Netts felt vindicated. One submarine had neutralized the entire fleet. Kitty Hawk wallowed helplessly before the onslaught of Barracuda. He was reminded of the final chapters of Moby Dick. Horning had found his whale, and the sea beast was about to eat him alive—
Without warning the loudspeakers had roared out the sound of a collision, metal grinding on metal, the shrieking horror that said death in the sea. After fifteen interminable seconds the screeching had stopped and was followed by a long silence. Finally, the sound of a submarine blowing its ballast tanks had meant one of the subs was attempting to rise. After another long pause… a series of violent eruptions and then the groans and crunches of a ship breaking up.
Everyone on the bridge of Kitty Hawk saw the distress rocket break the surface a mile away, streak into the sky and explode into a yellow cloud.
A moment later, in the midst of a boiling white sea, Barracuda bobbed to the surface. A hatch in the sail opened, and two men in scuba gear scrambled out, climbed down to the diving plane and jumped into the sea. Netts held his breath, waiting for the hatches in the hull to open. If the sub were about to sink, the crew would scramble out. Instead the hatches stayed closed and a blinking light on the bridge began flashing a message.
COLLISION WITH SUBMARINE IDENTITY UNKNOWN.
CREWMAN WITH BROKEN LEG. SEND MEDICAL
ASSISTANCE. SPRINGFIELD.
Captain Lewis, commander of Kitty Hawk, immediately dispatched a helicopter to lower a surgeon to the sub. Springfield continued to signal with lights rather than radio so as to keep his transmission out of the hands of the Soviet trawlers trailing the fleet. If Barracuda were in imminent danger of sinking, he would not hesitate to say so. Nevertheless, Captain Lewis ordered rescue teams to stand by, ready to take off the crew in a hurry.
Admiral Horning was furious. The destroyers had let Springfield slip through the perimeter. No ship had fired at Barracuda, and she had not launched her weapons, so the war game was technically a stalemate, but Horning knew he had lost. All hell had broken loose down below, then Barracuda had reared up out of the sea like a nuclear sea monster only two thousand yards from his flag. He glared at the sub with deep loathing.
As dozens of reports came in from the fleet, the communications officers were trying desperately to make sense out of the confusion. One message was a routine communication from Swordfish. She was seventy-four miles from where the destroyers had reported her earlier. Several ships reported the sounds of bulkheads bursting as a ship sank.
Two subs were unaccounted for. Dragonfish and Stingray were scheduled to make routine position reports within the hour. With growing horror, Horning realized that if the sub that sank was not Swordfish, it had to be one of them. Who would take the blame? This was shaping up as a real disaster for the navy, the kind of foul-up that destroyed careers and raised hell with congressional committees. It was Netts's Folly. Now let his head roll.
Staring at the screen, Netts was trying to digest the fact that he had lost a submarine. Having arrived at the same conclusion as Horning, that the sunken sub was either Dragonfish or Stingray, he was thinking of neither the war game nor his career. His thoughts were with the men who had just died. Dragonfish carried 116 men, Stingray 112.
A communications officer announced, "Receiving message from Dragonfish."
Both admirals acknowledged the report of Dragonfish with stone faces. That left Stingray, Oakland commanding… Brian Oakland smashed to bits at the bottom of the sea, three daughters left in Charleston and a mistress in Holy Loch. Fred Basana, the XO, was a fourth generation naval officer, father killed at Midway. Fried to a crisp. George Milliard, Chief of the Boat, crushed, mangled, destroyed—
"Receiving message from Stingray."
Netts was stunned. "What the hell is going on here?" he said to Horning.
"I think your Captain Springfield is going to have some explaining to do."
Fifteen minutes after Barracuda surfaced, Baker, the injured torpedoman, was in the carrier's sick bay. The divers made their report on the damage to the outer hull, and Springfield was satisfied with his inspection of the torpedo room. He signaled to the carrier that his ship was seaworthy, the damage minor and that he and Commander Billings wished to board Kitty Hawk.
Before he left the sub Springfield spoke to the crew.
"Attention all hands, this is the captain. We are going to remain on the surface for approximately two hours. All hands who wish to go up to the bridge for a few minutes will have the opportunity to do so.
"We have not suffered major damage. The pressure hull is not ruptured. I want to take this opportunity to congratulate each of you for an outstanding performance during this action. I am going to recommend the ship's company for a unit citation, and there will be individual citations as well. In particular I want to mention Chief Lopez and the entire torpedo gang who put their lives at risk to save ours, and Sonarman Sorensen, whose quick reaction saved the ship from certain destruction. There will be special rations in the mess. That is all."
The sonar room was a shambles. Technical manuals were scattered over the deck. The cabinet had fallen over and spilled thousands of tiny electronic parts. The ashtrays overflowed with butts. A cup of coffee was splashed over Fogarty's console.
Sorensen felt himself coming unstuck. He collapsed, gasping for breath. The tension streamed out of his eyes. The sound of the Soviet submarine — the mystery sub — plunging straight toward him reverberated in his ears, a sound he would never forget. It had seemed as though the suction of the Russian propeller was pulling him in. "Left full rudder." He remembered shouting that. The ship had taken forever to respond.
And then the hit.
Gradually he brought himself under control. He looked at Fogarty, who was pale and drenched in sweat. His jumpsuit was ripped down one leg.
"Holy shit, Fogarty. You look like you've just been in a train wreck."
Fogarty's hands were trembling as he lit a cigarette. "What did he do? Ram us on purpose?"
"I don't think so. Sub drivers generally aren't suicidal. This was just bad seamanship."
"How many…" Fogarty stammered, "how many men do you think were on that ship?"
"Hard to say. Eighty, ninety, maybe."
"Christ."
"It was quick, real quick. When it imploded, it was all over."
"But the waiting. Sinking, knowing they were going to die…"
Sorensen understood what Fogarty was feeling. Inside himself he felt the same thing, but he shut it down. Not allowed. He said, "As far as I'm concerned, the fool backed into a blind spot and sank himself and his crew. That was one stupid Russian sub jockey. Goddamn Ivan the Idiot…"
"It could've been us."
"But it wasn't. Maybe next time."
"Do you think the Russians know?"
"I don't know, I don't think so. Not yet. But the fleet is up there, and right now all their radio people are jabbering like crazy at one another. The Russians are picking it up, and they know something happened. That sub has to make routine reports, and after it misses a few they'll start to wonder why. Sooner or later they'll find out."