Thorpe's Candle

SHARK ATTACK

“Direct hit, sir,” said the sonar operator on the Orlando. He pressed his earphones against his head, his eyes closed with a look of deep concentration. Ten seconds later, he said, “Impact number two. Confirming catastrophic damage. Bulkheads collapsing and secondary explosions.”

“Good work, Sonar,” Commander Webster said, beaming. He stood and turned to the OOD. “Slow to one third. Prepare to surface.”

“Aye, sir,” the officer of the deck replied. “Should I notify COMSUBLANT?”

“I want a visual confirm first,” Webster said. “Then you can fire off the good news to the boss.” His chest swelled as he looked around the command center. “Fine job, gentlemen and ladies. I can assure you that—”

“Conn, Sonar.” The seaman’s voice blared over the intercom. “Torpedo in the water. Bearing two-one-zero.”

Webster stared up at the speaker box. “What did you say?”

“Holy shit!” the sonar operator shouted. “Conn, Sonar, we’ve got multiple torpedoes in the water.”

“Sonar, this is the captain. Who the hell’s shooting at us?”

“It’s the sub, sir,” the sonar operator said. “They’re still alive. We must have hit another vessel.”

Webster turned to his OOD. “Execute counter measures!”

“Aye, sir.” The officer of the deck repeated the command.

“Conn, Sonar. One of the torpedoes has gone to active pings.”

“What’s the range?” Webster knew the distance could be estimated by the intervals between pings.

“Conn, Sonar. It’s continuous.”

Webster exchanged grave looks with the OOD, realizing a continuous ping meant the torpedoes were so close that their guidance systems had a precise fix on their target. He had only one chance to save his boat. “Emergency blow, fore and aft!” he shouted. “Twenty degree up-bubble. Chief, get us on the deck!”

“Aye, sir.” The chief of the watch grabbed the intercom mic. “Emergency blow. Surface! Surface! Surface!” Around him, bells clamored and sirens wailed.

Webster hoped he could get above the upper threshold setting of the torpedoes and force them to detonate their warheads at the false targets created by the tremendous exhaust of bubbles. At worst, even if his sub took a hit, he would be on the surface — a better chance of saving his men.

With a loud shriek, high-pressurized air shot into the ballast tanks forcing the seawater out and making the sub lighter. Webster grasped the railing as the deck pitched up. He could see the speed indicator — they were shooting toward the surface at forty-two knots.

Over the noise of the alarms, Webster heard the approaching torpedo’s continuous sonar pinging. And mixed with it was the high-pitched, power-drill scream of the weapon’s screws — now at full throttle.

“Brace for impact!” Webster yelled.

It came like a crack of thunder. The first torpedo ripped the hull open just beneath the turbine generators. Water rushed in filling the surrounding compartments and killing dozens of seamen. The second struck below the reactor compartment. It tore apart the steam generator and cooling pipes. Seawater flooded through the gaping holes and slowed the sub’s frantic assent to a crawl.

The command center went dark as screams mixed with the sound of ripping steel. Dense smoke filled the air causing Webster to cough and gag. He heard the roar of seawater slamming through the compartments behind him and he cursed as a large piece of equipment, probably a plotting table, struck him in the chest, pinning him against the wall. He made an effort to push against it as tons of water crashed into him.

The submarine split and spilled its contents out of the jagged wounds as it fell into the black abyss. Moments later, the first fragments came to rest on the ocean floor not more than 400 meters from the debris field of the Carupano.

As the wreckage from the Orlando settled onto the sandy bottom, the sound of the Tiger Shark faded into the vast expanse of ocean.