by Mike Kraus
“I’ve got the advanced scan done,” Trent finally announces, jabbing the keys with her fingers.
“Put it up on screen three,” Arkin says, turning to the right-hand monitor.
“Yes, sir.”
Arkin watches as a three-dimensional map of the anomaly takes shape, eyes darting back and forth between screens one and three, confusion and alarm twisting his face. “The crevice has… changed. Substantially.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Superimpose the new layout over the original and put it on screen one.”
“On it.”
A second later, the images merge. The second one overlays the original in light blue colors.
“There are another dozen, no, two dozen new fractures.” Trent turns toward the captain with a horrified expression. “Sir, this thing is not only still surging, but it’s expanding.”
“Send the information upstairs. Now.”
“Yes, sir.”
***
“It’s so quiet now,” Smith says. Her dark eyes lift and roll from port to starboard like she can see the ocean through the hull. “I wonder if we’re above the anomaly.”
“That’s not something we need to worry about,” Nelson replies. “Just keep an eye on the engine and run that diagnostic.”
“Yes, Chief.” Smith goes back to her screens, knobs, and levers.
The ship rumbles and shakes again, and the boat shifts enough to make Nelson lose his balance. He throws his hands against a cluster of pipes running from floor to ceiling next to Smith until the ship rights itself and settles down.
“Stay frosty!” he calls to the others. “We don’t know how long we’ll be here. Could be ten minutes or ten hours.”
“The briefing said we were just gathering data.” Smith shoots over her shoulder.
Another sailor, Jergins, steps to one of three passages leading to the back of the ship. “Sir, I’m going to check on the generator. I’m detecting a small pressure loss. It’s minor, but we might need to change a coupling or hose.”
“Negative,” Nelson shakes his head. “Switch to auxiliary pumps. I don’t want you making repairs while we’re climbing through those currents again.”
“But, Chief, I can have the part changed out in less than ten minutes.”
The chief petty officer thinks about it before agreeing. “Switch to auxiliary pumps first, then repair the primaries if you can. Either way, I want you back here at your station in ten minutes. No excuses.”
“Yes, Chief!”
Jergins returns to his post and makes the switch to auxiliary, a hiss of air and steam from the next compartment over confirming it’s done. The sailor then dashes down the passage between the long row of machinery to check the pressure loss. Nelson’s attention is on Smith’s screen when something cracks against the hull with a leaden crunch he feels through his guts and spine, the submarine rolling to starboard before jerking back to port.
Unbalanced and unprepared for the impact and lurching boat, Nelson’s hand slips from the rail, and he flies into the aisle. His head smacks an engine casing before his tether jerks him taut and bends him backwards. Bouncing back with a pained cry, he slams against the pipes next to Smith, grabbing her arm to steady himself.
“Are you okay?” Her eyes fly wide as the ship continues its jostling.
“Fine,” Nelson growls. “Sounds like--”
Alarms ring out, and someone cries out from the engine room. “Nelson, help!”
The chief petty officer levels a hard look at Smith. “Keep an eye on that pressure loss Jergins was talking about. We should be on auxiliary pumps. Let me know if it becomes a problem!”
Smith nods fervently. “Yes, Chief!”
Nelson untethers himself and staggers across the chamber, his feet doing a weird dance as he tries to balance on the shifting deck. Reaching the end of the row, he grabs a sailor named Callahan where he clings to his station, the sailor’s eyes glued to the hatch ladder. Nelson’s stomach lurches as he sees Pendleton leaning on the ladder with her left elbow locked over a rung. Her right arm hangs at an odd angle against her side, her face a mask of anguish, eyes pleading.
“She was heading for the ladder when the ship bucked her,” Callahan explains.
“I’m coming!” Nelson squeezes the words through clenched teeth.
He pitches himself to the floor and crawls over the steel grading to Pendleton. When he gets there, he clutches the ladder above her head and positions himself so he’s not leaning against her injured arm. Looking down, he sees her forearm is bent sharply below the elbow.
