First Strike

TWELVE

Sarah Wexler stormed down the passageway to the Oval Office, past Secret Service agents and the chief of staff and the press secretary and past a group of Boy Scouts waiting in the hallway. The head of the president’s protection details stepped in front of her. “Just what the hell are you doing, Madame Ambassador?” he asked.

She stood with a steely glare. “Going to see the president. As is my right.”

“He’s not free right now,” Leahy replied, trying to gently ease her away from the door, and applied more force. “Come on — you know the drill,” he cried, exasperated, as she resisted.

“The drill doesn’t count today,” she snapped.

Leahy motioned to the other agents now standing behind the Ambassador, wrapped his arms around her, and lifted her off the ground with a groan.

Enraged, Wexler twisted her body and snapped her leg back, flexing it at the knee. She connected. Leahy let out the strangled yelp, stumbled, but didn’t put her down.

“What the hell is the meaning of this?” the president said, stepping out of the Oval Office and shoving his way through a crowd of Secret Service agents who were increasingly convinced that the Ambassador to the United Nations had lost her mind. “Sarah, would you mind explaining yourself?”

“Tell your goons to put me down,” she snapped.

“Put her down, Jim. The Ambassador isn’t going to assassinate me.”

“Maybe.” But, with a grateful sigh, Leahy deposited her on the floor, “You might want to talk to her about protocol, Mr. President.”

“Among other things.” The president motioned her into the office and stepped aside to allow her to proceed him. Two Secret Service agents followed them and positioned themselves rather more closely to Wexler than was usual.

“Mr. President, you’ve got to turn Jefferson loose on Bermuda, and you’ve got to do it now. They’ve already got one squadron on the ground. Once they build up air superiority, we’re going to have a bitch of a time taking the island back.”

The president shook his head. “That would put all those tourists at risk.”

“All those American tourists, you mean.”

“If it comes to that.”

She studied him for a moment, disgusted by what she saw. She had known that the president had a strong political side, but never had it been so obvious. Over the last year, as the time for his re-election grew closer, she sensed a shift in his values, a cold distancing from what was actually right and wrong in the world. She had ignored it — had made her staff ignore it, too, because it would have been impossible to acknowledge what he was becoming — or whom he had been all the time — and continue to be his representative in the United Nations.

But now, it comes down to this. “It would be very difficult for you to be re-elected if that many tourists were killed during your term of office, wouldn’t it?” She said it carefully, with no rancor, her words precise and clear.

Anger flashed on his face, to be replaced immediately by a blank expression. “Now, Sarah. That’s a bit unfair, don’t you think?”

She shook her head. “Not from where I stand. But suppose I grant you that this is purely a military decision. And suppose I assume that this is a decision you made after consultation with your secretary of defense and secretary of state — not after talking to your campaign manager.” She held up one hand to forestall comment. “This is how I read it. There’s a squadron of MiGs on the ground in Bermuda. I learned this morning that another is on its way. If you allow them to establish a couple of squadrons on the island, along with their antiair defenses, there will be no way we can gain air superiority immediately. And without air superiority, there’s little hope of dislodging them. Bermuda will become a frontier for Russia, a base like the Philippines was for us. Now, if that happens before the election, how do you think the American people will react?”

“There will be no strike on Bermuda,” he said at last, looking away as he did so. “Don’t you think I have discussed these options with my staff?”

“Yes, I think you have. And I think you have made the wrong decision.”

He stood suddenly, turned his back to her to the window overlooking the Rose Garden. A few blooms still flourished among the bushes, but most had shed their flowers as well as their leaves in preparation for the winter. Were there specific orders to pick up all the rose petals as they fell, she wondered. And where did all the flowers go — were they used for special presentations, to honor those visiting this seat of power? Or, were they merely for show, never used, simply allowed to bloom and die?

“Mr. President,” she said, a new note of formality in her voice. “You and I have seen what our military forces are capable of. Sir, we spent a lot of time and money developing the most potent systems in the world. Use it now, Mr. President. Whatever they launch from Bermuda, the Aegis cruiser can take it out. I’m sure your advisers have told you that the resulting explosion will neutralize antibiological or chemical threat. The nuclear material would be dispersed harmlessly over the sea. Send in the SEALs, disarm what you can, and let the Navy take care of the rest. That’s the way it’s got to be, Mr. President.”

