The Trident Deception Read online

  The damage control teams worked their way carefully toward the flooding, ensuring no part of their body crossed the path of the water jetting out from the damaged valves and piping. At Test Depth, the water sprayed out with enough force to cut clean through an arm or a leg, severing both flesh and bone. Several of the petty officers frantically shut every valve within reach, hoping one of them would isolate the fractured valves and piping from sea pressure.

  Water sprayed from four main areas, and the flooding stopped in three of them once the nearby valves were shut. But one section of cracked piping couldn’t be isolated. Water continued to spray from the foot-long crack, deluging Tom and the rest of the damage control team, quickly filling the Missile Compartment bilge. Water had already reached the deck plates in Missile Compartment Lower Level and was rising rapidly. As Tom tried to reach the cracked piping, the water jetting out of the crack cut off the approach path. They couldn’t get to the damaged pipe.

  * * *

  “Three hundred feet to Crush Depth,” the Diving Officer announced, counting down the distance until the sea pressure collapsed the Kentucky’s steel hull like an empty soda can.

  Malone approached the navigation chart. “Take a sounding.”

  The Quartermaster energized the Fathometer, sending one ping down toward the ocean bottom. “Five hundred fathoms, sir.” He reported the reading with despair in his eyes.

  Another three thousand feet beneath the keel.

  There was no hope the Kentucky would hit bottom before her hull collapsed. Malone checked the chart for any submerged mountain peaks nearby that might save them, but the ocean bottom was flat, offering no hope of reprieve.

  The Diving Officer announced, “Two hundred feet from Crush Depth and holding. All variable ballast tanks have been blown dry.”

  The Kentucky had stopped descending.

  Malone checked the depth gauge on the Ship Control Panel. The needle had finally halted now that three of the four sources of flooding had been secured. But the rate of flooding had been offset by the variable ballast tanks being emptied, and they had just been blown dry. Now it was up to the trim and drain pumps—could they pump the water out faster than it entered?

  Everyone in Control stared at the needle that would portend their fate, wondering if the flooding was now within the capacity of the trim and drain pumps.

  The needle started moving again.

  The Kentucky continued to sink.

  * * *

  The missile tech next to Tom yelled, “We can’t reach it!”

  Tom and Petty Officer Roger Tryon climbed down from the piping, landing on the upper-level deck. Tom wiped the water from his eyes again, examining the tangled maze of piping above them. “What if we circle around to tube Fourteen, then cut across?”

  Tryon studied the piping, then nodded. Tom led the way down the starboard side of the Missile Compartment and back up to tube Fourteen, then climbed into the overhead, followed by Tryon, damage control kit in hand. After reaching the top of tube Fourteen, the two men clambered over equipment and piping, carefully approaching the cracked piping run. Water sprayed up from a foot-long crack in the top of the pipe, bouncing off the hull before cascading down in a drenching torrent. The two men supported themselves awkwardly, propping themselves on the slippery piping just inboard of the crack.

  “Hand me a clamp!” Tom yelled. But Tryon couldn’t hear him over the deafening roar.

  Tom repeated his request, this time overenunciating so Tryon could read his lips. “Clamp!”

  Tryon squinted his eyes, estimating the pipe diameter, then opened the kit and retrieved one of the clamps, a curved piece of metal that could be placed over the fissure, mating perfectly to the curvature of the cracked piping. Tom placed the clamp on the piping, away from the crack, checking for proper size, but the clamp diameter was too small. He yelled for a larger clamp, and Tryon handed him another one. This one fit perfectly.

  Applying the clamp was a difficult task, as it couldn’t be simply placed over top of the crack, because the tremendous force of the water would blow it right out of Tom’s hands. The clamp had to be applied onto the piping, away from the crack, held loosely in place with several metal bands, then slowly rotated over the crack and tightened securely.

  Tom held the clamp on the piping, a foot inboard from the crack, as Tryon wrapped three strands of metal banding around the pipe and clamp, partially securing it in place.

  “Ready?” Tom yelled.

