It was a scene no one had wanted to see.
Major Bryan had been convinced that activating the fan was a risk worth taking. The force of the jet drive was directed away from the ice wall; the risk of destabilizing it seemed minimal. But “minimal” was just a guess and not the same as “nonexistent.”
Captain Colon had concurred.
The captain had worked as quickly and efficiently as possible. It was odd seeing him in the water; it was like watching someone through a frosted-glass shower stall. When Ensign Galvez radioed Bryan that the ice was starting to refracture, the major left the submarine and had a quick look. The fissures were hairline now but lengthening and widening as he watched. The American vessel was just ten feet below and the major made the decision: They had to get the captain back in his submarine and start the thermite countdown.
Colon was not happy.
“We’re getting people out!” he said through Lieutenant Junior Grade Bain, who was working the intercom.
“If we don’t shut that engine, the ice will punch through your air pocket,” Bryan warned him through Bain. “That’ll kill you and the Chinese and probably block the fan doors so you can’t move when we detonate the thermite.”
Colon did not reply.
“He’s still evacuating the submarine,” Bain reported. “They’ve got the plank in place and men are starting across.”
“Tell him to close the damn door. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir,” Bain said.
Bryan watched the ice and he also watched his air supply. They had to be out of here in five minutes. They still had to set the detonator, synchronize the countdown with the submarine, and surface.
“Major,” Bain said, “he’s still—”
There was a whiplike crack. Bryan could hear it through the water, above the bubbling roar of the fan. A huge, wide fissure slashed horizontally across the ice wall. The jagged edges and protrusions above it remained in place for a moment longer, then collapsed in watery slow motion.
“L.A.S.E.R. evac!” Bryan shouted into the mouthpiece.
Everyone moved away except Bryan. He did an arcing backward turn away from the wall and dove down to the submarine. He swam around ice chunks that tumbled end over end down the wall toward the submarine. He swung under the aft end of the American ship just as the ice poured over the side, rolling along the top of the Chinese submarine toward the air pocket. Bryan watched as the water bulged in along the side of the air pocket. One Chinese crewman was on the makeshift plank and Captain Colon was helping another man from the hatch as the bulge grew and the bubble simply collapsed on the forward side; the fan could not fight back the water displaced by the ice. The man on the platform clambered toward the open hatch, but Captain Colon remained where he was, still trying to help the man from the hatch as the water rushed in. The Chinese crewman dropped back into the escape tower as the sea struck Captain Colon on his right side. Major Bryan swam in with the water, grabbed the captain around the waist, and hugged him tight. Someone inside the American submarine shut the fan, allowing the sea to flow back evenly, without pockets of air or crosscurrents. That allowed Bryan, his arms still around the captain, to turn upward and flipper toward the open hatch. He reached it and forced the captain through it, toward the waiting hands of his crew. Then Bryan turned and grabbed the door that had served as the plank. He pushed it back inside. The doors of the fan bay were closed.
As the ice stopped falling, Bryan looked down at the Chinese submarine. What he saw was something he would never forget. Two men were struggling to pull the hatch closed. But a torrent of frigid sea and small pieces of ice were knocking it back to full-open. Bryan swam over to help them as larger chunks dropped on the submarine, slamming the metal where the escape trunk met the hull. An ugly crack appeared along the base of the tower, releasing a kidney-shaped bubble of air. The crack suddenly imploded, as though someone had punched through the hull. Water flooded in and air bubbled out. Men who had been in the escape trunk were flushed through the rupture like dead leaves on a windy street. Then the tower itself was compressed inward, like a crushed soda can. Blood mixed with ice crystals and crumpled shards of metal in the clear white water.
Bryan backpaddled from the maelstrom, from the death. He had done just the opposite of what they’d done in their sea trial the week before. He had acted aggressively, swum into danger instead of away from it, sought to save everyone. And he was still staring into the water and seeing death. Maybe the sea always had the final say.
“Major, Lieutenant Michaelson wants to know what’s happening,” Bain said.
Bryan told her. “How is the captain?” he asked.
“Battered but alive.”
“How many Chinese did we get aboard?”
“Eight.”
Couldn’t be more than one-tenth the crew, a minimal number, Bryan thought. But again, “minimal” was not “none.” Those were eight men who would have died waiting to be rescued.
The major turned his headlamp on the new configuration of ice and submarines. It wasn’t good. They had set all their thermite, which was now buried somewhere in the ice, unreachable and unusable. Bryan checked his air gauge. He had just over ten minutes of air. His suit temperature was down to fifty-two degrees. It might be necessary to surface and come back down.
“Major, there seems to be a problem,” Bain said.
“Go ahead.”
“We overheated the pump trying to keep out that last rush of water. It shorted and took the main circuit board with it.”
“Meaning?”
“We’re running on batteries, sir. We’re dead in the water.”
“Any chance of repairing the damage?”
“We could do it in time, sir, but the men we took on are going to help us burn through our air pretty fast,” she reported.
That eliminated going to the surface and coming back down. Bryan was going to have to think of something else before his own air ran out.