The shock wave was violent and merciless to both submarines.
One moment, Captain First Rank Georgy Alexeyev was strapped into his seat at the port side of Belgorod’s command console, his seat belt tight, a five-point harness clamped into a central point on his chest.
The next moment the central command post was hit by a high speed freight train and the compartment was thrown to the left until the deck became a wall, and Alexeyev lost consciousness.
In the long moments before he came to, there was nothing but darkness. But then, when he did emerge from unconsciousness, he was still in darkness. Darkness with the smell of smoke.
That same instant, Lieutenant Anthony Pacino was standing at the USS New Jersey’s command console. The next, he was flying through space until he hit the aft bulkhead. He faded out into unconsciousness before his body slid down the wall and onto the deck. As he lay in a heap on the deck, blood from a head wound ran down his face.
Midshipman Third Class Anthony Pacino felt himself becoming drowsy in the huge amphitheater in Michelson Hall, the physics lecture not only boring, but exactly repeating what was in chapter seven. Why couldn’t they just let him read the book and take the exams, he thought. It was his last thought before he fell into a light slumber.
Until he felt a hand shaking him awake by his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see a full lieutenant in service dress blues waking him. Pacino bolted upright in his chair. At the Naval Academy, first class midshipmen were like gods, but if they were gods, the officers appointed over them were some celestial beings from even higher above. Pacino reminded himself that his own father was an admiral, and not just any admiral, but the CNO, the admiral in command of the entire Navy, and he told himself that officers were not beings to be feared, and yet, here, in this cloistered enclave, they were. An officer could put him on report, confine him to Bancroft Hall for ninety days, force him into formal uniform inspections daily, and the conduct report could snowball. A deficiency in a uniform inspection could add demerits to the original batch. And too many demerits and he’d be automatically kicked out of the Academy. Separated from the naval service.
Pacino was already perilously close to being kicked out. He’d been caught “going over the wall” last month. It was really just a rite of passage, to get up from his room at two in the morning, sneak out of Bancroft Hall, skulk out to the closest wall of the Academy, vault over it, and walk to a diner named Chicks that served breakfast around the clock. It was discouraged to graduate without going over the wall, and yet, getting caught was a major conduct violation. The insane cops-and-robbers game at the Academy was woven into its very fabric, and everyone who attended had played it, but play it poorly? That midshipman would find himself a civilian.
So it was that when he felt the hand shake him awake, Pacino’s heart slammed in his chest, his pulse instantly racing. He gasped for breath as if he were running hundred-yard dashes. He looked up at the lieutenant. Sleeping in class, he thought. How many demerits was that? Then the lieutenant spoke.
“Midshipman Pacino? The superintendent wants to see you in his office.”
Those words had to be the most terrifying of Pacino’s life. The only reason the superintendent — the admiral-in-command of the Academy — would want to see him would be to discharge Pacino from the Navy. Dear God, Pacino thought, how the hell would he explain this to his father? Dad was going to kill him.
The walk to the superintendent’s office in Leahy Hall seemed like a walk to the gallows. Pacino’s knees felt so weak it was like they’d turned to liquid. The passage through the door of Leahy Hall to the admiral’s office was like falling through a blurry tunnel, all luxurious walls and fixtures, paintings of past commanding admirals on the walls, elaborate models of ships in glass display cases, until finally the double door of Admiral Murphy’s inner office was opened.
Murphy came up to Pacino, but his expression wasn’t what Pacino had expected. Instead of harshness, the admiral’s face was a mask of pain and sympathy.
“Sit down, Mr. Pacino, please,” Murphy said, pointing to a chair in front of his desk. Murphy leaned on his desk in front of Pacino. “Anthony, I hate to be the one to bring this news to you. But your father’s cruise ship, the Princess Dragon, was torpedoed eighty miles outside of Norfolk harbor and went down with all hands. Your father is presumed to be among the dead. I’m so sorry, Anthony.”
Pacino felt the hot tears wet his eyes and trace their way down his face. He put his face in his hands, the tears, unwelcome and unbidden, shaking his entire upper body.
He felt a soft washcloth on his forehead and strong fingers touching the back of his skull. He decided to risk opening his eyes and when he did, he was no longer in Admiral Murphy’s office but seated at a table in the crew’s mess. A crew’s mess completely black but for the uneven lights of several battle lanterns, one of them shining on the back of his head. Even in the dimness, he could see over his left shoulder a large framed photo depicting the World War II battleship New Jersey firing all her guns at once, flames and billowing smoke blowing out over the seascape.
Pacino blinked and saw that the hands on his skull belonged to Chief Grim Thornburg, the hospital corpsman assigned to the submarine New Jersey. He looked over, his neck shooting pain as he did, and he saw that next to him sat River Styxx in her dark blue coveralls. The damp washcloth was in her hands, wiping away what must have been blood. And the tears on his cheeks. Her eyes were liquid with sympathy.
Dieter U-Boat Dankleff stood behind him, shining the battle lantern on Pacino’s head. Pacino felt a sharp stab and he flinched involuntarily.
“Easy, Lieutenant,” Thornburg said. “You need twenty stitches at least. A scalp wound bleeds profusely. And the cut went an inch below your hairline toward your right eye. You took a pretty hard hit to your skull.”
“Does he have a concussion, Doc?” Styxx asked.
Thornburg shined a penlight into Pacino’s right eye, then his left. “He seems to be okay, but keep an eye on him, and don’t let him sleep. Mr. Patch, you’ll need to consult a plastic surgeon to see about that scar.”
“What happened?” Pacino croaked. “I can’t be the only one hurt.”
“What’s the count, Doc?” Dankleff asked, setting down the battle lantern.
“Three crewmen with broken bones,” Thornburg said seriously. “Lacerations and contusions affecting another thirty. Mr. Pacino is the only one who lost consciousness, though.”
“That’s because he’s a lazy slacker,” Dankleff grinned.
“Fuck you, U-Boat,” Pacino managed to say. “How’s the boat? Are we damaged? How bad is it?”
“You might tell by the lack of lights, the reactor scrammed,” Dankleff said. “Shock opened every electrical breaker aboard.”
From aft in the space, the voice of the compartment phone talker spoke. “From Maneuvering, the reactor is critical!”
Dankleff half shook his head once. “We should be self-sustaining and in the power range in sixty seconds and back in a normal full-power lineup in two minutes.”
“What’s going on with the BUFF?”
“No idea. Until we get sonar back and come off the bottom, we’re in the dark.”
After another minute of being stitched and bandaged by Thornburg, the phone talker aft called out again. “The electric plant is in a normal full-power lineup. Secure rig for reduced electrical.”