  Tryon nodded.

  Tom and Tryon shoved the clamp toward the crack, with the clamp under the piping instead of over the top, where it was cracked. Then they rotated the clamp toward the fissure, but it stopped moving as soon as the edge made contact with the wall of water jetting out from the crack. Tryon pulled a mallet from the damage control kit and handed it to Tom, who tried to rotate the clamp over the crack by hammering against the clamp’s edge. But the force of the water was too strong, resisting Tom’s best efforts to shove the clamp over the crack.

  Tryon pulled a second mallet from the kit, shifting his weight on the pipe he was perched on so he had a clear swing toward the clamp. Tom held three fingers up, then retracted one, then another. When he retracted the last finger, Tom and Petty Officer Tryon hammered together against the edge of the clamp, trying to force it to rotate over the crack.

  The clamp moved a fraction of an inch, covering part of the fissure. The water now sprayed away from them as it hit the underside of the clamp and jetted out the side. Tom and Tryon repeated the procedure, but this time it didn’t move. The water pressure on the underside of the clamp was just too great. They tried again with the same result. No matter how hard they hammered and how synchronized their effort, the clamp refused to rotate and seal the flooding.

  * * *

  “One hundred feet to Crush Depth!”

  Malone’s eyes moved from the analog depth gauge on the Ship Control Panel, the needle continuing its slow clockwise movement, to the digital depth meter above the Quartermaster’s stand, hoping the digital meter would report a more favorable reading. But the red numbers on the digital gauge agreed with its analog cousin, rapidly counting up as the ship’s depth increased.

  No one spoke in Control, the only sound being the trim and drain pump flowmeters clicking off the gallons discharged overboard. Malone tried to assess the rate at which the Kentucky was sinking, estimating how much longer before they reached Crush Depth, where the pressure hull would crumple inward under the intense sea pressure.

  They had less than a minute left.

  50

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The early morning light filtered into Christine’s office through partially drawn blinds, the rising sun falling across her desk in thin strips of light. She sat motionless in her chair, staring straight ahead, her hand still resting on the handset to her STE. The news from SecDef Williams had turned her stomach queasy; she wondered what the men aboard the Kentucky had thought and felt as the cold water rushed in on them.

  Her STE had bleeped as she entered her office at 7 A.M., and Williams had informed her the Kentucky had almost assuredly been sunk by a P-3C aircraft. The torpedo detonation had been confirmed, and although the submarine hull’s breakup had not been detected, that was understandable given that most of the sonobuoys had been destroyed by the explosion. The P-3Cs and surface ships would remain in place in the unlikely event the Kentucky survived. The official assessment, however, was that the Kentucky had been sunk.

  Christine rose from her desk and, after a short walk down the hallway, knocked on the Oval Office doors, entering after the president’s acknowledgment. Hardison was seated across from the president’s desk, and the two men halted their conversation after noticing the ashen look on her face. They waited in silence as Christine took her seat beside the chief of staff.

  “Mr. President.” Christine tried not to betray the emotion she felt. “It looks like we sank the Kentucky. A P-3C dropped a torpedo on a submarine approaching Emera
ld and confirmed its explosion.”

  “Yes!” Hardison pumped his fist by his side.

  The president stared at his chief of staff. “We just killed a hundred and sixty men serving our country. And you’re thrilled?”

  Hardison’s exuberance faded. “I apologize, sir. But there was so much at stake. The loss of life is unfortunate, but the alternative was too ghastly to imagine. A hundred and sixty lives versus seventy million. It had to be done.”

  “Are we certain we sank her?” The president turned back to Christine, a haunted look in his eyes.

  “It’s possible she survived, but unlikely. We’re waiting for a report of hull breakup noises from our permanent SOSUS arrays on the ocean floor. Then we’ll know for sure. Also,” Christine added, “Williams informed me that NAVSEA has concluded they can’t patch their fast-attack sonar systems over the radio broadcast. They’ll have to return to port for a complete software reload.”

