The Trident Deception (31 page)

49

USS
KENTUCKY

The
Kentucky
jolted violently to starboard as the deafening sound of the explosion roared through Control. Seconds later, the submarine’s Flooding Alarm activated, followed by a frantic report over the ship’s 4-MC emergency communication circuit.

“Flooding in Missile Compartment Upper Level, port side!”

Malone responded instantly. “Dive, blow all variable ballast tanks! Helm, all stop!”

Taken aback by the Captain’s unusual order, the Diving Officer replied, “Sir, request speed!”

Submarines could carry several hundred tons of extra weight, in this case from flooding, by traveling through the water with an up angle on the ship. But the
Kentucky
was now dead in the water after its back emergency bell, and the Captain had ordered all stop. The Diving Officer wanted to put speed back on the ship so it could carry extra weight, buying valuable time until the flooding was under control. If it
could
be brought under control.

“No,” Malone said. “We’re going to sink or swim at all stop. If we increase speed, we’ll be detected by the sonobuoys again. And I don’t want to deal with a second torpedo.”

The Diving Officer called out the ship’s depth, an urgent request for speed still written on his face. “Eight hundred feet and sinking!”

Stationed next to the Diving Officer at the ship’s Ballast Control Panel, the Chief of the Watch announced, “Blowing all variable ballast tanks. Cross-connecting the trim pump with the drain system. Trim and drain pumps at max RPM!”

The
Kentucky
had powerful trim and drain pumps, one connected to the drain system, pumping the bilges overboard during routine operations, and the other connected to the trim system, pumping water fore and aft between the variable ballast tanks. In an emergency, the trim pump could be connected to the drain system, with each of the eight-foot-tall pumps taking suction on the bilges, pumping the water overboard. But both were centrifugal pumps, their output declining as the external water pressure rose. As the
Kentucky
sank deeper, the rate at which water poured into the submarine increased, and the faster it needed to be pumped overboard. But the exact opposite occurred; the two pumps discharged less and less water, resulting in a continuously deteriorating situation.

“Exceeding Test Depth!”

Their only chance of survival was to stop the flooding before they reached Crush Depth.

*   *   *

“Get the easy ones first!” Tom yelled to the rest of the damage control personnel in Missile Compartment Upper Level as he led four teams up through the maze of piping, attempting to reach the source of the flooding. Luckily, the submarine’s superstructure had absorbed most of the torpedo’s explosion, and the pressure hull hadn’t been punctured. But the flood and drain pipes leading to the top of Missile Tubes Ten and Twelve had been damaged, and water sprayed from several valve bodies and cracked pipes. Tom wiped his eyes as the spray ricocheted off the bulkhead and other pipes, sending water in every direction. The sound from the roaring water was so loud that team members could barely hear each other, even yelling at the top of their lungs.

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 Emerald 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