Initiation Series: Series One Compilation (Terran Chronicles)

by James Jackson

  Once the spacecraft is sealed from the outside elements, crews are able to work with even greater efficiency, allowing the installation of the more sensitive internal components and systems. Additional internal decks are added one after another, with gravity plates being added as they arrive. The bridge area of the ship is completed relatively early, so that systems may be tested as they are installed and integrated.

  Thrusters are installed into the outer hull and then connected to the power grid. The testing of the thrusters sends plumes of dust in all directions.

  The next few days will find internal power systems being installed, allowing this new ship to cut its umbilical from the dock. Once it is on internal power, various power grid tests will take place as its systems are retested one by one.

  Even before the individual sleeping quarters or the kitchen area is built, a large construction crew is assigned to assist those already there. Weapon ports are in place for the offense systems of this mighty spacecraft; however, they will be installed in the relative safety of space.

  With so few days having gone by, the speed of the construction is amazing, especially considering the sheer size of this vessel. With suited Gamin working on the outside of the spacecraft, and hundreds now working unhindered inside, the speed ramps up even more. Internal decks are added, while separate quarters and specialized facilities are defined with each passing day.

  Location:

  North Pole

  Beneath the Arctic Ice

  “This is your Captain speaking; we are now under the Arctic ice pack and will commence silent operations, effective immediately.”

  Having taken a few days to get into position, Captain Dylan knows that much of the ballistic submarine fleet has been ordered to make for the icepack and await orders. The cold war strategy of getting under the cover of the thick ice, so as to evade Russian satellites, has been deemed the best method of maintaining military assets in the field.

  Captain Dylan issues his orders with confidence. “Con, make your depth five hundred feet. Sonar, go passive and watch for contacts; this area may get very busy soon.”

  As the nuclear-powered USS Louisiana slowly descends, her crew of one hundred and forty make preparations for silent running. Being a relatively new submarine, she is well equipped to comply with these orders. Crew member’s talk in whispers, and the kitchen shuts down, forcing all crew members to resort to ration packs.

  “Approaching five hundred feet, Captain.” The con operator states matter-of-factly.

  The hours pass with the Louisiana hovering as silently as is possible for this submarine. The crew is getting edgy, as are the officers, with the nonstop silent running order from the captain.

  “Sonar contact, bearing 055, range two thousand five hundred yards, heading,” He pauses for a second. “It's coming right at us, sir. Speed, eight knots.” The sonar operator's voice is very edgy as he listens intently to his headphones.

  “Con, quietly as you can, set depth to one hundred feet.” Replies Captain Dylan calmly.

  The Louisiana, ever so slowly, pulls her eighteen thousand tons up from the depths as quietly as the con operator can manage. Every little sound adds to the sweat gathering on his forehead and in his armpits. Glancing at the Captain, he can see him talking in whispers with the XO.

  “Sir, contact seems to be a Russian Akula class, passing about three hundred feet below us.”

  “Con put her to the ice, very slow and quiet, not through; just find us a hole and hide in it.” Dylan issues his orders while he ponders this development. Hmm, Akula class, Typhoons to us. It seems the Russians have a few surprises after all. These submarines are not supposed to be operational anymore.

  “New sonar contact, bearing 055, range five hundred yards, speed ten knots and accelerating. The new contact will pass beneath us, sir. It’s following the Akula, but I can't get a read on what it is.” Sweet beads form on his forehead.

  The sonar operator suddenly works his equipment feverishly. The Captain and XO look across at him, and apprehensively wait for his report. Tensions are building on the bridge. The Typhoon class subs are Russia's nuclear-powered ballistic missile submarines. With two of these submarines docked, rusting and disarmed, and another sidelined as a training submarine, this fully operational Typhoon is quite a surprise.

  “Sir, I lost the new contact; it just vanished about one thousand yards astern of the Akula. It’s last known bearing was 240, speed was thirty-five knots, and accelerating.”

  The XO steps over to the sonar operator and quietly says. “Tell us what you know, sailor.”