  “It doesn’t matter now anyway,” Hardison said. “We don’t need our fast attacks anymore.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Christine said sourly, “because if the Kentucky survived and makes it past the P-3Cs and Surface Fleet, there’s nothing to stop them from launching.”

  “Don’t be such a pessimist. We sank her. Now there’re a few loose ends we need to take care of.”

  “Meaning what?” The conversation Brackman had overheard—Hardison plotting to eliminate her ex-husband—was still fresh in her mind.

  There was a slight hesitation before Hardison replied. “Meaning the cover story for the sinking of the Kentucky. What were you thinking?”

  You know exactly what I was thinking.

  Now that the Kentucky had been sunk, Hardison would move aggressively to ensure this issue was permanently concealed, eliminating any remaining threat to the administration. Even if that meant killing Hendricks.

  “Nothing,” Christine replied coolly, turning to the president. “Is there anything else, sir?”

  “No, Christine. That’ll be all.”

  Christine stood, her eyes lingering on Hardison for a few seconds before she left, sending him a subtle warning: Make even the slightest attempt to harm her ex-husband, and she would bring him down. He’d made enough enemies in his thirty years in politics, and she enough friends, to find a way. She could tell her look was not lost on Hardison.

  He met her stare until she turned and left.

  51

  USS KENTUCKY

  “It’s not working! We can’t stop the flooding!”

  Four hours before Christine received the call in her office, Tom Wilson had given up hope of stopping the flooding in Missile Compartment Upper Level. The water was jetting from the cracked piping with too much force. Tom and Petty Officer Tryon’s efforts to hammer the clamp over the crack had failed.

  * * *

  In Control, Commander Malone stared at the depth gauge on the Ship Control Panel as the Kentucky sank toward Crush Depth. Aside from the clicking of the trim and drain pump flowmeters, it was eerily silent in the Control Room. They had one hundred feet to Crush Depth. At the Ballast Control Panel, the Chief of the Watch eyed the Emergency Blow levers.

  Malone debated whether to Emergency Blow. An Emergency Blow—even a temporary one to burp air into their ballast tanks—would give away their position and result in another torpedo sent their way. And another. Their only real hope of survival was to stop the flooding without an Emergency Blow. But they were running out of time.

  * * *

  As Tom gave up hope of stopping the flooding, he got an idea.

  “Back off the clamp!” Tom yelled.

  “What?” Tryon asked, his eyes wide in surprise.

  “Back off the clamp!” Tom didn’t have time to explain. He started hammering the opposite edge of the clamp, taking care not to let his hand pass through the water jetting through the crack.

  Tryon hammered along with Tom, and the clamp was knocked loose. Tom pulled the clamp back, then repositioned it under only half of the crack. Then he started to rotate the clamp over the crack again.

  “There’s too much pressure,” Tom shouted over the roar of the inrushing water, “so we’re going to cover only half of the crack, and use two clamps.”

  Tryon nodded his understanding.

  The clamp hit the edge of the water jetting from the cracked pipe and stopped. Tom and Tryon readied their mallets. Tom held up three fingers, then retracted one, then another. When he retracted the last finger, the two men hammered the edge of the clamp. The clamp moved a fraction of an inch, covering part of the fissure. They repeated the procedure, and this time it continued moving over the fissure. Two more hammerings and the clamp was positioned directly over the crack. But the clamp was still loose, and water was spraying out under it in every direction.

  Tryon pulled a tool from the damage control bag and tightened the center metal band wrapped around the pipe and clamp. Then he tightened the two outer bands, cinching the clamp firmly against the pipe. Half of the leak was sealed.

  As Tryon tightened the metal bands, Tom took a matching clamp and measured off the required metal banding to hold the clamp in place. Tryon cut off three pieces, and the second clamp was soon held loosely in place beneath the second half of the cracked piping. Tom and Tryon repeated the process, and the second clamp was quickly in place.

  The flooding stopped.

  * * *

  The Chief of the Watch relayed the report from Damage Control Central. “The flooding is stopped!”

