Island Warriors

TWENTY-ONE

“Solid firing solution, Captain,” Jacobs said. He held his finger poised over the button that would unleash their ADCAP torpedoes at the two contacts. “Request weapons free?”

“Weapons free, fire when ready,” the captain ordered.

Jacobs took one last look at his solutions, and pressed the button.

There was a loud whish inside the submarine as well as a slight shudder and an ear-popping drop in interior pressure. The outer doors were already open, and the submarine’s torpedoes were now given permission to launch. Compressed air blew them out of the tubes, their motors kicked in for a straight run for a short time and then they both arced off down a bearing heading for the two contacts.

Jacobs and Pencehaven maintained a continuous firing solution, double-checking their current contact information against the torpedoes’ progress. Jacobs made one small correction with his joystick to one — the other needed no assistance in locating, identifying, and designating its target. Finally, at the one thousand yard mark, the guidance wires snapped and the torpedoes were on their own.

In addition to obscuring the enemy contacts, the U.S. torpedoes also dumped a substantial new amount of noise into the water, thus decreasing the other submarine’s overall detection capabilities. However, it was clearly not sufficient to degrade them completely. Within moments, the hard, high-pitched pinging of torpedoes inbound was clearly audible over the speaker and visible on the sonar screen.

“Snapshot, Captain — they got us now,” Jacobs said. And indeed that was not unexpected — the first consequence of launching torpedoes was to immediately rip off the “cloak of visibility” from the firing platform. If the other submarine had not know they were in the area, they had no doubts about it now.

“Officer of the deck, make your depth eighteen hundred feet,” the captain said.

The officer of the deck repeated the order immediately, glancing at the captain to make sure that he had heard correctly.

The captain nodded, reassuring him. Yes, it was a risk. The stress on a submarine hull from the last attack could not be completely evaluated, and there was a chance that her structural integrity was compromised. But in every other category, the submarine had far outperformed the operating capabilities ascribed to her by her builders, and he was pretty certain that she was fully capable of withstanding that depth even with some minor structural damage.

Pretty sure. Confident enough, at least, to risk his life and that of his crew. Because from what they had seen of the Chinese torpedoes thus far, their best chance for evading it was to run below its operating depth. Like earlier Russian models, this torpedo could not go deep enough to catch her.

Around them, the hull creaked and groaned as the submarine pitched bow down and headed for the depths. The pressure of the seawater as she dove increased all around her, increased to unimaginable levels, compressing the tensile steel hull. It was a normal sound, one they had all heard before, but when descending this quickly the noise took on an eerie rhythm that threatened to spook them.

“She’s singing to us, men,” the captain said quietly. “Telling us how safe we are in her. You hear it?” He glanced around the control room and saw nods, a few expressions of relief.

And why wouldn’t she sing? She talked to him in his dreams, didn’t she? And, in the end, there was nothing odder about her singing to them than there was about her talking.

Everyone fell silent, straining to hear the first sounds of imminent danger. There wouldn’t be time to react to it, no, not at this depth. Even a pinhole leak would result in an ice pick of water under such pressure that it could slash through flesh as quickly as superheated steam. Were the submarine to implode, there wouldn’t be time to be frightened. There wouldn’t be time to be anything.

All at once, the captain had an overwhelming, unbridled sense of safety. This submarine had brought him through too much already — there was no way she would let him down now. He patted the bulkhead next to him, almost absentmindedly, as though she were one of the horses on his ranch in Montana. “Come on, old girl. You know you got it in you,” he said quietly, and his voice carried to every corner of the compartment.

“Range, five thousand yards and closing, Captain. Bearing constant, range decreasing,” Jacobs said, his voice calm. The captain shot off a momentary prayer, thankful for Jacobs’s tone of voice. To hear one of their own reacting so calmly was even more reassuring than hearing it from their captain. Because, after all, officers were supposed to be confident — everyone on the ship knew that. And although they trusted the captain with their lives, they trusted Jacobs to tell the truth.

“Descending, sir,” Jacobs continued. “She has us, Captain.” Everyone in the control room could hear that that was true, as the active sonar pings from the Chinese torpedo increased in frequency and speed, blasting acoustic energy off their anechoic-coated hull to further pinpoint their location.

“What do you think, Mannie?” the captain asked. “Wake homer or acoustic?”