  “Well, sir, I had nothing on the new contact until we got a reading like a pressurized hatch opening, a huge hatch, then nothing, no propulsion... nothing... I can't even tell you what's down there, sir. I can tell you, it's not one of ours.” Subconsciously, the sonar operator looks down at his feet as though some fearsome sea monster were looming below.

  The XO glances at the Captain, but says nothing.

  The sonar operator suddenly tilts his head, and then quickly reports, “Sir, I just lost contact with the Akula. She just vanished, bearing 240, distance one thousand five hundred yards.” He continues to work his station feverishly, trying to glean as much information as possible.

  “Steady Con, sonar passive sweeps only, XO with me.” Captain Dylan ponders this new development. He motions to the XO. They leave the bridge quietly, to return only moments later. Both are rather agitated.

  “Sir, contact, bearing 245, distance one thousand eight hundred yards, heading 240. I am pretty sure it’s another Akula Class. She is opening torpedo doors. Sir, she has fired, six torpedoes in the water, acquiring. We are not the target, she seems to have fired wild sir. There is no other contact.”

  The sonar operator suddenly removes his headphones, and clutches his head, cupping his ears.

  “Detonation.” He says, clearly in pain. “About one thousand five hundred yards, sir.” The sonar operator’s ears are ringing badly.

  “Son, you are relieved, go see the doctor.” Dylan orders with a hint of compassion.

  As the injured sailor leaves the sonar station, he is replaced immediately. The newcomer looks at the headphones with a little trepidation. Donning them, he cautiously starts the process of passively scanning the waters around them.

  “Sir, no contacts. Scope is clear.” He looks back at the Captain and XO, and is not comforted by either of their expressions.

  The minutes turn into hours as the Louisiana rests, parked up against the ice pack overhead. The Captain and XO continue to peruse charts, and listen to the recordings of earlier events. Finally, the crew receives the orders they have been hoping for.

  “Con, quietly as you can, get us out of here, hug the ice, passive scans only. Speed, one knot over the ocean current. I don’t care how long it takes us to get out of here, just do it quietly.”

  Con operator blanches at the order. It's impossible, he thinks. He gets to business and focuses on the task at hand. Even though they are near the edge of the ice pack, it will still take them at least three days to leave, at such a slow speed.

  The sonar operator suddenly goes rigid.

  “Sonar contact, bearing 180, range two thousand five yards, heading 120, speed thirty-two knots, depth nine hundred feet and accelerating; it’s an Akula and she is making a lot of noise, sir.”

  “Sonar, you sure that’s an Akula? They can't do better than twenty-seven knots and that’s on a good day.” Dylan has trouble believing the Con operator’s report.

  “Sir, it's definitely an Akula; her sonar just went active, she is now at thirty-four knots, heading 130, she has just passed one thousand two hundred feet sir, and diving hard. Sir, she is acting as though she is trying to shake off pursuit, but I can’t detect anything else.”

  A long series of pings hit the hull of the Louisiana. Even veteran crewmen flinch at this sound.

  “Con, keep us as close to the ice pack as possible. Sonar, report.”

 
; “Sir, the Akula is at thirty-five knots and making a lot of noise. She has passed one thousand four hundred feet, and still descending.”

  Captain Dylan gives a little show of surprise. “Son, did you say one thousand four hundred feet? She is maneuvering, and not sinking?”

  “Confirmed sir, oh my God, the Akula just performed an emergency blow at one thousand four hundred fifty feet. She is rising fast, distance two thousand eight hundred yards, bearing 178, heading 135, speed thirty-seven knots.”

  The bridge crew is shocked by the capabilities, of what used to be, their cold war opponent. The Captain gives the XO a knowing look; he is very grateful to have never wrangled with the Russians.

  “Sir, sonar contact is lost. She just vanished. One minute she was there, the next she was gone; there was no explosion or implosion.” The Sonar Operator looks at the Captain and XO in disbelief.

  The bridge of the USS Louisiana is a very tense place as the con and sonar operators do their very best at their respective tasks.

