by Joe Buff
Van Gelder watched their stern uncover, white water swirling off the hull, Voortrekker a massive projectile thrusting up into the sky. He could see the control surfaces and the cowling of the pump-jet, exposed naked in the air. Van Gelder's stomach rose to his throat as the sub topped out in her trajectory, halted, then smashed back down. She thrust the chaotic seas aside, water spraying from beneath her, then plowed under, reburying the hull. She seemed to stagger, then came up again, fighting against the violent ocean, settling on an even keel. At once she started to badly roll and pitch, steerageway gone, visibly stern-heavy now.
"Do not counterflood," ter Horst ordered.
Van Gelder struggled to his feet, his attention glued now to the monitor, taking in the scene with a practiced sailor's eye. Foam sprayed off the frenzied wavetops, streaming away beyond the stern.
"My God," he said, "the wind's blowing to the south."
Van Gelder knew that thanks to planetwide air circu-
lation driven by the sun, the winds of the Southern
Ocean were the steadiest on earth. They roared down
off the high mountains of central Antarctica, spreading
northward toward the coast in all directions. To con-
serve angular momentum while moving farther from
earth's axis of rotation, the air had to lose ground to the planet's spin, veering left: the Coriolis force. The wind at this latitude always blew to the northwest, Van Gelder told himself. Always.
Ter Horst shifted the periscope head, searching. He switched to wider angle, then found what he was looking for. "Five thousand meters tall already, maybe The overcast had dissipated from the heat, and the base surge had mostly cleared: the mushroom cloud thrust higher as they watched. The golden-yellow fireball cast shadows north along the wavetops, canceling the sun.
"Air's being sucked in toward its base," Van Gelder said. A satanic low-pressure front, he told himself, driven by staggering thermal forces. The superheated air formed nitric oxides, like in smog, adding a reddish-orange tinge.
"Look at that," ter Horst said. "The entrained steam's condensing now. . . . It's giving the pillar a nice fluffy white appearance."
In a mockery of normal weather the man-made cirrostratus cooled.
"It's started to rain," Van Gelder said. He knew droplets falling against the pillar's updraft would add their static charges to the massive ones created by the blast.
"Lightning," ter Horst said. "Wow." He actually smiled as the monitor flashed again.
Each discharge's crack resounded through Voortrekker's hull.
"Navigator," Van Gelder said, "get a radiation count."
"Working on it, sir. It takes a minute for the detector modes to integrate."
"Captain," Van Gelder said, "we're probably best off like this for now, with that thing facing toward our stern." His eyes were stinging from the smoke.
"What?"
"The slant angle, sir, from the fireball back aft. It makes the hull seem thicker."
"Yes, I think you're right. . . ."
"That way our sail and the reactor shielding give us more protection too, at least in forward compartments."
Ter Horst nodded. Finally tearing himself from the screen, he spoke into his mouthpiece.
"All nonessential personnel evacuate the engineering spaces. Do not use the aft escape hatch, come forward through the reactor tunnel." He reached beneath his seat and gave Van Gelder his own air mask, then grabbed a spare stowed in the overhead.
"Sir," the navigator shouted through his respirator, "not much gamma radiation's getting through the hull, but it's murder topside. Strontium 90 all over the place, iodine 131, cesium 137, krypton 85. . . ."
The boat rolled into the trough of an especially lofty wave, the confluence of several others that had melded in a rogue. Van Gelder braced himself as the backup mechanical inclinometer plumbed toward sixty-five degrees, then recovered as the vessel yawed almost broadside to ground zero. The working of the ship seemed heavier now—she must have spilled some air and hydrazine fumes. Van Gelder glanced nervously at the overhead to starboard, toward the south, knowing what was out there. Another strong wave hit. Again the boat rolled mercilessly.
"We've got to get propulsion back," ter Horst said. "We need directional control. But a fast scram recovery will take them ten or fifteen minutes."
"Sir," Van Gelder said, "if we start the emergency diesel now, we'll draw in outside air."