“And if I disagree?” he asked, his back still to her.

“Then you will be remembered as the antithesis of John F. Kennedy,” she said grimly. “You have been an excellent president in peace — yes, even when regional conflicts have broken out I know you have the mettle to withstand this, to react appropriately, Mr. President. I’ve seen you in action before. And I don’t understand why you have taken the wrong path now — no, that’s not true. I understand what is on your mind, I think. But I’m asking you to reconsider your decision. I have no leverage, no way to force you to. But you know I’m right.”

He turned then, and she was struck by the anguish on his face. “If I lose the election, there is no hope. You know who the other party has nominated — can you see him in this White House? Making the decisions that you and I have had to make over the past three and a half years?” He shook his head. “No, for the good of the nation, I must consider my re-election.

“Then, you will be remembered as a president who failed to act. Who allowed a hostile government to establish an outpost virtually off our coast. And what will be next — Cuba? Once you have established this precedent, it will be impossible to back down from it. That will be your legacy, Mr. President. But if you do what is right, the people will understand.”

The president turned to Leahy. “I suppose you agree with her?”

Leahy looked as though he wished desperately to be anywhere else except where he was. But he cleared his throat, fixed his gaze on the president, and said firmly, “Yes, Mr. President. I do.”

A long, contemplative silence settled over the four. Wexler felt no pressure to speak. She had said her piece, done what she felt was best for the nation, and she recognized that Leahy had taken a similar risk. Now it was up to the one man the people had trusted to preserve their nation.

“Get me the secretary of defense and the secretary of state,” the president said finally. “Now.”

The message arrived simultaneously at all the ships in the battle group. The USS Jefferson and her battle group commander were the only action addees. The rest of the ships were addressed for information purposes only, but it was information they greatly appreciated getting. Knowing now what the admiral would be planning would help them prepare for their own part.

The message flashed first over the computer system, ahead of informal traffic, warning of formal traffic to follow. The message was brief and to the point.

Coyote was in his cabin, having a late lunch, when the message arrived in TFCC. He frowned as he heard howls coming from his watchstanders, and was just about to go see what the hell was happening when his chief of staff burst in, a grim expression on his face. He handed Coyote the message. “We’re going in, Admiral. Finally.”

“About time,” Coyote grumbled, as he scanned the brief message. “Let me know when the detailed order comes in. In the meantime, I want all department heads and COs on board in my conference room, thrashing out final details. We knew this was coming. Now, it’s just a matter of making sure we’ve covered all the bases.”

“He’s putting a lot of faith in the Aegis, isn’t he?” his chief of staff asked.

Coyote nodded. “With good reason. It flies, it dies, according to the Aegis community. I don’t think the stakes have ever been quite so high, but if I know those cowboys over on the ship, they’re just itching to take a shot at this.”

Coyote went back to his lunch, figuring that the oldest adage of warfare still applied: Eat and sleep when you have a chance, because you won’t later on. He just polished off the last of his hamburger and contemplated a second order of french fries — his cooks, he knew, would make them, but it would take a few minutes. What if he didn’t want them by the time they were done? Was he really prepared to deal with the slightly reproachful look on the chief’s face if he wasn’t?

No, he decided, he was not. He patted his stomach, still flat and ridged. He was determined not to gain weight on this cruise. Maybe, some night when they were all tired and on edge, he would ask the chief to bring french fries for everyone. Yes, that would do it.

Outside his cabin, in the admiral’s conference room, he could hear a low murmur of voices. There was an occasional victory cry. He smiled at that. They were ready to go, had been since the news was announced. They would be polishing their plans to cope with any last-minute requirements from the president, but in his heart he felt unleashed.

Forsythe studied the crew. Red-rimmed eyes, willing but exhausted, stared back at him. After three days, the men were starting to look unkempt. Not that their appearances were a reflection of what was in their hearts. Forsythe knew that they would willingly follow him anywhere.

