Sam shot out of his borrowed bed. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem. Normally you’re pretty reliable,” Tom observed.
“Thanks, Tom.”
Reaching the door, his eyes swept the gangway, where Veyron and Genevieve were guarding both directions with MP5 submachineguns. The three of them wore the wetsuits used by the Navy SEALs who’d been forced to surface earlier. Each one had the name of the SEAL written into the wetsuit. His eyes set toward amidships, where a large bulkhead door was slammed shut — blocking their passage to the lockout chamber.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Sam raced to the wheel-lock, with Tom.
The two of them tried in a vain attempt to open the bulkhead door. It had been secured somehow from the opposing side. There was nothing they could do about it. The door was several inches thick and designed to withstand the enormous pressures of external seawater in the event of a hull breach.
Genevieve sent a couple rounds down the gangway heading toward the stern, preventing anyone from attempt to close the next bulkhead door.
Veyron politely said, “Genevieve. You know we all love you, but you are on board a nuclear submarine, and I would be most obliged if you at least attempted to refrain from firing bullets!”
Genevieve gave him a coy smile. “I’ll try my best.”
Tom said, “That’s all you can do, dear.”
Someone’s hand reached for the bulkhead door. A single shot fired, putting a hole in the middle of the hand. The person behind the door cursed, his footsteps running further aft.
Sam looked at Genevieve like a disappointed parent. “What did we just talk about?”
She shrugged with indifference. “What?”
Stepping back from the bulkhead door, Sam asked Tom, “What’s your plan B?”
“We’ve got to get to the stern,” Tom said, gripping his MP5. “There’s an emergency lock-out trunk we can take to the surface. If we can get there.”
Genevieve grinned. “We’ll get there.”
Tom said, “The crew of the USS Jimmy Carter won’t have weapons yet. There’s a small arms locker near the command center. They will be quickly arming themselves, but we shouldn’t have too much resistance on our way to the stern.”
They moved quickly, racing down the narrow passageways.
Sam cleared the second bulkhead door and closed it behind him. Up ahead, Tom was securing the ante chamber to the lock-out escape trunk.
He took a step forward and stopped.
A shotgun blast pelted the submarine’s hull right in front of him. It most likely came from one of the Navy’s Remington 12 pump action, designed to achieve maximum damage within the confined fighting quarters of a submarine. It was a last line of defense, used to repel boarders.
Sam dropped to the ground. His head snapping round to the right, where the shot was fired. It was coming from the sub’s cook compartment.
What is it with Navy cooks and die-hard heroes?
Sam shouted, “We don’t want any trouble.”
Silence.
“We just want to get off the sub.”
More silence.
He needed to get past the small opening, and keep moving aft, if they were going to escape. Problem was, to do so, would involve passing directly in front of a submariner with a shotgun. His likelihood of surviving was insurmountable.
Next to him, a large spanner was attached to the wall — an emergency tool to shut off any water or gas pipes in the event of a hull breach.
He picked up the heavy tool and threw it in front of the opening.
Another shotgun blast.
Followed by the sound of the spanner hitting the metal flooring of the gangway.
Sam felt his heart race. His breathing quick and ragged.
“Genevieve!” he shouted. “I might need some help here.”
Her eyes were flat. “We’re working on it, Sam.”
Genevieve and Tom took cover on the opposite end, securing the aft section of the submarine, while Veyron prepared the lockout-trunk for an emergency escape. Genevieve closed the next bulkhead door, freeing herself up to return to help Sam.
She leaned in close to the entrance of the kitchen. It was a narrow slit, barely large enough for a big person to get into. The cook — if it even was a cook — had positioned himself all the way at the back, at least ten feet. That meant Genevieve would need to reveal her own position, making herself vulnerable if she hoped to place a shot downrange.
What made matters worse, no one had any intention of killing the submariner. Like Sam said, they just needed to get by and escape.
Sam said, “We need a diversion.”
“We’re working on it,” Tom said.
Veyron climbed back down from the lockout trunk. His eyes darted around the room with curiosity. A wry smile formed on his lips and his normally impassive face, livened with fascinated interest as though he were trying to resolve a complex engineering puzzle. His eyes darted around the room until he spotted the spanner. He stepped over and picked it up. “Someone say a diversion?”
Sam grinned. “Yeah, what are you thinking?”
Veyron stared at a series of pipes that ran along the metal wall of the interior hull. He tapped one of the pipes. It made a dull, hollow sound. He tapped a second one. This one made more of a sharp, higher pitched sound. He glanced at the names of each valve.
They were clearly labeled so that, in the event of a hull breach, any submariner could identify them easily so that they could be operated.
Veyron shined his flashlight on one labeled: Kingston Valves — Bow.
Next to that was another one labeled: Ballast Air Vents — Bow
He shined his flashlight down farther, until he spotted the same two corresponding valves for the aft tank.
Sam watched as Veyron used the spanner to set the aft vents into the closed position, while opening the air vent in the bow. During normal operation, the Kingston valve was used to admit seawater into the ballast tank. Once the submarine had dived, the Kingston valve could remain open, while the closed air vent kept any further influx of seawater to the ballast tanks by the pressure of trapped air.
When Veyron opened the bow air vent, the forward ballast became quickly flooded with water.
A moment later, he vented gas into the aft ballast.
The effect on the submarine’s trim was immediate. The bow began to sink, while the stern rose sharply. The bow dipped forward at a twenty-eight-degree dive. The submarine instantly started to creak, as the reinforced steel accommodated the change in hull-pressure.
Sam gripped the side of the gangway to prevent himself from falling. Inside the kitchen, he heard the resounding crunch of the cook’s body — surrounded by smooth hygienic metal — slip and fall.
He didn’t wait for another chance. Sam quickly climbed across the opening, catching up with Veyron, Tom, and Genevieve.
Tom took a deep breath. “Told you we’d sort it out. Try not to lag behind next time, okay?’
“I’ll do my best.” Sam turned to Veyron. “What the hell are you doing?”
Veyron smiled. “Distracting them!”
“By sinking the ship?” Sam asked, a hint of desperation in his tone. “There are nearly three hundred American lives on board!”
“It’s all right. They have another five hundred feet below their keel. It’s plenty of space for our finest to correct the problem with the trim — but it might just buy us enough time to reach the surface.”
Tom said, “You’re certain your diversion isn’t going to sink my dad’s first command?”
Veyron nodded, confidently. “Every submariner on board this submarine can read these gauges and will know how to correct it. Nothing’s locked out. The venting valves run throughout the entire hull, so that any one of them can be used to correct the problem.