“Twenty-six,” Bain said.
“Letters of the alphabet?” Michaelson suggested.
“That’d be my guess,” Colon said. He was back in his command chair, watching the signal exchange. “Sounds like they’re telling us someone on board speaks English, not Morse. So we’ll have to do this the long way.”
“Can we start by telling them, ‘Fuck you for doing this?’ ” Bain asked.
Everyone looked at her.
“Sorry. Needed to get that out of my spleen.”
“You speak for all of us,” Colon said. He thought for a moment. “Just to be clear, we’re doing one watt for ‘A,’ two for ‘B,’ and so on. Correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Bain replied.
“Okay. Start with, ‘Do you have radio to surface?’ ”
Bain sent the pulses and then waited. Everyone was at his or her station, monitoring systems. At each unfamiliar squeak or groan, everyone sat very still. There was only one flood door, in the center of the submarine, and no one wanted to have to use it.
After nearly a minute the radio chirped a return message. Bain wrote down the letters as the pulses came through.
“They say, ‘Yes. Else systems down,’ ” Bain said. “They probably mean ‘other systems.’ ”
“So they’re running on batteries. Ask, ‘How much air?’ ”
A minute later the answer came back: “Less three hours.”
“Jeez,” Withers said. “Dead on the bottom.”
“Ask them, ‘Rescue coming?’ ” Colon said.
The reply was quick: “Uncertain.”
A stilted but informative conversation continued. Captain Colon informed them his ship was American and asked for their nationality. They told him. Colon said that he had power but was stuck, apparently, from nose to midship in ice. The other crew told him they had an aft breach and believed they were also partially entombed. Colon asked the other crew to provide their submarine type. They did not reply. He asked again. They did not answer again but asked the same question he did. Colon also did not reply.
“So they’re down here in a new hotshot submarine just like we are,” Michaelson muttered.
“And we’re both still playing games,” Withers commented.
“Yeah, well, we’re also wearing different jerseys,” Colon said. “There are larger issues than all of us getting out of here.” He fixed his eyes on Bain. “All right. This is the big one. Tell them we may have a way out but it could destroy them.”
“We do?” Rockford said.
“I’m working on it,” Colon replied.
Bain sent the message. The reply was less than a minute in coming: “We die anyway.”
Colon wanted to know how many men were on the submarine. Sixty-nine, he was told. He did not answer when the Chinese asked the same question.
“Sir, this back and forth is costing us all time,” Michaelson said.
“Do you know a shortcut?” Colon asked.
“I didn’t mean that, sir,” Michaelson said. “I meant that our situation may be nearly as dicey as theirs.”
“And?” Colon’s gaze was fixed on the officer.
“As you just said, there are larger issues here. One of them is the D. We need to protect her.”
“What have I overlooked, Lieutenant?” Colon’s voice, like his eyes, were hard.
“Getting out,” Michaelson said. “Using the aft jets at half to see if we can at least dislodge some ice.”
“Not yet,” Colon said.
“Sir, with respect—we are in this situation because of those people.” He pointed vaguely toward the stern. “They were probably spying on us.”
“Does that mean we should kill them?” Colon asked.
“No, sir. But there is no indication that we would damage them by trying to get free. And we may save ourselves.”
“We may also kill ourselves,” Rockford said. “We could pull our nose section off because of the cable that’s apparently still tied to the Chinese submarine.”
“That’s a risk,” Michaelson admitted. He was becoming agitated. “But so is sitting here, especially if their submarine is on top of us. Our hull won’t support that weight forever.”
Frowning as though he’d just thought of something—something not good—Withers turned to the computer. He typed in a file name. Rockford was also typing, though he wasn’t frowning.
“Lieutenant, it’s a crapshoot either way,” Colon agreed. “So our priority has to be to try and get more information. The Chinese may be able to give us intel about their position relative to us. If we decide to use the ramjet, that may give us an idea which fan to use. Maybe they’ve had a look through the periscope, seen what the ice looks like. But we won’t get any of that data if they’re dead. Now—are there any suggestions about how to help these people?”