“Tough call, Captain,” Jacobs said, as though they were in a classroom discussing the latest advances in technology instead of putting it to a field test. “Could be a combination, since the wake homer is older technology. But then again, they have had some U.S. technology, haven’t they? So I’d expect them to have some acoustics capability in it, if not as good as ours. I bet they’re wishing right now they’d paid a little extra and gotten the right casing to hold it all.” Jacobs laughed quietly. “Penny-wise and pound foolish, they say. They’re screwed if we make it to eighteen hundred feet.”

The captain groaned silently, and Jacobs immediately recognized his error. “When, I mean,” he said, but the damage was already done. Everyone in the control room had heard Jacobs say “if.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” the captain said off-handedly. “That’s one thing we never skimp on, structural integrity. How’s she sounding, acoustically?”

“Four thousand yards, Captain,” Otter Pencehaven said, taking up Jacobs’s duty of calling off the ranges.

“Sounds as solid as ever, Captain,” Jacobs said. “The usual bitching as we descend, but nothing out of the ordinary. Heard it a thousand times already and I’ll hear it a thousand more before I retire.”

There was a moment of silence, broken only by Pencehaven’s announcement. “Three thousand, Captain.”

Just then the speaker picked up a new sound, and it took a moment for the captain, as focused as he was on incoming torpedoes, to realize what it was. It was just barely audible, as the submarine made her way down through the thermocline, decoys, noise makers and air bubble masses, corkscrewing violently.

And just before he could speak the words, Jacobs confirmed it.

“Torpedo, sir. But moving away from us. This one’s headed for the carrier.”

“United States, Lake Champlain—torpedo inbound! Recommend you commence evasive maneuvers immediately.” As the destroyer continued to reel off locating data as they waited for the contact to appear in the LINK, Coyote felt a thrill of horror. Ballistic missiles, torpedoes — all the threats that couldn’t be countered by the aircraft carrier herself, the ones that they had to depend on others to take care of. And the torpedo — if they were carrying the most advanced models, one exploding directly under the keel could crack a backbone of the carrier. Not only would thousands onboard the ship die, but all the aircraft airborne would have nowhere to land on the seriously damaged deck. And with Japan closed down, they would start running out of options fast.

“Hard right rudder!” the bitch box said, as the officer of the deck gave standard evasive maneuver orders. “Flank speed — now, engineer. I need it now!” It was odd to feel the deck of the carrier move under their feet. Normally she made slow, ponderous course and speed changes as she made allowances for the ships around her, the safety of personnel, and the security of the aircraft spotted on her deck. But this was no time for safety — not at all. Coyote swore softly, wondering why in the five hells he hadn’t taken the submarine out the first time they had contact on her.

Because you were under orders not to — you know that’s why it was. If it had been up to you or anybody out here, it would have been flotsam and jetsam by now. And to hell with international relations, walking the brink of diplomacy, all that shit. Because it allowed threats that we knew about to continue to exist, ones that could have been eliminated before they were allowed to jeopardize my entire battle group.

The terse commands continued over the bridge circuit as the officer of the deck ordered decoys and noise makers dumped over the side. The aircraft carrier herself had no torpedoes. United States depended on the other ships and aircraft in the battle group to keep the enemy submarines out of weapon’s release range. The orders from higher authority had sabotaged all that, and allowed the submarine to get within range of the carrier. And there was little that the carrier could do, except use a few tricks of the trade and watch and wait.

Norfolk felt a moment of horror as he saw the torpedo symbol pop up on the monitor screen. It was coming in from the south, heading directly for the United States, and would pass about three thousand yards on the Lake Champlain’s starboard bow. He wished to hell he’d taken it out when he’d had the chance — dammit, it was always easier to ask forgiveness than permission, and he had known this moment was coming from the very second that the admiral had told him not to fire his ASROCs.

And now, it had come to this. Norfolk had known what he should do, had known and not acted. And now men and women would die by the thousands. Not only at sea, but on land, on the day that Taiwan was no longer under the sheltering protection of the U.S. airwing.

“All ahead flank,” the captain ordered, barely even aware of the words as he spoke them. The TAO turn to look at him, his face a mask of doubt.

“Captain, the torpedo?”

“I gave you an order, mister,” Norfolk snapped. He reached out to punch the button that connected the TAO to the bridge. “All ahead flank!”

“All ahead flank, aye-aye, sir,” came the acknowledgement from his XO.