  “Sir, we have warhead detonation, possibly nuclear, bearing 177, distance three thousand yards.” The sonar operator slips his headphones off as he looks at the Captain and XO, concern showing on his face.

  “Con, make depth two hundred feet, flank speed.” Pressing a nearby intercom button, the Captain continues with earnest. “All crew brace for impact, shockwave imminent.”

  Seconds later, a powerful shockwave slams the descending submarine, driving her into the ice pack above. She hits the so hard, she is driven right into the ice shelf, itself. Crew men are thrown about the ship like rag dolls. The bridge crew fares better than most, as they pick themselves up off the deck. The Louisiana's workings above her sail are completely smashed to pieces.

  The Con operator regains his composure and, fighting with his controls, gets the submarine away from the ice, just in time for a secondary shockwave. Once again, the Louisiana is slammed into the overhead ice shelf. The sail is smashed into the ice and crew members are again tossed about the submarine. Ice cold water suddenly pours into the submarine from the damaged sail.

  “Captain, she is not answering the helm. Propulsion is offline; we are going down.” The Con operator gulps as he stares at his useless controls.

  The Louisiana starts to free fall into the depths. Without propulsion, and beneath the ice, they are as good as dead. The submarine, now bow down about five degrees, starts to list to port. The con operator can do nothing with his non-responsive controls.

  The XO slams his palm on an intercom bottom, his voice much steadier than even he expects. “Damage control parties to the bridge, damage reports to the bridge.”

  The damage reports come in slowly, as many crew members are now either mildly, or seriously, injured after their rough collisions with bulkheads, walls, and floors.

  Two damage control personnel head into the leaking sail area, while one more looks into the issue with the helm controls. In short order, the leaks in the sail are plugged, and the con has his controls back again.

  The Con operator’s tone is positive as he reports. “Sir, she is answering the helm, but is sluggish. Depth two hundred fifty feet, speed fifteen knots, bow angle now seven degrees.”

  Tensions diminish a little as it looks like the submarine is going to make it through the aftermath of the explosion.

  “Sir, we are still descending, three hundred feet, speed fifteen knots.”

  “Reactor Scram, Reactor Scram.” The report comes through to the bridge, sending renewed chills through all that hear it. Captain Dylan has stress lines firmly etched into his face upon hearing those words. Lights flicker throughout the submarine, some stay out. The bridge becomes deathly quiet for a moment.

  “Passing three hundred fifty feet, bow down nine degrees, she is not responding at all, Sir.” The Con operator’s voice is flat as he reports the disheartening news.

  The XO, with a calmness he does not feel, contacts the reactor room. “Reactor room, what is your status?”

  “Sir, we are getting back online, power at ten percent and climbing.” The voice has a tinge of unease to it.

  Sinking by the bow, she passes the four hundred feet mark, her bow down angle is now eleven degrees. This adds to the difficulties for all on board. The Louisiana rolls more and more to port at the same time. She is out of control, under the arctic ice pack, and going down.

  The con operator suddenly gets animated as his controls again respond to his commands. “Sir, she is answering her helm. Arresting bow down angle; stabilizing her trim.” His voice resonates with excitement.

  Collectively, the bridge crew breathes a sigh of relief.

  “Sonar contact, aft, sir, one thousand yards and closing at, sir! Closing at fifty-five knots.” The sonar operator cannot help but almost shout the words out.

  “Prepare counter measures, flank speed, put her to the ice, load rear torpedo tubes.” Captain Dylan orders calmly, with a steadfastness that belies the situation.

  “Sir, the contact is not a torpedo.” The sonar operator manipulates his equipment, then with a look of hopelessness, turns to the Captain and XO as he continues. “The contact has vanished, but for a second it was there, right behind us, and huge!”

  “Launch all rear torpedoes, get one hundred ten percent on the reactor, evasive maneuvers; launch counter measures.” Captain Dylan's voice is tinged with fear, though he tries not to show it.

  “Torpedoes away, countermeasures away.” Resonates the XO impassively.

  “Depth two hundred fifty feet and rising; speed twenty-two knots, and increasing.” The sonar operator reports as he removes his headphones.