But should he ask it of them? For perhaps the millionth time since Cowlings had died, Forsythe wished for someone around to ask what to do.

But there was no one. Even the chief, as much insight as he had into the crew and operations, could not help him on this one.

They’re following me. Not the chief, not Cowlings, not the real captain. I’m the reason they’re awake, at their stations, and ready to fight. A sense of awe, of crushing responsibility filled his heart. To hold their lives in his hands, knowing that his decisions would either get them killed or keep them alive, was a sacred trust past all understanding. They were his crew, his.

And, I am the only one who can stand them down. They won’t take it from anyone else.

The USS Nashville was due in their area in six hours. The reasonable thing to do would be to withdraw, retreat to a safe distance away from this last submarine’s operating area, and wait for Nashville to show up. A fresh submarine, one with a fully manned and rested crew, was the weapon of choice in this instance.

They had come so far, done so much with so little — but there was a time to call it quits. That time was now.

Forsythe took a deep breath, ready to give the order. It would be a disappointment to many, coupled with a relief they dared not expressed. He would let them grumble about the order, insisting that they were ready to go on, as he knew they were.

But before his lips formed the words, a hard, shimmering ping reverberated through every scrap of metal on the ship. Once, faintly, then again, harder and louder. The tone shifted up, the beats coming closer together.

“Captain, Sonar. I classify this contact as a Soviet Yankee-class submarine. Unable at this time to determine whether she is a ballistic missile boat or one of the modified guided missile ones.”

“Make your depth twelve hundred feet,” Forsythe ordered, now moving almost automatically through the process of breaking contract, evading and setting up for the kill. “Chief, how are we doing on decoys and noisemakers?”

“Two decoys and seven noisemakers left.”

“Fine. Have a man standing by with them.” Forsythe summoned up a determined tone from some deep inner resource he didn’t know he had. “Okay, men. We’ve done this before. Let’s do it again.” For a moment, he wished he could think of some more ringing words that would echo in their minds, but what he said was evidently enough. It fired them up, their attention now focused on the task and away from the fear, and commands and reports flowed smoothly around him as though he were a boulder in the middle of a stream, observing it all, taking it in, letting it flow over and around him.

By now, the chief was accustomed to the way he worked. He took the submarine down smartly, executed two sharp turns to generate masses of bubbles, then slowed and dove quickly below the layer. The sonar pings followed them, wavered, and faded out as the warmer water above them deflected the acoustic energy toward the surface.

“Sir, recommend we kick her up to fifteen knots then circle around behind.”

“Very well. Make it so.” And why wasn’t there anyone to give him a pat on the back, to remind him of how much they accomplish, to inspire him to go on? Forsythe rubbed his hand across his eyes, which were dry and scratchy.

“Here.” The doctor appeared at his side and pressed something into his hand. “This will perk you up.”

The mug contained fresh, hot coffee, the steam still rising off its surface, the color dark and oily as only submariners can make it. Forsythe glanced up at the man in surprise, then shook his head. Maybe he had misjudged him. They had had their differences of opinion, but when it came right down to it, the doctor was a submariner, too. He understood what they were up against.

“No drinking during general quarters,” Forsythe said, reluctantly. He could almost taste the dark bite of caffeine, feel the warmth trace its way down his throat and spread through his body. But he couldn’t, not now. Not when the other men were not allowed any. He started to shove the cup away, but the doctor touched his wrist lightly. “I think you can break the rules just this one time, Captain. Consider it medicinal. Besides, I brought enough for everyone.” He held up a carafe, and stack of foam cups.

“Very well.” Forsythe could resist no longer. He lifted the cup, took a second to savor the aroma, his gaze still fixed on the sonar screen as he watched the ship maneuver. He took the first sip, held it in his mouth for a moment, and reveled in the heat. He swallowed, took another gulp, and then another. Finally, when he finished, he passed the cup back to the doctor.

“Steady on zero nine zero, speed fifteen,” the chief said. “There’s no indication that they see us, Captain. Recommend another three miles before we come above the layer.”