Maybe he doesn’t know. If he’s not watching the screen, if he doesn’t see the geometry, he may not realize that we’re going directly into harm’s way.

Because that is the only way to prevent the greater tragedy — this situation should have never been allowed to develop like this, and I contributed by obeying orders.

And now, even though it required that he risk the ship and his entire crew, he would set it right. Set it right, if it was the last thing on earth that he did.

“What the hell is she doing?” the TAO said, his voice angry. “Dammit, the bitch is…” He fell silent abruptly as it sank in exactly what the Lake Champlain was doing.

“Damn, that man has balls,” Coyote said. Whether or not he made it, he sure as hell was giving it the good old Navy try.

There was no mystery to what the Lake Champlain’s captain was attempting. It was clear that the torpedo would pass in front of the destroyer on its way to seek out its primary target, the aircraft carrier. What the Lake Champlain was trying to do was offer herself up as a sacrificial lamb, to take the shot to prevent it from reaching the carrier.

There were a hell of a lot of reasons that it might not work. First, if the torpedo was equipped with advanced acoustic analysis gear, it would immediately recognize that the destroyer was a smaller ship than the one it intended to hit, and would divert around to avoid the Lake Champlain and continue with its targeted mission. Second, the ranges and distances were such that it was extremely close. Indeed, the Lake Champlain’s captain’s plan depended on the torpedo having acoustic ranging gear onboard, on being in active mode, on detecting a noisy mass of metal nearby and deciding that was a better target. The Lake Champlain would have no chance to decoy the weapon if it was simply a wake-homer, because the destroyer’s wake was well out of the torpedo’s detection range. But acoustically, the bow on aspect of the ship to the receiver was the most preferred target angle for detection.

Coyote picked up the mike. “Lake Champlain, United States. We’re standing by with SAR assets.” He nodded to the TAO, who gave the order to the air boss. More helicopters were moved into immediate launch status.

“Good luck,” Coyote concluded, and replaced the mike, although he was not entirely certain what would constitute good luck for the Lake Champlain—achieving her mission and saving the carrier, or failing and saving her own skin at the expense of the carrier? He wondered which one Lake Champlain thought it was.

“One thousand yards,” the TAO announced. “All stations report zebra set throughout the ship. Evacuated all unnecessary personnel from below the waterline.” The last measure was a last-ditch effort to keep as many people as possible from being trapped below on a flooding ship.

All unnecessary personnel — that didn’t translate into everyone. There would be perhaps fifteen people below the waterline.

Norfolk reached a decision. “All personnel — all of them,” he ordered. “Get everybody out of there, TAO. I want every single body above the waterline.”

Without questioning him, the TAO amended his order, and the captain could hear men and women running throughout the ship.

The hangar deck would be crowded, as would every passageway above the waterline. Few would seek safety on the open weather decks, because a hard explosion would rock the ship so violently that they might be thrown overboard. And even with the carrier’s promise of SAR assistance, the odds of being rescued were not high.

Eight seconds now. Maybe ten. He had always wondered how he would act if he had known he was going to die. Whether he’d be who he wanted to be, the brave naval officer that by his own personal courage somehow made it easier for his men, who kept them so focused on the task and on duty as an overriding imperative that they barely even counted the personal cost? Or would he dissolve into the man his father thought he was, weak and screaming in terror?

He had always thought such a moment would be a watershed for him, and it seemed a profound shame that he would not know the answer until the very end of his life.

How long now, a few seconds? Oddly enough, the moment felt anticlimactic. He had thought that he would be frightened, reacting, but it was as though he had stepped outside himself and watched another man deal with the danger. A calm man, hard in some ways, one who could watch the closure between torpedo and ship impassively, as though it meant nothing to him personally whether the two symbols intersected on the screen or not.

Five seconds now. “Is everyone up from below decks?” he asked the TAO, still surprised to find out how calm and professional the stranger sounded. And why was he asking that, during these final moments? Shouldn’t he be more worried about his own skin instead of the fate of some very junior sailors on the ship?

With an abrupt wrench, the captain felt himself back inside his own skin, and a sense of uncanny peace descended over him.

Because they are my men. I have trained them, I have worked with them, and they have trusted me — the Navy has entrusted me — with their very lives. And in the end, for every one of them that dies, a bit of me dies as well, no matter if I survive.

