Leviathan. Joaquin De Torres
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SAY AGAIN, BREACH IN THE HULL! AMIDSHIPS FORWARD THE REACTOR ROOM IN BIRTHING! SECURE ALL WATERTIGHT DOORS FORE AND AFT OF BIRTHING!”
The collision stopped their ascent abruptly as the blades of teeth bit into the Texas’ hull. The attacker’s sheer size and weight dragged the sub down more than 100 feet before it ripped free. It moved off leaving behind a massive churning cloud of twisted debris. The deafening staccato followed it into the shadows. With its bowels cut open, crews struggled to keep the flooding from spreading to the reactor room aft and the bridge forward.
“There should be no one in birthing since GQ was sounded,” voiced Frost with regained calm. She turned to the sonar rack. “Miss Evans, Mister Lowe, find that sub. Reduce speed to 10 knots to give damage control time to assess the damage. Mister Price, resume surfacing.” Lesher still had the mike in his hand.
“Reduce speed to 10 knots.”
“Is everyone okay in here?” asked Frost. “Damage report.”
“Reduce speed to 10 knots,” Lesher said into the mike. He turned to Frost.
“CON SONAR! BOGEY INCOMING! PORTSIDE, 97 DEGREES! FOUR HUNDRED METERS OUT!” yelled out Lowe.
“Hard to port, Mister Christian. Mister Bingham, prepare to fire torpedoes one through four, at my command.”
“Torpedoes ready!”
“THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY METERS!”
“Steady. Everyone brace for impact.”
“THREE HUNDRED METERS!”
“Fire, Mr. Bingham.” All four forward torpedoes shot out of their tubes, temporarily visible via the IMAX cameras on the sub’s nose. Four trails of bubbles roped forward and disappeared.
“Track them. Reload, Mister Bingham.” A digital rendering of the two subs plus the four torpedoes were displayed on another screen near the IMAX. They waited silently; the horrible grinding noise could be heard in the distance, getting louder.
“Three, two, one!” called out Bingham. Suddenly the IMAX screen flashed three times with brilliant light. “THREE DIRECT HITS, CAPTAIN! The fourth missed!” The undersea explosions caused huge walls of bubbles and wave concussions that rocked the Texas.
“Great shooting, Mister Bingham. Continue assent and get me that damage report.”
“Roger that, ma’am!” Lesher was smiling as he moved to his position to check the damage report. Then he stopped. All heads turned toward the IMAX as the grinding sound returned again.
“BOGEY AT 150 METERS! TWENTY-FIVE KNOTS!”
“Sweet mother of God!” breathed Lesher.
“Mister Bingham, fire!”
“TOO LATE! BRACE FOR IMPACT!”
The monster came in fast and low, heading straight for the same location it previously hit. In the next second Captain Frost showed that she was a human being.
“EMERGENCY BLOW!” she yelled. “BLOW ALL TANKS!” But before that order was performed, the intruder ripped into the jagged perforations again. The saw blades tore deeper into the ship as the sub pitched up. The Texas’ hull moaned hauntingly as its beams, strakes and frames snapped and collapsed. The booming grinding noise was made more deafening by the sounds of tons of metal crumpling or being ripped free. Power and lighting flickered on the bridge and then went out. In the darkness the sub shook forcefully, and the booming, ripping sound finally brought the nightmare to all: The Texas was being cut in half.
“Captain, we lost all communications with engineering!” rasped Lesher. “No responses from anyone aft of us!”
“Emergency lights, and activate secondary power grid,” ordered Frost as the bridge seemed to bounce now and sway. The lights came back on and the computers flickered back to life.
“Mister Bingham, are those torpedoes ready?” There was no answer. “Mister Bingham?”
“Sandra Lynn!” Frost turned towards Lesher’s voice. He and Bingham were kneeling over Evans who was laying on the deck hyperventilating. Her face had lost all color and her eyes were bulged.
“She’s in shock,” said Bingham. Frost left her command chair and knelt next to the young woman.
“I’ll take care of her. Go, on, Mister Bingham, man your position. Prepare the next spread of torpedoes.” She turned to Lesher. “Prepare to jettison the photonics sail, Roy.” She sat down on the deck, raised Evans up so that her head pressed against her chest and cradled her in her arms. “Someone get me a wet cloth and some water.”
Lesher struggled to get back to his position as the bridge rolled violently from left to right. Then it subsided momentarily, as did the noise, just in time for Lesher to yell.
“CAPTAIN! THE IMAX!” She raised her head to a chorus of gasps from her crew.
“NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!” someone wailed. Frost herself didn’t know if what she was seeing was real. The cameras amidships delivered the ghastly view of half the sub separated and slowly plummeting into the darkness. The open maw that was once the birthing compartment and the reactor room vomited wreckage and oil. Lights from sparking circuitry flickered continuously as it sank. As much as 200 feet of submarine, and over 100 men and women—still alive—disappeared into the abyss in a belching vortex of debris and bubbles.
“WE’RE STILL FLOATING!” gasped Price on the verge of tears.
“All subs from 2015 were designed with compartmented insulation in the event of a hull breach,” responded Lesher. “The insulation is between hulls and inflates automatically.”
“Then why didn’t they float!? WHY DIDN’T THEY FLOAT!?”
“Keep your voice down, Mr. Price, if you please.”
“I’m sorry, Captain.”
“Those blades must have severed the Co2 igniters that pump the insulation.” Lesher had no other answer for the petrified young man. He himself didn’t know how long he could keep his cool.
“At this depth, we don’t have much time,” said Frost again in perfect calm. “The insulation is only designed for depths of 500 feet or less. Especially on this boat. We’re older, so we got the insulation system as a late refit.” Evans had come to, but was crying softly in Frost’s embrace.
Lesher looked at his commanding officer for a brief moment and was reminded why he fell in love with her years ago. No sweat, no nervous twitching or shaking hands. Her face looked placid; her voice was not only calm, but acquiescent. It occurred to him that she had made peace with herself and the situation.
“THERE IT IS! DEAD AHEAD!” yelled Price. The vessel was sailing away again, but before it was completely out of view, Frost looked up.
“Fire full spread, Mister Bingham.” Once more the torpedoes blew out of their tubes; four perfect bubble trails speared into the darkness. Moments later, four brilliant explosions lit up the IMAX screen to the vengeful cheers of all.
“SINK, MOTHER FUCKER!” thundered Price.
“GREAT SHOOTING, BING!” cheered another. But the laughter and applause soon died as the grinding sound emerged again in the distance. They could see the blurred object approaching.
“NO FUCKING WAY!”
“Everyone, come to me,” said Frost. “Sit down around me. Everyone.” The crew got up and knelt or sat in a small campfire circle.
“Give me the 1MC, Roy.” Lesher reached up and pulled the corded phone down. Evans did her best to sit up on her own and moved over to Bingham.
“This is the captain. For those of you still with me, I want to say that it has been an honor serving you on this great vessel. Our names will now be immortalized in the halls of the great submariners who have served before us. I am, and have always been