“Well, there’s one thing we can rule out,” Rockford said. “I just checked our database. There are no DSRVs out here.”
DSRVs were Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicles. They were self-propelled mini-subs that were lowered from a surface vessel, attached to the escape hatch, and used to ferry trapped submariners to freedom.
“Not even in the Falklands?” Colon asked.
“Nope. Royal Navy submarine activity in the region was cut back in ’92. They have most of their fleet in the Atlantic and in the Persian Gulf region.”
“That makes sense,” Colon said.
“Also, we can’t get them any significant electrical power,” Bain said. “These pit-a-pat signals we’re sending are only pushing enough juice through the cable to light a small bulb. They’re tickles.”
“Nobody outside is going to hear those,” Rockford said. “Even if they had a functioning antenna, the broadcast radius is about twenty miles.”
“Meaning they’re screwed, because there are no research bases within range. That’s why we picked this area!” Michaelson said. “Sir, I understand we could use more information. But suppose they’re bullshitting us. Suppose they saw our vessel and want to keep us here till one of their rescue ships arrives?”
“Lieutenant, enough,” Colon said.
“That avalanche was real enough,” Bain reminded him.
“Yes, that was,” Michaelson agreed. “But how do we know they didn’t hit us just to keep us here, take the D as a prize? They may have had a rescue ship en route even before the collision.”
“I don’t think they’d sacrifice their ship and a full crew for that,” Rockford said.
“How do you know?” Michaelson asked. “And I have another question for you. Suppose this isn’t a deception. Suppose they’re hurt but they manage to get their engines back on-line. They’ve got to be working on it. Do you think they’ll hesitate to try and pull out, regardless of what it does to us?”
“I’ve thought about that, and I don’t know,” Colon admitted. “But I don’t have to answer for their command decisions, only for ours.”
“Actually, there may be a more immediate problem,” Withers said. He was still looking at his computer monitor.
“For us or them?” Colon asked.
“Both. There aren’t very many Chinese submarines capable of maintaining a crew that size and reaching these waters from any PLN naval base in the region. I’ve had a look at our database.” He faced the captain. “Sir, their aft section is filled with water. In any of these larger submarines, just the rearmost area filled with water represents approximately twelve hundred cubic meters. That’s almost three hundred thousand gallons. If they’re not resting on a perfectly flat surface—for example, if they’re across our back—that’s going to cause pressure that will distort their own hull—”
“Meaning the seam of their aft hatch door won’t hold,” Bain said.
“Exactly. And if they flood, that could cause them to roll or drop or do something that could damage us—”
“Because we’re still attached by that fucking towline,” Colon said. “Where they go, we go.”
“That’s right, sir. I know you didn’t ask, but while I’m all in favor of finding some way to help these people, the first thing we have to do is get disattached. Which means the ramjet.”
“But if we do that,” Rockford said, “if we fire the engines before getting ourselves disentangled, the D thrust could be neutralized by the weight of the Chinese submarine. We would burn the fans out just trying to get away.”
“If it’s a question of being proactive or just sitting and waiting, I’m for lighting a fire,” Michaelson said. He regarded Colon. “Captain?”
“We may have another choice,” Colon said. “I want to think it through. In the meantime, we don’t try and move until we know to where, from what, and what the risks are. At the moment we’re all right. If that changes—”
There was a loud rumble from the front of the D.
“That’s not a happy sound,” Bain remarked nervously.
“Sounds like a new landslide,” Withers suggested.
“Either that, or the ice chunks are settling,” Bain said.
“Orders, sir?” Michaelson asked.
“Yeah. We ride it out.”
Michaelson did not seem pleased. Colon didn’t blame him. Allowing your ship to be hammered by ice is not a choice any commander wants to make. But that seemed the least bad of a short menu of bad options.
Suddenly, in addition to the rumbling, a loud, unhealthy-sounding squeal ripped through the Tempest D. The sound was coming from the nose section. A moment later the D began to nose down toward the starboard side.