“Hard right rudder,” he ordered, marveling at what he was about to do. How impossible was this, to try to calculate the exact point on the ship to take the hit?

Forward, and the missile launch cells might be irreparably damaged, not to mention the danger they would pose to firefighters. Completely astern, and there was a risk of fatal injury to the propeller itself, in which case the Lake Champlain would be a floating hole in the water completely at the mercy of waves and the sea. So where, if he had to take the hit, would he prefer it to be? It was like deciding whether to have a right or left hand amputated — or maybe whether to lose a hand or an eye. Every part of the ship was precious to him, just as every sailor was.

And yet the decision had to be made, even if it was a wildly improbable maneuver to attempt. Astern of amidships, he decided, but not all the way astern. Somewhere in the aft third quarter of the ship, where most of what would be damaged would be living quarters and support facilities. God help them, the propeller shaft ran all the way through there as well, but there was a chance that the shock bearings would be sufficient support. Along that last one-quarter of the ship, where his shafts were exposed to water, a hit would be more dangerous.

At times like this, no one questioned him. The Lake Champlain, a marvelously maneuverable beast, pivoted smartly as the officer of the deck wisely chose to use one shaft ahead full, and one shaft astern full in order to pivot the ship. She had just time for one maneuver before the first torpedo hit.

Everyone in combat was strapped into his or her chair, but he knew that the bridge crew and men and women crowding passageways above the waterline would not fare as well.

The ship slammed violently to the right, and Norfolk felt his harness cut hard into his gut, knocking his breath out of him. The strap itself seemed determined to cut through his midsection, and his head slammed into the side of the seat. In the next instant, the ship heeled back to the other side almost as violently, and he heard his neck creak and snap as he was flung to the other side. Combat was filled with muttered curses and a few cries of pain and surprise.

The cant on the deck increased alarmingly. She was five degrees down now, maybe ten. Oh God, how bad is it? The ship continued to rock back and forth, attempting to right herself, as the impact of the torpedo reverberated throughout her hull.

There were loud moans coming from some sections of combat now, and the captain could only imagine the damage the attack had done to the bridge. Even if they were braced, holding on for dear life to structural supports and stanchions, the impact must have flung them around the compartment like rag dolls.

And inside the ship — well, he would know soon enough. There was no time to worry, not if he was going to keep the ship afloat.

“Damage report!” he snapped at the TAO, marveling at his own voice. “Come on, mister — we’re still afloat.”

The sound-powered phone circuits sprung to life now, as weak, sometimes broken voices began summarizing the situation for them.

The torpedo had hit in the general area he’d hoped for, although not as forward as his best projection. It had penetrated in the lowest compartments, blasting a gaping hole open in them, and then continuing on through the ship before finally exploding. There was a massive fire in the ports stern sections of the ship, the investigator was reporting. No apparent casualties from the explosion, since everyone had been evacuated.

On the bridge, the situation was serious. The XO had been slammed against the hatch, and had slumped unconscious to the deck. The officer of the deck had not been able to ascertain his condition yet due to taking a fairly hard hit himself. There were no apparent fatalities, but numerous injuries. At that very moment, the officer of the deck was handling the helm himself, while the junior officer of the deck checked on everyone’s condition. Did the captain have any orders?

“Not at the moment — we’ll probably want to come right before long, to try to stabilize her. Give me a full steering gear check, including both rudders and both rudder cables. Tell me how much maneuverability we have left.”

And then the reports began arriving in from engineering. The damage control teams were spreading out throughout the ship, fighting to contain the smoke, fire and flooding. Containing, then starting to push them back until they occupied the smallest possible area.

The chief engineer was in main control, which was co-located with damage control central. He was fully suited in his general quarters gear except for a firefighting ensemble and breathing apparatus.

Every alarm and telltale inside damage control was howling. Red lights flashed across all the status boards, indicating fires, flooding, and massive damage.

The chief engineer grabbed a sound-powered phone connected to the primary investigator. “As soon as they set smoke, fire, and flooding boundaries, I want a full report on shaft alley,” he said, referring to the long compartment that crossed watertight bulkheads in the shaft’s transit from the turbines to propellers. “Our first priority is to restore full maneuverability.”

“Roger, sir. I can tell you that we probably lost the port shaft. It’s still intact, but she looks like she’s been badly warped. I’m not sure if we should even try to put any knots on her — it may just do more damage. The good news, though, is that the starboard shaft looks like it’s okay.”

