by JE Gurley
Chico fired one of the Griffin missiles at the second shark. It struck the creature in the back near the dorsal fin and exploded, shredding tons of flesh from its body amid a fountain of blood. Even mortally injured, it did not give up pursuit of its prey. A second missile struck near the gill slits, decapitating it. Almost immediately, both dead megalodon became targets for their brethren.
“Let’s take out a few more,” Will called out.
The Sunfish released two more depth charges set to detonate just below the surface. The explosion lifted the surface of the sea behind the boat, scattering bloody parts of shattered megalodon across the surface, providing more food for the feeding frenzy. The blood-filled water around the drillship was alive with giant man-eating sharks. The Sunfish picked a torturous winding path between them to avoid a collision, as the gunners sprayed the water with .50 caliber and 25mm fire. Chico fired another missile at an unseen target in the distance.
“Save the missiles,” Will warned. “We might need them later.” The boat shuddered when it slammed into a dead shark, and then catapulted into the air. He grabbed a railing to prevent hurdling over the side. The boat landed with a splash but kept moving forward. Sensing that he was pushing their luck operating the boat among the feeding sharks, he ordered, “Take us out of here.”
The gunners, reluctant to halt their carnage, continued firing as the boat sped away. Understanding their need to strike a blow for their fallen comrades, he did not stop them.
Farther to the south, explosions and machinegun fire from the Amberjack rocked the night, as she fought a deadly battle of her own. He wanted to go to her assistance, but his orders were to remain near the Vanguard. Abandoning his post could place the entire operation in jeopardy. Eisner and the crew of the Amberjack were on their own.
* * * *
5:25 a.m.–
The sun rose on a dismal day, casting a soft golden glow across the eastern sky, but the sky above and to the west roiled with dark, ominous clouds. Lightning danced between clouds and lanced into the water. The leading edge of the storm was now fully upon them, and it looked to be a big one. It would be rough riding it out on the small Sunfish, but he could not run to a safe port. His boat still had a job to do. If the Amberjack could do it, so could the Sunfish. His faith in his boat and his crew were absolute, and he knew both would give him all they had.
The Navy had determined the drillship to be the best spot to stop the megalodon and prevent them from continuing east into the North Atlantic. They had just one chance to end the megalodon problem before it became endemic, a primeval disease infecting all the world’s oceans.
He spotted half a dozen fins breaking the surface but knew more were still alive beneath the waves. They had whittled down their numbers considerably, but had not eradicated them. Sporadic explosions from Porcupine mines still roiled the waters, but both the Utah and the drillship seemed to have depleted their supply of torpedoes. The Amberjack and the Sunfish were the only offensive weapons available until air support from the helicopter carrier arrived.
He looked at his men, weary, wet, and half-frozen, but they each wore a grim look of satisfaction on their faces. They had struck a blow against the enemy. He feared they would have to summon strength from the exhausted bodies and do so again.
11
December 26, 2018, 3:30 a.m. USS Utah–
Like most Virginia-Class fast attack submarines, the USS Utah, designation SSN 801, was a floating weapons platform capable of both surface and undersea operations. Her one-hundred-thirty-two man crew were highly trained and the best in their fields. The seventy-nine-thousand-metric-ton behemoth carried a complement of twenty-one MK-48 torpedoes and Tomahawk ASM/LAM missiles. Her S9G nuclear reactor produced thirty-thousand kilowatts and could propel her at over thirty knots submerged.
Her captain, Lieutenant Commander Charles Raeburn Prescott, at thirty-three, was one of the youngest attack submarine commanders in the fleet, and one of only a handful of black skippers. He did not blame undue prejudice for the low number; few blacks aimed at the job of sub commander. He certainly felt no prejudice from his crew. He had proved his capabilities, and they accepted him. He watched the DSV Christophe position the Porcupine mines through a feed from the DSV’s camera. The work went immeasurably slow compared to deploying regular mines, but the new weapons were untested and particularly sensitive. It would not do to have an accident at this stage in the preparations.
“How far away now?” he asked the sonar technician.
“Eight clicks, sir, holding steady.”
