Ian Slater - Warshot

Eleven minutes later, at 0150, the downed sub’s big diesel imploded, the noise momentarily deafening Rogers, so that only his training made him hit the “squelch volume” button rather than tearing off his headset, the noise so loud it smothered all sea sound within a three-mile radius.

It was no surprise then that the Reagan didn’t hear the Alfa that had been lying quietly on the bottom beyond the Kuril gap closest to Japan. By the time Rogers’ sonar did pick it up and Hale ordered the sharp turn, it was too late, the Alfa having had ample time to hear the Reagan firing earlier, to have already vectored in the Americans. The Alfa captain had fired his three twenty-one-inch-diameter, surface-to-surface, torpedo-launched SUBROCS, each of the four-thousand-pound warheads when detonated above the surface capable of killing any submarine to a depth of three thousand feet, well beyond most subs’ crush depth. With the Reagan level at fifteen hundred, the first SUBROC exploded above the Reagan’s hull, forward of its sail.

Hale heard the fire alarm go off for aft compartment three, above the torpedoes, the temperature gauge already registering 122 degrees Fahrenheit, the sub quickly filling with the pungent reek of an electrical fire.

“Inject Lock!” he ordered, hoping the freon gas would extinguish the fire. Within seconds, over the intercom and above cries of men in the sealed-off section, he could hear the freon hissing into compartment three and then a tremendous explosion as an oxygen tank ruptured, its noise bursting eardrums, its contents blowtorching the 122 degrees Fahrenheit to 628 degrees Fahrenheit, plastic fixtures spontaneously combusting, sending more choking toxic fames throughout the boat.

In the next moment, two torpedos exploded, ripping the sub apart forward of the sail, the pressure, at three thousand feet over 130,000 pounds per square foot, driving the mortally wounded sub down toward the bottom in excess of a hundred miles an hour. First Officer Merrick and Sonarman Rogers barely made it from Control into the six-man forward “pop-out” escape capsule with three others, but the release mechanism wouldn’t work, weighed down by what sounded like a pile of junk blown back from the disemboweled forward section. Then quite unexpectedly they heard the pile of metal above shifting like a collapsed barn in a hurricane, the debris that had been holding them down suddenly jettisoned.

“Release arm!” ordered Hale. There was a sound like a small grenade as the escape hatch burst free of the control section. But the Sea Wolf by then was already too deep — well over crush depth of four thousand feet — the sub plummeting at over 120 miles an hour, the release capsule shooting up from it through the water column like a cork released from a bottomless column.

“Jesus Christ!” It was the voice of a bosun aboard a U.S. Trident sub a hundred miles east of the Kuril gap, the Trident picking up the death throes of the Reagan, the agonizing warping of her bulkheads astonishing, like a dying whale, heard via the sound channel as clearly as if it had been only ten miles away. The sine wave that was the plummeting Reagan was drooping like a U of green pasta on the green screen, the dot of the escape capsule streaking up through the Trident’s three trace sonar “windows” at terrific speed, its noise, like a rush of ice scatter, heard by everyone aboard the Trident. Then there was a tremendous wallop, like a space capsule smashing into the earth, the Reagan’s escape module hitting the air-water interface, its cone shape pancaked by pressures for which it wasn’t designed. Its blip on the Trident’s screen now resembled nothing so much as coffee grounds sliding down an opaque window — the slow rain of detritus all that remained of the Reagan’s capsule and crew, falling lifelessly and silently back into the very deep from which they had sought to escape.

“Poor bastards!” said the Trident’s bosun. No one else spoke.

By the time the news was being conveyed to Robert Brentwood that he had just lost his second submarine, this time with all hands going down with her, he was about to learn that the target of his mission—”Operation Country Garden”—would constitute the third phase of Freeman’s unexpected counterattack against Yesov.

The other seven members of the SEAL team were as eager as Brentwood had been, but just as taciturn in not showing their expectation — a nonchalant stance, typical of the swimmer commandoes, tempered by the knowledge that whatever the mission was, it was bound to be highly dangerous. It was at this moment of unspoken tension that Brentwood experienced an attack of free-floating anxiety. This time it was guilt, which he irrationally yet understandably felt for not having been in the combat control center when the Reagan had been caught out and destroyed. All her crew had been lost, all men he had made it his business to know, his extended family, many of whom had served aboard the Roosevelt before he’d had to scuttle her in the high Arctic. And now he had not been with them.

After all, he had detected the Alfa that had mortally wounded the Roosevelt, had made it pay for the blast from one of its twenty-one-foot-long torpedoes, which had resulted in a hairline fracture in the Roosevelt’s reactor. Brentwood knew that for him, as for some of the other men who had been farther away from the radiation-contaminated water before it had been pumped out, the “borderline” 250-rad dosage of radioactivity he’d received could kill him before his time.

He had been surprised to learn from the doctors in the Oxford radiation clinic that the same dosage could have widely different effects on its victims. Some went on living without apparent damage, as he had so far — then, quite suddenly, as the result of high stress, a man with the same dosage would rapidly decline in health. The psychological factor, in the words of the military MDs, was all but unmeasurable. You never knew. Brentwood now felt doubly at risk, enmeshed by depression upon hearing of the Reagan.

Had he been aboard, maybe he would have trailed the hydrophone array a little longer instead of relying solely on the inboard built-in hull sensors, and thus might have picked up the whoosh! of the Alfa’s torpedoes or SUBROCS — whatever had hit her.

Ranged against his depression, there was his wife Rosemary in England to think about, and the impending birth of their first child. All his training told him he’d have to put the Reagan behind him. It wasn’t his fault. Everybody made mistakes in their job. Yet he knew from his experience after he’d scuttled the Roosevelt that for the foreseeable future he would be plagued by a disturbing, dream-filled sleep — a parade of faces known and served with, now gone. Or was it all stress-induced premonition parading in the guise of memory — a foreshadowing of the SEALs’ mission outcome? He had a look at the 3D mock-up of the China coast that had spawned the rumors of an amphibious invasion, rumors bolstered by the fact that their refresher courses here at Pearl had included depth sounding and obstacle clearance. Another rumor — this one correct — was that word of Freeman’s target had arrived by “handcuffed-satchel” courier in Pearl.

By the time Robert Brentwood and the seven others were assembled in the “shed,” the briefing officer from Freeman’s HO. — drawing on what a U.S. president had once counseled — reminded the eight-man SEAL team that in crisis situations you never have all the information you want. You nevertheless have to make a decision based on whatever information you do have. What Freeman’s G-2 intelligence section and the CIA knew before they received the vital information from the underground Democracy Movement was that the bridge over the Yangtze was considered one of the engineering wonders of the world— certainly more impressive to many Chinese than the Great Wall, its guard towers built along the 1,500-mile-long, dragon-backed barrier against Ghengis Khan.