The engineer breathed a sigh of relief. Even if both shafts had been damaged, they could have made slow forward speeds with the bow thrusters. But the small pump jets were designed for maneuvering, and for emergency propulsion, not for the long haul back across the Pacific to a shipyard. He wasn’t even sure that they would stand up without burning out.

“The next question is steering. Can you get into aftersteering?”

“Hold on, sir. I’m going to move aft.”

The primary investigator unplugged from a sound-powered phone jack and made his way aft. He came back on line, and said “I’m not so sure, sir. The hatch is still intact, but it’s badly sprung. There may be a fair amount of flooding back there. What me to check the telltale?” The telltale was a small, independently operated access to allow personnel to check whether or not a compartment was flooded. It was easy to shut, where the massive hatch would not be if the full force of the water were against it. “What do the flooding indicators say?”

The chief engineer glanced at the enunciator board, then said, “It says flooding, but it says that about every compartment, even the ones we know are okay. I’m not inclined to trust it.”

“Okay, sir, let me try the telltale.” There was a moment of silence, then, “There’s a little water in there on the deck, sir, but nothing that amounts to anything. I’d like people standing by, though, before I open the hatch.”

“How deep?”

“From the little I can see, about six inches. I don’t see any major change, but that could change when I open the hatch.”

The engineer made his decision. “Stand by until I can get a team down there — we’ve got other things to take care of first, but they’ll get there as soon as they can. We’ll wait for the bridge to tell us whether or not they have maneuverability.”

It was a risk, albeit a small one. Attempting to actuate a damaged component could result in further problems, up to and including fire. But if aftersteering did have major flooding problems, the last thing he wanted to do was create access to the rest of the ship. No, he would wait for the bridge to tell him whether or not they had adequate control of the rudders, then decide what to do after that.

“Aye-aye, sir. What next?”

“Check all compartments around, above, and below aftersteering. Then get me a follow-up report and double check the fire, smoke and flooding boundaries. I need to know what the status is on our valve lineup, as well — I think we’ll have to pump fuel and water around in order to stabilize her.”

As the engineer glanced back at the status board, he had a sense of being overwhelmed. The ship was so badly damaged — for a moment the details threatened to overwhelm them. How could one group possibly catch up with it all?

Then the hard-learned lessons came flooding back. One thing at a time — prioritize, prioritize, prioritize. No, you can’t do everything at once. Keep her afloat for now, and the rest of it can be sorted out later.

“It’s bad, Admiral. But it could be worse.” Norfolk’s voice was tight and controlled. “We’re still working to control the flooding. No fire, yet. One shaft very questionable, the propeller probably okay. No personnel killed, although we have a couple of injuries, broken bones, that sort of thing. One concussion, the corpsman thinks.”

“What do you need from us?” the admiral asked.

“Medical evacuation, as soon as I can set flight quarters. We’ll have to use the stretcher — I’ve got about ten degrees list on the deck.”

Ten degrees — it didn’t sound like much, but Coyote knew it was a hell of a lot of list. Ten degrees would make everything uphill, would knock all loose gear around in a compartment. That more than anything else Lake Champlain’s captain said told Coyote just how badly the destroyer was damaged.

“Combat systems?” Coyote asked.

“All operational,” the captain said. “I’m not sure we can deploy the towed array, but sonar and all radars are on. As are our missiles and fire control.”

Coyote paused for a moment, and said, “I know what you did, Captain. That last maneuver — I’m not sure I’ve ever seen such an outstanding if damned dangerous shiphandling maneuver. It looks like it worked, though.”

“That it did, Admiral.”

“Did you know it would?”

There was a long silence online, and for a moment Coyote thought they had lost communications. But then the captain spoke, his voice for the first time showing some of his pain. “No, Admiral, I didn’t. But I had to try it — I pulled everyone up above the waterline before I did.”

“Everyone?” Coyote was astounded.

“Everyone. My call, sir.”

“Your call indeed, Captain,” Coyote said promptly. He would not criticize, ever, a man who’d shown such courage. “Take care of your ship, captain — and your people. And tell me when you’re ready to receive my helo. We’ll use the frame and get them off immediately. When we can… it’s going to get a little busy here in about five minutes.”

“Roger that, Admiral. I’m watching inbound right now.” The captain’s voice was grim. “We’re online, sir, and ready to fight.”