"I know. And the batteries won't take us far in so rough a sea either, plus then we won't have the amp-hours to regain reactor power."
A breathless messenger arrived from aft. "Captain, the engineer reports wrecked main motor breakers bypassed now, but forward DC buses impaired by overheating from the fan room fire. Only trickle current available from the forward batteries."
"Enough to lift a control rod group and give us criticality?"
The man shook his head. "We need the after battery to pressurize the fire mains. Sir, we need to keep running the bilge pumps too. We took a lot of water through the main shaft packing gland."
"How bad's the flooding?" Van Gelder said.
"They tightened the peripheral bolts as far as the threads can go and the inflow stopped at shallower depth. The seawater's clearing, sir, but slowly, and the free surface hinders our stability."
"That fire's the key, then, Gunther," ter Horst said. "We've got to put it out, and quickly.
Messenger, have Engineering deenergize the forward bus bars."
"I'm going down there now," Van Gelder said. The smoke was growing thicker and it was getting very warm. The boat took another violent roll to starboard, still facing sideways to the mushroom cloud.
Van Gelder hurried down two ladders, through a dogged hatchway, along a companionway, and through another hatch. It felt like he was walking toward an oven.
When he finally arrived, two charred corpses lay along the deck, wearing what was left of fire-fighting gear. One seemed to stare up at Van Gelder, its black and bloody face all melted, broken teeth in a now-lipless mouth, air mask fused to flesh. Above the acrid stink of smoke, even through his sealed respirator, Van Gelder smelled burned flesh and hair.
Hoses twisted everywhere, men crouching to stay below the heat, leaning into the recoil of the lines. Freshwater sprayed and white foam sloshed, making the deck treacherously slippery. The hoses roared, the fire roared and crackled.
"It started at the back," a senior chief shouted through his mask, straining to project his voice—already badly hoarse—above the constant noise.
"I can't see a blery thing," Van Gelder shouted back.
Just then another fire fighter was carried past, his face bright red, down from heat prostration. The chief turned to the stretcher bearers as they went through the hatchway aft. "Helmet!" A seaman understood, took off the fire fighter's headgear, and tossed it to Van Gelder.
Van Gelder donned the helmet, fastened the chin strap tight around his breather mask, and then flipped down the special visor. He activated the switch near his right temple.
Immediately the infrared oculars gave him a false-color image through the smoke.
A hose team was crouched in the doorway to the fan room, another farther back, keeping the first team drenched to cool them down. Others aimed fog nozzles toward the overhead, letting the hot gases of combustion vent their energy by making steam.
Already Van Gelder was sweating from the heat and the humidity. As he watched, flames licked out through the fan room hatchway, subsided, and then came back redoubled.
"What's burning?" he yelled to the chief.
"Christ, sir, everything. We think it started when a hydraulic line ruptured from the shock, then got set off by some sparking from a damaged motor."
Van Gelder nodded. Hydraulic fluid burned like gasoline.
"We dropped the pressure and sealed the line real quick, but it was too late. Mostly now the fire load's grease and lube oil in the machinery, plus all the insulation, and rubber, and
the acoustic isolation pads."
"Scheisse," Van Gelder said. "They're full of PVCs, those vibration isolators. Make sure no one breathes that stuff."
"Right, sir. We know. The worst was some aluminum ignited. We couldn't reach it from the trim."
"What happened to those two?" Van Gelder said, pointing to the corpses.
"Both pitched in headfirst, right into the burning metal, when we caught that aftershock.
We pulled them out with boathooks."
"Jesus."
"It's far from burning out, sir. The Class D metal fire, I mean. We just keep pouring on the water, best we can, with foam around the edges for all the Class B stuff."
"Your team's done well," Van Gelder shouted, "but you've got to keep going."
"Yes, sir. We've got auxiliary lines covering the exposures, hosing down each bulkhead from the other side."
"Good."
"Not good, sir. The bus bars from the batteries are right underneath."
"Can't we cool them down somehow?"