“Very well. Make it so.”

This doesn’t sound like me. My tone — and where did I learn those words? But, it sounds right. At least, they act like I’m saying the right words. Good thing they don’t know….

He knew a moment of panic as he remembered how quickly Cowlings had died. One second alive, studying a problem just as he was at this moment. A second later, falling against the bulkhead and passing out.

What? He reached out to steady himself against the same bulkhead, then felt a flash of surreal fear. What the hell was happening?

“Sir, are you all right?” The chief was at his side, anchoring him to navigation plot. “Captain, what’s wrong?”

“I–I don’t know. All at once my balance is off.” Cold horror ran through Forsythe as an ugly possibility came to mind. He shook the chief’s arm off, and turned to stare in disbelief at the doctor. The man was watching him, his face expressionless.

“He did this,” Forsythe said, aware now how seriously his words were slurred. “What did you put in the coffee?”

“Nothing, Captain.” The doctor studied him for a moment, then nodded. “It’s just coffee. Perhaps you’re more tired than you realize.”

Rage swept through Forsythe, sweeping away the drowsiness creeping upon him. “You fool! Don’t you realize what’s happening? Get me something to counteract this — and get it now.”

“Counteract what?” the doctor asked quietly. “All I see is an overstressed junior officer finally succumbing to the pressure.”

“Oh, yeah?” the chief asked. He picked up the coffee cup, examined it, and turned to the quartermaster serving as navigator. “Bubble wrap. Completely. I don’t want anything to evaporate.” He turned to glare at the doctor. “I think the Navy lawyers might want to take a look at this.

“You’re just as bad as he is,” the doctor said, a note of triumph in his voice. “We’ve got no business being out here, not like this.” He gestured toward the rest of the group. “How could you do this to them? They can’t fight, not with him in charge.”

From his belt, the chief produced a set of handcuffs. He moved swiftly, like a cat, and before the doctor could voice a protest, he snapped one cuff around the doctor’s wrist, lifted it to a chill water pipe, and snapped the other cuff on. He stepped back and looked at his work with satisfaction. “That will hold you. He took the coffee pot that the doctor had brought in and set it safely aside. “Nobody touches that,” he ordered, then he turned back to Forsythe. “Sir — how are you?”

Forsythe smiled wanly. “I’ve been better.”

Black waves swarmed over him, threatening to swallow his consciousness. He fought them off, tried to stay focused on his anger, but the darkness crept ever closer, settling down on him in layers, blanking off the edges of his mind. He couldn’t succumb, not now. Not with the Yankees on their tail.

“Do you realize what you’ve done?” the chief said softly, glaring at the doctor. “You may have killed us all.”

Think, think. He had to pay attention — he couldn’t afford to lose focus. Not now. Something warm pressed itself against his hand and he opened his eyes, surprised to find that they’d been closed. Another cup of coffee. He pulled back immediately.

“I made this one myself, sir,” the chief said. “Go on — this one’s okay.”

The same dark, earthy smell, the same sense of anticipation, but this time tinged with wariness. He glanced over the chief, then realized he had to trust someone. The chief had done nothing so far to warrant suspicion, nothing at all.

Forsythe took a large gulp, and another. It seared the delicate lining of his mouth, his throat, and the caffeine immediately seemed to insinuate itself into his body. He almost choked on the bitterness — it was at least twice as strong as any coffee he’d ever had on board the submarine, and that was saying a lot.

Nevertheless, the effects were almost immediate. He felt the sudden rush of energy, felt the pressure in his head and chest increase as the caffeine constricted his blood vessels and raised his blood pressure. No, the effects of the drug weren’t gone, but he felt capable of fighting them off now. He pushed himself away from the navigator’s table, figuring that having to stand up would help keep him alert. “Situation?”

“You were only out a couple of minutes, sir. We’re continuing north, still below the layer. We should turn again in about five minutes, according to the original plan.”

Forsythe paced back and forth, aware that the jitters were sweeping over him. It wasn’t comfortable, but he welcomed it. Better nerves than sleeping. “Run me through the contacts again,” he ordered.