“Oh, man,” Jacobs said softly as he pulled his earphones away from his head. “Sounded like a direct hit, Captain,” he finished. He glanced up at his skipper.

“God help them,” the captain said. And although they had faced the same danger themselves not moments before, with far less possibility that they could recover from a hit, the captain felt a moment of profound sorrow for the surface ship. A direct hit, even for a ship as well-built as the Lake Champlain had to be dangerous.

“Thirteen hundred feet,” the officer of the deck announced. “Continuing to descend to eighteen hundred.”

The torpedoes were still clearly audible over the speaker, although the tone had a faintly fuzzy edge to it as the sound wound its way through the different layers of the ocean to reach them.

“Any problems?” the captain asked.

“None, sir.”

“There won’t be,” Pencehaven said suddenly. It was the first time he had spoken in perhaps an hour, and his voice startled them both.

“You’re awful certain, Otter,” the captain said.

Pencehaven nodded. “Yes, Captain. I am. These stupid torpedoes are going to go for the noise makers — I guarantee it.”

“Fourteen hundred feet.”

“I have an idea, Captain,” Pencehaven said. He held up a CD. “There’s one way to make certain they think they’ve destroyed us.”

“Absent actually taking a hit, I hope.”

Pencehaven nodded. “Say we continue on down — two thousand feet isn’t too much, Captain. They’ll start to lose us at that depth and they may not be absolutely certain how deep we are and what kind of range they have on their torpedoes. So they’re going to be listening very carefully. When the last torpedo goes for the decoy, we make them think it’s us.”

“With the recording?” the captain asked.

Pencehaven nodded. “I can ground out to the hull, Captain. The world’s greatest speaker. Odds are that it’ll sound exactly like we… like we… well, you know. At least I think it will.”

The captain regarded him for a moment. There was no telling just how savvy the Chinese sonar operators were, not after what they’d seen. Still, this certainly wouldn’t be anything they’d be expecting — hell, nobody but Otter would have thought of it to start with.

The captain nodded. “Get it ready. But we have to wait for exactly the right time.”

“Sixteen hundred feet,” the officer of the deck announced.

Otter slid the CD into the player and wound his patch cords and speaker outputs over to rest on metal brackets that were connected to the hull of the submarine. “I need the engineers to generate some sound shorts right here, sir. Or somewhere that I can reach with my speakers.”

The captain made the arrangements, and Pencehaven had obviously talked this over with the engineer beforehand, because the arrangements went smoothly.

“Eighteen hundred feet.” The noise of the two torpedoes had grown fuzzy, as the submarine passed through a shallow acoustic layer. But now it picked up again, as though they had finally located their quarry. Everyone in the submarine heard the seekerhead shift to a higher, more rapid ping as the torpedoes began to home in on them.

“Hear that?” Pencehaven asked. “Get ready, sir.”

At first, the captain could hear nothing different coming over the speaker. But then he heard it — or thought he heard it — just at the edges of his perception. Then he knew he heard it — the faint growl of the torpedo’s propeller.

“Any second, now, Captain,” Pencehaven said.

It just might work… it’s worth trying at least. At least I know that we can stay safely below their kill depth. But if they think they got us — well, the odds shift immeasurably in our favor.

Suddenly the regular motor noise exploded followed by another explosion.

“Now!” Pencehaven pushed the play button.

The volume was cranked up to full, and sound filled the submarine. It was eerie, an odd sound, of continuous explosions. The noise crescendoed until the individual components were no longer distinguishable from the general cacophony. It continued on for what seemed like hours, days, months, and each person in the control room felt cold sweep through him. The sounds translated too easily, too immediately, into what they, too, would experience if the torpedo found its mark. Finally, when each one thought that the noise would drive him mad, it started to decrease. The intermittent explosions and groans, continued for some time, growing fainter and finally dying away completely.

The control room was utterly silent afterwards, as though the crew were at a memorial service. They had just listened to the death of a submarine and it was only sheer luck and God’s grace that it hadn’t been them. But the death of the other submarine, the recording they’d just played, would serve a purpose — keeping the shipmates they’d never known safe.

“I wonder if they bought it?” Jacobs said softly. “Man, I’d give anything to hear what they’re thinking.”

Pencehaven smiled. “Oh, they bought it. You heard it — wouldn’t you?”