First Strike

TWENTY-TWO

Forsythe came to slowly, aware that something was wrong, feeling a growing sense of dread but unable to figure out exactly what it was. At first, he was aware only that he was cold and uncomfortable, and his arm was bent at an awkward angle under him.

We were running from the torpedo. Three torpedoes. There was a Yankee — am I hit? I was running, and there was—

He remembered the sound, Seawolf’s tumbling through water, and nothing else. It was dark, too dark, only red lights illuminating angles in the control room. He rolled over onto his back, and tried to push himself up into a sitting position. White hot pain shot through his right hip, forcing a groan through his lips.

Emergency lighting — what the hell?

“Welcome back, sir.” The chief crouched down on the deck next him and placed a restraining hand on one shoulder. “Don’t move too fast, sir. I think you broke something in your right leg, or maybe just dislocated something. I don’t know for sure.”

“Where are we?” Forsythe asked, barely able to force words on past the white hot pain engulfing his leg.

“Just where you left us, sir. The torpedoes hit the transport. You surfaced just long enough to get a look at it, then you passed out.” The chief paused, considering him carefully. “I figured it wouldn’t hurt nothing to lie quiet for awhile, sir, so I took us down to the bottom and parked us. The men, they were worn out. Needed a couple of engineers, that’s all that’s awake right now. The rest of them are alseep on station.”

“Help me up.” Forsythe let his weight rest on the chief’s shoulders, as the chief dead lifted him to his feet. He could put no weight on his right leg, and for a moment he considered asking for the doctor. But, when he looked back to the place where the doctor had been handcuffed to a water pipe, there was no one there.

The chief saw his look and shrugged. “He took a pretty hard hit, sir. He came to, but he was fried. He’s under the chart table.”

Next to the flag? The synchronicity struck Forsythe as odd. “I’ve had about enough of his medical care anyway,” Forsythe said. “How is the ship?”

“As best I can tell, she’s structurally sound. No leaks, and everything seems to work. We lost the sonar dome — came down a little rougher than I wanted — but we’re not going to have any trouble getting out of here, sir.

“Who knows we’re here?” Forsythe asked.

“Second Fleet, SouthCom. ELF has been ringing off the hook, but I figured it could wait. At least we know it’s all quiet overhead.”

“Anything happening?”

The chief shook his head. “Quiet as a tomb.”

“How long was I out?”

“About three hours.”

“Show me the ELF messages.”

The chief handed him a sheaf of papers and stood by silently while the ensign read them. Forsythe thumbed through them quickly, then stopped and reread a second one. He looked up, his face wondering. “We can surface any time now. You read this. Why haven’t you already taken her up?”

“Captain’s prerogative,” the chief said quietly. “I could have tried, but the crew wouldn’t have stood for it. She’s ready to surface, Captain. On your command.”

Forsythe stood, still feeling shaky but better than he had before. His leg would bear some weight, if not all of it.

My last few moments as captain. He shot a glance of gratitude at the chief. His relief was standing by overhead, but he’d damn sure prefer to leave his own ship under his own power.

My last command — for a while. Maybe some day, maybe when I’m a full commander and have about a million years in the Navy, I’ll command another submarine. But it’ll never be like this. Never.

“Chief, surface the ship,” Forsythe ordered.