“What happened?”
“I was moving between the auxiliary array panels when the ship rocked. I got thrown around...”
Kneeling by her side, he sees her dazed expression, eyes unable to focus on much but the pain and he places his hand on her good arm.
“Hang on. We’re going to get you out to medical.”
Neslon turns toward Callahan to ask for her assistance when something strikes the ship with jarring force. It isn’t the usual rumbling and shaking from crosscurrents or turbulence, but a direct strike from a massive object that causes Nelson to sink to his knees, still clinging to the ladder.
A wail goes up from Pendleton, and when he looks down, he sees that he’s fallen against her injured arm, blood soaking through her crew outfit and dripping on the metal grating as a pipe splits and sprays water into the chamber, alarms blaring in the passage.
***
“What the hell was that?” Arkin growls and pushes himself off the main control panel. Alarms ring out on every deck, sending unsettling spikes through his head. Next to him, two sonar officers pick themselves up off the floor and stagger back to their seats.
“Not turbulence, Captain.” The deck officer says from where he clutches a rail, eyes stuck to the console screens.
“We must have drifted above one of the new cracks,” Trent calls sternly from her station, her feet spread on the floor to balance herself as she pokes at her touchscreens. “We didn’t know it was there.”
“Full reverse. Get us away from that rift,” Arkin orders as he slips over to Trent, staring at the screens casting the room in blinking red lights.
“Damage?”
“We’ve lost fifty percent power to the main turbine. Leaks detected in multiple locations – here, here, and here.” She points to the screen with a model of the USS South Carolina, lights pulsing along her bottom where the worst of the damage occurred.
“The reactor?”
“Twenty percent pressure loss to the main turbine.”
“She’s got plenty of power,” Arkin murmurs. “Get us all the juice you can. Stanski?”
“Pulling out. Way too slow.”
The captain lunges to his post and turns his attention to the screen. Sand and debris swirl around the camera lens in a cloud of haze as stones and rocks zip across his vision in a dizzying display. Something strikes the ship again, quickly followed by a second, bone-rattling blow. Their direction shifts, and Arkin’s stomach lurches.
“What’s happening?”
“We’re being pushed upward,” Stanski says with disbelief. “The surge is shoving us to the surface.”
“The surge is definitely increasing,” Trent agrees as she cranes her neck toward the captain. “The crack is expanding.”
“What’s that mean?”
“The crust is breaking apart,” she explains, her voice tense, “and the pieces are shooting to the surface. If we end up above it...”
“It’ll be like a shotgun blast,” Arkin whispers as horror spreads across his face. A pipe bursts above his head, steam exploding downward and sparks fly as water shoots through cracks in the compartment wall, taking out all but one of their monitors.
“Hemorrhaging turbine pressure,” Trent shouts. “Hull is cracking in multiple sections!”
“Put the reactor on standby! Switch to auxiliary diesel,” he orders, cursing himself for not deciding sooner. “Get us out of h
ere, Stanski!”
“Aye sir! Pilot, we’re switching to diesel--”
A geyser of water strikes the deck officer in the face and chest, blasting him off the panel and into the sonar controllers. Hands reach down to help him up, but the control center is already flooding. The damaged hull groans, steel ticking and knocking under the massive pressures exerted by the surge, but still the submarine goes up and up and up.
***
Nelson staggers through the engine room with one arm wrapped around Pendleton as water drips and sprays from the cracked hull and split pipes, groans reverberating along the twisting metal with ominous implications.
“What’s going on?” Smith shouts as they approach her station.
“I don’t know,” Nelson shakes his head at the submarine’s groans. He instinctively knows virtually every sound the sub can make, but he’s never heard it so sick before. Something shifts in the floor’s vibration. “The reactor just went offline.”
Smith is already nodding. “They’ve switched to diesel. There’s nothing more we can do here.” She spins from her station and gets on Pendleton’s opposite side, taking the woman by her belt loop to help hold her up.
Nelson grabs the comm microphone, puts it near his lips, and speaks to everyone under his immediate command.
