening din.

  "Diesel on the governor, ready for emergency loading!"

  Durgan didn't waste any time loading the diesel generator. He quickly shifted as much electrical load as he could to the “rock-crusher.” The machine seemed to groan and squat down like a tired but trusty plow horse as more electrical load was shifted its way, but it was ready to handle the work.

  The snorkel mast, sticking out of the churning waves just behind the periscope, sucked in the great quantities of air the diesel needed to run. When the sea surged over the mast, the snorkel valve slammed shut to keep the water out, just as it was designed to do. But every time that happened in this raging sea, the diesel sucked on the air inside the sub. And when it did, it popped the ears of every man on board.

  Kuhn grabbed an MJ phone to talk to Ward and heard him answer groggily.

  "Skipper, we lost the port open VPI. There’s nothing to do but go into the reactor and fix it. Chief Bechtold is setting up for an emergency reactor compartment entry. Chief Hendrix is getting the tools and parts out."

  Ward listened to his engineer and felt his stomach drop. He knew how difficult and dangerous this procedure was. The reactor and its radiation weren't the problem. Radiation levels dropped off almost as soon as the reactor scrammed. Heat was the problem. It would still be over 160 degrees in there. Most of the pipes were heated to over four hundred degrees. With Spadefish pitching and rolling in this storm, people were going to get burned if they went in there. It was only a question of how badly.

  To add to the misery, there wasn't time to ventilate fresh air into the compartment. The space had been sealed tight for weeks. There was no telling what noxious gases waited inside. Whoever was brave enough to go in there would have to wear air-fed breathing masks.

  There was no choice but to face the heat. It would take weeks for the reactor to cool on its own. And it would be impossible to force-cool it at sea with the limited power available from the battery and diesel, and even that would take several days. Meanwhile, they would soon be without any power at all, unable to restart the reactor as they bobbed helplessly about on a treacherous sea.

  Besides that, there was a dirty ship out there somewhere. If the mini-sub filled with killer cocaine made it in and out of Puget Sound, it would surely be coming back to its mother ship and that would be their only chance to stop it. If it got away, who knows where it would deliver the poison next? And how many would die then?

  They had to get power, had to get moving.

  "Who's going in?"

  "Chief Hendrix and I," Kuhn answered without hesitation.

  Ward wasn’t surprised.

  "All right. Dave, be careful in there."

  "Piece of cake, Skipper. Don't worry."

  Jason Rashad had found himself a comfortable spot atop some gunnysacks out of the way of the men who were unloading the sub, but close enough so he could make sure every brick found its way to the back of the brown van. He had rolled himself a big joint and was halfway finished with it when heard the staccato beat of an outboard motor from somewhere out there on the water.

  “Shit!”

  The bastard was coming their way, but it was several minutes before he could make out the little white boat breaking through the pre-dawn mist.

  “Shit!” he said again.

  They were almost finished off-loading. Anoth
er two hours and they would be out of here, the job finished. Rashad couldn't wait to be back in Seattle, back in his warm apartment, all wrapped up with some white pussy and sailing on some non-doctored blow. Mostly, though, he wanted desperately to be rid of that whining Latino and the fat, obnoxious Russian.

  Not even rounding up more help and speeding up the off-load had made this watch any less miserable. And now, when they were so near its completion, here comes a severe complication, putt-putting their way.

  There was a big man standing in the stern of the little boat, waving a flashlight and yelling at him.

  "Ahoy on the pier! What you guys doing? I thought this place was abandoned. You boys having a problem?”

  Rashad stood stiffly and watched as the boat drew closer, still sucking on his smoke but not answering the intruder’s questions. The men passing the cocaine up to the pier stopped working and watched.

  When Bert Jankowski was close enough to assure a kill, Rashad raised his Mac10 machine pistol and fired. The first burst caught Jankowski squarely in the chest and threw him sprawling over the transom of the boat. He was dead before he hit the water.

