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Authors: Rick Campbell

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BOOK: The Trident Deception
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“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 ship’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.

The
Kentucky
was safe. For the moment.

At least until she headed east, back under the P-3C sonobuoy fields, or west, under the surface ships. Which direction she would head was never really a question, though; the
Kentucky
had received a launch order, and she would continue west, toward Emerald and launch range. However, now that they knew the P-3Cs and presumably the surface ships were Weapons Free in water the submarine owned, the crew could plan accordingly. Even so, the situation raised more questions than answers.

“Why the hell did they shoot at us?” the Weps asked.

“They didn’t know they were shooting at us,” the XO replied. “It’s obvious there’s something else going on out here—that our conventional forces are involved in some sort of engagement.”

“They should not have been Weapons Free in water we owned.” The Nav reinforced the Weps’s question. “The P-3C should never have been authorized to launch a torpedo in the first place.”

“If they even know we own the water,” the XO explained. “Not even fast-attack submarines are told what water ballistic missile submarines own. Only the N9 shop back in Pearl knows which operating areas have been assigned to Tridents. And there’s no telling what kind of coordination is occurring between our strategic and conventional forces right now. I bet it’s chaotic as hell up there.”

“I think the XO’s right,” Malone said. “COMSUBPAC sent several 688s into our moving haven during our transit to Sapphire to make sure there were no other submarines nearby. And now the P-3Cs and surface ships are prosecuting submarines. That means there’s a threat out here somewhere, and we need to be alert for it.”

“Speaking of threats,” the Nav added, pointing to the displays on the ship’s combat control consoles, “we still have to pass through the surface ship barrier.”

Tom looked up at the submarine’s sonar and combat control displays, the picture to the west a jumble of contacts, impossible to sort out.

“We could transmit a message, asking COMSUBPAC to clear a lane for us,” the Weps suggested.

The XO shot Lieutenant Pete Manning a disapproving glance. “Our protocols are clear. You of all people should know we cannot transmit after we’ve received a launch order.”

“To hell with protocols,” the Weps spat back. “We almost got sunk by one of our own P-3Cs. And now we have to travel underneath surface ships and their helicopters, which’ll no doubt drop another torpedo if they detect us. We need to transmit a message to COMSUBPAC asking for their help.”

“I don’t advise it,” the Nav said, this time agreeing with the XO. “This close to surface ships and aircraft, there’s a high probability our transmission would be detected. And these guys appear to be in a shoot-first-ask-questions-later mood. It’s likely they’ll send another torpedo our way as soon as they detect a radio transmission from a submerged contact.”

Malone ended the discussion. “We will not transmit this close to surface ship and air contacts. I’m not going to risk getting another torpedo rammed down our throat. We’ll take our chances transiting under the surface ships. We’ve trained for this, and now that we know they mean business, we won’t be caught off guard.” Malone looked at the ship’s clock above the Quartermaster’s stand. “Two more days before we launch, gentlemen, and one last task—pass through this ASW barrier.”

Malone turned to the Weps. “Speaking of launching, we need to determine the extent of damage to our strategic launch systems. Run the system through its paces. The XO and I will get us past the surface ships.”

The Weps tersely acknowledged the Captain’s order, then left Control.

“Now let’s put the ship back into a fighting posture,” Malone announced. “Officer of the Deck, man Battle Stations Torpedo silently.”

Moments later, as the submarine was brought to full manning again, Malone assumed the Conn and examined the sound velocity profile above the Ship Control Panel. There was a moderate thermal layer just below the ocean’s surface. Taking the ship’s height into account, Malone ordered the
Kentucky
’s keel to an optimal depth while they transited under the surface warships, hiding in the shadow zone beneath the layer.

“Dive, make your depth three hundred feet. Helm, ahead two-thirds. Left ten degree rudder, steady course two-six-five.”

Tom joined Malone at the front of the Conn as the
Kentucky
began to pick up speed, the deck pitching downward.

 

2 DAYS REMAINING

 

53

JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

 

“Good evening, Prime Minister.”

Rosenfeld’s stride faltered as he entered his office. A large, burly man sat in a chair in front of his desk, his back to the prime minister. A gray ringlet of hair, encircling a bald dome on top of the man’s head, tapered down the back of a wide neck that spread into broad, sloping shoulders. Without seeing his face, Rosenfeld recognized the man—Ariel Bronner.

Head of the Metsada.

Rosenfeld was surprised to find anyone in the building this late, much less in his office. It was 9
P.M.
He wondered how Bronner knew he was working late tonight, then stopped midthought.

Stupid question.

The Metsada was the special-operations arm of the Mossad, fielding the agents that made Israel’s espionage possible. Rosenfeld harbored no doubt the Metsada kept tabs on him as well, and that Bronner could ascertain Rosenfeld’s whereabouts with little effort.

Rosenfeld suddenly noticed Hirshel Mekel, his executive assistant, sitting in one of the chairs against the wall, his eyes darting between Bronner and the prime minister. Regaining his composure, Rosenfeld walked past Bronner, stopping behind his desk to face the man who had never once, in Rosenfeld’s six years as prime minister, visited his office. Bronner’s massive shoulders transitioned to thick, muscular arms ending in large scarred hands that wrapped around the end of the chair’s armrests. Rosenfeld had never reviewed Bronner’s field file, but he had no doubt the man had squeezed the life out of more than one person before he was promoted to a management position.

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