The Trident Deception (8 page)

“The ship is rigged for Fire and General Emergency. All compartments sealed.”

The Diving Officer reported passing through three hundred feet, then announced, “Two hundred feet, sir.”

“Steady course one-seven-zero,” the Helm reported.

“The fire main is pressurized. Hose teams One through Four entering the Engine Room.”

As Tom waited while Sonar searched for contacts in the previously baffled area, his thoughts drifted to the Engine Room. Of the different types of fire, an oil fire was the absolute worst. The flames would spread quickly, following the oil as it coated the Engine Room surfaces. Heavy black smoke would roil upward, collecting in the top of the Engine Room, gradually descending until the entire compartment was choked in dense black smog. The four hose teams would be approaching the fire by now, the narrow white beams of their battle lanterns cutting through the thick black smoke. Two hose teams would attack the fire from Engine Room Lower Level, one from the port side and the other from starboard, while the other two hose teams did the same in Engine Room Middle Level, hoping to contain the fire before it spread into Engine Room Upper Level.

Their approach would be slow, hampered by low visibility from the dense smoke. It would be especially treacherous in middle and upper level if the fire spread, as the men advanced along narrow walkways suspended in the air between the hull and the Engine Room machinery. Their advance would be further complicated by the bulky air cylinders on their backs and the stiff, heavy hoses they dragged slowly aft as they negotiated the myriad turns and changes in elevation.

“Heavy black smoke in the Engine Room. Visibility limited to five feet.”

If the crew failed to contain the fire and it spread out of control, the temperature in the Engine Room would reach 1,000 degrees, four times what it took to melt a person’s skin. They would be forced to abandon the compartment, letting the fire ravage the Engine Room until it consumed the oxygen it needed to survive, eventually extinguishing itself. The evacuation would be frantic, the crew desperately attempting to account for the original personnel on watch and every man who entered the compartment to combat the fire. The Engine Room’s watertight door would glow red-hot as the fire destroyed the submarine’s essential equipment—the main engines, electrical generators, and water desalinizers. The
Kentucky
would be forced to blow to the surface, the once powerful warship a drifting hulk, waiting to be towed back to port, its missiles offloaded, and the submarine most likely scrapped.

“The fire has spread to Engine Room Middle Level.”

Scanning the sonar display on the Conn, Tom noted two traces on the monitor, then called out, “Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”

“Conn, Sonar. Hold two sonar contacts: Sierra four-one, bearing one-one-zero, classified merchant, and Sierra four-two, bearing two-five-zero, also classified merchant. Both contacts are classified as far range contacts.”

Tom acknowledged Sonar’s report, then reached up and twisted the port periscope locking ring clockwise, waiting while the scope slid silently up through the ship’s sail, folding the periscope handles down as the scope emerged from its well.

“Hose Three has ruptured. Securing Hose Three.”

“Helm, ahead one-third. Dive, make your depth eight-zero feet. All stations, Conn. Proceeding to periscope depth.”

Silence descended on Control as the deck tilted upward. The submarine was vulnerable during its slow ascent to periscope depth, unable to rapidly move out of the way if a surface ship was nearby on a collision course. There would be no conversation in Control, except for the occasional depth report, from the time the Officer of the Deck ordered the submarine’s ascent to periscope depth until, peering through the scope as it broke the surface of the water, he announced there were no close contacts. Even though Sonar had reported no close contacts, the algorithms were sometimes wrong and the submarine’s sonar was not foolproof; occasionally very quiet targets, particularly warships, went undetected.

“The fire has spread to Engine Room Upper Level. Opening the Engine Room watertight door. Sending in Missile Compartment Hose teams Five and Six.”

Years ago, Tom would have rotated on the periscope during the ascent. But protocols had changed. Peering into the eyepiece, Tom looked straight ahead, adjusting the scope optics to maximum elevation. He looked up into the dark water, scanning for evidence of ships as the
Kentucky
rose toward the surface.

“Smoke has spread to Missile Compartment. All personnel in Missile Compartment don emergency air breathing protection.”