Jacob’s screen showed five contacts of interest. “Here’s the battle group,” he said, pointing to the west. “I imagine they’re going to stay a safe distance out from shore, especially after that last torpedo attack. In here,” he continued, tapping an area just off the coast of Bermuda, “I think is a couple of large Russian ships. They’re at anchorage, not moving, so I’m not holding a lot off them, but they’re still there.”

“How far off the coast?”

“About a mile. Well within their landing capabilities for small craft, or for an easy dash in to the beach if they want to offload heavy equipment. And, finally, our playmate,” he said, indicating the last position that they held on the Yankee. “Of course, all of this is ten minutes out of date,” he said in an apologetic way. “As long as we’re below the layer, I’m not holding them.”

“Okay, I got it.” Forsythe turned to the chief. “Continue on our original plan. Then surface at the indicated time — real quietly, if you catch her napping. Keep in mind that this is a whole new game. The Yankee may be old, but she’s probably been backfitted with a lot of acoustics gear. And some of those crews have spent a lot of time in this part of the ocean. But, if we can get to her before she knows we’re here, we can take her.”

The chief nodded. “Time now, sir.”

“Very well. Take us up, Chief.”

Forsythe kept his gaze locked on the sonar screen as the ship crept slowly up. Every sonarman was in the compartment, listening, waiting, trying to catch the first sniff of the Yankee. They came up slowly, bare steerageway, so that the noise of their propeller did not give them away.

“Eleven hundred,” Jacobs murmured. “Any second now, sir.”

A hard blast of noise echoed through the submarine.

“Shit!” Jacob said. He ripped off the headphones, an expression of pain on his face. “She’s got us!”

“Snapshot,” Forsythe ordered. “Two torpedoes, bearing-only launch.”

Jacob’s fingers were flying over the fire control panel, dialing in the bearings and launching the torpedoes even while another hard blast of acoustic energy buffeted them.

The Yankee’s sonar drowned out the noise of the torpedoes’ launching, but the acoustic gear quickly picked it up. They saw their torpedo start up, head down the bearing, and turn toward the Yankee.

“How did they get us?” Forsythe demanded.

“Probably dragging her tail, sir,” Jacobs said. “Stayed above the layer herself so we couldn’t hear her, but going slow enough to drop her towed array down below the layer. It takes some fancy footwork, but we could do it. I guess they can, too, because there’s no way she was below the layer. No way at all, sir.”

“Torpedo inbound!” Renny shouted. “Recommend evasive maneuvers, Captain!”

“Chief, take us down to two thousand feet,” Forsythe ordered. Then a hard turn, wait one minute, then an emergency blow to get us back up above the layer. With any luck, she’ll try to follow us down.”

“Two — no, four torpedoes inbound, sir. Same bearing.” Renny said.

“Captain, the water here is only three thousand feet deep,” the chief said.

“Plenty of room,” Forsythe assured him.

But it wasn’t, not really. Not for what he wanted to accomplish.

Forsythe grabbed onto the chill water line as the submarine tipped nose down and headed for the depths. They could hear the noise of the torpedo on the speaker faintly now, growing louder. The beat of its propeller mixed with the two the Seawolf launched, until they could no longer tell which one was from them and which one was after them.

Just as the submarine passed 2,000 feet, the chief jerked the sub into a hard left turn. Just as she steadied up, Forsythe ordered, “Emergency blow!” The chief turned to stare at him, incredulous. Forsythe just nodded.

“Emergency blow, aye, sir.” The chief turned a valve.

Compressed air flooded the ballast tanks, first reversing the submarine’s speed and momentum, then thrusting her toward the surface. The effect was almost immediate.

There was a distant sound of an explosion, and Forsythe shot a questioning look at Jacob.

“Theirs,” the sonarman assured him. “One down, three to go.” Forsythe wasn’t so sure he would ever be able to tell the difference between torpedoes by audio alone, but he took Jacob’s word for it.

“And ours?”

“Still heading for her,” Jacobs assured him. “Another ninety seconds.”

“Passing five hundred feet and ascending,” the planesman sang out. “Passing four hundred.