  With a cruel grin on his face, Rashad continued firing into the little boat, splintering the carefully finished brightwork and shattering the wooden hull. Slowly, the cold waters of Carr Inlet filled the boat as it sank ever lower in the water. Finally, it slipped beneath the surface and sank past the floating body of the dead fisherman.

  Rashad shouted back to his thugs who stood there, staring wide-eyed at where the boat had just disappeared.

  "Hurry up! Show’s over! We're gonna have to get finished and get out of here before somebody misses that bastard and comes looking for him."

  As he watched his men work even more feverishly to load the bricks in the last truck, Rashad promptly changed plans. No way now to slip the trucks out of here one at a time over several days. They would all have to go at once and just hope no one noticed them. Once they were over the bridge to the mainland, he would split them up to find different routes to the warehouse up by SEATAC airport.

  As they worked, no one on the pier noticed the small orange buoy float free from the sinking wreck and rise to the surface. They were too busy loading cocaine, mumbling to each other about what they had just witnessed.

  The buoy was water-activated. As soon as it reached the surface, it went to work, sending its coded signal, telling any listener that someone was in the waters of Carr Inlet and needed help.

  Dave Kuhn and Bruce Hendrix looked a bit like moon-walkers, dressed in yellow anti-contamination coveralls, welder's gloves and emergency air-breathing masks as they waited in front of the door that led into the sub’s nuclear reactor. Bechtold fitted a large spanner wrench on the massive nuts holding the iron strong-backs across the door then smacked it with a hammer again and again until the nuts were loosened. He lifted the heavy, red I-beams out of the way. Air whistled past the thick, heavy steel door as it slowly swung open.

  It felt as if someone had just cracked the trapdoor to hell.

  The two yellow-clad figures stepped inside onto a small metal grate and slid down a ladder to the deck, ten feet below. The heat hit Kuhn like a blow to the chest. It was a powerful force, a malevolent presence that seemed bent on forcing them back out of the compartment.

  There seemed no way they could tolerate this heat, much less try to work in it. It simply was beyond human endurance.

  Both men knew there was no other way. It had to be done.

  They gathered their strength and resolve and tried to put the intense discomfort out of mind. The valve was right there in front of them, only a step away.

  Hendrix pulled a pair of wire cutters from the tool bag and snipped the wires that held a pad of insulating lagging in place over the VPI. He pulled the pad off and dropped it to the deck. Heat radiated from the hot metal as if from a red-hot fireplace poker.

  Sweat already poured from their bodies. The masks were covered with perspiration and salt, making seeing almost impossible. Both men already felt faint, and had to concentrate on keeping their footing as the boat rocked beneath them. They did not want to fall against the superheated metal. It would instantly sear any exposed flesh.

  Kuhn grabbed a screwdriver and went to work, removing the cover, carefully catching each piping hot screw before it got away. They couldn’t afford to lose one and have to try to fish around this furnace for it.

  When the cover fell away, they saw that their diagnosis was confirmed. The sensor inside the indicator was a charred mess.

  Kuhn removed the terminals and slid the molten mass out onto the deck. Hendrix slid in the new sensor and tried his best to hook up the terminals. He couldn't grasp the tiny screws with the clumsy welding gloves. It was just too delicate an operation.

  He glanced over at Kuhn and shrugged as best he could in the suit. There was no choice. He slid off the bulky gloves and dropped them to the deck.

  Barehanded, he grasped the screws and began replacing them. Kuhn grimaced, holding his breath as he watched Hendrix work. He was able to get the screws in and tightened down this way, but there was no way to avoid the burning hot metal. The flesh on his fingertips reddened, then blistered. Kuhn could hear the faint sizzle of charring flesh and the grunts of pain from the nuclear technician. Tears rolled down Hendrix's cheeks as the pain became overwhelming. Still he fought back the urge to drop the tools and howl in agony.

  The last screw slid into place and was tightened. Hendrix dropped his tools and fell back, clutching his charred hands and moaning in pain. Kuhn grabbed him, threw him over his back, braced against another roll of the boat, then, when the deck beneath them stopped bucking, scurried up the ladder. He pushed Hendrix through the door into the tunnel then fell through himself, collapsing on the deck, rubber-legged from the heat and exertion.