"Not while the fire's still going. It's just too hot. They're insulated against shorts and arcing, not a thermal overload."
The hotter the bus bars got, Van Gelder knew, the greater their resistance. It was like the opposite of superconductivity: chaotic outer electron shell paths from the overexcited molecular motions.
"So what are you suggesting?" Van Gelder said.
"The problem's getting in there, sir, to get at the seat of the fire. Our longest foam applicators only reach four meters, and the water isn't going where it should."
There was a sharp thump and a fireball blasted into the passageway. Everybody dropped fast to the deck. Van Gelder thanked the Lord when the flaming vapors went the other way, then he felt shame over his selfishness. At least the other crewmen have their fire-retardant Nomex suits, he told himself.
"That was hydrogen, probably," the old chief shouted, "from the metals that are still on fire contacting the water."
"How much freshwater do we have left in the tanks?"
"Less than half, sir. We have to get this thing under control. We take in seawater now, or use the forward trunk to ventilate, we'll pollute the ship."
Again Van Gelder nodded. Again an injured fire fighter was carried aft, screaming in pain, writhing on the stretcher.
"Someone has to get inside," Van Gelder said.
"Sir, it's a thousand centigrade in there! We can barely keep the blaze from spreading as it is!"
"We have to," Van Gelder shouted. "This heat builds up much longer, we'll be forced to abandon ship. . . . A steam entry suit! It might hold long enough to let someone knock down the worst hot spots."
"In among the flames?"
"I don't see any other way," Van Gelder said. "We can't just stay like this, there's too much fallout topside. We start up the diesel now, the NBC filters will be overwhelmed."
Both men ducked as something else exploded. Orange sparks flew into the corridor.
A messenger arrived from the control room. Van Gelder withdrew to meet him a safe distance from the fire, both men down on hands and knees. The messenger was gasping, trying hard to catch his breath. He struggled to draw air from his respirator, straining the demand regulator to the limit.
"Sir," he finally panted, "Captain says reception's coming back. The satfeed downlink shows many inbound aircraft."
"British?"
The messenger nodded.
"How far from here?"
"Sixteen hundred kilometers, sir. Halfway from the Falklands."
"They're supersonic?"
"Yes."
"How much longer do we have?"
"The navigator says maybe half an hour, then we'd be too tightly localized to get away."
"All right," Van Gelder said. "Listen to me." He tried to make eye contact, but through his IR imagers the man appeared a spectral aura in pastel blues and pinks. Instead Van Gelder put a hand on the seaman's shoulder. "Get back to Engineering. Have them send me three steam entry suits."
"Yes, sir. Three steam entry suits."
"And on the way, tell the captain I recommend to hold off on the diesel. We might still restore the batteries in time."
"Hold off on the diesel, might still restore the batteries. Aye, aye, sir."
"We pull in the outside atmosphere," Van Gelder said, "the whole crew will end up with leukemia and lung cancer."
The messenger dashed aft, and another enlisted man approached Van Gelder, a fire fighter resting between bouts. Van Gelder flipped up his visor. Beneath his mask the crewman's eyes were watering and his nostrils dripped black phlegm. Both men braced themselves as the vessel rolled once more. The seas were dying down somewhat, but the inside air was getting much too hot.
"Sir," the crewman said, "why don't we just dive? At least we'd get below these waves."
"We'd never get back up again," Van Gelder said. "We're all out of high-pressure air and hydrazine."
A crewman brought Van Gelder a Nomex suit and he quickly dressed. He finished debriefing the senior chief on his manpower dispositions and fire-fighting tactics just as the messenger and two other men arrived, lugging the bulky steam suits. The messenger helped Van Gelder put his on over all his other gear.
"Sir," the young man shouted between breaths, "the
engineer told me to remind you. Xenon's building up in
the reactor core. It's been too long now since the scram.
If we don't restart soon, we won't be able to for hours."
"Yes," Van Gelder said, "I know." The iodine 135 from the uranium fission was breaking down to xenon, which
had a huge cross section for thermal neutron capture.