“All engine room personnel. Fix that pressure leak and seal the lower chambers! Callahan, Jergins, Smith. With me!”
Five of them meet at the hatch ladder, Nelson handing the injured Pendleton to the others, descending to the deck below.
“What are we doing?” Smith asks, sputtering water.
“We’re going to drop Pendleton off by the crew quarters and then head to the diesel room to make sure that engine keeps running.”
“Yes, sir!”
Nelson hits the deck below as Pendleton climbs down, holding her arm against her side. He wraps his arm around her waist and turns her toward the forward compartments, not waiting for the others to join them. They push through the hatch into a room filled with pipes and electrical systems used in support of the nuclear reactor positioned on the deck above. The ship takes another hard knock along its bottom, one that travels through the ship’s frame and up his legs to his hips. Pendleton starts to collapse, but Nelson grabs her waist harder and lifts her tighter against him.
“Come on!” he urges.
They stagger through the mess hall, bumping together as they stumble beneath the blinking lights, shouting sailors flying past them, heading for the front or rear of the ship as emergency alarms blare repeatedly. Someone knocks into Pendleton, causing her to cry out and Nelson angles her to the middle of the compartment, shoving aside a table and chairs until they reach the hatch to the crew bunks. He sits her down, well out of the way of any rushing sailors.
“Stay here. When we get out of this, we’ll have the medic take a look at that arm. Until then, you’ll have to deal with the pain.”
Pendleton nods, biting her lip, tears streaking down her face, remaining strong and falling back on her training. Nelson turns back toward the mess and sprints across the compartment, jostling between two sailors and shoving his way to the hatch where Smith, Callahan, and Jergins wait. He nods, leaps on the ladder, and slides down to the auxiliary engine room with a splash. Looking down, he sees he’s standing in two feet of water, the big diesel engine slamming away, pistons pounding amidst the groaning of the hull. He gets out of the way as the others land beside him, all of them spreading out around the new heart of the ship.
“Turn on the bilge pumps!” Nelson shouts as he trudges through the water to the control panel. “I want this water out of here. We’ve got to--”
A spattering of thuds slam the submarine’s hull with massive booms, causing the ship to roll hard to port. Nelson slips, falls to one knee, and tries to right himself, but the sub continues to roll, and he has nothing to hold on to. He slides across the chamber, smacks his head on something, and gets pinned between the two diesel fuel tanks. Smith cries out from somewhere, and Jergins shouts to Callahan.
“Get those pumps on,” Nelson mutters as the sub tips at a funny angle. He tries to raise his voice as his head swims and stars blaze behind his eyelids.
“Nelson! Grab my hand. Nelson!”
His eyes snap open to find himself on his knees against the port wall of the boat, the water rising fast around him, already almost reaching his chest. Lifting his face, he sees Smith standing on the edge of the fuel tank with her hand stretched down to him.
“Grab my hand. Come on!”
Grimacing, Nelson reaches up and clasps her hand, allowing her to lift him as he leverages himself against the side of the tank. Once standing, he hops up and grabs the edge and between them, they swing him up where they collapse against each other. The stubborn diesel engine sputters and backfires as electrical systems short out all around them, smoke filling the room along with the stench of leaking fuel. The knocks stop, but the hull still groans, the submarine having given up all attempts at righting itself.
“I think this is it,” Nelson says, looking around helplessly as an eerie silence settles over them.
Smith turns her horrified face up to him, her dark eyes searching his face for a ray of hope. When the sailor doesn’t find what she’s looking for, she nods and takes a defeated breath. A strange sense of calm comes over Nelson. He often wondered if he would die aboard a submarine, but his idle thoughts had never come to fruition. An image flashes through his mind of a time when he was a boy playing in the bathtub with U boat models. He remembers how much he loved the sleek, militaristic design, knowing from an early age that he would one day serve aboard one.
