Kazan shot toward the surface, passing through the thermocline before steadying on ordered depth. But the torpedo chasing them had been too close; it followed Kazan in its wake, traversing the layer before Plecas could reverse course.
Only one option remained. “Emergency blow all Main Ballast Tanks! Compensation Officer, full rise on the stern and bow planes!”
Kazan’s Compensation Officer pulled down on the emergency blow levers. High-pressure air spewed into the submarine’s Main Ballast Tanks, pushing the water out through the flood grates in the bottom of the hull. Plecas grabbed the forward periscope as the submarine’s angle reached thirty up, while other men held on to consoles near their watch stations. The air finished pushing the water out of the ballast tanks, then spilled out through the grates in the ship’s keel, leaving massive air pockets in Kazan’s wake as the submarine sped toward the ocean surface, exactly as Plecas hoped.
But the American torpedo detected Kazan’s depth change before it was blinded by the turbulent bubbles, and calculated its target’s upward trajectory. The torpedo’s tail pitched downward, matching Kazan’s ascent toward the surface, and it burst through the turbulence into clear water just above the stream of bubbles exiting Kazan’s flood grates.
It pinged and received a valid return.
Another ping, and the contact was confirmed. Its target lay only a hundred yards away.
The torpedo armed its warhead, rolling its exploder assembly into position. All it had to do now was close the remaining distance.
Through the submarine’s hull, Plecas heard the faint sonar pings from the incoming torpedo, growing louder. He tried one last-ditch effort — a sudden turn, which would leave a turbulent knuckle of swirling water from the submarine’s rudder, potentially disrupting the torpedo’s sonar returns.
“Steersman, hard left—”
The order was drowned out by a jolting explosion that knocked Plecas to the deck. A geyser of water surged into the Command Post from the level below, shooting up the access ladder and ricocheting off bulkheads and consoles. The wail of the Flooding Alarm filled his ears, followed by emergency reports detailing flooding in Compartments Two and Three.
Kazan tilted downward, increasing speed as it descended. Plecas struggled to his feet, fighting against the water rushing into the Command Post, already waist high. As he clung to the forward periscope barrel, he glanced at the digital depth detector. Its glowing red numbers increased as Kazan descended.
As Plecas watched the ocean pour into his submarine, he realized there was nothing more he could do; the flooding was beyond the capacity of their drain pumps, and their emergency blow with two flooded compartments would do no good.
Kazan was going to the bottom.
Plecas considered evacuating to Compartment One with the other men, but knew it was pointless. The ocean was more than two thousand meters deep here, well beyond Kazan’s crush depth. As Kazan descended, the intense water pressure would crumple all intact compartments as if they were made of paper.
His men stared at him with fear on their faces yet a glimmer of hope in their eyes. Somehow, he would save them.
They were wrong.
He had failed his crew and he had failed his family.
Two weeks earlier, as he hugged Tatiana tightly at the hospital, he had wondered whether he would be fortunate enough to see his wife and daughter again. He now had his answer.
North Carolina shuddered and the sonar screens turned white as the shock wave from the explosion swept past the submarine. Lieutenant Johnston called out, reporting their torpedo had detonated.
“Loss of wire continuity. Final telemetry data correlates with Master one.”
Cheers erupted in the Control Room, dying down as Sonar followed up.
“Conn, Sonar. Hull breakup noises, bearing three-three-five.”
The cheers were replaced by a solemn quiet as Wilson, and no doubt the rest of the crew, thought about the men aboard Kazan who would never return from sea. Never return to the families waiting for them. It could just as easily have been them.
After a long moment, Wilson announced, “Secure from Battle Stations.” He turned to the Executive Officer, who held up two fingers. “Section two relieve the watch.”
Once the Communicator was relieved of his Battle Stations duty, Wilson ordered him to draft a message to COMSUBFOR reporting they had sunk Kazan.
To the Officer of the Deck, Wilson ordered, “Make preparations to proceed to periscope depth and transmit.”
Hopefully, new waterspace assignments would arrive soon and North Carolina could begin its journey back to port.
The Officer of the Deck completed preparations to proceed to periscope depth, and as North Carolina tilted upward, Wilson reflected on what they had accomplished. They hadn’t been completely successful. They had sunk Kazan, but the Russian crew had launched a missile armed with a nuclear warhead, which was on the way to its target.
79
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
Jake Harrison monitored the display on Mixell’s table, watching the president and his entourage board Air Force One. Once the last person was aboard, the cabin door closed and the boarding stairs were pulled away.
Mixell climbed into the missile launcher control booth and energized its radar and fire control systems, watching intently as diagnostic start-up tests were run. When they completed satisfactorily, Mixell gave Harrison a thumbs-up.
As Harrison searched for a way to prevent Mixell from shooting down Air Force One, he realized the scenario in the warehouse had slightly improved. Kendall still had her gun pointed at him, but Mixell was no longer a factor; he was preoccupied with the missile launcher. The odds were still against him, since Kendall had him in her sights while he didn’t even have a weapon; Mixell had kicked his pistol twenty feet away.
“Don’t even think about it,” Kendall said. She must have caught him eyeing his firearm on the floor.
Mixell entered a command into the missile control panel, and the twelve-canister launcher swiveled toward the garage door opening.
“Lonnie,” Kendall called out, her eyes still on Harrison. “I don’t see the point in keeping Harrison alive. We’re not going to have much time after the missile launch.”
Mixell glanced at the display monitoring Joint Base Andrews. Air Force One had begun taxiing for takeoff. He turned to Harrison.
“I was hoping to draw things out, Jake, cutting you into shreds and letting you bleed out. But as much as I like plan B, it has its drawbacks. The missiles will be tracked back to their launch point, and Trish and I need to be on our way before then. That means I won’t be able to hang around after the launch to provide you with a fitting farewell. Quick and easy will have to do.”
He turned to Kendall. “He’s all yours.”
Kendall smiled. “It’s been a pleasure knowing you, Jake.”
As Kendall prepared to pull the trigger, the few options at Harrison’s disposal flashed through his mind. He could try to dodge Kendall’s aim and retrieve his firearm, but it was twenty feet away and she had a full magazine in her pistol; he wouldn’t make it. His only option was to close on Kendall, somehow avoiding a bullet to his head — he could survive most body shots, at least temporarily — and wrest the firearm from her.