He checked his watch. It was going to be close. The megalodon were moving at a rapid clip. He could gain the DSV crew a little time by delaying the sharks. “Driver, take us away from the drillship. Give the minefield a wide berth.”
If anyone had suggested, even in jest, that he would be attacking a school of megalodon sharks, creatures that supposedly died out twenty-million-years ago, he would have punched them in the nose, and yet, here he was and here they came. No one from his old neighborhood in Strawberry Mansion would believe him.
“Hold her steady at twenty knots,” he advised.
The ASROC system installed on the drillship would be engaging shortly, and he did not want to wander into their field of fire. Their rocket-launched Mk-46 torpedoes were sonar guided and might not distinguish between an eighty-foot ancient shark and a three-hundred-seventy-foot submarine. The ASROC torpedoes had a range of fifteen kilometers. The battle plan called for using the torpedoes as artillery, employing a reverse walking barrage as the megalodon advanced; then, a Zone and Sweep to inflict maximum damage and reduce their numbers by attrition.
When the sharks entered the Porcupine minefield, the mine’s proximity fuses would target groups of sharks first; then, as their numbers reduced, individual mines would be detonated by remote control using data provided by sonar buoys the Utah had anchored to the bottom of the sea. It was here they hoped to break the enemy’s back.
The Utah’s assigned task was that of mop up, hunting and attacking stray megalodon and preventing a retreat. Prescott was not happy about his mission. The Utah was a fast attack submarine, the newest in the fleet. He should be the one firing the first salvo. Instead, command had relegated his boat to ferrying the DSV to location and rounding up stray doggies like a cowboy. Command had ignored his requests for a change in his orders, and he was too much a naval officer to question orders.
“The Vanguard is signaling they are commencing fire,” his executive officer, Lieutenant Tack Hardin, reported.
Prescott nodded to Hardin. He noticed his first officer licking his dry lips nervously. It was Hardin’s first fight, and his apprehension was natural. “Inform them we are in position and will provide area assessment reports. Maintain a running commentary of megalodon positions.”
Prescott leaned against the chart table with his hands pressed against the latest weather map printout. He worried that they were already operating under a disadvantage. The storm front driving the megalodon had moved much faster than anticipated. The plan had called for the use of MQ-4C Triton drones from the USS Kirby to provide blanket surveillance of the area and warn of the megalodons’ approach. Armed X-478 UCAVs would then pick off any creatures on the surface and keep the school herded together. Unfortunately, neither vehicle could operate effectively at night in such inclement weather. The same drawbacks applied to the V-22 Osprey VTOLs and Viper helicopters. Throughout history, the weather had contributed to the success or failure of military campaigns. In spite of their advanced electronics capabilities, the sharks had the advantage of weather.
“First torpedoes are in the water,” Hardin announced.
Prescott walked over to the sonar station and stood behind the technician.
“Multiple explosions,” the technician announced. “On target.”
Prescott smiled. Perhaps his worries were unfounded.
“Picking up multiple contacts closing.”
“Lieutenant, load tubes
one and three. Calculate a firing solution. Set for twenty-five-hundred yards. Fire on my command.”
He could feel the tension in the command and control center thicken as Hardin relayed his orders. This was what they had been waiting for. Any fear or doubts he might have harbored faded, as if flushed from his system by a flood of adrenalin.
“Targets within range, sir.”
“Fire tubes one and three,” he ordered.
He felt the sub wobble slightly as the torpedoes left their tubes, propelled by a blast of compressed air. He imagined their piston engines powering their pump jet drives, sending the thirty-seven-hundred-pound, nineteen-foot-long projectiles toward their targets at sixty-five miles per hour. The Mark 48 Mod 7 ADCAP (Advanced Capability) torpedo could determine its target by acoustic homing using both its passive and active sonar guidance systems. Its revamped electronic guidance hardware allowed it to ignore false signals and pursue its target.
“Ninety seconds to target.” A minute and a half later, the sonar tech said, “One explosion on target. Second torpedo missed. The torpedo can’t maneuver as quickly as the megalodon.” He glanced up at Prescott with concern in his eyes. “One target still approaching fast.”