He grips Smith’s chin in his hand and speaks calmly and deliberately. “It’s okay. We’ve all got to go sometime. At least we’re doing it five-thousand feet below the surface of the ocean in service to our country.”
Smith’s expression relaxes. She nods and takes a long, sputtering breath. Her eyes focus on him with a sense of understanding and gratitude. She brushes seawater out of her face. “I’m honored to have served with you, sir.”
“Me, too, Smith.” He nods. “You’re an amazing sailor.”
They hold each other, eyes locked as the floor buckles, brine and diesel fuel spraying all over them. Something catches fire, and the auxiliary engine room explodes in a burst of flames. The USS South Carolina drifts free of the debris field, leveling out as the forces pushing it toward the surface diminish. It travels in a long arc before slowly descending to the ocean floor, three-billion-dollar dollars’ worth of electronics and steel bending and warping beneath astronomical pressures. Somewhere around 5,500 feet, the submarine implodes in a snap of light and sound, a candle snuffed out by the storm.
Chapter 8
Tom, Virginia Beach, Virginia
Tom worked his way along the hallway with the wedding ring in his fist, guiding his flashlight back and forth to avoid stepping on sharp objects. In the living room he placed his jacket on the floor and crawled beneath the tree, keeping his palms raised so he didn’t cut his exposed skin on fallen glass. After getting through, he dragged his jacket out, shook it, and covered the bottom of the window frame, then put his feet through until he sat on the sill, feeling around with his toes, dropping quietly to the loamy flowerbed where he originally entered.
Steadying himself, he turned and retrieved his jacket before looking for Sam and Jerry. The pair had come up the driveway and stood beside the SUV, Sam’s arm still wrapped around Jerry’s waist. Tom approached reluctantly, eyes downcast as his heart hammered in his chest. He stepped on the sidewalk and shuffled up to them, shaking his head slowly as he looked at Jerry.
The young man already appeared distressed with tears streaming down his cheeks, but when he saw Tom his face morphed into shocked reality. His jaw dropped, and his eyes widened as he clenched his good hand into a fist and heaved a big, gasping breath. Jerry turned to the house, staring with wide eyes and shaking his head in disbelief, seemingly wanting to both sprint
away and collapse into a sobbing ball at the same time.
Tom held out his fist, and Jerry blinked before realizing Tom was trying to give him something. The young man put his hand out, palm up, and Tom dropped the ring into it. Jerry’s mouth hung open as he stared at the wedding band with instant recognition. A single tear raced down his cheek.
Tom gave him an apologetic look. “I don’t know what to say. I--”
Jerry shot toward the house in a ball of frustrated energy, face twisting into a grimace. Tom had been expecting it, and he stepped in his way, partially blocking him and grabbing his good arm.
“No, let me go!” Jerry squirmed, nearly jerking from his grasp. “You can’t stop me. I want to see. I have to see!”
“No!” Tom growled as he hugged him, leaning his weight on him to sap his energy. “The house is destroyed! You’ll just hurt yourself trying to climb in. And you can’t get to where she is, anyway.”
Jerry jerked and fought, but his strength was quickly dwindling. “Are you.. sure?”
Tom nodded and guided the young man down the driveway toward the street, wind and occasional droplets of rain thrashing them. “There was another man in there with her. It looked like they were getting ready to evacuate when the tree fell. Do you know who he was?”
“It could have been one of her friends from church,” Jerry replied with a sad shake of his head. “She knew people from there. They… they helped each other out. He was probably helping her pack when….”
“That makes sense,” Tom nodded, keeping the young man locked in an embrace to keep him from running foolishly back to the house.
“I can’t believe it.” Jerry shook his head, falling against Tom, squeezing him with his good arm, fist digging into the small of Tom’s back. Tom absorbed the pain, soaking in the frustration and sorrow as he patted Jerry’s shoulders comfortingly. “Let it out, buddy. I know it’s hard, but we’re here. Just let it go.”
Jerry sobbed for another minute, shaking in Tom’s grasp, the emotion draining from his body until finally he let go and stood back, blinking at his house.
