“It won’t work,” Brackman shouted. “Either I die, or we both die. There’s no other option!”
Christine realized she had to make a decision. Her strength was fading, while the force of water they were pushing against was increasing.
Reluctantly, she concluded Brackman was right.
She lowered her shoulder and pushed against the door. It moved slowly closed until there was only a fraction of an inch remaining, water spraying out from around the watertight door seal. Christine twisted the handwheel, and as the lugs dogged down, the water spraying past the door seal slowed to a trickle, then stopped.
Christine dropped down to the circular glass viewport in the door, illuminating Brackman on the other side with her flashlight. The water level had risen above the watertight door, and with the downward angle of the submarine, the only pocket of air would be on the far side of the compartment; too far for him to swim to in his bulky Arctic gear.
She stood frozen at the watertight door in disbelief. As she struggled to accept Brackman’s fate, the realization of what she had done settled low and cold in her gut.
Brackman remained on the other side of the door, his eyes locked on hers as he held his breath. He finally exhaled, and Christine watched him choke as he inhaled icy seawater into his lungs. His hands remained on the door handwheel until his eyes glazed over and his grip loosened. Slowly, he drifted into the darkness.
97
“Captain, Torpedo Tubes One and Two are reloaded, flooded, and muzzle doors reopened. Both tubes are ready in all respects.”
Buffanov acknowledged his Weapons Officer’s report as they approached their target. Fire Control’s new solution held the American submarine a few hundred meters away from its original position, stationary, hiding near the ice. However, Buffanov’s Yasen class submarine was up to the task, with the most advanced sensors ever built into a Russian submarine. His Hydroacoustic Party was also well trained, with significant experience under the ice, and they had locked on to their target’s main tonals from among the ice reflections.
There had still been no counterfire from the American submarine, which meant it was either damaged or its crew had not yet detected Severodvinsk. Buffanov examined the distance to his target.
Two thousand, five hundred meters.
Another three minutes before they closed to two thousand meters.
The American submarine would not get away this time.
With the Russian torpedo on the other side of Michigan and speeding away, Wilson focused on the flooding and dormant combat control consoles. The Chief of the Watch had lined the drain pump to the Operations Compartment bilges, and the pump was keeping up. Water sprayed from both periscope barrel seals, and Auxiliary Division personnel were on the Conn, adjusting the packing glands around the barrels. Thankfully, the top of Michigan’s sail was at a depth of only ten feet, up against the bottom of the ice cap, and the pressure of the water spraying past the periscope barrels wasn’t dangerous.
Both periscopes were out of commission, and a glance at the Buoyancy Control Panel told Wilson the sail had suffered extensive damage. They had lost the Down indication on several masts and antennas, indicating they’d been jammed downward during the collision and their magnetic indicators were misaligned. However, the damage to the sail was inconsequential compared to the loss of Michigan’s combat control consoles.
The breaker to the submarine’s BYG-1 Combat Control System had tripped, and tripped again each time it was reset. Something was shorted out and it would take time to determine the affected component and isolate it. The entire Fire Control Division was working on the problem, but there was little hope they could solve it while seawater sprayed onto the consoles.
Wilson’s thoughts were interrupted by the Sonar Supervisor’s report. “Conn, Sonar. Hold a new narrowband contact on the spherical array, designated Sierra eight-seven, bearing one-six-zero. Analyzing.”
Wilson examined the narrowband display. There was a weak fifty-Hertz tonal; standard Russian fifty-cycle electrical machinery. As the tonal grew stronger, two more tonals appeared, followed by a fourth.
A moment later, the Sonar Supervisor followed up. “Conn, Sonar. Sierra eight-seven is classified Yasen class nuclear attack submarine.”
A pit formed in Wilson’s stomach. They were going up against one of Russia’s newest attack submarines. Additionally, the tonals were growing stronger.
The Russian submarine was moving in for the kill.
Range to their target was now two thousand meters. Close enough, Buffanov decided. Their torpedo would detect the American submarine as soon as it went active.
Buffanov called out, “Prepare to Fire, Hydroacoustic four-nine, torpedo salvo from tubes One and Two.”
As his crew readied two more 533-millimeter torpedoes, Buffanov evaluated his adversary’s possible responses; he intended to ensure at least one of his torpedoes homed to detonation this time.
With the American submarine up against the ice, its captain could not pull the same trick as before, launching an acoustic jammer and then emergency blowing to the ice canopy. If he launched a jammer, it would eject into the water only a few meters away. True, the jammer would mask the fainter sounds of the submarine, but it could also be used as a beacon.
Buffanov ordered, “Weapons Officer. Preset torpedo in tube One to Home-on-Jam.”
If the American crew ejected another jammer, it would draw Severodvinsk’s first torpedo close enough to activate its magnetic field exploder. If the American Captain evaded, leaving his acoustic jammer behind, his submarine would be snapped up by Buffanov’s second torpedo.
The expected reports flowed from his watchstanders.
The First Officer called out, “Solution updated.”
“Torpedoes ready, tubes One and Two,” his Weapons Officer announced.
The Watch Officer reported, “Countermeasures armed.”
Severodvinsk was ready.
Buffanov moved to the rear of the Central Command Post, placing himself where he would have a clear view of the hydroacoustic and fire control displays. One final scan convinced him of the pending outcome.
His adversary would not get away this time.
As he prepared to issue the Fire order, he was interrupted by a report from Hydroacoustic, blaring from the Command Post speakers.
“Torpedo launch transients, bearing two-seven-zero!”
Buffanov’s eyes locked on to the hydroacoustic display, trying to figure out what was going on. The American guided missile submarine was to the north, yet Hydroacoustic reported a torpedo fired from the west. It took only a second for Buffanov to understand what had occurred, and his face paled when he realized his failure.
98
“You forgot about us, didn’t you?”
Commander Paul Tolbert wasn’t sure whether he spoke the words aloud or just thought them. A few hours earlier, the electronic components scavenged by the Russians had been reinstalled and all tactical systems restored, and Commander Tolbert now stood in the Control Room of a fully operational Virginia class submarine. There was the propulsion issue, but the front end was fully functional.