  The Con manages to get twenty-five knots out of their fleeing submarine. The Louisiana levels out at seventy feet, just below the ice pack. The expected explosions from their torpedoes fail to happen.

  “Con, set revolutions for station keeping. Sonar, report.” Dylan is perplexed, and waits for his officers to report.

  “No contacts, sir. Whatever it was, it looks like we lost them.” The sonar operator wipes his sweat covered brow.

  The Louisiana is free and clear. The bridge crew breathes another sigh of relief.

  Suddenly the worst sound possible is heard throughout the entire submarine; it is an implosion from inside. All aboard brace for death; surely no submarine can survive such an implosion. The sound of tearing metal and water rushing is inescapable. The bow of the submarine dips down almost immediately.

  The XO's voice finally shows a hint of stress. He slams an intercom button down and shouts. “Damage report.”

  The Con operator, sweat beads rolling down his face, his chest soaked with sweat, fights his controls yet again. “Sir, going down by the bow, twelve degrees, passing one hundred fifty feet, ten knots and accelerating”

  “Blow bow ballast tanks.” Captain Dylan's voice is loud but steady.

  Hissing air can be heard throughout the submarine, but the desired effect is not achieved. The bow dips forward even more, putting the sub into its second free fall of the day.

  The XO takes a call at his console, then looking at the captain, repeats what he has heard. “Sir, damage control team reports that the missile bay has been compromised. They can’t get to the damaged area to assess it properly, or begin repairs.”

  The Captain looks at his bridge crew. “Con, full reverse, load rear torpedoes. Aim at the ice pack overhead. Go to one hundred fifteen percent on the reactor.”

  “Torpedoes loaded and ready, Captain.” Reports the XO.

  “Sir, she is holding at two hundred seventy-five feet, bow angle fourteen degrees.” The Louisiana holds her own, at least momentarily.

  “Fire rear torpedoes.” The torpedoes leave the stricken submarine; moments later they strike the ice pack above, creating massive explosions. The ice overhead cracks, then breaks up, creating an area with a crushed ice appearance.

  “Sir, we are losing her, two hundred eighty feet, bow angle now fifteen degrees, sir, reactor overheating, speed four kno
ts.”

  Being too deep to even attempt escaping, the crew can only lament at their fate.

  “Sir, three hundred feet, bow down eighteen degrees, speed seven knots.” The Con’s bleak report echo’s around the bridge.

  “Launch the rescue buoy.” The Captain’s voice is calm; there is nothing that can be done now.

  “Three hundred fifty feet, four hundred feet, four hundred fifty feet.” The con operator, knowing his fate is sealed, continues to perform his duties. “Passing five hundred feet, bow down angle now twenty-three degrees, sir.”

  The hull of the Louisiana, already compromised, is in no condition to cope with another deep dive. All aboard know that any second the final, crushing implosion will come. The seconds turn into minutes. The bow dips over even more, and the submarine now feels as though she is aiming at the ocean floor far beneath them.

  “Seven hundred fifty feet, sir. Eight hundred feet, bow angle twenty-seven degrees”

  More popping can be heard all around the submarine, as she far exceeds her published crush depth. The seconds tick by, the sail overhead suddenly gushes forth water again, earlier repairs now failing.

  With water filling the bridge, the Captain presses his hand to the internal intercom button once again. “This is your Captain speaking. The Louisiana is lost. I am proud to have served with you all. Your efforts of the day have been exemplary.”

  On the bridge, the Captain does his best to stand on the now thirty degrees bow down deck. He salutes the bridge crew as he awaits the end, one hand pressed firmly to his chair.

  “Sir, passing nine hundred fifty feet.” The con operator stoically continues his reports.

  The last thing the crew sees is a freakish blue light dancing all over the interior of the submarine just as the lights go out. The hull is making a ton of noise, creaking and groaning under the immense pressure. Collapsing to the deck, Captain Dylan finds that, along with the blue dancing lights, he notices that the creaking has stopped. He has little time to ponder this oddity as he loses consciousness.