Electrical power to the compartment failed immediately, plunging the huge space into darkness. Battery-powered emergency lanterns kicked on, casting spheres of light into the roiling black floodwaters. Scalding tendrils of steam drifted through the semidarkness, the inevitable result of contact between cold seawater and super-heated metal.
A ruptured pipe spewed fuel onto the rising water. The volatile liquid floated on the surface, forming a slick that widened steadily.
Bleeding from their shattered ears and dazed by the concussive force of the explosion, the two remaining engineers managed to scramble up the steep ladder to the engine room’s upper level. By the time they were through the watertight door at the top of the ladder and had dogged it behind themselves, the water level was halfway up the sides of the acoustic isolation modules for the gas turbine engines.
The larger of the turbines, a 50,000 horsepower Olympus TM3B, ran on — oblivious to the water swirling around its airtight isolation module.
Its air supply and exhaust were routed through ventilation ducts that were still well above the water level. Closer to the blast, the isolation module for the smaller boost-turbine had been penetrated by shrapnel. Seawater poured in through several holes, quickly drowning the engine.
The ship began to slow.
Rising water reached an electrical junction box and shorted it out in a shower of sparks, igniting the fuel slick, and instantly converting the huge compartment into an inferno.
The ship’s firefighting systems were more than adequate to handle the blaze. Fifteen cylinders of compressed halon gas stood ready to suppress the flames with a combustion-inhibiting chemical reaction. An extensive network of piping and sprinkler nozzles stood ready to spray hundreds of liters of firefighting foam throughout the massive engineering compartment, blanketing the fuel slick with a layer of chemical bubbles that would smother the flames and form a vapor barrier against reflash.
Neither system was activated, because neither system was automatic.
Both systems required manual activation, either from control panels located inside the engine room or from duplicate control panels in the passageway outside the main entrance. Bloodied and dazed by the explosion, neither of the escaping engineers had thought to activate the fire suppression systems.
Fed by the still-gushing fuel pipe, the fire grew larger, stronger, and hotter.
On the bridge, the captain shouted, “Hard right rudder! Get us around so the port Phalanx can cover us!”
“Helm, aye! Sir, my rudder is right thirty degrees, no new course given!”
A dazzling ball of flame lit up the sky as a Sea Dart missile swatted a German fighter jet out of the air. Kensington’s heart jumped in his chest.
His pulse was racing, and every explosion brought another involuntary flinch. Some primal part of his brain was screaming at him to run, to get away from this place. To escape this worthless stretch of water that the God of death had staked out as a playground. But there wasn’t anywhere to run to …
“Kensington!” the captain said. “Find out where we were hit!”
The young sub lieutenant stared out the window. In the distance, he could see that the aft superstructure of their escort, HMS Chatham, was burning. They’d been hit too, then. Maybe they were all going to die.
“Goddamn it, Kensington!” the captain yelled. “Don’t make me repeat every order!”
Kensington flinched again. “Yes, sir!” He leaned over the comm box and punched up the damage control circuit. “Damage Control — Bridge. I need a damage report.”
There was no answer. Kensington tried again. He paused to wait for a reply, and that’s when he saw them: two streaks of fire boring through the night. Coming right toward him. He had just enough time to scream before the first one slammed into the ship one level below the bridge. A millisecond later, the deck under his feet erupted into a volcano of fire and molten steel.
Through the lens of the Zeiss-Eltro Optronic 19 attack scope, Kapitan Gröeler watched the British destroyer surrender to the sea. Clouds of steam rolled skyward as fire and melted steel drowned themselves in the dark waves. Oily smoke mingled with the steam, creating billowing black columns against the white vapor. After a few moments, the waves closed over the old ship, leaving only a burning oil slick and a handful of floating debris to mark the destroyer’s grave.
Gröeler’s hands tightened on the grips of the attack scope. What were the fools doing? The fighters were supposed to keep the British ships occupied, not attack them! Some idiot of a pilot had pissed his pants and squeezed off a missile. And now look at this …
The plan called for keeping the British out of the conflict. Gröeler felt his jaw tighten. That wasn’t going to happen now, was it?
He swung the scope ten degrees to the right and centered the other ship in his crosshairs. The frigate had a heavy list to starboard, and her guns and missile launchers were motionless. Her active sonar had fallen silent as well. Probably she was without power.
For the briefest of seconds, he considered throwing the mission out the window and ordering his boats to the surface to mount a rescue operation.
His country would try him for treason, of course, but that wasn’t such a high price to pay for averting a war.
But his men would pay the price with him, wouldn’t they? The economy of his country would still collapse into ruins. And, even then, it might not be possible to prevent war.
Gröeler flipped up the handles of the attack scope and stood back as the burnished metal cylinder lowered itself into its recess beneath the deck.
He kept his face carefully neutral. It would not pay to allow his crew to see the doubt that he was feeling.
He turned to his Officer of the Deck. “Make your depth one hundred meters.”
“Sir, make my depth one hundred meters, aye!” the Officer of the Deck said. He pivoted on his heal. “Diving Officer, make your depth one hundred meters.”
The Diving Officer acknowledged the order and repeated it back.
Almost without pause, he issued his own order to the Planesman. “Ten degree down bubble. Make your new depth one hundred meters.”
Gröeler watched his men only long enough to verify that they were carrying out his order with their usual efficiency; then he turned his mind back to the British ships. He almost couldn’t believe it. With the flick of a switch, some fool had dragged the British into this — a development Gröeler was certain the all-seeing strategists of the Bundeswehr had not foreseen. One stupid, reflexive squeeze of a trigger and the plan had gone to hell. And, who knew? Maybe the world would go to hell with it …
Like nearly all senior naval officers, Gröeler was a student of history.
Twice in the last century, his country had traded fire with the British. And both times, the entire world had stumbled blindly after them into war. He suppressed a shudder. Please, God, do not let history repeat itself.
CHAPTER 13