He nodded to Hardin, who said, “Sound the collision warning.”
The collision klaxon began blaring. He held onto the desk waiting for the impact. The megalodon struck a few seconds later. The entire submarine shuddered and rang as if someone had pounded it with a hammer. He had not expected such an impact from a flesh and blood object. A second impact indicated the shark was still unharmed and determined to sink his boat.
Red lights began flickering on the damage control panel. One was in the torpedo room. He grabbed the intercom and hit the torpedo room button. “Report.”
He waited until the weapons officer picked up. The sound of shouts and hammering filled the background. “Two seams ruptured. We have about a foot of water in the torpedo room. Tube number three is out. We’re working on sealing the leaks. I’m pressurizing the compartment.”
“Keep me advised.” After a moment’s thought, he said, “Switch the other torpedoes to guide wire control. Damn things can sense the sonar and outrun them.”
In spite of the flooding, the Utah fired eight more torpedoes. The guide wires allowed the torpedoes to get closer to the megalodon before detection, but the sharks still outmaneuvered them. Of the eight, only three struck targets. The megalodon, drawn by the sub’s sonar, began attacking in larger numbers. Prescott worried about the pounding his boat was taking. Numerous small leaks opened up throughout the boat, overwhelming the damage control crew’s ability to keep up.
The sub suddenly rolled to port and nosed downward.
“We’re taking on water in the aft port dive ballast tank, sir,” the steering officer reported.
“Damn!” Prescott groaned. He had not expected the megalodon to be so aggressive. They had geared most of the action plans toward preventing the sharks from escaping, not on defense. “Move us away from the sharks. Skirt the edge of the minefield.”
It would be risky. They could avoid the mines. The mines were marked on his charts, but if one exploded too near the submarine, it would cause more damage than the megalodon. As dangerous as it seemed, remaining close to the edge of the minefield might be their only hope. Everyone in the control room understood the risk, but no one questioned his order.
“Aye, sir.”
The external acoustic microphones picked up the sound of exploding mines. He hoped they were killing sharks.
As they neared the edge of the minefield, the number of attacks lessened, as if the sharks could sense the presence of the mines. He left a distance of a hundred yards between his boat and the mines. He hoped it was enough.
“We’re still taking on water,” the driver called out. “I can’t keep the rudder steady.”
“Steer to starboard to compensate,” he replied. “Keep the nose steady.”
A few seconds later, the boat groaned and shuddered. “No good, sir. The controls are sluggish.”
“Lieutenant, go aft and see if you can vent that ballast tank.”
Hardin sprinted down the passageway, grabbed the top of the first hatch, and swung through feet first. Sailors fell to the deck to allow him quick passage.
Their present course took them too close to the mines. Their only hope lay in passing beneath the minefield.
“Dive! Dive! Dive!” he ordered.
For a full minute, he thought they might succeed. Then, a megalodon struck one of the Porcupine mines. The lights flickered; then, failed, as the boat rolled to starboard. The deck canted forward twenty-five degrees, as the sub’s nose pointed at the ocean floor. He grabbed onto the edge of the table to remain on his feet. A few crewmen, caught off guard, slid along the deck and slammed into bulkheads or equipment. The dim emergency lights came on. He didn’t need to glance at the damage control board to know they were in trouble. The thundering sound of water entering the compartment under high pressure echoed in the compartment and down the passageway.
“Two holes in the torpedo room from harpoons,” the damage control officer reported. “Another in the engine room. Eight dead, six injured, two seriously. Exterior and interior hatches sprung in the aft lockout trunk. The exec is seeing to repairs. No report from the reactor watchman. Intercom is out past crew’s quarters.”
Now, I’ve done it.
“Dispatch men to check on the reactor room and weapons compartment. I need visual confirmation of the damage. And fix that damn intercom. I need to know what’s happening with my boat.” That was a lie, he thought. He knew what was happening. He had made a bad decision, and his boat and his crew were paying the cost. His boat was no longer effective as a weapon. The drillship was on its own. He slammed his fist into the console. “Damn it! Get us away from here.”
