Seawolf End Game (24 page)

His helmsman and planesman looked at him with worry.

Berryman knew his boat and crew were in danger, but he also knew allowing panic to set in wouldn’t help him. “Hold your turn, helm,” he ordered, trying to keep any alarm out of his voice. He now assumed that somewhere above him, hovering over the Gulf of Oman, was a flight of five or more Iranian transport helicopters dropping mines into the sea almost at random. Whether they were off course or intentionally seeding these waters didn’t matter. He had to get clear of the area before it was too late.

The MIDAS alarm again sounded and he saw his helmsman white knuckling his controls as he stiffened in fright.
“MIDAS alert,”
the sonar chief’s voice called out.
“Mine bearing zero-zero-five.”

The mine was directly ahead of them.

“Reverse your turn, helm,” Berryman ordered, trying to keep his own voice steady. He’d read the reports regarding Iranian sea mines being deployed and knew most were magnetic induction mines, meaning they would detonate the moment they detected a metallic object. Fortunately, the
Virginia’s
steel hull had been degaussed prior to their current deployment. Not that he was counting on this saving them. Their best—perhaps only—chance of escape was to avoid the mines entirely. 

He resisted the itch to accelerate, knowing that at high speed the
Virginia
wasn’t as maneuverable, and at the moment, he wanted agility, not speed. He checked the depth, seeing he still had about three hundred feet beneath him and considered diving to get under the descending mines, then reconsidered. Mines were normally moored to the sea floor, and considering the depth here he felt it unlikely that this was an intentional seeding of mines, therefore—instead of descending—he ordered the
Virginia
closer to the surface, hoping to rise up above the sinking mines.

“Battle stations manned and ready,” the Officer of the Deck reported, “Condition Zebra set throughout the ship, Captain.”

Berryman heard the report. It was the first piece of good news he’d had since the first mine splashed into the sea ten minutes earlier. He was about to acknowledge the report when the sound of something heavy striking the hull resonated through the ship. He cringed, expecting an explosion, but nothing happened.

“Hold your course,” he whispered thankfully, assuming that if it were a mine, it had failed to detonate.

“Aye, Captain,” the helmsman replied anxiously. Everyone else in the control room was silent and stared nervously at the hull around them.

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.

Data Equipment Processing Room, USS Seawolf, The Indian Ocean

“W
hat 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.”

“But if war could be avoided…”

She again looked at him with a hint of confusion in her expression. “Danny, if we don’t do anything about it, and we let them get away with it, then we’ve basically set the precedent that the Strait of Hormuz belongs to them, and they can do whatever they want with it.”

Martin had considered this argument, but for him it was more important to prevent war than to make a political point. “But if they’re allowing the ships through anyway… what do we care who owns it?”

She paused her stretching and looked over at him. He could see she was a bit annoyed by his line of questioning, but he felt he had a point. “Danny, let’s say we do what you suggest and just smile and walk away,” she allowed. “What happens a year from now after they’ve strengthened their position and are no longer worried about a counterattack, so they decide to charge a fee for using the Strait?”

Martin had considered this. “The Panamanians charge for ships using the Panama Canal, what’s the difference?” he asked, pleased with his analogy.

“You aren’t thinking it through, Danny,” she replied, shaking her head as if his train of thought were ridiculous. “Let’s skip the whole point about the Panama Canal being a manmade waterway and the Persian Gulf being international waters. What happens after the Iranians charge us a fee and we give into it because it’s just a little concession? Then a year later, when they feel they’ve fortified the Strait to the point we could never wrestle it from them, they shut off the route to all ships, denying anyone access and demand we give them something we can’t. Like, say, renouncing the right of Israel to exist? Or perhaps we turn over weapons technology? Or they begin jacking the price of oil up to a point our economy goes in the toilet?”

Martin thought she was being ridiculous and shook his head, “That’s a bit of a stretch, Kristen.”

“Danny,” she gently shook his shoulder as if trying to wake him up, “they’ve already invaded another country. Their government actively supports terror networks around the globe. Their stated goal is to wipe Israel off the face of the earth. They suppress dissent among their own people through brute force. Just how honorable do you expect them to be? We can’t allow this to stand, and if it means going in there and bloodying some noses, then that’s what we have to do.” She sat back down and returned to her work before adding, “This mess happened on our watch, and I sure as hell don’t want to leave it for some other poor sap to clean up simply because we didn’t have the courage to take care of it ourselves.”

Martin decided he didn’t like arguing with her and let it drop. But he couldn’t help wishing she hadn’t sounded so certain about what would happen if they didn’t confront the aggression immediately. He nervously rubbed his nose, feeling like a kid who’d just been put in his place by his school teacher. But no sooner had they gone back to work, than Petty Officer Goodman from the sonar room appeared.