“Passing one-five-zero feet,” the Diving Officer announced.

A small disk of light became visible, the moon’s blue-white reflection wavering on the surface of the water, slowly growing larger as the
Kentucky
rose from the ocean depths.

“One hundred feet.”

Tom twisted the left periscope handle, adjusting the optics downward so he’d be looking at the horizon when the submarine reached periscope depth.

“Eight-zero feet.”

“The fire is contained.”

As the periscope broke the surface of the water, Tom began rotating the periscope, completing a revolution every eight seconds, scanning the dark horizon and sky above for ships or aircraft.

“No close contacts!”

Conversation resumed in Control, now that the submarine was safely at periscope depth, and Tom slowed his rotation, periodically shifting the scope to high power for long-range scans.

“The fire is out. Hose Team One is stationed as the reflash watch.”

That was the report Tom had been waiting for, as they needed to ventilate the submarine to clear the heavy black smoke, but they couldn’t afford to bring in fresh air and oxygen that would feed the fire while it burned.

“Dive, prepare to emergency ventilate the Engine Room with the diesel. Prepare to Snorkel.”

The Diving Officer acknowledged, passing the order to the Chief of the Watch beside him, and the order reverberated throughout the ship over the 1-MC a second later. Reports flowed into Control as the crew prepared to purge the heavy smoke from the submarine and bring in fresh air. A few minutes later, the Diving Officer announced, “Sir, the ship is ready to ventilate with the exception of raising the Snorkel Mast.”

Malone clicked the stopwatch in his hand.

As he examined how long it had taken to put out the simulated fire and prepare to ventilate the submarine, his displeasure was evident on his face.

“Not fast enough,” he said. “Take her back down to five hundred feet and run the drill again.”

Tom acknowledged the Captain’s order, then swung the periscope around until it was facing forward. He folded up the handles, reached up, and rotated the locking ring counterclockwise. As the periscope descended into its well, he called out to the microphone in the overhead, “All stations, Conn. Going deep.”

Before issuing orders to the Diving Officer and the Helm, he glanced at Malone, seated in the Captain’s chair on the Conn. He still wore the frown on his face.

It was going to be one of those days.

*   *   *

Four hours later, Tom sat next to the Weps at the table in the Officers’ Wardroom. The day’s drills were over, and all but three of the submarine’s fifteen officers gathered for dinner. Two officers were on watch, one forward as the ship’s Officer of the Deck, the second aft as the Engineering Officer of the Watch, supervising the reactor plant and the propulsion spaces. The two officers on watch would arrive for dinner only after being relieved by the two oncoming officers currently seated at the table. There were only twelve chairs, and with two officers on watch, that left the fifteenth officer, Ensign Lopez, as the odd man out. As the most junior officer aboard, he would have to wait and eat dinner at the second sitting with the two offgoing watchstanders.

At the head of the table, the Captain was joined by the senior officers on his end with the junior officers at the other. Seated by seniority, the XO sat on the Captain’s right and the Engineer on his left, with the Weps and the Nav next in line. The junior officers at the far end of the table engaged in their own conversation, occasionally breaking into laughter, while the Captain discussed the performance of Tom’s watch section with the ship’s senior officers.

They’d run the fire drill three more times until the crew was exhausted, the hose teams drenched in sweat after hauling the heavy pressurized hoses while wearing their thick flame- and heat-resistant fire suits. They had managed to shave two minutes off their original pace, still not enough to please the ship’s Captain. He required nothing less than 100 percent effort on every occasion, and his expectations were almost impossible to meet. But as demanding as the SOB was, Tom found it hard not to like Commander Brad Malone. He judged and criticized everyone evenly and consistently, and when an officer or an enlisted struggled in the performance of his duties, he took the time to point out what improvements were required and how to make them. On the rare occasion the watchstander or watch section lived up to his unreasonable standards, he was quick to praise them for their superb performance.

As grueling as it was to run and rerun the endless drills, Tom knew and appreciated the reason why. The single most important rule for submariners was to make the number of Surfaces equal to the number of Dives. Everything they did throughout the days, weeks, and months underway was focused on ensuring they could accomplish their mission and still be alive to surface the submarine and return home.