“Hold on, everybody. This is going to be rough,” the chief warned.

All at once, the water around the submarine seemed to disappear, her momentum changed, and Forsythe knew what was happening. She was hanging bow up in the air, trying to fly, but not built for it. The odd sensation lasted just a moment, and then she slammed back down in the water, entering the water with a force that she hadn’t experienced since her original sea trials.

The shock from the impact ran through Forsythe like an electrical charge. “No,” Forsythe moaned, as a new wave of blackness threatened to overwhelm him. “Not now.”

“We can’t keep this up forever, Ensign” the chief warned.

From captain, to sir, to ensign again. “I know, I know,” Forsythe said, his mind working frantically. Expect the unexpected, expect the unexpected—“Chief! Give me a course to the nearest Russian landing ship.”

“Zero eight four, ten thousand yards,” the chief said without even having to look at the plot. “But, sir…”

“Come left, steer course zero eight four — flank speed, Chief.” Forsythe could feel the certainty coursing through him.

To his credit, although his face was doubtful, the chief did not even hesitate. Seconds later, the submarine was headed into the heart of the Russian task force at flank speed.

There was no need for conversation now, no need for orders or advice or reports. This was simply a flat-out race for their lives—8,000 tons of submarine shoving her way through the sea at her absolute top speed, the fires of her nuclear reactor burning at 120 percent of capacity, the propeller biting hard into the water, getting a grip, the speed of the propeller at the propeller tips so great that the temporary vacuum sucked dissolved gases out of the water, creating cavitation.

Although the crew was silent, moving about the ship like ghosts, Seawolf was as noisy as he’d ever heard her. The reverberating rattles, creaks, and assorted complaints from joints and seams were frightening at the most visceral of levels. Seawolf was running for her life, her speed almost two knots above what she done during sea trials, every system redlined at max capacity and beyond.

There was no second chance. The three remaining torpedoes were gaining on them, following them with hard, icy pings, the scent of their prey hot in their electronic nostrils.

The graphic display spelled it all out. Ahead, shallow water, the massive bulk of the Russian transports. Behind, the Yankee submarine and three remaining small torpedoes that had barreled out from her.

“Two thousand,” the chief said, his voice cold and professional. “Planesman, take us up ten feet.”

“Ten feet, aye.” The change in depth was not even perceptible.

Depth was crucial this close to the island. The continental slope crept up toward the coast, the shallow water a more dangerous environment. There were wrecks here, some of them still uncharted, and Forsythe and chief were doing their best to avoid them by maintaining some distance from the bottom while still trying to stay as deep as possible. The shallower they went, the less dense the water, and the more turns per knots of speed required.

Something slammed into the side of the submarine and traced its way down the hull, fingernails on a chalkboard. One sailor yelped, then fell quiet, his lips tightly compressed as though to hold in his fear. The rest of them were shaking.

“One thousand yards,” the chief said.

Are we going to make it? Is it even going to work? The charts — how accurate are the water depths? I must be insane to try this — I must be insane. But if there’s any other way, then I don’t know about it. This is all we’ve got left.

The pings from the sonar were harder now, faster, excited. The torpedoes were actively homing, as well as following the wake and the acoustic signature of the submarine. There was no way they could miss the Seawolf now, no way at all. And their speed, while not as fast as the latest generation torpedoes, was more than sufficient to enable them to catch up.

“Five hundred yards.”

“Make your depth one hundred and ten feet,” Forsythe ordered. Assuming the Russian ships had a draft of thirty-two feet and the submarine eighty-five, that would give them just enough clearance to sneak by under the ships. Maybe. There was still too much he didn’t know: exactly how much water the transport drew depended on how heavily laden she was, how much fuel she had on board, and whether or not there have been any design changes since the reference books were written.

“One hundred feet.” For the first time, the chief’s voice showed the tiniest shiver of emotion. Forsythe wasn’t sure anyone else would have noticed.

Their own sonar showed the bulk of the transport ahead, a massive steel cliff in the water.

