Petty Officer Sebring switched channels and keyed his mike again.
“Messenger — CCS. We have high vibrations on the output side of the MRGs.”
“CCS — Messenger, high vibrations on the output side of MRGs, aye.”
The voice belonged to Fireman Sandra Cox. “Do you want me to walk the shaft?”
Sebring keyed his mike again. “Messenger — CCS. That’s affirmative. Walk the shaft starting at the MRGs and report ASAP.”
“Messenger, aye.”
Walking the shaft was an engineering term for visually inspecting every inch of the ninety-four-and-a-half — foot propeller shaft — from the Main Engine Room, where it coupled with the output side of the main reduction gears — to Shaft Alley, where it passed through the watertight seals of the stuffing box and out through the bottom of the hull into the ocean. With luck, the Messenger’s inspection would turn up something simple, like a broken pipe or a shifted bracket rubbing against the shaft.
On Sebring’s first ship, a mop bucket had gotten loose during a high-speed turn and had somehow managed to wedge itself under the shaft. The metal sides of the bucket had formed a natural resonating chamber, amplifying the vibrations of the spinning shaft until it sounded like the mating cry of a brontosaurus.
The memory brought a flicker of a smile to Sebring’s lips, but any trace of humor was driven instantly from his mind by the angry buzzing of an alarm on the Damage Control Console.
A half-second later, the DC Console Watch shouted, “Smoke alarm in AMR #3!”
Sebring switched back to the bridge circuit and keyed his mike.
“Bridge — CCS. We’ve got a smoke alarm in Auxiliary Machinery Room #3. Report to follow.”
“CCS — Bridge. Copy your smoke alarm in AMR #3. Call it away.”
Sebring grabbed the flexible microphone stalk for the general announcing circuit and swung it down near his face. There was a brass bell bolted to the bulkhead to the right of his console. He grabbed the lanyard, pressed the microphone button, and rang the bell rapidly eight times, paused for a couple of seconds and then gave three distinct rings of the bell to indicate that the casualty was in the aft portion of the ship. The sound of the bells and his voice blared from 1-MC speakers all over the ship. “Smoke, smoke, smoke. We have a smoke alarm in Auxiliary Machinery Room #3. Away the Flying Squad. Provide from Repair Three.” He rang the bell again and repeated the message. And then he shoved the 1-MC microphone away.
“DC Console Watch, start your plot.”
“Already started, boss.”
Sebring glanced at the clock. Because of the possible presence of smoke, the Flying Squad would have to wear Self-Contained Breathing Apparatuses to enter AMR #3. Of course, at General Quarters, they would already be wearing their SCBAs. But they would still have to light off their breathing gear and conduct seal checks. Figure one minute for that, plus another minute to haul ass to AMR #3, check the door for heat and pressure, and enter the space. It would be at least two minutes before any damage reports started coming in. By that time, the Damage Control Assistant would have shown up and taken control of the investigation and repair efforts.
Sebring keyed his headset mike again. “Messenger — CCS. Continue your walk down of the shaft, but skip over AMR #3. The Flying Squad will handle that space.”
“CCS — Messenger. Continue my walk-down of the shaft, but skip over AMR #3, aye.”
Sebring looked at the readouts from the vibration sensors. The vibrations were getting worse. This didn’t look much like a runaway mop bucket.
He heard it in the distance at first — a low, slow groaning sound that reminded him vaguely of whale songs. But this sound didn’t taper off to silence the way that whale songs did. It grew continually louder until Sebring could feel it resonating through the very deck plates. And then it grew louder still, loud enough to rattle the glass faceplates of the dials on his console. And he began to realize what the sound must mean.
Sebring looked at his watch. Where in the hell was the Damage Control Assistant? The DCA should have been running this show. Where was he?
“CCS — Flying Squad. Four SCBAs lit off, time two-two-one-eight.
Door checks are complete. We are entering the space.”
Sebring nodded unconsciously. “CCS, aye.”
The second report came almost immediately, at a near shout as the Flying Squad leader struggled to be heard over the noise of the strange groaning vibration. “CCS — Flying Squad. We have heavy smoke in AMR #3. We are preparing to scan with Nifty.”
Nifty, or NFTI, was the Naval Firefighting Thermal Imager: a handheld infrared viewer that could spot sources of heat even in total darkness.
“CCS, aye.” Sebring was only half-listening to the reports of the Flying Squad. The groaning was still growing louder, and its accompanying vibration was beginning to rattle the entire ship. He was picturing AMR #3 in his mind now, and he knew what the Flying Squad was going to find.
The door behind him rattled as the dogging lever came up. Lieutenant (junior grade) Mark Wu, the ship’s Damage Control Assistant, came through, dogging the door behind himself. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I shouldn’t have had that damned chili. It’s killing my stomach. I can’t seem to get more than fifty feet from the head.”
He walked up behind EN1 Sebring. “Give me a pass-down.”
He was interrupted by a half-shouted voice over the speaker. “CCS — Flying Squad. The line shaft bearing is smoking! I say again, the main line shaft bearing in AMR #3 is smoking. It’s so hot that it whited out my Nifty. Recommend we rig a fire hose to attempt seawater cooling.”
Sebring keyed his mike. “Flying Squad — CCS. Negative. Do not attempt to cool the bearing. Evacuate the space and wait for orders.”
“Good call,” the DCA said. “If that bearing is hot enough to zap the Nifty, it’ll explode when cold water hits it.”
Sebring switched circuits and keyed up again. “Repair Three — CCS. Set primary fire boundaries around Auxiliary Machinery Room #3.”
The repair locker phone talker acknowledged and repeated back his order.
The groaning sound was a roar now, and the entire ship was rattling like an old car on a dirt road.
Sebring pulled off his headset and handed it to the DCA. “You’ve got to talk to the captain, sir. He won’t listen to me.”
Lieutenant (jg) Wu pulled the headset on and keyed the mike.
“Captain — DCA. The main line shaft bearing in AMR #3 is burning.
Recommend we stop engines and lock the shaft immediately to prevent serious damage to the engineering plant.”
The CO’s voice came back immediately. “DCA — Captain. Negative.
We are in pursuit of a hostile submarine. You are ordered to maintain speed.”
The DCA keyed his mike again. “Captain — DCA. If that bearing locks up while the shaft is still turning …”
The captain cut him off. “I know we can wreck the plant, Mark. I also know what can happen if we don’t sink this damned sub. Two minutes, Mark. That’s all I need to get within firing range. You give me two more minutes of speed, and then you can trash the whole plant.”
Wu keyed his mike. “DCA, aye.”
He looked down at Sebring. “What do you think? Will that bearing hold together for another two minutes?”
Sebring shrugged. “I have no idea, sir. I’ve never even heard of anyone running flank speed with a burned line shaft bearing. I’m amazed that it’s held this long.”
For a little while, it seemed as if the captain might actually get his two minutes. But suddenly, there was a brief but harsh metallic scraping sound, followed immediately by the shriek of tearing metal.