Another day of drills was over. Tom had thought life would be dull on patrol, lurking in the ocean depths, hiding from everyone, waiting vigilantly for orders he prayed never came. But the opposite was true. Sleep was a precious commodity as the crew constantly trained: fire, flooding, reactor scram, steam-piping rupture drills. And when they weren’t running engineering or ship drills, the crew manned Battle Stations Missile and Battle Stations Torpedo, attempting to accomplish their mission and defend themselves in endless scenarios, combating a never-ending affliction of things that went wrong. Then there was the classroom training—tactics, reactor plant, and in-rate professional topics. Hours upon hours each week.

No, life on patrol wasn’t dull. But even though the hours were long, the sleep scarce, and the training constant, Tom enjoyed it. There was something exciting about being the Officer of the Deck in the middle of the night, a twenty-seven-year-old lieutenant in charge of a two-billion-dollar submarine, taking it to periscope depth, with his eye pressed to the periscope as it broke the surface of the water, the safety of the ship and crew in his hands. Or manning the Bridge on the surface at night, the stars shining brightly above, the phosphorescent trail in the water marking the submarine’s passage as it headed toward port after a long patrol, the distant lights on the shoreline growing steadily brighter as the crew returned home. It made the endless drills and the training worth every minute.

*   *   *

An hour after dinner, Tom wiped the sweat from his face with his shirtsleeve as he rounded the aft end of Missile Compartment Upper Level, starting his twentieth lap. There was enough space in the compartment, and the length was long enough, for a decent run. One mile was seventeen laps around, and Tom had decided to take advantage of the submarine’s non-Alert status to get in five miles.

Although the ship had two treadmills, Tom enjoyed running the old-fashioned way. Once the submarine commenced her strategic deterrent patrol, the treadmills would have to suffice, since running in the Missile Compartment would be forbidden. The sound of Tom’s feet pounding onto the steel deck would be transmitted through the ship’s hull, and as faint as that sound was, it could give away the submarine’s presence. As he passed down the starboard side of the ship, he paid no attention to the missile tubes or their contents. His thoughts were two thousand miles away, with his family, and how he would break the news to his father.

Tom was third-generation Navy. His grandfather had graduated from Annapolis and retired as an admiral. Tom’s father had also attended the Naval Academy, and while Captain Murray Wilson wanted his son to follow in his footsteps, he hadn’t cared which community—air, surface, or submarine—as long as Tom carried on the family tradition. Unwilling to disappoint his father, Tom had also attended the Naval Academy, graduating at the top of his class, eventually reporting to the USS
Kentucky,
BLUE Crew.

Trident submarines had two crews, BLUE and GOLD, to maximize the time the submarine, with its nuclear-tipped missiles, spent at sea. While one crew was out on patrol, the other received replacements for the personnel who transferred or left the Navy, then began the training cycle that melded the new crew into a team. The Off-Crew spent its time in various trainers, including weeklong navigation, tactics, and strategic launch sessions, and were formally recertified just before the other crew returned to port.

Tom would return to port soon, but not soon enough. The patrols were long, the time away from his family difficult to reconcile with his obligations as a husband and especially a father. Tom and Nancy had married a week after he graduated from Annapolis, in one of the June weddings that followed the graduation ceremony each year. Nancy took an immediate dislike to Navy life, from the long hours Tom spent studying at Nuclear Power School to the shift work at the Moored Training Ship that followed. But her distaste for Navy life intensified once the long patrols began, and her attitude had soured even more during the last patrol. Nancy had given birth to twin girls while Tom was underway, and she hadn’t yet forgiven him for not being there during her difficult pregnancy. Nancy had made her position clear: It was either her and their two children or the Navy. Both were not an option.

The revelation Tom was getting out of the Navy would stun and devastate his father, and the last thing Tom wanted was to disappoint him. But given the alternatives, there was only one choice. He didn’t relish the conversation he would have with his father upon his return to port, but there would be time enough to find the right words.