A few minutes later the runner returned to the control center, soaking wet. Prescott glanced up at him. “We’re still tail heavy. Inform the exec to pump more air into the engine room before it floods.”
It was several seconds before he realized the runner was still standing there. He noticed the look of shock and disbelief on his face. “Well, go inform the exec.”
“The exec’s gone, sir.”
“What the hell do you mean gone? I need him to …” He stopped. An icy cold gripped his chest, foreshadowing the answer to his next question. “Where’s the exec?”
“Lieutenant Hardin is dead, sir. The blast sprung both hatches in the aft lockout trunk. The inner hatch wheel sheared on the exterior side of the chamber. We couldn’t seal it from the outside. Mr. Hardin climbed inside the trunk and sealed it behind him. We pressurized the chamber, but it continued to flood.”
“Did he have a breather?”
The runner shook his head; then, realizing the captain was staring at the deck, said aloud, “No, sir. He said he didn’t have time.”
Prescott was silent while he absorbed the news of his friend’s fate. Hardin had died a hero saving his crewmates, but that didn’t lessen the pain.
“Very well, tell the engineer to pressurize the engine room to force the water out.”
Hardin’s death was his fault, as were the other eight men. He had made a grave mistake in underestimating the megalodon and their unexpected ability to cooperate. He hoped he hadn’t doomed the entire operation to failure because of his error in judgment. If the megalodon reached the open North Atlantic with its rich feeding grounds, there would be no stopping them. The oceans would belong to the megalodon. He could not allow that to happen.
12
December 26, 2018, 3:45 a.m. Drillship Vanguard, Arctic Ocean–
Asa awoke confused and in a sweat. In his nightmare, the Global Kulik had shuddered beneath his feet and stood on its bow for a long, agonizing minute before crashing into the sea. The water had been so cold that his body had gone instantly numb. He could not move a muscle, as the waves slowly lapped over him. All around him, like Comanches on the warpa
th, pale gray fins dotted the surface, circling slowly, moving inexorably closer.
He had awoken from his nightmare before they had reached him. For that, he was thankful. What had awoken him? He sat on the edge of his bed and glanced at the clock—3:45 a.m. He had been asleep less than an hour. The drillship was eerily silent. No crew worked the nightshift. He and Simon were the only crew members left aboard. The deck bounced beneath his feet; then, again a few seconds later. Alarmed, he quickly threw on his pants and shirt. He did not bother lacing his boots. He grabbed his parka from the rack by the door and went out into the corridor. The rig shuddered again, harder this time.
His guard was not there.
“What the hell?” he muttered and raced for the stairs.
He opened the door and stepped into chaos. The ASROC launchers were lancing their deadly load of torpedoes into the water a few miles from the drillship. That was what had awoken him. Sailors ran back and forth cross the deck tending to the launchers. From the darkness, he heard muffled reports of explosions. The wind whipped the sea into a fury and blew saltwater spray into his face sixty feet above the surface. The storm had arrived earlier than expected, and with it the megalodon.
He peered into the darkness beyond the pools of light cast by the drillship’s spotlights, but could see nothing. Whatever was happening seemed so far remained confined to the depths. The Utah was no longer in its original position. He guessed it had submerged to attack the sharks.
A wedge of light bathed him as the door opened behind him. He turned to see Simon outlined by the light with a grim look on his face.
“They’re here,” he said.
Asa nodded. “I guess the Navy has bigger problems to deal with than us.”
Simon ignored the activity around him. His focused his gaze with a laser-sharp intensity on the water, as if able to pierce the blackness and peer beneath the surface. His clenched fists hung limply by his sides, but his tensed body gave the appearance that he would gladly use them to fight the sharks if necessary. His entire body trembled with barely suppressed rage. Oddly, Asa felt nothing—no fear, no thirst for revenge, no desire to strike a blow. He was not sure, if his mind had not yet fully grasped what was happening, or if his fear had grown so strong that it had shut down his emotions. Perhaps seeing the reality of the nightmarish creatures was enough to convince his troubled conscience that he was sane. He waited for some of Simon’s rage to spill over into him, fill him like an empty cup, but it did not happen.
