Schramford left maneuvering and found Mcdonne aft in the upper level between the main engines, reading a gaugeboard. The XO saw him, nodded, “Hi, Eng, you look like hell,” and then disappeared behind the turbines to check bearing temperatures.
Schramford returned to the maneuvering room, dragged the corpses out of the room and placed them in the motor-control cabinet space, then went back to maneuvering, found a rag and a bottle of cleaner and began slowly cleaning the blood off the panels.
Forward, in the crew’s mess, Houser and the chief corpsman, a chief named Ives with red hair and fair skin covered with freckles, had assembled the casualties, some of the living on the six dinette tables, some on the benches, several on the deck, covered with blankets. Ives counted twenty-two injured too badly to return to duty, half of them from broken limbs, nine still unconscious from head injuries.
In the control room Kane had assembled a skeleton crew of watchstanders at the ballast-control and ship-control panels.
A phone on the conn periscope platform buzzed. It was Mcdonne.
“Skipper, I’ve checked out the hovering system and the auxiliary seawater systems. I’ve got Schramford aft. He’s got the drain pump ready to clear out the aft compartment. There’s some high bilge levels in the reactor compartment we’ll have to pump. Do we have a chief of the watch?”
“I’ve got Henderson stationed. He’s got a bad arm and a sprained ankle but he’ll be okay.”
“Good. Go ahead and have him pump out the compartments on the drain pump. I want to test the trim pump on depth-control one when he’s done.”
Houser returned to the control room, his Hawaiian shirt covered with blood smears. He stood near the conn while the drain pump came up to speed and dewatered the aft compartment, then the reactor compartment and finally the forward compartment torpedo room bilges.
“Mr. Houser, you have the deck and the conn,” Kane said as Mcdonne walked into the control room.
“Schramford’s aft,” Mcdonne said. “He’s got enough nukes to watch the plant but not much depth. Manning the plant around the clock will be impossible with a full-watch section. We’ll have to double up duty stations.”
“The engineer will figure that out, XO. Houser, try to get us off the bottom and let’s see if we have any depth control.”
Houser acknowledged, grabbing a microphone hanging from its spiral cord from the overhead of the conn.
“Maneuvering, conn, report status of the main engines.”
“CONN, MANEUVERING,” an overhead speaker squawked. “PROPULSION IS ON THE MAIN ENGINES, MAIN ENGINES ARE WARM, WE’RE SPINNING THE SHAFT AS NEEDED TO KEEP THE MAINS WARM.”
“Conn, aye. Chief of the watch, line up the trim pump to depth-control one. You got a level?”
“HOW system lined up, level shows ninety percent.”
“Aye, pump depth-control one to sea.”
The chief rotated a switch on the ballast-control panel console section. Lights flashed on the display screen as the pump spun up and the level in the tank dropped. The men in the room — Kane, Mcdonne, Houser and the other watchstanders — stared at the graphics, waiting tensely. The ship would either make it off the bottom now or would require much more persuasion.
“DCT one is empty, sir.”
“Shift to depth-control two. Chief,” Houser ordered, a frown creasing his face.
The chief selected the second variable ballast tank and pumped it dry. But the ship stayed on the bottom, the depth readout unchanged, still reading 1,355 feet.
“Shift to aux one.”
“Pumping aux one.”
Fifteen minutes later the variable ballast tanks were dry and the ship remained stubbornly on the bottom. Houser shut down the HOW system operation and joined Kane and Mcdonne aft of the conn.
“Any thoughts, XO?” Kane asked.
“We must have hit a sandy or muddy spot,” Mcdonne said. “If we’d hit rocks the hull would have been breached. I’m guessing when we hit we made a crater or plowed the mud and sand up over the sides and top of the hull. Hell, we could be half-buried.”
“So how do we get out?”
“We emergency blow and put on ahead full,” Houser said.
“What about main seawater suction and aux seawater?” Mcdonne asked. “If we’re buried, the seawater suctions will be clogging up and we shouldn’t risk a full bell.”
“Gotta try something, XO,” Kane said. “Houser, do a timed emergency blow, forward first, then aft, with a fifteen-second delay between forward and aft. Give the aft blow thirty seconds, then order up ahead standard. Call the engineer and make sure he knows what’s coming.”
After Houser told Schramford his intention the men reassembled near the conn. Houser leaned toward the ballast-control panel.
“Chief, emergency blow forward.”
The COW reached up into the overhead and rotated the forward lever, the “chicken switch,” upward into the open position. The room’s silence was immediately broken by the roaring of the high-pressure air into the forward ballast tanks. Seconds passed; the ballast-control-panel area began to fill the room with fog from the ice-cold piping. Houser looked at his watch, then shouted over the noise of the forward blow.
“Emergency blow aft!”
The chief rotated the aft lever; the roaring in the room magnified, a cloud of fog boiling out and rolling over the deck. The deck didn’t budge, nor did the depth readout.
“All ahead standard,” Houser called to the helmsman, who rotated the engine order telegraph dial on the ship-control panel.
The deck beneath Houser’s feet shuddered and shook. Nothing else happened.
The ship still sailed on the surface as morning became afternoon, the deck trembling from the power of the flank bell and rolling to a ten-degree incline to port, freezing momentarily, then rolling back to starboard, the rocking motion inducing drowsiness. Pacino, standing to starboard of the conn, felt the sleepiness wash over him, the loss of an entire night’s sleep consuming his alertness. He forced himself to concentrate, looked over to the port side of the room where the secure fathometer reading showed the bottom dropping out from under the hull of the ship as the submarine crossed the submerged and abrupt downslope of the continental shelf. The phone buzzed on the conn periscope platform.
The officer of the deck, Scott Court, pulled the handset to his ear, listened, then handed it to Pacino.
“For you, Cap’n.”
“Captain,” Pacino said quietly, turning his gaze to the television monitor of the periscope view, the blue ocean and overcast sky seen with the crosshairs and range divisions of the reticle superimposed. The blue of the sea was a startling sapphire color, so bright that it looked like the monitor’s color needed adjustment, but the view from the bridge showed that there was nothing wrong with the screen, that the sea’s brilliant blue was real.
“Wardroom, sir, Mr. Joseph. The officers and chiefs are ready when you are.”
“I’ll be down in ten minutes. Tell the navigator to start the briefing without me.” Pacino replaced the phone and found Court looking at him from the periscope. “Yes, off’sa’deck.”