  There was a collective sigh in Control, but not one Malone shared. His eyes shot to the depth gauge.

  They were still sinking.

  The Kentucky had taken on too much water during the flooding and was negatively buoyant, and would continue to sink until the trim and drain pumps had pumped off enough water. Unfortunately, the Kentucky didn’t have much real estate to work with.

  They had fifty feet to Crush Depth.

  It didn’t take long for the crew to realize their predicament.

  Forty feet to Crush Depth.

  All eyes turned to the Captain.

  Malone evaluated his options. He still believed an Emergency Blow was dangerous. Obviously, a hull implosion was worse.

  Thirty feet to Crush Depth.

  But Crush Depth was a paper-and-pencil calculation, and there was always a safety margin. Plus, he believed there would be warnings of hull implosion, indicators the Kentucky was reaching the breaking point. Piping systems would fail. Hull plates would deform. He would know. If necessary, he would take the submarine to Crush Depth. And beyond.

  Twenty feet to Crush Depth.

  However, if he was wrong and the hull imploded without warning, the Kentucky and her crew would end up on the bottom of the ocean.

  Ten feet to Crush Depth.

  The trim and drain pump flowmeters were slowing, pumping less water as the ocean pressure increased. Everyone in Control stared at the depth gauge. The needle hovered ten feet above Crush Depth. It hung there, motionless, for what seemed like forever.

  The depth gauge ticked downward.

  “Captain,” the Diving Officer announced, “the ship is at Crush Depth.”

  The watchstanders looked around at each other.

  The Kentucky’s hull began to groan. Low rumbling moans. The crew cringed as each ominous sound echoed in Control.

  The ship continued to sink.

  Ten feet below Crush Depth.

  The Chief of the Watch announced, “Captain, Maneuvering reports a leak from Main Seawater Cooling.”

  Twenty feet below Crush Depth.

  Malone acknowledged the report and turned on the 2-JV speaker on the Conn, listening as reports began to stream in from Engine Room watchstanders. Seawater piping systems were beginning to fail, springing leaks at the piping joints.

  Thirty feet below Crush Depth.

  They had run out of time.

  Malone had no choice now.

  He turned to the Ship Control Panel, examining s
hip’s depth one last time.

  Forty feet below Crush Depth.

  The needle was steady.

  The trim and drain pump flowmeters clicked away.

  He would give it one more chance. If the Kentucky continued to sink, he would blow.

  Finally, the needle moved.

  It ticked upward.

  Malone breathed a sigh of relief.

  The Kentucky began rising toward the surface.

  52

  USS KENTUCKY

  The tension in Control was palpable, hanging in the air like the mist that still permeated the Missile Compartment. Five hours later, Tom stood around the navigation table with the CO, XO, and department heads as they examined the location on the chart where they had been hit by the MK 54 torpedo. The Kentucky floated motionless two hundred feet below the surface, while the missile techs and Auxiliary Division mechanics made permanent repairs to the damaged piping and valves in the Missile Compartment. Above, the P-3Cs continued circling to the east while the surface ship barrier remained to the west.

  Malone and the rest of the crew had congratulated Tom and Tryon for saving the ship, but Tom felt uncomfortable with the praise. He had simply done his job, the same way anyone would have done. The congratulations had been short-lived, however, when Sonar detected fresh splashes, denoting a new sonobuoy field being laid. The Kentucky had proceeded west at two knots, the propeller barely turning, slowly pushing the submarine out from under the sonobuoys. Once safely away, they had stood down from Battle Stations and come shallow for more permanent repairs.

  As the missile techs and auxiliary machinists wrapped up their efforts in Missile Compartment, Tom had joined the CO, XO, and department heads around the navigation chart to discuss their options. They were in no-man’s-land, stuck between the P-3Cs and the surface ships. Malone had chosen to continue heading west as they snuck out from under the sonobuoys, placing the Kentucky between the noisy surface ships and the sensitive sonobuoys. As the buoys looked west, the submarine’s tonals were masked by the surface ships behind them.