Michigan would not get away.
Murray Wilson studied the geographic display on the nearest combat control console. The torpedo behind them had closed to within three thousand yards and would catch up to Michigan in four minutes. The torpedoes on each side would pass by without detecting the submarine, but they were doing their job. Wilson couldn’t maneuver in either direction without turning into the path of one or the other.
Wilson sensed the tension in the Control Room. The low murmur of orders and reports between watchstanders had ceased, the quiet in the Control Room pierced only by Sonar’s announcements, reporting the bearings to the three torpedoes. One by one, the watchstanders in Control looked toward Wilson, wondering if he would find a solution to their dilemma.
There was nowhere for Michigan to turn to evade the torpedoes, and it couldn’t go up or down, either. The Persian Gulf was too shallow. With Michigan measuring about eighty feet from keel to the top of the sail, there was barely a hundred feet to the surface and another hundred feet beneath the keel. There was simply nowhere to go.
Lieutenant Commander Montgomery reached the same conclusion.
“Sir,” he said. “Recommend Emergency Blow.”
“That won’t work,” Wilson replied. “There won’t be enough of a depth change. We’ll remain in the torpedo’s detection cone once it clears the bubble cloud from the Emergency Blow. However…” Wilson paused as he stared at the navigation display, wondering if he could implement a strategy that had proved successful once before.
He tapped the Quartermaster on the shoulder a second later. “Overlay bottom contour.”
The petty officer complied, and after several push-button commands, depth contours appeared on the display. Each level of the ocean bottom was displayed in a different color, increasing in brightness from a dark blue to bright yellow as the water depth increased. Ahead and just to starboard was a small bright yellow patch, indicating an area about a hundred feet deeper than the surrounding bottom.
“What’s the bottom type?” Wilson asked.
The Quartermaster retrieved the requested information from the navigation database, then replied, “Mostly quartz sand and calcium carbonate mud, with intermittent coral reef formations.”
Wilson immediately ordered, “Helm, right full rudder, steady course zero-seven-zero. Dive, make your depth two-five-zero feet.”
The Helm and Diving Officer acknowledged, followed by a report from the Quartermaster. “Sir, charted water depth is three hundred feet.”
“Understood,” Wilson replied. Stepping onto the Conn, he called out loudly, “Attention in Control. I intend to put Michigan on the bottom in the deepest spot we can reach before the torpedo catches up to us. If we’re lucky, we’ll end up in a spot we can sufficiently hide in, hoping the torpedo chasing us either loses us in the bottom clutter or locks onto a nearby coral reef instead. Carry on.”
Turning toward the Quartermaster again, Wilson ordered, “Energize the Fathometer.”
The Quartermaster complied, and the submarine’s Fathometer began sending sonar pings down toward the ocean bottom. On its display, the distance beneath the keel steadily decreased as Michigan sank toward the gulf bottom until the Diving Officer called out, “On ordered depth, two-five-zero feet.”
The middle torpedo was only two minutes behind them. Michigan would reach the shallow patch at about the same time. Wilson’s eyes shifted between the combat control console display and the Fathometer readout as the torpedo behind them closed the distance.
“Conn, Sonar.” The Sonar Supervisor’s report echoed across the tense Control Room. “Torpedo bearing two-five-zero has increased ping rate. Torpedo is homing!”
Wilson said nothing, his eyes fixed on the Fathometer. Suddenly, water depth began decreasing rapidly, reported by the Quartermaster. “Six fathoms beneath the keel… Five fathoms… Four fathoms…”
They were passing over a coral reef. But how high would it rise and how sturdy was it? With the submarine traveling at ahead flank, hitting even a coral formation could inflict significant damage to the submarine’s rudder.
As the Quartermaster called out, “Zero depth beneath the keel,” Michigan shuddered, knocking some of the personnel standing in the Control Room off balance. Wilson grabbed onto the Conn railing, his eyes still fixed on the Fathometer. The Diving Officer turned toward the Captain, looking for direction. Michigan was barreling along the ocean bottom at ahead flank speed, receiving who knows what kind of damage. Meanwhile, the torpedo behind them kept closing.
“Conn, Sonar. One minute to torpedo impact.”
Sonar’s report was barely audible above the racket as Michigan plowed along the ocean bottom, but the loud scraping sounds suddenly ceased.
Wilson immediately called out, “Helm, back emergency! Dive, bottom the submarine! Don’t break the bow dome!”
The Diving Officer turned back quickly toward the Ship Control Panel, simultaneously ordering the two planesmen in front of him, “Three down, full dive fairwater planes.”
Wilson felt tremors in Michigan’s deck as the ship’s massive seven-bladed propeller began spinning in reverse. Michigan tilted downward three degrees as it slowed, and a shudder traveled through the ship’s hull as the submarine rammed into the ocean bottom again.
“Thirty seconds to torpedo impact!”
As the submarine’s speed approached zero, Wilson called out, “Helm, all stop!” and the Helm twisted the Engine Order Telegraph to the ordered bell. The tremors beneath Wilson’s feet ceased, and Michigan came to rest with a slight tilt to port. The racket of the submarine’s grounding was replaced by a serene silence, interrupted only by the high-pitched pings of the torpedo behind them.
“Ten seconds to impact.”
A few seconds later, a deafening explosion rumbled through the Control Room, followed by hollow tings echoing through Control as chunks of coral bounced off Michigan’s steel hull.
After checking with Damage Control Central, verifying there had been no reports of serious damage to the submarine, Wilson began issuing orders.
“Rig for Reduced Electrical Power.” Picking up the Conn microphone, he pressed the button for the Engine Room. “Maneuvering, this is the Captain. Unload and secure both turbine generators as soon as possible. Also shift the reactor plant to natural circulation and secure all seawater pumps.”
The Engineering Officer of the Watch acknowledged Wilson’s order, and throughout the submarine, all nonessential equipment was secured, reducing the electrical demand to within the submarine battery’s capacity. Additionally, anything that could transmit sound through the water, indicating that Michigan was still operational — primarily machinery noises from electrical generators, pumps, and propulsion-related equipment — was ordered shut down. If they wanted to survive, they needed to convince their adversary that their torpedo had sunk Michigan. That meant the submarine not only had to play dead on the gulf bottom, but sound dead.
As the crew secured nonessential electrical loads, the ventilation fans drifted to a halt, and an uneasy silence settled over the Control Room. The nuclear-powered submarine’s battery was small by diesel submarine standards. Even if they successfully simulated a sunk submarine, they could not sit on the bottom for long.