It was not the first prayer that Forsythe had murmured since they left port, but it was certainly the most heartfelt. Most of the crew was staring at the overhead, as thought they could see the giant ship overhead and somehow duck if they came too close.

And then they were under her, the pressure wave surrounding the submarine hitting the ship’s beam and keel and the pressure forcing her down slightly. The water depth at this point was 140 feet, and there was no guarantee that the debris on the bottom wouldn’t decrease that.

It was as though they could feel the ship overhead. The water around them was saturated with the sounds of machinery, stamping feet, almost with the sound of voices. They were so close that someone standing on the conning tower could have reached up to touch the barnacle-encrusted hull above them.

“Emergency back full,” Forsythe ordered, and saw that hands were already poised over controls. “Emergency blow.” The sharp hiss of compressed air being pumped into ballast tanks filled the submarine.

Even as small as she was compared to the ship, Seawolf could still not stop on a dime. It took time to slow her down, more time than it took to come shallow. But how long — had he miscalculated? Could she surface and turn in time to—?

The Seawolf slammed sideways, throwing everyone not strapped in against the port bulkhead. Loose gear went flying. A massive groan that seem to encompass their whole world filled the submarine, far more overwhelming and powerful than any sonar they had heard so far. It went on and on, angry, screaming, the sound of metal tearing and fuel exploding. It crescendoed, increasing to the point where there was nothing left in the world except the sound of the massive transport dying.

The force was sufficient to rotate the Seawolf around her long axis, and to shove her through the water with her conning tower parallel to the bottom of the sea. Her speed decreased quickly, and by small increments, she righted herself. In the forward part of the compartment, the planesman and helmsman struggled for control of the ship, powerless against the massive forces acting on her.

Just when it seemed neither steel nor flesh could endure it any longer, Seawolf slammed to a stop. A cacophony of sound filled her, less agonized than the tearing of steel.

“Chief, surface the ship,” Forsythe ordered, still on his side along the port bulkhead but struggling to his feet. For some reason, his right leg wasn’t working the way it should. He felt numbness extend from his waist down to his feet, worried for a second, then dismissed it. It was preferable to the pain that would certainly follow.

“Surface the ship, aye.” A thin trickle of blood ran out of the corner of the chief’s mouth. “Planeman, surface the ship.”

A groan arose from the planesman’s position. The sailor was leaning sideways in his straps, struggling to sit up straight and reach for the planes controls, but clearly disoriented and confused. Forsythe crawled across the deck to him, used the man’s chair to pull himself into a standing position, and leaned over him, bearing all his weight on his left leg. He grabbed the controls and yanked back, putting Seawolf into a climb.

“Depth?” Forsythe asked, studying the indicators.

“Ninety feet, sir,” the chief answered. “But I’m not certain that—”

Suddenly, they both felt it, the change in the weight and inertia of a submarine that is no longer completely submerged. Forsythe restored the controls to neutral position and made his way to the center of the compartment to the periscope. It still operated, although with a noisy squeal as it extruded from its housing. He spun it around and looked back the way that they had come.

At first, he could see nothing. He thought the periscope was broken, a cracked lens or something. Then he realized that what he was seeing was fire. Fire, water, and steam obscuring the picture, making it difficult to make out any details.

“We did it,” he said, then all at once felt every bit of adrenaline vanish from his system. He hung on to the periscope to keep himself upright. “We did it.” The torpedoes that had been following them had hit the three Russian transports. Even if they’d been trying to follow the Seawolf’s maneuvers, the torpedoes couldn’t have maneuvered to avoid them.

Forsythe leaned against the bulkhead. The blackness was back, eating at the edges of his consciousness, inviting him, enticing him, and he fought against it. There was still too much to do, too much to…

Forsythe crumpled and slipped to the deck. The chief watched, and turned to the planesman who was now completely conscious.

“Benson, take us down. Real slow. We are a feather drifting down through the water. I want to sit us on the bottom and stay at quiet ship. Then, we’ll wait here until the captain comes around and tells us what to do.” The chief glanced around the control room and saw heads nodding in agreement. The ship settled gently to the bottom of the sea. They waited.