Commander Arnold struggled to pick himself up from the deck. His ears rang, the coppery bite of blood flooded his mouth and his head ached. He grasped a handhold on a control panel to steady himself. His right temple grazed the edge of a console on his way down. After catching his breath, Arnold made a quick survey of the control room. The other dozen men were in various stages of recovery; some had already remanned their stations.
Arnold located the officer of the deck. Standing beside the twin periscopes, the lieutenant took damage reports. The OOD wore a headset, which allowed him access to every department on the boat. “Status report, Mr. Johnson,” Arnold said.
“Captain, the ship continues on a heading of one three zero at twenty-eight knots. Our depth is one thousand one hundred seventy-two feet. No reported flooding.”
Arnold was astonished that his command was still underway. He’d expected that the collision would have triggered an automatic shutdown of the reactor.
“Damage reports?” Arnold asked.
“All compartments and sections report nominal shock damage. No leaks. No equipment problems as yet. Minor crew injuries.”
The fog of confusion in Arnold’s brain persisted. Finally, he remembered. “The bogeys… where are they?”
“Sonar reports no contact with either Master Four Nine or the undesignated contact.” The OOD rubbed the back of his right wrist. He sprained it when thrown to the deck. “Sonar also reported a significant change to self-generated noise—it’s off the charts. We have exterior hull damage, which is also slowing us down.”
“Where on the hull?” Arnold demanded, the inflection of his voice conveying alarm.
“It’s the sail, sir. Sonar reports that MIDAS is offline. Plus, they’re picking up massive hydraulic drag racket in that area, which is consistent with exterior hull damage.” MIDAS was an acronym for Mine Detection and Avoidance Sonar.
“Reduce to ten knots, maintain depth.”
The OOD repeated the order.
Eight minutes went by. Commander Arnold wore a headset with a voice activated microphone, which allowed him to have a private conversation with the sonar supervisor in the sonar room. “Any thoughts on what might be responsible for the fairwater racket,” Arnold asked. Fairwater was another name for the sail.
“It’s possible we lost fairing covers on one or more of the masts. That might be part of the problem but I still think we have more damage than that.”
“Elaborate.”
“I believe we have major damage to the sail itself. Whatever struck us targeted the sail.”
Arnold processed the news. “Any idea what we were up against?”
“Negative sir. We’re still in the dark but this much I know…it was not a conventional torpedo, not even close. No propeller cavitation, no active search sonar, just a faint but creepy swishing signature.”
“Very well. Make a copy of all recordings. When we return to base, I want the raw data forwarded to Fleet for further analysis.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Arnold took off the headset, careful to avoid the throbbing welt in his scalp. The tip of his tongue also pulsed. His teeth clipped it when he was tossed to the deck.
The executive officer approached Arnold. “What did sonar report?” Lieutenant Commander Russell asked.
“Still don’t know what it was. Damage appears to be limited to the fairwater.”
“Should we take a look? Plenty of dark topside.”
“Yes, but bring her up slowly. I want sonar to have a good listen before we surface. Who knows what else is around here?”
Russell acknowledged Arnold’s directive and issued new orders.
Twelve minutes later, Tucson was sixty-five feet below the surface heading east at five knots; sonar had just completed a sweep for nearby traffic. The ship was alone in this section of the South China Sea.
Arnold stood beside the Type 18 search periscope. He wanted to make a quick three sixty scan with the scope’s night vision optics before surfacing. “Up scope,” he said addressing the quartermaster of the watch.
The chief petty officer repeated the order and triggered the switch controlling the hydraulic mechanism that raised and lowered the search periscope.
The tube did not rise. “Chief?” Arnold said.
“It’s not engaging, Captain. I don’t know what’s wrong. Should I try the attack scope?”
“Yes.”
The CPO repeated the same procedure with the Type 2 attack scope to no avail.
“They must have been damaged, Captain,” the chief reported.
Arnold nodded, a new squadron of butterflies taking flight in his belly. He turned to his executive officer. “XO, surface the boat, slow and easy.”
* * * *
Commander Arnold was the first to ascend through the sail’s tunnel. After opening the top hatch and climbing onto the bridge—what remained of it—he gawked at the damage. The port, starboard and forward sides of the bridge cockpit were missing, leaving the bridge deck exposed. While grasping a metal bracket from a remnant of the cockpit he used a flashlight to survey the sail. “My god,” he muttered as he took stock of the carnage.
The forward one third of the sail from just above the tunnel hatch was peeled back like the lid of a half open tin of sardines. The torn and bent steel covered most of the sail’s topside. The wreckage blocked the radio and sensor masts and the twin side by side periscopes, preventing their deployment.
Commander Arnold leaned outboard and trained the flashlight beam on the starboard section of the sail, looking aft for additional structural damage. The rear section of the sail appeared intact except for a horizontal blemish across the aft side wall at the bridge deck level. The steel plate under the anechoic coating was gouged, as if something sharp had gripped the metal. What's this? he wondered.
Arnold knelt on the bridge deck and peered down the sail’s access tunnel into the pressure hull. The Tucson’s executive officer was a couple of stories below. “Come on up,” Arnold shouted.
Russell clambered up the tunnel ladder. “What the hell happened?” he said after joining Arnold.
“I’m not sure but we now know why we can’t raise any of the masts or scopes.”
“No kidding.” Russell directed the beam from his flashlight onto the debris. “And with all that crap hanging around here, no wonder we’re so noisy. Even the Chicoms can track us now.”
“Yes, and they may be back again.”
“What do we do, Skipper? We’ve got no scopes, comms or radar.”
Arnold reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a compact commercial portable Satphone. “We’ll have to use this to call home.”
“Wow, that’s going to be a first.”
“While I make the call, you go below and organize a damage control party. Let’s see if we can use a torch to cut back the debris to free up the masts and at least one scope.”
“Aye, Skipper.”
“And Hal, get the ship’s photographer up here. I want a complete photographic record of the fairwater damage before we start cutting out the debris.”
“You got it.”