The silence was shattered by a blast that threw Berryman against the deck. He wasn’t certain if he struck his head and was momentarily knocked out, but he opened his eyes to the wail of alarm claxons. The main power was out and battle lanterns illuminated the control room. He struggled to his feet, hearing the unmistakable sound of water shooting into the hull. Unlike the movies that showed hull breaches as a rush of water, the reality was far worse. At their current depth, the water was under so much pressure, it came through the fracture in the hull with the speed of a bullet.
“Emergency surface!” he shouted to be heard over the roar of water storming in, the alarm claxons and the screams of his crew. He vaguely heard his order acknowledged before a second blast shook the stricken submarine. Berryman fell back against the periscope platform. The back of his head struck something hard, and he collapsed as cold water washed around him.
He struggled to clear his head as those men still able to, fought to stop the flooding. Barely conscious, unable to form words, he knew they would never seal the rupture. He vaguely heard the high pressure air entering the tanks to try and provide enough buoyancy to bring them back to the surface. Even in his dazed state, he knew they would never make it.
The last thing he recalled before the darkness took him, was the forward hatch to the control room bursting inward. What force had caused the heavy steel door to fail, he would never know.
Chapter Eighteen
“What do you wanna do?” Martin asked Kristen as they sat in front of two computer terminals, their eyes burning with fatigue after eight straight hours trying to create something with what little information they had. They’d been working on the computer model for the Borei and Gagarin nearly nonstop since hearing about the Iranian assault across the Strait of Hormuz two days earlier.
But despite their best efforts, they had very little to show for it. They simply didn’t have enough hard data. Martin knew Kristen had, for whatever reason, sort of adopted him and was doing what she could to see him redeemed in the eyes of the captain and XO. He appreciated it, but he’d never worked so hard in his life as he tried to match her pace. She was almost like a machine at times, going for days with only four or five hours of sleep and working feverishly for up to eighteen hours at a stretch.
The crew was enduring an even more rigorous drill schedule than they’d experienced during the run from Japan. But there was a different feeling among the crew now as they went about the arduous battle drills. Martin could see a new sense of urgency and importance, with almost no complaints.
Despite Martin’s most ardent prayers and wishes, the situation in the Persian Gulf had grown worse. In addition to the Iranians seizing and fortifying the Musandam Peninsula, they’d strengthened their minefield in the Strait of Hormuz, and the Islamic Republic had received diplomatic support for their brutal takeover of the Peninsula from North Korea who announced their recognition of Iran’s “legitimate right” to the territory. Similar recognitions came from Cuba, Syria and Venezuela, providing at least the façade of legitimacy to the invasion. Plus other Persian Gulf states, now fearing their bigger neighbor might turn their military on them, were beginning to make overtures toward the Islamic Republic that might lead to them recognizing the takeover as well.
“I think we’re wasting our time here,” Kristen interrupted his thoughts. “We just don’t have enough data on the Russian boats.”
Martin had been thinking the same thing for several days now but was too intimidated by her to say it. Her cool exterior, her draconian work ethic, and quiet resolve reminded Martin of Brodie, and the captain terrified him. “What then?”
Kristen stretched her arms up and over her head as she yawned tiredly. “I want to go on vacation,” she joked lightly then suggested, “I think we might try a model using a boat we know something about.”
“You mean the German boat?” Martin had pored over what data they had on board regarding the revolutionary German hydrogen fuel cell submarine. “We sure have more data on it than the Russian boats.”
“Maybe,” she thought out loud, “we could glean enough information off a sound profile from the Type 212 German fuel cell to help our sonar shack recognize the Russians if they hear them.”
Martin hadn’t shaved in three days and scratched his razor stubble thoughtfully, hoping she would postpone doing the reprogramming until after they got some sleep. He looked up at Kristen as she stretched, and found himself staring at how her coveralls seemed to fit a little tighter every day, accentuating her athletic curves. It was becoming harder with each passing day to think of her as just another member of the crew, and he swallowed hard as she stretched her lower back.
Martin turned his head away as an image of his wife waiting faithfully for him to return, flashed into his thoughts. He still thought about his wife almost every moment he wasn’t actively engaged in something else, and the nagging fear they might soon be in a real shooting war weighed heavily on him.
“Kristen?” he asked. He’d tried calling her “Kris” once, but she’d promptly asked him not to ever call her by the name again.
“Are you thinking we should do the programming of the German boat right now?” she asked.
Martin wasn’t. In fact he was about to suggest they give up, considering it hopeless. But Kristen wasn’t ready to accept defeat just yet. So instead of suggesting they get some sleep, he asked, “Have you been reading the message boards?”
Ever since the captain scolded him earlier in the cruise for not keeping up with the message traffic, Martin read the classified message board every day at least once. Since the Iranians crossed the Strait of Hormuz, he’d been reading them at least twice a day, and his fear that he might find himself in a shooting war looked more likely every day. Most recently, he’d been searching for any sign in the message traffic that there might be some peaceful solution, despite what everyone else seemed to believe.
“Are you kidding? I think I could be officially declared a message board junkie,” she confided as she continued stretching, bending over and touching her toes before standing back up to stretch her lower spine again.
Martin again found himself staring at her. When they’d first met, her cold exterior and the stoic mask she wore about the submarine had been a bit off-putting, but since then she’d loosened up a bit and his initial opinion of her had changed. She was a beautiful woman, despite the way she tried to hide her appearance.
“What?” she asked, catching him staring.
Martin cut his eyes away from her to his computer display and quickly asked, “I guess I was wondering what you think of the Iranians’ concession yesterday to allow civilian shipping unrestricted access through the Strait of Hormuz?” Martin desperately wanted to believe this “major” concession would lead to more negotiations and a peaceful settlement of the crisis.
Kristen shrugged her shoulders and grunted, “Humph,” she muttered dismissively. “The leadership of the Islamic Republic are bullies, Danny,” she said flatly. “You can’t negotiate with a bully.”
“But if our ships have unrestricted access and the oil is still flowing, then there really isn’t a reason to fight, right?” he asked hopefully. He’d worked with her intimately for some time, so he knew better than most how truly exceptional she was. She was the most intelligent person he’d ever met, and he desperately wanted her powerful intellect to agree with him.
“Danny, the easiest path isn’t always the right one,” Kristen pointed out. “You seem to forget the Iranians invaded a sovereign country,” she reminded him gently. “They’re mining the most strategically important waterway in the world. They’re nothing more than pirates.”