With their pre-owned ex-Russian-SSBN core, the xenon
135 would poison the chain reaction until it in turn decayed, making it dangerous to regain criticality in a hurry. Van Gelder knew that was one of the things that went wrong at Chernobyl.
"All right," Van Gelder said. "Tell Engineering and the captain we understand. Ask them to hold off as long as possible."
"You understand, hold off as long as possible, aye aye, sir."
The messenger lowered the big steam suit hood over Van Gelder's head. Van Gelder peered out through the heat-resistant window. The chief fire fighter and a leading seaman finished donning theirs. They looked like men from space, garbed in the silvery reflective costumes.
Van Gelder found it hard now just to walk. With all the insulation and the built-in cooling system, each suit weighed forty kilos. The messenger and his companions checked that the suits were properly sealed, then ran aft. The others signaled they were ready.
"Let's go," Van Gelder shouted through his hood.
Using his thick gauntlets, he gripped the nozzle. His partners backed him up, shouldering the uncharged hose. Another hose team wearing simple Nomex—seeming now so vulnerable in comparison—started spraying them with water. Van Gelder moved into position.
For the first time he was close enough to see into the room. In infrared he watched the huge fans and motors, piping, ducting, cables, all sheathed in leaping flame. The steel of the bulkheads, the deck, the overhead were warped and bulging—even through his protective gear the heat drove him to the floor. He led the others forward, crawling on their bellies, sloshing through the filmy foam.
"Left!" Van Gelder shouted. "Let's go left! That near corner!"
From there he saw a mass of aluminum ducting actually on fire, fallen from the overhead, piled against the back of the room, twisted and distorted. The burning sheet metal was bright white in his visors.
"There! There!" he yelled. "That's the hottest point!"
Bracing himself on all fours, Van Gelder jerked back the nozzle actuator. The high-velocity water stream fought him viciously. Behind him the other men gave their support. They crawled farther into the room.
Van Gelder drenched the ducting, over and over, working his hose stream back and forth.
Then he started at one end, pouring and pouring the water, unt
il the flaming ducting in that spot died down. He manhandled the stream along, pushing the flames backward, forcing them toward the far bulkhead, denying them their metal fuel. Steam hissed so loudly he could hear it even through his hood and helmet and his respirator mask. Boiling water sprayed back at his face. He flinched instinctively, then drew courage as his steam suit did its job. He advanced another meter.
The water roared and roared and so did the fire. Gradually Van Gelder's arms grew sore, his back ached badly, but still he aimed his hose at the relentless flames. He inched farther into the room, feeling the radiant heat of a big electric motor casing close to his right thigh, its insulation and lubrication totally involved. In his peripheral vision, past the edges of his visor, he saw flames leaping toward him, yellow and vicious red. He watched their tendrils bathe his thigh, feeling a gentle warmth there, a surreal caress.
The senior chief gestured with his hands to urge Van Gelder onward. Van Gelder's digitized goggles told him the same thing as his eyes: the burning motor was relatively cool compared to the burning aluminum. The motor fire would have to wait.
Van Gelder shifted his hose stream yet again, aiming at the center of the aluminum, and the force of the water burst the duct's remains apart. Immediately the temperature grew less, and Van Gelder extinguished the fragments one by one.
"Switch to foam now," the chief shouted. "There's too much oil and grease!"
Van Gelder handed off the straight-stream nozzle, then took the foam applicator attached to another line. Two freshwater hose teams assumed position in the door, one to cool Van Gelder's group and protect their path of egress, the other to drench both overhead and burning equipment to help put out the fire. Working from the back of the room slowly toward the front, Van Gelder applied the penetrating detergent-soapy foam. It wasn't recommended for use on electrical equipment—it ruined what it touched—but by now the fan room was a total loss.
Van Gelder aimed the applicator into every nook and cranny, blanketing the burning apparatus, cutting off the conflagration's air. His faceplate now was stained with yellow soot. Inside his gear he dripped with sweat, and his breath came fast and ragged.
