The ping faded to silence and Castillo felt his hope going with it. He didn’t expect to locate Vic-18 with the ping, but he hoped if there were survivors nearby they would hear it and—
“Con, Sonar!” Busfield’s voice was excited over the speaker. “I got something.”
Castillo ran for Sonar. Busfield handed him a phone set without having to be asked and the captain pulled it down over his ears.
What he heard was a frantic cacophony of clanks and thuds as if men were using wrenches or fists to pound on the bulkhead of their submarine.
“The Russians,” said Busfield, the kid’s voice wavering with emotion, “they’re alive.”
Castillo picked up the handset for the underwater telephone, better known to submariners as the growler for the device’s poor sound quality, and raised it to his face. “Daniil Moskovskiy, this is U.S. submarine seven fife two. Are you receiving, over?”
No answer.
Castillo looked over at Pasadena’s XO, Lieutenant Commander Paul Trent. “Nothing.”
Trent frowned. The XO was a thoughtful man who wore his blond hair in a buzz cut and was a frequent user of the boat’s weight machine. “If they lost the forward compartment, they may not be able to reach their growler. Kursk went down when she had a torpedo mishap. If the same thing happened here, we can assume the survivors are restricted to the engine room.”
“I’d rather not assume anything,” said Castillo. He repeated his transmission.
This time he was answered by a smattering of Russian.
A smile flashed across Castillo’s face. The XO handed him a bunch of nonsense words scrawled across a piece of paper. “Ya ne govoryu po Russki,” Castillo read aloud. “Ti govorish’ po Angliiski?”
He put the phone down and looked askance at Trent. “Really? You’re sure that’s right? It sounds like I’m clearing my throat.”
Trent shrugged muscular shoulders. “Your guess is as good as mine, Skipper, but I got it out of the Russian phrase b—”
A voice on the other end of the growler interrupted Trent. “Greetings, Pasadena!”
Castillo frowned. He hadn’t told the Russians the name of his submarine. Had they looked it up — or had they already known who SSN-752 was?
“This is Captain of Daniil Moskovskiy, Captain Second Rank Martyn Leonidovich Volkov.” The voice was slow and halting. Between Volkov’s heavy accent and the growler’s shifting frequency, it was hard to understand.
“I am very glad to hear your voice, Captain. This is the captain of the USS Pasadena, Commander Mark Castillo. We are here to render assistance. What is your situation?”
He nodded to Trent to put the conversation on the speaker.
Even over the growler, Castillo heard the long, unhappy sigh. “We have weapons casualty. Still we are not sure what it was, but we think torpedo… em, I’m think how to say in English, explode, that’s how you say it, da, explode?”
Castillo felt a sudden chill. God in Heaven! “That’s right, Captain,” he said evenly, “explode.”
Around Main Control, his people were staring at the speaker in horror.
Not Senior Chief Washington, though, Castillo noticed the cob was looking at him.
“We think the torpedo open us to ocean. Roving watch reported severe flooding. Managed to get watertight hatch closed, but lost entire forward compartment in two minutes.”
If Castillo had felt a chill before, now his guts were ice. Two minutes. No way would that be enough time to evacuate the forward spaces. Volkov had locked some of his men in a flooding space to save the rest. Castillo wondered if he would be able to do that, be able to carry the crushing weight of that decision.
And then he thought, better to never be in that position.
Better never to make that mistake.
“Do you have power?”
“Battery only, enough to talk on sonar phone and power emergency lights. But is getting very cold, Captain. Soon, cold and dark. Have our countrymen arrived?”
“We think we are first on scene. We reported the accident immediately so by now your people should be on their way. I know for a fact the Japanese have deployed a submarine rescue ship. We expect it to arrive tomorrow in the early morning.”
There was a long silence. Castillo looked at Trent.
“I…am not certain Japanese rescue submarine mate with Russian escape hatch.”
Trent shook his head. “Their DSRV’s are designed to provide a watertight seal around the hatch. Should be fine.”
“My XO tells me it should be fine,” said Castillo. “Can we provide any assistance?”
Another silence.
Castillo tried to imagine what it would be like, cold and desperate in a ship that had torn itself apart, talking on a growler to the outside world while even the dim illumination of emergency lighting flickered and faded. A captain had to give his men hope, but not so much that a setback would turn hope to crushing despair. How did a man walk that tightrope?
“Spasiba, Captain. Uh, thank you. For now, I think best thing is to report our status to countrymen. When Japanese and Russian ships arrive, can decide best course of action.”
“Acknowledged, Moskovskiy. We will relay your status. In the meantime, our prayers are with you.”
“Spasiba,” Volkov whispered. “Spasiba.”
“Pasadena out,” said Castillo softly. He gently reached up and replaced the growler handset in its cradle. There was no sound in Control, absolutely no sound, as if the horror of what had happened to Daniil Moskovskiy had banished sound.
He turned to Glazer. “Officer of the Deck, surface the ship.”
“Surface the ship, aye, aye, sir. Diving officer, make your depth six two feet.”
Suddenly Main Control was filled with the comforting sound of well-trained watchstanders repeating back their orders.
Two minutes, Castillo thought. Jesus Christ.
Thank God the sea state was mild, three to four foot swells from the northeast, but that’s not how it felt as the Zodiac slalomed over the cobalt blue ocean at 25 knots, charging up the crest of one wave only to slam down into the trough of another in a shower of cold, white spray.
It was a jarring, dangerous ride.
But then that was a pretty good way to describe the last twenty-four hours.
A jarring, dangerous ride.
Castillo’s eyes were fixed on the clean lines of the Kongō-class destroyer holding station two nautical miles abeam of Pasadena, the Rising Sun flapping in the heavy wind.
Their old friend, Kirishima.
Already deployed for SCARLET GOALPOST and capable of a top speed of more than thirty knots, the destroyer had reached the op area well ahead of the submarine rescue ship Chihaya.
The Zodiac was approaching the destroyer from the bow, but Castillo saw that the vessel had her Jacob’s ladder hanging down amidships, just aft of the superstructure. Castillo turned around to tell the coxswain, Petty Officer Sonderson, to modify his approach, but Sonderson had already thrown the Zodiac into a wide U-turn, bringing the boat around so it would come alongside Kirishima stern to bow.