“Shit. The ice,” Withers said.
“What about it?” Rockford asked.
“It must be pulling the towline as it falls.”
Shit was right, Colon thought. The nose attachment didn’t like being pulled. And if that popped, they were dead. The few bad options had just been narrowed to none.
“Ready aft ramjet top, but do not engage propulsion,” Colon said.
“Yes, sir,” Rockford said.
The captain’s mind was absolutely clear but his heart was slamming for the first time since the accident. He rose and walked to the command array. He grabbed an overhead handle and stood with his legs wide apart for balance. “Lieutenant Michaelson, prepare to release towline.”
“Right away, sir.”
The submarine began to hum again as the rear fans were powered up. Michaelson moved his hand to the release lever. Colon scanned the deck for signs of water. The access conduit to the nose was directly beneath Michaelson’s post. If there was a leak, it would come through there.
“Jets at full,” Rockford said.
“Release the cable!” Colon ordered.
Michaelson pulled the small lever toward him. They heard the distinctive snap of the eye-lock releasing the towline. The light below the lever came on, the “all-clear” indicator. Yet they were still angling in the same direction as the rumbling ice, and the nose section continued to complain.
“Sir, I don’t understand,” Michaelson said. “We’ve got separation.”
“Maybe not,” Rockford said. “The cable may be jammed in place by the ice.”
“Not jammed, frozen,” Bain said. “Our heat may have melted the ice and it refroze around the cable-eye.”
“So the latch may have opened but wasn’t released from the hook,” Withers said.
“Right,” Rockford replied.
The D continued to nose down to the starboard. They had to stop this descent. It could do the hull more damage and it could drag the Chinese down as well.
“Ramjet engage, one-sixth,” Colon ordered, holding tight to the overhead handle to keep from slipping.
“One-sixth, engaging,” Rockford said.
There was a slight downward kick from the stern. They heard kettledrum-like pounding from both sides, presumably as the Egg displaced pieces of ice. The submarine immediately steadied and, within moments, had reclaimed some of the level stability it had lost.
Ice continued to slide around them. They still felt the pull at the nose. But they were able to hold their position, which was all Colon wanted. When the landslide finally stopped, the silence seemed thicker, the air closer than before.
“Everyone okay?” Colon asked.
The crew answered in the affirmative.
The electrical surge to the ramjet generated a slight buzz. Colon listened. Below it was a new sound, a soft creaking like a rusty clasp on a mainmast, high and far away.
Some part of the submarine was being stressed, but Colon couldn’t place it. “Can anyone tell where that’s coming from?”
“Sir, I don’t think it’s us,” Bain said.
There was a hard bump in the aft section. From below. Bain was right. At least part of the Chinese submarine was sliding beneath them. The landslide must have caused their positions to shift. The crew of the D was silent, waiting. There were no further scrapes or sounds.
“Captain, the Chinese are signaling us,” Bain said.
“That answers the question about the towline,” Rockford said. “We’re still attached to them.”
“ ‘Cold stop battery,’ ” Bain said, reading the message as it came through. “ ‘Air failing.’ ”
“That new pile-on must have dropped the temperature even further for them,” Withers said.
“At least it didn’t wreck that aft hatch,” Rockford said.
“Maybe, but I’m sure the slip-slide didn’t do the seal any good,” Withers pointed out.
“Agreed. Which is why we’ve got to help them,” Colon said. “Now.”
The others looked at him.
“I was working out a plan before we were distracted,” Colon said. “Lieutenant Bain, find out how much electrical cable they can pull from their systems. Make sure they can waterproof it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What are we going to do?” Withers asked.
“We’re obviously in this together, handcuffed by a towline,” Colon said. “We may have to get out of this together.”
“How?” Rockford asked.
“We need to jump-start their aft pumps so they can drain off some of that water, put their systems back on-line—”
“How, sir?” Rockford repeated.
“We’ve got to try and power them up,” Colon replied.