  "He's burned bad,” Kuhn rasped. “Get him up to Doc quick." He gasped for air and drank deeply from the bottle of water Bechtold handed him. The compartment ceiling seemed to be swirling and he was afraid he was about to lose consciousness. "It's fixed. Start the alignment."

  Replacing the VPI sensor was only the first step. Now there would be several hours of testing and adjusting to make sure it worked. Fortunately, that was done outside the reactor compartment, back in the instrument alley where the temperature was merely stifling by now.

  Kuhn attempted to stand, but he was too wobbly. He sat back down on the deck and allowed two of the crew to help him remove the yellow coveralls. He tried to stand again, pulling himself up by grasping piping. Finally, he was upright, but still holding on for support.

  "Where's Chief Hendrix?" he asked.

  "Don't worry, Eng," Bechtold said. "Doc has him. He'll be okay. Now where do you think you're going? You need to lie down and rest a bit."

  Kuhn started down the ladder heading aft toward the engineering spaces, still grasping pipes for support.

  "I got work to do. We gotta get this thing aligned and the reactor started up."

  He stumbled through the hatch and headed aft.

  "Admiral, I told you that old bucket would never make it." The gloating in Pierre Desseaux’s voice was obvious. "She should be razor blades and that crew of Ward’s should have been sent home so they could find a job they’re capable of doing. Maybe in city sanitation."

  Tom Donnegan was doing all he could to keep from biting through his cigar. Desseaux was normally insufferable, but when events went his way, he was positively impossible to stomach. Still, Donnegan began in a low, calm voice.

  "Captain, you've said your piece. We all know how you feel on this subject." Donnegan clutched the red phone in a vise-like grip. "But we've got sailors in trouble. Your sailors. Get a team up to Port Angeles ASAP. The Coast Guard will helo them out to Spadefish. They're sending a patrol boat out to cover the mission."

  Donnegan slammed down the phone before he said something in anger that he might later regret.

  "Skipper, where we going?"

  The helmsm
an looked out through the rain-streaked windshield of the patrol boat’s wheelhouse. Coast Guard Commander Barry Jones braced himself against the pitch of the sea.

  "Heading out to intercept a suspected druggie. Some garbage scow named the Helena K."

  The bow of the Cyclone disappeared once again under the green water of the storm-tossed sea. The bow rose back up dutifully, seawater running down the deck and over the side. She slapped back down hard, tossing foaming white water from either side of her bow.

  Jones was proud of his new ship. The Cyclone, a sister of Hurricane, had been built for the Navy Special Boats Unit to deliver SEALs to wherever they needed to go. She now sported the broad orange diagonal stripe of the Coast Guard.

  "Weren't for this storm, it'd be a cake walk. Just go find this slug and tow it home," Jones commented. "I'll be in my cabin if you need me."

  He stepped aft and into the little closet that served as his cabin while the helmsman held the ship steady, plowing on in the heavy seas.

  Bert Waters glanced over to where Dave Kuhn sat. He rested on a toolbox at the end of the narrow alley between the rows of instrument panels. Waters shook his head.

  "Eng, it ain't workin. We've been at this for six hours now. I've tried everything I know."

  Kuhn angrily threw down the thick tech manual he was reading.

  "Damn! Damn! And double damn! We know that VPI worked before we went in. It bench-checked fine. We know it was wired right. I watched and checked every lead the Chief put on."

  Tears welled involuntarily in the engineer’s eyes as he remembered the awful sight of Hendrix working on despite the horrible pain he must have been suffering. Doc Marston had reported that he would heal okay but his hands would be permanently scarred. He was in his rack now, heavily sedated to ward off the pain.

  Waters nodded. He knew just where Kuhn was for that instant.

  "There has to be an explanation. Maybe ‘MES’…’magic electric shit.’"

  Kuhn tried to force a smile in response to Waters’ attempt at humor but it wouldn’t come.